take my word on this. Forget the Sight.'
Dalquist sat back down and buried his head in his hands. He had hoped that the more mages he could get on his side, the better. However, Crohn had saved his embarrassment and, perhaps, his life. Despairing of ever finding stronger evidence, he had hoped that persuading a Presidium member to scan Thorn's aura and put him to the question might have sufficed.
With a faint groan, the Magemaster lowered himself into the chair opposite him, using his staff as a support. He sat in silence, as the Questor wracked his brains.
Loras might as well be dead, for all the evidence we're going to find here, he thought. What can we do? There must be something, someone…
'This is going nowhere, Magemaster Crohn,” he said. “Why don't we just sleep on it, and-'
The Questor saw Crohn start, and he spun around to see the door of the Library swing open. With horror, he saw the figure of Thorn framed in the doorway, and he slammed his mouth shut.
The Prelate strolled into the room a half-smile on his lips, and Dalquist saw two other men enter behind him: Magemaster Faffel and Xylox the Mighty.
Thorn ran a finger along one of the bookshelves and inspected it. “Dusty,” he drawled. “I must advise Doorkeeper to persuade the cleaning staff to pay greater attention to their duties.'
Crohn rose to his feet. “Lord Prelate,” he said, his voice clear and cool. “What brings you here tonight?'
'What do you think, Crohn? Black, bloody treachery brings me here, and a pair of worthless rats who will soon learn the error of their ways.'
Dalquist leapt to his feet, Shakhmat at the ready. “What do you mean, Lord Prelate? Are you accusing us of treason?” His heart was pounding, but he tried to keep his face open and guileless.
'Let us not play games, Questor Dalquist,” the Prelate said. “I have had my eye on you two for some time, and I have left standing orders with my servant, Wiirt, to be alerted whenever you are alone together. He saw you coming here and listened at the door. He could not hear all, but, I fancy, he heard more than enough, and he ran to tell me what he overheard. I roused these two valiant, loyal men from their slumbers to aid in your capture. You are planning to overthrow Lord Horin and, presumably, me. You are foul traitors to the House and to the Guild.'
'If anyone is a traitor here, it is not us!” Dalquist snapped. “We discussed-'
'You were discussing how to conceal your auras from the eyes of others,” Thorn said, consulting a sheet of paper. “Wiirt also tells me that you, Questor Dalquist, told Magemaster Crohn-and I quote-'Horin is expendable; you will be his replacement.’ Do you deny these words?'
'The words are quoted out of context!” Crohn protested, his face growing red. “The truth of the matter is that you are perverting-'
'Thishare foutreyan grouftit!” Thorn cried in his personal Questor language, and Crohn folded to the floor, unconscious.
Dalquist realised he would not be allowed to speak in his defence, and he readied a spell of his own against Thorn.
Too late! His own reflexes had been dulled by months of service in the Scholasticate, and he scarcely noticed the swish of a Mage Staff behind him before it impacted on the back of his skull. After a blazing flash of light inside his skull, he knew no more.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter 27: Flight
Magemaster Kargan lounged on the divan in his cluttered room, trying to concentrate on the book he had been reading. However, he felt restless, flicking through the pages without taking in more than a line or two of text. He knew he should try to get some much-needed sleep, but this, too, seemed beyond him.
Perhaps a little walk would help.
The Mentalist tossed the book onto the table beside him. He sat up and stretched for a few moments before rising to his feet in a swift, decisive motion and leaving the room, summoning his staff, Seeker.
As he walked along the long, dimly-lit corridor, he saw thin strips of light under several of the doors.
Seems like I'm not the only one who can't sleep, he thought, realising he knew the identities of few of the cells’ occupants. Scholars, perhaps, scouring old spells in the hope of discovering some new wrinkle or pervulsion that will bring its discoverer fame and fortune? The odd Necromancer, pondering the mysteries of bones and entrails, maybe? An Alchemist researching some fantastic elixir?
He realised that, after many decades’ residence in Arnor House, he knew next to nothing about his neighbours’ activities at night.
This is a sick place, he told himself. I've lived in the same cell for fifty years or more, but I don't even know the name of the mage in the next room, or what his Speciality is. I don't even feel the desire to ask. We're so obsessed with rank and secrecy that we've lost sight of our humanity; an entire commune of hermits, each defending his minuscule territory like a feral dog on a patch of dirt, barking at strangers.
He thought back to his younger days as an eager First Level Mage. He had been so keen to contribute to the House, so eager to make his mark… that proud mage had soon been replaced by an embittered old man who had only just begun to sense the miasma of suspicion and jealousy permeating the very foundations of the ancient fortress.
More than that, he now knew that the very man who directed the House's affairs was a traitor to the Guild, and he began to feel the weight of his years pressing down on him.
As he approached the West Wing stairwell, he sighed, fighting black waves of depression that threatened to overwhelm him.
If I can do anything to alleviate the sickness in this place, I will, he vowed to himself, his hand hovering over the door handle at the end of the corridor. Thorn has to go! With any luck, Dominie Horin will appoint someone like Crohn in his place; he can be a dry old stick at times, but he's a decent enough fellow, and I'm sure he's got the House's interests at heart.
He sighed again; most Prelates were chosen from among the ranks of the Questors, of whom the senior was the crusty Olaf Demonscourge.
That's all we need; an old fool like Olaf calling the shots!
With a sad shake of the head, he opened the door and made his way down the staircase to the Main Hall. Where he would go from there, he still did not know. At the foot of the stairs, he paused.
What in Perdition's going on here? he wondered, as he heard a thump and a clatter from behind the door.
Opening it just a crack, he saw the source of the brief commotion.
Magemaster Faffel stood in the centre of the hall, clutching his lower back, his face contorted in pain. At his feet lay his Mage Staff and, to Kargan's astonishment, the unmistakable, immobile form of Magemaster Crohn.
'I did not accept the lofty position of Magemaster just to be used as a common labourer,” Faffel complained through gritted teeth. “Why could the House servants not be used for this duty? My lumbar region feels as if it may already have suffered irreversible damage.'
'You heard Lord Thorn's orders, Magemaster Faffel,” another, deeper voice replied; Kargan could not see the second speaker; the pyramidal Breaking Stone blocked his view. “These two renegades are to be held incommunicado until a suitable Conclave may be assembled to try them. Remember; we are bound under a vow of silence until then. Nobody else is to know of this until Lord Thorn announces the Conclave; they may have other confederates, who must be unmasked.'
'I never trusted Crohn,” Faffel said, still massaging his back. “He was no true Magemaster; he treated the Students with far too much lenience.'
'I agree,” said the disembodied voice. “He trained Questor Grimm, who, in my opinion, is a disrespectful whelp unfit to bear the Guild Ring. However, I never suspected that the man was a traitor, too.
'I would be grateful if you would take up your load again; Questor Dalquist is no lightweight, either.'
