another old guy who came with them; some Second Level Necromancer, though he's not here tonight. Not much use to us, but we could always put him in a novelty bout. The other two might be good for lightweight stuff. They're not heavyweights, but they look as if they know how to handle themselves.'
'So how do we play this one, Keller? They're all keyed up on those pherom… phenom… those smell things we use to keep the guests happy…'
'Pheromones,' Keller prompted.
'Yeah, them. So they're all happy and enthusiastic, but I think it might take a little more than that to get them to fight. And what do we do with this General? He sounds a bit dangerous to me.'
'Mort; sometimes I think all that fighting has pickled your brains. How on earth do you think we get all these wonderful fighters to perform for us? Some of them are old-timers who've fallen on hard times, some are volunteers and some are guests, but most of them wear one of these. It… encourages them a little, shall we say?'
Keller held up a lustrous, bejewelled torc. 'They may not want to fight, but they have no choice. This thing's Technological, not magical, so the average sorcerer has no defence against it. These guys'll fight, believe me. As for the General, we'll just have to make him forget what he came for and go back home to the bosom of his army in the middle of the desert, or wherever it is.'
'And just how do we do that?'
'We put the collar on him and give him to Prioress Lizaveta at Rendale.' The older man grinned.
'What, that ugly old troll? What's she going to do; convert him into a religious nut?' Mort said, with a dismissive sneer.
Keller's harsh, booming laugh bore no humour. 'That ugly old troll is a witch. She can do things with a man's mind you wouldn't believe! That ugly old troll managed to put paid to your old mate, Loras, who trashed this town of ours all those years ago! You owe that ugly old troll a debt of gratitude! She can make General Q think he's bloody Private Parts, if she wants to. He'll go back to his army friends with no knowledge of what's going on.'
Mort's jaw hung slack.
'Of course, I'll have to get old Chudel's approval first,' Keller mused. 'He doesn't like messing with guests too much, beyond cheering them up a bit. But he knows where the money comes from around here, and I'm pretty sure he'll see it my way. Until that time, our guests will stay happy and pump their money into the Pit, just like he wants. After I've had a word with him, I'm sure he'll give them to me.
'Hey, stay alert, Mort! The first bout's just starting. Do your stuff.'
Grimm found himself all but gnawing the edge of his betting card in eager anticipation, as two proud, well- muscled men strode into the arena. He felt his heart pound in expectation, and he licked his dry lips.
A mighty roar arose from the crowd that now filled the small stadium, and the Questor cheered with them, as did his companions.
'Our first bout tonight,' an impossibly loud voice boomed from somewhere above his head, 'is between a pair of true battling titans-Grue, the MER-CI-LESS, and Frod, the HU-MAN BATT-ERRRING RAM! Please put your hands together for what looks to be a fantastic fight!'
The young mage blinked, unsure of which man he was meant to be backing. Harvel leaned across, and yelled, 'Our money's on Frod, Questor! We've got a bundle on this fight, so cheer for him!'
Grimm nodded and screamed out the man's name again and again. 'FROD! FROD! FROD!'
He took a deep breath, and this seemed only to heighten his blood-lust. He looked at his companions, and saw only grimaces of vicarious rage; exposed teeth and screwed-up faces surrounded him. The noise was tremendous as the two men squared up to each other.
'FROD!' he yelled. 'KILL HIM! KNOCK HIM DEAD! SLAUGHTER HIM!'
If his reaction was in any way uncharacteristic, he did not notice, as he exhorted his chosen fighter to batter his opponent into a bloody pulp.
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Chapter 28: Persuasion
Grimm awoke early with a pounding head and a sore throat. He felt a little disorientated, and several moments passed before he remembered the reason for his discomfort. He felt a smile spreading across his face as he remembered the previous night's entertainment in the Pit. He had cheered and yelled with the best of them and had even made a considerable amount of money even after repaying Guy, thanks to Crest and Harvel's gambling acumen.
Still smiling, despite the hammer-blows resounding in his skull, he opened his eyes to see Thribble sitting on the small table beside the four-poster bed.
'Good morning, mortal.' The grey imp's brows were knitted in perplexity.
'Good morning, Thribble. What's the matter?'
'You did not use to smile like this all the time. I cannot imagine why the sight of two humans battering each other should enthuse you so.'
'It was sport, Thribble.' Grimm stretched in an attempt to relieve the tight knots in his shoulders. 'A contest of strength, skill, endurance and willpower: two athletes at the peak of physical perfection, each testing himself to the limit. It was a measure of the nobility of the human spirit.'
'Is that why you cheered loudest when the men were visibly hurt, human? You looked like a hound baying for blood.'
Grimm took a deep breath, and he felt his aches fading like dreams. At any other time, he might have felt hurt by the minuscule demon's assessment of him, but not now. He felt too cheerful to be dented by mere words.
'It's a human thing. You wouldn't understand,' he said, sitting upright in bed.
Nonetheless, Grimm could tell the imp was still far from satisfied.
'All right, Thribble; out with it. What's bothering you?'
'I think you are under some sort of spell, like the one that witch cast on you at High Lodge. Your behaviour seems irregular and aberrant, and I find it more disturbing than amusing.'
Grimm laughed at the sight of Thribble's sullen pout and hooded eyes. 'All right, my suspicious friend. If it makes you happy, I'll check myself out. Redeemer!'
Thribble ducked as the staff flew into Grimm's hand, barely missing the demon.
During his last stay at Crar, Grimm had spent a considerable amount of time in imbuing Redeemer with several Minor Magic spells. He felt confident that he would be able to tell with ease if his mind was being controlled by another. He also knew that the food and drink he had taken at the Mansion House had not been poisoned or drugged; he had been loaned a dedicated magical charm, which would glow a virulent red in the presence of such substances. The charm had remained quiescent throughout his stay.
The mage shut his eyes and accessed the power within the staff; his Mage Sight visualised this action as leafing through the pages of a great book. He had not used Redeemer in this manner before, and he felt considerable pleasure at the convincing illusion.
Light, Heat, Cold… he thought, as his mental hand riffled through the pages. Ah, Spell Incursion; that's the one!
This spell would inform him if any Compulsion or Geas might be acting upon him, including the subtler Geomantic forms used by witches. If he had had this spell when he met Madeleine, he would not be here in Yoren now.
Grimm needed only a pinch of power to activate the magic, and he felt it take hold. He sat, motionless, for a few moments while the spell did its work. At the end of this time, he heard a clear, crystal chime in his head, rather than the insistent gong that would have indicated foul play.
'I'm clean, Thribble,' he said, regaining his happy smile. 'There are no drugs, poisons, trances or spells acting upon me. There's nothing in my body that shouldn't be there.'
