Yorl. In all the land there were but three Great Wizards, powerful enough not to
care that their true names were noised abroad: one was at Ranke and served the
needs of the court; one was at Ilsig and accounted the most skilful; the third,
by reason of some scandal, made do with the slim pickings at Sanctuary, and that
was Enas Yorl.
But how could he be here? His palace was on – or, more exactly, below – Prytanis
Street, where the city petered out to the south-east of Temple Avenue.
Except…
The thought burgeoned from memory and she fought against it, and failed. Someone
had once explained to her: Except when it is somewhere else.
Abruptly it was as though the table shrank, and from an immense distance its
farther end drew close and along with it a high-backed, throne-like chair in
which sat a curious personage. He was arrayed in an enormously full, many
layered cloak of some dull brown stuff, and wore a high-crowned hat whose broad
brim somehow Contrived to shadow his face against even the directionless grey
light that obtained here.
But within that shadow two red gleams like embers showed, approximately where a
human’s eyes would be.
This individual held in his right hand a scroll, partly unrolled. and with his
left he was tapping on the table. The proportions of his fingers were abnormal,
and one or two of them seemed either to lack, or to be overprovided with,
joints. One of his nails sparked luridly, but that ceased after a little.
Raising his head, after a fashion, he spoke.
‘A girl. Interesting. But one who has … suffered. Was it punishment?’