Grimm felt heat flooding into his face as he saw that many of the petitioners were women. Some of these women were very attractive, with expensive garments and alluring, artfully-painted faces, and the young mage felt constrained to look away whenever one of them looked his way.
Despite his monastic upbringing, he had seen women since he had been declared a mage, in the cities of Crar and Drute. Most had been blowsy, drink-sodden harlots or pale, downtrodden drudges, and he had pitied them rather than felt himself drawn to them.
These women laughed and smiled, their faces animated and vivacious as they stood in line or milled around the great hall in small groups. Some of the women looked towards Dalquist, who looked as uncomfortable as Grimm felt, or towards the Senior Doorkeeper, who seemed to take it all in his elegant, well-manicured stride.
What are all these pen-pushers doing here? Grimm wondered, trying to think of something else.
'These people are presenting petitions: pleas for Weatherworkers to ease drought;' the Senior Doorkeeper said, causing Grimm to start, 'for Healers; for Necromancers to contact the dear departed; for Seers to find their lost treasure; people vying for trade as suppliers to the Lodge. The list is endless. Fear not, it is easier to breathe once one is safely inside.'
'It must be a very demanding post that you have here,' Grimm observed, with just a hint of envy as he saw another of the more attractive petitioners gazing at the urbane mage.
'The responsibilities are, on occasion, onerous,' the dark-skinned man allowed, 'but I supervise a staff of six other Mage Doorkeepers. High Lodge never closes its doors, and so a constant presence is necessary.'
Pointing a manicured finger at a large double arch at the end of the massive hall, the tall mage said, 'Secular members of staff take the left path, and mages go to the right.
'At any time, there is a complement of around one hundred and fifty Seculars present within High Lodge. Naturally, they have separate quarters so as not to disturb serious practitioners of the Craft with worldly trivialities. Allow me to lead you away from this turmoil.'
The mage led the two Questors through the right-hand arch. At the instant they passed through the opening, the frenzied clamour from the main hall ceased, to be replaced by subtle, soothing music. The three mages were in a short corridor, with five doors on either side.
'These are the Doorkeepers' quarters,' the guide explained. 'At any one time, three Doorkeepers are on duty, and three off. We change the shifts on an eight-hour rotation.'
'And you, Senior Doorkeeper? When do you sleep?' Dalquist asked.
The dark man shrugged. 'I rest for four hours in each twenty-four, or less. I have little use for sleep; my post is far more important than idle slumber.'
Grimm thought that, despite the Senior Doorkeeper's noble bearing and splendid appearance, he preferred the familiar, doddering incumbent of Arnor House.
At the end of the corridor, a labyrinthine network of corridors in dazzling profusion ran in all directions, like a warren built by schizophrenic rabbits, and the Senior Doorkeeper led them with cool confidence through the complex maze of tunnels. Grimm thought he would never get used to this complexity.
'Each mage or Student at High Lodge is given a stone which senses his desired destination and lights the way ahead,' the Doorkeeper said, almost as if he had read the young Questor's mind, 'a light that is apparent to his eyes only. However, after a decade or two, one finds that such baubles become unnecessary.
'We will take these stairs, Brother Mages.'
A wide, sweeping, black marble spiral staircase, clad in a deep red plush carpet, rose to their right, extending upwards higher than the eye could see. After climbing three floors, Doorkeeper led his charges into another confusion of corridors. Several sumptuously-attired mages passed the small group, each one proffering a respectful nod towards the Senior Doorkeeper, who seemed to acknowledge this as his due.
The walls of the corridors on this floor were expensively panelled in what looked like mahogany, inlaid with exquisite marquetry in tasteful, contrasting colours.
'I can't help wondering how much this place costs,' Grimm whispered to Dalquist.
'More than you could afford if you cleaned out the coffers of Crar a thousand times over, I would imagine,' the older mage muttered. 'I came here after my sixth Quest, and somebody told me that the place took nigh on three hundred years to complete.'
'Three hundred and eight, to be exact,' the Senior Doorkeeper intoned, solemnly. Immediately, Dalquist motioned the group to a halt with an irate gesture. He interposed himself between Grimm and the major-domo, who overtopped him by at least five inches, but he was not cowed in the least.
'Mage Doorkeeper, I trust that you are aware that it is considered the height of impropriety to use Telepathic skills on your brother mages without prior permission. Yet your unasked responses seem to have more than a little prescience about them. Are you using such techniques on us, by any chance?'
The tall man's face bore a cool smile, perhaps even a contemptuous one. Grimm felt a frisson of anger.
He thinks we're just petty-minded, provincial buffoons!
'Indeed, Mage Questor,' the major-domo rumbled. 'Many here at High Lodge prefer that I am receptive to their needs and requirements at all times. I will desist, if you wish.' His expression suggested that he considered the mage before him but a few steps from terminal senility.
'I do wish so, Brother Mage! If you would be so kind as to let our thoughts remain our own, we should be most appreciative.' His voice was polite, but his face looked as threatening as a thundercloud.
Grimm could almost have sworn that the Lodge Doorkeeper had emitted a quiet snort of affront. 'Consider it done, Mage Questor. Your thoughts are your own.' It needed little imagination to see that the man had all but added 'and you are welcome to them' to the last sentence.
The major-domo's demeanour cooled noticeably, and he said nothing more as he hustled them at great speed through another complicated series of passageways. At last, he stopped outside one of the doors in an anonymous corridor.
'If you would be so kind as to wait here for a while, gentlemen, somebody will come for you.' He opened the door for them with evident ill grace, all but forcing them inside and almost, but not quite, slamming the portal behind them.
'I don't like that man,' Dalquist said, once the door had closed behind them. 'Presence is one thing, but he's too damn' polished. He thinks High Lodge is too good for us.'
Grimm nodded, admitting, 'I have to say, I do prefer our own Doorkeeper.'
Grimm took stock of the room, which must have been five or six times better than his comfortable cell back at Arnor House. A long table ran the length of the room, with comfortable leather chairs arranged around it, and a magical fire burnt in a golden grate without consuming the logs around which it played.
A crystal drinks cabinet stood at the far end of the room, and the mage saw small tables arrayed around the wall, heaped with expensive viands and delicacies. Each of these tables bore a crystal vase with a delicate orchid. Grimm realised he was hungry and began to load a plate with food. Dalquist did the same.
'I don't like this place, either,' the senior mage growled. 'Don't get me wrong: while we have all this good food and drink on offer, I'll take it; but I don't think it's right to live like this. High Lodge is just too soft. I thought it was some sort of paradise on my first visit, but now I think it's little better than a decadent whorehouse. Did you see some of the mages we passed on the way here?'
'I think I know what you mean, Dalquist,' Grimm said, after swallowing a mouthful of grilled ortolan. 'They were confident, well-dressed, self-possessed to the point of arrogance, but they seemed to have all the presence and none of the power. When I was a Student, I used to think I'd scream if I heard that bloody phrase once more, but I think I know what it means now. None of this lot would last five minutes on a serious Quest; it's no wonder they get the various Houses to do all their dirty work.' He sank into one of the deeply-upholstered chairs, which hissed slightly as he sat.
Dalquist followed suit, having helped himself to a generous glass of some noble vintage from the drinks cabinet. He placed a second glass before Grimm.
'I like comfort as much as the next man and I know you do, too, but how can you appreciate luxury if you live in it all the time? There's something sick in this place, a deep canker that saps all the majesty from it.'
He took a deep gulp from the lustrous goblet and raised his eyebrows in appreciation. 'At least the splendour of the food and drink matches that of the decor.'
Grimm suppressed a gently mocking smile: Dalquist seemed in no mood to deny himself the opulence he had
