Both the city and the wall had been built very cunningly and very well. The wall encircled three quarters of the municipality and nestled on the highest elevation of the city. Beyond the wall, the city sloped lazily down to the shoreline of Lallor Bay. As Pryce had discovered earlier, only the very tops of the city’s highest castles could be seen from outside the wall. The slope also kept everyone who waited in line to take the entrance examination from seeing too much of the glory that was Lallor.
One glance told Covington that only Halruaa’s best and brightest would dare live amidst such splendor. He resisted the temptation to rub his eyes and tried to act as if he weren’t overwhelmed. The buildings were of various widths and sizes, but they all seemed to grow out from the lush green vegetation that surrounded them, interspersed with refreshing splashes of riotous color from rare pollandry plants.
Some buildings were classic mansions of tan and dark brown plaster, while others were extensive cottages of precious stone. All were veritable palaces of the most amazing design and construction. Others appeared like huge bulbs of both organic material and opaque glass. The bulbs were not only of many dusky colors but also of many shapes, some more pointed and some more round, but all large enough to comfortably house extended families.
Pryce’s head craned forward to look closer at the landscape. He thought he could see movement within these amazing walls, but it might have been a reflection from the clouds and the sparkling bay. Shaking his head in wonder, he looked over his shoulder to see the more familiar castles that befit the great wizards of any Halruan city. These low, wide constructions almost formed an inner wall of their own, which stretched from one end of the city wall to the other.
“I hope our unassuming little community doesn’t disappoint a man of your travels and experiences,” the admission clerk intoned modestly.
Pryce turned on him with smiling insight. “Laying it on a bit thick, don’t you think… what did you say your name was again, my good man?”
The admission clerk’s jowls shook as he moved his head back in surprise, then widened as his smile of appreciation grew. “Matthaunin Witterstaet, at your service! And, if I may say so, sir, you are as perceptive as everyone has alleged.”
“Everyone?” But before Pryce could pursue the point further, an impressive woman marched purposefully up to stand before them. Her sudden appearance made Pryce aware that the splendid architecture had distracted him from the well-mannered, well-dressed people who went about their everyday business on the wide, well-maintained streets.
The woman stood about five feet, three inches tallthe top of her sandy-colored hair came to his sternumand she must have weighed a hundred pounds soaking wet. When Pryce finished examining the small feet wedged into skintight boots, bandy but well-shaped legs in dark hide pants, small but powerful torso within the U-necked, blood-red tunic with the white-and-gold-dotted black epaulets, he concentrated on the face above the deep-purple cowled cape that swept off her shoulders and brushed the cobblestoned road at her feet.
Big, dark blue eyes, a snout of a nose, high, prominent cheekbones, and thin, thin, thin lips. Make that lip, singular, he thought. The top one was merely a straight gash a few centimeters above her sharp chin. Not to the least of Covington’s surprise, her sandy hair was pulled back in a tight, short pigtail.
“A hale and hearty morning to you, Greeter,” she said to the clerk in a not entirely pleasant reedy voice.
“And a hale and hearty morning to you, Inquisitrix,” he replied. He moved both arms toward Pryce, as if presenting him as a long-sought prize. “And this is”
“You don’t have to tell me who this is!” she interrupted, smiling up at Pryce. He noticed that her incisors were a bit sharper than normal. “One look told me. I would not, could not, make a mistake about him!” She shot out a hand. “Berridge Lymwich, Mystran Inquisitrix of the first rank, at your service, sir. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you after all I’ve heard.”
He took her hand. It was cold and hard, her grip like a vise. Pryce winced and quickly pulled his hand free. “If your pleasure is as great as your strength,” he said, “then you must be delirious with joy.”
Lymwich’s chin went down, her mouth opened, and she blinked. Then she brayed a loud laugh. The clerk leaned toward her, a twinkle in his eye. “Is he not everything we’ve heard?”
She looked Pryce up and down appraisingly. “And more!” She put one foot behind the other and half-bowed, half-curtsied. ‘Truly, sir, a pleasure to meet you.”
‘Thank you,” Pryce replied, fluttering his own hand to make sure all the bones and knuckles were still in place. Then he shook a finger at her. “You Lallorians keep surprising me with your friendliness. I was told that I would be lucky to receive much more than an occasional glance, certainly nothing as familiar as a handshake.”
Lymwich allowed another laugh to escape with a bray, marveling at his amiable forthrightness. “Now, who told you that?” she asked with a certain familiarity. “Has Geerling been telling you tales?”
Pryce’s eyebrows raised. Geerling? Geerling who? Or what? But before he could inquire, the clerk leaned forward. “More likely Gamor Turkal,” he said with a smile that crinkled the flesh around his beady eyes and a nod that shook his several chins.
‘Turkal,” Lymwich sniffed with a certain distaste. “Hmph.” His former partner’s name certainly had changed the mood, but Pryce wasn’t surprised. Gamor often had that effect on people. He could kill a conversation at five yards. “But enough small talk,
Greeter,” the inquisitrix said briskly. “I believe you have more interlopers to test…?”
“But, Mistress Lymwich,” Matthaunin protested, “it isn’t every day that”
“Enough, Greeter,” the inquisitrix said curtly, making it plain that his personal time with Pryce was at an end. “Our illustrious visitor is here now, after much anticipation. We of the Mystran Inquisitorium can take it from here. There is no need to delay him, or yourself, any longer.”
The gatekeeper was visibly disappointed. “Yes, Inquisitrix. I understand.” Dejectedly he turned to go.
“How far can a canine run into a forest?” Pryce asked him in lieu of a good-bye.
“Wha-what?” Matthaunin stuttered, then brightened. “Oh… oh, I see. A riddle! A dog… the woods? Let’s see… Oh, dear, I should know this…. Curses! All right, how far?”
“Halfway,” Pryce informed him with a grin.
“Half…? Oh, of course! For the other half, it’s running out of the forest! Yes, yes, that’s good. I’ll use that… ” And then, shaking his head and smiling, Matthaunin Witterstaet disappeared back out the gate to his parchment, golem, and refugees.
Pryce turned back to the inquisitrix, who was watching him with a strange expression on her face. “What is it?” he asked her directly.
‘You didn’t have to…” she began, then tried again. “Why did you…?” And when that didn’t work either, she settled on a new observation. “You’re nothing like I expected, but somehow everything I expected.”
Pryce thought about chastising her for holding any preconceptions at all, but then he let the saner half of his head prevail. ‘What exactly did you expect?” he asked with a bemused smile.
His informality had the opposite effect of what he had intended. The inquisitrix cleared her throat and stood straight, her shoulders back. “Why, you, naturally, sir. I hope you will forgive me. I’m forgetting my responsibility. Of course we saw you through the Eye of the Inquisitor, and I was sent to make sure you are settled in comfortably. Will you follow me, sir?”