'I wonder what's keeping Tordun,' General Quelgrum said, raising his glass to his lips and taking a robust swallow of the finest brandy. 'He's been away for hours.' The soldier glanced at the handsome pendulum clock above the bar. 'It's getting near Pit time, and I, for one, don't want to miss it. Especially since we're getting grandstand seats.'
'Don't worry about Tordun, General. He's probably giving out pointers on proper fighting conduct,' Crest suggested. 'He's a bit of a legend around these parts, having been heavyweight champion of Gallorley for seven years. It's only a few miles from here, just the other side of Preslor.'
'I'd have thought he'd have been yesterday's news by now,' Guy said, and a spirited discussion began. Grimm, however, did not take part, as a thought took hold of him.
Preslor… Isn't that where Madar lived as a child?
With a guilty start, Grimm realised he had spared his old Scholasticate friends, Madar Gaheela and Argand Forutia, barely a single thought since becoming a Questor. They had fought together, played together and laughed together. Only their unflagging friendship and support had made his tenure as a Student at Arnor House bearable.
Here am I, laughing and joking in the lap of luxury, and Madar and Argand are slaving away over turgid books in the bloody Scholasticate, he thought. I've been back to the House several times since my Acclamation, and I only tried to look them up once!
A cold shock of realisation descended like a sheet of rain, washing the dust from his brain. For the first time since his Arrival at Mansion House, his mind was clear.
Something Madar had said long ago seemed to reverberate in his head: 'It was purgatory going back home at the end of last term, Grimm. They don't like mages around there; they don't even like Guild Students. Preslor, Gallorley, Yoren; they're all the same. I was almost glad to come back.'
Crest had confirmed Madar's words back in Grimm's tower: 'So when I tell you even we Drutians steer clear of Yoren, you'd better believe that we know what we're talking about. Seventh Rank Mage or not, they'd eat you for breakfast.'
And yet Grimm, Guy and Numal had been accepted into Mansion House without a second glance. Something was wrong here. He had told himself he had been paranoid for suspecting some of the Yorenians of staring just a little too long at his Guild ring; now, he was not so sure. There was also the matter of the gate watchman's strange, sinister immunity to Guy's Compulsion spell, which everybody seemed to have forgotten.
Thribble had mentioned his own concerns about Grimm's behaviour, but the mage had just brushed aside the demon's doubts. He knew, beyond a shadow of doubt, that he and his friends were under no spell, either Thaumaturgic or Geomantic, and that they had not been drugged. Nonetheless, he had to acknowledge that his behaviour, and that of his companions, had been, to say the least, quixotic, ever since they had entered Mansion House.
You need to lighten up, Grimm, boy, a voice said in his head. Go on; have another drink. Enjoy it this time. Don't bother with Redeemer.
Shrugging, Grimm raised his tankard to his lips, and made ready to down it at a gulp.
No, damn it! his forebrain screamed. Look at their auras first!
The ruddy, foaming beverage before the Questor tempted him, but it would take only a moment to engage his Mage Sight.
Although Guild protocol considered it the height of ill manners to scan a person's aura without first asking permission, the suspicion of pernicious sorcery would not leave him. It nagged him like a small hole in a tooth, which, to a questing tongue, felt as large as a cavern.
He must learn the truth, at all costs!
What his Mage Sight showed him shocked him to the core. Waves of cheerful orange flowed over the auras of his companions, swamping all other emotions. He concentrated his Sight on the melancholy, timid Numal, now as spirited a debater as the others. The invasive, orange tide seemed to ebb and flow in a complex rhythm and it took Grimm a little while to realise the source of this regularity.
Then, it hit him, like a dazzling flash of light illuminating the inner recesses of his mind; the wave synchronised precisely with the Necromancer's breathing: strongest on each inhalation, then declining steadily until the next breath.
Grimm tested this theory on himself; sure enough, his mutinous inner voice seemed most insistent when he inhaled. He held his breath as long as he could, and his rational mind began to regain control of his thought processes.
'What are you playing at, Grimm?' Guy's loud, boisterous voice interrupted the Questor's intense reverie. 'Holding your breath? Well, I'll bet I can hold my breath a lot longer than you can.'
'I bet you can't,' Grimm said, breathing through his mouth, trying to keep his air intake to a minimum. 'I'll bet you two golds you can't.' He slapped two heavy coins onto the bar, which were soon matched by a pair from Guy's purse.
'I'm in,' Quelgrum said, swiftly covering the wager.
Soon, the mahogany top of the bar was covered in gold. Grimm, despite his efforts to keep his mind stable, felt his rationality starting to slip as his body exerted its imperative demands for life-sustaining oxygen, overriding his conscious control. He must act, without delay!
'Guy, Numal, use your Mage Sight, to ensure there's no cheating. Winner takes all. A deep breath, now. Go!'
All five of his companions inhaled in unison, and Grimm saw Guy's and Numal's eyes widen. With luck, they had seen the same bizarre anomaly he had, and the Questor gestured with his eyebrows, indicating that the mages should continue to hold their breath.
Twenty seconds passed. Quelgrum blinked, and the young Questor thought he saw a glimmer of rationality in the General's eyes.
After thirty-five seconds, Crest's expression became confused, and he opened his mouth. Grimm shook his head, his eyes blazing. The half-elf closed his lips again.
Harvel was the last to react. The inane smile departed from his lips, and the swordsman's face slumped into an expression of baffled concern.
Grimm knew he had made his point, but what to do? No man could hold his breath forever. Already, he was beginning to feel his lungs burning, threatening to rebel.
'We're getting out of here,' Guy gasped, with the last dregs of his breath. 'Now!'
The six men rose as one and headed for the door, still resisting the urge to inhale, their faces purpling with the effort.
'You haven't paid your bar bill, gentlemen,' the bartender called, and Grimm flapped a hand at the pile of money on the counter. He saw a flunky, moving in to intercept the group. He pretended to stumble, shouldering the man aside in the process. At last, the group gained the grounds of the Mansion House and breathed in the sweet, untainted air.
Whatever evil influence resided within the House, it doesn't seem to extend outside the building, Grimm thought, as he pulled in lungful after lungful of the blessedly clean atmosphere. His mind remained unaffected.
'You'll catch your death out here, gentlemen,' the servant who had followed the group outside pleaded, wringing his hands. 'Please come back inside; your next two rounds will be free.'
'We wouldn't miss it for the world,' the quick-thinking Quelgrum said, favouring the footman with a beaming smile. 'This is a lovely place, we just want to clear our heads after all that drinking.'
'It's not healthy out there, sirs. Please come back in!'
'Let me just explain something.' The General stepped closer to the young footman. Without warning, the soldier stabbed two stiff fingers under the servant's breastbone. The flunky's eyes bulged, and he slumped; he would have fallen, but Quelgrum caught him in a crooked arm.
'That's torn it,' Crest said. 'What do we do now? We can't go back inside.'
'Well, at least we know there's something funny going on in there,' Harvel replied. 'But I feel naked without a blade. What do we do?'
'Oh, my! The barman's coming out,' Numal said, back to his old, nervous self.
Whereas the footman had been a youthful, slender stripling, the barman looked like the unlikely progeny of a
