Marwan ibn-Sadiq is a narrow, stooped old man whose body seems assembled from ropes, reeds, and weathered bone. His skin has the dry, papery texture of old parchment except around his wrists and throat, where it remains perpetually damp and faintly translucent. He walks with a dragging limp, yet becomes unnervingly graceful when descending wet stairs, placing each foot as if following music no one else can hear. His face is deeply furrowed, with a nose bent from an old break and a mouth that often appears to be silently answering someone behind the listener. The unexpected contradiction is his hands: they are broad, strong, and exquisitely clean, with trimmed nails and the soft touch of a professional calligrapher. He leaves people with the impression of a kindly grandfather who has spent too long listening at a locked door.