‘They shot at me!’ Valentan lifted his cloak, showing a rent in the fabric. ‘A bolt just missed my shoulder. Another grazed my cheek, see the mark? I was damned lucky it wasn’t worse. The only advantage I had was my intimate knowledge of the backstreets of Bel’Esstar. These Guerriors have spent too long defending Allegonde overseas. I gave them the slip…’

‘But how did you know to come here?’ Khassian said. ‘To Sulien?’

‘It’s no secret that you’re in Sulien. Look.’ Valentan fumbled in his mud-spattered jacket and brought out a folded newspaper, much crumpled. Cramoisy refilled Valentan’s glass and shook out the newspaper to decipher the smudged print:

SAD DECLINE OF WELL-LOVED MUSICIAN

Following the disastrous fire at the Opera House, the Diurnal is distressed to have to report that Amaru Khassian, composer, was so upset at the loss of his scores that the balance of his mind was disturbed.

Girim nel Ghislain, Grand Maistre of the Commanderie, has generously paid out of his personal funds for the Illustre to seek treatment at the Asylum for the Insane at the well-known spa resort of Sulien in neighbouring Tourmalise. Accompanying the composer is gifted Diva, Cramoisy Jordelayne…

‘Lies!’ whispered Khassian. ‘All lies.’

‘I rather like the “gifted Diva” passage. You didn’t let me finish.’

‘And you believed this?’ Khassian nodded towards the paper.

‘In the chaos of the fire, no one saw what happened to you afterwards. We were all hefting buckets of water, running around like idiots. No one realised how badly hurt you were.’

‘So you came to Sulien and asked for me at the Asylum?’ Khassian said. ‘They didn’t seem too eager to receive visitors. But then, I don’t suppose I looked too prepossessing like this.’ Valentan ruefully indicated the straggly beard, the tattered clothes. ‘But I wasn’t going to give up. I hadn’t come all this way over the mountains for nothing. I knocked at the door of every clinic, every sanatorium, in the city, until I was given this address.’

‘But insane? You believed that I had gone insane?’ Khassian got to his feet and began to pace. He was aware that Cramoisy was watching him apprehensively.

‘It made sense. The shock of the fire –’

‘Insane. That suits Girim’s purpose so well.’ Khassian could not stop pacing, could not contain the restlessness that Valentan’s news had released. ‘He can’t arrest me here in Sulien – but he can discredit my work as the inane ramblings of a madman. Who else but a madman would write an opera as contentious as mine?’

‘Amar –’ Cramoisy was delicately wiping the newsprint from his finger-tips with a broderie handkerchief.

Khassian suddenly stopped by Valentan’s chair and stared coldly down at him.

‘How do I know that you’re telling the truth, Valentan? How do I know that you’re not another of Girim’s agents, come to seek me out?’