This time, the silence hung in the air even longer, and Thorn began to hope he might have persuaded Lizaveta of the impossibility of ousting Horin. His hopes were bolstered by her next words.

"I recognise that I may not have considered this idea in sufficient depth, Thorn. Your argument, for once, is both cogent and rational."

The Prelate gaped in astonishment at his mother's subdued tone. Even the faintest praise from her was a rare occurrence indeed. His rhetoric seemed to have succeeded beyond his wildest dreams. It took all his Questor will to suppress the surge of relief that threatened to betray him.

"I must consider this matter further, Thorn. I may need to work on the other members of the Presidium, so that all accept Horin's resignation and your nomination as his successor."

Lizaveta's mind slithered free from the Prelate's; as always, a most unpleasant experience. Thorn was, once more, alone in his chamber.

The Prelate leant back in his mahogany throne and looked around his comfortable, familiar workroom. It might be small, but Thorn liked it. To his left, a large, diamond-paned bay window afforded a view of verdant forestry and the busy village of Arnor, whose livelihood stemmed from providing the House with all its various needs. The House and the village enjoyed a symbiotic relationship. When the House prospered, so did the artisans and merchants of Arnor, and it was in the House's best interests to ensure that the citizens of the village remained happy with their lot.

Thorn regarded the sumptuous, bucolic tapestries hanging on the chamber walls, a great comfort to him in times of stress. He kicked off his shoes and plunged his bare toes into the thick, red luxurious rug beneath the table, thinking of the Dominie's huge, cold office in High Lodge. Horin was almost never alone; some urgent Guild matter always demanded his attention, and a profusion of advisors, hangers-on and sycophants seeking preferment besieged him at all times.