he felt as if his talents were being squandered.
Ever since he and Senior Magemaster Crohn had confronted Prelate Thorn over his ruthless treatment of Questor Grimm, Dalquist's life had taken a decided downturn.
We were foolish to try to quote regulations to Thorn, he thought, making a savage red slash through another botched, scribbled line of runes, and he's certainly making me pay for that rashness.
He wrote at the bottom of the page, ‘4/10: Woeful lack of attention to detail. See me,’ and he picked up another sheet from the pile.
I wouldn't feel so bad if I didn't know Lord Thorn was well within the letter of the law to do as he did. He could have had me stripped of my powers, exiled or even executed for mutiny. Instead, here I am marking shoddy work from worthless pupils whose only saving grace is the money in their parents’ coffers.
Oh, for goodness’ sake!
He drew a bold line through a complex, yet completely irrelevant, illogical series of runes. It was plain to Dalquist that this lout had not paid the least attention in the classroom, basking in the knowledge that his father was a wealthy High Court advocate, and that he could not be dismissed from the Scholasticate with ease.
'0/10: You have not even attempted to understand the principles or signatures of this spell. I suggest that your vocation lies elsewhere! See me.'
He reached out for the next sheet in the dwindling pile, but stopped short as he heard a soft rap on the door.
'Come in.'
The door opened to reveal the grizzled form of the Mage Doorkeeper.
'I'm sorry to interrupt, Questor Dalquist, very sorry, indeed. I was just saying to… to someone the other day how I hated to be…'
Dalquist sighed. “Would you mind coming to the point, Doorkeeper? I am rather busy, as you can see.'
Doorkeeper scratched his head. “What was it, now?-oh, yes, I remember!” The ancient mage smiled brightly. “You have a visitor at the tradesmen's entrance. That was the message!'
'Who is this visitor?” Dalquist did his best to maintain a polite tone. He loved Doorkeeper as if the old man were his kindly, if addled, grandfather, but it was often difficult to elicit concise information from him.
The major-domo scrabbled in his pockets for a few moments before he brought out a tattered, discoloured scrap of paper and consulted it.
'He says he's Sergeant Erik Romas, Brother Mage. He says it's very urgent.'
Dalquist felt his already-frayed temper beginning to get away from him, and he made a mighty effort to maintain his equanimity.
'I don't know any such man, Doorkeeper. Is he a watchman? A soldier? A Court functionary? Is he demanding advice, vengeance, charity, or a job?'
The old man looked blank for a moment before answering. “I think he just wants to meet you for a moment, Questor Dalquist,” he said at last.
Dalquist looked at the pile of completed marking, assessing the remainder. “All right, Doorkeeper; I'll see this wandering Sergeant.
'Shakhmat!'
The staff, as much weapon as adornment, flew into his hand, and he stood. Truth to tell, his backside was beginning to develop an abominable ache after so many hours in an unyielding, wooden chair.
'Thank you, Questor Dalquist,” the major-domo said, bowing. “I knew you would understand. I'm a very busy man, of course, so if you would excuse me…'
'Of course, Doorkeeper. I know the way well enough.'
The Questor looked at the lanky, grey-haired man before him, without the slightest trace of recognition. The supposed Sergeant wore no uniform; instead, he wore a loose, grey sarape, loose, beige trousers and an outlandish, broad-brimmed hat: his appearance was bizarre, indeed, almost ridiculous.
'I am Dalquist Rufior, Mage Questor of the Seventh Rank.'
'I am Sergeant Erik Romas, Lord Mage.” The grey-haired man bowed in a clumsy manner.
'What do you want, Sergeant?” Dalquist remained wary of some potential trap but confident that his abilities as a Mage Questor would prevail in the event of any ambush.
The slender man looked around him, as if suspecting the presence of eavesdroppers. “I've brought someone to meet you, Lord Mage, but it would be better if we didn't discuss matters in the doorway. The… er… gentleman's name is Shakkar.'
'Shakkar! Why did you not say so at once? Where is he?'
'Please, Sir… I mean, Lord Mage,” the bizarrely-disguised Sergeant whispered, looking embarrassed, “keep it down, would you? Lord Shakkar's in the bushes over there. He didn't think it was a good idea to present himself in person, being of a-shall we say-demonic persuasion.'
Dalquist understood the need for caution: the huge demon would be conspicuous in any company. As a precaution against possible ambush, Dalquist engaged his Mage Sight, but he saw no trace of intended deception or malice in the Sergeant's aura.
'All right, Sergeant. Lead the way.'
Erik led Dalquist past the fly-infested refuse bins at the rear of the House to a large, dense cluster of bushes. The mage prised away the thick foliage with the aid of his staff, Shakhmat, to see the grey form of the demon lurking within.
'It's good to see you again, Shakkar, but what's all this secrecy about?” he demanded “Is Questor Grimm all right? Is there some crisis in Crar?'
The demon levered himself up from his crouching position, unleashing a shower of leaves around him like so many snowflakes.
'I am pleased to meet you again, Questor Dalquist,” the bat-winged giant rumbled. “My reason for coming here is that I am deeply worried about the Lady Drexelica. She has disappeared, and there are indications that Prioress Lizaveta may well be behind it. We believe she intends to hold the girl as a hostage. That must mean she is aware of Lord Grimm's Quest.'
Dalquist shook his head, confused. “Hold on for a moment, Shakkar; I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about. Would you mind going back to the beginning? What Quest? What have Prioress Lizaveta and Grimm's housekeeper got to do with it?'
'Lady Drex is more…” began Erik, a sly smile on his face, but Shakkar's angry frown stopped the Sergeant's words in mid-sentence as cleanly as if he had been punched in the throat.
'Lady Drexelica is more than just a valued employee, Questor Dalquist. She and Questor Grimm have been through a lot together. She is a… good friend, a friend the Baron would gravely miss.'
Dalquist's eyes bulged. Grimm's not… playing around, is he? No. it can't be! He may be a little rash at times, but surely he'd never risk his powers over a brief dalliance!
He thought back to the words of the late, lamented Senior Magemaster Urel had addressed to him fifteen years before: “Loose women are a taint, Rufior: remember that, and remember it well. It were better by far that you put all your energies into your work rather than waste it on idle, lustful, polluting thoughts. It is only natural that a boy of your years will feel such vile urges, but you must resist them at all costs. The least physical contact with the distaff sex will sap your powers. Surrendering to these foul, physical urges will destroy any chance you have of becoming a mage.'
No: Grimm wouldn't be that stupid. It must be as Shakkar says; Drex is just a valued companion.
'Of course,” he said to the demon, “but what about this Quest?'
'Questor Grimm is under orders to destroy Prioress Lizaveta and her foul order,” Shakkar replied. “That is all I know.'
What? Dalquist thought. What threat can one old lady pose to the Guild or the House? Why, she was kind enough to me when I saw her…
A ghastly suspicion drifted into the Questor's mind. Is he on some personal vendetta because that nun, Madeleine, made a fool of him in High Lodge? Surely not! This must be some terrible misunderstanding.
