Replacing the glass on his worktable, he sighed and tried to muster sufficient motivation to complete the written report on his last Quest. This undistinguished spying mission was not the kind of noble undertaking that might lead to a mention in the Deeds of the Questors, not least because, officially, it had never taken place. The young Questor had spent a week skulking in the sewers beneath an earl's castle, listening at drain openings for snippets of potentially useful information. The whole disgusting affair had cost him a good set of clothes and much self-respect, and all it had gained him was insincere thanks from Lord Thorn and an injunction to keep the matter secret.

Dalquist heard a soft knock at his cell door. With more enthusiasm than he felt, he offered a cheery "Come in."

The door opened to reveal the hunched, wizened major-domo of Arnor House, known to one and all as 'Doorkeeper'.

"Greetings, Questor Dalquist," the ancient mage said, offering a clumsy bow. "I trust you are well after your last Quest."

"Quite well, thank you, Doorkeeper," Dalquist replied, trying to maintain a bright tone of voice. "Among my munificent rewards were a dismal cold and a rat-bite on my right leg, but I have recovered from both. What can I do for you on this glorious morning?"

"Beg-er, begging your p-pardon, Lord Mage," the wrinkled factotum stammered, "but Lord Prelate Thorn wishes to see you at your earliest convenience on a matter of the greatest urgency."

Dalquist sighed and smoothed his robes. "Doubtless there's some rich dowager who needs escorting to some society function, and she thinks the presence of a Questor will impress her friends."

Sarcasm was wasted on Doorkeeper, whose eyes opened wide. "No, Questor, Dalquist, I don't think the Lord Prelate said anything about any dowager, whatever that is. He said it was very, very important. What was it he called it?"

Doorkeeper frowned and scratched his white-sheathed pate, as if this might stimulate his powers of recall, but then his expression cleared.