'You were saying that Lord Thorn's like our father,' shot back the Necromancer's acidic response. 'It seems like Lord Horin's pretty important, too, though not as much as Thorn.'
'Did I really say that?'
'In as many words, yes.'
Grimm realised it was not the drink causing his confusion; rather, his head had cleared after a long period of disorientation.
'Why, I'm sorry, Numal, I don't know what I was saying. As a matter of fact,' he admitted, 'I haven't been quite myself for the last day or so.'
Grimm wondered if his last Quest was taking a belated toll on him, but he dismissed the idea. Perhaps he was just overwrought at being parted from Drexelica. Yes, that must be it.
Deciding that amends must be made, he said, 'I've made a bit of a fool of myself, haven't I?'
Numal shrugged. 'I don't know. Have you?' His tone was offhand and not a little annoyed. 'You ask someone to come with you out of friendship, and then rail at him because he didn't enjoy his time in the Scholasticate. Then, you insist that he have a convivial drink and tear his head off because he tries to put you straight on a matter concerning the hierarchy of the Guild. If that makes you a bit of a fool, then, yes, you have been one. Then again, I don't know you all that well. Perhaps you normally treat your friends like this.'
Numal crossed his arms and turned half away from the Questor.
'But I don't, Numal,' Grimm said. 'I swear on my Guild Ring and my Mage Staff that I don't. Look, I know I've been an ass, and I know I've said a lot to offend you…'
'You can say that again.' The older mage did not turn to face him.
'Numal, I'm sorry, truly sorry, for treating you like some wayward, recalcitrant dunce. I know that doesn't wipe out a word of what I've said, but I just want you to be aware that I've been acting out of character. Perhaps I'm sickening for something. Perhaps I've been… I don't know, homesick for Crar, perhaps. Perhaps the strain of my last Quest has finally caught up with me: I don't know. Will you forgive me?'
'Oh, the mighty Sixth Rank Questor beseeches forgiveness from the lowly First Rank Necromancer, does he?' Numal sneered, over his left shoulder. 'Well, I can't refuse that, can I? Just do me a favour, will you, Lord Mage? Just let me know when you think you're about to get up on that pedestal again, so I can take cover before you start throwing stones at me.'
Grimm drew a deep sigh. What was the matter with him? Why, it was as if he had been labouring under… under some kind of spell.
Yes, that was it! A Geas or a Compulsion of some sort was the only sensible explanation: a Geas to make him revere High Lodge and Lord Prelate Thorn to the exclusion of all else, but to worship Lord Thorn above all. Thorn had been tampering with his mind!
Grimm thumped his fist on the table, his clenched teeth bared.
'Well, that little resolution didn't last long, did it?' Numal sneered. 'Good night, Questor Grimm. I'll arrange my own transport back to Arnor, thank you very much.'
The Necromancer lunged to his feet and strode off, his staff following him like an obedient puppy.
'No, please wait, Numal! That wasn't…'
The older mage did not even favour Grimm with a backwards glance as he left the bar, and several patrons of the establishment cast cool, amused glances at the young Questor, who felt his face redden in response. He turned his baleful, Questor glare on the onlookers, who were for the most part Seculars, and they returned to their own business, with an alacrity that Grimm noted with some pleasure.
Think, Afelnor! Why would Lord Thorn need to do this to me? He has my full loyalty, and he should know it by now.
Of course, there was still that nagging suspicion that Thorn knew more about Grimm's grandfather Loras' disgrace than he had said. But was the Prelate perhaps just concealing details of the Prelate's best friend's actions because they were just too painful for him to relate? Yes, Thorn had profited from Loras' downfall, by being elected Prelate in his place, but it must be admitted that he did not seem to enjoy the lofty position to which he had ascended. In addition to this, Lord Thorn knew, could know, nothing about Grimm's doubts. Why, Thorn himself had recommended Grimm's promotion to the Sixth Rank, even over the recommendations of… yes, of Questor Xylox!
'Why, you slimy, conniving, self-obsessed worm,' Grimm muttered, taking up his glass, and draining it.
Of course, it would be just like Xylox, who had chided him, harangued him and excoriated him for his perceived lack of respect throughout their recent Quest, to take revenge on his junior mage after being overruled! This must all be Questor Xylox's warped, pathetic idea of justice, to try to turn Grimm into a flag-waving, dutiful, respectful model of what he considered the Questor ideal.
'Oh, yes, Xylox,' Grimm hissed, pouring himself another glass of wine and draining it at a gulp. 'You and I will have a little talk on our next meeting, I promise you!'
He would show the proud, haughty Questor who was the better, more valuable mage. Grimm had intended to leave his unofficial Quest until after he had received the sixth gold ring on his staff, but he now considered that a little initial reconnaissance might not come amiss. It was time to pay a visit to Reverend Mother Lizaveta.
'Enter, supplicant.' The voice from within the chamber was somehow dry and dusty, like dead leaves crushed underfoot, and Grimm shivered; nonetheless, he was determined to appear dutiful and respectful before the woman he suspected of slaughter and cannibalism.
Opening the door, he saw the old woman at ease on a comfortable divan. She wore a dress of sheer, white silk, whose pristine purity seemed somehow at odds with her appearance. This could not be the face of some caring, gentle grandmother; the years had left indelible traces that spoke only of anger and meanness. Still, he must conceal his disgust for this ghastly harridan under the mask of respect.
He sank to his knees. 'Reverend Mother, I am Grimm Afelnor, Mage Questor of the Fifth Rank, Arnor House. I bid you homage and honour.'
The Prioress extended a hand like a claw wrapped in paper-thin, blue-veined skin, and Grimm leant forward to kiss the ruby on the Reverend Mother's profession-ring. It seemed to him that the hand dallied for a little longer than was necessary for strict protocol, but it was, eventually, withdrawn. He rose to his feet, and gave a courteous bow.
'Questor Grimm, welcome. What brings you here?' The voice seemed like death, somehow decayed and unwholesome, but the Questor forced himself to appear civil.
'Reverend Mother, I have been summoned to High Lodge for accession to the Sixth Rank, following my last Quest, and I wished to pay my respects.'
'It seems that congratulations are in order, Questor Grimm, and your respect is noted.' She sat up, and patted the velvet cushion of the opulent divan. 'Come, sit here with me, my son.'
The thought of sitting next to the loathsome woman was repulsive, but he complied, sitting as far from the Prioress as possible.
'Few mages, indeed, choose to favour us with their presence, Questor Grimm. We are honoured. How may I help you? Are you in need of spiritual enlightenment?'
I am, at that, lady, but not from you. The words came unbidden to Grimm's mind, but he took care to keep his spoken words a little more deferent.
'I must confess to an ulterior motive, Reverend Mother,' he said.
'An ulterior motive; how intriguing!'
Lizaveta moved closer to the young man, and he realised that he had no further room for manoeuvre.
'Reverend Mother,' he said, quickly, 'I once became friendly with one of your Sisters: a girl called Madeleine. I merely wished to enquire of her whereabouts and wellbeing.'
'Ah, yes, Questor Grimm. Now I recall the affair.'
Lizaveta's voice is like silk, thought the mage, but mouldy, decaying silk.
'Madeleine was a witch, and she ensorcelled me,' Grimm said, 'but I never wished her ill. I would only hear that she has learned her lesson, and that she is well.'
The Questor engaged his Mage Sight, and he noted Lizaveta's plain, white, unblemished aura. This proved her
