‘Orial Magelonne,’ said the man in his curiously light voice. ‘Daughter of Jerame Magelonne. Does your father still work in the Sanatorium?’

‘He runs the Sanatorium.’

‘Praise be,’ said the man. ‘Because –’

A groan, low and ragged, issued from the shadows of the shrine behind him. Orial froze.

‘What was that?’ she whispered, and tried to look over the man’s shoulder. ‘Who’s in there? Who are you hiding?’

The stranger shifted, trying to block Orial’s view. He placed his hands, heavy with ornate jewelled rings, on her shoulders.

‘Can I trust you, Orial?’

‘Trust me?’ She stared up into his eyes suspiciously. But all she saw there was weariness and desperation.

‘Cra… mois… y…’ It was a man’s voice, faint and racked with pain.

‘You can trust me, I swear it. On my mother’s name,’ Orial said swiftly.

‘Now tell me what’s wrong.’

The stranger beckoned her into the painted chamber.

Another man lay in the corner of the shrine, half-propped against the wall. His head lolled forward, face covered by his dishevelled hair.

‘He needs urgent medical attention.’

‘But why did you not bring him to the Sanatorium? Why down here?’

‘It’s a long story.’ The stranger knelt down beside the man, dabbing rather ineffectually at his forehead with a handkerchief. ‘We had to be sure.’

Orial knelt on the other side; the man’s breathing was shallow and she could see sweat glistening on his pale, stubbled face. His body seemed to exude a sour odour – the stale fearsweat overlaid with another, more pungent, smell. The smell of charred flesh…

‘Sure – of what?’

‘Is it safe, Cramoisy?’ the man whispered.

‘Safe from the officers of the Commanderie?’ asked the stranger he had called Cramoisy.

‘The Commanderie?’ Orial repeated, not understanding.

‘We are refugees from Bel’Esstar. Artists persecuted by Girim nel Ghislain’s regime. Surely you have heard of Girim nel Ghislain?’

Orial shook her head.

‘My father read me an article about Prince Ilsevir’s conversion, but I have never heard of this Girim nel Ghislain before.’

‘There! I told you!’ Cramoisy said to the man. ‘Now are you satisfied? We’re safe.’

‘Safe…’ he repeated, and his head slumped back against the wall.

‘He’s wounded?’ Orial ventured. She was swiftly calculating how she could bring help – and not betray her secret. Someone was bound to ask what she was doing down here when she had been sent to post a letter.

Cramoisy nodded.

‘Badly wounded?’

‘This is no ordinary man, Orial Magelonne. He needs the very best medical care available.’

‘But what is wrong with him?’

Cramoisy drew back the cloak which he had draped over the man’s body. The sickly odour of burned flesh grew stronger. Orial stared.

‘His hands?’

Makeshift bandages swathed the man’s hands. Even in the flickering light Orial could see that the white gauze was stained where some fluid had leaked through, clear and yellow as varnish.