Chapter 18: The Inquisitor’s Tale

Miya Lancaster

The Silver Pheasant turned out to be exactly what Miya had imagined from the name on the note he had left. An expensive, respectable establishment in a quiet quarter, where officials, wealthy merchants, and occasionally high-ranking mages dined, preferring neutral ground. No garish signs, no drunken parties at the entrance. Only subdued lighting, heavy velvet drapes, and a maître d’ with a face that expressed precisely the degree of contempt owed to every patron without exception.

“Do you have a reservation?” he inquired, sizing Miya up with an appraising glance.

“A table under the name Greymane,” she replied.

The maître d’ gave a barely perceptible nod and led her into the depths of the hall—to where a row of private booths lined the wall. Miya knew about such establishments. The booths here were fitted with a subtle but highly effective silence spell—selective, adjustable to the patrons’ needs. One could arrange it so that those inside could not hear the main hall, but the hall could hear them—for business negotiations requiring confidentiality without isolation. Or one could activate complete isolation, so that everything that happened inside the booth stayed inside. Judging by the faint shimmer in the air at the entrance, Greymane had chosen the second option.

Reasonable, Miya thought, stepping across the threshold. So the conversation will be serious.

The booth was small but furnished with the expectation that patrons might spend several hours there without the slightest discomfort. Two deep leather armchairs stood on one side of the table, while the other held a wide divan upholstered in dark burgundy velvet, with soft cushions, clearly designed not merely for sitting but for ... getting comfortable. Light came from a single oil lamp under a green shade, and in its muted glow the polished wood of the table gleamed warm amber. It was quiet, cozy, and completely isolated from the outside world.

The inquisitor was already seated in one of the armchairs. When she appeared, he rose—politely, but without being overly deferential—and indicated the other chair.

“Miss Lancaster. You are punctual.”

“I try not to keep people waiting,” she replied, lowering herself into the offered chair.

The chair was comfortable—too comfortable. Miya felt the soft leather accept her body, and for a moment she allowed herself to relax. But only for a moment. Because Greymane, sitting across from her, did not look relaxed. He looked composed—like a hunter who had already set his snares and was now waiting for his prey to step into them.

Let’s see which of us is the prey, Miya thought.

Greymane ordered wine—red, dry, clearly expensive—and the first half hour passed surprisingly calmly. Too calmly, even. He asked about the Academy. About the instructors. About which subjects she liked and which she didn’t. About her workload, her exams, how she planned to build her career after graduation. Miya answered—politely, but briefly. There was nothing to hide when it came to her studies, but she had no intention of confiding in an inquisitor.

Then he shifted the conversation to politics. To the mages’ attitude toward the crown. To rumors that some graduates were unhappy with the new laws. To the Dragon Empire and its magical reforms. He asked what she thought about mages’ independence from secular authority. He asked if she would like to study under the elves.

Miya answered evenly, giving him nothing extra. But with each new question, her bewilderment grew. Why? Why was he wasting time on such nonsense? Why did he need to know what she thought about politics if he had come here about the theft of the books? It made no sense. Unless...

He’s stalling, she suddenly realized.

And as soon as that thought took shape, everything fell into place. Greymane wasn’t interrogating her. Wasn’t pressuring her. Wasn’t threatening her. He was simply pouring into her ears such hopeless, such murderously boring drivel that she was ready to howl. About the weather—how the magnolias in the city park had bloomed early this year. About wine—he apparently knew a thing or two about winemaking and could recommend an excellent elven white. About how the capital had too many newcomers these days, and it created inconveniences for the locals. And all of it—with that particular lazy intonation of people who had absolutely nowhere to hurry.