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.