‘I would have thought they had enough perfectly able ones here already.’

‘Know what I think? I think Karr’s underestimating the damage Rukanis could do. He knows quite a bit about our operation and if…

when

he talks, he could take us all down. We should do everything we can to prevent that.’

‘What are you saying, Disgleirio?’

‘He’s been an asset. Now fate, or betrayal, has turned him into a liability. I don’t want to sound hard-hearted about it, but if we can’t rescue Rukanis…’

‘Go on.’

‘I’d recommend assassinating him.’

It was a matter of pride to the paladin clans that no prisoner had ever escaped from their Valdarr headquarters. Not that there had never been attempts at both break-outs and break-ins. But all had ended in failure and the deaths of everyone involved.

Important captives weren’t held in ill-lit dungeons deep in the bowels of the central fortress, as might be expected. They were hidden in plain sight. There was an extensive clearing in the grounds, an area in which not a tree, a rock or even a single blade of grass had been left standing. Its perimeter was guarded day and night by sentries with kill dogs on slip-leashes. The second line of defence was deadlier still: a range of protective spells of the highest order. Glamours that would raise ear-splitting alarms as they injured, mutilated and killed at any hint of an unauthorised approach.

In the middle of the clearing was a building. It was a windowless, single-storey structure built of stone, with a flat roof and one robust door. No attempt had been made to beautify the exterior, which was uniformly weathered grey.

Inside, there were just six chambers. Four were cells. The

other two housed what were euphemistically referred to as persuasion suites.

Currently, the building had only one occupant.

Kinsel Rukanis had been deprived of food, water and, crucially, sleep. He had been interrogated with little respite, and some violence had been shown to him, though it was more rough handling than actual abuse. Most of his captors’ questions were about who he knew in the Resistance, and its organisation. So far, he’d refused to answer any of them.

For the last couple of hours he’d sat uncomfortably on a hard wooden chair, his wrists bound, facing an increasingly agitated Devlor Bastorran.

‘You do know that this attitude isn’t helping your case, don’t you?’ the paladin said.

‘I’m doing my best to answer your questions.’

‘You’ve failed to answer a single one of them!’

‘I can only address questions on things I have knowledge of. If you will persist in asking about matters beyond my-’

‘Oh, come on, Rukanis! We both know you’re up to your neck in terrorist activities.’

‘I resent that accusation,’ he came back heatedly. ‘Terrorism’s something I would never-’

‘We have evidence, and witnesses.’

‘Then produce them. Charge me and take me to trial. As an empire citizen I have that right.’

‘Under the new emergency powers the rights citizens shall be accorded are at the discretion of legally designated law enforcers,’ Bastorran chanted.

‘How am I expected to prove my innocence under such conditions?’

‘As far as we’re concerned, the question of your innocence or guilt is already settled.’

‘If that’s the case, why should I co-operate?’

‘Because things will go easier on you if you do.’

‘Show me a law I’ve broken. Cite me one example of-’

‘This isn’t so much about anything you’ve done. It’s your friends in the so-called Resistance whose activities interest us. Tell us about that and you’ll find us much more accommodating. But carry on obstructing us…’ He left the threat hanging.

‘I’m afraid I can’t help you.’

‘Afraid? You don’t know the meaning of-’

There was a light tap on the open cell door. Visibly irritated, Bastorran swung round to see his aide, Lahon Meakin, hovering there. ‘Yes? What is it?’

‘Your pardon, sir, but you asked me to let you know when our visitor was ready to see the prisoner.’

‘Ah, yes.’ He turned back to Rukanis. ‘One moment.’

He left the room with his aide, slamming the door behind them.

Kinsel sagged in his chair. He didn’t know how much more of this he could take, and there were ominous signs that they hadn’t even started to flex their muscles yet. And now somebody else seemed to be involved, though he was damned if he could think who.

The door opened again, breaking his chain of thought.

Devlor Bastorran came back in, accompanied by an almost skeletally thin man, probably in his sixties. He was totally bald and clean-shaven, with lips that were a colourless slash, and sharp, intensely blue eyes. His expensive clothes had a discreet quality often associated with the rich and powerful. The man seemed vaguely familiar to Kinsel, but he had no recollection of ever meeting him.

‘You have a caller,’ Bastorran announced as though ushering in a guest at a social event. ‘This is Commissioner Laffon, of the Council for Internal Security.’

Kinsel didn’t know what to say. This was a very important man; the head of the CIS himself. And if everything

he’d heard about him was true, a man whose reputation wasn’t entirely without blemish.

‘Thank you, General, that will be all,’ Laffon told Bastorran.

The paladin looked offended at being dismissed as though he were a mere lackey. ‘You may want someone to stay with you and the prisoner,’ he suggested.

‘I’m sure that won’t be necessary.’

Bastorran nodded curtly and left, leaving the door half open. Laffon pushed it until it was just ajar. Then he grinned widely at Kinsel and moved forward to grasp his bound hands. ‘I am

so

pleased to meet you.’

Kinsel was taken aback. ‘You are?’

‘Oh, yes. I’m a great admirer of your singing talents. I’ve seen you perform several times back in Merakasa.’ He sat on the seat Bastorran had recently vacated. ‘So, how are you?’ he asked.

It seemed such an absurd question the singer wasn’t sure how to respond. ‘Um. Well…’

‘Aggrieved, no doubt. Angry and vexed at finding yourself dealt with in this way. That’s very understandable. We must clear up this awful mistake.’

‘Mistake?’

‘Yes, of course. That’s what it is, isn’t it? I mean, a respectable man like yourself, a man of your stature, would hardly associate with unsavoury elements.’

‘I can say in all truth, Commissioner, that I don’t mix with anyone unsavoury.’

‘Quite so. I was sure this must all be a terrible misunderstanding. Not least because of your well-known support of pacifism.’

‘I’ve never made a secret of the fact that I believe in nonviolence.’

‘And I admire you for that, I really do. I wish I had your moral fibre. The thing is…Well, not everyone feels the way you do. It’s very regrettable, but it’s the world we live in.’

‘I’m aware of that. What’s it to do with me?’

‘The accusations against you centre mostly on the company you’re said to keep. You say you’re above reproach in this regard, and of course I completely accept that. But given the large number of people a man like yourself must meet, isn’t it possible that certain of them might have taken advantage of your…shall we say innocence?’

‘

No.

I mean…how could they?’

‘Don’t underestimate your own importance. You’ve had access to echelons of society most people are excluded from. Wouldn’t you concede the possibility that you might have dropped the occasional indiscreet word about what you’d seen and heard? Or have you never been tempted, perhaps, to carry out a small task for friendly acquaintances?’

‘I’m a singer, not a politician or a street fighter. And certainly not an odd job man or message carrier.’

‘Ah. Messages.’

‘I beg your pardon?’