What possible motivation could even a powerful witch have had for wanting Prelate Geral dead? Grimm wondered. This makes no sense at all; you're fooling yourself, Afelnor.
The book told him that, since time immemorial, witches and mages had coexisted in an uneasy but firm truce. Witches lacked a cohesive, comprehensive political organisation such as the Ancient and Honourable Guild of Magic-users, Sorcerers and Thaumaturges, and they therefore posed no threat to its continuation. There were small communes of witches, to be sure, but they seemed to possess few political aims that conflicted with the Guild. There did not appear to be any reason why the Prioress of an Order attempting to form a symbiotic, live- and-let-live association with High Lodge should wish to destabilise the Guild, either through the attempted murder of the Prelate of one of its oldest and most prominent Houses, or through the enslavement of one of its most junior members.
Grimm had always been introspective, often debating his deepest motivations and impulses within himself. This had often served him well in the past, and he therefore engaged once more in inner dialogue.
What concrete reason have I to assume that Prioress Lizaveta tampered with Dalquist's memories?
Only a vague suspicion that he sounded a little too sincere when he said he accepted my relationship with Madeleine.
Why would Prioress Lizaveta have risked her favoured Order's relationship with the Guild by trying to enslave a very junior mage?
The questions whirled in Grimm's head without resolution: there seemed to be no rational grounds for his suspicions.
Why do I feel so ready to accept that a witch forced Granfer Loras to try to murder the former Prelate? Yesterday, I convinced myself that Granfer acted out of pity for an ailing, suffering old man. What additional data do I have that persuades me to abandon this earlier viewpoint?
Only the fact that this new, more convoluted, explanation seems easier for me to bear.
Why should I suspect Prioress Lizaveta of somehow having been behind Madeleine's actions?
Simply because the Reverend Mother is an ugly old lady with a harsh and unpleasant voice.
This, Grimm realised with a start, was the same twisted rationale that had led to the brutal murders of so many harmless women in ancient witch-hunts of which he had read. He had no reason whatsoever to believe that the Prioress had acted against him; she had no motive whatsoever, and she had said and done nothing that might to convince him otherwise. Her outrage at Grimm's news of Madeleine's manipulation of him had seemed both convincing and appropriate for a woman in her position.
Grimm told himself that he had constructed nothing more than a house of cards, no more robust and enduring than the one that he had struggled to build with the power of his mind when he had been an Adept, and just as precarious.
If Dalquist only pretended to change his mind, despite his having no recollection of this; if Loras, the mighty Mage Questor, had somehow been ensorcelled into attempting to murder his superior; if, if if…
These suppositions lead nowhere.
He could prove nothing more than Madeleine herself had told him; that this was merely some harmless prank that had gone too far.
Let it go, Afelnor, he told himself. You will never get anywhere with these paranoid ramblings.
He picked up the book he had been reading and replaced it decisively on its shelf, vowing that he would put these ideas behind him.
'Are you ready for the feast, Grimm?' Dalquist asked from the doorway connecting their two rooms.
'I suppose so,' the younger mage replied, with a deep sigh. 'I wish we didn't have to go through with this charade.'
At that, Grimm became aware of the sound of tapping, soft and yet urgent, from the chest-of-drawers. As he opened the top drawer, the cause of the noise became apparent as a tiny, familiar face looked up at him.
'I want to go, Grimm! The idea of a bunch of human mages telling tales of their great adventures seems wonderful,' the tiny figure piped, hopping up and down in the drawer in an agitated manner.
'Thribble!' Grimm exclaimed. 'I thought I left you behind at the House. How did you get here?'
If a demon's fang-filled expression could ever be said to be smug, then Thribble's was.
'I hid in the pocket of one of your robes, just after you packed it in the bag, Questor. I fell asleep on the journey, and I woke up confined in this drawer. It is not very nice in here, and I want to get out. I want to go to this party of yours more than almost anything. I promise that I won't make a sound; just let me travel in your pocket.'
'I don't think that there's any harm in that, Grimm,' Dalquist said. 'At least you'll know what Thribble's up to all the time.'
'I suppose you're right, Dalquist. Thribble, you may accompany me as long as you stay out of sight. Some mages don't like the idea of humans consorting with demons.'
The tiny imp nodded vigorously. 'Many of my kind harbour similar feelings, good mortal. I'll be quiet, I promise.'
Resigned, Grimm held open a deep pocket in his yellow-and-blue robes, and the underworld creature hopped nimbly into it. As he did so, there came a polite knock at the door, which Dalquist opened. The visitor was Assistant Sub-Vice-Facilitator-in-Chief Shael.
'Greetings, Questors. I am here to accompany you to the banquet.'
'Ah, Facilitator Shael, it is good to see you again,' Dalquist said. 'I trust you have enjoyed your unscheduled break from your doubtless onerous duties.'
'Thank you, Questor Dalquist. I am afraid I have been unable to enjoy it as fully as I might have. I have been scared to leave my room, in case I should bump into the Senior Doorkeeper or one of my superiors; I was, after all, instructed to accompany you everywhere during your stay here. I trust you, at least, spent an agreeable time in the House?'
Dalquist looked at Grimm with a raised eyebrow, and the young mage rolled his eyes.
'No problems at all, thank you, Facilitator Shael,' Grimm said with a smile. 'High Lodge has been a never- ending source of wonder and fascination for us both.'
Shael looked a little anxious. 'I am happy to hear that, Questor Grimm. Um… gentlemen… may I relieve you of the Gems of Location I loaned you? There might be all sorts of trouble if it were discovered that I had surrendered them to you.'
Both Questors handed over the small jewels. Grimm, for one, felt happy to do so, since he had no intention of remaining in High Lodge for longer than was absolutely necessary. Relief was apparent on the nervous Mage Facilitator's face. 'Thank you so much, Brother Mages. If you would now be so good as to accompany me, we may make our way to the Hall of Celebration.'
Richly panelled in dark wood, the hall was brightly illuminated by twinkling crystal chandeliers high above. A lush, crimson carpet covered the floor, and Grimm saw tables filled with extravagant delicacies, viands and liquors along each wall. Several mages were already present, helping themselves to sweetmeats or chatting in small cliques around the hall, each group seeming to maintain the maximum possible distance from each other.
At the far end of the hall rose a marble dais with a gilded lectern. Portraits of various Guild notables hung on every wall, and a large picture of Lord Dominie Horin hung behind the dais, a stern, wise face that seemed to survey the room from every angle.
'Well, doesn't this looks like fun?' Dalquist muttered to Grimm, in a resigned manner. 'I hope they don't keep the jolly revelries going all night. We've got to be up early tomorrow.'
'Please excuse me for a moment, gentlemen, I have to circulate,' Shael said, his voice filled with an air of self-importance. 'Do, please, enjoy yourselves.'
'Be sure of it, Facilitator Shael,' Grimm said, sighing. Turning to his friend, he muttered, 'Look at all these old fossils, Dalquist. It doesn't look like there are any Questors around here.'
