It felt to Jarveena as though the gaze of those two dull red orbs could
penetrate her flesh as well as her clothing. She could say nothing, but had
nothing to say.
‘No,’ pronounced the wizard – for surely it must be none other. He let the
scroll drop on the table, and it formed itself into a tidy roll at once, while
he rose and approached her. A gesture, as though to sketch her outline in the
air, freed her from the lassitude that had hampered her limbs. But she had too
much sense to break and run.
Whither?
‘Do you know me?’
‘I…’ She licked dry lips. ‘I think you may be Enas Yorl.’
‘Fame at last,’ the wizard said wryly. ‘Do you know why you’re here?’
‘You … Well, I guess you set a trap for me. I don’t know why, unless it has to
do with that scroll.’
‘Hmm! A perceptive child!’ Had he possessed eyebrows, one might have imagined
the wizard raising them. And then at once: ‘Forgive me. I should not have said
“child”. You are old in the ways of the world, if not in years. But after the
first century, such patronizing remarks come easy to the tongue …’ He resumed
his chair, inviting Jarveena with a gesture to come closer. She was reluctant.
For when he rose to inspect her, he had been squat. Under the cloak he was
obviously thick-set, stocky, with a paunch. But by the time he regained his
seat, it was equally definite that he was thin, light-boned, and had one
shoulder higher than the other.
‘You have noticed,’ he said. His voice too had altered; it had been baritone,
while now it was at the most flattering a countertenor. ‘Victims of