'High Lodge doesn't have any,' Dalquist replied. 'All the Students here are of the paying kind; they rely on the loyal Houses to fulfil their Questing needs. This lot have got 'High Lodge' written all over them.
'Oh, there's a familiar face at least. It looks like old Thruwell Drought-breaker over there. He's a Weatherworker from our own House; he used to teach us Runes before you came to Arnor, until the high and mighty bloody Lodge poached him. Lord Thorn was none too pleased, I can tell you; but what High Lodge asks for, High Lodge gets.'
Grimm followed his friend towards the grizzled mage, and Dalquist introduced him to the ancient Weatherworker, who was stuffing his face like a starving man. 'Weatherworker Thruwell, it's good to see you again,' Dalquist said, bowing. 'May I introduce my associate, Questor Grimm Afelnor?'
The old mage peered at Dalquist through bleary, myopic eyes. 'Rufior, isn't it?' he mumbled, through a mouthful of food. 'I took you for Runes, as I remember,' he continued, after a mighty swallow. 'A waste of my time, by the looks of it. You Questors don't seem to have much use for all that hard-learned wisdom. You are a Mage of the Seventh Rank, I see. It took me forty years of hard work to win that accolade, and it doesn't please me to see some young whipper-snapper throwing it all back in my face.'
Dalquist laughed. 'Magemaster Thruwell, you haven't changed in the slightest. You're as friendly as ever.'
The wrinkled pedagogue fixed his disapproving gaze on Grimm. 'A child like this, with five rings on his staff; what is the world coming to?'
Grimm felt defensive. He knew his rapid succession to the Fifth Rank had been a lucky break, and yet he knew he had faced travails worse than any Magemaster had ever had to bear. 'Weatherworker Thruwell, I-'
Dalquist interrupted, smoothly. 'Questor Grimm proved instrumental in the defeat of a demon magic-user who was intent on stealing the innermost secrets of the entire Guild. Neither of us should have prevailed without the wise counsel of Magemasters such as you, and we thank you.'
He bowed respectfully, and Grimm followed suit with alacrity.
Mollified, Thruwell nodded. 'I should think so, too,' he muttered, and shuffled over to one of the other groups.
'Well, it's always nice to see a friendly face,' Grimm said, with an ironic smile.
Now, quite a few mages were milling around the hall. One of them, a tall, pale-complected individual with a bald head, looked around to as if to assess the level of attendance, then strode to the dais and rapped his staff three times on the lectern.
'If I might have your attention, gentlemen?
'Thank you. I would like to welcome you all to the Hall of Celebration. All of you have in some way recently distinguished yourselves in your service to the Guild, and we of High Lodge like to ensure that those rewarded by it will have a celebration to remember. I am Doorkeeper Shree, and I am to be your master of ceremonies for the evening. Perhaps we could all take a few moments to introduce ourselves and say a few words… perhaps you would like to start the ball rolling, so to speak, Brother Mage?'
Shree indicated a tired-looking middle-aged man with three rings on his staff and a mottled, discoloured complexion that said more about his Speciality than words could.
'Er, thank you, Doorkeeper Shree. Er, my, um, name is Argul Trug, and I am an Alchemist from Husel House. I like to cultivate flowers in my spare time. I was recently elevated to the Third Rank after discovering how to convert gold into pure lead.'
'Why, thank you, Alchemist Argul. And what about you, sir…'
Several people were already edging towards the door and Dalquist nudged Grimm in the ribs. 'We said we'd be here, and we are. Did anybody say anything about being here all night?'
'They did not,' Grimm replied. 'What about you, Thribble? Can you bear to be dragged away from all this revelry?'
The small demon's head popped up from Grimm's pocket, bearing a somewhat annoyed expression. 'This is a snare and a delusion. These people are boring; I don't want their stupid stories.'
'I couldn't agree more, Thribble. What do you say that we go back to our room? I'm sure I have some good brandy in there, and I know how you like a drop of that.'
The demon looked pleased at the idea, licking his lips with his forked tongue in anticipation.
'Just one problem,' Dalquist said. 'How do we find our way back without the aid of one of Shael's wonderful little gems?'
'Leave it to me,' the demon squeaked. 'I have a perfect memory, and I remember every little twist and turn that we took on the way. Lead me to my beverage!'
'Very well, Thribble, an early night it is. I can't wait to get back home.'
Chapter 21: In the Bowels of High Lodge
Back at the Accommodation Block, Dalquist bade Grimm goodnight, and told him that Cally should be arriving with the carriage to take them back to Arnor House at first light.
'It won't be a moment to soon for me, Dalquist,' Grimm said with fervour. 'I can't wait to be back where I belong.'
'I can only agree,' the senior mage replied. 'I'm going to get some sleep, and I suggest you do the same.'
Grimm looked at the tiny, expectant face of Thribble protruding from his pocket. 'I will do so in a little while, Dalquist. Our small friend Thribble seems to have a considerable thirst, which it would be inhospitable not to slake, so I'll share a drink or two and chat for a while longer before I retire. Goodnight.'
When Dalquist closed the door, the demon looked eager as the young mage took a small thimble from a pocket and filled it with amber liquor. Grimm took a rather more generous measure for himself, and felt good humour seeping through him as the alcohol sent warming waves into his body.
The human and the demon chatted for a while, as Grimm gave Thribble an unvarnished account of Madeleine's attempted ensorcellment of him, and his gradual realisation of the truth of their relationship. Thribble listened, rapt at first, but, after two thimblefuls of good brandy, the minuscule imp was in an uproarious state, laughing, clapping his hands and dancing. After a while, he fell asleep, and Grimm laid the demon carefully inside his travelling bag, shutting him in the chest-of drawers. The netherworld being snored at a volume that belied his minute frame, but the heavy wood of the closed drawer attenuated this to a bearable level.
Grimm downed a couple more brandies, and then reached for Redeemer in order to clear his head. However, instead of annulling the effects of the alcohol, he backed it off just a little, retaining the pleasant, warm, good- humoured sensations he had felt earlier.
He read a little from a book he had borrowed from the library of Thaumaturgical Research, but his eyelids began to flutter, the words began to blur and the book eventually fell from his hand. Grimm snuffed the light, and was quickly asleep.
A sharp smell of ammonia seemed to bring him to his senses, and Grimm felt himself drifting upwards and outwards, until he found himself looking down at what appeared to be his own, sleeping body. The mouth hung slightly open, and the eyes rolled and darted beneath their lids as if seeking some fugitive prey.
His senses seemed acutely heightened; even in the dark room, colours appeared bright and vivid, and it was as if he could see every thread in his blanket and hear every tiny sound; Thribble's amplified snoring grated like a rough thread being drawn through the mage's ears.
Ears? Surely nothing so crude and corporeal; Grimm was aware of his essence, but he had no sense of encumbrance or limitation, such as that imposed by a mere mortal body.
He was flying, soaring, floating in the air. Grimm Afelnor had often tried to achieve this effect before, but the best he had achieved was an uneasy, wobbling, precarious levitation that was more strenuous than exhilarating. This was different; this was liberation and joy, a pure, unalloyed sense of freedom he had never before experienced.
As if drawn by some invisible thread, he felt himself moving down through the floor, which proved no barrier
