“Some have gone back. Under armed escort. Mostly those closest to the city. The rest-those with holdings closer to the forest rim-are afraid. They believe the wilderness spawns the demons.”
“They’ll return.” Talle glanced at Var. “When the major goes out, he shall escort them home.”
“They’ll likely argue.”
Talle frowned, his angry eyes prompting the governor to retreat back into his chair. “This land belongs to Evander,” he snapped. “To the Autarchy! We shall not give it up.”
“No, of course not.” Wyme hastened to agree.
And since this … siege … what further attacks?” the Inquisitor continued.
“None,” Wyme said. “We’ve seen no sign of them.”
“Save, of course, you do not venture very far.” Talle pursed his narrow lips, staring at nothing, and for a while silence descended. It was clear who commanded here. Wyme and Spelt, for all their faces were dark with anger and indignation, made no sound, only waited on the Inquisitor as if fearful of disturbing his silent contemplation. Var sipped the last of his brandy, thinking that he should welcome venturing inland. Grostheim, he felt, would not be a pleasant place while Talle remained.
Finally Talle broke the uncomfortable silence: “I’d speak with the officer, Danyael Corm.”
“Now, Inquisitor?” Wyme snapped a fob watch open. “My wife prepares dinner in your honor. She looks forward to meeting you.”
Var doubted that anticipation should last long. From his recollection of Celinda, he suspected she and Talle were likely to find one another mutually distasteful. He thought that dinner should be a strained occasion.
But that dinner was, in any event, postponed. Talle looked at Wyme and said, “Now,” and the governor swallowed nervously and motioned at Spelt, who rose as if grateful to escape.
No, there was no doubt who commanded Grostheim now.
