“Let us hope you are. What now?”
“We wait for the Inquisitor to summon you and for the Queen to decide whether we march East.”
“How long will that take?”
“Messengers have already been dispatched. We await only her reply. I am guessing a week at the most. If the decision has not already been made.”
The invitation to visit Joran was waiting for Rik when they returned to their apartments. It was delivered by one of the High Inquisitor’s henchmen, verbally. It requested that he pay his respects to Joran at the seventh bell, an hour after sunset. The time seemed ominous, and it gave him some hours to brood before the meeting, which as Asea pointed out, was just what the Inquisitor intended.
In his mind, he ran through all the questions that might arise, ranging from the missing books back in Redtower, to the death of Queen Kathea, to his own Shadowblood heritage. He thought about what he would tell them.
It was best to stick as close to the truth as possible. He had shot Malkior with a truesilver bullet. He knew it was Malkior because he had met the Terrarch in Harven at a reception given by the Council there. By the time he arrived on the scene the Queen and most of her guard were already dead. He and the survivors had managed to take the Terrarch sorcerer down. It was not quite the truth but it was close enough.
He tried not to think about all the things that could go wrong. The Inquisitor might see the mark of the thanatomancer upon him, or already know about his dark deeds. You could never tell quite how much any Terrarch knew and the Inquisition had a legendary array of sources. Perhaps even as he sat here trying to read a book, Weasel and the Barbarian were screaming under the hot irons in the cells below.
He told himself not to be stupid but he could not keep such thoughts from his mind, and they upset the voices and made them whisper and that too made him uneasy. He rose from the chair and started pacing up and down the chamber. Asea looked at him sardonically then went back to her own reading. She could maintain her poise through the end of the world. He feared that he could not.
He wondered whether he should make a run for it, leave the Palace and disappear, try and bury himself in the slums until he could leave the city and make his way back to Sorrow.
If they knew anything about him though, the Inquisition would expect him to do that. He could not head for Harven, the traditional refuge of the runaway human. He knew exactly what sort of reception he would get there, after Asea’s daring escape from the Talorean Embassy.
It was a big world. He ought to be able to lose himself in it. He had some money. He had his weapons. He had the sorcery Asea had taught him. Might it not be better to take his chances? But running would simply confirm their suspicions and give them reason to come looking for him, and it was not certain that they knew anything yet.
Perhaps it would be better to talk with the Inquisitor, find out what he knew and then make a decision. Yes, he thought, and perhaps it might be fatal for him and his friends.
Perhaps it was Asea’s potion, perhaps it was his own moral weakness. He could not make up his mind. He had grown accustomed to the Palace, to Asea’s company, to being someone, and he found himself loath to simply abandon that for the life of a freelance thief and beggar.
He still had not come to a decision when the seventh bell sounded, and there was an ominous knock on the door.
Chapter Six
Two tall white-robed Terrarchs, faces gold-masked, led Rik through the Palace corridors. Four burly black-robed humans accompanied them, and their scarred and pock-marked faces were not masked. Rik could see that their tongues had been torn out. They were mutes of the sort that most conservative Terrarchs still favoured as servants. He doubted they would be able to read or write, but no doubt they could slit a throat or pin down a screaming prisoner with the best of them.
The Terrarchs did not speak to Rik nor did he attempt to start a conversation with them. Soldiers and Palace servants looked away as he passed. Most put their heads down and moved on swiftly, as if he were carrying some contagious disease and they did not want any exposure to it. He could not blame them for that, but it made him feel suddenly alone, in the middle of a Palace filled with people. He forced a smile on to his face. He was simply going to have to rely on his own wits and inner resources and put his faith in the long arm of Asea’s influence.
They made their way into the part of the building that Joran had taken for his people, and began to head down stairs. Rik’s heart sank as they descended, and then rose again just as quickly when he saw they were merely going down a couple of floors and not heading for the cellars. He needed to get a better grip on his emotions, but it was difficult when all control over his circumstances appeared to have slipped from his grasp.
He recalled some of Asea’s words. A sorcerer must be able to control his own mind and his feelings. Often they are the only things that he will have control over, and mastery of the external world flows from mastery of the inner one. He tried to take them to heart as they approached the door of the Inquisitor’s chambers and one of his escorts gave a discrete coded knock.
“Enter,” said the Inquisitor within.
Joran wore no mask. He was dressed in the sort of tunic that the upper echelons of Terrarch society used for less formal meetings. It was white and trimmed with green, the traditional colour of Al’Terra. Discrete golden studs, cast in the shape of an eye, held the collar in place. A golden sash was wound round his waist.
The chamber was luxuriously furnished, and a number of books lined the shelves. A small table stood between two high backed chairs. On it were two glasses and a bottle of wine.
“Be seated,” said Joran pleasantly. Rik was immediately on guard. The High Inquisitor waved his henchmen away, leaving them alone in the room. Rik glanced around, wondering about hidden listeners, and guards. He did not doubt that there would be some. He sat down and once he had done so, the Inquisitor did the same.
Rik studied Joran. The Inquisitor was handsome in the lean, narrow-jawed manner of the Terrarchs. His eyes were very dark, his ears lobeless and finely pointed. His silver hair was cropped short in a manner that was not fashionable. His features were very pale, which Rik assumed came from constantly wearing his mask.
“I have heard a lot about you,” said Joran. His voice was pleasant, his manner agreeable. At this moment, it was hard to imagine someone who sounded less like an Inquisitor, which made Rik even more tense. Joran noticed.
“Relax. We are not ogres. I am not going to put you to the Test of Iron and Fire.”
“I am very glad to hear it,” said Rik, not wanting to say anything, but finding that there was something about the Inquisitor’s manner that made him want to babble. He took a deep breath and calmed himself. This too did not go unnoticed.
“Your patron is very powerful, and she has petitioned the Queen to have you adopted into her House. I am here to ascertain whether you are worthy of such an honour.”
Rik very seriously doubted that this was the only reason why Joran was talking to him, but it hardly seemed diplomatic to point this out.
“I appreciate you coming all this way,” he said, unable to keep the sarcasm from his voice. Joran chose to ignore it.
“It is very unusual for a half-breed to be adopted into the ranks of one of our oldest clans. In fact, I cannot think of a single example of it. The adoption laws were meant for full-blooded Terrarchs. The Lady Asea must think very highly of you.”
“I’m afraid you will have to ask her about that.” There was something lulling about the Inquisitor’s gentle tones. Rik found himself echoing his manner. Was there some sorcery at work here, or some narcotic incense in the air? If there was he could not identify it, and this did not seem like the time for cleansing ritual sorcery.