its side. “I never liked all this diplomacy stuff, anyway. General Quelgrum always thought it was a good idea to get the locals on our side, wherever we went. Even so, I've always preferred a stand-up fight.'
Thribble said, “It is not so simple, friend Erik. They are not mortals like you, and your metal death-tube may not affect all of them.
'Likewise, brother Shakkar, I have seen the edifice in which Lord Grimm is being kept: I doubt that even your gigantic strength could batter through it. The walls seem to be constructed of solid stone blocks, so closely spaced that the slenderest knife-blade could not pass between them. The door seems to be constructed of thick metal.'
'Why, you're just full of good news, aren't you, little feller?” Erik said, his face contorted in some mortal expression Shakkar could not read. “Have you any other handy tips for us?'
'I am only telling you what I know, mortal. I know your ‘gun’ thing will affect at least some of these people, although not all of them. I saw General Quelgrum use a similar weapon on the crowd when we were first taken. Most people seemed to be killed by the little pellets.'
'They're called ‘bullets', friend demon.'
'That is of little import,” the demon snapped, and Shakkar saw Thribble's tiny brows lowering. “Would you object if I just finished my assessment?'
Erik shrugged, and it seemed that Thribble took this as permission to proceed.
'Some were affected by these bullets, as you call them, but others did not succumb to them at all. I lost consciousness in the violence of the ensuing commotion, but before I fell I noticed Revenant Murar among the ranks of the unaffected. I just thought you should be aware of that.'
Shakkar pondered, but not for long; his rampant hind-brain would not be balked in its desire for vengeance. The deep, feral sense of duty was strong within him, and it grew like an unslaked thirst.
'We will take our chances on that, brother Thribble!” he shouted. “We have a duty to fulfil, and we shall fulfil it to the best of our abilities. Is that clear, Sergeant Erik?'
'Yes, Lord Seneschal! You'll hear no dissent from me in that regard!'
The Seneschal eyed the empty road ahead, still hearing the incessant sounds of human revelry. He had tried, for many months, to assume respectable, human duties within Crar, but his demonic heritage would not be denied. Vengeance was a clear and potent imperative, and the muddy visions of the clear-thinking front-brain gave way to the fiery demands of the inner mind. Even before thinking, he had begun to stride forward with a mile- eating gait.
Grimm sighed. He knew his latest outburst had robbed him of all pretence of being a true Seventh Level Questor, and he moped on his thin mattress, deep in the bowels of self-pity. General Quelgrum sat by him; all of his other companions had deserted him, and the young mage did not blame them.
He felt pathetic, useless and worthless.
He wanted to be alone, utterly alone, but the old soldier persisted with his irksome presence. At last, something inside the Questor snapped.
'Haven't you seen enough, General?” he snapped. “Please don't tell me how you broke down in tears in just the same way after your first major defeat; I don't think I could handle it. Please, just go away.'
Quelgrum sighed. “No, Lord Baron, I don't think I've ever broken down in tears for as long as I can remember. Still, I do remember trying to fling the contents of my guts down the road after my first battle. I wasn't much younger than you then.
'Grimm Afelnor, your problem isn't your companions, or your lack of foresight, or your thwarted expectations- it's you. I never had control of an army, a regiment or even a platoon at your age: I always had someone to tell me what to do. At that age, my problem was that I didn't realise that the sergeants and corporals could tell me anything.
'Your problem is that you think you have to tell people what to do: you have to have all the answers available, no matter what. Well, I can tell you that nobody ever has all the answers. You've not helped yourself at all by that little display back there, but you need to concentrate a lot more on who, rather than what you are. You know Questor Guy's never going to get down on his knees and worship you; why do you bother to try to impress him? From what I see, that's one of your major problems. What you need to realise is that he's a lot like you.'
Grimm felt his eyes bulge, and his breath surged. “I don't think he's like me at all!” he said. “He thinks he's better than everybody else-'
'-Don't you, Lord Baron?'
'No, I don't, General!'
'You act like you do, Lord Baron,” Quelgrum said in a calm, quiet voice. “You take on an apparent suicide mission. You expect to perform miracles, and you burst into tears when you can't achieve them. If there's one thing I've learnt in all my years of fighting, it's this: win or lose, act as if you expect it.
'If you lose, then you tried your best against insuperable odds. By crying that way-it's quite distasteful to me, in fact-you told me and the others you didn't trust or want us to help you.'
'It wasn't like that at all!” Grimm protested.
'I know that, Lord Baron… Look, with all due respect, you're still just a kid. A kid with balls and some muscle, I can't deny, but a kid in any case. You let us all down by bursting into tears like that. Your best bet is to be open about the whole thing, rather than just trying to let it lie. Apologise, and plead your youth if you need to-but apologise for that disgusting display of self-pity as soon as you can. Otherwise, you'll lose all your friends, including me.'
Grimm thought he heard more than an echo of Magemaster Crohn there, and he nodded at once. “I will, General. I just want to-'
He heard a distant creak that he recognised, the sound of a key being turned in the inner door, and he spun around as the portal swung open.
Forgetting his shame and his pathos, he leapt to his feet and cried, “We've got company! Let's move!'
He summoned his magical power and swore to sell his life dear.
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Chapter 19: ‘A Dangerous Game'
Dalquist found himself in Prioress Lizaveta's former apartments in High Lodge, which looked as opulent as he remembered them. Lizaveta, clad in white, lounged at ease on her crimson, gold-tasselled divan, her hand extended to receive his former self's polite obeisance. Nothing conflicted with his memory of the scene.
'Ah, Lord Mage, welcome. How may I be of service to you? I normally receive visitors only by appointment, but I am happy to make an exception in the case of such a distinguished mage,” the Prioress said, and Dalquist shivered anew at the unpleasant, crackling quality of her voice.
Dalquist felt somewhat disgusted at the sight of himself kissing Lizaveta's ruby ring, but it again accorded with his recollection.
I can certainly see why Bledel's spell requires such a high level of skill and power, he thought. The clarity and detail of this vision is astonishing!
As the scene unfolded, Kargan asked, “Anything unusual so far, Questor Dalquist?'
The younger mage shook his head. “It's all exactly as I remember it, except…'
Lizaveta had just uttered the words, “I am sure that this is no more than a friendly liaison between two young people.'
Dalquist's memory was that he had agreed with the Prioress at this point, and that he and she had shared a convivial glass of wine before he left. However, this earlier version of him seemed to have taken on a will of his own, insisting that sinister forces were at work.
'I don't remember any of this,” he admitted. “How can this be if this spell works on my powers of memory?'
