‘For it is essential that our friend must come back to Bel’Esstar of his own volition. Any attempt to use force is out of the question. We have no wish to prejudice diplomatic relations with our neighbours in Tourmalise. Neither do we want our friend to make himself a martyr to his cause.

‘Nevertheless, I must remind you that if he remains resolute in his heretical opinions, you may be obliged to resort to the other solution which we discussed.’

The other solution.

Acir folded the letter, frowning, and slipped it into his breast pocket.

Never before had he doubted Girim’s judgement. He had followed Girim to the pitiless red deserts of Enhirrë, knowing that his cause – the protection of the birthplace of the Poet-Prophet Mhir from the infidel – was just.

But this seemed less than honourable. He was a Guerrior, a traveller on the Path of Thorns. He was no assassin.

They had been walking in the Water Gardens of the Palace at Bel’Esstar when Girim had turned to him. The memory was rippled with light, the cloudy sky shot through with pale sunshafts, the silvered waters reflected in the clear, intense grey of Girim’s eyes.

‘And if he establishes a core of revolutionaries in Sulien? One as influential as Amaru Khassian could act as a magnet, drawing all the dissidents to him. These are dangerous people, amoral, dissolute… they could so easily wreck the work of the Commanderie. They could destroy the dream for which we have laboured so long.’

‘Is this man really so influential?’ Acir could hear his own voice asking above the trickling of the clear fountains.

‘Believe me, dear confrère, he is. The Prince was utterly infatuated with him. He must publicly attest his loyalty to our cause – for if he does not, we risk plunging Allegonde into civil war.’

‘But if he will not–’

Girim had stopped and gripped Acir by the arms, gazing into his eyes.

‘Then he must not leave Sulien alive.’

‘Kill him?’

‘If he will not be converted, yes. As to how you kill him, that is up to you. You will have to make a professional judgement as to how and when – and you will have to be discreet. We don’t want to make a martyr out of him.’

Girim’s gaze pierced him to the heart; shafts of clear glass.

‘Never forget, the future of the Commanderie rests with you, Acir.’

‘Go away! We don’t want your sort here! I’ll call the Watch!’

Mistress Permay’s voice, shrill with vexation, carried right up the stairs to Cramoisy’s apartment where the Diva was pouring tea for Khassian.

‘But I’m a friend of the Diva –’

‘That voice,’ Cramoisy said. ‘Could it be –’

‘Be off with you!’

Cramoisy set down the silver pot and hurried out on to the landing.

Khassian followed. He had reached the top of the stairs when he heard Cramoisy’s astonished cry.

‘Valentan!’