The Vorrh

received the compliment with relish, giving a side-slanted nod of gratitude, which also formally agreed with her assumption. ‘How can I help?’ he said.
    ‘We want to go in and fetch him out.’
    Hoffman’s features shifted into stern father mode. ‘My dear, I am afraid that would be quite impossible. It is no place for a woman, especially one of your sensibilities and background.’
    As soon as he said it, he realised he had accidentally excluded Ghertrude from the same description. He half-turned towards her, making a feeble scooping motion with his hand to suggest inclusion. Ghertrude frowned.
    ‘You may know that I am a woman of some wealth and that Mistress Tulp’s family have great influence among the various guilds. I say this merely to emphasise the fact that both of us have a certitude of purpose and the means to make it happen, and that our backgrounds have given us confidence and aptitude quite beyond the average woman.’
    Ghertrude was struck by Cyrena’s eloquence and strength, and was again certain that they had met many years ago. The taste of that time leant on another hinge, which opened on the memory of this doctor attending her when she was fevered. She had disliked him the moment she had entered this room: now she knew why, and she watched him more carefully.
    Hoffman rolled small, soundless words around his mouth until, finally, they fell out. ‘I, I was only anxious for your safety, Mistress Lohr. There are real and extremely dangerous hazards in the forest, that I hope you…’ – he turned belatedly towards Ghertrude – ‘…both would never have to face. For example, there is the dissipation of the memory brought about by the exposure to the forest’s noxious atmosphere. I have made some experiments in this matter, and it is my firm belief that the intake of air damages the brain, even after a few days. It would be very unwise to subject such sensitive constitutions to these harmful effects.’ He was gaining speed, hoping to impress them with his wisdom. ‘Imagine the effect of an enduring time in there, what perilous and irreversible injury your health would suffer. Mistress Lohr, you have already had a major traumatic incident this year. What you are suggesting is out of the question.’
    ‘Dr. Hoffman, we do appreciate your concern, but you must understand that your descriptions only make me more determined,’ said Cyrena, her eyes glowing a steady resistance. ‘Everything about that accursed place makes me fear for my friend even more, and my own recent incident is nothing compared to the horrors you have just described. I must find him and return him to safety, and I will do so with or without your assistance.’
    The mood in the room had swivelled. Hoffman was irritated by Cyrena’s implacable confidence, and she, in return, did not care for his attitude; the patronising tang of defeat was repellent to her. After a long, wooden silence, the doctor cleared his throat and started again. ‘The problem is…’ he started.
    ‘The problem is the problem,’ she butted in. ‘But very well,’ she continued, sensing a loss of ground. ‘If we can’t go, maybe we can pay for someone else to search for him in our place? The Limboia, perhaps?’
    The doctor sniggered and tried to hide it with a cough. ‘My dear, the Limboia cannot find themselves, let alone anybody else; they are a vague, undisciplined mob, who can only be made to work in tight units, doing simple tasks. They cannot be let free in the Vorrh: they would never come back!’ He chortled at such a ridiculous prospect.
    ‘Then what about the Orm?’ said Ghertrude.
    Since the return of her youthful memory, her eyes had not once left the doctor’s face. She had seen his dismissal, noted his disinterest in Cyrena’s pain and all they had spoken of. Now, the smugness disappeared. His face shook, as if it had been hit by a gravedigger’s frozen spade. Gone was the arrogance and the guile, the oily charm and condescending grandeur. In its place stood a small, washed-out man with nothing to say, only fear and anger flickering in the saggy folds of his dazed expression.
    ‘The what?’ he said in a voice that was barely audible.
    ‘The Orm,’ said Ghertrude, her dagger gaze missing none of the telltale signs that were filling the room.
    ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ he obviously lied.
    Cyrena, whose attention had been momentarily caught by the Gladstone bag that dominated the table before her, suddenly