that a miscast would be disastrous; this gave him confidence that the spell was proceeding according to the long- dead Bledel's plan.
Still, I wish something would happen, he thought. This is beginning to get…
'All finished,” Kargan said, with more than a trace of pride in his voice, and Dalquist opened his eyes. “Bledel Soulmaster's Temporal Divinatory Conjunct, as promised. It's never been done before-at least, not here.'
To his astonishment, Dalquist found himself not in some mystical dimensional construct, but still in the Magemaster's chamber. The Mentalist's grin seemed at odds with the prosaic surroundings, and Dalquist sat up, confused.
'Er, Magemaster Kargan,” he said, “We just seem to be where we were. We don't seem to have moved at all.'
'Of course not, Questor Dalquist; we're here because this is where we are.'
Has Kargan lost his mind? Dalquist wondered. Perhaps he thought he was casting a spell but was really just exercising his throat!
'Your mind is here, and now, Brother Mage,” Kargan said, an almost manic glint in his eyes. “So that is where we are. However, when you access a memory, we will travel to the time and place at which that memory was recorded.'
'How does that help?” Dalquist frowned. “We've already established that I can't remember what happened to me in Lizaveta's study at High Lodge.'
Kargan sighed. “It's complicated, but I'll have to ask you to trust me. I suppose a demonstration is in order. I'd like you to lie back again and close your eyes. Concentrate on… let's say yesterday's lunch.
'By the way, you should find this pretty interesting.'
Dalquist shrugged and did as the mad old man told him. This was an easy enough memory to access, and he took himself back to the previous afternoon…
With a start, he opened his eyes, as clamour assaulted his ears.
'Say something,” Kargan said. “Good, isn't it?'
He was standing beside Kargan in the middle of the Refectory, looking at himself. Students yammered, Neophytes and Adepts studied books and servants bustled around the hall, just as usual. He jumped as a waiter materialised in front of him, seemingly having just walked through him.
Perhaps this is just some bizarre illusion, he thought. All I've got to do is just-
'It's real, Questor Dalquist,” Kargan said. “We're real, too, but we're in a three-dimensional construct outside the normal, physical world. We can move around, see, hear and smell, but we can't interact. This is the Refectory, yesterday, not some fantasy or glamour designed to beguile you. While you refrain from concentrating on some other memory, we remain here.'
Dalquist frowned. “How does this help? I can see myself eating a dish of chicken breasts, marinated with truffles and almonds. I already know I ate that.'
'Come over here,” Kargan said, pointing to one of the Students’ huddles. “Come on, you can just walk through the tables and chairs; they're no barrier to us.'
Dalquist followed the Magemaster, involuntarily flinching as he seemed to contact the diners and the furniture. However, Kargan had spoken truth; his apparently solid body passing through these obstructions as if they were not there.
'…so we'll jump on him right after the study period, yes?” one of the silk-attired Students said, his brown eyes earnest and intent. “We won't leave him with anything that shows at all, of course.'
The red-headed, freckled boy opposite him snorted.'You're crazy, Gura. Crohn'll know, for sure. You know what that'll mean.'
Gura smiled. It was not a friendly smile. “Crohn the Moan? He's in on it, I tell you, Uras! As long as we don't maim or kill him, we can do what we like to that whining little pauper brat! And I say we show that wastrel rat, Chag-bag, who're the bosses around here.'
'If you're sure it'll be all right, Gura… all right; I'm in!'
'Me, too,” the other boys chorused, and Dalquist swayed a little, feeling nauseous.
'Pleasant little tykes, aren't they?” Kargan said. “I've had my eye on that Gura for some time.'
'There's another boy being put through the Questor Ordeal, Kargan,” Dalquist said with dread certainty. “I'd guess they're talking about Chag Jura-he's a Neophyte I took for Interpretation of Lore a couple of weeks ago. Thorn-Prelate Thorn-must have singled him out for special attention.'
'I'd guess the note I received from Senior Magemaster Crohn has something to do with that,” the elder Magemaster said. “I must confess, I didn't read it. Politics makes me weary. Still, I bet you didn't know this nasty little conclave was going on yesterday, did you?'
Kargan's offhand tone showed that he had little idea of the torment that young Chag might suffer before-if-he ever became a Questor. Dalquist felt a bond with the Neophyte that few ordinary mages would ever understand; especially if the polite, pleasant youngster's treatment was anything like that accorded to Dalquist's friend, Grimm.
'I take your point, Magemaster,” Dalquist said, sighing. “We're in my memories, but out of them, so to speak. My act of remembering takes us to the correct place and time, but we're not a part of it. We're free to roam around, and see and hear whatever's going on.'
'Exactly! So, if you'd just take yourself back to the moment when you knocked on Prioress Lizaveta's door, we should be able to see just what happened.'
Dalquist nodded, trying to put thoughts of Chag Jura out of his head. He closed his eyes and remembered…
When he opened them again, he was standing behind another Dalquist, as the door to the Prioress’ chamber opened.
This is it! he thought. At last; now we'll get to the bottom of the matter!
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter 18: Erik's Doubts
Shakkar felt himself sinking lower in the sky, as the ground cooled in the waning light of the dusk sun. With senses that only another flying creature could appreciate, he felt his dangling, human burden sapping his lift and burdening him with drag. His back muscles screamed, and he knew he could not remain aloft for long. A strong opposing wind did not help matters, either.
'Sergeant Erik!” he yelled, his wings feeling leaden and stiff. “I must set down soon. What do your glass eyes tell you?'
'They're called ‘binoculars', Lord Seneschal. And they tell me there's a city coming up. From my maps and charts, this must be Brianston.'
With hope giving his wings new strength, the demon flew on until he too saw the conurbation. Magnificent it was, with splendid silver spires and crystal castles bordering gold streets, and even Shakkar felt impressed at the abilities of humans to create such wonders. Demon architecture, he had come to realise, was dull and unimaginative in comparison to even the most ordinary of human edifices. The buildings of this city were far from ordinary.
'Impressive, isn't it, Lord Seneschal?” Erik yelled. “I think we should make our way to the central plaza. There are a number of folk about. It looks as if they're having some sort of fiesta or party.'
On the margins of the city, Shakkar banked his wings and began to descend. Ten feet above the ground, he released the sergeant, who rolled with practiced ease as he landed. In one smooth motion, he was on his feet as the demon's clawed feet contacted the earth.
'Looks deserted, Lord Seneschal.” The sergeant gestured towards the empty streets.
Shakkar nodded. “I presume they are all at the fiesta of which you spoke, Sergeant.'
Despite the grandeur of their surroundings, Shakkar felt a little unnerved by the eerie stillness. This seemed like a ghost town, and he much preferred noise and bustle around him. However, the distant sounds of revelry soon reached his ears, growing louder as the man and the demon drew nearer to the town square.
