There was no nightlife, no remission from the frugal, small-town quiet. But in addition to the payment in his coat pocket, Drusher carried a piece of good brisket in his satchel. He would eat well for the next few nights at least.

Amon Street was a tenement slope running down from Aquila Square to the rusty wharfs and the condemned fishworks. The buildings were drab brown with age and neglect, and their roofs were in need of repair. The air in the street stank because of the lime burners just across the way. Drusher rented rooms on the fourth floor of number seventy.

A large black transporter with big chrome headlamps was parked just down the street. Drusher noticed it as he was fumbling for his key, but paid it little heed. He went up the narrow wooden staircase to his door.

It was only when he stepped into his little room, he realised someone was already there.

The man was robust and rather ugly. Heavy-browed with a shock of thick, dark hair and a shapeless, asymmetric face, he wore a thick, high-buttoned suit of black serge and a heavy leather stormcoat, also black. He was seated, casually, on the wooden pole-back chair behind the door, waiting.

‘What are you–’ Drusher began, his voice coming out thin and reedy.

‘You Drusher?’ the man asked.

‘Yes. Why? What are you doing here? This is my–’

‘Valentin Drusher?’ the man pressed, glancing at a small data-slate in his left hand. ‘Magos biologis? Says here you’re forty-seven. Is that right? You look older.’

‘I am Valentin Drusher,’ Drusher replied, too scared to be offended. ‘What is this about? Who are you?’

‘Sit down, magos. Over there, please. Put your satchel on the table.’

Drusher did as he was told. His pulse was thumping, and his skin had become clammy. He had an awful feeling he knew what this was about.

‘I’m Falken,’ the man said, and briefly flashed an identity warrant at him. Drusher swallowed as he glimpsed the silver seal of the Magistratum, attached to which was a small orange ribbon that denoted the Martial Order Division. ‘How long have you been here on Gershom?’

‘Ah, fourteen years. Fourteen years this winter.’

‘And here in Kaloster?’

‘Just eighteen months.’

The man looked at his data-slate again. ‘According to Central Records, you are employed by the Administratum to teach Natural History at the local scholam.’

‘That’s correct. My papers are in order.’

‘But you’re a magos biologis, not a teacher.’

‘Employment prospects on this world are not great for a man of my calling. I take what work I can. The teaching stipend offered by the Administratum keeps a roof over my head.’

The man pursed his lips. ‘If the employment prospects for your kind are thin on the ground, magos, it begs the question why you came to Gershom in the first place. Let alone why you chose to stay here for fourteen years.’