Doorkeeper gulped, a little out of his depth. 'I'm sure Loras didn't mean it to be bad, Grimm,' he stammered. 'It wasn't like stealing or anything, but it was bad anyway. All I will say is that I think he was trying to ease an old man's pain, but other people didn't see it like that.
'Nearly all of the House council, what we call the Presidium, wanted Loras to be executed for what he had done, but his good friend Thorn persuaded them to let him live. Instead, Loras had most of his money taken, and the Presidium made a great spell to take away his magic.'
Grimm looked close to tears. 'But what did he do, Doorkeeper? He's a good man, a nice man!'
The major-domo felt hot-cold spears of panic lancing through his nerves. He knew he could never bring himself to tell Grimm the full truth. He knew his diplomatic skills and his way with words were poor; nonetheless, he tried to sweeten the bitter pill as best he could.
'Grimm; Loras Afelnor was a very, very kind man,' he said, putting what he hoped was a grandfatherly hand on the boy's shoulder. 'I mustn't tell you too much, but I will ask you: would your grandfather help a sick, old man who was in great pain?'
The child still looked confused, but he nodded.
Doorkeeper locked Grimm's eyes with a serious gaze. 'Well, that's just what he did. He helped an old man, but he shouldn't have done.'
Grimm's expression showed little more comprehension than before, and Doorkeeper stared at the ceiling for a few moments, wondering how he could escape from the tangle in which he found himself. Then, welcome inspiration flooded into his mind, and he stifled a sigh of relief.
'Grimm, do you eat with your elbows on the table?'
'Of course not!' the boy cried. 'You mustn't do that.'
'Why not?' Doorkeeper asked.
'Because… I don't know, but you mustn't!'
Doorkeeper wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead. 'Well, it was like that. There are rules you have to obey, although you don't know why they're important. There are rules like that in the House, too.'
Doorkeeper continued, 'Loras thought he was doing a good thing, but he broke an important rule. He didn't mean to hurt anyone, but the rules said he had to be punished.'
Grimm nodded slowly. 'Granfer and Gramma don't like me giving food to our dog, Brush, but he looks so hungry sometimes. One time, I gave Brush some chicken bones, even though I knew I shouldn't.' His face fell. 'Brush was very sick, and Granfer was very angry with me.'
'Then you understand, Grimm. We have rules, but sometimes we think we're doing the right thing by breaking them.'
Grimm nodded, looking relieved. 'It was like me giving Brush those bones?'
'Almost, Grimm,' Doorkeeper said. 'But rules are rules. I'm sure Lord Thorn would be glad to take in the grandson of his old friend, but he might not be able to do so. Lord Thorn has the good of the House to think of.'
Grimm opened his mouth, but any words were smothered by a cavernous yawn. It was plain the lad had further questions to ask, but his fluttering eyelids spoke of incipient exhaustion.
Doorkeeper decided to spare Grimm any further details; whatever Thorn's eventual decision concerning the boy might be, there were more pressing matters to which to attend.
'Now, Grimm, I think it must be well past your bedtime. There's a pallet in the corner, and I think it would be best if you had some sleep after your long journey. It's been a very busy day for you.'
The effort of Grimm's long climb up the mountain path now seemed to take its toll, and Grimm allowed himself to be bedded down. As soon as his head touched the pillow, the exhausted child was asleep. Doorkeeper covered him with a blanket and spoke a small, simple charm, painstakingly memorised some decades before, to ensure that the boy slept well. He wiped some sweat from his brow, for even the simple spell of Calm Repose, one of the first Minor Magics taught to lowly Neophytes, had cost him no little effort.
Grimm slept fitfully. In place of the familiar sounds and smells of the smithy, the distant clangs and jangles of pots and pans drifted into his sensorium. From time to time, his legs twitched, as if he were still trudging up the long mountain path, and he began to dream.
He saw Granfer Loras standing before him in his smithy clothes, teaching him the names of plants and animals. Now, Granfer had made a kite for him, and he laughed with glee as it flew into the air.
The wind howled and the clouds turned dark; in sudden fear, he turned to see Granfer Loras in silk robes, the normal, close-cropped, blue smoothness of his pate replaced by a long shock of white hair. Lightning played around his brows, and his expression was stern and frightening. Grimm turned to run, but he found himself confronted by a large group of chanting, jeering mages, each one bearing his grandfather's face and expression. They grabbed him by the shoulders and dragged him to a makeshift gallows, laughing as they did so…
The terrifying, confusing dream gave way to dark, formless sleep, and he found peace at last.
Chapter 3: Thorn and Lizaveta
The previous night's storm was spent, and cheerful, orange rays of sun played on the flagstones outside the House. The building was quiet apart from the rustling, creaking form of Doorkeeper shuffling through the hall from the scullery.
Doorkeeper, keeping his promise to the boy, Afelnor, carried Grimm's package up the winding staircase to Lord Thorn's chamber at first light. The child was still asleep, and Doorkeeper had seen no reason to disturb him. He ascended the steps with some trepidation, as he always found the prospect of an early morning meeting with the Prelate a daunting affair. As Doorkeeper approached the chamber door, a deep, apparently bored voice sounded: 'Enter, Doorkeeper.'
The old mage was humbled as ever by this evidence of the Prelate's magical power, not realising that the carillon of creaking joints and incomprehensible muttering that always accompanied his progress was signal enough to announce his approach. The aged major-domo opened the door and bowed courteously. The chamber was small but well-appointed, with sumptuous tapestries hanging from every wall. In the centre of the room was a tall, beautifully carved mahogany throne with a marble table before it, bearing scrolls, books and potions in untidy abandon and a green scrying-crystal mounted on a chased silver base.
On the throne sat a portly man with thin wisps of white hair plastered across a high, shining pate. The dark eyes that fixed Doorkeeper's gaze were a little dull, and more than a little bloodshot, but there was no denying the power in the Prelate's visage. Evidently, Lord Thorn had over-extended himself in his previous night's revelries, but this was not surprising to Doorkeeper in view of the onerous demands of the responsibilities that must surely pertain to the post of Prelate and House Lord. The man was a Mage Questor of the Seventh Rank and a formidable magic-user, but a man nonetheless, sacrilegious as the fact might seem to the major-domo.
Thorn regarded the nervous man before him with some irritation. The two had known each other for most of Thorn's eighty years, ever since the future Prelate had entered the ranks of the House as a humble Student. Ever since his accession to the title of Prelate, the ancient Doorkeeper had regarded him with awe and trepidation. Thorn's hangover had been kept at bay by the use of some minor magic, and so his mood was somewhat better than it might have been had he been a Secular. Nonetheless, he was none too pleased at being disturbed at this early hour: even a Mage of the Seventh Rank needed to sleep sometimes.
'What is it, Doorkeeper?' he growled. When tired, hungry or overworked, Thorn had an easily roused temper, one which had often caused him trouble with the Magemasters in his youth, although he never let it affect his magic. There would be no measured words and tones here, such as those Thorn would have used to address the Presidium. Brief conversation was best when the Prelate was in a bad mood, but Thorn knew this was not
