From the corner, he saw the titanic albino swordsman, Tordun, brought down into a milling mass of citizens. He could see no sign of the half-elf, Crest, or the blademaster, Harvel, and assumed they were already lost. He tried to calm himself so he could cast his potent, Questor magic, but the sheer manic turbulence of the crowd prevented him from being able to marshal his senses.
Focus, Grimm! he told himself, trying to fight the cold, disabling tendrils of fear that threatened to overwhelm him. As if in a dream, he felt himself being hoisted onto the shoulders of maybe a dozen Brianstonians, before an impartial blow to his skull deprived him of awareness.
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Chapter 12: Information
'Come in.'
Dalquist opened the door to Kargan's chamber to find the bespectacled Magemaster lounging in a comfortable chair, puffing on an ornate pipe. The room was decorated in a bizarre mixture of styles, ancient and modern, whose only common theme seemed to be a riot of colours. Scarlet, satin draperies clashed with pastel shades of green and yellow, and a grey carpet. Golden and blue strips of silk hung from the ceiling like a suspended forest. Dalquist knew he would never be able to relax in such a profusion of conflicting hues, but Kargan seemed almost serene.
Dalquist noted a sweet, cloying scent in the air. Perhaps the contents of the Magemaster's pipe have more to do with it than artistic taste, he mused.
'What's the matter, Questor Dalquist? You look as if you'd lost a gold sovereign and found a penny.” The Magemaster's tone was soft and placid, quite unlike his normal, frenetic classroom bark.
How do I start here? Dalquist wondered. ‘Magemaster Kargan, either I'm under some strange spell or I've lost my mind'?
Instead, he cleared his throat and said, “I'm not quite feeling my usual self, Magemaster Kargan.'
Kargan put down his strange, convoluted pipe and pushed his blue-lensed spectacles back up the slope of his nose. “Why do you need to see me about that, Questor Dalquist? I'm sure Healer Firian would be more than happy to knock you up some foul mixture or other to sort you out. We're all out of sorts at times, and Firian's always happy to help.'
'Magemaster Kargan: you're a Mentalist, aren't you?'
'Was a Mentalist,” Kargan corrected, his expression puzzled. “I haven't had cause to cast many spells of that type for several years now. Why do you ask?'
Dalquist steeled himself to tell the older man the difficult truth. It's now or never, I suppose.
'I don't think my problem's physical, Magemaster Kargan. I think I may be under some sort of spell. I just… found myself acting in a very strange manner, and I don't feel right at all. It feels like I'm ensorcelled, or something.'
Kargan snorted. “I'm not surprised: a young Questor like you, cooped up in the Scholasticate when you should be out hunting dragons, or whatever it is you do. Never fear: Firian will sort you out some sort of tonic. I'll bet that's all you need.'
'I doubt it's that simple, Magemaster Kargan, I'm pretty sure it's some sort of spell. I doubt Healer Firian would spot that. A Mentalist of your calibre just might. I have a blank spot in my memory concerning a certain person, not a member of our Guild. I… leapt to that person's defence without thinking about it, despite the fact that I know almost nothing about her.'
'Her? I think you've answered your own question there, Questor,” Kargan replied, guffawing. “We all know what happens to mages who play around with the fair sex!'
'It's not that at all, Magemaster!” Dalquist felt almost beside himself. “I only met her once, and I wasn't remotely attracted to her. I'd hardly paid her a moment's heed, before I was… challenged about her, a few minutes ago. Please, just tell me if you can tell if I'm under some spell.'
The young mage realised his tone was desperate and pleading, hardly what was expected from a Guild Questor, but he no longer cared.
'I'm not insane, Magemaster,” he said, “but I am deeply worried. Will you help me?'
Kargan rubbed his chin and shrugged.
'The spell I have in mind is pretty potent,” he said. “It may reveal far more about you than you would wish to be known. It's ten times more revealing than the clearest Mage Sight.'
'No matter, Mentalist. It's a risk I'm willing to take.'
'All right, Questor. I'm not quite sure how this will pan out, or what it could prove, but I'd like you to lie down on that couch. I haven't done this for a long time, so bear with me. Just relax, please.'
Dalquist reclined on the couch and tried to clear his thoughts. It was not easy, but he managed to find a plateau of moderate internal peace.
Kargan began to chant in a low voice, his arms outstretched, his eyes closed and his forehead lined.
'Ondjebarumanda-ma-mendra… ondjebarumanda-ma-mendra…” Beads of sweat began to trickle down the Magemaster's face, but the chant remained even and crystal-clear, perfect in cadence and tone.
Kargan grimaced between runic syllables, but he maintained the incantation's perfection with admirable control.
'Ondjebarumanda-ma-mendra… ondjebarumanda-ma-mendra…'
Dalquist felt something twist in his mind, and he gasped. In a heartbeat, the chant stopped. Kargan slumped, ashen-faced, in his chair.
'Well, Mentalist Kargan? Did you find anything?'
'Not a whit,” the Magemaster replied, breathing heavily. “Your mind's locked up as tight as a drum. If I'm to find anything in there, you've got to open up to me.'
'It must be my Questor training,” Dalquist said. “I'm not trying to fight you, I swear.'
'I don't think it's that, Questor Dalquist. Someone, or something, has put some sort of lock on your mind. But you're right: you do have some kind of magic acting on you. Your aura looks fine to me, so this must be deep in the subliminal level.'
Suspicion flared in the young mage's mind. Was this lock of Lord Thorn's doing?
After all, he did put a Compulsion on Grimm, he thought. Has he done the same with me?
Dalquist looked Kargan straight in the eye. “Is it some kind of Compulsion, Magemaster Kargan?'
Kargan shook his head and winced. “I'm badly out of practice,” he admitted. “This has really taken it out of me, I can tell you.” He wiped his brow with a plain white handkerchief from a pocket deep in his green satin robes.
'To answer your question, Questor Dalquist: it's no mage spell I recognise.'
'Can you dig any deeper?” Dalquist asked, frowning.
'Not tonight, Questor. I need to build up my strength and consult some of my workbooks and librams. Don't worry; I haven't given up yet. I've still got plenty more tricks up my sleeve-they don't give you seven rings as a Mentalist for nothing. We'll get to the bottom of this sooner or later, Questor Dalquist. Tomorrow morning, I'll tell Senior Magemaster Crohn you're sick, and we'll start early; say seven o'clock.'
Dalquist nodded. “I'll be here, Brother Mage, rest assured of that.'
'Well, Lord Seneschal, it doesn't look as if we're likely to find anyone lurking around here,” Erik said, kicking a blackened fragment of stone. “This place is a total shambles.'
'When you were looking through your optical tube device, you said you saw several people, Sergeant,” Shakkar replied, frowning.
'I guess they were looters trying to find stuff in the ruins, Sir. There doesn't seem to be anywhere for them to hide. Perhaps they ran off when they saw us coming.'
Shakkar could not argue with this; the spindly, scorched skeleton of the large building could not have hidden
