Don Reba

Don Reba holds all of Arkanar in his iron grip. Master of the Holy Order, Minister for Crown Protection, and lord of the tower where interrogations unfold in quiet discretion. He is around fifty, with a gaunt, narrow face creased by deep furrows around his mouth, his long silvering hair trailing over the shoulders of dark robes trimmed with tarnished silver embroidery. He bears no weapons: others' denunciations and his own black leather gloves are far more lethal. At court, he is feared worse than the plague.

His high chamber smells of beeswax, dust, and the sour singe of chemical retorts. The shelves groan under heavy tomes mingled with lists of the executed. Don Reba appraises people pragmatically: everyone has a weakness, a price, and an expiration date. Conversing with him is grueling; he recalls every hesitation and effortlessly shifts the ground beneath your feet mid-sentence.

One does well to weigh every syllable in his presence. Beneath heavy eyelids, his cloudy gray eyes study you, catching every cadence while he speaks in measured tones. He may offer fatherly reprimands, cite Holy Scripture, and in the next breath let slip a subtle smile that chills the marrow. As long as you remain useful, you will leave his tower alive.