should support each other.'
'Thank you for spending some time with me, Dalquist.' Grimm struggled to find the right words. 'Thank you ever so much for showing me this lovely library. I was feeling very unhappy when you came to see me, but now I'm feeling much better. Thank you.'
Dalquist nodded. 'Think nothing of it. Believe me; I know only too well how difficult enjoyment can be to find at times for charity Students. Enjoy your books.'
'I will, Dalquist,' Grimm whispered, as the mage left the room, closing the door behind him.
When the mage had left, Grimm turned his voracious gaze to the nearest bookshelf. Thaumaturgy and Its Application to Meteorological Phenomena sounded intriguing, but it seemed to consist of nothing but cryptic diagrams, so he put it back on the shelf.
Meditation; the Art of Inner Calm sounded boring, as did A First Primer of Cadences and Chants. He picked up The Necromantic Vocation and leafed through it, but he soon returned it to the rack with some distaste; it seemed the book was concerned mostly with dead bodies.
The books seemed to be in no particular order that he could fathom, so he began to dart around at random.
Finally, he hit upon Herbs and Plants; Their Attributes and Uses and took it to a battered but comfortable leather chair near the door. Opening the book, Grimm saw a beautiful, hand-painted picture of a herb he knew well. Dock, he thought, it's good for nettle stings. Reading on, he saw that its 'primary attributes' were 'cool', 'shady' and 'watery'. Then, as he read on, he saw that the 'secondary attributes' were 'Febrifuge', 'Balm' and 'Emetic'.
Looking further down the page, there were further details of the kinds of magic to which the dock was 'sympathetic', those to which it was 'antagonistic'-which, Grimm gathered, meant unkind, although he couldn't see how a herb could be either kind or nasty-and the 'tertiary attributes', which were described by strange, angular symbols.
At the bottom of the page was the cryptic comment Suitable in all cases in the primary and secondary phases where indicated, tertiary attributes to be applied only by Healers of the Third Rank and above, on pain of undesired resonances in the infrastomal conjoints. This meant nothing to Grimm, but the words had a certain ring of majesty about them.
As he read on, he saw many plants and herbs that he recognised and others he did not, but even the humblest weed seemed to have significance far above his imaginings and his comprehension. Grimm was still engrossed in the book when the urgent peal of a bell sounded in his head, if not in his ears. With a start, he turned to see Doorkeeper towering above him.
'It is twelve o'clock. We must go to the Refectory now, young Grimm, or you will miss your luncheon. We can't have a growing lad missing his meals.' Grimm had not been aware of the passage of time, and he realised that he had spent nearly two hours absorbed in the strange book.
'I'm sorry, Doorkeeper. The book was very interesting.'
Doorkeeper glanced at the title of the volume that Grimm held, and he raised his eyebrows quizzically. 'Isn't that book a little old for you? Surely you don't understand it all.'
Grimm shook his head. 'I just like the words. I know a lot of these plants, but I never knew that there was so much to know about them.
'Groundsel's good for bad dreams,' he said, eager to relate what he had learned, 'and blackweed can be used for colic. Bottle-spurge can be used in the… in the second phase of… of thaumaturgic group spells of the third order, whatever that means.'
Doorkeeper could not understand why anybody might read for pleasure. The last time he had read an entire book was on the day before he was finally Acclaimed as a Mage, and that was just so he could be sure of what he had to do at the ceremony. Ever since that time, he had vowed with fierce determination to avoid literature whenever he could.
Muttering to himself, 'Can't be good for the eyes,' he led Grimm down the worn spiral staircase and into the corridor.
Chapter 7: Long Arm of the House
Dalquist was on his way through the great hall back to his own cell to engage in some study when an insistent tickle in his forebrain told him that Lord Prelate Thorn required his presence immediately.
His heart began to beat faster. This could be what he had been waiting for! Checking his reflection in the black sheen of the magically sharp Breaking Stone, he smoothed his brown beard and ordered his hair as best he could without the aid of comb or brush. When the Prelate called, one did not dally!
With a tug at his robes, he strode resolutely towards Thorn's turret, letting his staff, Shakhmat, bob merrily at his side in a jaunty manner of its own accord. After a few moments, he remembered proper mage protocol, took tight hold of the baton and assumed a more sedate manner. He would be on his guard, too, with his language. Formal Mage Speech would be the order of the day.
The tightly winding staircase was very difficult to negotiate whilst carrying a six-foot staff, which hampered him to a considerable extent, with Shakhmat clattering on the turret's stone walls every few steps, announcing his approach. It occurred to Dalquist that this might not be coincidental. Thorn must have chosen this tower as his sanctuary for this very reason: its defensible qualities.
Drawing a deep breath in an attempt to still his pounding heart, the young Questor knocked three times on the door and waited. A laconic 'Come' issued from the inner sanctum and Dalquist entered the chamber. Closing the door behind him, he took two steps forward and stood ramrod-straight before the battered oak desk, Shakhmat at half an arm's length from his right side as he had been taught.
He stared straight ahead, trying not to be distracted by the occasional pink flash from Lord Thorn's bald patch as the Prelate scanned a number of papers in what seemed almost a studied show of indifference. After several minutes, the ruddy face lifted, and the Prelate locked his powerful gaze onto Dalquist's eyes.
'Thank you for coming, Rufior. Your name is Danquest, is it not?' The Prelate's tone suggested that he did not care one way or the other.
'Dalquist, Lord Prelate.' The young mage did not dare to say more.
'Ah, yes, I thought so,' Thorn drawled. 'I never forget a name or a face.' The Prelate's gaze dared Dalquist to comment, but the Questor remained mute.
Thorn adopted an almost avuncular manner, motioning Dalquist to sit in the comfortable leather chair opposite the Prelate. The Questor sank warily into the squeaking leather, trying to make as little commotion as possible.
Thorn put his hands together as if praying, his index fingers touching the tip of his nose, deep in momentary thought. After a few moments, he pulled a half-full bottle from a desk drawer.
'Would you care for a drink, Questor Dalquist? I have a fine brandy here.'
Dalquist ached for Thorn to get to the point, but he dared not say so.
'No, thank you, Lord Prelate.'
Thorn regarded with an unmistakeable look of longing at the bottle, but he replaced it in the drawer, unopened.
'A matter has been brought to my attention, Questor Dalquist; a serious matter, which greatly affects the House. I need the services of a good, loyal Questor to resolve it. Are you that mage?'
Dalquist could hardly bring the words out. 'Certainly, Lord Prelate. I am honoured that you should have selected me for this role.' He maintained an outward icy calm, but inside he was rejoicing. A Questor with no Quests to his name was nobody. After this, he would be able to walk with pride and look other Questors in the eye. He would also be entitled to bear the first gold ring on his staff, showing that he had undertaken a Quest for his House. He would also be on his way up the ladder to the coveted Seventh Rank.
Thorn considered further. 'Could you kill a man if you had to, Questor Dalquist?'
Dalquist felt taken aback by the blunt question, but he managed a careful answer. 'I find the idea distasteful, Lord Prelate, but I have been told many times that a Questor often needs to act without thinking, even if this
