‘You know this… person?’ said Mistress Permay with a sniff.

‘Know him! My dear Mistress Permay, this is Celestion Valentan, the celebrated tenor. Celestion, come in, come in. You look exhausted. However did you find us?’

Khassian saw Cramoisy helping a dark-cloaked man up the stairs, Mistress Permay fretting behind.

‘It’s all one to me, Sieur Jordelayne, but I’d rather those travel-stained clothes didn’t come in contact with my striped brocades…’

‘A fresh pot of tea would be much appreciated, Mistress Permay, I thank you.’ Cramoisy said crisply.

Bloodshot eyes stared at Khassian from an emaciated, stained face darkened with several days’ growth of beard.

‘Amar?’ Valentan said, reaching out towards him.

Khassian slowly raised his burned hands, palms upwards, as though to grasp the tenor’s in greeting – and saw revulsion cloud the singer’s face.

‘Welcome,’ Khassian said stiltedly.

‘Tea!’ Cramoisy commanded, steering Valentan into his apartments.

“The – the brocades,’ he said, teetering on the edge of one of the striped and gilt couches.

‘Fa to her precious brocades!’ Cramoisy peeled the cloak off his shoulders and pushed him down on to the seat. ‘Drink this tea.’ He placed a bowl in Valentan’s shaking hands and waited as he obediently gulped it down. ‘More?’

Valentan nodded. A sharp tap at the door announced Mistress Permay’s arrival with a second pot of tea; she put it down with a crack on the tray and, taking up the empty one, flounced off, not before glaring pointedly at Valentan.

‘Her sand cakes are really quite palatable if you dip them in the tea.’ Cramoisy demonstrated, pushing the little plate of shell-shaped spongecakes towards the singer. Khassian watched in growing amazement as Valentan wolfed his way through the whole plateful.

‘Famished,’ he said unapologetically between mouthfuls. ‘Haven’t eaten properly in days.’

‘Then you’d better have these cress sandwiches too,’ Cramoisy said, one eyebrow raised.

‘Good,’ Valentan said, nodding. ‘Very good. I can’t tell you how – how relieved I am to see the two of you alive.’ There were tears in his eyes, tears spilling down his cheeks, leaving little pale runnels in the dirt. He seemed not to notice. ‘Bel’Esstar’s gone – gone crazy.’

‘Tell us,’ Khassian said.

Valentan wiped his cheeks with the back of his hand. ‘I – I still can’t believe I’m here. They arrested me. And the others. Singers, musicians, Poquelayne, Azare, Thanar… Rounded us up like common criminals. Put us up before some kind of tribunal.’

‘For heaven’s sake! On what charge?’ Cramoisy sat down slowly, staring at him in disbelief.

‘“Moral corruption.” Girim nel Ghislain’s term. It seems to cover whatsoever he wishes it to cover. A farce of a trial. We were all found guilty, all sentenced.’

‘Sentenced – to what?’ Khassian demanded.