'So that's the game, is it?” he muttered, massaging his temples and grimacing.
Dalquist opened his eyes, his face relaxed and calm. “Did you find anything, Magemaster Kargan?'
'I certainly did, Questor Dalquist. You've got a Blocking spell on you, a strong one. All I know at the moment is that a lady called Prioress Lizaveta is likely to be behind it. Are you ready to dig further?'
'I thought that spell was supposed to do the trick.” Dalquist seemed none the worse for wear.
Kargan growled, “It should have done, but I'm not a Seventh Level Mentalist for nothing.
'Questor Dalquist, your memories have been manipulated somehow, by what I can only guess is some Geomantic spell, but I'm pretty sure they're still there. Otherwise, I wouldn't have felt such resistance from you. Do you want to give up now, or will you submit to further spells?'
Dalquist nodded, his expression grave. “Whatever it takes, Magemaster.'
Kargan cleared his throat. “I feel it only right to tell you that the spells will become more and more difficult to cast as I begin to go through my magical armoury. I started with the simplest spell I knew that was likely to bring worthwhile results. As the complexity and power grows, there is a very real chance that a miscast will seriously impair both our minds. I'm confident enough on the first few incantations I'll try, and I should be able to use some suitable cadences to get out of some of the others if I start to run into problems. But I may need some very powerful, dangerous spells in the end.'
'Whatever it takes, Magemaster,” Dalquist repeated, meeting Kargan's level gaze. “I must know. If you're willing to risk it, so am I. If you'd rather take a rest, I understand.'
Kargan shook his head. “I've still got plenty of power on board, Questor, so don't worry there. It's the increasing complexity that may be the problem. Some of the very strongest spells have only ever been cast by their originators, illustrious mages like Kharos and Bledel. Nobody else'll touch them with a bargepole.'
Dalquist whistled. The two mages Kargan had mentioned were legends in the Guild panoply of heroes. Even he, as a mighty Questor, had heard of them, and he respected their memories with reverence.
'Perhaps it would be better if we just-'
Kargan cut him off with a swipe of his hand. “Questor Dalquist, I'm an old man, even for a common-or-garden Mentalist, but I'm still a Mage of the Seventh Rank, and I have my pride. I've studied all the greats in my field, and I believe I know the way they think. I may only have a few decades remaining to me, but I'm no jabbering retard yet. If I could say I'd mastered these spells, I'd be a happy, proud man, but I'm not stupid enough to contemplate tossing away my brain for the sake of pride.
'As I said, there's a real risk involved. We're not just talking about a bad headache here, but blank-eyed, drooling madness or worse. So I don't want you just to say ‘yes’ without thinking about it. Believe me: if you don't want to do this, I'd rather you said so.'
Dalquist sat up and steepled his hands under his bearded chin. He knew now he had been ensorcelled. But was that knowledge alone enough?
No! he thought. A part of my life's been stolen from me. I've been used as a puppet by some witch, and I don't even know what else of her influence remains within me. I'd rather go blind or mad than betray Grimm or my Guild because I was weak. I'll live as a whole man, or not at all.
'Go as deep as you dare, Magemaster Kargan,” he said. “I'm in your hands.'
Kargan rubbed his hands and stretched. “I'm glad you said that, Dalquist, but I expected no less from a true Questor. We'll try a little trick of Wersam the Adamant's next. This one's not too hard, but it's a little strange. This time, I'll be you, and you'll just be an onlooker. Are you ready? Good. Lie down, shut your eyes again, and we'll start. Wellan… Wemus… ah, here it is.'
Quelgrum hunched back on his heels in the small room. “What do you have in mind, Lord Baron?'
Grimm rubbed his sweaty palms together, trying to project greater confidence than he felt as he spoke.
'Well, it seems to me that the only real people here are in this building, and Uncle Gruon himself. If I were to astrally project, I should be able to find him. Whoever, or whatever, he is, I believe I'll be able to get inside his mind. Under those circumstances, I might be able to shake things up in there a little. It might make things a little more interesting out there, at least, and Gruon might wake up.'
'That's an awful lot of ‘mights and ‘could bes', boy,” Guy drawled, leaning against the door.
'Have you anything better, Guy?” Grimm snapped, his guts churning with nervous energy. “Perhaps you'd rather give us your own brilliant plan?'
'Oh, no, wonder-boy,” said the older mage, smiling. “If you want to risk what little brain you have on some wildcat scheme, who am I to stop you?'
Grimm clenched his teeth. It's all a bloody game for him, he thought. Still, I'm not going to show him just how scared I really am!
'Well, that's all right then, Great Flame.'
Numal, who seemed to know more about Astral Projection than the other members of the party, touched the young Questor on the shoulder.
'Is that wise, Questor Grimm? You don't even know what sort of mind you'll find. The results could be disastrous!'
Grimm forced himself not to pull away from the sexually confused Necromancer's touch. “Thanks for the concern, Numal, but I don't think we have an awful lot of choice in the matter. I'll trust you to hold on tight to my astral cord and yank me back into the real world if you sense any trouble.'
'I don't know if I can,” the older mage admitted with a shrug.
Grimm forced a friendly smile onto his face. “Well, just do your best. Look, Numal,” he said, “all of you! Do you all want to end up as drained husks, fodder for some nightmare creature, or would you rather we gave him a nightmare? I know what I'd rather do.'
Crest stood up from a deep crouch, his head reaching the level of Grimm's chest. “There is an ethical aspect to this, Questor: do we really have the right to risk killing all these people? They're only doing what they have to for survival, the same as we would, if we were in their straits.'
Well, that's all right then, Crest! So we'll just sit here and wait for them to bleed us dry… no, that's not helpful!
'It's us or them, Crest,” he said. “If you really have a serious moral objection, I won't do it.'
'Bugger that!” Guy said. “Any port's good in a storm, I say.'
'In any case,” the elf continued, shooting a hard glance at the senior Questor, “Suppose you do wake Gruon up; that doesn't get us out of this bloody mausoleum, does it?'
Grimm almost winced; he had not expected opposition from such a loyal companion: from Guy, perhaps, but not from the nimble, reliable half-elf.
'I saw a chair hanging from the ceiling in the central reservation, Crest,” he said, trying to look unworried. “That must be where they extract the Sacrifices for their blood-lettings. I imagine there's an opening, or at least a thinly-protected area, over that. If I get back alive, I reckon I could reach it and blast a way through. If I can't, I'll bet the Great Flame, here, could.'
Guy shrugged. “I suppose I could, at that.'
'As for the ethical consideration, these people are not human…” Grimm did not need to access his Mage Sight to recognise Crest's surging anger, and he knew he had chosen his words poorly.
'Neither am I, mage.” The slender warrior frowned, and Grimm noted his bunched biceps. “Perhaps I'm just as expendable as…'
Grimm's entrails felt like a cold, solid lump within him. “Look, Crest, I'm sorry. I spoke hastily. I regard you as just another…'
'Freak? Mutant? Is that it?” Crest snarled. “Some bloody sport-'
'That's not fair, Crest, and you bloody well know it!” Harvel snapped at his great friend. “Catch hold of yourself! Questor Grimm has never treated you as anything other than a valued companion and an equal. Has he? Has he?'
Crest stopped in mid-tirade and nodded, his head bowed. “I'm sorry, Questor Grimm. I had no cause to sound off like that at you. I know you didn't mean any slur when you used that word, ‘human'. It's just that I've had it flung at me so many times… I'm sorry.'
