‘The only thing that gets the ink out,’ the old man repeated.

‘And I use kayleaf, in a paste, to regrind my quills.’

‘You don’t smoke it then?’ asked the old man.

‘Smoke it? Why?’

‘As a balm against rheumatic inflammation?’

‘No.’

‘Ah,’ the old man said. He shuffled forwards into the living room, his legs creaking like a servitor’s. He was terribly hunched, and his augmetic eyewear clicked as it hunted. ‘You should. It’s very medicinal. It would help your hip.’

‘My hip?’ asked Master Imus.

‘You walk with a slight counter rotation. Two centimetres short on each right step. You shuffle, sir. I presume it is rheumatism.’

Master Imus felt quite dismayed. These three men had intruded into his home. The officer was in his bedroom, overturning the mattress. The other man, Endor, was in the little side kitchen, sniffing the contents of various jars. No one new had been inside Master Imus’ hab for years. It felt like a violation.

‘Are you the inquisitor?’ Master Imus asked.

‘Me? Bless you, no,’ replied the old man. ‘Why would you think that?’

‘I just assumed...’

The old man shuffled over to the sideboard. ‘Fuse-fit sampwood. No maker’s mark. A vase.’

He picked the vase up.

‘Please be careful,’ Master Imus said.

The old man ignored him. He held the vase in his spindly fingers. ‘Sameterware. Third Dynasty.’ He looked inside it. ‘Oh, paper clips.’

The officer came back from the bedroom holding several books.

‘You have books,’ he said.

‘Is there something wrong with that?’ asked Master Imus.

‘You like poetry?’

‘The Early Imperials. The Tacits. Is that a crime?’

‘This is,’ said Endor. He walked in from the side kitchen with something in his hand. There was an ugly, almost triumphant grin on his face. Master Imus realised that what he first registered as handsome in the features of the officer’s companion was in fact a cruel arrogance. Interrogator Endor was accustomed to winning.

‘What is it?’ asked the officer.

‘Buried at the bottom of a jar of caffeine,’ Endor replied. He held out his hand. Six little pills lay in his palm.

‘Yellodes,’ he said.

‘Most perturbatory,’ said the old man.

‘They’re not mine,’ said Master Imus.

Master Imus sat on the threadbare couch tugging at his robe.

‘They’re not mine. Not mine, not at all. I don’t use that sort of thing. I wouldn’t even know how to get that sort of thing.’

‘Zespair Street, or the dealers that frequent the depot,’ said the old man.

‘Be quiet, Aemos,’ said the officer. He stared down at Master Imus. ‘This is a bad turn of events for you. It compounds things.’

‘They’re not mine. How many times do I have to say it?’

‘They were in your kitchen,’ said Endor, who seemed to be relishing Master Imus’ discomfort.

‘I didn’t put them there.’