baggage is being conveyed to your rooms: four-thirty-five and four-thirty-seven in the Accommodation Block. Would you be so kind as to accompany me?'
Grimm knew the Lodge was like a rabbit-warren, all but impenetrable in its intricacy, except to its incumbents.
'Senior Doorkeeper,' he said in a polite voice. 'Our long journey has given me a considerable thirst, and I would relish the chance to slake this before we settle in. Would you be so kind as to furnish us with Location Stones, so that we may find our way without imposing on your valuable time?'
The dark man's eyes widened, as if Grimm's request might constitute some heinous breach of protocol, but he nodded.
'Very well, Questor Grimm. Your request is irregular, but not unreasonable.' He fished in a commodious pocket, and drew out a pair of green gems. 'I will trust you to return these baubles before you leave High Lodge. They are not to leave here with you. Is that well understood?'
Grimm bowed his head. 'Brother Mage, I swear as a representative of Arnor House that your trust will not be misplaced.'
He took the gems, passing one to his bewildered and uncomprehending companion. 'Thank you, Senior Doorkeeper.'
He felt tempted to add 'That is all, my man,' but stopped himself. He might find the mage's prissy ways irksome, but it would be folly to antagonise him; he was only fulfilling his role to the best of his abilities.
'Oh, I have just one more thing to ask,' he said, remembering his mission. 'Are the Sisters of Divine Serenity still domiciled here?'
Senior Doorkeeper nodded. 'Yes, Questor Grimm. Many Seculars here are in need of spiritual enlightenment, and the Sisters fulfil that need admirably, although they accept no male devotees. May I ask, therefore, what interest a Fifth Rank Mage Questor might have in an exclusively female religious Order?'
'My interest is purely academic, I assure you, Doorkeeper. It is, after all, incumbent upon a Guild Mage to be aware of the tenets of alternative creeds, so that he may avoid unfortunate breaches of protocol in social situations.' This might be the simple answer, the rote answer, but the Questor felt surprised and not a little disgusted at how easily the falsehood rose to his tongue.
His expression unreadable, the imperturbable Senior Doorkeeper flowed away, back into the anonymous crowd.
Grimm felt the ache in his head begin to grow again, and he grabbed Numal by the shoulder. 'Do you fancy a drink or two, Numal? It's been a long morning.'
The Necromancer seemed fascinated by the ebb and flow of humanity within the hall, but he nodded, tearing his eyes from the mortal tide. 'All right, Grimm. Yes, I suppose a drink might be nice.'
The young Questor felt as if he were trapped within some crazy dream, a ball being batted back and forth in some cosmic game. It was as if he were already drunk, before he had sampled even a drop of alcohol. Something seemed to push him onwards.
Action, not idleness! the insistent inner voice screamed.
Was he going mad? He had to do something to still the raving beast in his head. Vortices seemed to swirl and careen within his skull, but he no longer cared. The head-voice screamed at him, urging him not to rest. Grimm knew he must stay awake, although sleep seemed to offer such a sweet consummation.
'I know just the place,' he said at last, winking. 'Come with me.'
As the two mages walked across the crowded hall, a small sound, like the mewling of a wounded cat, emerged from Grimm's throat, but it was swallowed by the clamour of the swarming multitude.
Lord Thorn groaned as hot shafts of pain stabbed his brain, and his trembling hands hovered over the green crystal, barely touching it. He could hear Questor Grimm's words through his spell-link with the youth, but only with great effort.
Half a bottle of brandy had failed to allay the incessant, agonising stabs that now plagued him, and he knew his spell of Compulsion had not gone as well as he had thought. Somehow, the Afelnor boy seemed to be fighting the spell. Something had to give, and Thorn felt determined it was not going to be him.
Once more, the liquor made its burning trail down the Prelate's throat, but he resolved that he would take no more.
Names curse it, this boy is strong. But I'll be damned if he's as potent as a Seventh Level Questor of forty years' seniority!
Reaching into reserves he had not touched for decades, Thorn reasserted his authority and reinforced his spell, despite the silver lances of pain that now speared into his eyes. After a few moments, he felt the resistance, the self-examination cease, and he began again to hear through the youth's ears: 'Do you fancy a drink or two, Numal? It's been a long morning.'
Good lad, Questor Grimm. Drink should lower your resistance.
Thorn's eyes ached and his body felt as limp as warm lettuce. He fell back in his throne, exhausted, and he knew despite his proud boast to himself, he was not the potent sorcerer he had once been.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter 9: Introspection and Investigation
Dalquist sighed, shut his book with a bang and rubbed his sore eyes, realising that he had just read the same paragraph three times without registering its contents. The sun's orb was bisected by the horizon, and the Library was now empty.
Tertiary Rune Structures in Translocative Applications would have proved a tedious and challenging book to the vast majority of mages. However, to a Mage Questor, a thaumaturge who could make his own magic without recourse to the strictly-regimented, pedestrian panoply of rote-learned runes, it was little more than sheer torture. Added to this, the Questor's mind was far from focused on his reading.
He considered how honoured he felt when Senior Magemaster Crohn requested that he become an Associate Magemaster: to any teaching Guild House, the Scholasticate was the very hub, the life-essence that sustained it. One of the most valuable contributions a mage could make to his House was to engage in the effort to turn callow, ignorant Students into full Guild Mages. However, the gulf between a Mage Questor and a practitioner of any other Speciality was enormous. Most Magemasters took decades to master the complex rune interactions governing their crafts, whereas Questors were free spirits, unfettered by the restrictions of a limited set of spidery characters, their only limits were those imposed by their imaginations.
No, he told himself. It's not studying these runes that's disturbing my concentration. It's Grimm.
Dalquist squeezed his eyes shut and slapped his left palm onto his forehead, as if this might clear his thoughts. He remembered Grimm as a frightened, insecure seven-year-old Student, trying to pretend that he had not been weeping. There had been power in his eyes even at that tender age, and also signs of great intelligence. Dalquist had led the boy to the very place in which he now sat, and Grimm had reacted as if all his birthdays had arrived at once.
Later on, there was a traumatised adolescent, recovering from his violent Questor Outbreak and so pleased to see his older friend. Dalquist spent many, many days and months with the new Adept, in the company of Crohn, patiently teaching the boy how to control and ration his thaumaturgic energies, so he could use his mind to open a door without smashing down the surrounding wall at the same time. Grimm had been patience and persistence personified, despite the trauma he had suffered.
Dalquist recalled the young First Rank Questor, his confidence growing every day on the arduous Quest to free the city of Crar from the influence of the demon lord, Starmor, his friendship with the senior mage burgeoning into a relationship of staunch trust and mutual respect.
Despite the seven nightmarish months of Questor Ordeal Grimm had described, far worse than Dalquist's own period of suffering, the young man turned into a stable, level-headed person, amiable and reliable. Yes, he had
