feast will be held this evening, and, as usual, I will be required to arrange it all. So much work; you'd think they'd take pity on my poor old bones…'
Grimm's brow furrowed. The name Numal seemed somehow familiar to him, but he could not quite place it. When the major-domo finished his wordy, babbling lament, he said so.
'You met him at least once,' replied Doorkeeper. 'I introduced him to you in the Refectory on your first day here, all those years ago.'
With a sudden rush, recollection flooded into Grimm's mind. Numal was the strange, sepulchral figure who had told the seven-year-old Student of his hidden desire to be an entertainer. Numal's words, spoken so long before, flew into his brain: In my youth, I was told that my imitation of Daffo the Clown was very amusing.
So the would-be entertainer had mastered his craft at last, exchanging song and dance for the ability to communicate with the dead and to augur the future from chicken entrails. Part of Grimm's psyche rejoiced at the pale, sad-looking man's success after years of unremitting effort, while another mourned the death of the would- be comedian and dancer. The stage's loss had been the House's gain.
'Still, that's enough talk,' Doorkeeper said, interrupting the young mage's philosophical musings. 'You'll want to get ready for your meeting with the Lord Prelate, I'm sure. Your usual room's made up in the West Wing, and Lord Thorn isn't expecting you for another hour.'
Grimm smiled. 'What would I do without you, Doorkeeper? Thank you. I know the way; I also know you must have a lot to do.'
Making his excuses, the Questor strode through the Great Hall. Was it his imagination, or was the vestibule not quite as magnificent as he remembered it? The blue and gold hexagonal paving slabs that made up the hall, the same colours as his fine silk robes, seemed duller than he recalled. For the first time, Grimm noticed distinct scratches in the blue sky-dome, and the dreamy, soft tones pervading the chamber seemed tired and lifeless, having once brought visions of heaven to him. Only the black, eternal Breaking Stone, against which each hopeful Adept must test his hand-made Staff before he could be declared a full Guild Mage, looked pristine and fresh.
The stairs winding up to the West Wing mages' chambers bore deep, semicircular depressions, marking the passage of countless generations of House incumbents, a heritage of centuries. Grimm's room, however, was just as he remembered it; basic, perhaps, but comfortable beyond the dreams of any mere charity Student. He was pleased to see his bags were already waiting for him on his bed, which had the distinctive, clean smell of fresh linen. He noted the full ewer of water and the soap by the washbasin, and he stripped off his robe.
Grimm felt dusty and grimy after his long journey, and he found the cold water bracing and refreshing. His worries seemed to wash away with the dirt of the road, and he hummed a cheerful tune as he laved himself. Taking a soft, white towel from one of his travelling bags, he rubbed down his body until his skin shone pink. Still naked, he took forth a small pair of scissors and trimmed his dark brown beard and his fingernails. He then started on his hair, brushing it until it shone, and then tying it in its accustomed place at the nape of his neck. At last, Grimm donned fresh clothes. He looked with a critical eye at his reflection, in the round mirror behind the wash basin. Something was missing…
'Redeemer, to me,' he muttered. He thrust out his right hand without looking around, and his staff flew into his grasp, obedient and faithful as ever.
In the mirror, he did not see Grimm Afelnor, but a powerful and confident thaumaturge.
Power and presence complete the mage.
It had taken Grimm many years to understand what the true meaning of that familiar, oft-repeated phrase, but now he knew he possessed both. He was a Mage Questor, in the full flush of youth, and he looked dangerous.
I'm a true Weapon of the Guild now, thought Grimm, with a smile. I'm ready.
'Enter.' The word was peremptory and terse, as Grimm had expected. Steeling himself, he opened the door. As usual, Lord Thorn was sitting hunched over his monumental marble desk, behind a stack of papers. As Grimm closed the door, the Prelate looked up, and his expression seemed to brighten, much to the young Questor's surprise.
'Ah, welcome, Questor Grimm; it is good to see you. Please, do sit down.'
Grimm sat, wary of some sort of trap. As no question had been put to him, he remained silent.
Thorn picked up a sheaf of papers. 'This is Questor Xylox's report on your last Quest. It makes interesting reading, Questor Grimm.'
Now, Grimm felt sure some sort of punishment was coming. Xylox would have his revenge at last on his despised underling.
The Prelate smiled; an expression Grimm had never seen before on his face. Did it portend good news or a sadistic pleasure at the prospect of haranguing a helpless underling?
'Before I acquaint you with the report's contents, Questor Grimm, I would like to hear your opinion of your fellow Questor.'
Struggling to keep his face impassive, Grimm cleared his throat in order to give himself a little time to think. His true opinion of Xylox was that the man was a pompous, overbearing, self-important prig, but to say so to Lord Thorn would be tantamount to professional suicide. However, he would not let the older Questor get off scot- free.
Grimm knew he should avoid hesitation and obfuscation, since clarity and fluidity of speech were essential qualities in any Guild Mage.
'Lord Thorn, I find Questor Xylox an admirable and powerful magic-user. He is resourceful and dedicated, and it is hard to conceive of a more faithful servant of either this House or our Guild.
'However, I also find him an obdurate and humourless man. I believe Questor Xylox would be a more rounded mage were he to unbend a little, on occasion. Our relationship was, to say the least, somewhat strained, even hostile at times, due in part to what I saw as unnecessary formality in very difficult circumstances.'
Thorn nodded, his face an unreadable mask.
'So this report implies, Questor Grimm. Questor Xylox writes that you opposed him on some occasions and even went so far as to disobey him on others. He says he regards you as ill-disciplined and wilful, and he recommends that you not be promoted to any higher rank for a period of at least five years, until you have learned to control what he calls your wayward, insubordinate spirit. Do you have anything to say in rebuttal of this assessment, Questor Grimm?'
So it was to be a tongue-lashing, at least, and Grimm's heart sank into his boots. The smallest of black marks on his record as a Questor might blight his future career for as long as it lasted.
Nonetheless, he would go down fighting as best he could.
'As far as I can tell, Lord Prelate, Questor Xylox begrudges me my youth, my staff, my ring and the very air I breathe. He made it quite clear that he despised me at our very first meeting, despite my best attempts to treat him with all the respect his rank deserves. His attitude towards me went downhill from there. Questor Xylox seemed to believe it as his personal privilege to govern any and all facets of my behaviour at any time. More than once, he swore to break me and see me condemned to menial servitude in the House scullery for the least of perceived transgressions. Whilst he tempered his opinion of my thaumaturgic abilities somewhat by the end of the Quest, I could tell he still looked down on me, for whatever reason.'
Thorn remained immobile, his hands clenched under his chin, his face an enigmatic and unreadable mask.
His speech increasing in intensity and speed, Grimm continued: 'Lord Thorn, I swear to you that I acted in the best interests of the Quest, the House and the Guild at all times. I do not regard omitting Mage Speech on a few occasions as either mutiny or insubordination. If saving a poor girl from slavery is an act of rebellion, then I will acknowledge myself a rebel. However, the fact of the matter is that Questor Xylox, called the Mighty, has a chip on his shoulder the size of the Royal Barge. I lack the strength to dislodge it, so if I must suffer for the fact, then so much the worse for me.'
Grimm felt his face burning with anger, and he realised he was staring straight into Thorn's blue eyes; this might be construed as an act of defiance on its own.
'That is all I have to say on the subject, Lord Prelate,' he said in a softer voice, averting his piercing gaze.
