Chapter 263: The Inquisitors at Maren (4)

The Grand Magus received them in the keep’s old solar.

"Grand Magus. Thank you for agreeing to see us. We know you’re still recovering, so we’ll try not to keep you long."

Grane bowed properly from the waist. Varne followed.

It was the deepest bow either had given anyone on the ridge. The man in the bed was one of the Eight Stars of Astralis, and an Inquisitor’s authority did not extend very far in this room unless the old man allowed it to.

The Grand Magus was propped up on pillows, wrapped in three blankets, with a steaming cup on the table beside him. His face looked pale, but his small eyes remained sharp as they examined the two visitors.

"Recovering," he repeated. "I dropped a hill on a bridge, Inquisitor. My body is still deciding whether to forgive me."

He took a sip.

"Sit. You’re more polite than the last one."

Grane sat. Varne took the chair beside him and opened her notebook.

"Then I’ll begin with the last one," Grane said. "Sir Aldous Fenwright wrote to the Crown that you were elderly, unwell, and in no condition to judge matters of law."

The Grand Magus snorted.

"Fenwright’s letter? I’ve wiped better things off my boots."

Varne lowered her head over her notebook. Grane pretended not to notice the movement of her shoulders.

"I’d like your account of what happened at the bridge," he said. "Particularly the Strategist’s actions."

For the first time, the old man looked directly at him.

"What about them?"

Grane felt a cold drop run down his back.

"We’ve received reports of extraordinary cold emanating from the young lord, Encrid. Witnesses claim he moved beyond the limits of a Grandmaster and displayed swordsmanship that defied comprehension. His father attributes it to a family relic. Others suggest something less natural."

He paused, watching for a reaction.

"Since Your Grace was present, I thought you might be able to shed some light on the matter."

The Grand Magus put his cup down.

The room grew cold.

It happened so suddenly that Varne’s breath caught in her throat. Frost crept across the rim of the cup, and the water inside froze solid. A thin white film spread across the tabletop.

Grane remained still, though his fingers tightened around the armrest.

The old man looked at the cup, apparently annoyed.

"Ah. That’s enough of that."

The frost stopped spreading. A moment later, the ice cracked, and the water returned to liquid.

The Grand Magus picked up his cup and drank as though nothing had happened.

"I was at the other end of the bridge," he said. "I had an Elder in front of me and thousands of people behind me. I saw what the boy did. I felt it."

He took another sip.

"I will not pretend to understand it."

"Could a relic have produced such an effect?"

"Perhaps."

"Could it have been the result of a contract with a demon?"

The Grand Magus’s eyes settled on Grane.

For several seconds, he said nothing.

Then the Inquisitor felt something press against him.

It was not a physical force. Nothing touched his skin, yet his body suddenly refused to move. His fingers remained locked around the armrest. His lungs would not draw a full breath.

Varne’s pen slipped from her hand and struck the floor.

The old man looked away.

The pressure vanished.

Grane inhaled sharply. Beside him, Varne bent to retrieve her pen, her face pale.

"Demons," the Grand Magus said, picking up his cup again, "are not a subject I discuss lightly."

Grane straightened his coat.

"Understood, Your Grace."

"Good. Now, if you’ve finished asking me to explain things I don’t understand, I’d like to sleep."

Grane rose immediately.

"Of course."

He bowed again, and this time he needed no reminder of who was in the room.

As they reached the door, the Grand Magus spoke once more.

"Inquisitor."

Grane turned.

"That boy stood at the end of the bridge so eight thousand people could cross it. Whatever power he used, he used it for them."

The old man’s eyes had grown tired again.

"Make of that what you will."

Grane bowed and left.

Outside, Varne let out a breath she had apparently been holding since they entered.

"Did you feel that?"

"Yes."

"Was it a spell?"

Grane looked back at the closed door.

"I don’t know."

He adjusted his gloves.

"But I suggest we don’t make him demonstrate it a second time."

They walked down the corridor in silence. Varne kept her notebook tucked against her chest, her pen held between two fingers. She seemed to be considering whether the encounter was worth recording in full.

"Are you going to write about what happened in there?" Grane asked.

"Of course."

"Be careful how you phrase it."

She glanced at him. "You mean the frost?"

"I mean everything."

Varne understood. An Inquisitor could record what he had witnessed, but that did not mean every reader would interpret it as he intended. The Grand Magus had answered their questions without giving them anything they could use to explain Encrid’s abilities. Worse, he had made it clear that pursuing the matter too aggressively might be unwise.

And he had defended the boy without offering a single word of certainty about what the boy was.

Grane disliked unanswered questions. He disliked them even more when powerful people appeared content to leave them unanswered.

The rest of the day went less smoothly.

Merta arrived carrying a ladle.

She placed it on the table with a sharp clank, pulled out a chair, and sat down with her arms folded. Grane had barely introduced himself when she announced that she would not answer a single question unless Steward Vess was present.

"Inquisitor Grane," he reminded her, "the Inquisition does not usually allow witnesses to choose their company."

"Then you can ask your questions without me answering them."

She settled deeper into her chair.

Grane studied her. The ladle lay within easy reach of her hand. He had no intention of asking what she planned to do with it.

"Why do you require the steward’s presence?"

"Because he’s the steward."

It was not an answer, and she seemed perfectly aware of that.

Grane could have insisted. He could have reminded her that obstructing an official inquiry carried consequences. Instead, he considered the likely result of an argument with a woman who had arrived armed with a kitchen utensil and no apparent fear of the Inquisition.

He sent for Vess.

The steward arrived with a look that suggested he had already guessed why he was needed. He took a seat beside Merta, who gave a small nod as if the matter had been settled exactly as it should have been.

With Vess in the room, Merta answered every question.

She simply did so in a manner that made it difficult to determine whether she was cooperating or insulting him.

She remembered the movements of the survivors, the supplies distributed along the ridge, and the names of those who had been sent south. Her recollection was precise whenever it suited her and remarkably vague whenever Grane approached something she did not wish to discuss.

When he asked whether the Wall’s convicts had been moved south without permission, she looked him in the eye.

"Every one of them was moved south alive. Would you have preferred the other kind?"

Varne’s pen paused above her notebook.

Vess looked at Merta, but she gave no indication that she had said anything unusual.

Grane held her gaze for another moment.

"No," he said at last. "That will be all for now."

"Good."

Merta rose, retrieved her ladle, and left with the steward following behind her.

Grane watched them go.

He had learned very little about who had authorized the movement of the convicts. He had, however, learned that Merta was willing to make the distinction between a lawful order and a necessary one, and that she did not particularly care whether the Inquisition approved of it.

He made a note in the margin of his report. He closed his file and reached for the next one.

"Send in the master of the Gleaning."

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