are blurred and lacking in detail: they're not like real memories.
That was it: maybe his rosy memories of the old lady were not true recollections at all! Dalquist knew he needed the services of a Mentalist if he were to recover the real details of that long-ago meeting in High Lodge.
I could go to Lord Thorn and tell him my suspicions, but… no, I don't really trust even him. His treatment of Grimm was definitely underhanded when he put that Compulsion on the lad, and I don't want him to do the same to me.
Dalquist blinked, confused by suspicion that began to surge inside his head.
What on earth has Thorn to do with Lizaveta? Why should he place a Compulsion on me, just because some witch may have ensorcelled me?
Of course, there was no reason… was there?
Who can I trust here? Crohn, certainly, and Doorkeeper… who else is there?
Kargan; the name floated unbidden into Dalquist's mind. He puts on a tough act, but he seems a straight enough arrow to me… and he's a Mentalist, too.
Kargan was an anomaly amongst the House's starchy senior mages: unlike them, he kept his face smooth, instead of allowing his beard to grow; he eschewed Mage Speech even when teaching his class; he wore blue- tinted spectacles instead of allowing a Mage Chirurgeon to correct his vision with magic. The man stopped short of acting improperly in front of the Prelate, but he was a nonconformist.
Kargan won't blab to anyone, I'm sure.
His suspicions crystallising into a hard lump, Dalquist went in search of the Magemaster. One way or the other, he would get some answers.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter 9: Obedience
Grimm shielded his eyes against the glare of the setting sun as he drove the wagon towards Brianston. After the gloomy squalor of Yoren, he felt prepared for almost anything, except for the dazzling sight that met his eyes.
This was no town full of run-down shanties and faded glories, but a vision of heaven on earth. Proud, gleaming cupolas and turrets came into view, and the colourful opulence of the market square, visible in the distance, seemed to eclipse even the rebuilt centre of Crar. Grimm could not fail to notice the well-dressed, smiling people walking the clean, paved streets. Several of the townspeople favoured the wagon with a cheery wave as it passed them; a quick scan with Mage Sight showed the citizens’ auras to be free of deception or worry.
Quelgrum, sitting beside the mage, tapped him on the left shoulder. “A bit of a change from Yoren, eh, Lord Baron? From the look, a man could do worse than spend his life here, I reckon.'
Maybe it's just a little too good to be true, Grimm thought. How does a town in the middle of this wilderness maintain such magnificence? I've been guilty before of taking things at face value, and I'm not about to make that mistake again.
'I just wonder if it isn't a little too nice, General. Let's not forget our purpose. We're not here to sightsee or relax, remember?'
The General nodded. “I hear you there, Lord Baron. It's a fine sight to admire, I must say, but I agree we should stay alert. Even a squalid hellhole like Yoren had armed guards and barriers. You'd think a place as fancy as this would be riddled with them, but where are they? It looks as if a marauding army could just march in and take over in an instant.'
Grimm stopped the wagon short of the town centre, and tapped his right pocket. “Thribble; are you there?'
'Where else would I be, mortal?” the imp squeaked, pushing his head into view. “This does seem a pleasant spot to stay-are you planning to rest here?'
'I don't know yet, Thribble. Just recently, I've had my mind baffled and enslaved by pheromones and my eyes bedazzled by grandeur and opulence. I refuse to be fooled like that again. If we do decide to stay here, it's for one night and no more; is that clear? If any of us, including me, starts to act at all oddly, I want you to tell me.
'I like the look of this place as much as you do, but that's just what worries me. I don't know if this is some honey trap or just what it appears to be, but I'll let nothing stand in the way of our Quest this time. If Brianston really is what it appears to be, we may stop off here on the way back from Rendale, but, for now, we're just on our way through. If I even make the suggestion that we might stay here for more than one night, I want you to remind me of what I've said.'
'That's understood, Questor Grimm. To be honest, I really want to see you complete this Quest; it will make a good tale to tell my brothers when I return home-whenever that may be.'
The wagon's canvas cover rustled, and Grimm turned to see Tordun's head emerging. “May I ask why we have stopped, Questor Grimm? Is there a problem? Oh! Is that not a fine sight to behold?'
'What is it, Tordun?” Harvel's muffled voice emerged from the cart's interior. Grimm turned to the old soldier. “General, would you mind standing watch for a while? I want to brief our companions.'
'Go ahead, Lord Baron,” Quelgrum replied. “It doesn't seem we have any problems at the moment.'
'Budge over, Tordun,” Grimm said, crawling into the back of the wagon. “I don't want to wield the whip hand here, but it seems that I'll need to set a few ground rules.'
Drex hardly noticed the sting of the whip on her back, but the nun's hoarse, harsh voice brought her to attention. She had no idea how she might have transgressed the Order's rules, but Melana's brusque tone brooked no argument. “Am I wasting my time with you, Supplicant? What is the matter with you?'
'I'm sorry, Sister Melana,” the girl mumbled, her tone respectful, sincere and penitent. “I acknowledge my most grievous fault, and I crave correction.” The rote phrase slid with ease from between her lips, comforting her with its familiarity.
'Must I remind you of even the most simple of incantations, you worthless bitch?” croaked the Sister, her red- tinged eyes blazing. “You're a useless, pathetic ingrate!'
'Yes, Sister Melana.” Drexelica lowered her gaze in the required attitude of Holy Modesty. Nonetheless, she had not failed to notice Melana's haggard state, and she registered the fact that the nun's sorry condition was somehow her fault.
Poor Sister Melana, She only wants to train me in the ways of the Order, and I betray her with sloppiness and inattention. I deserve punishment.
Drex had the impression that she might have possessed a different opinion at the start of the session, but beyond this bare fact all else was hazy and inchoate.
'Sister Melana: this humble Novice believes that the Supplicant's response was correct,” one of the ever- present attendants called, and Drex almost gasped at the junior nun's effrontery as Melana whirled to face the daring Novice.
'You dare to oppose me, Novice?” The Sister's narrowed eyes seemed to scorch the attendant, who shrank from the baleful gaze, seeming almost to melt in its intensity. “Do we all come to you for advice, now?'
'No, Sister Melana,” the nun whispered. “I merely thought…'
'You think way too much, Sister Falun! Who is in charge here: you or me?'
'You are, Sister Melana.'
'You may both consider yourselves fortunate that I don't send you to the Prioress for correction. I am displeased with both your attitudes; you both seem to believe yourselves more familiar with Holy Ritual than I, and you will correct that at once!
'I will kindly make allowances for the fact that you are still young and callow. However, I require both of you to make an act of Contrition in the Lower Chapel-two hours of Level Two Punishment. Be grateful that I am in a merciful mood.'
