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Book 2 of Chronicles of Grimm Dragonblaster

by

Alastair J. Archibald

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Copyright © 2007 by Alistair J. Archibald

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A Mage in the Making: Book 1 of the Chronicles of Grimm Dragonblaster At the age of seven, Grimm Afelnor is sent from his grandfather's forge to learn the craft of magic at Arnor House of the Ancient and Honourable Guild of Magic-users, Sorcerers and Thaumaturges.He soon learns that his beloved grandfather, Loras Afelnor, is not the simple blacksmith he appears. Once a powerful Mage Questor of the Seventh Rank, Loras fell into disgrace and was banished from the Guild, his name and honours stricken from the Guild records.As a charity Student and the grandson of the reviled Oathbreaker, Grimm faces a difficult and uncertain future in the class-obsessed House. His lowly status also permits the ambitious and unscrupulous Prelate, Thorn Virias, to submit Grimm to the grueling Questor Ordeal. Brutally trained to become a human weapon, Grimm is driven to the very brink of insanity by the man who betrayed his grandfather.

Whiskey Shots, Volume 4

Dedication

Many thanks to Ian Bell for permission to use his RPG character, Xylox the Mighty, who was so often at odds with Grimm Dragonblaster in the Melee Room.

Thanks again to Matt and Esther and the regulars at “The Cricketers". To the good people at fanstory.com for reviewing my work, and for their sage and constructive advice. Thanks to Debi, Melanie, Marsha and Jinger at Whiskey Creek, for improving the breed in so many ways.

Chapter 1: The Eye of Myrrn

Grimm Afelnor, the youngest Mage Questor in Arnor House of the Ancient and Honourable Guild of Magic-users, Thaumaturges and Sorcerers, lay back on his divan and put down the book he had been reading for the last thirty minutes. He could not remember a word he had read: his mind was too full of fizzing frustration and boredom.

The young mage bore the resounding title, ‘Mage Questor of the First Rank', but, until he had completed his first Quest, this was only a courtesy. Although he wore the ornate, blue-gold ring denoting a Guild Mage, the absence of a gold ring on his staff, Redeemer, marked him as a rank tyro: a mage who had not completed even a single Quest. For the six months following his triumphal Ceremony of Acclamation, Grimm had waited for the call to prove himself a worthy Questor: at first, with eagerness; then with impatience; then with desperation.

Just over a year before, he had been a callow Neophyte, making slow but steady progress towards an uncertain vocation. Then came what he thought of as the Nightmare Time: the brutal Ordeal that had driven him to the very edge of the abyss of irrevocable insanity. Although Grimm did not know it at the time, this relentless torment had been intended to force him to access the inner powers that his tutor, Magemaster Crohn, saw within him. Where most mages took many decades of diligent study to reach their potential, those with the strength of mind and spirit to withstand the brutal Questor Ordeal matured while still young. Very few Neophytes were chosen, and fewer still prevailed. Grimm knew now his friend, the gentle, would-be entertainer, Erek Garan, had faced the same Ordeal and failed. Erek had destroyed Senior Magemaster Urel with an uncontrolled blast of energy and then hanged himself. The tormented Neophyte had stared into the same chasm of madness as Grimm, but he had taken the last crucial, fatal step forward.

The young Questor looked around his opulent cell in the West Wing and sighed. I almost lost my mind, too. I demolished a classroom and nearly killed Magemaster Crohn. Instead of killing myself, I ended up with a Guild Ring and a comfortable cell. Grimm raised an imaginary glass. Here's to you, Erek Garan. Wherever you are, I hope you found peace.

He had to admit that his current accommodation was a far cry from the dismal cell he had occupied as a Charity Student. The food was much better, too. Nonetheless, Grimm found little pleasure in this new, easy life. He had sworn on his soul to redeem his besmirched family name, and he could only begin that onerous process by proving his worth to the Guild. His beloved grandfather, Loras Afelnor had once been a Mage Questor of the Seventh Rank, a man at the peak of his calling: a man with Guild honours and great wealth gained from numerous glorious Quests. Then, he had thrown it all away by attempting to kill the sick, doddering Prelate of the House. Although Grimm felt sure his grandfather had acted out of compassion for a suffering man, Loras’ deed had resulted in disgrace and his expulsion from the Guild, stripped of his powers. Now, the old man scraped out a basic living as a blacksmith in the village of Lower Frunstock.

Grimm's world had been stricken to the core when he had first learned of Loras’ former life on his first day as a Student in the House, nearly ten years before. After his Acclamation, he had been given leave to visit Lower Frunstock, and he had given Loras his solemn oath: "I will make the name of Afelnor shine again in the Guild, Granfer. I swear it."

The young Questor laughed, although there was no humour in the hacking sound. He thought of Loras, sweating and straining in the smithy, and of his own, almost sybaritic life. A true Mage Questor, an avatar of magical power, should be on the road, fighting tyrants and monsters, not lounging in a comfortable chamber!

Grimm felt ennui suffusing his bones like a canker, a sickness that seemed to grow worse with every wasted day. He groaned and lay back on his velvet divan, feeling like a traitor. It can't go on much longer. This waiting is almost worse than the Nightmare Time.

* * * *

Grimm's friend, Dalquist Rufior, felt almost as frustrated as his younger fellow Questor. A Mage of the Fifth Rank, Dalquist lived for the excitement and danger of the Quest. Dalquist's service to his House and his Guild had brought him wealth and status, but his ultimate goal was the day when the seventh ring was placed onto his staff, Shakhmat.

The tall, dark-haired young man had not been sitting idle for the past year: far from it. Nonetheless, most of the assignments Prelate Thorn had sent his way had been mere ‘flag-waving exercises', as Dalquist called them. Ordering a Mage Questor to accompany a wagon-train of gold to High Lodge, the centre of Guild operations, might be a prudent precaution to prevent molestation, but such humdrum expeditions could not be considered heroic sagas leading to lurid, glowing accounts in the Deeds of the Questors . This was no way to gain great wealth or advancement.

After a handful of mundane, uninspiring Quests, the Lord Dominie, Horin, accorded Dalquist the fifth ring on his staff, but the young mage knew this was the highest status he would attain without either heroic deeds or years of dedicated service.

To be sure, arduous, rewarding Quests did crop up from time to time, but Prelate Thorn tended to assign these to the senior active Questor, Xylox Ceras, called ‘The Mighty'. Xylox, a mage of the Seventh Rank, was respected and well-known in High Lodge, and he had amassed a huge fortune from his Quests.

So that leaves me with the dregs, Dalquist thought with a bitter grimace. He sipped a glass of fine wine but scarcely registered the taste. Replacing the glass on his worktable, he sighed and tried to muster sufficient motivation to complete the written report on his last Quest. This undistinguished spying mission was not the kind of noble undertaking that might lead to a mention in the Deeds of the Questors , not least because, officially, it had never taken place. The young Questor had spent a week skulking in the sewers beneath an earl's castle, listening at drain openings for snippets of potentially useful information. The whole disgusting affair had cost him a good set of clothes and much self-respect, and all it had gained him was insincere thanks from Lord Thorn and an injunction to keep the matter secret. Dalquist heard a soft knock at his cell door. With more enthusiasm than he felt, he offered a cheery

“Come in."

The door opened to reveal the hunched, wizened major-domo of Arnor House, known to one and all as

‘Doorkeeper'.

"Greetings, Questor Dalquist,” the ancient mage said, offering a clumsy bow. “I trust you are well after your last Quest."

"Quite well, thank you, Doorkeeper,” Dalquist replied, trying to maintain a bright tone of voice. “Among my munificent rewards were a dismal cold and a rat-bite on my right leg, but I have recovered from both. What can I do for you on this glorious morning?"

"Beg—er, begging your p-pardon, Lord Mage,” the wrinkled factotum stammered, “but Lord Prelate Thorn wishes to see you at your earliest convenience on a matter of the greatest urgency." Dalquist sighed and smoothed his robes. “Doubtless there's some rich dowager who needs escorting to some society function, and she thinks the presence of a Questor will impress her friends." Sarcasm was wasted on Doorkeeper, whose eyes opened wide. “No, Questor, Dalquist, I don't think the Lord Prelate said anything about any dowager, whatever that is. He said it was very, very important. What was it he called it?"

Doorkeeper frowned and scratched his white-sheathed pate, as if this might stimulate his powers of recall, but then his expression cleared.

"Ah, yes—'an undertaking of the gravest import for the security of the Guild', Lord Thorn called it,” the old man said, beaming. “I'm to take you at once."

Things may be looking up, the Questor thought, feeling his heart beat faster as he followed Doorkeeper out of the cell.

This doesn't sound like another sewer expedition.

* * * *

The balding, red-faced Thorn Virias’ outward semblance gave the impression more of a harried clerk than the Prelate of a Guild House. Nonetheless, Dalquist gave a courteous, sincere bow on entering Thorn's private chamber. The Prelate was a full Questor of the Seventh Rank, a veteran of dozens of Quests; a man to be respected.

The Prelate dismissed Doorkeeper with a nod and a wave of his hand, leaving Dalquist alone with his lord and master.

"Greetings, Questor Dalquist,” Thorn intoned, leaning back in his ornate throne, which stood behind a large desk festooned with an untidy profusion of scrolls and books. “I trust you are well rested after your recent Quest?"

The younger mage yearned to dispense with small talk and cut to the heart of the matter, but he knew the Prelate regarded protocol as essential to the harmonious running of the House. Too direct and blunt an approach might be taken as an insult.

"Quite well, thank you, Lord Prelate,” he replied, standing erect and rigid. “The task was not too arduous."

Disgusting, yes, but not physically arduous, he added as a mental codicil to his statement.

"I must congratulate you on gaining the fifth ring to your staff, Brother Mage,” Thorn said. He smiled and opened a desk drawer, from which he withdrew a green bottle and two glasses. “May I interest you in a modicum of this brandy? It is an excellent vintage, I assure you." Dalquist had heard tales of the senior mage's fondness for strong drink, and he took care to keep his response polite and neutral.

"Thank you, Lord Prelate, but I was brought up in the ways of the Molachian Church, which forbids the consumption of alcohol before sundown. Old habits die hard, as they say." In truth, Dalquist had abandoned his religious observances at the age of fourteen, after seven years in the House, but he deemed it impolitic to mention the earliness of the hour.

"A pity,” Thorn said. “I trust you will not object if I celebrate your promotion with a small glass?" Dalquist felt the blood pounding in his veins, and he yearned for Thorn to tell him the details of the Quest. Nonetheless, he smiled.

"Of course not, Lord Prelate,” he said. “I appreciate the gesture." The Prelate poured a good two inches of the golden liquor into a glass and took a healthy draught, smacking his lips.

"You have no idea what you are missing, Questor Dalquist. Do sit down while I savour this excellent liquor: it is too good to hurry."

Dalquist felt his teeth clenching in frustration as he lowered himself into a brown leather chair in front of Thorn's desk, while the senior mage tipped the remainder of the glass's contents down his throat by degrees.

At last, the Prelate put down his empty glass and said, “The House wishes to call upon your services again, Questor Dalquist, as you may have guessed."

Dalquist leaned forward, his blood quickening.

"Have you ever met Prelate Zhar of Brelor House?” Thorn asked.

Dalquist shook his head, tension tightening his throat.

"Lord Zhar states that he wished to give Lord Dominie Horin a special gift to mark his accession to the apex of the Guild. He ordered the construction of a charm he dubbed the ‘Eye of Myrrn', after the seventh-age seer. This gem was supposedly intended to allow Lord Horin oversight of all of the Guild Houses at all times. It permits the user to focus on any location or individual of whom he has knowledge." Dalquist suppressed a smile at the stressed words, ‘states’ and ‘supposedly'; Lord Thorn, it seemed, did not believe his fellow Prelate's stated intentions.

"Brelor House recently played host to a deputation from the city of Crar,” Thorn continued, “headed by one Baron Starmor. Zhar is unclear about what happened, but the Eye was found to be missing after the visit. It now transpires that this Starmor is a powerful magic-user who is not allied to our Guild." Dalquist gaped. “I take it this gem would allow Baron Starmor to spy on the Guild itself, Lord Prelate?"

"Exactly, Questor Dalquist!” Thorn banged his fist on the desk for emphasis. “The consequences of this theft could be incalculable. We need the Eye of Myrrn returned to High Lodge without delay. Lord Horin demands the gem be retrieved or, at least, destroyed without delay. He gave me his personal order to see that his instructions are carried out. I feel sure I do not need to tell you how privileged we are that Lord Horin selected our House for the honour of undertaking this vital Quest." Dalquist nodded. “Indeed, Lord Prelate,” he said, smiling. “I thank you for giving me the honour of leading it."

Thorn shrugged. “I must admit, Questor Dalquist, I would have preferred Xylox the Mighty to take on such a responsibility. However, he is indisposed after his previous Quest and must rest." Well, that's candid enough, Dalquist thought, but his joy at being given a chance to show his mettle eclipsed any indignation he might otherwise have felt.

"I should like to take several House Mages with me, Lord Prelate,” he said, “and also some local men-at-arms. If—"

"Impossible, I am afraid,” Thorn interrupted with a shake of his head. “We have no idea what defences Baron Starmor may command. Crar is a walled city with battlements and turrets. A large force would surely be spotted far from Crar. Lord Horin believes a covert operation by the smallest number would be best. You have shown yourself adept at such clandestine operations in the past." Dalquist gaped. “You said Baron Starmor is a powerful magic-user, Lord Prelate,” he expostulated.

“Am I expected to enter his demesnes alone?"

The Prelate snorted. “Starmor may be a sorcerer of some repute among the ignorant, Questor Dalquist, but he is no Guild Mage. Could it be that a Mage Questor of the Seventh Rank is afraid of a mere dilettante?"

Dalquist felt his face redden, but he kept his tone civil. “I am only anxious for the success of the Quest, Lord Prelate,” he said. “In an unknown city with unknown defences I might be taken by surprise. I cannot countenance entering Crar without some magical assistance and without armed support. A thief might also be of use, to spot non-magical traps and to pick locks."

"Very well, Questor Dalquist,” Thorn said after a long pause. “You may select one other mage of this House to accompany you, and one or two Seculars. The responsibility for selecting the Seculars will be up to you and no House funds will be disbursed for their payment. You will need to settle their accounts from your own money or from the monetary proceeds of the Quest. You are not, under any circumstances to discuss the purpose of this expedition with anyone inside or outside the House, except for your chosen companions. You are to swear them to the strictest secrecy, using magic to compel compliance if necessary."

Dalquist suppressed a groan. He had expected that such an important expedition would offer proportionate rewards. He had garnered little wealth from most of his Quests, since the chance to acquire booty had been small, and the Guild had taken most of what little he had managed to obtain. Thorn twisted his mouth a little in what the Questor took to be a smile. “Lord Horin is not without generosity, Questor Dalquist. Although he wants this embarrassing loss kept secret, the Dominie has granted Arnor House a loan of one thousand gold pieces. The official purpose of this loan is to allow the refurbishment of the House Refectory, but a regrettable accounting error has resulted in its misplacement."

The Prelate placed a bulging money-bag on the table with a weighty thump, and Dalquist smiled in relief. As he reached out his right hand to take it, Thorn raised an admonitory finger, and the Questor stopped in mid-grab.

"You are to account for every penny of this money,” intoned the senior mage. “I suppose we can allow perhaps three hundred to go astray for your trouble, but it will all need to be returned eventually . However, the Dominie has stipulated that the Guild will place no levy on any booty you gain from the Quest. That includes any magical items you may acquire on your way, with the exception of the Eye of Myrrn. I have agreed to do the same."

Dalquist stared, his hand still stretched out over the table. Magical items were expensive and coveted by all mages. In addition to a monetary tithe, High Lodge demanded the right to retain any unusual or powerful magical weapons, scrolls or charms found by its representatives abroad. A mage's House Prelate often took a further levy when High Lodge had taken their fill, and Lord Thorn was no different.

"I trust you understand that these terms are indeed generous and unlikely to be repeated,” Thorn intoned.

Dalquist stammered his appreciation. Although he might gain little wealth from the Quest, what little he did manage to garner would be his. Although thievery from ordinary citizens and other mages was proscribed by Guild Law and subject to summary execution, a man such as Baron Starmor was regarded as an enemy of the Guild. To steal from such a man was condoned and even encouraged.

"Which mage will you take with you, Questor Dalquist? I should prefer you to leave the ranks of the Magemasters undisturbed."

Dalquist did not stop to think for a moment. “I should like to invite Grimm Afelnor to accompany me,”

he said. “I know how eager he is to prove his worth, and this will be a good first test for him." Thorn nodded. “An excellent idea, Questor Dalquist. If Questor Grimm performs well, he will be entitled to place the first ring on his staff. He will then be a Questor of the First Rank in fact as well as title. Let us get him blooded.

"Now; when can you be ready to leave? Time is of the essence." Dalquist replied, “I will need to spend some time in the Library researching the lie of the land, Lord Prelate. However, I expect to be ready to leave at first light tomorrow. I intend to spend a little time in the town of Drute to select the Seculars I require. I have Quested in that region before, and I have at least one particular man in mind.

"With your permission, Lord Thorn, I will leave now to acquaint Questor Grimm with the details of the Quest. I will then embark on my research."

"God speed, Questor Dalquist, and good hunting."

* * * *

Prelate Thorn stared at the scrying-crystal before him, his hands like pink crabs crawling over its glowing green surface.

Mother, are you there?

The unpleasant, dry crackle of the voice of Thorn's mother, Lizaveta, flickered in his head. Of course I am here, Thorn. Where else would I be, idiot?

Thorn hated his mother's interference in his life, and he hoped his news would mollify her insensate demands for a while. She was determined that her despised son should become the next Dominie of the Guild, whether he wanted to or not, and a successful Quest of such importance would go a long way towards raising his profile. That pompous old fool, Horin, would not last forever, and, if Thorn could only get close enough, he might even be able to assist him in his passage to eternal glory. If that did not satisfy Lizaveta, he did not know what would. The Prelate had no conception of why his mother took such interest in the affairs of a son whom she professed to despise. However, despite possessing the indomitable will of a Seventh Rank Questor, he felt unable to ignore or disobey her. Mother, I have good news, he began, using the green gem to transmit his thoughts to Lizaveta's sensorium as words . That fat upstart, Prelate Zhar, has made a mistake at last, and his currency with the Guild is at a low ebb. He manufactured—

I know all about the Eye, you fool! I have magic at my disposal you Guild Mages cannot imagine. Who do you think advised Starmor how to acquire the gem? I knew you would be able to jump into the breach at a moment's notice. This is all of my planning. Of course, I ensured you would be given the authority for the Quest. I have some little influence over your revered Dominie, and he listens to me.

Thorn felt deflated. He had wanted to impress Lizaveta with his resourcefulness at taking advantage of Zhar's loss. As it was, he had, once again, been manipulated by her for her own purposes. I am sending Dalquist Rufior and Grimm Afelnor. It will be a good asset to the House to have another full-blooded Questor at its disposal. Thorn thought it best to maintain the appearance of insouciance.

It will indeed be a good test for the Afelnor boy. Even I respect Starmor's powers. This will be a good test; a gamble, yes, for you could well lose a pair of Questors, but the rewards for success should include consideration for your accession to the Guild Presidium. I could lose a pair of Questors? Thorn exploded. Surely this Starmor cannot be that potent? He has no Questor magic, I am sure. My spies would have told me.

He is indeed no Questor, the Prioress hissed , but his magic is of a type unknown to you. I hope Afelnor is as strong as his grandfather, or I might lose the opportunity of meeting him. I told you how I might pay a call upon Grimm Afelnor when he was older. I am sure I shall be interested in him more than a little if he survives this Quest.

Thorn was not sure if his mother was joking or not.

Chapter 2: Welcome News

Grimm Afelnor sat cross-legged on his bed with his eyes shut, trying to meditate. He focused on the mental image of a peaceful grove of trees, through which ran a clear, bubbling stream. Although he found meditation irksome at times, the young mage knew the ability to envisage images and abstruse concepts on demand was a cornerstone of a Questor's ability. Where most mages required pre-prepared scrolls and painfully-memorised chants to cast their narrow range of spells, a Questor was limited only by his ability to visualise what needed to be achieved.

Questors were informally known as ‘Weapons of the Guild', mages capable of wreaking terrible destruction through a simple effort of will. A Questor's magical will expressed itself not through a perfect, rigid, unchanging chant, but through his personal thought-language, a confusion of syllables unintelligible to anyone but himself. In order to be an effective weapon, a Questor must think quickly and with instant clarity. A second's delay might result in an inglorious demise at the end of a simple blade or an arrow. Grimm concentrated on the trees, trying to see every branch, every leaf and every blossom. As he became absorbed in the tranquil scene, he felt his worries begin to melt away. Now he could hear cheerful birdsong and the fluid muttering of the stream.

Let's see if I can summon up some fish...

Somewhere in the distance, Grimm heard a sharp, rapping sound, but he tried to ignore it, concentrating on the creation of a shoal of leaping, iridescent fish. Then, the sound became too loud to ignore, and the fantasy scene dissolved in confusion.

What in the Names’ sake is it now? he wondered, opening his eyes. Trying to keep his tone civil, he said, “Come in,” although he recognised the note of peevishness in his voice.

The door opened, and Grimm managed a faint smile at the sight of his friend.

"Oh, good morning, Dalquist,” he said with more warmth in his voice than he felt. Grimm knew it was unfair to inflict his inner torment on his fellow Questor. “What is..." His voice faltered to a halt at the sight of the broad grin on the tall man's face, not daring to think what it might portend.

" We are needed, Grimm,” Dalquist said, and the young Questor did not fail to note the stress on the pronoun.

"A Quest?” Grimm replied, his voice almost an octave higher than its normal baritone. “Is it a real Quest at last?"

Dalquist nodded, his grin threatening to split his head in two. “It is a Quest,” he said, “and an important one."

Grimm leapt from his bed, feeling his blood surging.

"Do sit down, Dalquist!” he breathed. “Tell me everything!" This time, his enthusiasm was unfeigned, and he hung on his friend's every word as the details of the Quest unfolded.

* * * *

By the time Dalquist had finished, Grimm felt as if he had been reborn. After this, he would be a tyro no longer; he would be a true Questor, entitled to bear at least one gold ring on his staff, Redeemer. The possibilities of death or ignominious failure did not enter his mind for an instant.

"When do we leave, Dalquist?"

"I want to be away at first light tomorrow morning, Grimm. Does that suit you?" Grimm laughed. “Believe me, Dalquist, I'm ready to leave right now !" Dalquist shook his head. “I'm afraid I have a few preparations to make first. I advise you to study the route I propose, in case anything should happen to me."

The elder mage placed a package of hand-written notes, maps and scrolls on Grimm's bed. “It's a little sketchy,” he admitted, “but we don't have much time. I seem to remember you have some knowledge of medicinal herbs; a subject I never managed to master. If this Baron Starmor is as powerful a magic-user as Lord Thorn says, we may need some Healing if it should come to a direct confrontation, although that's something I hope to avoid, if at all possible."

Grimm frowned a little. “I do have an interest in plants and herbs, but perhaps it would be better if we were to enlist the aid of a true Healer or Herbalist."

"I'm afraid not, my friend,” Dalquist replied. “Lord Thorn has put a strict limit on the level of House involvement in this Quest. We two are the only Guild Mages he will authorise." Grimm shrugged; it was not for him to question the Prelate's orders. “In that case, I'll consult with Magemaster Chet at once,” he replied, naming the man who had trained him in Herbal Lore, and who had also healed Grimm's damaged body after his violent Outbreak. “I'm sure he can advise me of the most suitable herbs to carry. I'll then spend the afternoon in the Library, researching the usage, effects and signatures of any herbs I don't recognise."

Dalquist nodded. “That's excellent, Grimm. I know this isn't much notice, and I do wish we had more time for preparation, but Lord Thorn stressed that this Quest was vital to the House and the Guild. If we're successful, it could result in more than a little renown for us. It could well get your name in the Deeds of the Questors . I didn't achieve that until my fifth Quest. Even then, I only had two lines of dull reportage. This is a great opportunity for both of us. I'm counting on you to do your best to aid us in whatever capacity you can."

The Questor's eyes sparkled with almost evangelical fervour, and Grimm smiled warmly in response. The Deeds of the Questors was a Guild account of notable Questor achievements, a new copy of which was distributed to every Guild House whenever it was updated. To be mentioned in this august publication represented a great accolade; for a mere tyro to gain such recognition was almost unheard-of.

"Don't worry, Dalquist. I feel honoured to know you've chosen me, and I won't let you down,” he said, his head whirling at the rapid change in his fortunes.

Dalquist clapped Grimm on the shoulder with true friendship. “I know you will, Grimm.” The younger Questor did not fail to register the catch in his friend's voice. “I'll meet you in the Great Hall at cockcrow tomorrow."

Dalquist nodded, turned on his heel and left. Grimm sat on his bed and began to leaf through the sheaf of papers, his mind filled with images of glorious deeds and the coveted rings of seniority adorning his bare Mage Staff.

Chapter 3: The Broken Bottle

Grimm awoke early, well before sunrise. With time to kill, the young mage washed and groomed himself with care. He then spent some time repairing and cleaning his black mage's robe; his post-Acclamation training sessions had often been destructive in nature, and they had left their marks on his clothing. Once satisfied with his efforts, he took up his staff, Redeemer, and eyed himself in the long mirror in his wardrobe door.

Despite all his efforts, all Grimm saw was a tall, gangling, awkward youth with none of the commanding presence of a true mage, despite the confident stance he tried to assume. He had few belongings to take with him: his patched robes; his Mage Staff; the wax leather satchel containing bags of medicinal powders, seeds and leaves.

Grimm sighed and trudged down to the Great Hall. The blue and gold tiles on the floor and the star-spangled dome above the hall no longer inspired wonder in him, and the gleaming, black Breaking Stone, against which he had proved his mastery, seemed commonplace and unimpressive. He wanted nothing more than to be on the road.

* * * *

Grimm awoke early on the day of departure. Even after forcing himself to take time on his ablutions and his breakfast, he found himself waiting in the Great Hall well before cockcrow. After a seeming age of restless pacing around the silent hall, he smiled as Dalquist stepped from the shadows, carrying several large bundles. The young mage greeted him with enthusiasm.

"Good morning, Grimm,” his friend said. “I have a few graduating presents for you. You won't last five minutes on the trail, dressed like that."

The bundles disclosed an oiled leather travelling cape with a cowl and fur lining for travelling in unpleasant weather; a sharp knife with a leather sheath; a capacious waterskin; and a large, fur-lined leather bag, which, as Dalquist informed the perplexed Grimm, was for sleeping in the open. Dalquist then handed Grimm a purse containing six gold pieces and a greater quantity of silver and copper. Such wealth would have been a king's ransom back in his home town of Lower Frunstock, and Grimm's eyes almost popped from his skull.

"A man needs to pay his own way, Grimm, especially a mage,” Dalquist said with a smile. “It wouldn't bring much credit to the Guild if its adepts were shabby mendicants. Just spend it wisely." Grimm stammered enthusiastic thanks until the older mage waved a hand. “It's time to move, Grimm. Have you any experience of riding?"

The young mage raised an eyebrow.

"I practiced often on the leather horse in the Scholasticate,” he said, “and I was brought up in a smithy. I was riding horses from the time I could walk until I came here. I don't think I could ever forget how to ride."

Dalquist nodded. “Good. I have procured a pair of nags for us, serviceable horses if not thoroughbreds. Yours answers to the name of Jessie, and my mount is Bella. Unless you have any questions, I suggest we leave now. We have some distance to go."

Grimm made no comment, as the enormity of what he was about to do now weighed heavily upon him as Dalquist opened the Great Portal at the end of the hall. He felt his mouth become dry as he looked out into the wider world, and he had to force his reluctant feet to keep moving as he followed his older friend.

Outside the House, for only the second time in almost a decade, Grimm looked around and stared in wonder at a beautiful sunrise, which shot red and purple shafts across the slumbering land. At that moment, a vigorous and glorious chorus awoke from a horde of birds resting in the trees thronging the hillside.

"Come on, Grimm!"

With some effort, Grimm broke from his trance, and he hustled to catch up with Dalquist, who was waiting by the horses. Despite his brother mage's low opinion of these ‘nags', Grimm recognised them at once as good-natured and trustworthy mares capable of bearing them over the roughest terrain without complaint.

Jessie bore a warm, chestnut-brown coat, with a white flash like lightning over her eyes and socks to match, and Grimm knew the fierce love of a boy for his first horse. Despite the years since he had last ridden a live animal, Grimm levered himself onto the saddle while Dalquist was still stepping into the stirrups of his grey mare, Bella. Jessie did not so much as twitch as the young wizard settled into place. Dalquist smiled and flicked his reins to move off down the path. Grimm clicked his tongue against his hard palate as he had often seen Loras do, and he felt a surge of pleasure as Jessie started at once down the mountain trail in a fluid trot.

Grimm eagerly drank in the rich sounds, sights and smells of the region as the two mages wound down the twisting causeway. At the bottom, as the path merged into the main thoroughfare, Dalquist reined in beside Grimm.

"How do you like this morning, after ten years cooped up in the Scholasticate?” the older mage asked, wearing a broad smile.

Grimm laughed. “It's a lovely morning: a good day to be out riding, Dalquist!” he cried, pressing his knees against the mare's sides to bring her to a brisk canter.

He smiled as he saw Dalquist struggling to persuade his own mount to overtake Jessie.

* * * *

An hour later, Grimm began to regret his earlier confidence. Although he exercised with diligence each morning, he felt his legs becoming sore, his back beginning to ache and his joints groaning with every hoofbeat. His backside bloomed into an inferno of agony. After two hours, he writhed in the saddle, subsumed with torment.

He guessed Dalquist had noticed his distress, as the older mage called back, “Not much further, Grimm. Another hour or two should see us in Drute."

"I don't think I can go another minute, Dalquist,” Grimm admitted. “I feel like this horse has kicked me all over."

Dalquist reined in and dismounted, and Grimm gratefully followed his example. The young Questor stretched, grimacing in discomfort as each muscle sang out a song of discontent to his aching body. After a few deep knee-bends, Grimm sighed. “I'm ready to try again,” he said, with more confidence than he felt.

"You wouldn't last another mile, Grimm,” Dalquist replied, with a shake of his head. “Hmm ... I'm not much of a Healer, but I think I could do something to help those distended muscles. Do I have your permission?"

"Anything you could do will be more than welcome, Dalquist. I guess I'm not the experienced horseman I thought I was."

"It's lack of practice, Grimm, just lack of practice. Here we go..." Dalquist laid his hands on Grimm's shoulders and began a low, muttering chant. Grimm felt warmth beginning to spread slowly from his shoulders into the rest of his distressed body. At first pleasant, the warmth soon turned into heat that built with every second until he almost cried out. After a sharp, stabbing pain forced a gasp from him, Grimm began to feel better and, after ten minutes, he pronounced himself fit to continue the journey. This time, he marshalled his physical strength with more care, moving with the horse whenever possible and gently guiding her otherwise. On straight roads he applied a little Levitation, a spell he remembered well from Magemaster Crohn, just enough to lower the load on his lower back and his legs. By the time a few houses began to come into view, Grimm felt confident he would last the course.

The two mages rode into the outskirts of a small town consisting of a few well-appointed shops and taverns within a mass of ramshackle cottages and tenements. Drute seemed to be run more for the benefit of wealthy visitors than for that of its inhabitants. Dalquist came to a halt and dismounted, and Grimm followed suit with some gratitude.

"A little advice, Grimm. Drute is a strange town where the folk have little money, but much pride. Honour is paramount here, and you must be careful in what you do, and especially in what you say. Here, a man's word is more than his bond; it is his very life. Everything you say will be taken completely literally, unless the person to whom you are talking is a friend and laughs to accept it as a jest.

"If you say you could eat a horse, the folk will serve you with a dish of whole stewed nag, and watch you eat every morsel. If you don't finish it, you will lose face. The people here aren't stupid, just constrained by some rules that seem strange to outsiders like us. You must never let an insult from a stranger go unanswered, for example, and you must never make a threat you are not ready to fulfil. If you make a threat, even in jest, and the recipient does not acknowledge it as a joke, you must carry it out to the letter—to the very letter, Grimm.

"If a man threatens you and you tell him you could tear off his head, you may have to do just that. A foreigner is at the best of times poorly tolerated, especially so when his word is not good. I suggest you follow my lead and say as little as possible. However, if you are insulted, you will have to respond to the insult. Do not deny that you are a true mage under any circumstances, and do not efface yourself; the Guild has some respect here, but it needs to be backed up by authority. Just be careful, Grimm. This is a wild region."

"I'll try to say as little as possible, Dalquist,” Grimm said with a fervent nod. “My least assault could start a war from what you say."

He liked the sound of Drute less with every word he heard.

"No, Grimm. If you answer an insult with violence, it will be respected without repercussions, even from the victim's family. I know senseless aggression is as inimical to you as it is to me, but I know only too well that a mage such as you or I can handle any threat from a mere Secular. Whatever you do, don't start anything: it's all too easy to do that here, I can assure you." Dalquist wagged his right index finger in admonition. “We will use Mage Speech from now on when talking to the townspeople; is that clear?"

Grimm nodded. He disliked the starchy, verbose Mage Speech as much as anyone, but Magemaster Crohn had drilled him in the necessity of using it whenever addressing Seculars. A mage must at all times keep his distance from those outside the Guild, so as to maintain fear and respect. The two mages remounted and rode through a street that became ever more crowded as they moved towards the centre of the town. Grimm took care to pick his way through the growing throngs of townspeople without barging or inconveniencing them in any way. Hawkers stood at street corners, yelling to all and sundry of the miraculous efficacy of various dubious-looking charms and potions. Moneylenders screamed of rates of interest that sounded reasonable until Grimm realised these rates were compounded year on year and threatened bankruptcy to a desperate borrower. Grimm felt sure the recovery of debts in this barbarous region would be carried out in a harsher manner than would be employed in more civilised districts.

Mangy dogs ran freely through the thoroughfares, snatching morsels from the market stalls, earning kicks and curses from the enraged stallholders. Streams of noisome fluids and matter ran through open sewers, adding to the general aroma, which was none too pleasant in any case.

Dalquist motioned Grimm into a courtyard next to a disreputable-looking establishment bearing the name The Broken Bottle on a dull, faded sign.

A grubby boy of about ten summers ran up to Dalquist, a wide, gap-toothed grin painted on his face. Bowing and scraping with obsequy, the boy began a fluent speech he had no doubt learned by rote.

“Great lords, welcome to The Broken Bottle , the finest hostelry in these lands. We have the best food and drink at reasonable prices. Stabling is available at nominal rates. Thr ... five coppers apiece to look after your fine horses, lords. Only five coppers."

Dalquist looked sternly down at the fawning child. “I am Dalquist Rufior, boy, a Mage Questor of the Fifth Rank, a Guild Mage of high status who is not to be trifled with. I will give you two coppers now for tending to our horses, and, if I am very pleased with their condition when we come to collect them, I will give you a further ten."

Dalquist opened his purse to show the boy the gleaming wealth inside, and the boy stammered his thanks. The most he might have expected from this enterprise was seven or eight coppers; twelve must be an unaccustomed bounty. Dalquist waved an imperious hand.

"However, child,” he continued, looking straight into the boy's wide eyes, “should our horses be restless or dirty when we return here, it will go ill with you, I assure you. Should you take your eyes from these mares for one minute and allow them to be stolen, it will go very hard indeed with you. Should anyone overpower you and attempt to steal them, you will run at once to the bar and inform me, and I will deal with the miscreants myself. Do not attempt to deceive me for a moment, for we mages have ways of knowing the truth; we also have ways of enforcing our will that you would not find pleasant. Do I make my meaning crystal clear?"

"Quite clear, Lord Wizard,” the boy quavered. “I wouldn't try to swindle a mighty magician like you, never! You'll find your horses waiting here groomed, well-fed and watered when you come back, I promise you. You have the word of Dor Hamel on it."

Dalquist smiled. “Thank you, Dor. I am sure you will take good care of our mounts, and if so, you have nothing to fear, either from my companion, Grimm, or me. Just be aware that I have some idea of the price of such horses in this town, and I know the names of the men who deal in them, just as I am sure you do. Let us say no more on the matter."

Dalquist turned to Grimm and said, “The food here is adequate and the drink acceptable. We should also be able to find at least a couple of bold adventurers here to aid us in our Quest." As the two mages walked away, Grimm stopped at the door of the tavern and whispered, “Weren't you a little hard on the boy, Dalquist?"

"I told you I know this town, Grimm,” the older Questor replied in the same low tone of voice. “I told you much about honour here but, even so, it has more than its share of cutpurses and brigands. All too many ‘honoured guests’ here leave on foot with empty purses and false tales of masked robbers that appear without warning in the night and disappear without trace. Everybody in this town knows everybody else, and they are masters of the barefaced lie, who will just dare you to make an accusation that must be backed up with evidence or force.

"I don't like Drute, but it does house a goodly number of brave swordsmen and professional thieves who hold to a code of honour that might seem strange to us, but it's all that prevents total anarchy. Just follow my lead and we'll be all right."

Dalquist opened the door, which squealed alarmingly—there were no magic portals here, opening silently at the least touch!—and the two Questors walked into a smoke-filled room resonating with loud voices from all corners.

As they entered, the hubbub fell for a moment to a low level, as various villainous-looking types, some with gaudy tattoos, some with livid, grotesque scars and all bearing weapons, cast appraising gazes at the two visitors.

Dalquist stepped up to the bar and made an imperious gesture to the bartender, a man even more muscular and imposing than the most fearsome of the steel-sporting bravos who had scrutinised Grimm and Dalquist on their entry. However, the bulky man's voice was surprisingly high and pleasant, belying his outward appearance.

However, Grimm could see this was not a man to be trifled with. Although his hair might be grey and his brow lined, the corded muscles on his giant arms showed he kept himself in good shape. The Questor imagined this human titan could handle any trouble that might arise in the tavern.

"Questor Dalquist, it is good to see you again,” the landlord boomed, his mouth stretched into a broad grin. “I see you have a new companion."

"This is my fellow Questor, Grimm Afelnor, Uril,” Dalquist replied, returning a polite nod. “This is his first expedition, but he is a mighty mage, nonetheless. I would take it as a signal favour if you would hold him in the same regard you do me."

"Welcome to The Broken Bottle , Questor Grimm. I am your host, Uril Shamas, and I offer you homage as a Guild wizard. A glass of Callorion Red for you, perhaps, Questor Dalquist? It's very good indeed."

Dalquist nodded.

"And what would you care to sample, Questor Grimm?"

Grimm scanned the various brews on offer, and his eyes lit on a pump legend that piqued his interest. “I think I would like to try a pint of your ‘Midnight Ale', Mr. Shamas. It sounds intriguing."

"An excellent choice, Lord Mage,” the landlord responded, with a friendly smile. “The brew is full-flavoured, foamy and just right for a thirsty traveller, although not for the dilettante, you understand. Please call me Uril."

Grimm looked at Dalquist and winked as he drew his staff close to him.

"Thank you for the warning, Uril,” he said, remembering to keep his tone of voice cool and formal. “Do not fear; we mages have a way with alcohol."

"I meant no slight, Questor Grimm, I assure you,” the landlord said and laughed. “I'm sure your capacity for drink is formidable.” Uril placed a glass of rich red wine before Dalquist and a foaming, red-brown pint before Grimm. The young mage took a sip of his beer and found it nutty, warming and refreshing, quite at odds with the dubious promise of the tavern. After his riotous, drunken Ceremony of Acclamation, he knew well the effects of alcohol, and he vowed to use the magic in his staff to keep them at bay.

The muscular landlord raised his eyebrows in question, and Grimm responded. “This is an excellent brew, Uril. It seems you keep a fine cellar here."

Dalquist nodded. “And the Red is as good as ever, Uril. Thank you.” He handed over three coppers, which the landlord accepted with a friendly smile as he glided with surprising grace towards another thirsty customer.

Dalquist moved over to a small table, and Grimm followed him. “It's early yet, Grimm,” he muttered

“Let's see who comes in before we make a move. Uril seems to approve of you, and that's a good start. You've made a favourable impression on him, which should help you to be better accepted here." The two mages sat for a while, reminiscing of earlier times. Grimm allowed the drink to cheer him, although he used Redeemer to keep the merriness at a manageable level whenever the strong beer threatened to overwhelm him.

After an hour or so, a slender young man entered the bar, dressed in fine, loose robes and carrying a polished rapier in a low-slung silk baldric. The man carried himself with a loose-limbed confidence, and he appeared quite at ease in the rough company. He purchased a glass of wine from Uric, for which he paid with a freshly minted silver piece, waving away the handful of copper change, for which the burly landlord thanked him. The swordsman moved to a table on the left side of the bar, and Grimm saw he left his rapier and his sword arm free. With a respectful nod to the others arrayed around the tavern, he sat and sipped his wine.

"He looks a likely type, Grimm,” Dalquist whispered. “He may be here plying for trade. Let's go and have a word."

"He looks a little foppish to me, Dalquist,” Grimm replied, frowning, “and he hasn't a mark on him. Some of the other men here seem more like dangerous fighters, don't you think?"

"Don't mistake him for a dilettante, Grimm. He's comfortable in this rough place and he looks confident with his steel. Look at those little notches on his blade; this is no pretty toy, and the warrior keeps it clean and well-honed. This is a man who's been in many fights and values his weapon. On the other hand, he bears no visible scars, which implies he has done well in those fights. Some flaunt battle scars as proof of prowess, but I view a whole skin as better evidence."

I can see I'll have to get rid of a lot of preconceptions if I'm to play this game well, Grimm thought as they strode over to the young swordsman.

"I am Questor Dalquist, and this is my fellow mage, Questor Grimm. We are Guild Mages looking for a skilled and experienced swordsman to aid us on an important Quest. You look to be a man familiar with the blade. Would you be interested in joining us for a week or so?” Dalquist asked quietly, holding up his left hand to show his blue and gold Guild Ring.

The blond swordsman looked up for a moment and motioned Grimm and Dalquist into the chairs opposite him.

"I'm Harvel Rusea, Lord Mage,” he said in a deep, calm voice. “I'm your man, if you can afford me—but I warn you, I don't come cheap. I'm older than I look, and I've been in many battles at odds that would have been fatal to lesser swordsmen."

Dalquist shrugged. “We might feel happier to meet your stipulated fee if you could give us some evidence of your skill,” he said, swiftly adding, “not that we doubt your word."

"Uril!” Harvel shouted, pointing to the sword at his side. “Just how good am I with this thing?"

"Questor Dalquist, if you want a good swordsman, you can't get much better than Harvel, here,” the huge landlord rumbled. “We first met when we fought together in the Sugar Wars, under Lord Dravin's flag, and you know of my fighting experience.

"Harvel's one of the five best men with a sword I've ever met, and I served in one man's army or another for over thirty-five years. Whatever he asks for, I advise you to give it to him; he's worth it. And he can keep his mouth shut, too."

"Thanks, Uril. Pity I can't say the same for you,” Harvel called back. Instead of taking affront, Uril laughed and turned to serve another customer.

"Well, Harvel, it seems you come highly recommended,” Dalquist said. He made a gesture with one hand and muttered a spell in his personal spell-language. “There; I have cast a spell so no eavesdropper can listen to what we say,” the Questor said. Dalquist then embarked on a detailed explanation of the Quest, without mentioning High Lodge or that the Eye of Myrrn had been stolen from a Guild House.

"It sounds like an enjoyable diversion, mage,” Harvel said, smiling, when Dalquist had finished.

"If the expedition is acceptable to you, what are your terms?" Harvel mentioned the sum of four gold pieces a week. Dalquist politely refused and offered two. Eventually they agreed on two and a half gold pieces, ten percent of any booty taken, and a replacement weapon of equal value to the sword at his side if it should be badly damaged or broken. Both Dalquist and Harvel spat on their palms and shook hands to solemnise the deal, and Dalquist relaxed his spell. The swordsman called to Uril for another round of drinks. Harvel and Dalquist began to exchange adventure stories the inexperienced Grimm could not hope to match, so the junior mage contented himself with occasional polite nods, interjecting murmurs of appreciation at appropriate intervals. Although the magic contained in Redeemer countered the intoxicating effects of alcohol, it did not lessen drink's demands on the bladder. After a few glasses of beer, Grimm found himself needing to use the jakes, and he excused himself, threading his way through the mass of bibulous humanity thronging the bar. On the way back, he bumped into one of the scarred ruffians who seemed to form a large part of the tavern's regular customers. The impact spilled a minute quantity of wine onto the man's grubby, threadbare clothes.

"Watch where you're going, can't you?” the warrior growled. “You clumsy young oaf; I ought to teach you some manners, and I'm just about in the mood to do that,” he snarled, with a belligerent jut of his jaw.

"Please excuse my clumsiness,” Grimm said. “Let me buy you another drink to make amends."

"Think you can buy me with your blandishments, boy? I'll have no stripling catamite fawning over me!" Several heads turned towards the argument, and Grimm swallowed, remembering Dalquist's advice to leave no slight unanswered. The tipsy man seemed ready for a fight.

Grimm could not see the fearsome Uril, and nobody else seemed inclined to intervene. He saw Dalquist and the foppish swordsman sitting at ease on the other side of the bar, impassive, although Grimm knew they must both be listening to the exchange with interest.

The young Questor took a deep breath and drew the wispy tendrils of his will into a dense nugget of determination, as he had been taught.

This will be a one-sided battle, he told himself, feeling the power build within him. This muscle-bound bruiser doesn't stand a chance.

"In truth, I have little experience in the ways of love,” he said in a low voice, “but I do not desire the bed-company of my own sex. Should I so desire, I would not choose as my partner a bloated, big-mouthed oaf such as you. So you must swallow your disappointment and find yourself another young boy with whom to spend your nights and to soothe your bruised ego." A low groan arose from some quarters of the bar as the brute stood to tower over the mage. Grimm suppressed a nervous gulp; he stood six feet tall, but this brute overtopped him by inches. In a reflex motion, he brought Redeemer to a ready position.

"Think that toothpick's going t'protect you, boy ?” the fighter slurred. “Think you can insult Harman Hammerfist and get away with it?"

The tall man drew a well-worn sword, brandishing it in a threatening manner that implied some skill with the blade.

"Do you think you can insult a Guild Mage and get away with it?” Grimm said in a contemptuous voice. He knew now a fight was inevitable, and he let his training take over, like a cool, refreshing wind that blew all fear and uncertainty from him.

"I was prepared to accept your bluster as the mindless ramblings of a drunkard,” Grimm said. “Now, you have gone too far. Apologise at once, or know the wrath of a Mage Questor."

"A wizard? You never said nothing about being no wizard,” the man spluttered, suddenly concerned.

“You haven't got none of them gold rings on that stick."

"You gave me little chance to mention it before you called me a pederast's toy,” Grimm replied in a cold voice that surprised even him. “Put that sword away and apologise humbly for your rash words, or it will be the worse for you."

"How do I know you really are a wizard?” Harman asked, with a suspicious glint in his eyes. This is a dangerous question to ask a walking weapon like a Questor, Grimm thought. There were several ways in which he could prove what he was, but Harman wouldn't survive many of them. Pointing at the sword, he muttered "Ch'teerehch'ye!" and the weapon's blade fell into glittering dust like flour, leaving the hapless Harman gaping at the now-useless hilt.

"That could as easily have been your head,” Grimm said in a threatening monotone. “One more word of bluster or insult, and it will be. Apologise at once, before my forbearance is exhausted." All braggadocio and bravado seemed to flee Harman after this demonstration of power, and it seemed the adrenaline of terror had chased the alcoholic befuddlement from the fighter's brain. For a moment, he appeared to be trying to remember the working of his own mouth before he found his voice.

"I humbly beg pardon, Lord Mage, for my hasty words,” he said, with crystal clarity. “I was drunk, and I'm ashamed at what I said. I beg you to forgive me.” Harman's voice was little more than a whisper, his face ashen, still holding the useless stump of his sword.

All eyes in the bar seemed to be on Grimm and Harman. Uril had returned, and he shook his head, perhaps baffled by the foolishness of a man seeking to tangle with a Guild Questor.

"I believe some here did not hear your apology, yet your insult was audible to all,” Grimm snarled. “I request that you repeat your last statement in a voice loud enough for all to hear." Harman, red-faced, stared fixedly at the floor as he repeated his apology in a louder voice.

"Think yourself fortunate indeed you still live, only because a Guild Mage stayed his hand from righteous vengeance,” Grimm hissed. “I advise you to measure your words better before you speak them in future. As a last piece of advice, should any nameless ruffians happen to surprise me in some dark alley while I am here, I may well assume they have been sent by you. After I have dealt with them, I shall seek you out and you will find out to your cost that I can perform much more powerful, painful and destructive magic than the simple spell I have just demonstrated."

Grimm raised a hand and Harman flinched. The mage contented himself by allowing a single blue flame to issue from each of his fingers for an instant before letting them die.

"Do I make myself quite plain, Harman? For your own sake, you should hope nobody else is foolish enough to trifle with me. If you have any friends, which I would find hard to credit, it would be in your best interest to counsel them to steer well clear of me. Now get out of my sight." The hapless Harman Hammerfist muttered a disavowal of any intended treachery and he shuffled out of the silent bar. Grimm followed him with deliberately contemptuous eyes. Then he returned to Dalquist and Harvel. The former hubbub resumed as if a signal had been given, and several people gave Grimm respectful nods as he passed, which he acknowledged politely.

"You should have left that oaf Harman as a smoking spot of grease on the floor, mage,” the swordsman grumbled as Grimm returned to his seat. “He's been a thorn in the side of many here, but he's never been stupid enough before to pick on a ring-bearing mage."

"What was that spell, Grimm? I can shatter substances, but I can't do what you did just then,” Dalquist muttered, keeping his voice low.

Grimm noted his friend's wide eyes, and he knew Dalquist was impressed by his impromptu spell—the first he had ever cast to resolve a real-world problem.

"Oh, just for a moment, I saw the forces holding the metal together,” Grimm muttered, feeling as if he might burst from sheer pride. “I told them to let go. The effect was quite nice, I think, even if it took a lot of energy.” He smiled. “I think I'll call it the Spell of Enhanced Disintegration." Grimm drained his beer-mug and used Redeemer to reduce the intoxicating effect of the ale down to a pleasant, warm glow. He then ordered another round, addressing the landlord with politeness but with a definite ring of confidence in his voice. Uril's response, although amicable, carried an unmistakable note of respect and even deference.

"You see, Grimm?” Dalquist whispered. “Being even a tyro Questor of the First Rank can raise a man above the commonplace. Now you have proven yourself here, you have gained more respect than the mere label ‘mage’ would grant you. You handled the situation in exactly the right manner: without unnecessary bloodshed, yet sending an unequivocal warning to others without employing hollow threats or bluster. I don't think you'll have any more trouble here."

They drank a little more, and now even the self-possessed swordsman seemed to take interest in Grimm, asking of his background and eagerly devouring what little Grimm felt Guild protocol allowed him to tell of his magical training. Harvel listened to Grimm's account of his violent Outbreak and the destruction of a classroom with no trace of disbelief, nodding and smiling appreciatively. Dalquist had just begun to launch into a tale of the aftermath of one of his Quests when a shadow fell across the table. Grimm had particularly acute hearing, but he felt stunned that he had heard nothing to warn him of any approach. He looked up, startled, to see a slender man with shoulder-length dark hair, olive skin, catlike eyes and markedly pointed ears. From his studies, the young mage knew the interloper must be a member of the Elven race: the first sentient non-human he had ever encountered.

"Harvel, you burnt-out has-been; I see you still carry that sad excuse for a skewer. Do you think people will take you for some sort of blademaster,” the elf sneered, “when all the world knows you're no more than a bibulous, primping popinjay?"

Grimm tensed as the swordsman leapt to his feet. He knew now how insults were handled here, and he waited for blood to flow.

Chapter 4: Murder!

"Better a primping popinjay than a larcenous, light-fingered freak!” Harvel replied, his face reddening. Then, Grimm noticed Uril leaning on his elbows, his head resting in his hands, wearing an amused smile on his face. What was going on here?

After what seemed an age, Harvel laughed, grabbed the slender stranger by the shoulders and embraced him with genuine warmth.

"Crest, it's good to see you again after all this time! How are you, you hot-headed half-breed hellion?" Alliteration seemed to be on the menu, as Crest replied, “All the worse for seeing you, you sad, sorry substitute for a swordsman!” Breaking off from the embrace, the half-elf turned to the senior mage, who wore a cool smile on his face.

"Questor Dalquist, it is good to see you again. “Are you looking to hire my services once more?"

"I am, indeed, Master Crest,” the senior mage replied. “I am looking for a first-class thief, and I was hoping I might find you here. It is good to see that you and Harvel are already well acquainted. Are the usual terms acceptable?"

"No complaints from me on that score, Questor Dalquist. Anything I steal for myself belongs to me, and you give me an additional stipend of one gold piece a week."

Harvel rolled his eyes, and Grimm presumed this was at the elf's lack of acumen.

"Crest, may I introduce my fellow-Questor, Grimm Afelnor? Questor Grimm, allow me to introduce the estimable Crest, a master thief with whom I have Quested on occasion." On reflex, Grimm extended his right hand, and the slender thief took it in a firm grasp. “I am pleased to meet you, Master Crest,” he said.

Crest smiled. “Just, ‘Crest', please, Questor Grimm,” the elf replied. “My name speaks for itself around here, and I need no additional honorific. Well met, Lord Mage."

With the formalities satisfied, Dalquist invoked his spell of silence once more and explained the details of the Quest. Crest nodded from time to time and accepted the challenge with no more animation than he might have done if accepting an invitation to a party.

When Dalquist finished, Crest ordered another round of drinks. After a few minutes’ drinking, he began to introduce hair-raising tales of his various exploits, many of which Grimm felt almost sure had grown just a little in the telling.

Then, as a swarthy, tattooed type with a shaven head passed the table, the words “They let all kinds in here these days—even freaks” floated across the room with shocking clarity. Quick as thought, Crest uncoiled a long, liquorice-like black whip from around his waist. Grimm had not noticed the weapon before against the elf's dark clothing.

With a deft, delicate flick of Crest's wrist, the whip coiled around the man's throat. Giving it a none-too-tender jerk, the thief pulled the man's face down to the level of his own. All this happened at startling speed, and a little impromptu applause arose from some of the tables.

"No killing in here, Crest!” Uril shouted. “You know the rules!"

"Oh, I don't think we need any killing yet, Uril. Just a little lesson in humility should suffice, I think. Don't you agree, my friend?"

The trapped man gasped for breath, eyes bulging as his hands scrabbled with frantic urgency at the whip wound around his throat.

"Now I'm sure some freak of nature caused us all to mishear this silly little man's words, isn't that so?”

Crest cried cheerfully.

The trapped man, his panicked face now suffused with a delicate shade of purple, managed to nod.

"I'm sure if I let him go now he'll tell us what he really said, hmm?" The strangled victim, on the verge of unconsciousness, found enough energy to manage a weak, helpless nod.

As swiftly as it had appeared, the whip was once more cinched around Crest's waist. A small, sharp dagger had taken its place at the hapless man's throat, just pricking the skin over his left carotid artery. Grimm had not even seen Crest's hands move.

"Now, what did you say?” the thief asked, a broad smile on his face. After taking a few gurgling, whooping breaths, the man managed to gasp, “I said they let all sorts in here, and it's good for trade."

"That's what I thought you said,” Crest replied with a smile. The dagger disappeared. “Now, I advise you to tack off and let decent people enjoy a drink in peace and quiet. You can keep your pathetic little prejudices to yourself; I've heard it all before, and I have a short fuse." The half-elf dismissed the man with an impartial boot to the backside. “Now, as I was saying, there I was, running through the streets with half a hundred baying hounds snapping at my heels..." The chastened bigot tottered to a far corner table and sat with some other ruffians, who might be little more enlightened than he, but who seemed wise enough to keep their opinions to themselves. Grimm saw their heads thrown back in obvious hilarity at the man's swift humiliation, but he heard no more insults from that corner.

* * * *

Dalquist ordered food, and in a short while, Grimm was devouring a sizable meal of roast lamb, new potatoes and green beans. The food was excellent, and he had to smother a satisfied belch.

"Well, I think we have a compact now,” Dalquist said, after a small eructation of his own. “May we be ready to move by first light tomorrow morning, gentlemen? Grimm and I will be staying here tonight, so I suggest we meet up in the yard tomorrow, an hour after cockcrow."

"I have a few affairs to settle before we leave,” Harvel replied, “but I should be finished by nightfall. I'll see you outside here in the morning."

Crest said, “Well, I also have one or two loose ends to tie up, but nothing that can't wait. I'll be here, Questor Dalquist."

The two adventurers left the tavern together, still digging into their seemingly endless stores of reminiscences, braggadocio and tall tales.

Dalquist consulted the landlord, Uril, about the availability of rooms for the night. After a little haggling, which seemed to be expected in this town, they settled on a fair price, and the two Questors went upstairs to deposit their bedrolls and travel accoutrements. Grimm's room, on the left at the top of the stairs, was basic but clean, and certainly no worse than the Scholasticate cell in which he had been immured for much of his short life. When he had tidied his belongings into the room's single cupboard, Dalquist knocked and entered.

"Now, Grimm, I know what I told you about being frugal with your money, but we need to get you some better clothes,” the older mage said. “Those robes are serviceable enough, but some sad, benighted fools will always respect good clothes more than a mage's staff. ‘Power and presence complete the mage,’ as the Magemasters drilled into us at the Scholasticate. You have proved your power, but a little more presentation will go some way towards completing the effect. We won't be able to run to silk this time, but good quality sateen will go as well, I think. And some new shoes, definitely." Grimm did not object to his friend's suggestion. He had spent so long in drab, homespun garments, and he had always longed for better clothes.

* * * *

The two mages walked around Drute for some time. As Grimm had noticed before, although few of the townspeople seemed to have much wealth, the wares in some of the shops were positively opulent. The various emporiums attracted several wealthy-looking visitors, many of whom travelled with what he took to be bodyguards. Dalquist took the lead in arguing with the shopkeepers, who seemed to respect him the more because of it. At the end of four hours, Grimm had a set of well-fitting robes in blue sateen so dark it looked almost black except when the light played on it. He also now possessed a good pair of supple leather boots, comfortable and yet sturdy.

Dalquist also insisted that Grimm buy some jewellery to complete his ensemble until he possessed some genuine magical artefacts. Although Grimm protested, the older Questor explained that Seculars often judged a mage's prowess by the amount of ‘hardware’ he carried, and he was not satisfied until Grimm had a fair selection of pinchbeck and diamante rings, and an impressive looking amulet with various cheap but impressive-looking stones surrounding a deep red crystal centre. When Dalquist declared himself happy, Grimm eyed himself in a full-length mirror.

After gazing for many minutes at the unfamiliar, sophisticated-looking young man looking back at him, Grimm agreed his appearance accorded at least with the common Secular conception of a mage. Dalquist explained that austere, monastic apparel suited some, but that one needed a long white beard and saturnine gaze to carry that off in a convincing manner. “Now people will take you at sight for a mage without the need to prove it,” he said with an approving nod.

The two mages returned to The Broken Bottle , and spent a little more time sampling the beverages. This time Grimm cautiously allowed a little more of the drink's influence to seep through, although he took care not to become inebriated. Uril declared himself very impressed at Grimm's new apparel, which pleased the young man more than he would have expected. After a good evening meal of beef stew and dumplings, the mages repaired to their separate chambers.

Grimm spent two hours revising from a small book he had taken from his room at the House, but the volume and his eyelids began to grow heavy. The book slipped from his hand to the floor. As he blew the candle out, he felt satisfied at his first day as a true Questor. He knew he had handled himself well in his encounter with Harman, he had made two new friends and earned their respect, and he had some fine new clothes. He fell asleep within moments, dreaming of honours and plaudits.

* * * *

After a fair breakfast, Dalquist and Grimm paid their separate accounts at The Broken Bottle and thanked Uril for his hospitality. Shouldering their packs and heading out to the stables, they saw no sign of their horses. Dalquist banged his staff on the ground, releasing a small cloud of blue sparks, and called,

“Boy!"

The stable-boy, Dor, emerged from the stable, his eyes wide and his hair tousled. “Your horses are safe, I swear, Lord Wizard! I spent all the night with them, so nobody could steal them." The boy motioned the mages inside, and Grimm saw he had been as good as his word. The horses’

coats and manes gleamed, their hooves were clean and disencumbered, and they appeared content, whickering gently.

Dor stood to one side, his expression anxious. “Did I do all right, Lord Wizard?"

"The horses are in fair condition,” Dalquist replied after a few moments’ close inspection of their mounts.

“You have done well, Dor. Here is the silver piece I promised you, and five coppers more for your diligence. You would seem to have quite a way with horses. Thank you."

"Thank you, Lord Wizard!” Dor said with a broad grin, proffering a clumsy but respectful bow, his eyes distant. Grimm guessed the stable boy was already dreaming of how to spend the unexpected windfall. Bowing again, the lad made his excuses and scuttled away.

Grimm heard the sound of hoof-beats behind him and turned, to see Crest and Harvel entering the courtyard. Both wore sensible travelling attire, although Harvel's clothes were trimmed with opulent gold and silver piping. The young Questor smiled as he saddled his mount: it seemed the swordsman agreed with the Guild's obsessive insistence on ‘presence'.

As he clambered into the saddle, Grimm noticed the swordsman's swollen left eye, surrounded by a dark-blue ring.

"Are you quite well, Harvel?” he asked, suppressing a smile.

"Quite well, thank, you, Lord Mage. I believe I did mention I had a few odds and ends to sort out. Although I prefer sword and bodyguard work, I'm also called upon now and again to persuade reluctant debtors to part with their money. Last night, one of my clients was none too pleased at my visit, and he hit me across the face with a moneybag. That was a bad mistake; he should have paid up without complaint. It'll cost him even more than he owed to pay a physician to straighten his nose and a dentist to replace his broken teeth."

Crest snorted. “Once, he'd never have come close to you,” he said with a laugh. “You're getting too old for this game. I've told you before: you're slowing down, man."

"He was no bumbling duffer, this mark,” Harvel protested. “Inches over six feet, built like an all-in wrestler, and he moved like greased lightning. Any other man would have gone down like a pole-axed steer at the blow he gave me."

A cheerful argument-and-insult session began between Harvel and Crest, to which Grimm was content to listen, marvelling anew at his companions’ mutual talents for self-aggrandisement, poetic insult and vainglory. The tall tales lasted well after the party had left the town and taken the west road leading to their final destination, Crar.

* * * *

A slight mist arose from the ground as the sun began to warm the land. Grimm took care not to press his horse too hard, caressing Jessie with his knees and making appropriate encouraging noises to persuade her to go where he wished. The fierce muscular pains of the day before did not assault him, and he felt much more cheerful than he had only twenty-four hours before.

The prepared route gave way to a simple track, which became at times difficult to distinguish from the barren, dusty plain through which it ran.

On the advice of Dalquist, the party rode all day, making only a brief stop in the early afternoon to rest and to eat. When the sun had dipped below the horizon for a couple of hours and it became all but impossible to follow the vague path, the senior mage finally called a halt. Crest pointed out a stand of trees and bushes some fifty yards off the track, suggesting that this would be a good location to rest for the night, and the senior Questor agreed.

The elf busied himself with setting a fire, using various sticks and branches he found littering the small, welcome copse. He began to search in his pack for a tinderbox, cursing under his breath, when a smiling Dalquist waved him aside.

"Questor Grimm: a little practice for you. Do you think you can light this without setting fire to the entire plain?"

"Can a bird fly, Brother Mage?” Grimm asked, returning the smile with only a little more confidence than he felt. He had practiced the control of his magical power over and over, until even the acerbic, critical Magemaster Crohn had declared himself fully satisfied. He felt certain he could evoke the necessary magic by force of will alone, without word or gesture.

The young Questor extended his Mage Sight into the depths of the woodpile, assessing its fragility and its flammability. He drew just a little power to himself, and clenched his brow and fists for a mere moment. In an instant, the wood burst into lambent flame, launching great curls of orange light into the night sky.

"Perhaps you'd like to use a little less force next time, Questor Grimm?” Harvel suggested. “It's not good practice to let the world know where you are."

"My apologies, friends,” the young mage replied, happy that his spell had succeeded. “Next time, I'll just set a small flame on my finger and light it that way. That was at the lower limit of my projected power, I think."

"May the Names help our enemies, then.” Crest grinned in evident appreciation as he spoke. “Does anybody want to eat now?"

Dalquist withdrew a dry cake of jerky from his pack, but Crest shook his head. “I advise you to save that tack for leaner times, Questor Dalquist. Watch and learn from Crest, the master hunter." After a brief glance over his left shoulder, Crest sent the thin whip streaking out behind him. When he drew it back, Grimm saw a fat rabbit trapped in the coils, its neck broken. Crest repeated the operation twice more, and two more small animals joined the first.

"Heavens help the local wildlife, then,” Harvel muttered in a stage whisper, and everybody laughed. Harvel set to work, expertly preparing and cooking the rabbits.

* * * *

Producing a belch of heroic proportions, Crest offered to take first watch while the rest slept. Grimm shook his head. “I do not feel sleepy,” he declared. “I am happy to take the first watch." The others accepted with grace, and Crest offered to take over in four hours. Grimm asked how he could judge the time without the guidance of the sun, but a military man, Crest explained, needed to be able to wake at will after any specified time interval. Grimm thought this was just part of the elf's habitual bluster, but for once Harvel did not contradict him.

When the others were asleep, Grimm took in the peaceful sounds of the area. Branches gently whispered and creaked in the breeze, and in the distance a wolf cried; an eerie, spectral sound. The embers of the fire changed their glowing patterns as if they formed the parts of a living thing, a luminescent chameleon, and Grimm wandered off for more sticks with which to feed the flames. Was that the sound of the wind, or something more ominous? In an instant, Grimm's strained his sensitive ears until he could hear the blood rushing through his arteries and veins. There is something there ...

He started as a hand caught him from behind, wrapped around his mouth so he could not cry out. An arm that felt like iron clenched his arms to his sides. His heart pounded fiercely, almost deafening him, and then came a whisper that sounded like a storm to his sensitised ears.

"Thought to humiliate Harman Hammerfist, did you? Let's see you try those filthy devil-cursed magic words now, you undersized excuse for a wizard! So you choose to go around with that puffed-up fop and his mutant half-breed friend? No less than I expected. I've tracked you all day, all the way from Drute, waiting for the moment when you were alone. You never even looked around for an instant! Even on the bare plain, you never saw me.

"In the morning, your friends will find you hanging from this tree, a reminder of what comes to them that try to cross Harman. You should never have messed with me in The Broken Bottle . Goodbye, wizard, and good..."

The whisper finished in a loud gagging sound, and Grimm felt the hand fall from his mouth. Leaping forward, the Questor spun around, calling Redeemer to hand. He saw Harman clutching frantically at his throat, his eyes bulging, as Crest stepped from the shadows.

"You're a good tracker, Harman,” the elf said, “and you skulk well in the dirt where you belong, but you make a lousy assassin. You should have made your kill quickly and got out. But you had to tell the mage your life story first. That was a bad move; a very, very bad move." Crest released his whip from the big man's neck, and Harman's whooping gasps for air soon brought Harvel and Dalquist. The would-be assassin was now surrounded.

"I thought we'd see this piece of semi-human scum again sooner or later,” Harvel spat. “He's obviously the forsworn traitorous bastard I took him for, but I never gave him the credit for being able to sneak up on us this easily. Well done, Hummer-pissed; you're easily one of the best crawlers I've ever met."

"Who's going to do the deed, eh?” Harman blustered, his eyes flicking from side to side like those of a cornered animal. “You think you're big enough to carry it off with that pig-sticker, you walking clotheshorse? Or let's see if that pointy-eared imp can take me on. Or are you all too scared to take on a real man, one-to-one?"

Dalquist made a show of inspecting his nails. “I would not sully my hands with you, Harman,” he said.

“The honour of ridding the world of your odious presence belongs to our friend Grimm, here." Grimm gaped. “I can't just kill him in cold blood, Dalquist! I just can't!" Harman jeered. “No, of course not, you'll get your fellow bugger-boys to do it for you, won't you? You couldn't dirty your hands with the murder of someone who's more of a man than you'll ever be." Dalquist looked hard into Grimm's eyes, the two mages’ noses almost touching. “You have to do it, Grimm,” he muttered, his tone low and urgent. “There's no way out of it. This isn't murder: it's an execution. You vowed what you'd do if our hot-headed friend tried anything more. I told you just what a vow means in Drute; it's a solemn covenant. This scum needs a dose of his own warped justice"

"I know, Dalquist, I know!” Grimm wailed. “But this is just plain slaughter. I can't do it!"

"You must, Lord Mage.” For once, Harvel seemed in deadly earnest, and Crest nodded in stern agreement.

As Grimm struggled with his doubts, Harman spoke up. “Well if you won't do it, and the child won't do it, I guess that's about it. Goodbye, all.” He turned on his heel, and Harvel reached out a hand for the failed murderer, only to find himself sprawling in the undergrowth. From the corner of his eye, Grimm caught the bright glint of steel flying towards his throat.

The young mage, caught by surprise, screeched “ Sh'slach'tera't'ye! ” The giant tottered and sprawled at Grimm's feet, his own dagger embedded deeply in his left eye, a thick rope of spittle hanging from an open mouth.

"Now that's the way to do it, Questor;” Harvel said with an approving nod, “quick and clean." Grimm stood aghast, his mouth gaping. Nausea took his entrails in an iron grip. Hysteria flickered within the Questor as it had only ever done once before, unwanted and unbidden. Blue motes of magic flickered around him to no effect as he struggled with the enormity of his act. “He's dead!"

"Grimm, listen to me!” Dalquist hissed. “If you had not done what you did, it would be you lying dead on the ground now. You know it! You did not launch the missile; you only turned it back against its homicidal owner!"

Grimm wrestled with the torrent of emotion rising within him like a frigid, bubbling mountain stream. “I know, Dalquist, I know! But I've killed another human being, no matter how evil he was. I could have restrained him. I could have disintegrated the dagger harmlessly. I could have done any number of other things to stop him. Instead, I reacted without thought, and I killed him!" Harvel clapped a hand on Grimm's shoulder. “None of us condemns you for what you did, mage. I've killed many men, and it's never easy. If it were, then I'd be no better than the vicious scum lying here. I don't like to do it, but I kill when I must.” He fixed Grimm's wide-eyed gaze with steely eyes.

"I would have killed this man, if my reactions had been as swift as yours. Do you hate me?" Grimm shook his head. “You're a warrior, not a wanton assassin, Harvel. It's your trade, and I respect your abilities. You're right; I had to kill Harman, I know it in my head, but my body doesn't see it that way. Maybe he had a wife, a family, loved ones. They'll never see him again."

"And the families of his other victims?” Harvel demanded. “You can bet this wasn't the first time he sneaked up on someone to kill them. I say this with all respect: maybe you're too wrapped up in your emotions to realise it, but you've done the world a service.

"It's as simple as that: you killed when you had to, and I know what that can feel like. I still remember my first kill. I was no older than you, and my tongue got away from me after a drinking session. I might have inflamed the situation a little, but it wasn't my fault someone else's ego was a bit too sensitive. When my back was turned, he drew a dagger and lunged at my back. If I hadn't dropped to one knee and thrust my own blade between his ribs, I wouldn't be here today. A horde of gorgeous women would never have known the tender touch of Harvel, the best lover in the Northern Lands! Aye, and what a tragedy that would have been!"

Harvel puffed up his chest and smoothed his clothes with such a primping, self-satisfied gesture that even Grimm laughed. He laughed long and loud, out of all proportion to the swordsman's posturing, a few tears breaking unbidden from his eyes. He sniffed, still laughing, but then the hysteria left him and he assessed the situation. Whatever else, he, Grimm Afelnor was still alive. He would survive and the murderous Harman would not. He had had no choice.

"Shouldn't we bury him?” he asked.

Dalquist snorted. “He does not deserve it. Leave him here. It will be a good warning to any of his friends, should they come by. If, that is, he had any friends."

Sleep was ruined for all, and brushing the tears from his cheeks, Grimm remembered why he had wandered off in the first place. “I must get some firewood,” he said. “This time I'll keep my wits about me."

"And this time I'll take the watch, as I offered earlier,” Crest insisted. “You do need some sleep, no matter what you say. You weren't alert enough, letting someone sneak up on you like that." Grim acquiesced, and went for the fuel, this time keeping his ears open for the slightest untoward sound. This time, he was not molested.

Dalquist approached the young Questor as he delved for wood in the undergrowth. “Questor Grimm,”

he said, his voice sterner than Grimm had ever heard it. “You have sworn an oath to the Guild. At times, you may be ordered to kill; I have been so ordered in the past. I will never enjoy the act as long as I live, but I know my duty. I hope you never get used to it, but you will have to be impassive and resolute when you have to kill. Just remember your blood oath to the House, Grimm. You are a Mage Questor; that means sometimes you must put aside your humanity for the sake of necessity. The next time you have to kill, I do not want to see a display like that, is that clear?

"In addition to this loss of control, I asked you to confine yourself to Mage Speech when dealing with Seculars, and you have been lapsing into vulgar contractions and slang. You must keep control at all times; is that clear?"

Dalquist had never talked to Grimm in this manner before, but the young mage saw the concern on his friend's face. Dalquist was responsible not only for the success or failure of the Quest, but also for the reputation of Arnor House. Grimm had revealed weakness and humanity; in less tolerant company, the image of the Guild Mage might have been tarnished.

"I apologise, Questor Dalquist,” Grimm said, bowing his head. “I know I should be more in control of my emotions by now. I promise you I will be more on my guard next time. It was just so fast that it shocked me. I will not allow myself to lose control again, I promise." Dalquist nodded, and his expression softened a little. “Sit down." Grimm lowered himself onto a grassy mound, his friend standing over him.

"To tell you the truth, Grimm, on my first Quest, I killed four armed guards in cold blood. I stood by and watched as a frightened man was flogged and hanged by his brother's men. I maintained a cool pose, but when I was alone, I vomited. I also drank a lot afterwards; too much, in fact. I'm not telling you to be a cool automaton, but sometimes you have to act like one. I'll say no more about it. Let's get that firewood, and I think we can relax the use of Mage Speech with these trusted men." When the Questors returned, Harvel and Crest were in the middle of yet another heroic dialogue, glorying in death-defying exploits and tales of past loves and battles they had shared. Grimm immersed himself in the tales of gallantry and daring of which two friends never seemed to tire, and eventually he fell asleep. The words “murder", “death” and “killer” ran around his head for a while longer, but soon departed, to become admixed with “Quest", “glory” and “fame". What would Granfer Loras think of me? Grimm thought. He was a Questor, just like me. He must have killed on many occasions. I'm sorry, Granfer...

The young mage drifted into merciful, dreamless sleep.

Chapter 5: Toy Town

When Grimm awoke, he saw Harvel burying the embers of the fire and the remains of the previous night's meal. Crest whistled as he shaved with his dagger, using quick, precise movements. The keen blade never once nicked his olive skin. Dalquist was engaged in a series of stretches and bends to ready his body for the journey ahead. As Grimm stood and stretched, the others acknowledged him with polite nods, but not a word was said.

Grimm still felt solemn after his brush with death. Although no longer racked with guilt, he knew with dread certainty that the innocent, eager child he had once been was no less dead than Harman. However, if there must be regret, there was room for a little pride. He had faced danger and prevailed. He was a Questor; he was a man to be respected and feared.

The party broke fast, still swathed in silence, as the sun rose above the horizon. Dalquist said, “We'll be in Crar by midday if we start now. That will give us the chance to scout the lie of the land while there is still light."

"A sound plan, Questor Dalquist,” Crest replied. “I visited the city of Crar some years ago, and can tell you a little of their ways. They think themselves master traders, and I can tell you there are few places so full of avarice and folk ready to take the last copper from your purse. We'll have to pay well even to enter the city walls; perhaps we'd best take stock of our joint resources first." Dalquist smiled. “I do have some wealth with me, Crest,” he admitted. “However, it is not mine to give as I will. Watch this!"

The mage bent and picked up a handful of pebbles, muttering over them for a few moments. Grimm gasped as each stone took on the colour and shape of a gold coin. With Dalquist's permission, he took one of the coins, scrutinised it and weighed them in his hand. All his senses reported to him that the objects were pure gold.

"I can't tell the difference!” he cried. “That is a marvellous spell!"

"I'm impressed, Questor Dalquist,” Crest said, “but if you can do this, why bring real money at all?"

"Ah, Crest, if only these were real gold pieces then we should all be rich!” Dalquist said with a smile.

“However, they will revert to stone on my death, or after a delay of a few days. I have no desire to bilk honest traders, but I have fewer scruples when it comes to deceiving a barefaced cheat in mid-swindle. If we are charged fair worth, we'll pay with good gold, but if it seems we're being chiselled, the cheats are welcome to the stones."

"It's so good to travel with magic-users who aren't too high and mighty to countenance a little financial finesse!” The smiling Harvel seemed to hold gold in his pocket in higher regard than that owned by others.

"Wait a moment!” Grimm said, grabbing Dalquist's sleeve as an urgent thought struck him. “I feel a little uncomfortable at the idea of walking into Crar with a Mage Staff and a Guild Ring." Dalquist smiled. “You're right, Grimm. I should have thought of that. We need a little magical disguise: a simple Glamour should suffice."

After several moments’ incomprehensible chanting, Grimm saw Dalquist's fine robes change from green silk to brown sackcloth, and his gold-ringed staff, Shakhmat, took on the appearance of a rough-hewn, gnarled walking-stick. Looking down at himself, he saw his own appearance had changed in a similar fashion. Although he could feel the warm, comforting presence of Redeemer, he saw only a simple length of wood. His marriage finger now appeared to bear a simple, tarnished brass ring.

"Well, I'm convinced,” Crest said, blowing out his cheeks and whistling. “You look like simple travellers to me."

"A simple enough spell,” Dalquist replied, puffing out his chest a little with evident pride. “However, it should suffice against casual eyes. Let us continue."

The companions mounted their patient steeds and continued west. Grimm, allowing a little more of his weight to rest on Jessie's back, felt pleased that his muscles seemed far stronger today, strong enough to allow a few hours’ ride.

Crar appeared as a small jewel on the horizon, gleaming white and polished. Around it were smaller black dots, evidently the homesteads and farms of the barony. After another hour, towers and turrets became evident, the tallest being a twisting black spire. After another hour, the true magnitude of the city became apparent: a fifty-foot stone wall ran around the city, with strategically placed firing-stations at thirty-yard intervals along the perimeter. Access to the main gate was through a long curving tunnel with thick walls, which would admit individuals but would exclude war machines and battering rams. How was this vast place to be supplied with raw materials, food and other supplies?

Then, Grimm noticed a series of derricks arrayed around the wall, some occupied in swaying supplies into the city from the outside. The people of Crar seemed both secretive and cautious. Crest waved the group to a halt fifty yards from the entrance tunnel. “I suggest you let me do the talking here, gentlemen,” he said. “As I told you, I've been here before and I think I know how to wheedle our way in. I ask you to follow my lead, and not to contradict me."

Dalquist nodded. “That makes sense, thief. Very well, then, you are our spokesman. I am sure your silver tongue and ready wits will not let us down."

He frowned when Crest demanded the bag of magic gold, but the elf swore he would only use it when faced with extortion. Dalquist shrugged and handed over the heavy purse. The party moved in single file into the long tunnel. The horses’ gentle hoof-beats were amplified into a cacophony of clatter by the stone walls, and Grimm guessed this to be a cunningly wrought acoustic trap, ensuring no one could sneak up on the city unannounced. After a number of twists and turns, the tunnel opened up like a bottle in front of an imposing steel portal. Above the fifteen-foot door, Grimm saw a viewing-port with an arrow-slit at either side. In the ceiling, he saw a number of gutters for the discharge of burning oil or some other assault.

If we need to get out of here in a hurry, it could be difficult, Grimm thought, feeling a sudden shiver run through his body.

With a swift snick , the viewing-port in the metal door slipped open, and a suspicious, bearded face appeared, looking down at the group.

"What do you want here?” the disembodied head boomed. “We have no time for beggars and wastrels here. If you come looking for charity, you're wasting your time." Crest spread his arms in disavowal. “We are adherents of the order of Blessed Kuhul, good brother, and we come here to purchase certain items with which to fulfil our pilgrimage to the shrine of our saint." Grimm heard such a plangent note of piety and deep humility in Crest's voice that he almost felt like dropping to his knees in fervent prayer. However, the gatekeeper seemed made of sterner stuff. The guard stifled a yawn and drawled, “We don't need priests here, traveller, and we don't want penniless pilgrims traipsing the streets, shouting their mindless creed to all comers and window-shopping for items they can't afford. Be off with you"

Crest spread his hands in apparent supplication “Ours is not a poor order,” he protested. “We seek to magnify our saint by the magnificence of the items we can bring to his tomb. The rarer and more costly the gift, the greater the indulgence we gain. We came here in order to buy a gem-encrusted solid gold chalice with which to show our devotion, and we have brought good gold with which to purchase it." Crest opened his purse to show the glint of precious metal, and as quickly closed it. “However, if you have no need of our coin, we will bother you no more. May the blessed Kuhul smile on you and yours, gatekeeper. Farewell."

Crest turned to leave, and the others nodded respectfully and did the same. However, it seemed the talk of gold had roused the gatekeeper from his torpor. “A moment, friends!” he cried. “Perhaps I spoke a little hastily. I would not wish you to think the people of Crar uncharitable!

"My brother-in-law, Sham, is a master goldsmith. He might be persuaded to give you a good price if you were to mention the name of Quard. I am sure the necessary permits and passes could be arranged for an appropriate fee."

Crest bowed. “Would the sum forty gold pieces suffice for our entry to your great city?” he asked. “I could offer more, but the bulk of our money must be retained in requital of our pilgrimage." Grimm hid his head in the folds of his robes, smiling. Forty gold pieces were as easy to promise as four hundred when one held a fortune in ensorcelled pebbles!

"Ah ... I am sure that will suffice,” the guard stuttered. “I'll write out the necessary permit at once!"

"Thank you for your good charity, brother. If the workmanship of your brother-in-law is as fine as you say, then the price is almost irrelevant,” Crest said, opening his bulging purse once more to let the unmistakeable gleam of gold illuminate the bottle-like chamber.

The huge portal swung open silently to reveal an inner chamber with doorways on either side, a steel portcullis in front. Three uniformed guards stood before them, each bearing a wicked-looking halberd. The entry portal swung shut behind the group with a decisive thud.

From the left doorway, stepped the gatekeeper, a tall, well-built man with greying hair and an expression of unalloyed greed on his face. When he spoke, his voice was a full octave higher than Grimm had expected, without doubt due to the clever acoustic design of the outer chamber. The young man found the high-pitched voice amusing, coming as it did from such an imposing figure, and he covered his amusement behind a forced expression of lofty piety.

A little out of breath, the gatekeeper handed Crest a note with “PERMISSION TO ENTER” scribbled upon it. Grimm saw no mention of a fee on the shabby document, and he imagined the gatekeeper intended to keep the promised wealth for himself, perhaps after giving a share to the guards in order to buy their discretion.

Crest proffered a deep, respectful bow, reaching into his pouch and counting out forty ensorcelled pebbles into Quard's waiting hand.

Grimm smiled, noticing that the gatekeeper kept his back to the guards as Crest counted out the fake money.

Quard scooped the coins into his robe and said, “Thank you, brother pilgrim. That is just the amount we agreed on. Pray enter our fair city."

He scraped a clumsy bow. The gate swung open, and Grimm and his companions stepped into a seething cauldron of activity.

If Drute had been busy, Crar was a roiling mass of activity and noise. Caparisoned stalls thronged a huge town square with eager, strong-voiced stallholders shouting the advantages of their diverse wares and goods. “Gitcha fine linen ‘ere! Fifty silver a yard, best quality!” “Hot chestnuts, they're loverly!",

“Best sandalwood snuff, penny a pinch!"

"You see what gold will do to ease locks even a master thief cannot open?” shouted Crest to Grimm, his voice barely audible over the chaotic tumult of the marketplace. “If I'd offered less than I did, the gatekeeper might have been moved to search us and confiscate our weapons. As it was, he was only too eager to let us in. I'll wager twice what I offered Quard at ten to one that the guards have no idea I gave him forty golds—they probably think I gave him four or five."

"I reckon I'd have to be pretty stupid to take your bet, Crest,” Grimm replied, smiling. Hustle, bustle and buzz! Even though the four companions were on horseback, high above the milling populace, they were nudged and bumped by seemingly oblivious pedestrians at every step. Grimm noticed their glazed facial expressions and wondered if the people were ensorcelled; they shouted out for exorbitantly-priced goods, their faces eager and their voices loud. Vendors exhorted everyone to buy, buy, buy !

At last, the adventurers won free from the insane throng of baying townsfolk, and they took shelter in an empty back-street yard.

"Something is wrong here, Dalquist,” Grimm said with concern. “I don't think all those people wanted to buy. It's as if they're under some magic to do so."

Dalquist nodded. “I checked the crowd with my Sight. They are under a spell, a powerful one. I believe this is intended to create the impression of a normal market crowd. We must all tread carefully here."

"Could Starmor have been alerted to our presence by the Eye?” Grimm asked, worried. Their careful plans could fall apart if the Baron knew their intent.

"I don't think so,” Dalquist replied. “I get the feeling this is some form of madness that happens every day, perhaps for Starmor's conceit and amusement—who knows? Nonetheless, we must be on our guard."

Harvel nodded. “I don't like this situation, Lord Mage. If there's strong magic around here, we'd best move as quickly as possible."

Crest nodded and pointed towards a tall, grey tower dominating the landscape. “That's the biggest building around here, and I'll bet it's where Baron Starmor lives. Hold on..." He collared a man rushing past them to the market place. “Excuse me, sir! Whose dwelling is that imposing edifice? I could not help but be inspired by the magnificence of the structure." The man struggled for a moment against Crest's strong grip and gave up the fight. He spoke quickly, with what seemed to Grimm a bizarre mixture of desperation and forced cheerfulness.

"Why, that's Great Lord Starmor's tower, good sir,” the beaming man crowed. “I'd love to stay and chat, but I have urgent errands to run before nightfall. Please excuse me." With a wrench, the man tore himself free of Crest's hand and dashed away. Dalquist sighed. “Then that's our goal. Let's mill around a little until the sun sets, and then scout the tower."

Harvel pointed out a tidy-looking inn calling itself The Jolly Merchant . Giving a few coins to a boy standing outside, Dalquist bade him water, feed and rest the horses for a few hours. The boy's face lit up at the sight of the gleaming money. He knuckled his forehead and led the mounts to the stable. A few patrons sat in the bar, drinking themselves into stupor with the same fanaticism the market shoppers exhibited when pursuing their purchases. Harvel stepped up to a bar staffed by a vigorous, cheerful, rosy-cheeked barman, a ghastly parody of the stereotypical gentle host.

"The very best wishes of the afternoon to you all, gentlemen,” the red-faced man carolled. “How may I serve you? A lovely day, isn't it? What brings you here? Have you come to trade? The market is in full swing, as you can see. Let's hope the weather holds out, eh?"

The landlord gave no time for the bemused group to respond to his stream of empty questions. Indeed, he showed little sign of expecting an answer as he rushed to bring them four ruddy, foaming ales. He accepted the coins offered by a bemused-looking Harvel with a gracious, cheery smile as he scurried away to serve another customer, who seemed just as happy and loquacious as he. The cheery inn seemed as much a toy as the frantic market. It seemed that all of Crar's citizens were Starmor's playthings, and the whole city a sham intended to give the impression of a thriving, healthy metropolis when it was no more than a hollow automaton.

The adventurers took their beers to a secluded corner table. “This place is scary!” Crest muttered, taking a healthy swig of ale. “It's almost like the people are animated corpses, marionettes manipulated by some crazy puppeteer."

"They aren't zombies,” Dalquist replied. “They are as alive as we are, but they're labouring under a hideous, mighty and unremitting spell. I can see it plainly in their auras. We may have our Quest to fulfil and no more, but I for one will not rest until these people are free." Grimm engaged his own Mage Sight, and he saw the citizens’ magical chains standing out in stark relief.

"It's worse than slavery,” the young mage muttered, shaking his head in disbelief. “At least slaves are free to rebel, even if it might mean their deaths. These people are just puppets. If Starmor is behind this, I could kill him with my bare hands."

"Cheerfully,” Crest growled, cracking his knuckles.

"We have little time left in which to recover the Eye,” Dalquist said. “I suggest we act tonight. Perhaps the townspeople expend so much energy during the day that there will be few wandering the streets after dark."

Grimm suggested they stay in the bar until it closed. The others agreed, and Grimm offered to remove the alcohol from the blood of the warriors before they acted. “Well, maybe not all of it, eh, Questor Grimm?” Harvel grinned.

Grimm gave his head an apologetic shake. “It's all or nothing, Harvel. I'm sorry, but we must have completely clear heads tonight."

Dalquist nodded. “Drink what you want now, but you must be quite sober if we are to succeed. I'm not sanguine about the outcome as it is, let alone with drink befuddling our senses or loosening our tongues." As he said this, he shivered, and even the hard-boiled Harvel acquiesced. The beaming landlord kept the quartet supplied with ale, which Crest and Harvel consumed with gusto.

"At least I won't have to worry about a hangover.” The swordsman laughed, draining half the contents of his glass at a gulp.

Grimm sipped his ale, casting surreptitious looks at the other patrons, but none seemed even to react to the group's presence.

Darkness fell, and the drinking continued; many of the customers matching Crest and Harvel drink for drink, yet never becoming profane or troublesome. As soon as glasses were empty, the landlord was there to offer a refill of his excellent ale.

After it seemed an age had passed, the landlord rang a small bell. The other customers finished their drinks in perfect synchrony and rose as one man, exiting the bar in an orderly progression. On the faces of several of the drinkers, Grimm recognised expressions of purest relief as they filed out of the tavern. Dalquist frowned at the swordsman and the elf, who seemed to have forgotten they had a mission to fulfil. With evident regret, Harvel and Crest finished their drinks. The landlord, a smiling shadow, appeared at once, cleared the table with efficient speed and then was gone. Grimm felt as relieved as the other customers seemed, now that the nightmare drinking session was at an end. Despite his earlier misgivings, he felt eager to get the business over and done with. Dalquist nodded, and all four rose to their feet.

Although Crest and Harvel swayed a little as the group exited the inn, Grimm admired their powers of alcoholic endurance; he felt astonished that they were able to stand at all. The cool night air was sweet, and Grimm filled his lungs, the gentle breeze a welcome friend after the stuffy confines of the alehouse. The streets were deserted, and the only sounds Grimm heard were the whispering wind and the distant, mournful howl of a dog.

Grimm motioned his companions into a side alley. “It's time to sober up. Are you ready, gentlemen?” he asked as he lifted Redeemer.

"Oh, I suppose so,” Crest replied with deep resignation, stifling one of his mighty belches. “But it wash

... it was good while it lasted.” Grimm drew a little power to himself and whispered “ Tch'ka! " The two warriors stumbled, and Crest and Harvel clutched their heads, twisting their faces in pain. Each raised his face to reveal bloodshot but undeniably sober eyes. “Remind me not to take you along next time I go out drinking,” Harvel muttered with a pallid, nauseous cast to his face.

"Beats a hangover, anyway—but only just,” Crest riposted, wiping a bead of perspiration from his ashen face.

"That's enough, you two.” Dalquist assumed an air of imperious authority, which only served to highlight his evident nervousness. “Keep your ears wide open. Hug the shadows and watch out for city guards."

"Talking about guards, Dalquist; I imagine Starmor will have quite a retinue,” Grimm said. “It's not going to be easy to get in."

Crest opened his cape to reveal a selection of razor-sharp throwing knives and a small crossbow. “Don't worry too much about guards,” the elf said. “I can put one of these beauties through a man's eye at fifty paces, so he's dead even before he even knows he's been hit. You're not on your own, you know."

"Then I'd guess we're as ready as we'll ever be,” Grimm said and sighed. “Let's do it." The party moved through the deserted streets, clinging to fugitive shadows, but seeing nobody as they approached the tower. Stopping in a doorway a few yards from Starmor's domain, Grimm strained his ears for the slightest sound, but he heard nothing. He shivered at the oppressive stillness. They moved to a black, oaken door at the base of the dark turret. “Can you pick this lock, Crest?”

Dalquist asked in a low mutter.

Crest replied with a disdainful sniff and bent to the task. Drawing a bag of lock-picks from his robes, he turned his attention to a formidable-looking iron keyhole.

After three long minutes of scratching and scraping, Crest gingerly tried the door, which opened with just the faintest of squeaks.

"Good work, thief,” Dalquist muttered as they stepped inside.

In front of them, Grimm saw a winding staircase of the most hideous design imaginable. The steps appeared formed of half-melted bones, whilst the walls bore images of human faces twisted in unimaginable torment. At first, the Questor thought they were carvings formed by some perverted mason's skill, but as he looked deeper, he saw the faces move and twist in the most ghastly contortions. As he swung the door closed behind the party, the young wizard heard a quiet but unnerving keening, which he guessed might be Starmor's sick idea of pleasant music. Grimm shivered and swallowed as Crest put a determined foot on the cadaverous staircase and begin to ascend. Dalquist followed the elf, with Harvel behind him and Grimm bringing up the rear.

After a short period of soundless ascent, they came to a landing, and Grimm saw a large, ornate, golden padlock fastening a brass-studded door. Catching Dalquist's eye, he raised his eyebrows in question, and the older mage nodded, motioning the thief towards the door.

Crest took out his lock-picks and started to work on the padlock. Within mere seconds, he had it open, removing it from the hasp with no more than a slight scraping noise.

Dalquist nodded and stepped forward, turning the iron ring handle with silent stealth. The door opened with a faint whisper, revealing a dark room, lit only by fugitive, guttering flames from a log fire casting brief flickers of orange light around the chamber.

The room was lined with row upon row of books and scrolls. Stepping forward to inspect some of the spines, Grimm recognised a few by their titles, others by their authors. Many were great magical classics thought lost centuries before, and each worth a king's ransom.

On a long workbench he saw various gems, all flawless and of the highest quality: immaculate diamonds, rubies and sapphires, tourmalines and garnets. Crest reached a covetous hand toward the wealth of jewels, but Dalquist waved an admonitory finger at him.

"We have a job to do first, thief,” the older Questor hissed. “You can fill your pockets once we have the Eye."

Harvel moved to the far end of the room, and Grimm heard him gasp, pointing at a large, spherical, opalescent gem in the clasp of a clawed silver hand, mounted atop a marble pedestal. The whole item was perhaps twelve inches in height and easily portable.

Summoning his Sight, Grimm saw golden threads weaving like the fronds of some metallic mimosa, a sure sign that the gem contained powerful magic. Dalquist nodded, and made to grasp the object.

"Yes, that is the Eye, witless one,” a sibilant voice behind the group hissed, and the adventurers whirled as one man to see a tall, hooded figure standing in the doorway, shrouded in shadow. “Do try to take it, by all means. It may amuse me to see your pathetic, futile efforts." Chapter 6: The Demon and the Pillar

Grimm felt as if his heart had leapt into his mouth, but he retained enough presence of mind to gather his powers, ready to cast a destructive spell. As if in the distance, he heard the metallic clang of Harvel's rapier emerging from its scabbard, and he saw Crest uncoiling the deadly whip from his waist.

"Dear me, shall I quail?” the shadow-sheathed figure said in a mocking voice. “Shall I tremble at your armed might? Do feel free to try your feeble skills against a master sorcerer, for let it not be said that Starmor is unsporting."

Snarling, Harvel sprung at Starmor, sword in hand. Starmor raised a clenched fist and the rapier skittered with a screech from an invisible wall.

Dalquist loosed a flurry of razor-sharp ice shards against the invisible wall. Grimm joined in with destructive spells of his own, but Starmor fended off the magical attacks with seeming ease. Crest's throwing-knives fared no better against the magical shield, and his biting whip stopped inches from Starmor's head, as the elf screamed vile imprecations at the Baron.

The cowled sorcerer made no assault against the group, uttering instead an infuriating, condescending laugh that moved Grimm to fury. He battered Starmor with bolts of naked energy, joined by his companions in a concerted attack.

Crest launched his whip against the magical ward again and again in a series of loud cracks. Dalquist screamed and attacked the unseen wall with his staff, raising a shower of blue sparks. Harvel slashed at the shadowy shape with his sword, snarling in rage. The assaults continued, blending into a cacophony of anger until Grimm felt his knees trembling with exhaustion.

The panting mage shook his head in a futile attempt to summon greater energy, but he knew he was spent. Looking around himself, he saw Harvel's shirt hanging open and sweat running down the swordsman's face. A red-faced Dalquist swayed on unsteady feet, and Crest, his face contorted in anger, looked in no better shape than his human allies.

"What a pitiful group of misfits you are,” Starmor said and giggled, stepping from the shadows to reveal a bone-white, cadaverous face. “You have amused me a little, so I will spare your worthless lives for a while longer, if only to give me further pleasure."

He smiled at the exhausted group. “Still, you need your beauty sleep—especially the long-eared freak and the puny child. You must not be lacking in strength for the trials ahead. When you awake, you will wish I had killed you here and now, so may your dreams be sweet." Starmor raised a bony, clawed hand and shouted, “Sleep, my children!" Grimm knew no more.

* * * *

The young mage awoke, aware of a bright light shining in his face. Opening his eyes, he saw a bright globe hanging overhead, burning in a black sky. He was lying on a stone floor beside a shallow circular indentation. Jagged scraps of shattered bones and torn, russet-soaked rags lay all around him, and he gave an involuntary shudder.

He seemed to be on a raised circular dais about fifty feet in diameter, but he could see no details beyond its perimeter. Rising to his feet, he walked to the edge and looked over. With a frisson of vertiginous horror, Grimm realised he was standing on a huge stone cylinder, its sides fading into an inky black. No bottom to the pillar was visible, and he shivered again. Why had Starmor sent him to this place? To starve him to death? To imprison him?

Mastering his giddiness, he looked again over the edge of the cylinder, this time using his Mage Sight. Even to his magically-enhanced senses, the bottom of the pillar vanished into darkness, and he perceived no end to the stark, black void surrounding it. Grimm could envision a clumsy flight-spell, but there seemed little point in venturing into that endless blackness. He saw no walls, no ceiling and no floor, and he realised he must be in some dimension removed from the normal world. He could conceive of no Questor spell to allow him to escape. This, of course, was the main limitation of a Mage Questor, although it was usually of little import; if he could not visualise the forces needed to execute his desires, then he was lost.

Grimm sat down, disconsolate, and he racked his brain, but only one possibility came to mind; one he had learned by rote in his Neophyte days. He knew he could visualise his home world well enough to return home from any location by using the standard Minor Magic spell of Relocation, but, without knowing where he was, he knew the expenditure of energy was well beyond him. The energy requirements of the spell increased in proportion to the square of the distance to his goal, and it was not intended for use over long distances; more than a hundred feet or so. Even if he succeeded, he might end up anywhere, from the bottom of the sea to the vast, airless expanse of outer space. The chances of arriving at any inhabitable location were negligible, and the spell he had in mind would draw the last dregs of power left to him, until he had either arrived at the location he had in mind or had perished. In Grimm's estimation, the latter case was far more probable. He would need far more power than he had at his disposal: more energy even than he had unleashed in his Breakout. Perhaps. Maybe this is just a powerful illusion, he thought. Perhaps I'm still in Starmor's loathsome turret . Grimm muttered a few syllables and focused his mind on reality, as he had been taught to do in such situations. His heart pounded and his eyes bulged, but the vision before remained as strong. Preparing himself for a second assault on the supposed illusion, he heard a rustling, rhythmic sound like the beating of some huge bird's wings, and he looked up.

Circling high above, Grimm saw a vast, bat-winged shape, drawing ever closer in a lazy spiral. As it alighted on the stone pillar, ten feet away from him, he saw hugely muscled humanoid arms with long, vicious talons jutting from heavily-knuckled parodies of human hands. Grimm felt the cold, clammy touch of fear at the sight of the creature's burning red eyes and its cavernous, fang-filled maw. This demon must be nine feet in height, and its aura told of mighty magical power within. Grimm had read of such creatures, but the reality was far more fearsome than any written description.

"Hold, demon! I am a powerful mage!” he cried, but the demon leapt at him with talons extended and jaws agape. With dread drying his mouth, he managed to utter a fire spell. A scorching torrent of flame issued forth from his outstretched hands. White fire washed over the demon, knocking it back over the precipice, but to Grimm's dismay, the monster reappeared a few seconds later, quite unaffected by the potent spell.

The demon laughed, a horrid, grating sound, and a deep rumble issued from the thin lips. “Human: strike at me as you will. Your powers are no threat to me. No single mage has ever bested me, although many have tried: by ice, by flame and by contest of wills. You are powerful for one so small, but no mortal magic-user has ever mustered enough force to overcome me."

It's not real! Grimm told himself. This must be an illusion!

He engaged his Mage Sight and scanned the titanic creature for the signs of deception; to his horror, he saw none. This demon was no mere illusion.

"Perhaps you will acknowledge me now as real,” the fanged monster growled. The young Questor nodded. He forced himself to stand straighter, looking the demon in the eye, although he had to crane his neck in order to do so. He spoke in the formal tones of Mage Speech; if he were to die, it would be as a Guild Mage.

"I am Grimm Afelnor, demon; a Mage Questor of Arnor House. I see now I have been foolish to attempt to overcome you; however, I am even stronger in defence than attack. If you try to kill me, you will see the true power of a Guild Mage. Until now, I have been toying with you." The demon's booming laughter hammered at the mage's eardrums, and Grimm had to fight to remain on his feet. “Fine words from one so small and so drained of strength! I had intended to tear off your head and consume you, but I admire your spirit. I ate last only a month or so ago, and so I am not yet famished. Some stimulating conversation might well whet my appetite. While you continue to interest me, you may live. I am Shakkar, and I am well pleased that you have come to brighten my interminable imprisonment for a few heartbeats."

"You have the knack of making a visitor feel instantly at home, Shakkar,” Grimm shot back, his heart pounding. “I always appreciate such a pleasant welcoming speech."

"You flung fire at me,” Shakkar rumbled, shrugging. “Should I regard you as a friend?"

"You launched yourself at me without provocation, Shakkar,” Grimm protested. “I was defending myself. Had you stopped for a moment to parlay, I should not have launched my assault. Your appearance startled me, but it was only your attack on me that moved me to cast magic at you. If you attack me again, you will see I am capable of producing more than just fireballs." The demon laughed again. “I have the Sight, as do all demons,” he said, “and I can tell your powers are all but extinguished. You will only bore me with further empty threats; I will then eat you. If you can offer stimulating repartee, I may allow you to live a little longer. Are a few more hours of life so unappealing to you?"

Grimm sighed, realising he could never browbeat this titan. His Sight showed him the wealth of power within Shakkar; Mage Speech and bluster would never serve to cow the demon.

"All right, Shakkar,” he sighed, spreading his hands in surrender. “You're right, I can't beat you. So what happens now? We talk for a few hours, and then you eat me. That thought tends to cramp my conversation a mite. So, while I try to think of something interesting to say, why not tell me a little of yourself? I never heard of such an impressive example of Demonkind as you are. I can see you are full of magical energies, and I have never read of a demon with such power in any of the House grimoires."

"Aye, human,” the demon said. “I was indeed once a great user of magic, and I ventured into your world in hopes of conquest. I fought many a potent magic-user, and I defeated them all with ease." The demon's broad shoulders seemed to slump a little, as if he bemoaned the puny nature of humankind.

"I grew bored with the vainglory and useless pomp of mortals. I thought this moribund dimension unworthy of me, until I met Starmor and fought him. I expected an easy victory, as usual, but he prevailed, to my great horror. I expected him to destroy me, but he accepted me as his trusted lieutenant. I gave my word to serve him as best I could. He brought me here, to a small and poor town, and I helped Starmor to bring it to prosperity; after years of battles and confrontation, I found peace.

"For several years, Crar was a peaceful and wealthy town. Then, Starmor became bored with his easy conquest. He sought my aid in creating the monstrosity it now is. It amused him to see the people acting as he wished, acting out the roles he had written for them. I demurred at aiding him in this. I have few qualms about killing humans who attack me, or about eating them should I starve, but what Starmor wanted for the people of Crar was worse than death. When he began to turn the citizens into automata, I lost my self-control. I attacked him with all the magic and strength at my disposal, but all to no avail. Starmor banished me to this pillar, and I have been here for the last ten years." Grimm spoke with the eloquence that desperation sometimes brings. “Shakkar, surely you can use your magic to find a way out of here? I know what to do, but I am too weak. I can see you have much more power than I do. Surely you can assay a spell of Relocation? It is one of my Guild's simplest and most reliable spells, the only disadvantage being the vastly increased stores of energy required when you do not know where you are. If you don't know the spell, I could probably teach it to you in a day or so. You have more than enough power to return both of us to Crar."

Shakkar growled, and his tail whipped back and forth in an agitated manner. “Once, I could have moved mountains with my magic and, as you have seen, I have ample power to do so, should I so choose,” the demon rumbled.

"However, that misbegotten, forsworn cur, Starmor, somehow contrived to deprive me of my capacity to form the simplest spell. All I have left me is the Sight; my magic has deserted me. Shakkar snarled, “No doubt you find this amusing, human! You have magic but insufficient power to do what is needed; I have power aplenty, but no magic."

Grimm shook his head. “I find no humour in our predicament, Shakkar. However, I do see a possible solution to the problem. We mages are trained to be able to tap into another's store of energy, if that person consents. If the person is weak-willed, their power can be drained forcibly by a strong magic-user, although I know well I could never take your power from you. Nor would I choose to do so if I could. I am certain that, if you would allow me to use your energies, I could return to Crar and summon you by name into a magic pentacle."

Shakkar shook his head. “Starmor would know at once you had returned. He would send you straight back here."

"Would he so? I believe I might have the means to defeat him." Shakkar laughed so long and loud that golden tears flowed from his ruby eyes. “This is a man who crushed me with ease, a mighty demon at the height of my powers, mortal. Do you believe you can face him alone and prevail? Forgive me if I find just a little amusement in this. I do not wish to mock you, but the concept seems ludicrous to me."

"Listen, demon,” Grimm snarled, forgetting his fear of the titan as a nascent thought coalesced into crystal clarity. “I think I know how Starmor defeated you, as he did my party. If the Baron is so powerful, why did he tarry so long before attacking us, instead of crushing us in an instant?

"I'll warrant he spent time in insulting you, belittling you and enraging you before he finally attacked you. He seemed to take considerable pleasure in encouraging our fury before he at last subdued us. His loathsome city of men and women constrained to live out their lives as helpless puppets seems designed to ensure that anger, despair and terror are maintained within the walls of Crar. Why should Starmor expend such effort on the preservation of negative emotions? For the purposes of idle amusement alone?

I think not. He maintains this foul mockery of a thriving city because he needs the hatred his control over his subjects inspires. His awful tower, with its wailing images of imprisoned souls; is that only to deter the casual thief? A strong set of locks and some dogs would surely achieve the same end." Shakkar's tail whipped to and fro in frenzy as the demon considered Grimm's words. “The figures in Starmor's tower are not images,” he said at last. “They are the imprisoned souls of those foolish enough to oppose him. Starmor burnt them to death, and stole their spirits as they expired, imprisoning them within the walls of his castle. This was another reason why I chose to rebel against the Baron." Grimm gaped. What kind of monster chose to torture his foes, even after they were dead?

"You were correct in your assumption,” the demon admitted, hanging his huge head. “Starmor took control after he had spent much time excoriating me and rousing me to the heights of rage.

"Perhaps you have divined the source of his power, man; even so, I fail to see what you can do to thwart him. You are human, with the complex, overpowering baggage of emotions all humans possess. Even should you escape this turret, how will you hide them from Starmor?" Grimm shrugged. “I have a few powders, potions and herbs for medicinal treatment, and I have a little skill in Herbalism. I know the leaf of the Trina bush has the power to calm a man raving with the most manic rage. Under its influence, I might remain calm and placid in the face of the most terrifying peril. Starmor's powers against me would then be useless. I have some Trina leaves with me." Shakkar bared his fangs in a ghastly parody of a smile. “I have seen such men in the grip of like substances,” he growled. “Such a man would laugh while his arm was sawn off, but he would have no thought or will of his own while the drug's effects persisted. The gutters of your cities are full of those who have given their lives over to such herbs."

Grimm nodded, feeling hope blooming within him. “That's true, Shakkar. However, I carry also some powdered Virion. This herb is used to clarify the thought processes and strengthen the will of the addled and senile. It can cure confusion and torpor, but it does not affect the emotions. With a combination of these two substances, I believe I could ignore Starmor's taunts and still keep a clear vision of what needs to be done.

"You have my sworn word as a Guild Mage that, having made the trip back to the human world and defeated Starmor, I will rescue you from this dire pillar. Once I was back in the real world, I would know the astral route from here to there. I know I would have more than enough energy to bring you back. If, however, you are not prepared to let slip even a small morsel of meat, so as to prolong your miserable term here, I invite you to eat well, at my expense.” Grimm folded his arms and bowed his head before Shakkar, offering himself to the towering demon.

Long moments passed as the underworld creature considered the young Questor's offer. Grimm wore a calm visage and forced himself to stand still, his head bowed, but he trembled inside, fearing Shakkar might prefer to ease a grumbling stomach rather than entertain a dubious offer of freedom given by a mere mortal . Although he had read many books on the summoning, control and vanquishing of minor demons, he knew nothing of their mores, morals and inner drives, and still less of those of towering monsters like Shakkar.

Finally the gargantuan figure opened his fanged maw to speak, and Grimm tried to prepare himself for the possibility that these words might be the last sounds he would hear, apart from the crunching of his bones as the demon consumed him.

"Human, I have considered your offer, and I feel the chances of success are slender at best. My inner self insists I eat you to quell the growing pangs of hunger I feel." Grimm drew a deep breath, preparing himself for death. His innate fear of displaying cowardice forced his face to remain calm, whilst his inner being screamed at him to fight or run. An age seemed to pass before Shakkar spoke again, and his words filled Grimm with relief, although he did not betray this on his face either.

"Very well, mage. I am no slave to my inner drives, unlike many of my kind. One more meagre repast does not compare with the chance of release from this dismal imprisonment, no matter how slight it might be. We will try your plan. The core of my being screams in protest at the prospect of putting my destiny in the hands of a mere human, but my higher self yearns to be free, whatever the chances of success." Relieved at the success of his speech, Grimm forced himself to keep his voice sombre and calm. He raised his head to look the demon in the face. “Thank you for my life, Shakkar. I intend to attempt to keep my side of the bargain in full, as well as I can. I swear on the ring I bear as a Guild Mage that I will release you from this vile turret, or die in the attempt. You must know no Acclaimed Mage gives his oath lightly."

Shakkar nodded. “I have faced many a powerful mage in my time, and few even of these have chosen to fight me. None succeeded, save for Starmor, but not even that foul-hearted bastard son of a jackal ever gave a false oath to me. He lied to me often, but never in the form of a solemn pledge.

"I will ... I will trust you, Questor Grimm."

Grimm paused for a moment, noting the demon's clenched fists, guessing at the effort such an utterance must have cost Shakkar. He knew what he needed to say next, but he felt diplomacy and tact must be of paramount importance.

"Shakkar,” he said, “I know well from my studies that the word of a demon is always good. Our species are all too often brought into conflict, but treachery has never come from your kind. It is for this reason I would ask for your solemn word on two matters."

His eyes hooded, Shakkar gave a noncommittal nod. Grimm forced himself to look the gargantuan creature in the face. “Firstly, if I am successful in my attempt to rescue you, you will not attack my companions or me for any reason, should we in turn act in good faith. I swear my companions will answer to my wrath, should they choose to act against you."

Shakkar nodded again. “Granted; I so swear. However, I reserve the right to succumb to the needs of my stomach should you be returned here. I trust this corollary is acceptable to you?"

"I agree,” Grimm said, “even if I find this a fearsome prospect."

"What is the second of your conditions?"

Grimm drew a deep breath before continuing. “The second of my conditions concerns the fact that my colleagues are also doubtless held captive in similar situations. I may need to grant Starmor his life in order to secure their release. Could you bear to forgo your vengeance against him under these conditions? It goes without saying that I will bring you back from here, no matter what your answer may be. Nonetheless, I cannot leave my companions to their respective fates. I trust we can reach an amicable settlement on this issue."

Shakkar's tail thrashed in a blur of motion; Grimm guessed the demon was struggling against the strong grip of conflicting emotions.

At last, the demon said, “It is a ... a difficult condition, but I will condescend to this stricture, should you agree that under no circumstances will you countenance the granting of Starmor's freedom. You may spare his life if—and only if—he demands it as a strict condition for the ransoming of your companions. You must also demand that he offer no treachery, on his sworn word. The least deviation from his complete submission must void all other conditions."

"I agree, Shakkar,” Grimm said, maintaining a stern expression. “Should Starmor deviate by one iota from the terms offered him, you may wreak your rightful vengeance upon him, if you are able to do so. Otherwise, he will die at my hands and those of my friends."

"It would seem I have little choice, young human,” Shakkar snarled, swinging his tail in a manner that reminded Grimm of Crest's deadly whip.

"Very well,” the demon said at last. “My power is at your disposal. Do what you must."

"Thank you, Shakkar,” Grimm replied, forcing himself to hide the blessed relief he felt. “I must perform the spell whilst my mind is clear. Be so kind as to kneel before me. I do not ask this in order to humble or belittle you, but I must lay my hands upon your head."

Shakkar stared into Grimm's eyes for a few seconds, as if looking into the mage's soul, but he sank to his knees.

Grimm closed his eyes, placing his hands lightly on Shakkar's ridged head, and he began to mutter in his personal spell-tongue. A faint blue coruscation played across his slender hands as he drew Shakkar's essence into himself. The mage's brow began to furrow and bead with sweat as he fought to contain the demon's mighty energy. His hands began to shake a little, but the steady chant did not waver one iota, thanks to Magemaster's Crohn's strict tutelage. Long moments passed before Grimm removed his hands and opened his eyes, feeling them burning with potent magical power. His voice seemed to blaze with energy.

"Thank you, Shakkar,” he cried, his voice cracking with joy. “At this moment, I feel as if I have enough strength to move mountains. I know I could obliterate even a mighty demon like you in a moment." Shakkar stood, his heavy brow clouding, but Grimm waved a hand and shook his head. “Do not worry, friend demon. I will not break our pact. I will keep my word to you in every respect. Your remaining hours on this dismal cylinder are numbered. I will rescue you and my companions or die in the attempt." He opened the leather bag at his waist, bringing forth two pouches, one deep blue and the other bright green.

"These herbs are Trina and Virion,” he said. “They are the substances I need to carry out the task awaiting me in the mortal world. I need you to find dry tinder or the like to build a fire." Shakkar seemed to show no offence at the fact that this mortal had issued him with an order. Moving at an astonishing speed for such a behemoth, he gathered up dry lichen, blood-stained rags and splintered hafts of weapons from the surface of the pillar, eagerly laying them in a pile at Grimm's feet.

"Here is your tinder, mortal. Have you a flint?"

Grimm growled, “I'm a Questor, Shakkar. I don't need any bloody flint.” His nerves felt more than a little frayed, and he had begun to find his pose of cool confidence difficult to maintain. Remembering his time with the often-irascible Crohn, he pointed at the motley assortment of items and directed the tiniest portion of his will towards it. This spell was so basic that he did not even need to speak or gesture. Fire leapt in the middle of the pyre and took hold, and Grimm again thought of his earlier explosive experiments.

Taking forth his pouches of herbs, he considered what the dosage should be. He knew the quantities he would need for the treatment of the sick, but he feared this might be insufficient for the task ahead. With as much aplomb as he could manage, he took forth a considerable quantity of each herb, muttered an incantation to invoke a spell of immunity to flame, thrust his hand into the fire and breathed in the fumes. A creeping torpor seemed to seep into Grimm's bones.

No more strife, no more difficult decisions to make ... it's so easy... He sank to his knees and gave a languorous sigh. The struggle was over and he needed to fight no more. With a rapturous smile on his face, the young Questor's eyes first bulged and then closed. He toppled onto his side, snorted once and lay as still as a corpse.

Chapter 7: Chains

Shakkar looked at the fallen mage and grimaced in a manner of which only his kind was capable. He had bided his time in this loathsome prison for a seemingly interminable period; his only sustenance, the few mortals that Starmor had chosen to send him. For the first time since his banishment to this dismal pillar, he had seen and believed in the hope of salvation. But now Grimm was dead. With genuine sorrow, he bent to consume the body of a human he had begun to regard as a friend. However, even a demon had to eat, and he could not stomach cold meat. Shakkar opened his fearsome jaws and prepared to eat the young Questor. At that moment, Grimm's eyelids sprung wide, revealing cool yet somehow intense purpose. The demon stepped back, astonished at the sudden change the drugs had wrought.

* * * *

Grimm shook his head as if clearing a cloud of midges, and unbidden words began to pound in his head: I am Grimm Afelnor. I am strong. I shall prevail.

He scrambled to his feet as if drunk, but he managed to steady himself before the titanic figure of Shakkar with an expression of implacable, emotionless determination on his face.

"The herbs have done their work, Shakkar. I know what I must do, and although I am filled with resolve, no taint of emotion clouds my judgement. I am ready. Fear not, for I still have every intention of fulfilling our compact. Thanks to the power you have given me, I feel confident of success."

"Good luck and good hunting, human,” Shakkar growled.

Grimm muttered nonsensical phrases and began to draw power into his sensorium. The rhythmic babbling rose in volume and tone as a blue glow began to shimmer about the Questor. He struggled to contain the mighty energies as he cast the spell, knowing that the consequences of a miscast spell could be disastrous. As the magical tension rose within him to an almost unbearable volcano of inner flame, he gained clear, magical Sight of his goal and pushed.

* * * *

Grimm found himself standing in the treasure store of Starmor's tower. A dim, cool portion of his brain told him he must act quickly, before the wizard became aware of his presence. The door to the winding stairway was locked, but Grimm still felt Shakkar's power surging within him. It took but a moment to pocket the Eye of Myrrn and to step through the open doorway. He made his way up the worn stone steps and, although assailed on all sides by the tormented voices of Starmor's entombed victims, he felt no fear, protected as he was by the effects of the Trina leaves whose fumes he had inhaled. An imposing doorway stood before him and Grimm found it unlocked. He entered into a huge and splendid hall furnished in crimson and gold. In the centre of the room stood an ornate throne, in which was seated the familiar figure of Starmor.

"Greetings, puny child,” the pale Baron sneered. “I see you have won free from the tender mercies of the witless Shakkar. You will, alas, find me a far more formidable foe than you can imagine, as you should well realise even with your worthless excuse for a brain. Attack as you will. It will avail you little, and you will soon be whiling away the remaining dregs of your miserable existence and wishing with every fibre of your being you had let Shakkar eat you."

Grimm reached forth a hand and loosed a spell of what he thought of as Nerve Fire . The spell splashed against Starmor, and the wizard just managed to fend off the coruscating green tendrils that played over his body. A small frown crossed his face as he released a counter-spell that Grimm dismissed with an easy gesture.

"Starmor, enough of this foolishness,” Grimm said, without rancour or irritation clouding his mind. “I am protected against any magic you may command, for I have full control over my emotions. You will return my companions from their respective prisons, or I will destroy you. Witness the extent of my power." Grimm muttered a well-learned runic chant and made a complex series of passes with his hands; a glittering pentacle appeared on the oaken floor. Visualising clearly the ebon pillar where he had been imprisoned, he chanted a series of syllables and pulled Shakkar through the ether to the centre of the pentacle. The demon spun on his clawed feet, taking in his new surroundings. As he noticed Starmor, he bounded forward and met the invisible and invulnerable wall of the pentacle. He looked towards Grimm.

"Questor Grimm: you are a friend indeed! Free me from this cage, so I may mete out to Starmor his just deserts!” He scrabbled with his huge claws at the invisible, adamantine wall of the pentacle.

"Shakkar, I regret I must restrain you,” Grimm said, shaking his head. “My companions remain imprisoned, and Starmor is the only mortal who can bring them back to this world. Be patient for a little longer. My promise to you remains intact.” Shakkar's tail thrashed in frustration but the demon ceased his struggle, his red eyes blazing with hatred and fixed intently on his mortal enemy. Grimm turned to Starmor and casually flicked his hand, causing the wizard to flinch as if he had been struck.

"Starmor,” he said, “you will die soon. I have no emotions to allow you the full extent of your powers. Whilst Shakkar has hate aplenty, his emotions are safely contained by the pentacle and therefore unavailable to you. Refuse to return my friends to this world and I will relinquish my hold over the spell, whilst retaining full control over you. Powerful you may be, but I fancy Shakkar will reach you long before you can reach out for the power of his hatred and use it on him or on me. Your death will be slow and unpleasant. If you do as I say, I will ensure your passing is swift and painless. These are your only choices."

Sweat glittered on Starmor's forehead. “What will you do if your companions are dead?"

"You may not attempt to bargain with me, Starmor,” Grimm replied, unsullied by worry at this prospect.

“Your life is all but at an end; your only choice is in the manner of its ending. However, I swear your death will be as torturous as Shakkar and I can devise, should you fail to ransom my colleagues."

"Very well, child-mage.” The Baron sighed, casting nervous eyes at the rapacious demon clawing at the walls of his prison. “Your alternatives are unappealing, but I cede you victory. However, I will be unable to muster sufficient strength to bring back your companions, or their cadavers, from their respective prisons without access to a modicum of emotion. Can you not restrain Shakkar in some other way and dissolve your pentacle?"

Grimm shook his head. In his normal state of mind, he might have chuckled, but his stony expression never wavered. “I am no fool. You would use the energy in an attempt to destroy Shakkar and me, or to escape. Instead, you will allow me free and unfettered access to the inner recesses of your mind so I may cast the charm. I will restrain you while I work the magic.

"At the slightest deviation from total acquiescence on your part, I will clamp you in a potent holding spell and visit exquisite torments upon you until you are all but dead. Then, when you are in no condition to attempt magic, I will allow Shakkar to vent the full measure of his wrath upon you. I imagine you will find he can be quite imaginative in the range of torments he can visit upon you. Were I not in full control of my emotions, I might be moved to mercy. In my present state, however, I am pragmatism personified. I feel no such compunction."

After many minutes, Starmor frowned and said, “Very well, Questor Grimm. Work your Divination. I will not attempt to baulk you."

The young Questor tied Starmor tightly to his throne with a length of strong cord from his pack, laid his hands on the Baron's temples and began to mutter in his strange language. Fleeting images from the wizard's mind flitted through Grimm's sensorium. Although the images would normally have filled him with all-consuming revulsion and anger, the effects of the herbs kept him intent on his task. Long moments passed before he raised his hands and invoked multiple spells of translocation. Blue phosphorescence filled the chamber as the power flowed forth from Grimm, and figures filled the room. The first to arrive was Dalquist, a tight and humourless grin of defiance on his lips as he raised his hands to cast a mighty spell against a foe no longer present.

Then came Harvel, bearing a number of deep cuts on his muscular body but standing in a proud, defiant attack posture, his deadly sword poised before him.

Finally, Crest came forth, his silver whip running with blood. The half-elf was bedraggled and he bled from many small wounds, tottering on trembling legs and barely clinging to consciousness. Grimm made to speak as the adventurers moved towards him, but darkness clouded his vision. With a sense of horror that grew as the effect of the drugs began to wane, he realised his recent prodigious expenditure of power had reduced the magical energies taken from Shakkar to a low level, and he realised he had overextended himself.

The voice of Magemaster Crohn seemed to ring in his head; “You really must learn to ration your strength, Afelnor. Do not always be so eager to expend it in a single spell, as you will be left vulnerable thereafter."

"I'm sorry, Magemaster Crohn,” Grimm muttered as he sank to the floor, dazed and confused. At the moment he fell, Grimm saw a grey-green flash of movement from where the pentacle had been mere moments before. With astonishing speed, Shakkar leapt across the room before the fettered Starmor could react, and tore off the Baron's head with a single, swift movement. He held the severed head high above him.

"I am avenged!” the demon howled. “I have waited many years for this, but it was all worth it for this brief moment of joy!” The demon bayed like a wild dog, a keening, high-pitched overpowering sound that felt like a rough thread being drawn through Grimm's ears. The demon hurled the head to the far wall, where it impacted in a wet, bloody explosion. Grimm heard rending, smashing sounds and then darkness enveloped the exhausted Questor.

* * * *

Insistent, unwelcome clamour roused Grimm from a confused and chaotic dream. Nausea wound through his entrails like the tendrils of some kind of insidious polyp. With some effort, he forced open his eyes and his head spun. He found himself draped across the broad shoulders of Harvel, whilst Dalquist carried Crest in a similar manner.

Where once had stood Starmor's imposing throne now lay what seemed to be a pile of bloody rags and shattered sticks, and furious oaths and smashing sounds came from within an adjacent annexe. Grimm realised his pentacle had dissolved the moment he lost consciousness, and Shakkar had been freed to wreak vengeance on Starmor and his property. Grunting with the effort, Harvel and Dalquist began to race for the turret's spiral staircase. The whole tower shook with each of Shakkar's blows and, halfway down the staircase, Grimm lost his unequal battle against nausea, vomiting heavily down Harvel's back. The fastidious swordsman did not slow his flight for a single heartbeat. The fleeing party reached the portal, and a curt word and gesture from Dalquist flung it wide open, as the adventurers reached the sanctuary of the narrow street outside the tower.

A crowd of Crarian citizens stood by, their expressions blank and confused. Freed from the odious geas placed upon them by Starmor, they seemed also robbed of its guiding influence. The people milled around the tower in an aimless mass as the building rocked from side to side, while Shakkar wreaked destructive vengeance on the abode of his hated enemy, Starmor.

Several men-at-arms, approached, advancing hesitantly with swords and spears in their hands. Harvel lowered the nausea-stricken Grimm to the ground and drew his own blade, but Dalquist stayed him with a gesture, crying in a huge voice, "People of Crar! Starmor is dead, and he can never trouble you again. Our quarrel was never with you; it was only with your evil Baron. However, a mighty demon now wreaks his revenge upon the Baron's demesnes. Flee now, while you have the chance!"

The grim turret shivered and fell into a smoking heap of rubble, a towering plume of dust rising from the ground. The pile of debris trembled and burst asunder as the berserk form of Shakkar arose; a pale and fearsome sight clad entirely in pale dust. The mighty demon opened his great maw to show the fearsome daggers of his teeth, and roared in an ear-shattering howl. The people screamed and tried to flee, but the narrow streets impeded their escape as they scrabbled for egress.

Harvel waved his sword, and Dalquist raised his staff in defiance against the towering demon. In that moment, Grimm forced himself to his feet and stood between his companions and the slavering demon. Despite his swimming head and dry throat, his voice rang out clear and strong, above the tumult of the panicking crowd.

"Shakkar!” he screamed. “You have your revenge; be satisfied! These innocent people have done you no harm. They became slaves whilst you refused to succumb, but they cannot be blamed for being weak mortals. End your destruction, and go in peace."

"Questor Grimm,” Shakkar shrieked, rising to his full height. “I would not destroy you, for you have been as good as your word. Nonetheless, for many long years, I flitted around my dismal pillar and swore to destroy all Starmor's works for what he had done to me. I will not be stayed in my rightful vengeance. Do not think to try to oppose me. Stand aside, now!"

"Shakkar, I warn you: wreak no more destruction upon Crar, or I swear to stand against you until death. I swear this as on my name, and on my Acclamation as a Mage Questor of the House of Arnor. I have sixteen years, and would prefer to live for many years more, but only if I can prove to be true unto myself and the principles of my Guild; principles I have sworn to uphold with my life." Shakkar's tail thrashed, raising a pall of dust. “You cannot stand against me and prevail, human; no man can. Do not throw your life away. You and your companions are exhausted. You can barely stand. Do not waste your tenure on earth for the lives of these worthless, snivelling curs."

"Starmor beat you,” Grimm replied, swaying on his feet. “He was human, too." Shakkar's eyes narrowed. “For one time only, I allow you to mention that and live,” he breathed, claws snatching at empty air. “You are not he. And I have defeated him."

"Starmor had but one skill, the command of emotions. It was I who gave you the means to defeat him. I am a Questor, and we have many magical resources. My knowledge of Diabolism is slight, but the principles are clear. I know your true name, and I have seen your inmost soul. My spells of destruction might not affect you, but I have one other card to play; a contest of wills. The oldest of links between man and demon, it requires no magic, merely access to the demon's soul and the knowledge of his true name.

"Having seen your inmost being when you graciously gifted me with your strength, I can find it again in a heartbeat. Then, there is only willpower. I am more than willing to wager that I have ample inner strength to squash your will to nothing. You will then be my slave. Not my rebellious prisoner, but my bonded vassal and my plaything forever.

"Give up your revenge, or look into my eyes and see the strength within me. For my part, I am fully prepared to take the chance. Are you? You have never seen my soul, and you lack the sleight to force your way inside. You have no chance. I do not want you as a drooling slave, but as a friend and ally. Consider your revenge against Starmor complete, and no more need be said or done." Grimm forced himself to remain on his feet, although he would sooner have fallen to the ground and slept.

"Human, we have no need to quarrel,” Shakkar growled. “You and your companions may leave unmolested."

Grimm shook his head; an unwise move in his present state, but he did not reveal the inner turmoil this movement produced. “I don't want to quarrel either, Shakkar, but I will if necessary. I will . These people are guiltless, and you have no cause to hate them. Leave them in peace."

* * * *

Shakkar was a demon, with an inborn mistrust in humans, but Grimm had come to mean something to him during their short acquaintance, even if he was a mere human. For a mortal, the slender mage was certainly resourceful and true to his word. If he said he would fight, then Shakkar guessed he would. Grimm's comment about Starmor, the demon now knew, had not been intended to mock him, but to warn him. Demonic bloodlust pounded through Shakkar's veins, driving him to fight at odds against, even if losing meant giving up his free will. However, an insistent voice of sanity urged him to reconsider his position. Not only might Grimm stand a better than even chance of besting him in a contest of wills, but the demon also realised that he did not want to make an enemy of the young Questor. Shakkar had never had a human friend before, but he knew Grimm was giving the demon a far more generous choice than any other mortal ever had. Grimm might well have been able to subjugate him, but he had stayed his hand. The demon stood his ground and howled, pressing his clawed hands against his temples, as raging hormones and the dark depths of his psyche fought to sweep away his nagging doubts. I could throw this mortal and his exhausted companions aside with one swing of my arm, Shakkar thought. They are as nothing to me. They have not the least conception of what Starmor did to me!

These weak, short-lived creatures are not worthy of my consideration. What knows a demon of compassion or tenderness? Why should I bother myself with such trifles? What matters an oath to a puling mortal?

He looked down at the tiny, exhausted figure before him.

This mortal talks of subduing me to his will. Ha! He has scarcely the strength to stand on his feet. I could sweep him aside in a heartbeat, before he could muster a single thought!

The demon looked at the small human's resolute face and felt a glimmer of admiration rising within him. Questor Grimm owes the people of Crar nothing, he thought. Why does he fight for them, when he has my word that I will allow him to leave this dreadful place without hurt? Why do his friends allow him to annoy me so, instead of urging him to flee from my righteous anger?

Shakkar ran his eyes over the older mage, the foppish swordsman and the elvish thief. Although they had little more strength than their young friend, they had also chosen to stay with him. Even the terrified citizens of Crar seemed resigned to their fate. After the human logjam in the narrow alley, they had ended their headlong flight, and they stood around him in a tight circle. Shakkar saw a tiny woman with her arm wrapped around a small child. The little girl appeared to have no fear, but the woman's eyes were wide and her face ashen. Beside them stood a grey-haired male, his pale, liver-spotted hands clenched into fists, his swollen, misshapen knuckles betraying the mortal affliction of arthritis.

Why do these people stand here? the demon wondered. Why do these cowardly, conflicted creatures not run from me?

To Shakkar, the answer now appeared clear: humans were all insane. Nonetheless, as he saw the combined terror and resolution in the mortals’ eyes, he felt his anger rising once more. Weak, foolish humans, the inmost, animalistic region of his brain demanded, crying for mortal blood to be spilt. They are unworthy of life .

As he raised his hand to sweep this pathetic dross into oblivion, the little girl smiled at the demon, her face clear and untrammelled by fear or hopeless anger. She took one step forward, but the woman snatched her back, her face now twisted into an expression of utter determination Shakkar had only seen on one mortal face before.

Perhaps these poor beings are worth something after all! he thought, relaxing his pose and lowering his arms.

* * * *

It seemed an age since Grimm had first confronted Shakkar but, in truth, mere minutes had passed. A vast, hacking sigh arose from the hulking demon, and his shovel-sized hands fell to his sides.

"There is no need to fight, human. There is no need for a contest of wills. My vengeance is complete. I swear on my name and my clan to visit no more destruction against the people or the city of Crar. I avow on my soul to remain your friend and ally as long as you are true to me."

"That is a generous compact, Shakkar,” Grimm said, slumping a little in his relief, “worthy of a demon's noble soul. Know now that I will never, ever, seek or threaten to enslave you, should you keep also true to your word—as I feel sure you will. To seal our trust, I now open my soul to you. Look within me, and we will have equal power over each other.” Grimm furrowed his brow, muttered in his strange, personal language and bowed before Shakkar.

"No need, Questor. You have proved yourself worthy of trust. I renounce vengeance against Crar and declare myself at the disposal of your party."

With his head spinning and his entrails in turmoil, Grimm forced himself to remain erect.

"Shakkar, this is Dalquist Rufior, Mage Questor of the Fifth Rank and leader of this Quest. The well-dressed gentleman with the rapier is Harvel Rusea, a master swordsman. Our bloodstained friend is Crest, an expert wielder of whip and dagger. And I ... I need to lie down. I feel quite unwell." He staggered, almost falling headlong, and the strong arms of Harvel swept him up again as the party made its way back to the Jolly Merchant.

* * * *

The once-thronged bar was now empty, apart from two men slumped across their tables in drunken stupor. The landlord, so merry earlier on, now appeared a refreshingly different man.

"What do you want?” he demanded in a brusque voice, strong arms folded over his chest and looking pointedly at Shakkar, who answered with a soft growl. Dalquist stepped up. He thought of mentioning how he and his friends had delivered Crar of Starmor's evil spell but decided against it. The man seemed as confused as the other townsfolk but trying hard to hide the fact with bluster.

"Five rooms for the night please, landlord. I will pay you good money if we are not disturbed."

"Not him,” the barman snarled. “Not the demon. I won't have him smashing up my inn and eating the customers because he doesn't like the food.” Dalquist expected trouble from Shakkar, but the huge demon, bent almost double under the tavern's roof-beams, shrugged. “That is all right by me, landlord,”

he boomed. “I think your human beds would be too small for me. If you do not mind, I will rest in your barn. Fear not: I have no taste for horseflesh."

"Good,” Harvel said, pointedly. “Four of those nags are ours." Dalquist handed over five gold pieces, a tidy sum. “If you will accept this for four—” he glanced at the bilious Grimm, “—three meals, the rooms for the night, and four live goats or sheep for our large companion, you'll have no trouble from us."

The landlord seemed to soften a little at the sight of the large, heavy coins. “Very well, then."

"One more thing, landlord,” the Questor said. “Have you an apothecary, physician or Healer in this town? Crest here has some ugly wounds, and Questor Grimm seems to have developed a strange affliction."

The landlord nodded. “I'll call for Threval right away. He used to be a Guild Mage, and he lives a couple of miles outside the city. Upstairs, turn left, rooms eight through eleven. And if the boy pukes on my nice, clean floor, you'll have to clear it up.” He tossed Dalquist four numbered keys.

* * * *

Dalquist swept into Grimm's room with a solemn-looking man of perhaps ninety years, with a strong, dark-complected face and a no-nonsense attitude about him. He carried a huge trunk with surprising ease, belying his narrow frame and his apparent age.

"I am Threval Shobat, Mage Herbalist of the Third Rank of Rhunin House,” the old man said. Grimm raised himself from his bed, but the effort seemed beyond him. Instead of speaking, he fell back down to the mattress and allowed a groan to escape his dry, white-flecked lips. Dalquist introduced himself to the Herbalist.

"It's not magic, Herbalist Threval,” he continued. “My Sight shows nothing but a severely deranged aura. I've never seen the like."

"I concur, Questor Dalquist,” Threval said in a soft voice, “but, as an Herbalist, I have a little more experience in matters of the aura than do you Questors. Does your companion partake of ... pharmaceutical supplements? Hallucinogens, perhaps? Stupefactants?" Dalquist looked puzzled. “I feel certain he does not. Questor Grimm carries a few medicinal herbs, since he is more knowledgeable about their use than the rest of us. But I have never seen their marks upon him. I would surely have seen considerable changes in his aura if he had taken these substances in my presence. I have seen none."

"No matter, Questor Dalquist. A little spell of Inner Quietude combined with a touch of Mental Clarity should enable your young friend to answer me himself.

"One moment; I have a suitable scroll somewhere in here."

Threval began to hunt in his capacious trunk, which was filled with a jumble of bottles, scrolls and librams. Although Dalquist understood a few of the relevant spells, he knew he lacked the finesse and control of a true Specialist in the art of Herbalism.

"Ah, here we are.” Threval drew forth a scroll, an egg and a chipped china cup patterned with lilies. He cracked the egg on the cup and drank off its contents in a single draught, causing a momentary expression of distaste to flit across Dalquist's face.

"That is for my voice,” the Herbalist explained. “It keeps my throat in trim for spellcasting." He held out the scroll towards Dalquist. “Would you mind? I need both hands for this." Dalquist held the scroll open at the level of Threval's eyes. The Herbalist donned a pair of fussy gold-rimmed spectacles and began to cast, his voice and gestures distinct and crisp, with the confidence born of decades of successful practice. Two minutes later, Dalquist recognised the closing cadence and handed the scroll back to Threval. “That'll do it,” the aged mage said with a satisfied smile. “Thirty years without a miscast."

In an instant, an astonishing transformation took place. Grimm sat bolt upright, shook his head and stretched luxuriantly. Dalquist nodded to Threval, impressed beyond words.

* * * *

"Now, Questor Grimm, answer me truthfully,” said the Healer. “With which drugs have you been polluting your body? No lies, now."

"Rule 3.14.1: ‘No Student shall partake of hallucinogenic, stimulant or narcotic substances unless specifically prescribed by the Scholasticate Apothecary and at the dosage and frequency so specified,'”

Grimm rasped. “I do not take drugs, ever.” He sat on the bed with a defiant expression, daring Threval to call him a liar.

Threval shook his head. “You have done so, I feel certain. A stupefiant and a stimulant. Less obfuscation now, and don't quote the Rules at me, young man. I was a Student long before your father was born. You have taken drugs, I'll wager, within the last six hours. Perhaps someone might have slipped such substances into your drink or your food?"

Grimm's face cleared. “It must have been when I was on the pillar with Shakkar. To defeat Baron Starmor, I needed a calm head and a clear resolve. I did take some substances from my pouch."

"How were they ingested?"

"I burned them and inhaled the fumes. I used Trina leaves and Virion powder."

"In what quantities did you take them, Questor Grimm?"

Grimm indicated the amounts with his hands, and the Herbalist whistled.

"A little more than a medicinal dose, don't you think?” he said.

"I was tackling no ordinary mage,” Grimm replied, frowning. “Starmor would have pounced on the slightest emotion and used it against me. I was using the herbs to deaden my emotions whilst still maintaining clarity of purpose."

Threval slapped his head. “That, Questor Grimm, is the cause of your malaise. Your body now cries out with hunger for the herbs. I cannot help you with magic. Only willpower will save you. But then, you Questors are noted for the force of your will, are you not?"

"I feel in excellent health now, Herbalist Threval,” Grimm declared. “Surely you have already cured me with your magic?"

"I have not. The spell will last for maybe five minutes more, and then the hunger and the weakness will return with a vengeance. Repeated castings would lessen in effectiveness and duration with each further ingestion of the drugs. Your hunger for them would grow ever more insistent, until you died from their effects. The spell of Inner Quietude is a palliative, not a cure for your illness." Grimm swallowed. “I presume there is a cure? Or is willpower alone the key?" Threval shrugged. “You are young and strong, and yet the drug hunger laid you low at its first assault. Even with the mightiest will in the world, you would be dead inside a month. Purely and simply, you require more of the herbs. Take only a tiny pinch of each at a time, just enough so you can function normally, but not as much as your body wants. Use your willpower to ration the doses and repeat the dose only when you cannot continue.

"What you must do over the next few weeks is to reduce the dosage until it is at a minimum. When you can resist the call of the herbs for a week, you have beaten the addiction to a stalemate."

"A stalemate ?"

"Should you be tempted to take further doses in the future,” Threval said, looking straight into Grimm's eyes, “you will soon find yourself back where you were when I came to you. You will never, ever beat the drugs, but you may hold them at bay for as long as you have the will. They will always be there, whispering to you when times are hard, but the only victory is to be able always to ignore the whispers.

"You are, in a way, fortunate to have had such a strong abreaction on your first usage; many who use these kinds of substances in small amounts have few ill effects until they are caught deep in the cycle of dependence, taking ever larger quantities just to reach equilibrium. In these circumstances, even a Questor's willpower might be insufficient to avoid the slide into a living death, followed shortly by a painful demise. Be strong and live, Questor Grimm."

The Herbalist rummaged in his voluminous bag and brought out two small bags and a clay pipe with a tiny bowl. Grimm felt his heart leap.

"Trina and Virion. At first, I advise you to take equal quantities of each, just enough to fill the bowl, and no more than six times per day. When you can function with this dosage, start to reduce the quantities and increase the intervals a little each day, until you have stopped using them. It will not be easy, but a Questor should be equal to the task. You have survived worse than this trial already." A shudder overtook Grimm and his head began to swim once more. He took the pipe and the herbs and filled the bowl of the pipe, his hands trembling.

"K'tapt'acht."

The herbs glowed, and Grimm took a deep draught, then another. His eyes watered, and he barely stifled a cough, but then the powers of the herbs began to take hold. Two more pulls on the clay pipe, and the bowl was empty. Nonetheless, he had regained his equanimity without becoming an emotionless zombie, and he grinned at Dalquist and Threval.

"Thank you, Herbalist Threval. I feel so much better now. I will take your advice and abstain for as long as I am able. I do not wish to become a slave, least of all to these substances. Now I am familiar with the onset of the symptoms, I should be able to forestall them for longer. They will not creep up on me unawares next time."

Grimm brought forth his money pouch. He knew how little cash he owned, but he was willing to give the Herbalist whatever he could.

"I am indebted to you, Brother Mage. What may I pay you in recompense for your skill and your valuable time?"

Threval snorted. “I earn more than enough money through treating rich widows, hypochondriac merchants and their spoilt brats for minor or imaginary ills. Our Houses are allies, and I am only too happy to help out a brother mage in his time of extremity. I need no pecuniary reward for ministering to the needs of my Guild Brothers."

Grimm argued a little, insisting at least that Threval accept repayment for the herbs and the pipe. In the end, the old mage accepted three silver pieces and made his leave.

With a shock, Grimm realised he had not spared a thought for the injured Crest. In panic, he cried out, “Herbalist! Wait, please! Our companion Crest needs your help!" Dalquist laid a fatherly hand on Grimm's shoulder. “It's all right, Grimm. Threval has already treated Crest, and our friend is resting and in no danger. Harvel paid the Healer a handsome sum and begged that we never tell Crest about it. Our braggart swordsman cares more about his elven friend than he will admit. They have fought often together often, and I suspect they're more like brothers than companions. Of course, brothers do argue a lot.

"Sleep now, we have a long ride back to the House in the morning. We have the Eye of Myrrn, and Starmor is defeated. When the people of Crar begin to realise their deliverance and take control of their lives again, we may have a new Baron who will be a staunch ally of our House. We have done well, and I don't think you will remain at the First Rank for long. Sleep and dream peacefully, if you can. We will move an hour after cockcrow."

* * * *.

Grimm awoke well before that time, as the want for Virion and Trina once more began to gnaw at his vitals. A single word lighted the oil lamp beside his bed. The Questor reached for the pipe, filled it, and lit it with another burst of thought-language. Although he wanted more, he settled for three puffs of the acrid smoke; his head and stomach settled, leaving only a vague unease.

The room held a basic washbasin, a large ewer of cold water and a gritty bar of soap, which, to some travellers, might have seemed intolerable, especially since the room was frigid in the early morning air, and the water in the ewer was covered in a thin layer of ice. However, to a former charity Student, habituated to the rigours of a pauper's cell in the Arnor House Scholasticate, this was a normal beginning to the day. Grimm's Scholasticate morning ritual, familiar and comforting, took hold of him as if he were in the grip of a spell.

The first matter at hand was the condition of his clothes. He took an old brush from his pack, branded with his Student number, 17, and he brushed all traces of the trail from his garments. He inspected the robes with minute scrutiny, finding a number of small rents and tears, but a little deft needlework rendered these all but invisible and acceptable even to the critical eye of an inspecting Magemaster. Although Grimm had, on occasion, been allowed to luxuriate in hot baths once he had reached the status of Adept, he had had many years in which to learn to enjoy the invigorating sting of icy water in the morning. Cracking the ice on the ewer, he took forth the rough soap and scrubbed himself thoroughly, then rubbing his body vigorously with the large towel provided until his skin shone a glowing pink. Grimm dressed himself and began the business of attending to his hair and beard with scissors, brush and comb. Since he saw no mirror in the room, he had to assess the results by touch, but he felt satisfied with the result at last. He tied back his long queue with a strip of rawhide and sat cross-legged on the bed, breaking his fast with dry biscuits and pemmican from his pack and water from his goatskin. He brushed the crumbs from his beard and robes and smiled at the first cockcrow of the new day. Despite a slight nagging in his entrails he felt in good spirits, ready to face the world. He secured his belongings and shouldered his pack, took a deep breath and made his way down to the bar to wait for his companions. Harvel was already in the bar, which looked pleasant with the early rays of the sun highlighting the walls in cheerful, ruddy hues.

"Good morning, Harvel, he said. “Did you sleep well?"

"Like a babe, Questor. I sank enough liquor last night to founder a galleon. Most men would be comatose on the morning after ingesting such prodigious amounts of strong drink, but I am here, hale and hearty as ever, with no ill effects save a slight headache."

"I'm glad you're feeling well, Harvel. I can relieve you of the headache, if you wish." Harvel would have none of it. “It tells me I'm alive, mage. Thank you for the offer, but I think I'll keep the headache for now, if you don't mind. Besides, I don't like the idea of having somebody walk through my brain."

His tone might be a little brusque, but maybe the alcohol Harvel had consumed the night before had had more effect on him than he was willing to admit.

"Where's the landlord, Harvel?” Grimm asked, trying to make conversation.

"I'm sure I don't know, Questor. Perhaps he's bemoaning the loss of his trade, now his customers are no longer forced to stay here. Perhaps he tried to match me drink for drink last night. How would I know where he is?"

"Are you all right, swordsman? Are you sure you won't accept my spell after all? Or are you just annoyed that I threw up over you yesterday?"

Harvel sighed. “Oh, it's nothing you've done, Questor Grimm. I've frequented bars all my life, and you're not the first man to spill his lunch over me. I'm a little worried about Crest. I was brought up by hateful foster parents who were only too eager to throw me out when I reached the age of fourteen. On my fourteenth birthday, I turned up at the doorstep to find my belongings in a sack outside the door.

"I've never settled down, and I never could find the right woman. One-night stands are about my limit. But Crest is like the brother I never had. We've fought at each other's side many times now, and there's no man I'd rather have by me in a fight. If he dies, I'll have nobody." Harvel's tone was faraway, almost a whisper, and his gaze glassy, but then his brow furrowed, as if he had remembered his role. “Mind you, if you repeat as much as a word of what I've told you, Questor, I'll skin you alive, and throttle you with your own sinews, mage or no."

"Don't worry, Harvel,” Grimm said, smiling. “If you want, I'll tell Crest you spent the night celebrating his pending demise and waiting for the chance to dance on his grave. I'm no blabbermouth; the Magemasters in my House frown on idle tittle-tattle. I've been in a hard school, and your secret's safe with me. Herbalist Threval seemed quite satisfied with Crest's condition yesterday. I'm sure he'll be all right." At that moment, Crest walked down the stairs, a little weary-looking but wearing a facial expression threatening murder to anyone who mentioned the fact.

Harvel's expression brightened in a moment.

"Crest, you lazy sod! Having back trouble, as in ‘you can't get off it'?" The swordsman ran forward to take the elf in a bear hug, and then seemed to think better of it.

"Harvel, you bibulous old fool!” Crest cried. “Is it last night's drink doing the talking, or have you started again?"

Within the space of a heartbeat, the two were again trading insults, as if nothing had happened, and Grimm felt a broad smile spreading over his mouth.

The young mage turned around, hearing footsteps behind him, and he offered a polite nod to Dalquist as the older Questor stepped into the bar.

"Crest is well again,” he cried. “Isn't that wonderful news?" Dalquist nodded, smiling and taking the elf's right hand in a firm, friendly grasp.

"It is indeed, Questor Grimm! Why, I feared you were all but dead, Crest. It is good to see you standing on your feet again. How do you feel?"

Crest shrugged. “Thank you, Questor. I feel a bit weak, but not too much worse than I might after a long night on the tiles. I'm ready for just about anything, but I think I could do with some breakfast before we leave."

Harvel nodded. “I hate to agree with you, Crest, but that sounds like a wonderful plan. I guess the landlord is still in his bed, but I'll wake him up, if you like."

"Do it, Harvel,” Crest advised. “I'm starving."

"I feel a little hungry, too,” Grimm admitted.

"Some food would be welcome,” Dalquist said. “Do you know where the man sleeps? I think he owes us at least a final meal before we leave here, after all we've done for this town." Harvel pointed towards a small door at the back of the bar. “I'm sure he lives through there,” he said.

“Don't worry; I'll have some breakfast waiting here for us in a minute." The swordsman ran toward the bar and bounced backward, sitting down with a heavy thump.

"What in the Names...” Harvel spat, and Crest laughed.

"I thought you could hold your liquor better than that, Harvel! Maybe you—"

"That wasn't drink, elf,” Harvel interjected, scrambling to his feet. From the warrior's wide eyes and chalk-white face, Grimm knew this was no jape. “I tell you, I hit a solid wall in the middle of an empty room!"

The thief raised his right eyebrow in apparent disbelief and opened his mouth to speak. Before a word emerged, Dalquist stepped forward and waved his hands in an almost frantic manner, and the elf stayed his tongue.

"Harvel did not lie, Crest,” the Questor said. “My Mage Sight tells me there is a magical ward around this tavern—a powerful one. It is all around us—we are trapped!"

Chapter 8: Trapped

Harvel frowned and strode to the door. The handle refused to budge. The swordsman stepped back, tried a mighty shoulder-charge and rebounded, earning nothing but a bruised shoulder. The door was sold oak, four inches thick and cross-braced, and the four hinges were made of study wrought iron. Crest's probed with his lock-picks and swore the door was unlocked.

"Stand aside!” Grimm cried, loosing a spell at the portal. The magic power splashed against the ward and bounced.

"Duck!” he yelled as the spell splashed back and spent itself uselessly against shelves of bottles, turning them into glittering dust. Harvel and Crest seemed unimpressed by this spectacular but dangerous tour de force .

Dalquist stepped forward. “That was a careless choice of magic, Questor Grimm! What we need is a non-reflective spell, not a third-order Fulminary!

"I call this charm Insidious Chaos ,” he continued, sounding as if he were lecturing a group of indolent Students. “In runic magic, it might be considered an Invasive form of the second instance." A long burst of thought-language sent sinuous tendrils of force burrowing into the wood, but the permeating magic absorbed them in a second.

* * * *

For twenty minutes, the two Questors tried a number of spells on the door, the windows, the floor and the ceiling. The magic had no effect, except to raise the temperature in the tavern until everybody began to sweat. A moment of hope arose when the floor behind the bar shattered at Dalquist's command, but the liquor cellar's stone walls proved an impassable barrier, as did the attic ceiling. Grimm sent a tendril of force up through the chimney, but it was absorbed in an instant.

Finally, both Grimm and Dalquist admitted defeat.

"Have you any ideas, Harvel?” Dalquist asked, with a tired sigh. The swordsman shrugged. “A rapier is good for many things, Lord Mage, but heavy-duty demolition work is not among them."

Crest shook his head. “My whip can open a man's skin to the bones, but I don't think it will do much against solid oak or masonry. Perhaps the windows might respond to a little persuasion?" Uncoiling the glistening, black length of his whip, Crest let fly with a skilful, practiced flick of the wrist. No sound arose as the weapon struck the glass, and not even the slightest fissure appeared in the window.

Their resources thwarted, the adventurers slumped into chairs and sat, unspeaking for many minutes. Grimm felt anxiousness growing within him, as a hint of claustrophobia began to rise. He took the pipe and sucked in another dose of the acrid smoke, rather sooner than he had wished to do so. As the drugs took hold once more, his head cleared and his thoughts began to sharpen. Eyes blazing with drug-fuelled intensity, Grimm spun round to face his brother Questor. “Information, Dalquist. A demon of information is what we need! He might be able to tell us what we need to know to defeat the ward."

Dalquist frowned. “I have to bow to your greater knowledge, Brother Mage. I admit I've never been interested in Diabolism, but your idea appears unfeasible to me. It seems no magic can pass in or out of this building. How could you possibly summon a demon through this ward? From what I can remember of Elementary Diabolism, you have to travel to the demon-lands, and I have already tried Astral Projection without success."

Grimm smiled. Although the Magemasters had taught him only the very basic rules of Diabolism, as they had with Dalquist, the ancient tome called the Omnidaemoniad had been one of his favourite books in the Scholasticate library. Although no demon-master, he felt his Questor's sleight and his book-learning might bring success. In any case, he had nothing to lose.

"The demon-lands are separated from our world in dimension only, Dalquist,” he said. “Just like Starmor's prison-worlds were.

"In a sense, part of the Netherworld is in here with us, but outside the three-dimensional framework of the ward. I only need to create a small rift in the four-dimensional continuum and extend a portion of my psyche into it. Although I might be able only to stretch my mind a small way into the demon dimension, I should be able to make contact and bring back at least some kind of demon. This I can do without leaving this room."

"And why should any demon want to aid us, Questor? I imagine many of their kind have little liking for us mortals,” Harvel said, looking somewhat nervous. “If you were to succeed, what of the danger of bringing back some human-hating monster that might tear us to pieces—a demon like your hot-headed friend, Shakkar?"

"As I understand it, Harvel,” Grimm replied, “a demon can only pass into this world if the caller wills it. Their auras are pretty similar to a human's, and I should easily be able to detect hatred or deception before I allowed a hostile demon to pass into our world. In any case, I think I could only open a very small portal; a titan like Shakkar could never pass through. A Specialist Diabolist of high rank might be able to summon an army of such demons and force them to do his bidding, but I'm no such Specialist. A small demon of Information, however, may be all we require to effect our escape." Dalquist shrugged. Grimm sat cross-legged on the floor, his eyes vacant but meditative. 'Let the magic find its own route,' was one of a Questor's watchwords.

As a Student, Grimm had often tried to envisage spatial dimensions outside the three to which he was accustomed, yet still enmeshed with them. Although he had always failed in this exercise, he now had the benefit of a Questor's mind-training to help him. A thought-word, more like a hiccup, escaped his mouth, and Grimm felt as if his mind had turned inside out.

* * * *

A mad confusion assailed Grimm Afelnor's physical eyes, but his Mage Sight revealed a grand cityscape, garlanded with graceful cupolas and exotic palaces. Demons milled around a city square not unlike that of Crar. A soupy, orange mist clouded his magical vision, and he could make out few details of the distant, milling demons, none of whom seemed to notice him. Ignoring the clamorous confusion of sound assaulting his ears, the Questor concentrated his attention on the thoughts of the demon horde, trying to find a suitable subject. As he felt the faint pulsing of such a mind, he began to restrict his mental search further and further until he felt sure he had located the demon of information he sought. Demon, he thought, trying to project his mind toward the specific creature he had sensed. My companions and I are trapped within a mage's ward. We need your help. Will you come back with me to the human world and aid us with information? We are willing to pay you with gold, or anything else we have that you might covet.

Grimm knew he might have nothing the demon desired, but he maintained his mental pressure.

"A mortal!” a tiny voice squeaked at the level of Grimm's ankles. The mage looked down to see a tiny creature standing before him, perhaps six inches in height. The minuscule demon seemed a mere parody of a fearsome behemoth like Shakkar, and Grimm would have laughed if his situation had not been so serious.

"I have met few indeed of your kind,” the miniature monster trilled. “I have passed through the thoughts of a few who sat day-dreaming by a fire or under a warm sun, unwittingly opening their minds to our world. I find you interesting creatures, with your little worries and preoccupations. It has long been my desire to visit your world in my true form, but your Diabolists seem always to consider me beneath their notice. They prefer to wrestle with the wills of our more fearsome and truculent races." Grimm decided not to tell the imp he would have preferred a larger demon but had not the power to do so. It would not do to offend the tiny creature.

"You are a demon of Information, aren't you, demon?” Grimm asked. “That is what I need."

"My name is Thribble, human,” the demon sniffed.

Grimm managed a small smile. “I am Grimm Afelnor, Thribble,” he replied. “Well met."

"Well met Grimm Afelnor,” Thribble responded. “I am indeed a demon of Information. I see all and forget nothing, and I am well read. My fellow demons use me more as a storyteller, since I remember every detail of all I see. I can reproduce the exact accent and mannerisms of all participants in every scandal and tragedy I have ever witnessed.

"The payment I demand from you is that you permit me to travel freely in your world, to gather new information for my tales. If I can learn new, interesting stories with which to regale the other demons, who grow swiftly bored with repetition, my detailed narrations may garner me greater respect. I trust you are not some boring farmhand or bookworm with no life and no tales to relate; otherwise I shall have to refuse your request."

Grimm shook his head. “Indeed not, Thribble: I and my companion, Dalquist, are Mage Questors, and our friends Harvel and Crest are adventurers with many stories to tell." Some of which may actually be true, he added in a hidden section of his mind. The tiny figure clapped his paws. “Good! Let us go, then! I wish to meet these interesting friends of yours."

Grimm expanded his mind into a large bubble, through which the demon easily hopped. Withdrawing his thoughts from the demonlands, Grimm found the demon standing on his left knee. In this realm, he could see Thribble better. The imp's hue was grey-green, his tail was like that of a mouse, and tiny, pointed fangs like those of a day-old kitten showed in the gaping mouth.

Grimm's companions gaped at the tiny apparition. “That's ... a demon? ” Harvel muttered, with a somewhat disdainful expression on his face.

"I am Thribble, master storyteller, and fount of all knowledge, human!” Thribble snorted. “I am unaccustomed to such derision, even from my own kind! My knowledge of all manner of arcane subjects is unrivalled, and I request that—"

"I am sure Master Harvel meant no disrespect, friend Thribble,” Dalquist interrupted, in a tense voice.

“However, we have urgent need of your help. There is a magical ward surrounding this tavern. How may we defeat it?"

The demon looked around the room and shrugged. “You cannot."

Grimm shuddered at the note of utter certainty in the demon's voice.

"The enchantment appears to be one of Master Starmor's little nets,” the imp continued. “No mortal magic or feat of arms could defeat it. However, all is not lost; in a day or two, it will disappear, in any case."

Dalquist shook his head in evident frustration. “That is impossible. We all saw Starmor killed,” he said.

“I assume one of his acolytes has somehow raised the ward."

Thribble laughed, a tinkling sound like falling needles. “Master Starmor has deceived you all well!” he cackled. “He is a demon, like me, and an Immortal to boot. You may have discommoded him temporarily, but you cannot kill him. He must be in one of his horrid little towers right now, plotting something really nasty for you. Even the most powerful of my kind steer clear of that one. Killing him was a bad mistake; he always hates that. After reassembling his mortal form, he is usually in a fouler mood than normal."

"His tower was destroyed,” Grimm said, “by a demon called Shakkar, who also believed Starmor to be human. Might you be mistaken, Thribble?"

"Ah! I know Shakkar well,” the demon squeaked. “Still, he never was the brightest of our kind, and Master Starmor's disguises were always good. I cannot blame him for being fooled. Starmor must be holding you here while he rebuilds his nasty tower. It is a major part of his strength. That is why you are being restrained here instead of being murdered."

The demon seemed to treat the affair thing as a great joke, and Grimm frowned, beginning to find Thribble's enthusiasm a little tiresome.

"How can we defeat Starmor?” he demanded “There must be some way to thwart him, even if we cannot kill him."

"That is improbable,” Thribble said, his brows deeply furrowed as if he were a chess-master poring over a difficult game. After a few moments, his expression brightened. “You could always send him back to our world. Although those of my kind can travel through a myriad of dimensions with ease, not even mighty Starmor could pierce the inter-dimensional rift between our frames. No demon can, unless invited by a human Diabolist, or another demon on this side of the void." Dalquist looked at Grimm, his head cocked quizzically to one side.

"Can we do that, Grimm?” he asked. “Can you do that? You did manage to bring Thribble here, after all."

Grimm shook his head. “It was all I could do to pull Thribble through the void from the demon dimensions,” he protested. “Pushing matter through the dimensions is harder than pulling it back into this world. Starmor must be over a thousand times heavier than our diminutive friend; I doubt the two of us acting in concert could find the power for such a feat. It might be easier to translocate him to some far distant desert land, where he could trouble nobody."

"That would be insufficient to thwart wily Starmor,” Thribble trilled. “He is immortal. All such an act might achieve would be to postpone and amplify his eventual revenge. After a long trek through barren lands, he would, without doubt, enslave many of your kind on his route back to you, and he would locate you with ease."

To Grimm's surprise, Dalquist nodded in agreement.

"I should have thought before I spoke,” he said, bowing his head. “Starmor is in our dimension, and we know our magic cannot penetrate this barrier. In any case, spells of Translocation require the casting mage to be thoroughly familiar with the target location, and you have only direct experience of places within about thirty miles’ radius of the Guildhouse. I have only experience of locations alongside the standard trade routes, as all of my Quests have been in towns or cities. Where could you hope to send Starmor in this world so that he could pose no further threat to us, or to innocents?" Grimm smiled. “I agree that we can cast no magic through this barrier,” he admitted, “but we will surely meet with Starmor again, and he fears no magic we can throw at him. I propose that we ready a spell to dispatch our evil friend to the pillar where he attempted to imprison me, and cast it as soon as he confronts us. I know it well enough to visualise it, although I could never hope to point out its physical location to you. I think even Starmor would find it hard to escape from there." Dalquist's brow furrowed. “Surely, Starmor knows his way back to Crar from his own construction, Grimm!” he said with a humourless laugh. “He would be back in this dimension within an instant!"

"Dalquist, I'm not yet some drooling, drug-crazed imbecile,” Grimm replied, looking straight into the older mage's eyes. “When I confronted Starmor with my emotions masked, he seemed to lose all his power. The prison pillar is now empty and devoid of a single soul. As far as I can tell, Starmor can do nothing without the close proximity of powerful emotions to give him strength for his magic and, even then, he can only use it against the source of the emotions. Isn't that true, Thribble? You seem to know Starmor better than we do."

"Questor Grimm, Starmor's power walks on two legs,” the tiny demon piped. “He can cast mighty magic only against those displaying emotions such as rage, fear or despair, as you have rightly said. However, this is limited to those within a distance of a hundred yards or so if he is out of sight of his tower, and then only if his victims hold no magical powers of their own. The reason you are here is, without doubt, that he has enslaved the people of this town to rebuild the tower you destroyed. His terror-structures are his major sources of power.

"When the tower is complete, he will regain his full strength once more. However, if you can get close enough to Starmor to cast the spell you have proposed, and banish him to a place of true solitude, his energies may be reduced to such a low level that he would be unable to effect an escape. Your plan is not without merit, young mortal."

Grimm breathed a deep sigh of relief that an avenue of hope yet existed. Harvel spoke. “We are well within the range that you mentioned, friend Thribble,” he said. “Why does that bastard, Starmor, not enslave us?"

"He is a cunning being, warrior, but his resources are not infinite. Before he can take a mortal soul, he must first fight its bearer. He has done that before and lost. He will want to ensure that his power is at its absolute maximum before he faces you again."

"We will try Grimm's plan,” Dalquist said, firmly, reasserting his control over the Quest. “When Starmor comes for us, Grimm, I advise you to take a dose of your herbs sufficient to dull the emotions. You may then approach Starmor without fear and attempt to banish him to the pillar. With hope, that will be the last that we or the people of Crar will see of him.

"If you act swiftly, Grimm, we may prevail. For now, we should rest and recoup our energies, so that we are as strong as we may be when Starmor comes for us."

With that, Dalquist adopted a position of meditation and sat motionless. Grimm followed suit; he knew nothing would be gained by futile effort, and everything depended on the patient marshalling of his inner strength.

* * * *

The two warrior friends debated the merits of raiding the inn's liquor but decided against it, choosing to lounge instead in a pair of plush, comfortable seats.

The rest of the day passed with maddening languor for them, as the two Questors sat motionless for hour upon hour, locked into uncanny, mannequin-like immobility. Harvel and Crest's conversation became fitful, and then ceased.

Harvel began to hone his fine rapier with an oiled whetstone, dressing out the least flaw and bringing the blade to razor sharpness. Crest did the same with his numerous daggers and then cleaned and oiled his whip, so it would be supple when needed for combat. The two warriors had spent many evenings together in this manner, preparing for battle and each found comfort in the refuge of familiar ritual and the closeness of a trusted companion.

Each fighter, having tended to the tools of his trade, put himself through a fixed regimen of exercise, testing and stretching each major muscle group, grunting at the effort and the aching, whilst relishing the complaints from each muscle and tendon. Glowing from the effects of their exertions they shook hands and grasped forearms in wordless amity before moving back to their chairs. Then, they sat and waited.

* * * *

At six in the morning, the main door to the tavern was flung wide. The landlord of the inn stood in the opening, with a score of heavily armed citizens at his back. All were filthy, coated in grime, dust and blood, each with a dull, blank expression on his face.

The landlord spoke in a rusty, stilted, emotionless voice. “You will accompany us to Lord Starmor's tower. He is displeased at your depredations, and he summons you for punishment. The punishment will be swift and merciful if you comply. Otherwise, your torments will be slow and agonising." Grimm looked at Dalquist, who responded with the faintest of nods. The young Questor took out his ready-filled pipe and lit it, drawing in the acrid fumes as if he was consuming nectar. The men-at-arms drew closer, threatening, but they did nothing while Grimm emptied the bowl of his pipe. Grimm swayed and nearly fell, but he was now better accustomed to the effects of the herbs, and he managed to remain on his feet, feeling his human cares and worries melting away from him. Dalquist stepped forward and addressed the landlord, who seemed to have noticed nothing amiss in the junior mage's swift change in demeanour.

"We do not respond well to threats, landlord,” he blustered. “Had Starmor the power, he would have summoned us directly, or arrived here in person. Yet he cannot do so; he dare not.

"I offer a counter-proposal; we shall send our emissary, Questor Grimm, to parlay with your master. Starmor now knows well the folly of opposing even a single Guild Mage, let alone two. We wish to come to an arrangement suitable to all, without further bloodshed. If Starmor seeks to bully or threaten us, it will cost him dear. Now we know his methods, we shall risk no headlong assault. Instead, we shall concentrate on the destruction of his tower and the annihilation of his bonded slaves." The landlord appeared to be considering Dalquist's proposal at some length, but Grimm guessed Starmor had been using the wretched man's senses as his own, and that the demon Baron was the one preparing to speak.

"Very well, Questor,” the enslaved barkeeper croaked. “Let your emissary approach the Tower.” The group of Crarians turned as one and filed out of the inn, and the impassive Grimm followed them. A new, dark tower loomed over the city: a baleful presence, dominating the land. The soft moans of torment now had amplified into a deafening cacophony of mordant screams and moans that would have chilled Grimm's spine, were he in possession of his normal palette of emotions. It seemed Starmor had not been idle; the humanoid demon had stolen the tortured souls of many more hapless Crarian citizens in order to recharge the loathsome edifice.

At the point of a halberd, Grimm was ushered up the winding staircase of tortured faces until he reached Starmor's throne chamber, and the screams of the lost souls reduced into gentle moans. The decor was as yet incomplete, and the furniture was sparse, but the grand throne stood in its former place, with an unsettlingly smiling Starmor sitting on it.

Hanging from the ceiling swung an enormous simulacrum of a birdcage, with a listless Shakkar confined inside. Grimm's Sight told him that another mighty ward prevented the demon from escape.

"Well, stripling; we meet again,” Starmor sneered, leaning forward until his elbows rested on his knees.

“I trust you see now the futility of opposing me. You did well to destroy my tower, but you should have fled when you had the chance. Remaining here was a bad mistake, and I intend to show you the error of your ways in full rigour.

"I understand from my minions that you wish to strike some kind of deal. The only bargain I offer is this; surrender the Eye of Myrrn to me, and I will spare your lives. In return for my forbearance, you will submit to my service for a period of five years."

"My companions and I prefer death to the prospect of becoming mindless slaves,” Grimm said in a cold monotone, subtly inching his way towards Starmor. He would need to touch the demon in order to carry out his spell of Translocation. With his emotions suppressed, he felt certain he had managed to conceal his intent from his enemy.

"You need not fear on that score, mage,” Starmor droned, sitting up straight in his throne. “I have need of competent souls with their wits intact. I swear to leave your minds unaltered, although I will punish the least transgression with unmitigated severity.

"Serve me in good faith, and I will treat you well. Refuse me, and I will begin my retribution with your warrior friends. They will take their places in the structure of my tower, and their agonies will far surpass any that the most fiendish torturer could inflict; agonies that will last not for hours or days, but for decades, centuries. Agonies that you could never hope to alleviate, although I can stop them in an instant. I have no use for these two creatures, but I will allow them their bodies and their free will only while you obey me. Your first transgression will result in a painful lesson visited upon the one called Harvel; a second will see his soul imprisoned within the walls of this tower. If that does not convince you, I will turn my attentions upon the elf.

"You have done your utmost and lost; accept my generosity while the mood is still upon me. And you may stop where you are! I can tell you have used some sleight to conceal your emotions from me. I wish no further surprises. I warn you: I can protect myself from you with ease, even if I cannot strike you directly. My minions will obey me, regardless of personal risk"

Grimm stopped dead in his tracks as he accessed his Mage Sight: he saw an impenetrable ward, identical to that placed over the tavern, protecting Starmor's throne. His plan had failed and, had he had his full complement of emotions, he might have felt a dismal, aching pang of despair. However, his desensitised mind flew through a series of ideas and concepts that whirled through his head like detritus swept up in a hurricane. He was no dilettante or fairground conjurer. He was a Questor, capable of casting any spell he could imagine and that he had the strength to cast. Surely he could defeat Starmor!

Grimm guessed that the mighty ward surrounding his enemy required the utmost concentration and power to maintain: Starmor must be using all his energies to keep his magical defences at such a high level, as well as imprisoning the mighty Shakkar. Nonetheless, the mage knew the ward was far beyond his capacity to breach with magic. Not the slightest waver, mote or fissure in the magical wall was apparent to his Sight; the ward was in the form of a sphere, protecting the demon from all sides. It seemed Starmor was justified in his confidence! A massed attack by Grimm and his companions would only augment the power that Starmor could devote to his protective wall, since the demon could draw upon the naked emotions of Dalquist, Crest and Harvel to amplify his native strength. A series of scenarios devoted to persuading Starmor to drop his protective shield whirled through Grimm's head in an instant, until a promising approach brightened into crystal clarity. Grimm could not teleport into the interior of the ward. His Questor magic could not penetrate it. But what of the Eye's power? Dalquist told me it filled the land. Walls and physical barriers were as nothing to it. Even a full Conclave of Mages could only hope to hold it at bay, but could not extinguish it. Perhaps I could ride that unstoppable wave of energy into Starmor's personal ward!

Perhaps...

Realising that enthusiasm, a human emotion, had begun to invade his fortress of impassivity, Grimm knew he must terminate the interview at once; he needed a further application of his herbs. He fought to keep his rising emotions and growing visceral unease hidden. He had no wish to draw upon the herbal smoke while Starmor watched him.

"Starmor,” he said, “Although I find your offer unpalatable, I see little chance of defeating you. I accept that complying with your odious conditions may be the only choice I have; however, I wish to talk to my friends before I agree to your proposal. I trust I can show them that it is the best choice they have." Starmor drew himself up luxuriantly on his velvet-upholstered throne. “I offer you thirty minutes to convince them, child, and no more. At the end of that time, you will be brought here to submit or to become a part of my tower's harmonious decor. As a sign of your fealty, you shall bring the Eye to me, unshielded and unmasked. I will accept no blustering or excuse: the Eye is the only token of your compliance I shall accept.

"Thirty minutes, and no more, remember. Hear the sweet songs of my vanquished foes. A mere gesture from my hands can make the music louder and sweeter, like this!"

He made a casual gesture and the low moaning became a confusion of anguished screams. “Half an hour, mage, and not a moment longer!” Starmor shrieked. “You shall be my vassal, or my amusement; it is all the same to me. My forbearance is at an end!"

With another gesture by Starmor, the tortured keening rose still higher in pitch and in volume. Grimm forced himself to bow low and back away from Starmor slowly. Once he had gained the far side of the portal, he fled back to the tavern.

Chapter 9: Thribble Speaks Out

The group of ensorcelled guards parted impassively as Grimm entered the inn, closing ranks again as he closed the door. Dalquist stepped forward to greet the mage, who shook his head

"So your plan was unsuccessful,” the older man said. “We both knew it was a risk. Tell me what transpired between you and Starmor; perhaps we can salvage something from the situation." Before replying, Grimm lit his pipe and gulped down more of the acrid smoke, sucking it into his lungs as if his life depended on it. His mind began to calm, and he nodded to the senior mage.

"Dalquist,” he said, “I cannot reach Starmor. He is surrounded by a bubble of force like the one he placed around us. It extends into the walls and floor of the tower, so that assaults from all sides are precluded. Starmor's terms are that we surrender the Eye and submit to him as servants with our wills intact, or to join the tortured souls in his tower; hardly an appealing choice to have to make."

"Did you agree to this, Grimm?” Dalquist asked, perhaps suspicious that Grimm's will might have been subsumed by Starmor's magic.

Grimm shook his head. “Of course I did not, Dalquist! For all Starmor's promises to leave our minds untouched, he must consider us too dangerous to be left untamed; he will almost certainly break his word as soon as he has the Eye back in his possession. We have twenty-five minutes in which to announce our decision and no more. I do not think that our friend Starmor will offer us an extension. Nonetheless, I may have the germ of another plan.

"Starmor must have been weakened by our previous attack, and the strain of maintaining his powerful ward must be considerable. I believe that, even in his weakened state, a frontal assault against the ward will be unsuccessful. At the first sign of hostility, Starmor will order the Crarians against us en masse , and I doubt even we can prevail against such an attack."

Harvel grimaced. “So far, mage, you don't quite fill me with confidence. What is this marvellous plan you mentioned?"

"Patience, Harvel,” Grimm said, sighing. “Dalquist, from what you told me, the Eye seems to be able to penetrate all but the most potent magical shields. What I wondered was if it would be possible to follow its rays of power to the interior of Starmor's ward; to hitch a ride on the power of the Eye, so to speak. I fancy that even Starmor would have to relinquish his ward in the face of a determined direct attack. Otherwise, why does he need it to protect himself from us?"

Dalquist rubbed his forehead. “Your idea may have some merit, Grimm, but I do not know how it can be achieved. The Eye seems to work on no principle I can fathom; its power is like nothing I have ever encountered. To ride such waves would require an understanding of their form and feel. I don't know how to do this, and I don't think you do, either."

Grimm felt a movement in the pocket of his robes, and a small head popped into view. Grimm had all but forgotten the presence of Thribble.

"The Eye is not a human periapt,” the demon declared. “It was fashioned by demons your fellow mages summoned for the task. It is beyond your mortal skills to do as you have suggested. Only a demon or its master can access its powers directly. For a human to do so might require months of undisturbed study." Grimm considered the matter. If the small demon spoke the truth, and there was little reason to consider otherwise, then the plan would fail. Conscious of the little time remaining until the end of Starmor's period of grace, he still allowed his mind to race through alternative solutions.

"Thribble, could you pass along the Eye's webs of force?” Dalquist asked, before Grimm could put the thought into words.

The demon snorted; a brief sound like a high-pitched hiccup. “Of course I could, Questor; such energies are as plain to my kind as a road or a river would be to you humans, once pointed out to us. Nonetheless, I cannot conceive of being more than a mild irritation to a mighty being like Starmor. My powers are, I must admit, limited in this regard."

Grimm thought for a brief moment. “Demon, could Shakkar achieve the feat? I feel sure he would pose a far more potent problem for an unprepared Starmor than you could. At the moment, Shakkar is confined in a cage near Starmor's throne, and his fury is evident."

"I understand Shakkar has been stripped of his capacity for magic,” the demon replied, furrowing his tiny brow. “Your proposal seems to lack merit. Even if his power is yet weak, as you suggest, I feel sure Starmor's magic will be more than a match for him."

Grimm smiled, feeling his plan coalescing into clarity. “I do not intend for Shakkar to defeat Starmor;” he droned, “just to focus his attention. The Baron cannot hope to fight Shakkar with physical force. He will need to use powerful spells, and he may have to relinquish his magical shield to do so."

"In such a case, the deed might be possible,” the tiny demon allowed, rubbing his stubbly chin, “although you would need to act before Starmor recognised what was afoot. Shakkar would need to strike before his own hate and rage began to fill the sphere, since that would only serve to empower his captor. Speed and co-ordination would be of the absolute essence. Another problem is that, although we demons have a skill analogous to your magic sight, we need to have unfamiliar patterns of energy shown to us before we can see them. I do not fancy you can do this without attracting Master Starmor's attention."

"I think you underestimate us, friend demon,” Dalquist said. “I may have that matter in hand. We have little time to consider the matter further, so we'll go with this plan.

"Grimm; you will give Shakkar the spell to send Starmor to the pillar. It would be better if we were all stripped of our emotions as you are, but I feel the risk is too great for us all to become dependent upon the herbs you carry, especially if the plan is unsuccessful.

"Starmor should be shielded from our emotions while his ward remains in place. We will take the Eye to him whilst feigning reluctant acquiescence to his tainted offer. Grimm, you will act as our spokesperson and approach the throne as closely as you dare. With luck, I may be able to achieve a Telepathic rapport with Shakkar, acquaint him with the plan and show him the peculiarities of the Eye's magic." Grimm nodded. “I agree, Dalquist."

"I imagine he'll order us to toss the gem towards him and to leave the tower,” the older mage continued.

“I'll then withdraw the Eye from the extra-dimensional cubby-hole where I've been keeping it. Since I have some skill with Telepathy, I will extend my Mage Sight towards Shakkar and show him the Eye's lines of force. If this attack causes the Baron to drop the shield, even for a heartbeat, you will stand ready to dispatch our enemy to his deserts. I don't feel at all confident about our success, since the margins for error are slender at best, but the scheme seems to be the only option offering any hope at all. I don't relish the prospect of becoming another wailing face on Starmor's stairwell."

"Dalquist, Starmor was able to pain his captive souls even whilst sitting in his force bubble,” Grimm said, frowning. “It may be that he can strike without warning, without dropping the shield for a moment." Dalquist laughed. “I told you, Grimm: there's nothing certain about this. It's a gamble, pure and simple. I'm gambling that the whole tower is an integral adjunct of Starmor's power. You told us that his ward extended into the structure of the tower itself. To me, this seems a sheer waste of much-needed power, when a smaller shield surrounding just Starmor's own body would seem a better and more cost-effective solution. I'm willing to bet his magic can't extend outside the sphere any more than ours can. I think he needs to be in contact with the fabric of the tower itself right now; and the new tower is not yet as steeped in power as its predecessor was."

A broad smile spread over the older mage's face. “If Starmor's magic is anything like ours, it will take far more power to restart a spell than to leave it running; he won't dare drop it while we're around. I'll bet he's still sitting in his ward, just waiting for us."

Had Grimm's mind been under his full control, he knew Dalquist's decisive reasoning would have impressed him. Even in his untroubled state of mind, this idea had not occurred to him. Perhaps the sense of urgency imparted by emotions has its advantages! he thought. Perhaps this is why Starmor made his offer to allow us to serve with our minds intact.

"A sound point indeed, Dalquist,” he replied. “I admit it had not occurred to me to question the extra use of power needed to resume such a ward; power that Starmor can surely ill afford." As the effect of the herbal fumes on his brain again began to fade, Grimm felt strong emotions rising inside him once more.

"Let's do it!” he cried, and Harvel and Crest nodded fiercely.

One pull on the pipe calmed him; another deep draught of smoke, and Grimm was once more as an impassive automaton.

"I am ready,” he muttered.

As one in their determination, the warriors and the Questors made their way through the doors of the tavern.

The former landlord stepped forward from the large group of slaves in front of the inn.

"You will surrender the gem to me,” the burly man rasped in a dull monotone. “I will take it to Lord Starmor."

"I will talk only to the puppet-master, not to his plaything. I do not yet trust my soul to Starmor's tender mercies,” Dalquist snapped, shaking his head. “If you stand in our way, he will have many fewer subjects to control before we are defeated. Step aside!"

Some human spark yet glimmered in the landlord's spell-addled eyes, as if some basic urge for self-preservation still flickered within him. He stood aside.

It is unwise to anger even a heavily-outnumbered Questor, Grimm thought with the last, dulled edges of pride.

Ten minutes remained until the expiry of Starmor's deadline, so the group did not hurry: every moment the demon sat within his ward might weaken him further. In his depleted state, the Baron would hardly dare risk a second demolition of the tower, his power base. He might be able to soak up the tortured emotions of his vassals in order to strengthen himself, but he might then risk the destruction of the tower, knowing that the adventurers must now know of its importance to him. Starmor must stay as he was, linked intimately to his abode.

As the group approached the tower, Grimm could tell the keening of the imprisoned souls had lessened. Presumably, Starmor was guarding his strength against the possibility of perfidy. Nonetheless, on reaching the throne chamber, the demon still assumed a confident grin. Shakkar, fangs bared, battered futilely at the shining bars of his cage.

"Questor Grimm, my dear, witless friend!” Starmor said. “I trust you have convinced your friends of the futility of opposing me? You may be able to inconvenience me, but only at the cost of your precious mortal souls. Surrender the Eye to me and live. Oppose me, and suffer a fate far worse than the most anguishing death you can imagine. What is your answer?"

Grimm sensed an upsurge in Dalquist's aura. Shakkar's restless clattering ceased, and the young mage guessed that the senior mage was contacting the demon and outlining the plan to him.

"I have discussed your offer with my companions, Starmor,” he said, “and I must say that we remain unconvinced of the value of your word. While we all feel that we have little choice in the matter, we would ask for some proof of your good faith."

"I offer none,” the demon replied, snorting. “I wish for a few good, keen minds about me as well as my useful but thoughtless vassals, as I have told you. You may take my word for this, and serve me as equals, or you may rot as my playthings; it is all the same to me. Surrender the Eye and live, or have it taken from you and suffer eternal torment. It is a simple matter, so I will allow you no further cogitation on the subject. Do you accept my kind offer or not?"

From the corner of his eye, Grimm saw Dalquist give the slightest of nods. “Very well, Starmor,” he sighed, “you leave us little choice. Dalquist?"

Dalquist muttered and the gem appeared in his hand, and the young mage saw the demon Baron lean forward, his eyes narrowed in an expression of the purest avarice.

"Leave the gem on the floor,” Starmor growled in a hoarse voice. “My slaves will escort you back to the inn until I am ready for you. You must—"

A blue flash filled the chamber. In the blink of an eye, Shakkar disappeared from his cage and reappeared next to the Baron's throne. Without a moment's hesitation, the scaly behemoth launched a savage, ferocious assault upon Starmor. The Baron screamed and flung a vicious spell at Shakkar as eager talons reached for him. The magic threw the titan back, but Shakkar just snarled and surged forward again.

Grimm tensed himself, waiting for the ward to fail, his mind patterned for his spell of Translocation. Starmor held off the huge demon with a succession of spells, but Grimm guessed that Shakkar's hatred was offset by the very violence of the attack. At any moment, the shield must fail!

At last, Shakkar landed a solid blow, laying the Baron's cheek open. As he fell to the floor, Starmor's voice boomed, seeming to reverberate from the very walls of the tower. "Kill the intruders! Kill them all!"

At that moment, the ward failed, and Grimm shrieked out the syllables of the short-range Translocation spell, with the full power of a Mage Questor behind it. Starmor disappeared, and Shakkar was left flailing savagely at thin air.

"He is gone!” Dalquist crowed. “The people of Crar are free! We have succeeded, and we still have the Eye!"

Harvel shivered. “I don't want to spend a moment further in this awful monstrosity of a palace, Questor Dalquist. May we leave now?"

Dalquist smiled. “I think we will all welcome that, swordsman.” He led the party back down the staircase, into the street. Shakkar was the last to emerge.

Townspeople were converging on the party from all directions, although they walked in complete silence.

"This must be a welcoming committee,” Crest observed. “It's no more than we deserve."

"No welcoming committee, this,” Dalquist growled. “Look at them! Do they look like happy revellers?

No: Starmor's last spell persists. He has sent the people of Crar to destroy us!" The impassive features of the approaching throng unnerved even the drug-ridden Grimm. Some carried scythes, swords, mattocks or pitchforks, while others bore simple planks of wood or kitchen knives. The greater part of the growing horde bore no weapons, but they held their hands before them, clawing at the air. Men, women and children—the whole of the populace seemed bent on the party's destruction. Shakkar growled and bared his fangs, roaring at the crowd, but his fearsome presence seemed to leave the assailants unaffected.

As the first assailant approached, bearing a grass-hook, Crest's whip lashed out, flinging the Crarian to one side, unconscious.

Harvel's rapier hissed free of its waxed scabbard and neatly skewered a muscular, hammer-wielding man clad in a blacksmith's leather apron and dungarees. For a brief moment, Grimm saw in the dead man the image of his own grandfather, Loras, but he shook his head to free himself of the vision.

"There are too many of them!” he cried. “Dalquist, we need a ward, and I have no idea how to raise one!"

The senior mage nodded and began to chant, his face a mask of concentration. The ward materialised just as the main group of ensorcelled Crarians reached them. The avid bite of the magical shield made them yelp in pain as they touched it, yet they came at it again and again, crowding around the adventurers, pressing and clawing against the invisible wall.

"I can— ah!— I can maintain this— ugh! —spell for no more than ten minutes, maybe less,” Dalquist said, gasping every time one of the assailants impacted the ward. “I am open to suggestions, gentlemen!"

"I can supply you with further energy for the spell, Dalquist,” Grimm suggested, feeling cold fear flooding through his nerves as the effect of his drugs began to wear off. “They must become exhausted, eventually, even with Starmor's hex on them."

"Most of the— oh!— Crarians are just milling around,” Dalquist replied, his face wreathed in perspiration, “waiting for their chance to attack us. Twenty minutes more would just delay the inevitable. We couldn't hope to fight them all, especially in an enclosed space such as this."

"Can't you just transport us out of here, mage?” Harvel suggested, twitching his rapier nervously as another assault on the ward caused Dalquist to squeeze his eyes tightly shut with effort.

"Not through the ward, blademaster. The moment I drop it, we will all be dead in a heartbeat, well before I could complete the spell. A spell of Mental Control might well reach outside this wall but I am no mighty Mentalist. I couldn't hope to contact so many minds at once. What of you, Grimm? Have you any ideas? This— aagh!— this is getting desperate, my friend!" Grimm shivered as a thick stream of blood from an attacker's skin-shorn knuckles ran down the invisible partition between the comrades and the mindless automata that would destroy them.

"I'm trying to think my way around the problem, Dalquist,” he said, “but I can't make the mental link between a Directed spell and an Area effect. If I used all my energy, I could perhaps coerce the nearest ten people to attack the others, but that wouldn't even dent the forces arrayed against us."

"I would aid you, good mage,” Shakkar rumbled, “but I have little power of my own since you cast your spell on Starmor's punishment pillar."

Dalquist groaned as another assault hit home, and he staggered.

"Well, then,” Crest said, “it looks like we've lost, friends. “I didn't think it would end like this, but I'll fight with you to the last.” He lifted the handle of his whip. “That's small comfort, I know, but I won't allow myself to be killed without showing this rag-tag assortment of hooligans what a true warrior can do."

"Small comfort indeed, Crest,” Harvel replied. “These wretches don't even know what they are doing, and I hate to fight against these poor puppets. Still, I don't think we have any choice; I won't die with my sword sheathed."

Grimm considered the alternatives; there seemed to be none.

Dalquist fell to his knees. “I can't hold the spell much longer,” he gasped, clutching his temples. “This is it!"

"Hold firm for a moment, mage,” a familiar voice squeaked from Grimm's pocket. “I have an idea." Dalquist gritted his teeth and nodded. “I'll try, demon."

"Can you pass your power to me, Questor Grimm?” Thribble demanded. “I believe that Starrmor's spell is no more than the force of his voice, combined with earlier spells of obedience. Having heard his voice once, I feel sure I can mimic it perfectly; that is one of my best talents.

"It is only a theory of mine; I am a poor spell-caster, and I have only a lay-demon's knowledge of magic, but it seems to me that you have little choice; your friend Dalquist can surely withstand this battering for a few minutes more at most. Have you, Questor Grimm, the ability to use your magic to amplify my voice so that all may hear? I will tell them to ignore you and attack each other. From the clamour outside, it seems Questor Dalquist's ward does not impede sound."

Grimm gulped, burgeoning emotions beginning to crowd in on his psyche as the mindless Crarians battered and crushed themselves against Dalquist's spell-wall.

I'll need a huge amount of power, he thought, licking dry lips. Sound intensity and magical force decrease as the square of distance. If I'm to make Thribble's order loud and clear to throughout the town, I dare not hold back on the spell, but the principle seems ... sound. Grimm smiled at the unintentional pun.

He knew that, if Thribble's theory was incorrect, he would be in no position to pose any kind of threat to the ravening horde of Crarians after he had unleashed his power; and yet, as the demon had said, he had little choice. On the other hand, he could not bear to see these blameless automata butcher each other. Dalquist raised his grey, sweaty, drawn face towards his friend; his eyes wide and imploring.

"Your idea seems to be our only hope of salvation, Thribble,” Grimm said, “but may I suggest an alteration? Tell the Crarians that they are all released from Starmor's spells and that they're free men and women."

Thribble looked a little dubious. “I think my way is better,” he said with a touch of sullenness.

"Perhaps you have a little less regard for human life than I do, Thribble, being not of our kind. I have no desire to pit these witless puppets against each other. I don't demand this of you; I only request it. Please do as I ask. Once my power is unleashed, your words will be broadcast, whatever they may be. We are all in your hands. Go to it, demon."

Grimm drew a deep breath. “Friends, block your ears,” he advised “This is going to be loud! " The human members of the group complied with Grimm's exhortation, plugging their ears as best they could. Thribble seemed little concerned.

Grimm's Sight showed him that the ward was wavering and faltering. Little time remained; the senior mage was ashen and could surely prevail little longer against the brutal onslaught of the Crarians. Looking downwards, he saw Thribble's nod and unleashed energy from his inmost being, trusting to the demon to see reason. Words were unnecessary, as the power was unleashed from Grimm's inner being like water from a broken dam.

A voice, indistinguishable from that of Starmor, boomed from the demon, impossibly, agonisingly loud:

"Crarians! You are now free from my earlier edicts. You are free to fulfil your lives as you will!" Grimm held the power on, feeling his strength waning at an alarming rate, but he dared not hold back. The adventurers were protected from most of the sound, since it was being driven outward from the centre of the ward, but the volume was still phenomenal. The torrent of naked power seemed to scorch the Questor's very soul, and he moaned in torment, feeling like a candle in the heart of a blacksmith's forge.

The Crarians flinched and staggered as Grimm's energy hit them, sinking deep into their very bones, but they did not stop.

"Your lives are your own,” Starmor's voice roared. “Rejoice in the joy of freedom and your own wills. You are free!"

The Crarians halted, confused, and Dalquist croaked “Another assault and I'm done, friends. Let's hope the spell was successful."

The Crarians had been driven back by the sheer power of the sonic blast. They stood, stunned, for a few seconds more, until Dalquist sank to the ground, utterly spent, as the ward failed at last. Grimm continued to hammer Thribble's message into the attackers’ ears and minds for a few seconds longer and then, with a helpless gesture, he dropped to his knees, gasping and holding his hands to his pounding temples.

The would-be assailants regrouped as if to launch their final assault. Harvel and Crest stood firm, ready to give their all, but the Crarians stopped in their approach, their jaws slack and their brows furrowed. Weapons began to fall from the townspeople's nerveless hands, first with isolated, metallic tinkles and then in an ever-increasing clatter. The befuddled Crarians looked around, confused and uncomprehending. Some pressed their palms to their ears, and Grimm guessed that the battering voice had robbed them of their hearing.

He levered himself to unsteady feet with the aid of Redeemer, shaking with the effort to remain conscious.

"People of Crar!” he husked, feeling as if his throat were filled with sharp shards of flint. “The evil Starmor is no more. Pursue your lives as you will: seek the fulfilment of your dreams and desires. Your lives, so long subject to the will of the odious Starmor, are your own once more, and yours alone. Live!" Grimm gasped once more and slumped to the ground, prone and unmoving.

* * * *

Many of the Crarians stared with blank eyes, perhaps still deaf, but others showed the beginnings of comprehension and wonderment at being freed from Starmor's influence. Some hugged and kissed their neighbours while tears rolled down their cheeks. Some dared timorously to approach Dalquist, Crest and Harvel with open arms, according them the same treatment. They took care to avoid the titanic Shakkar, who growled as they approached.

Dalquist waved them away as best he could and, concerned, he knelt to examine Grimm. The young Questor was ashen, breathing in swift, shallow pants, and he seemed close to death, and the tall mage bit his lip, feeling cold uncertainty sinking into his bones. Grimm had expended his entire store of energy in one mighty explosion of will, and Dalquist feared his young friend had overextended himself. He shook the fallen youth by the shoulders and shouted in his ear, in a vain attempt to recall him to consciousness. The once-murderous throng began to disperse; some singing and some weeping openly. Only a few remained, and one man, dressed in the soiled rags of what had once been costly attire, approached Dalquist, and the mage looked up from his fallen companion.

"Lord Mage,” the old man said in a hesitant voice, “we are all in your debt, beyond what words can express. My name is Querl, and I was once the city's chief physician. Your friend seems in urgent need of medical attention, and I offer my services in humility. I have a few small sleights of magic, which help me in the pursuance of my duties. May I attend the young magic-user?" Dalquist, feeling the direst concern at Grimm's condition, waved Querl towards his unmoving companion. The physician knelt, took Grimm's pulse and held a small mirror under the Questor's nose. He made a few passes over Grimm's brow, muttering a few terse phrases of gibberish.

"Well, Healer,” Dalquist said, his voice tense, “how is Questor Grimm? Will he live?" Looking up from his charge, Querl shrugged.

"His soul has retreated to another place,” he asserted. “His body functions only at a low level, but I am reasonably confident that, with care, it will live.

"Nonetheless, I have no idea if his wandering soul will ever find its way back home. He needs warmth, sustenance and constant attention. He is on a long and difficult journey from which many never return. The next forty-eight hours are critical, and we must find him a warm and comfortable resting place." Chapter 10: Deliverance

The soul of what had once been Grimm Afelnor floated in endless darkness, aimless and free; a small spark drifting through an indistinct haze of barely-registered sensory impressions. It had no thoughts, no sense of self and no emotions; this was a vague, formless mote of consciousness in an ocean of nothingness. For seeming aeons, it swam contented through the warm, soupy sea of oblivion, growing weaker with every moment.

A sound! A distant humming seemed to grow louder and more distinct by the second. The noise reached an unbearable peak, assaulting its very centre, before consciousness came to spirit-Grimm. In a microsecond, it felt itself falling, falling until the spark fell to earth with a heavy thump. Spirit-Grimm had regained mortality: mortality was a sea of cares and pain .

Grimm's head and eyes seemed filled with ice-cold shards of glass, his throat with knives. The awareness of the existence of arms and legs wormed its way into his growing consciousness; large, heavy structures with myriad tunnels inhabited by small, scurrying, biting creatures. He was a living termite's nest, a rabbit warren. A strange, bubbling, keening sound echoed in the distance, and another sound. It was his name. He was aware of the presence of another, and he wanted to be alone. So much easier just to be no more.

The presence persisted, irking him, He tried to open his eyes, but the effort was too great. He became aware that the distant cry came, unbidden, from his own mouth and then ceased.

"Grimm, come back. Grimm, come back..."

He tried to speak but all that came from his lips was a weak, unintelligible, gurgling sound.

"Grimm, I am Querl. Please speak if you can."

"Que-errr-lll...” The sound was faint but comprehensible. “Querl. H-hurts. Grimm. Grimm Af'ln'r"

"Good, Grimm! Do you know where you are?"

"D'know. Crar. Hurts."

"Yes, you are in Crar. I will give you something to ease the pain."

"No, not drugs. None. None. None. No drugs!"

"Very well, Grimm. If you are determined in this, I will administer no drugs, but you may ask me at any time if you change your mind."

"Won’ change mind. No drugs...” The lights faded again.

Grimm did not know how long he had been switching between alternate spells of painful consciousness and blissful nothingness, but he eventually regained full awareness. The presence of a familiar mind; Dalquist was with him.

" Water..."

A glass was raised to his chapped lips, and Grimm winced in pain but drained the water. A glaring flash of light invaded his head as he opened his eyes, but he managed to keep them open long enough to resolve the clear image of his friend. Sitting up seemed impossible to his atrophied muscles, but he managed to speak.

"Dalquist. Did it work?"

Dalquist, grinning, spoke with a hint of tears at the corners of his eyes, no longer bearing the stern, formal persona of the Senior Questor.

"Indeed it did work, Grimm. The people of Crar are free, Starmor seems to be restricted to his pillar, and we have rescued the poor wretches from his other dungeons. I've closed off all these prisons from the human world, as well as Starmor's own, well-merited cell.

"I still have the Eye, and I'll return it to the Guild as soon as you're fully recovered and able to travel. You may be pleased to hear that you're very popular with the people of Crar as the mage who banished their former puppet-master. The former mayor of Crar wishes to speak with you at your earliest convenience."

After a few abortive attempts, Grimm managed, with some difficulty, to raise himself to a sitting position. He found himself sitting in a sumptuous four-poster bed in a tastefully decorated room. Soft, harmonious vocal music gently wafted through the room; a relaxing, peaceful sound.

"Where am I, Dalquist?” he asked. “How long has it been?"

"You're in Starmor's own bedchamber, Grimm. I changed the decor to something a little more suitable for a convalescent mage. It's been two weeks since you banished him."

"Two whole weeks?” Grimm croaked. “We must get back to the House straight away! Lord Thorn must be told of events as soon as possible! I must also admit that the very thought of staying in Starmor's awful tower horrifies me, and I don't want to stay here any longer than necessary."

"Relax, Grimm,” Dalquist said, putting a friendly hand on his friend's right shoulder. “I have contacted Lord Thorn by means of Telepathy, and he is as anxious as I am that you regain your full health before we return. The Eye is in no danger; I sent it back to the same place I used before. It is in a dimensional framework beyond the reach of any secular or layperson. Not even Starmor could find it.

"The tower is not as it was. With the Baron out of the way, the souls imprisoned in the staircase are free from torment. They are free to leave, and yet they choose to remain and rejoice at their deliverance of their own free will. Listen!"

It was true. Grimm realised that what he had assumed to be the singing of a melodious choir was, in fact, emanating from the tower walls.

"Don't worry, Grimm; we're in safe hands. Harvel, Crest, Shakkar, Thribble and I have been feted several times by the people of Crar. Shakkar has performed admirably in aiding the people to rebuild their former lives, and I think the people now know him as a good friend rather than a fearsome monster. He seems to take genuine pleasure in these activities.

"Harvel and Crest have been teaching the warriors of the city how to fight on their own, after so many years as mindless automata. You wouldn't recognise Crar now. It is becoming a pleasant, fruitful community, and old trading links are being renewed with other towns and cities." Grimm tried to smile but his sore, cracked lips did no allow this. “This is good to know, Dalquist,” he croaked “The people of Crar deserve so much more than the chains that held them for so long." Dalquist looked closely at Grimm. The young mage was pale and drawn, to be sure, but his eyes were clear and his gaze steady. “Do you feel in need of your herbs, Grimm?" Grimm mentally explored his body, reaching into every inner nook and cranny, assessing the qualities of his different pains and aches.

"The desire is there, Dalquist,” he admitted, feeling a dull, inchoate longing within his body. “I suspect that it will never truly leave me. Still, at least I can't feel the urgent, overpowering, manic need I felt before. I hope and believe that that blast of energy and my brief coma have bled much of this ugly desire from me. I'll keep the herbs with me as a reminder, but I will resist them as best as I'm able from now on. It won't be easy, but we have both faced worse deprivations."

Grimm smiled at his older friend, and Dalquist responded with a knowing nod. The two Questors shared a bond that ordinary men could never know and never comprehend; their different Ordeals had brought each to the very brink of madness and self-destruction, and only iron will had seen them through those dark days and months. Grimm would surely be possessed of sufficient self-control in order to prove to be as good as his word. Willpower was the cornerstone of a Questor's personality. Grimm tried to get out of bed to show just how well he was, but the effort was beyond him. After several attempts, he abandoned the idea and lay back on his pillow, his face a white mask of sweat.

"I know you'll fight this better than any Secular could ever do,” Dalquist said, “but I don't think you should push yourself too hard. There's no rush; everything's under control. Take your time; we'll be staying here in Crar until I'm convinced you're well enough to travel, and not before." Grimm opened his mouth, ready to protest, but contented himself with a rueful smile instead, as he felt lassitude seeping through his limbs.

"Perhaps you're right, Dalquist,” he allowed. “Maybe I'm not as strong as I thought I was."

* * * *

After three days of angry determination and frustration, Grimm regained the full use of his legs, although he remained pale and weak. Each morning, he did his best to complete the punishing regimen of morning exercise he had been taught as a Neophyte, and he felt himself growing stronger by the day. Good, nourishing food aided his recovery in his recovery, and he felt his mage powers returning also. On Grimm's third day of completing the whole sequence of exercises, he washed himself with care and brushed his matted hair and beard until they shone. Donning his robes, and calling Redeemer to him, he caught sight of himself in a mirror and stared at a stranger.

The young man's face was ashen-pale, and he was tall and lanky, but there ended any resemblance to the callow adolescent's face Grimm had expected to see. This was a knowing face, a serious face ... this young man looked dangerous . Even the way he carried his body was different: gawkiness was replaced by loose-limbed confidence. This was not a man easily frightened...

Regarding his reflected image with more astonishment than vanity, he thought, I look like a real Questor now!

Grimm knew Dalquist would not diminish his role in the Quest when giving his report to Lord Thorn, and that he had done well. The young mage looked at his staff and smiled.

You'll soon have that first gold ring, Redeemer, he thought, smiling. We're on our way, at last!

He started at a knock on his chamber door and said, “Come in."

Dalquist entered with a middle-aged man almost as tall as he. The stranger had a mass of tight, black, curly hair over a dark-brown face. He wore a striking scarlet and black coat over black breeches, and Grimm guessed the broad, yellow sash slanting across the man's chest marked him as some kind of civic functionary.

"Lord Mage, I am Chod,” the stranger said, with a respectful half-bow. “I am the former Mayor of Crar, and I'm pleased to see you looking so fit and well after your ordeal." Grimm remembered his lessons in Guild protocol: Mage Speech would be required in this situation, and he should respond to the dignitary with politeness but not deference. As a Guild Mage, even one without a mark of rank on his staff, he was the equal of any Secular, and he must not debase himself in any way. He was a representative of the Guild, and worthy of respect.

He grasped the mayor's extended hand with a firm, grip and shook it three times, as he had been taught.

"Mayor Chod, I am honoured to meet you,” he said, accompanying his words with a polite nod. “How may I be of service?"

The mayor cleared his throat, and Grimm thought he looked a little embarrassed.

"Lord Grimm,” the dignitary said, in a soft, pleasant baritone, “we are overjoyed at the deliverance of our people, and are working as hard as we can to return Crar to its former state as a proud trading city. Matters progress apace, and we hope soon to be free of the taint of Baron Starmor, who controlled us for so many years."

Grimm looked at Dalquist, who wore a broad smile, and he guessed that the mayor was coming to the crux of the matter.

"We Crarians are simple folk, and we feel the need of a strong leader; a patriarch. I do my best to fulfil this role but I was once a puppet of Starmor, as were all the other citizens. I feel sullied, as do they; we were not whole men and women.

"We need somebody to guide us who was not under Starmor's spell. I have been mayor for twenty years, but for fifteen of those years I was nothing more than a smiling, gavel-wielding marionette with no power or will of my own. It will take me some time to get into the habit of making my own decisions again, and I will feel much more secure in my work if I am able to recover my confidence as a municipal officer under the notional protection of a strong and resourceful leader." Grimm nodded, waiting for the man to get to the point. No doubt, Chod was on the point of offering Dalquist this position; a position his friend must needs decline, in view of his obligation to the Guild.

"You were instrumental in the defeat of Starmor, Lord Mage,” the mayor intoned, lowering his eyes.

“We of the reformed Council of Crar wish to offer you the title and privileges of the Baron of Crar. To you would pass all the rights and privileges once stolen by Starmor. Considerable wealth comes with the position, and this would all be yours; as you can imagine, Starmor built up a considerable balance of capital from the hard work of his enslaved subjects."

Grimm gaped, dumbstruck, for several moments. The man was offering him , a mere blacksmith's boy, the lofty position of Baron of Crar?

Granfer will be so proud, he thought, feeling his heart pounding, seeing himself dressed in silk robes and golden finery. And Gramma Drima, too! They will...

The concept was impossible; Grimm was a Guild Mage, above all, and his first and last obligations were to his House and his Prelate. Tempting as he found the offer, he knew he must refuse.

"Mayor Chod,” he said, doing his best to keep the note of resignation from his voice, “I feel more gratified than I am able to express by this signal honour. However, with the deepest regrets, I must decline your kind offer. I am not a free agent. My fealty is to the Guild of which I am fortunate enough to be a member. I cannot commit myself to the administration of Crar." Dalquist, who had been standing at Chod's shoulder, stepped forward.

"Questor Grimm, you would not need to commit yourself to a full-time residency at Crar. I have had several conversations with Mayor Chod on this subject. I outlined the objections I knew you must raise, as a true Guild Mage. Lord Mayor; will you be so good as to allow me to paraphrase your response to Questor Grimm's expected response?"

Chod opened his hands and turned them palms-up towards Dalquist.

"Please feel free to do so, Lord Mage."

"Thank you, Mayor Chod.

"Questor Grimm: my understanding is that the position of Baron of Crar is expected only to be ceremonial. You would be expected to provide—shall we say—spiritual guidance to the people of Crar." The young mage frowned. Was he expected to act as some kind of priest?"

"Now, Brother Mage,” Dalquist laughed, “I beg you not to panic. Your obligation to Crar would be as a

... a figurehead , an ever-present reminder of what Crar must represent to the world. You would not be expected to be a civil functionary or even to reside within these city walls. I know that, at this stage of your vocation, you are required to live within the walls of Arnor House, and Lord Mayor Chod is well aware of this stricture. Believe me, Questor Grimm: you will not be breaching the terms of your Guild Oath if you were to accept this position. An occasional visit would suffice."

"Nonetheless, Questor Dalquist, Lord Mayor Chod, I must still demur.” The words felt like ashes in his mouth, but Grimm knew he must still refuse.

"The wealth and power stolen by Starmor from his former subjects should be shared by them, not simply given to a mere figurehead. The money and prestige are surely yours; I cannot accept them."

"Lord Grimm, you do not understand the freely expressed will of the Crarian people,” Chod replied, and Grimm saw sweat beading the mayor's brow, his entwined hands trembling. He's terrified! the mage thought. What have I said that scares him so?

"You are correct that Starmor's wealth and power were stolen from us,” whispered Chod. “For many years we laughed and cried, celebrated and commiserated only by the will of Starmor, whether this accorded with our own feelings or not. We lived in an unending nightmare from which we could not escape. What he took from us, he perverted and twisted into something sick and meaningless. We do not wish it to be returned to us; it frightens us as a symbol of our slavery. We wish for a new Baron, one who represents the true precepts of the newly free people of Crar; a Baron who will be the ever-present symbol of the new order."

"Give the money away, if you will, Lord Mayor,” Grimm protested, “but, if you find it besmirched, would that taint not pass to me, if I had control over it? I advise you to seek a more experienced person as your ruler."

Chod shook his head. “We do not wish to touch Starmor's tainted booty, but we would not see it wasted. We are by nature merchants, and waste is hateful to us. This wealth would be yours to command, and yours to use as you see fit. We refuse to spend it on ourselves." The mayor smiled. “Nonetheless, should our Baron wish to do so in charity, we would accept his gift with gratitude."

Despite Grimm's former objections, Chod did not seem to act as if he were under duress; this insane proposal seemed to be his heart's desire, and he would not be balked.

The young Questor had to admit that the title ‘Grimm, Baron of Crar’ sounded alluring, and he had done his level best to raise his objections. Who was he to deny the freely expressed will of the people of Crar?

Drawing a deep breath, he asked, “Are you certain my acceptance of this post will not compromise my obligation to the Guild, Brother Mage?"

Dalquist shrugged. “Questor Grimm; so long as the post of Baron never interferes with your responsibilities to the House and the Guild, accepting Mayor Chod's offer contravenes none of the Guild Rules. Several House Mages possess noble credentials, and some of them have become very wealthy as a result. Some even offer their services for hire. There is no rule that requires that a mage, even one of charitable status, must be a pauper for the rest of his life. My advice would be to accept Mayor Chod's munificent offer with gratitude."

Leaning close to his friend, the older mage whispered, “Take it, Grimm; if you don't, I will—that is, if Chod offers it to me!"

Grimm cleared his throat and assumed a solemn manner as best he could. Grimm Afelnor, Baron of Crar! The title sounded ridiculous, but it was better than those he had borne as a Charity Student: ‘pauper's bastard', ‘traitor's spawn’ and ‘swamp rat’ among the kindest of these.

"Very well, Mayor Chod,” he sighed, keeping a sheepish smile from his face, “you shall have your new Baron, provided that I am not expected to spend my full time in Crar. As a Guild Mage, my first allegiance is to my House; I cannot and will not abandon that duty." Chod nodded. “Lord Mage Dalquist advised me of this, Questor Grimm. All will be as you wish, I assure you."

"My first act as Baron will be to offer the former wealth of Starmor to you and the Council, to do with as you will in the service of the city of Crar. It is not mine to take, and I have no experience in the use of money."

It hurt Grimm to add this codicil, but it eased his troubled conscience to say so. Chod grimaced and shook his head.

"With the greatest of respect, Lord Mage, I regret that I cannot accept your terms. You are free to accept or refuse the post of Baron of Crar as you will, but, should you accept this responsibility, the wealth of Starmor must be administered by you and you alone, on a case-by-case basis. We have proven fallible before, and we lack the confidence to administer our own funds without guidance.

"The Baron of Crar has always carried out this function, since well before the time that Starmor invaded our city. Since his advent, fifteen years ago, we have had our lives directed for us in all respects, and we lack the confidence to fully administer even our own lives. We are leaderless, and we crave governance by someone who was never tainted by Starmor's evil magic."

Grimm felt trapped in a quandary. He knew he could not commit to running Crar on a regular basis, and yet these people obviously needed help.

As an idea came to him, he brightened. “How would it be if I appointed a representative: a Seneschal, to run the day-to-day affairs of the city in my name? Someone you could trust to protect you. Someone who cares nothing for gold and jewels? Someone who has actively resisted Starmor's will for many years?"

Chod nodded slowly. “That might be acceptable, Lord Mage. Do you have somebody in mind?"

"Our demon friend, Shakkar, seems to have an unsuspected talent for organisation,” Grimm said. “With your permission, I will ask him if he will take the post of Seneschal. I believe you would find him a potent ally and guardian, should he accept."

Now, it was the mayor's turn to frown. “Shakkar was once Starmor's lieutenant, of his own volition , Lord Mage,” he said, narrowing his eyes. “This does not sit well with me. At least the rest of us fought Starmor as well as we could before we lost our minds."

Grimm shook his head. “With respect, Lord Mayor, you are mistaken,” he said. “Shakkar opposed Starmor as soon as his evil plans became clear, at the cost of his magical powers and his freedom. He spent a decade in grim imprisonment for his pains. He was free to leave at any time, but he chose to fight the Baron instead. He steadfastly refused to aid Starmor in the enslavement of the city's denizens. This is heroic behaviour from a creature who was shunned by all, kin to no human, and who owes you no fealty. We could not have defeated Starmor without the aid of Shakkar, Lord Mayor. He was instrumental in your salvation."

* * * *

Chod considered the young man's words with care. He had hoped that Questor Grimm, whom, he knew, must remain at all times bound to the will of the Guild, would cede control of the offered city finances to the Council, without conditions, whilst still offering a measure of protection. A few hundred gold pieces, or even a few thousand, would be a small price to pay for the threat of Guild retribution for any attack; a threat Chod could invoke at any time when negotiating with the other towns in the region. The mayor had been prepared to accept a human representative, but, now he knew the truth of Starmor's demonic provenance, it seemed unthinkable that another demon should be accepted as a representative of a new Baron, a new order. On the other hand, he knew that Questor Grimm spoke the truth.

He had seen with his own eyes Shakkar's first vocal opposition to Starmor's actions when the newly elevated Baron had begun to change free humans into enslaved caricatures and puppets. The Council, cowed by this evidence of power, had deemed it politic to say and do nothing, biding their time. By then, it was too late...

Chod knew he dared not return to the Council with empty hands, and he also knew the people of Crar would be unlikely to accept the unquestioned rule of a group of people who had failed them before. The still-cowed people of Crar might accept the accession of the Council at first, but their tenure might be brief, as the citizens began to revel in their newfound freedom. In order to prevent anarchy, Crar, so long a Barony, needed a benign but powerful ruler to watch over it. The implicit protection of the mighty Guild, however distant, might prove a potent safeguard against any would-be attacker. Questor Grimm had proved to be a young man of considerable moral principle as well as magical power, and this elevated him even more in the Mayor's eyes than had his former resourcefulness; this youth was not greedy and would not raid the civic purse too often. The fact that he would be away from the city for most of the time was, if anything, an advantage. Only the matter of Grimm's proposed Seneschal caused him pause; nonetheless, was the prospective Baron's candidate beyond consideration?

The demon has certainly been of great help in the rebuilding of Crar, in the short time since Starmor left us. Having a dull-witted monster like Shakkar to protect us could not help but deter our eager-eyed enemies.

Perhaps this young mage's idea is not so bad, after all. I am a politician, after all. I should be able to swing sufficient support in the Council, if I word the proposal in a suitable form...

"My apologies, Lord Mage,” he said at last, bowing, trying not to sound too eager. “Will you kindly put your suggestion to this demon, Shakkar? I will recommend to the Council in the strongest terms that we accept your proposal."

"Mayor Chod, I will,” Questor Grimm replied. “Needless to say, my acceptance of the post of Baron is conditional upon our mutual acceptance of this stipulation."

Chod nodded, suppressing a smile.

"I have one more stipulation of my own, Questor Grimm. You must accept a yearly stipend of one thousand gold pieces from the civic fund, with the addition of further expenses occurred during the furtherance of your duties in this city. I must insist that you have new suits of fine clothes made up for you at our expense; we owe you more than that for our deliverance, whether you accept the position of Baron or not."

That should be a suitable enticement for a blacksmith's boy, he thought. Chod kept an impassive face as he saw Grimm's expression brighten, but the young magic-user still did not speak.

"Of course, your companions are included in this generous offer,” the mayor continued, feeling a little frustrated. “We still have superb tailors, who latterly clothed Starmor with his finery, and you will find them more than happy to provide this service, of their own free will, to the men who delivered them from bondage. We also have excellent smiths who will work any metal into any adornment or weaponry that you may desire, and who will gladly provide you with the finest accoutrements. I insist upon this as a minimal payment for your pains on our behalf. We Crarians are not ones to ignore a debt, or to leave it unpaid. It is not charity: it is gratitude. Should you refuse this, we will destroy an equal amount of the wealth each year, rather than spend it on ourselves. Our people take their obligations seriously, I assure you. I beg you to accept this offer, which comes from the bottom of my heart." In truth, Chod did not begrudge this largesse in the least; it was a cheap enough price for the assurance of Crar's tacit protection by the Guild and a fearsome demon.

* * * *

Grimm felt uncomfortable at the thought of accepting Chod's offer and the concept of becoming rich through stolen wealth, but the mayor's expression showed the intensity of feeling that burned behind his face. Grimm understood well the concept of obligation.

What's so wrong with the idea of my becoming wealthy? he asked himself, although his mental sophistry did not entirely convince him.

He shot a glance at Dalquist again but, this time, the senior mage's expression offered him no guidance. This decision was his own, and his alone.

How many times have I heard of the fabulous spoils won from other Quests, he wondered. How many times have I read of money seized, cozened or plundered from defeated enemies?

This munificence had been offered to him on a platter, and it would be churlish to refuse. The people of Crar wanted a new start under the spiritual guidance of a new leader, a symbol of opposition to the old, hated order. Who better than Grimm Afelnor, the son and the grandson of blacksmiths; an Acclaimed Mage who had opposed and fought Starmor at every turn, and who had defeated and banished the hated tyrant?

The words came in an impulsive gush from his lips, as if somebody other than Grimm Afelnor had spoken them.

"I accept all your conditions with humility and deep gratitude, Mayor Chod, assuming that Shakkar is willing to act as my Seneschal. I will be your new Baron through thick and thin. I accept. I accept your offer with my thanks."

He struggled to maintain his sorcerous dignity, but he fought to deny the tears that pricked at his eyelids their release. The cold, measured tones and language of a mighty Questor deserted him.

"I'm worried that I'm going to make an awful mess of the whole thing, Lord Mayor,” he said, feeling tears beginning to prickle his eyelids. He took a deep breath until sure his emotions would not betray him.

"It's going to take a lot of getting used to,” he said, with a weak smile. “I'm accustomed to being Grimm, the Pauper. ‘Grimm, Baron of Crar’ sounds like somebody else, but I'll do my best to be what you expect of me; assuming that Shakkar is willing to represent me, of course." Mayor Chod gave a deep, courtly bow.

"Thank you, Lord Mage, from the bottom of my heart,” he said. “I feel sure the other members of the Council will agree with your stipulations, and we will all be awaiting your word.” He bowed again, and left.

Dalquist turned towards Grimm, looking a little amused at his young friend's discomfiture. Annoyed at Dalquist's slight smirk, Grimm snapped, “Don't you dare call me ‘Lord Baron', Dalquist. The title of Questor means more to me, in any case."

Dalquist laughed, and Grimm frowned.

"Look here, Brother Mage! If you want to laugh at me—"

Dalquist shook his head. “I'm sorry, Grimm. I wasn't laughing at you ; only at your face. I can assure you, Harvel and Crest will be more than happy to accept their prizes, and I hanker for a little of the easy life myself A few decent changes of clothes for me, say, five or six, would be welcome, and I've been trying to scrape up enough for some cloth-of-gold robes for some time. A Questor needs to impress his audience, and good clothes can do a lot to grease the wheels during a hard Quest. I'm well pleased with Chod's terms."

"Dalquist, you couldn't take all that with you on a Quest, anyway. It's all very well to sport such finery within the House, but I want to be out and about, Questing as I should. You'd never fit all that in a holdall or rucksack."

Dalquist smiled, with just a little smugness playing momentarily on his face. “The secret dimensional cubby-hole that I used to secrete the Eye can have other uses. It draws no power from me to maintain it, and I can access it as easily as turning a corner. It is large enough to hold a whole rack of clothes. I'll be happy to explain how I did it, and you should be able easily to procure your own." Grimm drifted for a moment in idle reverie at the concept.

No more itchy homespun for me! he thought.

However, he felt unease beginning to grow within his entrails.

"This all sounds so good, Dalquist,” he said. “But it also sounds too good to be true. I'm not sure Chod's offer was ... well, untainted . Why would these people be so keen to make me their Baron?" This time, Dalquist exploded into laughter, tears bursting from his eyes. Grimm glowered, clenching his fists at his sides. “I really don't see the joke, Dalquist! If you'd care to share it with me—"

"Your face , Grimm!” the older mage spluttered, dabbing his eyes with a blue handkerchief. “If you could ... if you could only see it! Of course Chod's proposal's isn't all it seems! He wants you to agree to represent Crar, giving the city all the protection of the Guild, without being here. He wants to tempt you with all the wealth of the city, knowing you'll never be here to spend it." Grimm felt his jaw dropping, and he just managed to stop himself from appearing like an idiot by lowering his brows and growling, “Are you saying I'm being a fool here, my friend?" Dalquist smiled and said, “Only if you want to be one, Grimm. It's not your fault—you're still very young."

Grimm drew a deep breath, trying to keep his expression casual, although he felt as if a gallon of boiling water had been poured over his back.

"Brother Mage,” he said. “May we work on the basis that I know somewhat less of the wider world than you for just a few moments? What in the blessed Names are you talking about?" Dalquist, still laughing, waved his hands as if to drive away a mass of flies.

"This is as good as it gets,” he said. “You don't have to do anything , Grimm! Just say ‘please’ and

‘thank you’ in the right places, and take what they give you. Chod will pay plenty just to be able to say that a Guild Mage is Baron of Crar—an attack on the city might then be regarded as an assault on the Guild itself.

"It's not true, of course, but it doesn't do any harm to let our good Lord Mayor think so. Enjoy yourself, my friend, at his expense. He thinks he has the better part of the deal, so let him think so."

* * * *

Shakkar strode into Starmor's—Grimm's—bedchamber after a perfunctory, yet thundering, knock that threatened to burst the thick oaken portal off its steel hinges. The demon grasped Grimm in his massive arms, and the mage had to fight for breath.

"Easy, Shakkar,” he gasped, “I'm not made of stone. Or do you just want to tenderise me before eating me after all?"

"Questor Grimm, I'm glad that you have recovered,” the giant rumbled, extricating himself. “Now I find I have a true human friend, I do not wish to lose him. Perhaps I should call you ‘Lord Baron’ now?" Grimm shook his head. “Please don't, Shakkar. My name is sufficient address, truly. In fact, I'd rather you dropped the ‘Questor’ title; plain ‘Grimm’ will be fine. How are you getting on with the Crarians? I hear that they appreciate your help a lot."

Shakkar grunted. “They were terrified of me at first, but now they seem friendly enough. I think this may be quite a pleasant city when I have finished. Much remains to be done, and I feel at ease when dealing with these mortals, now that they seem to trust me."

The demon lowered his head, and Grimm could have sworn that Shakkar's grey-green face bore a faint pink flush of embarrassment.

"Would you ... would you have any objection if I remained here for a few months, Lord Mage? These people seem to need me."

Grimm smiled; the angry, destructive demon seemed to be enjoying his work.

"Do you not wish to return to your own kind, Shakkar?” he said in a tone of mock-horror. The titan shrugged. “At first, I despised these people,” he muttered, his head still bowed, “and I felt contempt at the ease with which Starmor was able to enslave them. Now, I see them almost as equals. They struggle to regain their lives after a decade of bondage. It is a task worthy of even a demon, let alone a human. I think I would like to tarry a while, to help these people to regain their self-respect ... with your permission, Grimm."

Shakkar's response cheered Grimm, yet the Questor felt uncertain as to how the demon would react to the offer of even nominal servitude to a human.

"Shakkar, I have not yet accepted the post of Baron,” he said. “I am, first and last, a Guild Mage, and I cannot commit myself to constant vigilance over the city of Crar. I need a representative, someone to exercise a stern control over the finances of the newly-reborn city and to take care of the citizens’

needs."

Shakkar's head flicked up an iota, revealing his blood-red eyes, but he said nothing.

"I will be unavailable for long periods of time,” the mage continued, “and I need someone strong-willed enough to make his own decisions in the face of uncertainty and confusion, without the need to consult me first.

"In short: I need a Seneschal to administer the city in my absence, Shakkar. Not a servant, not a vassal, but an equal. Are you he? Will you commit yourself to the administration of Crar when I am away?" The demon threw back his head and bared his teeth, an awful sound emerging from his throat. At first, Grimm thought Shakkar offended and on the point of attacking him. Then, he realised the truth; the underworld behemoth was laughing .

"You humans take a long time to say very little,” boomed Shakkar, his vast shoulders heaving in amusement. “Once, that annoyed me, but now I see it is just one of your quirks.

"Very well, human, I will be your Seneschal. I think I know what these people need, and the lure of gold will not tempt me . I will represent you here, and I will protect the City as best I can. I think you can take care of yourself without me, while these people cannot. I accept the post of Seneschal." Grimm craned his neck and wagged a warning finger at the towering behemoth, feeling the absurdity of the image he must be presenting. “I do have a few ground rules, Shakkar: you are responsible for the equitable disbursement and safeguarding of City funds, and the Council of Crar will make their representations to you for any financial support. You must consider these fairly, and allot resources without prejudice. If you feel uncertain, the will of the Council will prevail. I will not have a dictatorship here.

"You will make no alliance with any other city, trading organisation or military group without the majority consent of the Council, freely expressed by means of a secret ballot. You will oversee civil elections to ensure that no unfair pressure is brought to bear on the voters by any party. Fairly fought campaigns with slogans and debates are acceptable, but threats of physical violence, undue duress or bribes are forbidden."

Shakkar frowned, looking a little disappointed, but he made no comment.

"The Baron and his Seneschal are just as bound by the laws and customs of Crar,” Grimm continued,

“as all other citizens, subject to whatever penalties may be assessed for any transgressions. You have no vote in Council meetings except in the event of a tied result, in which case you have a casting vote.

"As a final comment, I would add that the world of politics is a mystery to me. I'm sure there will be times when these simplistic rules will break down, and some issues may require your direct intercession. At these times, some tact, discretion or judgement may be necessary, and I trust that you will be just and humane in your decisions."

The demon lowered his brows as if to protest, but perhaps thought better of it. “I agree, Questor,” he rumbled.

"Whenever I am present in Crar, I will consult with you before I make any decisions of my own, to be sure I don't contradict you over some decision you have already made. On the other hand, after any such consultation, I reserve the right to overrule you on any judgement I regard as prejudicial to the harmonious running of the city. You are an intelligent and honest being, so I do not imagine that I will have many such problems, if any."

Grimm looked the demon in the eye. He wanted Shakkar to know just what lay in store for him.

"I will add that you may not resign your position until another has been elected to the position of Seneschal by the Council and the appointment has been ratified personally by me." Shakkar opened his mouth, but Grimm stayed his words with a wave of his hand.

"This may seem unduly harsh,” the mage said, “given the likely duration and length of my enforced absences, but I ask you to remember that, as a Questor, I can exercise powers of insight you and the Council wouldn't believe. I'm sure we all wish to avoid the accession of another Starmor, and I may be able to prevent that.

"Do you regard any of these regulations as unduly onerous, demeaning or otherwise unacceptable to you? I will not impose anything upon you without your full agreement."

* * * *

Shakkar's tail, the barometer of his emotional state, was a blur as he considered Grimm's words. Once, he would have been outraged at the concept of submitting his will to a mere human, and yet he had to admit to himself that he could not see anything that smacked of servitude in Grimm's requirements. He had acquiesced to the young human's requests when they were both confined to Starmor's punishment pillar, and the Questor had not played him false. He had always proved as good as his word. In truth, the concept of conceding the wishes of the human Council of Crar seemed distasteful to Shakkar, and the pathetic pleas of the citizens often irked him, but he could not deny the pleasure he felt when the mortals included him in conversation and consulted him over some trivial matter they considered as important.

With Grimm absent much of the time, he would be the de facto ruler of Crar, even if only by proxy. That he could effectively oversee the running of Crar by the free will of humans, where Starmor had only been able to do so by subterfuge and enslavement, he found strangely stimulating. Yes, he would be Grimm's Seneschal. Even though his will would be, to some extent, subject to Grimm's, he knew in his heart that the human would never try to belittle him or to humiliate him as had Starmor, one of his own kind. He could think of no more honourable man to become his titular master, with the exception of the courteous and powerful Dalquist. At least, no single human could overrule his decisions except for Grimm, and he would be present in Crar only on rare occasions.

"It will be as you say, Grimm. You are the Baron, and I am your Seneschal, subject only to your will and that of the Council. And the majority vote of the citizens, I suppose. This will be an unusual constraint for me, but I believe that I can live with it. I am your demon, and I will accept your requirements with ... humility. I know my temper is severe at times, but I will always remember that the people of Crar are only human, and that such creatures may be broken easily—saving your presence, of course. I will exercise restraint at such times, but I trust that I may be allowed the odd growl or invective from time to time."

"I'm glad to have you on my side, Shakkar,” the young human said, smiling. “So long as you don't use these growls or oaths to attempt to coerce the Council or the voters, I have no objection, my friend...

"Please don't look at me in that way, demon! If I'm to rule this city, I want it to be by consent, not by coercion. I won't have it any other way."

Shakkar swallowed his brief eruption of ire, and nodded. He knew he would have to endure far worse provocations in the future, and he undertook within his mind to control his temper from now on. Grimm seemed to be testing him, and he found himself happy to suppress his baser instincts in the interests of harmony.

"Very well, Grimm Afelnor,” he growled. “By all means, take your proposal to the Council tonight. I will be your man ... or your demon, in any case."

* * * *

Grimm's spirit sang. His body was still a little weak, but he felt buoyed up by the fullness of his heart. He was a Baron! Surely no joy could compare to this, save his Acclamation ceremony. Surely, nothing could go wrong for him on this happy day.

Chapter 11: The Dark Chapel

Grimm looked at his reflection in a large mirror at the northern end of Starmor's former bedchamber. Now resplendent in a cowled yellow and deep blue robe with red lining, he looked the very image of magedom, except for the youthful, pale face that gazed from the cowl. Mayor Chod had not lied when he had extolled the merits of Crar's tailors. Grimm's excitement grew as he awaited the call to attend the Council meeting in which he would be declared Baron of Crar. His long, brown hair and his dark beard were neatly brushed, and he had polished the black wood and brass shoes of his staff to a mirror finish. He had obtained a supply of tobacco to smoke when he felt the pull of the drugs Trina and Virion, and a pang struck him now. As he reached into the pocket of his sateen robe, which he had laid out on the room's huge four-poster bed, he felt a strange tickle at the back of his mind. Dismissing it as an artefact of his weakened state, he filled the pipe and lit it with a gesture of his right forefinger. He drew in the smoke luxuriantly, allowing it to calm his nerves.

Then the tickle returned, irritating and undeniable. This time, he could hear the ghost of a voice, one he recognised only too well: Starmor's voice. It was weak but unmistakable. Grimm Afelnor. I wish to parlay.

Grimm had had little practice in the art of Telepathy, but he was well used to marshalling his thoughts and energies. After a little experimentation, he managed to produce a clear word-image in his mind. Starmor, you are where you belong, he thought, with a pang of satisfaction. Nothing you can ever offer will persuade me to release you. Get out of my head, you sadistic, egomaniacal monster!

The Questor could have sworn he recognised a chuckle within the thin tendrils of Starmor's thoughts. Is that any way to talk to an old friend, Grimm? the voice crooned. We are linked, we two, linked through physical contact. Your brief touch before you banished me gave me a mental connection to you; one you can never break.

Grimm felt panic rising within him. Could Starmor possibly access his magical power, or worse his emotions, through the dimensional barrier behind which he was confined? It seemed improbable; Starmor's mental voice was a feeble mental buzzing in the mage's head, at the limit of his perception. Even a small amount of Questor power would amplify this buzz until it was a veritable roar. Begone, Starmor. Your blandishments will not succeed, for you have nothing I want. Grimm knew that the evil demon-sorcerer must never be allowed to return to the mortal plane, and he meant every word. The insidious voice in his head seemed to drip with temptation. What would you say, Grimm Afelnor, if I told you I knew what happened to your grandfather, Loras? Would you not like to know what happened to him?

Grimm forced himself to remain calm, although he thrust his hands to his forehead as if he could drive the wheedling voice from his head.

I know what happened to him, Starmor. He tried to smother the old Prelate of Arnor House and was caught in the act. He admitted it, and he was stripped of his powers by a full Guild Conclave. There is nothing more you can tell me, and I suspect that you are just drawing images and impressions from my mind and playing upon them. Go away, I tell you!

So, our frightened little child wizard thinks he knows the truth, does he? Poor, witless, benighted infant. This was more like the true Starmor that the Questor and his companions had come to loathe with such a passion since their first encounter.

Grimm remained defiant, but he felt his ire beginning to rise like steam from a cauldron. He could not force the insistent voice from his head, and he began to wonder if it would remain with him to the end of his life.

An ever-present, immortal demon might drive him to madness, given sufficient time Perhaps Starmor was trying to goad him into magically striking him through the link. Would such a spell, sent in a spirit of hatred, carry sufficient emotion within its structure so as to give the demon the energy he needed to escape?

Was it worth the risk to find out?

Grimm gritted his teeth. No! Starmor must have lifted Granfer's name from my mind, and he must know of my personal oath. I won't listen to him.

Projecting his thoughts towards his unseen enemy, the mage replied, You know nothing, Starmor. You have drawn the name of Loras Afelnor from some recess of my mind, and you seek to trick me into visiting you so you can use my emotions to effect your escape. Nothing you can say or do will convince me otherwise.

Starmor's insidious voice wound its way back into his head, bearing an intolerable note of patronising humour. Ah, but you are so wrong, there, my puny stripling spell-caster. I know more than you can possibly imagine, things that I know you will want to hear. Loras was betrayed. Would you care to hear the traitor's name?

No, Grimm spat back. The voice seemed to be growing fainter. Was Starmor losing his last dregs of power?

Not everybody loved Loras Afelnor, Grimm. The faint whisper was almost imperceptible now. He had enemies where he thought there was undying friendship. One not known to him compelled him to strike and then left him thinking that it had all been his idea. He was betrayed and duped in equal measure. If you release me, I will give you the names of the parties involved. Revenge may be a dish best served cold, but it is a sweet and succulent dish, fit for a King ... or even for a puerile excuse for a Baron. Grimm clenched and unclenched his fists in rage and indecision. Starmor was telling him just what he wanted to believe; that Loras had not acted of his own volition, that he had been misled, duped, coerced. He wanted that to be true with every fibre of his being, but how could he trust this sadistic, manipulative monster? Even from his distant prison, the demon was trying to play with Grimm as he had with so many flesh-and-bone puppets. Making a conscious effort of will, he swore to ignore Starmor's words. I will accompany you to the depths of Hell before I will set you free, demon. I hope you rot on that pillar for eternity. I hope you deafen yourself with the manic screams of your own advancing insanity, and I defy you for the last time. Get ... out ... of ... my ... head!

Starmor was gone, and Grimm shook with emotions he had denied for so long. He looked at the pouch of drugs on the round bedside table and snatched it up like a bird of prey clawing up a hapless rodent. He gazed at the tempting herbs for long moments before he flung them to the green-carpeted floor and launched his right fist into his left palm five times before he managed to collect a semblance of composure.

Damn you, Starmor! You are not going to spoil this day for me. I am not going to spare your snide little fiction another moment's consideration, he thought.

Grimm looked at himself in the mirror, but his pride in his splendid new garments had left him, and he began to pace the room in an agony of indecision. He had to admit that his mind did not seem quite as sharp as it had been under the herbs’ influence; the drugs had seemed to make his thought processes fly. Now he was over the worst of the addiction, it felt as if his brain were some cogwheel machine clogged with thick, heavy treacle. He glanced again at the pouch lying on the floor and dismissed its insidious temptation. He sat on the floor and adopted a pose of meditation in an attempt to clarify his muddled thoughts.

Grimm knew Starmor must never be released, but he desperately wanted to hear what the demon lord had to say.

What to do?

He began to assess the different aspects of the situation. There seemed to be three basic considerations: a method of travel; a means of shielding his emotions from Starmor; and Grimm's need to conserve his still-limited strength.

He knew the four-dimensional location of the pillar, and it would take him a mere moment to traverse the distance. He had revelled in the freedom he had felt when performing the standard runic Translocation spell, and he knew he could repeat the spell without error, having felt the way in which the runic chant had patterned his mind. Nonetheless, the spell placed a high magical energy demand on the caster, and Grimm wondered if he could devise a Questor equivalent, one that would require less power to cast. Yes ... there it is, he thought, visualising the problem. The image of the pillar is clear in my mind. I shouldn't have any problem in locating it.

A second problem was that, if he arrived at the imprisoning turret with his emotions intact, he might well be supplying the demonic dictator with all the energy he required to escape. The powerful herbs had masked his emotions well, but Grimm feared that he might never escape the hunger for the drugs if he dared to take another dose. Taking just a little of the smoke to maintain equanimity had been one thing; taking an amount sufficient to face Starmor was another.

He shifted his position a little, since a low ache had arisen in the small of his back, and tried to compose his thoughts once more, trying to apply ruthless logic to the problem. Focus, Afelnor! Focus!

He would not consider the drugs a viable way to mask his feelings from Starmor. He must find a Questor solution.

One of the main limitations of Questor magic was that the caster was unable to apply magic to his own brain, since that was the source of the magic. Therefore, Grimm needed to find a solution that acted outside the confines of his mind. A ward of some sort, one that would mask his emotions from Starmor and yet allow him to cast magic, would seem to be the ideal form of spell. Such a ward, limited to a single physical aspect and to the boundaries of his body, would cost him little effort to maintain. He performed a meditative trick he had been taught as a Neophyte, moving his psyche outside of his body and analysing the characteristic emanations of emotional energy by using his Mage Sight. Yes, the spell was indeed possible and it required little energy expenditure.

Grimm stood and stretched to relieve the knots that had been massing in his muscles. He was decided. I'll face Starmor once more and force him to tell what he knew about Granfer's betrayal. He's weak now. If I can shield my emotions from him, he won't be able to defy me. I'm sure my physical body is stronger than his.

The cautious portion of Grimm's mind urged him to consult Dalquist first before committing himself, but another part told the young mage that the senior Questor would forbid the plan outright. He was no longer a callow Student, to be counselled and directed; he was a powerful Guild Mage in his own right, and he could make his own decisions. Nonetheless, something still nagged at him. He mulled over the details of his new Questor Translocation spell, and he remembered the words of Magemaster Crohn from his time in the House Scholasticate: "A successful mage guards his power at all times. Always make your choice of spell wisely, so as to conserve your strength for greater challenges that may lie ahead; this is the hallmark of a prudent spell-caster." The Questor had to acknowledge the wisdom of Crohn's words: he knew he had made too free of his power before, relying on its sheer abundance. He had gloried in the hot, invigorating thrill of the energy as it gushed from him, but, as a result, he had more than once rendered himself helpless after such reckless expenditure.

The new Translocation spell would work, he felt sure, but even this enchantment would place a considerable demand on his weakened resources.

Remember, Grimm, you'll have to perform it twice; once to send you back to the pillar, and once to return you to the mortal world ... ah!

It seemed as if a bright light illuminated the furthest recesses of his being. Of course!

He had been linked with Starmor's own mind, and he could see it as clearly as the four-dimensional location of the pillar, even though the demon now lacked the strength to communicate with him. He could travel along this link as easily as a child could slide down a fairground chute!

The familiar Questor routine now seemed as prosaic and simple as swallowing to the young magic-user. First, he set his magical ward, feeling his emotions imprisoned within the screen like a caged tiger. All was ready.

He shut his eyes, felt the slight pulsing of Starmor's psyche within his sensorium, arranged his power in a coherent web of force and traced the slender thread that connected the two beings. The nonsense words came easily to his throat, and he departed from the room.

* * * *

After a moment's disorientation, Grimm opened his eyes, ready to confront his demon nemesis. The Questor gaped; instead of the familiar pillar, he found himself in a stone chamber lit by torches arrayed around the walls. Neat rows of benches stood before a black, gleaming altar. Behind this, Grimm saw a large, ornate, golden throne surmounted by a horned skull, in which sat a grinning Starmor.

"Grimm Afelnor, my dearest friend! I thought you would be unable to resist the temptation to hear more about your grandfather's downfall, and I hoped that you would choose the fortuitous route of our mental link to travel to me. I am pleased to see that my little plan has succeeded beyond my wildest hopes." Grimm exerted his Sight, and he saw little or no power within Starmor. The demon's confidence frightened him.

"My emotions are shielded from you, and you cannot steal the least whit of power from me, Starmor,”

he growled. “I have not come to parlay with you, but to give you an ultimatum. Tell me what you know of my grandfather's downfall, and I will spare your miserable life. Refuse me in this, and I will make you regret it. I will disintegrate your physical form so finely it will take you tens of aeons to rebuild it." Starmor's shoulders shook with the force of his laughter. “Such threats are beyond the scope of your pathetic powers, child-mage. Do you not wonder why you are not where you thought you were? ‘How did the evil Starmor escape from the punishment pillar?’ Do such questions not burn within you, little one?"

Grimm tried to think of a forceful, witty response, but he confined himself to a simple nod, his throat dry and mute.

"Welcome to my chapel, Grimm, Afelnor,” Starmor said, his loathsome smile intact and unwavering.

“The closest of my acolytes used to come here to worship me—and they will again. I summoned others in order to renew their zeal from time to time. This is my spiritual home, witless mortal. Soon, you will be on your knees, worshipping me."

"I will never bow to you, Starmor. Never,” Grimm vowed, but his confident, defiant tone stood at odds with the desolation threatening to consume him. Clamping his will down on the despair, he confined it, dismissed it.

The demon sat back in his throne and crossed his arms. “This is but one of my little cubby-holes, between which I can move as easily as you can walk across a room in your own world. You are, of course, free to return to your accustomed frame whenever you wish, for I cannot harm you." Grimm realised Starmor was playing with him, as he had done with countless others during his tenure as Baron of Crar. The sick awareness arose within the young mage that he could not return to the mortal world since he had no idea of where he was in relation to his familiar, three-dimensional, space. He was trapped!

A spell of destruction arose from his lips and he hurled it at his hated enemy with full force, only to see it splash into harmless sparks of blue light on the dark altar.

"Poor, feeble-minded urchin!” Starmor cried. “You cannot strike me here, for my chapel absorbs your human magic like a sponge soaks up water. Your strongest power will only serve to amuse me. Do launch another spell; I will not seek to balk you in any way."

Grimm guessed the imposing marble altar must be Starmor's source of protection, since the demon's innate powers must be depleted to a low level. He directed his next attack towards the obsidian block, but the potent spell splashed from the altar as if it were no more than summer rain bouncing from a waxed cape.

The Questor gaped, but he steadied himself, thinking, Redeemer can smash that stone block as easily as it could an egg...

A cold, horrifying shock ran down Grimm's spine as he realised he had left his beloved staff behind, but he suppressed his panic. The solution was simple.

"Redeemer: come to me!"

Ever since he had whittled the staff from a length of dead wood and imbued it with his inner force, Redeemer had flown directly to his hand whenever called. Now, nothing happened, and Grimm repeated the demand with greater urgency, fighting the despair growing within him. He felt all but naked before his foe—incomplete, helpless.

Starmor's face twisted into a ghastly caricature of wide-eyed surprise. He clicked his fingers and whistled, as if summoning an errant dog. “Come here, boy! Good boy!

"Now, where could that naughty little stick have gone?" Stifling a groan, Grimm realised that the range of control over his staff must be limited to the normal dimensions of the mortal frame. He was truly lost.

Snarling, he launched himself at Starmor with his hands outstretched, trying to throttle the demon with magically amplified strength, but he bounced from the ward emanating from the altar.

"I am patient, Grimm,” Starmor said, cackling in horrid amusement that reminded the mage of the bullies who had tormented him so during his Questor Ordeal. “Take your time, by all means; I know how slowly your human thought-processes move. I have all the time in the world: as a lord of the underworld, I do not need to eat, drink or sleep more than twice in one of your years.

"Eventually, you will exhaust your powers, and your puny little shield will fall. I will then have the munificent power of your thrilling hate and anger to speed my return to your frame. The faithless people of Crar will soon have cause to regret their rejoicing at my departure ... as will you, my sweet, tasty morsel of human flesh.

"You will soon learn the error of your ways. Long before I return to the mortal world, you will know the severity of my anger, you naughty boy. I will spend considerable time with you, feeding from your hatred and your pain."

Grimm railed at himself: how had he been such a fool as to fall into Starmor's clutches with such a simple lure?

The worst of it was that Dalquist, Lord Thorn, Magemaster Crohn and the rest of the Guild might assume he was a renegade or a traitor; that he had absconded and flouted his oath. He knew he had lost—his personal Quest to redeem his family name had ended in abject failure, almost before it began. Even so, Grimm could not countenance meek surrender: Dalquist might still divine the truth and come to his aid. He vowed to himself to hold out until the last possible moment.

"Well done, Starmor,” he said, accompanying his words with mocking applause. “I suppose I must admit that you have beaten me. I will warn you that I should be able to maintain this ward for a long time, so we have a fair period ahead of us in which to talk.

"Since you have me under your control, what can you tell of my grandfather's fall from grace? You may as well tell me now. It may have cost me my life, but it will be some comfort to know that he was acting under duress."

Starmor laughed so hard that tears began to run down his cheeks. “This is the best part of it, Questor; as you suspected, I know nothing that I did not glean from the dusty little recesses of that which you are pleased to call a brain. I told you what you wanted to hear, and you allowed your ape curiosity to subsume your feeble mortal powers of reason."

Grimm yearned to blast Starmor into a million motes as he had threatened before, but he knew now that he could never do so. He clenched his teeth and his fists in impotent rage, hating himself for his impetuous stupidity.

Starmor yawned. “You really are quite dull, though, my imbecilic friend. From what I have gleaned from your simian brain, it seems plain that your grandfather's actions were quite out of character for such a man. There must have been some sort of Geas or Compulsion acting upon him. I would have thought even you would have guessed that."

"Shut up, Starmor. I never want to hear my grandfather's name sullied by your foul lips again. I refuse to believe anything you say."

Grimm turned his back on the demon. He knew what he must do; he must use his last reserves of powers to destroy himself before his emotional ward fell. Starmor must remain trapped at all costs, and Grimm would not allow himself to relax his vigilance.

"And now, my dear brethren, let us pray.” From some unseen corner of the chapel rose discordant, dissonant organ music to which Starmor swung and swayed with a look of pure ecstasy on his face. Grimm gritted his teeth and sat cross-legged on the flagstone floor. His strength was beginning to fade, and he knew it would only be a matter of time before his shield failed. He swore again he would kill himself before that happened.

Chapter 12: Discord and Destruction

Harvel and Crest expressed the greatest appreciation at Mayor Chod's generous offer of fine new clothes, and they spent the afternoon at a large Crarian tailors’ establishment, trying on various outfits. The swordsman now wore a short-sleeved bottle-green leather jerkin, black, metal-studded wristbands, loose-fitting yellow trousers and long, thin leather shoes. His gleaming rapier, carefully dressed and polished, was ready for action in a green leather scabbard on a blue silk hanger. This garish outfit might appear quite impracticable for combat, but Harvel assured Crest it was the absolute acme of fashion. The thief adopted a more sober outfit, befitting his more restrained dress sense, but his simple, black outfit was made of crushed velvet; the brown slippers of finest kidskin. His deadly throwing-knives lay in a slanted row across his chest on a leather baldric, ready for instant use.

"Well, well, well; look at the twin birds of paradise!” Dalquist said, with an appreciative whistle.

"Will you listen to the man there, Crest?” Harvel drawled, adjusting his scabbard. “He must be under the impression that those silk robes he's wearing are some sort of monastic habit. Perhaps the poor fellow is colour-blind."

Dalquist wore scarlet silk, with a gold cowl; no shrinking violet, he!

"Colour-blind I may be,” laughed the mage, “but I am blessed with a good sense of the passage of time. Has either of you seen Questor Grimm anywhere? We ought to be thinking of leaving for the Council chambers."

"He had his outfit made first,” declared Harvel. “He took the whole lot back up to the tower. He's probably been staring at himself in the mirror for the last ten minutes, so do you want me to go and fetch him?"

Dalquist shook his head. “I need to talk to him about a few things myself. I'll see you in the Town Square in ten minutes.” With that, he was off to the Baronial tower.

* * * *

"Grimm, come on! It's high time we were moving. Stop preening yourself! Remember, there's a Council meeting, and you're supposed to be the guest of honour."

No answer came from the bedchamber. Stepping inside, Dalquist noted the unopened pouch of drugs on the carpet, and wondered if Grimm had gone for a walk in an attempt to clear his head after being tempted by the herbs.

Twenty minutes later, he had searched the tower from top to bottom with no sign of the young Questor, and he was beginning to worry that something was amiss. Harvel and Crest joined in the search, having come to the tower when Dalquist had not returned. When it was plain that Grimm was not secreted anywhere in the tower, the group split up and scouted Crar separately, trying every shop, hostelry and alleyway to no avail.

After an hour, they met back at the bedchamber of Starmor's former domicile. Dalquist had to admit that it appeared that Grimm could not be hiding, and that he must have absconded. It all seemed so unlikely, since Grimm would know that he would be hunted down by the Guild; the organisation did not like the idea of unlicensed renegade Questors on the loose; he surely could not expect to evade the combined resources of the Guild forever. Nonetheless, Dalquist had to consider a distasteful possibility: that Grimm had flouted his duty to the House.

"He's a game lad, but he's been through an awful lot in the last few days,” Crest said, frowning. “I wonder if his nerve deserted him; who could blame him, after all that? Perhaps the prospect of all that responsibility was too much for him, and he just ran off."

"It doesn't make sense, Crest,” Harvel declared shaking his head. “He seemed so keen at the prospect of his new clothes, and he told me he wanted to look his very best tonight. He looked a little flustered, but he didn't seem scared at all."

"I don't think for a moment Grimm has forgotten his Guild vows,” Dalquist growled, “but it's not up to me. We were intending to return to the House tomorrow to complete the Quest. If he's not there by the time I arrive, Lord Thorn will have to assume that he is in breach of his oath of fealty. That is a far more serious consideration. We've got to find him."

He sighed and sat down on the bed in despair. Grimm would surely have notified him if his absence was unavoidable. The young mage had seemed so excited about the whole thing, and such an unexplained absence was out of character for him.

But where was he?

"He's left his new clothes behind,” Harvel pointed out. “He was so eager to wear them; he must be around here somewhere! He'd never have left them behind. Perhaps he had a celebratory drink or two and got a little tipsy."

"We searched the bar and the jakes,” Dalquist sighed, “and he'd just take hold of Redeemer whenever..."

A metallic glint caught his eye from within the rumpled bedclothes. Dalquist leapt to his feet and threw back the sheets to uncover a polished black wood and brass staff.

"He's left Redeemer behind!” Dalquist cried. “He would never have done that by choice!"

"It's just a piece of wood and metal,” Harvel said mildly. “Perhaps he just forgot it. It doesn't tell us anything, Lord Mage."

Dalquist rounded on the swordsman. “You have no idea what the staff means to a mage, Harvel! None!

It is a part of him, as my staff, Shakhmat, is a part of me. Even if he forgot the staff, he could call it to hand with a mere word from anywhere in the world. No man who has been through a Questor's Ordeal, as we both have, would ever leave his Mage Staff! Questor Grimm is not in this world." Crest looked alarmed. “Do you mean he is dead ?"

Dalquist dismissed the suggestion. “A true Mage Staff reverts to simple wood and metal on its owner's death unless he has, of his own volition, passed it to another mage. Grimm is not dead, but he is on another plane."

The Questor composed himself for a potent spell, a search for the life-essence of his young friend. He found nothing, and declared solemnly, “Grimm Afelnor is nowhere on this world: I am sure of that." Crest said, “Questor Grimm said he had not the energy to pass into the demon plane, and he was no convalescent when he declared that. He is surely too weak to attempt such a feat now."

"Not the demon world,” Dalquist said, with a decisive stab of his right forefinger. “Starmor's punishment pillar, as well as the various prisons to which we were all sent, were in an alternative three-dimensional reality to our own, displaced by a fourth linear dimension. He may be in that frame. Perhaps Grimm went to confront Starmor for some reason."

"Why would he wish to risk facing Starmor again, Lord Mage? He left his herbs here, so he can't shield his emotions from that monster. It doesn't make any sense."

"I don't know, Harvel. I am sure, however, that if Grimm had faced Starmor again with his emotions unmasked, our banished friend would have returned here, to his centre of power, and we would now be in no doubt of the fact. It could be that Starmor has powers we mortals can't imagine; perhaps he tricked Grimm."

Dalquist pounded Shakhmat on the floor. “We must find Shakkar. I need to find the location of this pillar from his mind, without delay. Grimm's very soul may be in peril."

"With the greatest respect, Questor Dalquist,” Crest said, “your own emotions might provide Starmor with all the energy he needs for his return to this world. You aren't considering the risk of using those damned herbs to protect you, are you?"

Dalquist shook his head. “I imagine Grimm is using his Questor power to raise some kind of protective ward to screen himself from Starmor. I have been thinking about such a screen, and if Grimm can raise one, so can I. Please summon Shakkar with all haste, Master Harvel." Harvel sped out of the chamber as if his feet were ablaze.

* * * *

By the end of an hour, Dalquist had transported himself to the various prisons in which the members of the group had been confined: Shakkar's pillar; the mockery of a fencing school in which Harvel had been forced to defend himself against a horde of skeletal swordsmen; the perverted school in which Dalquist had fought five magic-users attired as Magemasters; and the arena where Crest had battled a group of blank-eyed armoured gladiators.

He found no trace of Grimm in any of them.

Dalquist clasped a hand over his eyes, as if this could force his mind to work more quickly. Despite cudgelling his brain, he could not think of anything that would help the situation. At that moment Harvel sat on the bed, to be rewarded with an indignant, high-pitched squeal from the pocket of Grimm's sateen robes, followed by the emergence of a tiny head with a face contorted in annoyance.

"Be careful who you are sitting on, human! You nearly squashed me!” the indignant Thribble complained.

“I prefer to be awakened from slumber in a more decorous fashion. What are you all doing here, and where is the young spell-caster?"

Dalquist gave the demon a terse summary of the situation, as much from courtesy as from an expectation that the minuscule creature would be able to aid them.

"Ha! So Grimm was foolish enough to try to face Starmor one more time!” Thribble squeaked in his piccolo-like voice. “My counsel would be to advise him of his folly, and to bring him back with all haste." Dalquist all but ground his teeth in frustration. “The problem, Thribble, is that we cannot locate him within Starmor's fourth-dimensional labyrinth. I feel sure he must be there, somewhere, but I cannot conceive of a spell to pass this barrier between our respective worlds." The minute demon squeaked in exasperation. “You still have this Eye of Myrrn thing, do you not? Use it to locate him, and to return him to this world."

"Only a powerful demon can use the Eye, Thribble. Shakkar, here, has no power of magic left to him and, with the greatest respect, I doubt that you hold sufficient power to use the gem." Thribble was outraged. “I may be small, but I am a true demon nonetheless,” he trilled. “Power is not the issue here, mage, but simply talent. Since this item was made by my kind, I should be able to use it, despite my small size. If you were to form a mental link with me, you would be able to see through my eyes, listen through my ears and speak through my mouth.

"From what you say, we have few alternatives. Bring forth the gem and I will seek the Questor's soul."

* * * *

Grimm felt near the end of his tether as he tried to maintain a position of solemn meditation on the cold, tiled floor of Starmor's travesty of a place of worship. The loud, swirling dissonances of the invisible organ were becoming unbearable. He had been determined to fight for as long as he was able, but such defiance now seemed pointless.

He could visualise the spell that he needed to dissolve his physical being without releasing his inner drives for the use of Starmor. His energies lay in a tidy, linear array ready for use. All Grimm needed was one more utterance, and his struggle would be over.

Grimm Afelnor, attend to me!

At first, Grimm thought Starmor was attempting to communicate with him, but the demon lord still gyrated in ecstasy to the discordant tones reverberating through the dark chapel. The tone of this mind's voice was different and recognisable; it was surely the voice of his friend, Dalquist. We are almost ready to attempt your rescue, Grimm. Remain calm; deliverance is at hand. I'm sure I can have you out of there in a moment, as soon as I can use the Eye to pin down your exact position in four-dimensional space, and find a suitable spell.

Grimm felt a cool flood of blessed relief that his plight had been discovered, and that Dalquist had not assumed he had flouted his duties and his responsibilities. Nonetheless, the young sorcerer was concerned that his folly not be repeated.

Dalquist, I have been foolish in the extreme, and I beg you not to risk repeating my stupid error. I was idiotic enough to think that I could outwit Starmor, and I have failed miserably. Starmor seems to have some kind of demonic link with me; I used that to travel here, so I have no idea where it is. I assumed he was on the pillar, only to find myself here.

Please be careful in your choice of spell. I worry that the use of a straightforward Translocation spell to extricate me could unleash your emotions through the spell, and that it could supply our enemy the strength that he needs and craves.

We will talk more about stupidity later, Grimm, his friend replied. My first priority is to get you out of there. Don't worry too much about the emotional side of things; I imagine that I can cast an emotional shield like yours, since the principle appears clear. My worry is that any Translocation spell opens a portal between the two locations; a portal that remains open for a short time after it is cast. What concerns me is that Starmor might be able to use that same portal to get back here. I will have to consider my options with care before I cast any spell, but do not panic, Grimm. Hold firm for a while longer, we are working on the problem. Don't lose heart, my friend.

Please make it as quick as you can, Dalquist, Grimm pleaded. After five more minutes of being forced to endure this discordant purgatory, blasting myself into tiny fragments will look like a happy and welcome release.

* * * *

Dalquist had to admit that Grimm might be right; the risks were indeed great. He had seen that Starmor was safely ensconced in a protective ward through which no spell could pass, but his own hatred and anger might be transmitted to that diabolic dictator though any direct magical link. What of some sleight that transcended the four-dimensional limits of the chapel? Could he compress the chamber to a mere point, and thereby render the demon impotent and confined? This seemed unlikely, since it seemed the demon could move without restriction through this plane. What of another dimension to which Starmor had no access? Dalquist knew of no such dimension, but if four linear dimensions were possible, then why not a myriad of them? That might be the answer; perhaps he could access some frame of which the former Baron had no knowledge and, somehow, transport the entire chapel to that plane. But how was he to do this? He doubted he possessed sufficient power to cast such a spell. He knew also that, despite Grimm's confident air, the younger mage could not maintain his emotional ward forever. He had no idea of the exact form of the spell, since it was a product of Grimm's own Questor magic, but he felt sure that it would require a considerable flux of magical power. Shakkar provided the necessary insight. “Questor Dalquist, maybe you cannot risk a direct translocation from Starmor's chapel, but what if you were to perform a transfer from the chapel to another of his secret locations, and from there to here? You now know where they are in relation to each other." Dalquist mulled over the proposal. “I can see your point, Shakkar. There would be a delay while Starmor located the portal and launched himself into it, by which time the second portal back here would have closed. However, there is an element of risk involved. I do not know how long the spell lingers after being cast, since such energies have what we mages call a quantum decay probability distribution. I do not know how quickly Starmor can react. He might be able to react far with greater speed than we could imagine. I think I may have a small improvement on your suggestion." Thribble still crouched over the Eye, and Dalquist re-established contact with Grimm. I am preparing to get you out, Grimm. I want you to prepare to react quickly; pattern your mind for some kind of powerful dissipative spell; just make sure you leave yourself enough energy to get back here. Stand ready.

* * * *

Grimm addressed his nemesis for what he hoped would be the last time. “Do you know something, Starmor? I have been far kinder to you than one of my former Magemasters, Kargan, would have been. He would have torn you apart with his bare hands for your disservices to the art of harmony." The demon shifted on his throne and rolled his head as if to soak up even more of the hideous music.

“My dear friend, you will learn to appreciate my music as I do when you are a part of my happy family—if I allow you to live. I think that will not be much longer now." Grimm readied a potent spell of dissolution, but he held the power in check, trusting in Dalquist.

“Farewell, Starmor. I'll see you in Hell."

It happened as fast as thought; before Grimm knew what had happened, he found himself on the ebon pillar alongside Dalquist, and he almost slumped in relief. He opened his mouth to speak, but he closed it before a word emerged. In the inky darkness beyond the pillar's perimeter, he saw a faint, hazy, blue coruscation that grew brighter with every moment. A thin white line appeared in the centre of the blue mist and began to widen.

The young mage prepared to cast his spell, but he stopped as he felt the hand of his friend on his right shoulder.

"We aren't out of this yet, Grimm,” Dalquist said, his voice stern. “Wait. I will give the word." In sick fascination, Grimm held his breath and watched the widening white line and realised it was not a line at all. It was more like a piece of paper held edge-on and then turning to face him. Now it was a pale, blazing trapezoid; now a square. A darker spot appeared in the middle, swelling into an oval.

"Now, Grimm! Now!"

As if unleashing an arrow from a bow, Grimm screamed a babble of syllables and loosed a strong burst of energy in an expanding cone before him, soon joined by a similar eruption from Dalquist. Then, silence reigned.

Starmor was gone. The white rectangle and blue haze disappeared in an instant, leaving a dark after-image on the young Questor's retinas.

As Grimm's eyes readjusted to the darkness, he saw a sift of pale mist rolling gently into the abyss surrounding the pillar.

"That dust is what remains of Starmor,” Dalquist explained. “He was just a little too clever for his own good. I think it is safe to assume that we and the people of Crar will be free of him for at least a century. It will surely take him that long to re-integrate his body.

"Come now, Grimm. We have some tiresome civil ceremony to attend. I believe you are expected, and we're late. Let's get off this damned pillar and back to the real world." Chapter 13: Atonement

Dalquist had paid off Harvel and Crest the previous night, but the two warriors had elected to stay a few days in Crar, not least because the grateful Crarians insisted on buying them drinks. Early the next morning, the two mages headed back to the House.

"So, how does being a Baron feel, Grimm?” Dalquist asked, as he and Grimm mounted up and began the ride back to Arnor.

"I don't feel any different than before, Dalquist,” Grimm admitted. “I'm still me , you know. I think I'd be feeling a lot worse if I didn't have those anti-intoxicant spells cast on Redeemer. I must have drunk enough to sink a galleon last night."

Grimm pulled the hood of his robe over his head to shield his eyes from the bright rays of early morning sunlight. Perhaps those helpful spells were not as infallible as he had thought... After the pair had been riding in silence for a while, Dalquist said, “Grimm, you do know that I'm duty bound to report to Lord Thorn everything that happened on the Quest, don't you? And I do mean everything. Would you care to give me some insight into your little stunt yesterday? I would like to be able to plead at least a little mitigation."

Grimm sighed. He knew he had been foolish to be swayed by Starmor's blandishments, but he had hoped that Dalquist might be moved to forget it, since the Quest had turned out successfully.

"I'm really sorry about being duped by that monster,” he said, accompanying his words with a shake of his head and a heartfelt sigh of ruefulness. “My thought processes seem to have slowed down after I stopped taking those herbs, but I must have had my head stuffed with rocks to have believed Starmor.

"Basically, he used an old trick; he told me just what I wanted to hear; what I wanted to believe." Dalquist nodded slowly. “Did this trick involve mention of your grandfather Loras, by any chance?" Grimm frowned, feeling anger growing at his friend's almost patronising tone.

"Can you even imagine what it's like to be a member of a community that regards a close member of your family as a traitor, an attempted murderer, an oath-breaker?” he snapped, tightening his grip on the reins “That was thrown at me time and again during my Ordeal, and the passage of time hasn't healed the wound too well. I wanted to believe so much that the man I lived with as a child could never have committed such a dreadful act as trying to murder a Prelate. Starmor seemed to pick right up on that, and he told me that Granfer was placed under some Compulsion or Geas that made him do what he did; that it wasn't Granfer's fault. He said my grandfather had been betrayed by a fellow mage. If I would only consider releasing him, he would give me the names of his betrayer. Once I knew what had happened to me, I was ready to kill myself before I ever allowed Starmor to return.

"I swear I had no intention of freeing him under any circumstances, but I thought using a ward to screen my emotions from him would allow me to coerce him to give me the names. I had no idea he could switch between his fourth-dimensional cubbyholes so easily. I thought using the mind-link he had with me as my travelling medium was a clever touch, allowing me to save energy without any risk of Starmor returning along any Translocation portal.

"I can only apologise for my folly, Dalquist.” Grimm sighed. “But I can't excuse it. I imagine Lord Thorn won't be too happy, but I guess your duty is your duty."

Dalquist sat in apparent contemplation for some time, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. The silence seemed almost tangible to Grimm, broken only by the occasional whinny from the horses; several minutes passed before the older man spoke. He looked deeply troubled.

"Grimm, since we seem to be in a confessional mode of conversation, I will have to admit that I feel somewhat guilty about thinking ill of you yesterday. I never doubted your intentions, but I was all ready to leave you behind and head off back to the House; it was only the sight of one of Redeemer's shoes that drew me back. When I realised the truth, I felt like I had been a fool as well.

"I will let you into a secret, Grimm. I want your solemn assurance that it will go no further.” Dalquist's expression was stern, and Grimm vowed that he would keep his mouth closed. Dalquist cleared his throat in a nervous fashion. “On my fourth Quest, Xylox the Mighty was Senior Questor. I was a Questor of the Third Rank at the time, having completed two Quests on the behalf of High Lodge and one for the House. My Quests had brought me no luck as far a booty was concerned, whereas Xylox had abundant wealth. He had any number of magical gems and artefacts and, of course, those seven rings on his staff..."

Grimm nodded. As he knew only too well, the lack of a single gold ring on Redeemer marked its owner as a mere beginner. In the class-obsessed Guild, rank was all, and he quite understood his friend's feelings of inferiority.

"We had just completed a long and arduous Quest,” the older Questor continued, “part of which took place in the sewers below Musado City. I was not in the best of moods because I had ruined a perfectly good new robe. We had been sleeping rough in the middle of winter, and all we had to show for it was four miserable gold pieces.

"At least, that is what Xylox thought. In fact, I had found two magical rings, one a charm of Perdurable Flesh, the other a ward of Missile Turning, from the pockets of a mage that Xylox had killed and failed to search properly. They were self-powered items, and they were worth a king's ransom, as you can imagine. I have them here, right now."

Dalquist reached in a pocket and extracted a pair of rings: plain and ordinary to the naked eye, they oozed power when viewed with Grimm's Mage Sight. He raised his eyebrows in appreciation, but he did not speak. It seemed that there was more to come.

Dalquist ran a hand through his dark hair. “It was my responsibility to declare those rings as spoils of the Quest. Xylox would have handed them over to Lord Thorn, and we might have had shared a reasonable proportion of the rings’ worth.

"I ... I did not declare them. Xylox could have discovered my deception in a moment, had he turned the Sight on me, but, of course, one does not do that lightly to one's trusted brother mage!

"I burned with guilt when Xylox handed me my single gold piece and apologised that it could not have been more. He had garnered only a gold piece from the Quest, and I had the same, but those valuable magical rings seemed to burn a hole in my pocket. I did what I did out of sheer greed and envy. I have never forgiven myself for that, and I have never mentioned it to a soul, until now." Grimm felt highly embarrassed at Dalquist's frank confession, and all he could say was, “I'm sure you made up for it later, Dalquist."

Dalquist shook his head. “If I tell Lord Thorn that you acted in such a foolish manner, you may lose preferment. Such a moment of simple recklessness could blight your career before it has even properly started. I will atone for my earlier ... mistake by leaving out some of the details of our defeat of Starmor. As far as Lord Thorn will know, we just entered Starmor's lair and blasted him into a powder. That is, after all, just what we did. There was just that little interlude for you in Starmor's chapel beforehand. I won't mention that part to Lord Thorn."

Grimm felt relieved, but a little shocked. “D-Dalquist,” he stammered, “there's really no need to do this just for me. I'm not made of sugar, you know."

While Dalquist had been telling the story of the rings, he had been looking past Grimm, looking at the sky or at the ground. Now, he locked Grimm's eyes with a level gaze.

"I'm not just doing it for you, Grimm. I'm doing it for me : for the good of my soul. I just want to say one more thing to you. Being a Questor can be a dangerous business. There are ample opportunities for mistakes, blunders and momentary stupidity. Don't make a habit of it, Grimm. You are intelligent and powerful, and I am sure you'll make a fine Questor if you give yourself the chance. This time, and this time only, you get a clean slate and a good report from your senior mage. Next time, you may be on your own, or under somebody like Xylox. You have to learn to make the right decisions on instinct, to develop a sense of risk and to act accordingly. Nobody can teach you that, Grimm, but the least I can do is to give you a second chance to let your staff live up to its name. From now on, you act as a Questor; always. Is that quite clear?"

Grimm tried to think of something clever to say, but words failed him for once. He nodded, his throat tight.

"Don't say anything, Grimm. We both have a long way to go yet." Dalquist shook the reins and trotted off, with Grimm just behind him.

* * * *

They stopped in Drute for lunch, again at The Broken Bottle. This time, Grimm swore he would act like a true Questor. The landlord greeted them both by name, which Grimm found gratifying, and he complemented the young mage on his new clothes.

Dalquist insisted in sitting right by the flimsy door to the jakes, and Grimm blinked.

"It's a little smelly here, Dalquist,” he protested. “Most of the bar is empty. Why are we here?"

"Because most of the trouble seems to start on the way to or from the conveniences,” the older man replied. “This time, I don't want to see you let it bump into you. You've shown me your power several times, and I have no doubt about that. Now, I want to see you work on your presence . A true Questor should be able to quell trouble with a look, a word or a gesture. I am quite willing to stay here until some trouble comes your way, so that I can see that you have learnt something." Dalquist smiled, raised his wine glass and raised a toast to the Guild.

"The Guild,” Grimm echoed, wondering just how long they would have to wait for trouble. Some of the regulars seemed to recognise the two mages from their previous visit, whereas the remainder must have been aware of the meaning of the blue-gold Guild rings and brass-shod staves. The various warriors and drinkers acknowledged the mages with polite nods, if at all.

* * * *

At three o'clock in the afternoon, Grimm found his promised trouble at last. It came in the shape of a broad-shouldered man with a close-cropped bullet head, tattoos on his bare upper arms and a hunting knife at his belt.

The man seemed to be one of those people who believe that a conversation interrupted is a conversation lost. He was backing towards the toilets whilst delivering a long-range monologue to companions on the other side of the bar. Dalquist leaned back in his chair, the cowl of his robe over his eyes. Grimm felt almost bored to tears when the bullet-headed man bumped into him, spilling beer on the floor.

"You clumsy oaf!” the muscular man bellowed. “You tripped me!"

"I did not,” Grimm said, adding, “I believe you owe me another glass of ale."

"I believe you should watch your mouth, boy,” the man grunted, “I am known to be dangerous when angered."

Grimm rose to his feet in a moment, feeling his fatigue fade away in an instant. “ Dangerous? ” he growled. “You have no idea of the meaning of the word, my friend! I am dangerous." For a brief moment, the bullet-headed man's hand flickered near the haft of his knife, and the ghost of a smile flitted across Grimm's face.

"A very good friend of mine,” he said conversationally, “once told me that there are ample opportunities for blunders and stupidity. I see he was right. However, there is a line between stupid and bloody stupid

, and you may be about to cross it."

Without taking his eyes off the tattooed unfortunate, Grimm took out his pipe, filled it and spoke a single word, “K'chaat".

A small blue flame appeared at the tip of Grimm's right forefinger, which the mage used to light the tobacco within the pipe. The mage inhaled luxuriantly before releasing a blue-grey cloud of smoke. The bullet-headed man blanched. “You're a bloody mage !"

"A thirsty bloody mage,” Grimm corrected, smiling again.

Without a word, the man hurried to the bar and brought back a foaming pint of ale, placing it in front of Grimm.

"We have no quarrel, Lord Mage. I'm sorry I spilt your drink."

"Your apology is accepted. Thank you."

Grimm sat, picked up his ale, and looked past the stubble-headed warrior. The altercation was at an end, and the man seemed to remember his original errand as he disappeared quickly into the jakes. Dalquist sat up and brushed the cowl from his head.

"Right, that'll do,” the older mage said, draining his glass. “Drink up, Grimm. Now we can go." Grimm looked at his friend with a quizzical air. “Would you really have waited here all day for something like that to happen, Dalquist?"

"Not all day , Grimm,” the older man drawled, smiling. “I just needed somebody suitable to get within range of my left foot."

"You mean he really was tripped?” Grimm yelped.

"Indeed he was. It seemed to me you'd have to work at it to get someone like that to back down, especially if he knew he was in the right."

"You bastard, Dalquist!” Grimm hissed, under his breath.

"That's ‘Senior Bastard’ to you, Afelnor,” Dalquist replied. “Don't forget that."

* * * *

The moon was up by the time they reached Arnor House. A House servant emerged from the shadows and took the horses away.

Grimm walked to the black portal, which opened at a wave of his ringed hand, as he had known it would. A familiar figure stood before them: Doorkeeper.

"Questor Dalquist, Questor Grimm: welcome back to the House. I trust your Quest went well, indeed very well."

"Thank you, Doorkeeper,” Dalquist said. “Yes, I think we can say that the Quest went well."

"Very well indeed, Doorkeeper,” Grimm declared, “but I'm glad to be home again."

"Lord Thorn told me—what was it?—oh, yes,” the ancient major-domo twittered. “He said he will see you at your earliest con ... convenience in the morning. Still, you must be tired after your trip, and your rooms are ready for you.

"Welcome home, Brother Mages."

"It's good to be home, Doorkeeper,” Grimm said, smiling with unfeigned happiness as he stepped inside the comforting, familiar walls of the House. “I'm just glad I made it." Chapter 14: The Return

Lord Thorn felt a glow of contentment as he re-read his message from Lord Dominie Horin. High Lodge commended Arnor House for the valiant actions of its Questors in the retrieval of the Eye of Myrrn. Horin congratulated Thorn on behalf of his Questors and informed the Prelate that he was henceforth a permanent member of the Guild Presidium.

The page was not signed by an amanuensis, as was common with missives from the Lodge: it bore Lord Horin's own signature and seal.

Thorn knew that only Presidium members were eligible for the post of Lord Dominie; he was now a member of the Guild elite, a step nearer to his mother's ultimate goal. If this doesn't keep the meddling old witch off my back for a while, the Prelate thought, I don't know what will.

Questor Dalquist's recent report also gave him cause for satisfaction; the senior Questor gave Grimm Afelnor full credit for his instrumental part in the downfall of Starmor and the safe extraction of the Eye. The House now had three active Questors on its rolls. The good opinion of High Lodge, combined with Thorn's position on the Presidium, meant that Arnor House would be entrusted more often with the conduct of prestigious Quests on behalf of High Lodge. In addition to this, the enhanced status of the House meant that more wealthy parents would send their offspring to Arnor to be educated. The possibilities were endless...

A knock at his door roused him from his idle reverie. “Enter."

For a moment, Thorn did not recognise the splendidly-attired, confident young man standing before him as the youth whose Acclamation ceremony he had attended a matter of months ago. Grimm's expression was neutral and yet self-assured; he looked every inch a cool, collected Guild Questor.

"Please be seated, Questor Grimm,” Thorn said, with an expansive wave towards the visitor's chair.

"Thank you, Lord Prelate.” Even the boy's voice seemed to have matured in the last few weeks. This was the voice of a Questor who had faced adversity and triumphed.

Thorn looked through the notes he had made from Dalquist's verbal report, delivered thirty minutes beforehand.

"I am sure you will be pleased to hear that Questor Dalquist speaks very highly of your resourcefulness in the defeat of this demon, Starmor,” the Prelate said, leafing through his papers. The boy inclined his head and lowered his eyes, again giving the image of a modest, imperturbable mage.

"I am grateful for Questor Dalquist's good impression, Lord Prelate. I wish to mention that it was Questor Dalquist's own ingenuity that led to Starmor's ultimate downfall, and his magical skill that allowed us to conceal the Eye once we had laid our hands upon it."

"This has been noted, Questor Grimm,” Thorn replied, “and we are indeed cognisant of his valiant acts.

"One thing puzzles me, however. Why, once you had so cleverly confined Starmor to his own four-dimensional prison, did you feel the need to transport yourselves to his demesne in order to destroy him? Was he not safely secured?"

Afelnor's words seemed careful and measured, almost as if he had rehearsed them, but Thorn reasoned that the Questor wished to address his Prelate clearly and without hesitation; of course he would have rehearsed his report.

"Lord Prelate, I delivered Starmor to his prison with a standard, runic spell of Translocation in the second form, the External variant of the cantrip. As you are better aware than I, this form requires physical contact with the subject. In so doing, I unwittingly established a mental link to the demon, through which he contacted me. Questor Dalquist reasoned that Starmor might use this link to attempt to control me beyond my power to resist; the former Baron was a powerful enemy, indeed. Once aware of this, he suggested that it were better if we were to disperse Starmor's physical form, in order to eliminate this risk. Since Starmor's physical form was immortal, it seemed a prudent step. The demon is now so finely disintegrated that, by the Sixth Law of Diabolic Control, it should take Starmor centuries or millennia to reassemble himself."

Questor Grimm spoke in the cool, wordy tones of Mage Speech, and the Prelate nodded in approval. Crohn taught this one well, Thorn thought.

"Your explanation is coherent and credible,” Thorn allowed, “and it tallies in all essentials with Questor Dalquist's own report. The senior mage's actions do him credit, and your significant contribution to the success is also noted."

The Prelate leaned back in his chair.

"As of today, you are entitled to bear a gold ring on your staff, signifying that you are a full-blooded Mage Questor of the First Rank, one who has performed in a satisfactory manner on his first Quest. Mage Armourer Thuril will do this for you."

Afelnor blinked, although his eyes gleamed. “I was not aware that there was such a rank as Mage Armourer, Lord Prelate,” was all he said.

Thorn smiled. “You are still young, and there is much that you do not know concerning this House. The Mage Armourer is responsible for ensuring the protection of the House against attack; a Mage Staff is a potent weapon, and it is Thuril's prerogative to annotate that staff with the badges signifying the approbation of his Prelate."

"I wish to add that this is not all. You and Questor Dalquist have been invited to present the Eye to High Lodge in person. This is, of course, a great privilege, and I will not need to tell you that you will be expected to display the highest decorum and presence during your stay. I think you will find that the Dominie will not be unappreciative of your efforts; the loss of the Eye has been a major concern to us all. I am sure that Lord Horin will wish to place at least one more ring on your staff, and possibly more, in his gratitude and, indeed, relief."

Afelnor's face was like stone. Thorn thought he might as well have been discussing the price of fish with the youth.

"I wish also to tell you that, as a result of this Quest, I have now been elected a permanent member of the Guild Presidium. This is a great honour for the House."

"I offer you my heartiest congratulations, Lord Thorn!” At last, some animation had appeared on Grimm's face. He appeared genuinely pleased at Thorn's advancement.

"I understand that congratulations are also due to you, Questor Grimm or, should I say, Baron Grimm?"

"Thank you, Lord Prelate. This was indeed great fortune, for I am now a wealthy man. However, I am more content to be fortunate enough to be able to think of myself as a full-blooded Guild Questor. The wealth into which I have come is, of course, welcome."

Perfect modesty, Thorn thought. That is just what I might have said to my Prelate as a youth, you lucky little urchin.

"May I assume, Questor Grimm, that you will be authorising the free passage of Guild Mages into and out of the city of Crar?"

Afelnor can hardly refuse, Thorn thought.

"Indeed, Lord Prelate, I have already given such instructions to my Seneschal, Shakkar, to ensure that fair tolls are charged for entry to the city. Bearers of the Guild Ring are, of course, exempt from such fees."

Thorn's brow furrowed. “Ah, yes; this Shakkar must be this demon with which you have been consorting. I trust you do not intend to make a habit of associating with such creatures. Some of us in the Presidium are nervous of their motives."

A polite smile split the Questor's stony face, transforming it. “The solemn word of a demon is, as you know, inviolate, Lord Prelate. I have been most careful to ensure that Shakkar will do nothing inimical to the aims of the Guild. I will, with your permission, make periodic visits to Crar to ensure that my instructions are being carried out to the letter."

Thorn shook his head. “Although you are no longer a Student, Afelnor, I regret that this is a most critical time in your vocation. Having seen some of the outside world and its baser temptations, you may feel seduced by it. I regret that you must remain resident at the House for the nonce." The Prelate watched the slender youth for a few moments, searching for any sign of annoyance or petulance, but he saw none, even though he knew Afelnor must be disappointed. The boy's self-control is exemplary. I must find another Quest for him soon.

"I will, however, review this situation after your next Quest, Afelnor, subject to a satisfactory report from the senior mage."

"Thank you, Lord Prelate,” Afelnor replied, bowing. “I appreciate your generosity."

"A carriage will arrive here in the morning to convey you to High Lodge. I am advised that you will be staying there for three days. There may be dances and festivities which you will be expected to attend during this time."

"Thankfully, Lord Prelate, I now have plenty of changes of clothes, and I will ensure that I heed Magemaster Faffel's kind advice concerning proper deportment at such affairs.” The quirky smile flitted briefly once more across Grimm's face.

"Thank you, Questor Grimm, and well done. I will expect a report from you on your visit when you return. Enjoy yourself. That will be all."

At Thorn's usual peremptory dismissal, Grimm stood, bowed with immaculate courtesy and exited the room.

The Prelate, full of his election to the Presidium, drew his scrying-crystal to him. Lizaveta would surely be pleased at his news.

* * * *

Grimm made his way down the stairs to the Great Hall to where Dalquist was waiting, and he blew out his cheeks in an explosive exhalation.

"Dalquist, I never want to go through that again! I felt like I was in front of some damned inquisition!” He shivered in mock terror.

"Did he accept your report, Grimm?"

"I think so, Dalquist. I was nervous as Hell, but I don't think I showed it. I was sitting straight as a ramrod."

Grimm swiped his hand through his hair in relief.

"That's the only way to deal with Lord Thorn,” Dalquist said and chuckled. “I think the old sod's got

‘Power and Presence’ tattooed on his backside. You'll do. I was worried that recent events might have got the better of you, which is why I gave you that little test yesterday. If you can face down Thorn, then the Broken Bottle should be a cakewalk from now on."

"Dalquist, does the Refectory have any alcohol?” Grimm asked. “I could do with a little restorative drink right now."

"I think we could get the staff to come up with something,” the older Questor replied, smiling. “I could do with a stiff medicinal dose as well."

A small head, like a fuzzy, horned marble, arose from Grimm's left pocket.

"What about me?” a familiar voice twittered.

Grimm started. “I'd all but forgotten about you, demon. I trust you'll keep your mouth shut about what you've heard over the last couple of days?"

Thribble licked his tiny lips with a minuscule forked tongue. “If you were to obtain a minim of peach brandy, human, I might be persuaded to forget my own name."

"We'll see what we can do, Thribble,” Dalquist said, with a broad smile.

* * * *

Grimm felt more than satisfied. His Mage Staff, Redeemer, was no longer naked. A smart, indelible gold ring now signified his full acceptance into the ranks of the Guild Questors, and he had eaten a splendid lunch. He liked to take a short nap after a heavy meal when he was able to do so, but he always needed a little literary diversion before he could drift off to sleep. Since he had read all the books in his room, he went in search of new inspiration in the Scholasticate Library.

As usual, the labyrinthine room was all but deserted. A young Student was diligently studying a text that Grimm knew only too well: ‘Mental Control and Mediation; Finding One's Inner Self.'

An old mage, an Alchemist, to judge by his mottled and stained skin, sat snoozing at one of the corner tables.

Grimm moved to a rack of books labelled ‘Guild History', and he climbed atop a set of wheeled steps in order to reach the top shelf. He reached out to take a tome called 'High Lodge: Flower of the Guild'

when he noticed that the book to its right was inverted. Long schooling in decorum and neatness had led him to deplore disorder, and he removed the book in order to replace it in the correct orientation. As he did so, a small sheet of paper, too large to be a page marker, fluttered to the floor. Intrigued, he climbed down to retrieve the page. The paper was crisp and slightly yellowed, implying that it might offer a view of olden times in the House, and he opened it with care. Maybe this was some secret note from one miscreant Student to another, outlining some prank that they might play on one of the Magemasters; perhaps it was merely a set of revision notes for some long-since Acclaimed Neophyte. Either way, it might prove interesting.

L.A.,

I feel constrained to bring to your awareness some most urgent news of which I have recently become aware. Not all of this House are as trustworthy as they might appear; vile intrigue is afoot. Speak to nobody of this note. I entreat you most urgently to meet me outside the West Wing at midnight tomorrow, when I will acquaint you with some disturbing information of the greatest import to your well-being.

Your friend,

Kitaur

Grimm was shaken by the note; the letters ‘L.A.’ were the very initials of his disgraced grandfather. The note spoke of ‘vile intrigue’ and ‘disturbing information'. Grimm still felt embarrassed at how he had been fooled by Starmor, and the demon's mention of Loras’ betrayal, and he felt determined not to read too much into the note. Any number of mages might have had the same initials, and Grimm knew from ‘The Deeds of the Questors’ that there were at least two other mages with the same initials. The House rolls must be full of such names.

Nonetheless, he still could not imagine that the loving man who had raised him was a callous murderer. Leaving the Library, careful not to disturb its two occupants, he went in search of Magemaster Crohn. The Senior Magemaster sat at a heaped desk in his chamber, leafing through notes that doubtless told of the conduct and progress of his Students. Crohn seemed so deeply engrossed in the papers that Grimm felt constrained to emit a polite cough in order to elicit the Magemaster's attention. Crohn started and looked up from his work.

"Questor Grimm!” Crohn cried, favouring the Questor with a rare smile. “I am so pleased to see you back here. You seem to have done well from your first Quest; please tell me all about it. I do not escape from this scholastic warren very often these days, and I am keen to hear of my former Student's achievements in the wider world."

Long moments passed as Grimm told Crohn of the Quest for the Eye of Myrrn. The Senior Magemaster sat rapt as Grimm wound through the essential details. At the end of the account, Crohn raised his eyebrows and nodded.

"It would seem that you have done well, young Afelnor. I congratulate you."

"Thank you, Senior Magemaster. I am sorry to interrupt your invaluable work, but I wish to ask a question of you."

Crohn opened his hands to Grimm, as if sweeping away the heaped papers on his desk. “Ask away, Questor Grimm. What is troubling you?"

Grimm had become adept at creative interpretations of facts, and he had a ready response.

"Magemaster Crohn,” he said, “I was in the Library, looking up pervulsions of the runic Translocation spell that I used during my Quest, when I noticed what seemed to be a pertinent note in the margin, only I was unable to read it. The note was signed with the name ‘Kitaur'. Does the name mean anything to you?

I would like to speak with this mage, if he still lives."

Crohn mused for a moment, furrowing his brow.

"Kitaur ... the name seems familiar ... ah!"

The Magemaster's expression cleared.

"Now I have it,” Crohn said, sighing. “Perhaps forty years ago, I knew of an Adept Necromancer named Kitaur Shirrar, a promising candidate for the Ring. I regret that Adept Kitaur fell down the stairs in the West Wing Tower and broke his neck. A great shame; he had completed his staff, and he died the night before his test at the Breaking Stone.” The Magemaster shook his head in evident sorrow.

"Indeed, that is a great shame,” Grimm replied, lowering his head. “I wonder if my grandfather, Loras, knew him."

Crohn shrugged. “I imagine so, Questor Grimm. Loras Afelnor was then a well-respected mage; many people knew him. I could not say if they were especial friends or not.

"I am sorry, Questor Grimm. I cannot tell you more. Still, since Kitaur was a Necromancer and not a Manipulant, I can only imagine that he wrote the annotation when he was a Student. I doubt that he could provide you with any insight other that that which you already possess."

"Thank you, Magemaster Crohn. I am sorry to have encroached on your valuable time; please excuse me."

* * * *

Grimm lay on his bed and berated himself. He had been fooled once before by Starmor, and he refused to allow this small note to mislead him. Loras had confessed to his acts in front of a Conclave of Mages. Had any mage spell been acting on him, the Mage Sight of the gathered magic-users would have detected it. The initials, ‘L.A', meant nothing. The note was undated, and it could have been written at any time within the previous fifty years.

The mage snuffed the candle beside his bed and tried to force himself to ignore the coincidence of the initials ‘L.A.'. Nonetheless, he found himself unable to dismiss it.

Chapter 15: “The Best of Everything"

Grimm was pacing back and forth in the Great Hall long before Dalquist arrived. Despite lying on his bed since mid-afternoon on the previous day, he had only managed a miserable couple of hours’ sleep. Inchoate, formless worries provoked by sight of the faded note he had found in the Library buzzed and wheeled like a swarm of angry hornets in the inner recesses of his brain and in his stomach, leading nowhere but refusing to leave him.

He had been sorely tempted to take some a deep draught of the Trina herb that he always carried, but he dulled the urge by smoking a prodigious amount of tobacco.

Focus, Grimm,’ he thought, trying, yet again, to exercise rational control over these nameless worries. If it hadn't been for that monster Starmor playing with your mind, you wouldn't have given that damn note a second thought. Remember what Dalquist told you; there are all too many opportunities to fool yourself in this world. Don't rush to grasp them.

All he wanted was to be on his way down the road, to allow new sights and new experiences to wash these amorphous misgivings from his head. Pacing up and down the length of the hall had not helped in the least.

At last, his fellow Questor arrived, also a little bleary-eyed.

"Ah, Grimm, I guess you were too excited to sleep,” Dalquist said, yawning. “So was I; a trip to High Lodge is a rare experience. Still, the carriage should be here shortly. Shall we wait outside? It looks like it's going to be a lovely morning."

Grimm nodded. Perhaps a change of scenery and some idle chitchat would be all he needed to clear his thoughts. Picking up an expensive leather travelling-bag, another example of the Crarian artisans’ fine craftsmanship, he followed Dalquist to the door, which opened, as usual, to a simple gesture of the older Questor's ring-bearing hand.

Stepping outside, Grimm took a deep breath of the cool, sweet morning air and surveyed the hillside. A green swathe of evergreens slanted down the cool, misty hillside into the village of Arnor, and he could see some early tendrils of smoke rising from a few tiny, far-away domiciles. Perhaps one of these represented a smith like Loras, starting up his furnace, ready for the day's trade... The familiar image of his dungaree-clad grandfather with his patched clothes and leather apron, stepping into the morning mist to open the smithy, comforted Grimm, easing the roiling worries in his head.

"May I ask what you're thinking about, Grimm?"

Grimm smiled. “I was just thinking about the early morning at the old smithy back home in Lower Frunstock, Dalquist,” he said. “I never noticed the little town down there before, you know. It's a pleasant little vista."

Dalquist shrugged. “I came from Shadauk, myself. I'm city born and bred, even if I have spent nearly all my life here. I don't really like the countryside."

Grimm swept his hand to indicate the rolling expanse of greenery. “How can you not appreciate this, Dalquist? Just smell this bracing morning air!"

"It smells the same as it ever did to me, Grimm. I think it's a little late in my life to try to turn me into a poet, or a dreamer. Ah, here's the carriage."

A small, squat vehicle approached, drawn by two chestnut horses. The paintwork was a little faded, but Grimm could see that the carriage had, in better days, been a magnificent conveyance. Chipped, wine-red paint and gold coach-lines adorned the vehicle's sides, and dark-green wheels rolled beneath it. The driver climbed down to open the door, and he took the mages’ bags for stowage on the carriage roof.

The driver was a small man, maybe five feet, five inches in height, with slightly bowed legs, a flat cap over greasy grey hair and a berry-brown, wind-chapped face that spoke of many years on the open road. Nonetheless, despite his diminutive stature, the driver handled the bags with almost contemptuous ease, taking the handles of both in one hand as he hauled himself back up onto the carriage.

"Lovely mornin', innit, gennelmen?” he cried in an almost melodic voice. “Welcome on board Ginny;

‘least that's what I calls her."

"A lovely morning, indeed,” Grimm called, climbing on board, adding politely, “a beautiful conveyance you have here, too, driver."

"Thank'ee, Sir Wizard. I've ‘ad ‘er nigh on twenny-five year now. Cally, me name is, sir. Cally Furman."

"I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Driver Cally,” Dalquist called from the interior of the carriage.

“I am Questor Dalquist, and my companion is Questor Grimm. We wish to travel to High Lodge in Zhure. I trust that you know the way?"

Cally snorted. “Been takin’ wizards from ‘ere to there for long enough now, gents. I should jest about think Ginny could take ‘erself there, without me drivin’ her."

Dalquist called back, “I would appreciate it if you called us ‘mages', Cally, rather than ‘wizards'. And I think we would both feel a lot happier if you stayed at the reins, too, if you do not mind."

"Sorry ‘bout that, Lord Mage. I'll ‘ang on tight then, shall I? ‘Ere we go." Cally made a clicking sound and shook the reins, and the blinkered horses began to trot down the mountain slope.

"You didn't have to be mean to the driver, Dalquist,” Grimm objected, “he was just making friendly conversation."

He felt that his friend had been a little unfair to a simple man who was just trying to be pleasant.

"I wasn't doing it to be mean,” his companion replied. “I think you'll find that Cally knew well enough that the word was ‘mage'. He was just testing me, to see if I'd correct him. One thing you have to be on your guard against is getting too friendly with Seculars. They may seem perfectly amicable and pleasant, or they may be seeing how far they can go with you, how far they can push you. That is what our friend, Cally, was trying to do.

"If you rise to his kind of bait, word soon gets around. Before you know it, you gain a reputation as an amiable, easy-going, timid little mouse.

"Remember: being a Mage Questor isn't about winning a popularity contest, Grimm. It's about projecting the right image. Would you have been able to carry off that little exercise in the Broken Bottle if you'd been laughing and joking with that clumsy drunkard a few moments before? No, either you'd have ended up in another fight, and you'd probably have had to kill him, or you'd have had to back down and sully the image of Questors everywhere. I was pleased about the way you handled the incident, Grimm, but you can't always tell who the troublemakers are at first sight. Some are just feeling their way, seeing how far they can go. You have to assume that all Seculars are a little like that." Dalquist folded his arms and looked straight at Grimm.

"I only said that there was no need to be mean to Cally,” the younger man said mildly, “I don't think a little politeness hurts."

"Politeness, yes,” Dalquist said, “but Cally had just issued a challenge; just a little one, but a challenge nonetheless. Trust me on this, Grimm. You don't have to be unfriendly or brusque all the time, but you can't afford to get too close."

"There's shades on the winders if the sunlight's a bit too bright fer ye, Lord Mages,” Cally carolled.

"Thank you, Cally. It is a little bright, at that,” Dalquist called back, pulling down one of the window blinds.

"You see,” the senior mage said. “You can bet that he won't once forget that ‘mage’ title now. He knew it all the time, of course."

Grimm shrugged and turned to watch the passing scenery. He remained unconvinced by what Dalquist had said, but he could see that any indication of weakness in a Questor might lead to a reputation as a weakling. It might be nice to be popular, Grimm decided, but, given the choice, he would still prefer to be a Mage Questor.

* * * *

Grimm had been overwhelmed by the grandeur and size of Arnor House when he first arrived there as a cold, wet, nervous child of seven. After nine years, even the mighty House seemed commonplace and unremarkable to him. Nonetheless, he felt stunned by his first sight of High Lodge. The entire, massive structure seemed to be made of lambent marble and gold, and it gleamed and glowed in the bright post-noon sun, standing proud, isolated on a hill.

The main structure was surrounded by what appeared to be a low wall, but, as the carriage drew closer, Grimm realised that the wall was around forty feet in height. Four vast white towers thrust proudly into the sky from the corners of the main keep, and an even taller cupola rose from the centre, swelling at the top like the cap of some enormous mushroom. The square protective wall leaned outwards, and an impressive array of castellations, archery-ports and trebuchets showed that this was a fortress and not an exercise in creative architecture; every bizarre feature seemed now to have purpose and meaning. Around the periphery of the wall, perhaps twenty feet up, Grimm saw what appeared to be the spokes of some giant wheel; perhaps some kind of structure to support a huge sun canopy? On closer inspection, he realised that this was a structure to prevent the use of scaling ladders and the close approach of siege engines.

The spokes seemed too slender to support a man's weight, but the interaction of opposed forces ensured the rigidity of the structure. Grimm could hardly believe that mere mortals could have built such a fantastic, unworldly edifice.

Dalquist leaned over towards Grimm. “Impressive, isn't it? By the way, I'd advise you to close your mouth, unless you want to catch flies."

Grimm's mouth closed with a click; he was not aware that he had been gaping. The carriage drew up to the main gate. Cally turned round to face the two Questors and knuckled his forehead.

"Here y'are, gen'lemen. If it's all right wi’ ye, I'll be going into town for me lunch—me stomach thinks me throat's been cut."

Dalquist nodded. “Thank you, Cally; that will be all for now. We shall need you again at dawn, in three days’ time."

He handed the man a silver coin.

"Thank'ee kindly, sir, thass very generous of ye. I allas said you mage types was real gents." They stepped down from the carriage, and Grimm had to crane his neck to see the top of the central tower. High Lodge was truly immense! Cally handed them their bags and moved off, tossing the silver coin in the air, catching it with ease and whistling merrily.

The gate was a large arch, fifteen feet in height, with two raised portcullises about eight feet apart, with two muscular guards with halberds at each one, to whom Dalquist merely showed his Guild ring, and Grimm did likewise. The guards motioned the mages through to ... pandemonium!

The Great Hall at Arnor House was large enough for at least two hundred people, but it was often, indeed usually, deserted. The hall at High Lodge was a hive of activity. Fluted marble pillars supported a gold filigree ceiling, and lines of people wound in and out of them like ants negotiating the tunnels of their underground lair.

A grand-looking old gentleman approached them, weaving his way through the crowd. He stood at least two inches taller than Grimm's six feet, with ebony skin, a dramatic shock of white hair and a long, slender beard of the same colour. He was dressed in immaculate midnight blue robes of crushed velvet, and Grimm noticed that the tall man's staff bore a full complement of seven rings.

"Brother Mages, I bid you welcome to High Lodge,” the apparition intoned in a rich, sonorous, bass. “I am the Senior Mage Doorkeeper, and I welcome you to High Lodge."

Grimm and Dalquist exchanged glances. The difference between this self-possessed, dazzling man and their own bumbling major-domo was astonishing. Grimm had heard that High Lodge always got the best of everything, and what he saw did not contradict that. He could not imagine addressing this confident, impressive example of humanity as ‘Doorkeeper'.

As the High Lodge Doorkeeper led them through the crowd, Grimm noted with surprise that most of them appeared to be Seculars. These people milled around a series of desks, behind each of which sat a uniformed functionary with a red uniform and a dark eyeshade. Each clerk or scribe sat behind a huge ledger, a pot of ink and a quill, and most were bespattered with ink on their tunics and their faces. Grimm felt heat flooding into his face as he saw that many of the petitioners were women . Some of these women were very attractive, with expensive garments and alluring, artfully-painted faces, and the young mage felt constrained to look away whenever one of them looked his way. Despite his monastic upbringing, he had seen women since he had been declared a mage, in the cities of Crar and Drute. Most had been blowsy, drink-sodden harlots or pale, downtrodden drudges, and he had pitied them rather than felt himself drawn to them.

These women laughed and smiled, their faces animated and vivacious as they stood in line or milled around the great hall in small groups. Some of the women looked towards Dalquist, who looked as uncomfortable as Grimm felt, or towards the Senior Doorkeeper, who seemed to take it all in his elegant, well-manicured stride.

What are all these pen-pushers doing here? Grimm wondered, trying to think of something else.

"These people are presenting petitions: pleas for Weatherworkers to ease drought;” the Senior Doorkeeper said, causing Grimm to start, “for Healers; for Necromancers to contact the dear departed; for Seers to find their lost treasure; people vying for trade as suppliers to the Lodge. The list is endless. Fear not, it is easier to breathe once one is safely inside."

"It must be a very demanding post that you have here,” Grimm observed, with just a hint of envy as he saw another of the more attractive petitioners gazing at the urbane mage.

"The responsibilities are, on occasion, onerous,” the dark-skinned man allowed, “but I supervise a staff of six other Mage Doorkeepers. High Lodge never closes its doors, and so a constant presence is necessary."

Pointing a manicured finger at a large double arch at the end of the massive hall, the tall mage said,

“Secular members of staff take the left path, and mages go to the right.

"At any time, there is a complement of around one hundred and fifty Seculars present within High Lodge. Naturally, they have separate quarters so as not to disturb serious practitioners of the Craft with worldly trivialities. Allow me to lead you away from this turmoil."

The mage led the two Questors through the right-hand arch. At the instant they passed through the opening, the frenzied clamour from the main hall ceased, to be replaced by subtle, soothing music. The three mages were in a short corridor, with five doors on either side.

"These are the Doorkeepers’ quarters,” the guide explained. “At any one time, three Doorkeepers are on duty, and three off. We change the shifts on an eight-hour rotation."

"And you, Senior Doorkeeper? When do you sleep?” Dalquist asked. The dark man shrugged. “I rest for four hours in each twenty-four, or less. I have little use for sleep; my post is far more important than idle slumber."

Grimm thought that, despite the Senior Doorkeeper's noble bearing and splendid appearance, he preferred the familiar, doddering incumbent of Arnor House.

At the end of the corridor, a labyrinthine network of corridors in dazzling profusion ran in all directions, like a warren built by schizophrenic rabbits, and the Senior Doorkeeper led them with cool confidence through the complex maze of tunnels. Grimm thought he would never get used to this complexity.

"Each mage or Student at High Lodge is given a stone which senses his desired destination and lights the way ahead,” the Doorkeeper said, almost as if he had read the young Questor's mind, “a light that is apparent to his eyes only. However, after a decade or two, one finds that such baubles become unnecessary.

"We will take these stairs, Brother Mages."

A wide, sweeping, black marble spiral staircase, clad in a deep red plush carpet, rose to their right, extending upwards higher than the eye could see. After climbing three floors, Doorkeeper led his charges into another confusion of corridors. Several sumptuously-attired mages passed the small group, each one proffering a respectful nod towards the Senior Doorkeeper, who seemed to acknowledge this as his due. The walls of the corridors on this floor were expensively panelled in what looked like mahogany, inlaid with exquisite marquetry in tasteful, contrasting colours.

"I can't help wondering how much this place costs,” Grimm whispered to Dalquist.

"More than you could afford if you cleaned out the coffers of Crar a thousand times over, I would imagine,” the older mage muttered. “I came here after my sixth Quest, and somebody told me that the place took nigh on three hundred years to complete."

"Three hundred and eight, to be exact,” the Senior Doorkeeper intoned, solemnly. Immediately, Dalquist motioned the group to a halt with an irate gesture. He interposed himself between Grimm and the major-domo, who overtopped him by at least five inches, but he was not cowed in the least.

"Mage Doorkeeper, I trust that you are aware that it is considered the height of impropriety to use Telepathic skills on your brother mages without prior permission. Yet your unasked responses seem to have more than a little prescience about them. Are you using such techniques on us, by any chance?" The tall man's face bore a cool smile, perhaps even a contemptuous one. Grimm felt a frisson of anger. He thinks we're just petty-minded, provincial buffoons!

"Indeed, Mage Questor,” the major-domo rumbled. “Many here at High Lodge prefer that I am receptive to their needs and requirements at all times. I will desist, if you wish.” His expression suggested that he considered the mage before him but a few steps from terminal senility.

"I do wish so, Brother Mage! If you would be so kind as to let our thoughts remain our own, we should be most appreciative.” His voice was polite, but his face looked as threatening as a thundercloud. Grimm could almost have sworn that the Lodge Doorkeeper had emitted a quiet snort of affront.

“Consider it done, Mage Questor. Your thoughts are your own.” It needed little imagination to see that the man had all but added ‘and you are welcome to them’ to the last sentence. The major-domo's demeanour cooled noticeably, and he said nothing more as he hustled them at great speed through another complicated series of passageways. At last, he stopped outside one of the doors in an anonymous corridor.

"If you would be so kind as to wait here for a while, gentlemen, somebody will come for you.” He opened the door for them with evident ill grace, all but forcing them inside and almost, but not quite, slamming the portal behind them.

"I don't like that man,” Dalquist said, once the door had closed behind them. “Presence is one thing, but he's too damn’ polished . He thinks High Lodge is too good for us." Grimm nodded, admitting, “I have to say, I do prefer our own Doorkeeper." Grimm took stock of the room, which must have been five or six times better than his comfortable cell back at Arnor House. A long table ran the length of the room, with comfortable leather chairs arranged around it, and a magical fire burnt in a golden grate without consuming the logs around which it played. A crystal drinks cabinet stood at the far end of the room, and the mage saw small tables arrayed around the wall, heaped with expensive viands and delicacies. Each of these tables bore a crystal vase with a delicate orchid. Grimm realised he was hungry and began to load a plate with food. Dalquist did the same.

"I don't like this place, either,” the senior mage growled. “Don't get me wrong: while we have all this good food and drink on offer, I'll take it; but I don't think it's right to live like this. High Lodge is just too soft . I thought it was some sort of paradise on my first visit, but now I think it's little better than a decadent whorehouse. Did you see some of the mages we passed on the way here?"

"I think I know what you mean, Dalquist,” Grimm said, after swallowing a mouthful of grilled ortolan.

“They were confident, well-dressed, self-possessed to the point of arrogance, but they seemed to have all the presence and none of the power . When I was a Student, I used to think I'd scream if I heard that bloody phrase once more, but I think I know what it means now. None of this lot would last five minutes on a serious Quest; it's no wonder they get the various Houses to do all their dirty work.” He sank into one of the deeply-upholstered chairs, which hissed slightly as he sat. Dalquist followed suit, having helped himself to a generous glass of some noble vintage from the drinks cabinet. He placed a second glass before Grimm.

"I like comfort as much as the next man and I know you do, too, but how can you appreciate luxury if you live in it all the time? There's something sick in this place, a deep canker that saps all the majesty from it."

He took a deep gulp from the lustrous goblet and raised his eyebrows in appreciation. “At least the splendour of the food and drink matches that of the décor."

Grimm suppressed a gently mocking smile: Dalquist seemed in no mood to deny himself the opulence he had decried a moment before.

"We might as well enjoy it while we're here, I suppose,” Grimm agreed, raising his glass. He did not really like wine, but he had to admit that this beverage was of exceptional quality.

* * * *

After an hour or so, the Questors had requited their hunger and thirst and were deep in conversation. Grimm heard a polite rap on the door and called, “Enter."

A stout man with greasy grey locks and a sparse beard walked into the room, the rings on his staff marking him as a mage of the Third Rank. He consulted a small pocket-watch, and a grubby sheet of paper that he dragged from a pocket in his robe. Grimm heard him mutter, “Room thirty-four, four hours of the clock."

The portly man's expression brightened into a dazzling smile, revealing almost too many immaculate, pearly teeth.

"Greetings, brother mages,” he crowed. “I am Shael, Assistant Sub-Vice-Facilitator-in-Chief of High Lodge. If you would kindly accompany me to the Presidium Chamber, Lord Dominie Horin awaits the pleasure of your company."

The man's words dripped with unction, but Grimm could tell they were empty and ritualistic. Of course, in such a fine establishment, Questors from provincial Houses would not merit any great ceremony. Even so, he felt his heart beating faster at the prospect of meeting the master of the Guild.

"If you would be so kind?” Shael pleaded. “The Lord Dominie has many demands on his time." Dalquist looked at Grimm and rolled his eyes as the two mages levered themselves from their comfortable chairs and followed Shael out of the room.

It took several minutes, at a brisk pace, to pass along the length of the corridor past many identical doors, and Grimm guessed that each room might hold a party of disgruntled provincial mages patiently awaiting the Dominie's impatient pleasure. They reached a golden double portal decorated with intricate patterns, and waited a few minutes whilst Shael scanned his watch. Finally, the Assistant Sub-Vice-Facilitator-in-Chief rapped twice at the doors with his staff, to be greeted by a tired-sounding

“Enter” from within the room.

Far from the opulent, orderly chamber that Grimm had expected, they walked into a chaotic mess. A vast, round table dominated the room, overflowing with scrolls, books and papers overflowing onto the sumptuously carpeted floor. A small man with a green eyeshade sat by the door, apparently deep in slumber. A corpulent, sweaty old man sat on the far side of the table, in front of an impressive bay window with diamond-shaped lights. Grimm realised that the Lord Dominie's portrait in the Great Hall at Arnor must have been painted many years before, and that the artist must have taken a number of liberties with his subject's image.

The two mages had both been well drilled in the protocol required on meeting the Lord Dominie. As one man, they grasped their staves at mid-length and sank onto their right knees, intoning in chorus, "Lord Dominie, a humble mage seeks admittance; kindly look upon me with favour."

"Yes, yes, yes,” the Master of the Guild muttered in an irritated fashion. “Where are these mages’

documents, Shael?"

Shael began to rifle through the papers on the desk, and the man with the eyeshade drawled, “23C, Lord Dominie; third pile on the right."

The Facilitator shuffled a few more papers and then evidently located the document he sought. He scanned the paper and looked up to face Horin.

"These two mages are from Arnor House, Lord Dominie: Questors Dalquist and Gramm.” Grimm forbore from correcting Shael's mistake.

The Dominie showed interest and animation at last. “You have the Eye?"

"Yes, Lord Dominie,” Dalquist said. He intoned a few nonsense words, and the gem that had caused so much trouble appeared in his hand with a discreet flash of blue light. The man with the green eyeshade leapt up and all but snatched the Eye from the Questor's hand, running to take it to Horin. “It feels genuine, Lord Dominie."

The Dominie nodded, brushing heavy drops of sweat from his pink forehead. “If you only knew the sleepless nights this little beauty has cost me."

He uttered a long stream of runic syllables, and the gem disappeared. “Well done, good Questors. Thank you."

Horin looked sharply at the man with the eyeshade, who jabbed Shael in the ribs with a sharp elbow. Shael yelped, cleared his throat and began to read from the sheet. Grimm saw the pathetic mage's lips moving in silence for a while before he spoke.

"Questor Dalquist! Questor Grimm! Beloved sons of the Guild! In rec-recog nition of your meretricious...” Eyeshade jabbed him again, muttering “Meritorious".

"Of your meritorious and noble actions in the heroic revolution..." Another jab.

"Resolution,” Eyeshade growled.

"... resolution of a problem affecting the entire Guild, the Lord Dominie is pleased to confess ... Ouch!"

"Confer,” came the tired correction.

"Yes, to confer upon Questor Dalquist of Arnor House the degree of the Fifth Rank ... er, Lord Dominie?"

"Yes, Shael, what is it?"

"Er, Questor Dalquist seems to be at the Fifth Rank already, Lord Dominie,” the hapless mage said, pointing at Dalquist's Mage Staff.

"Oh, very well then, Shael,” Horin snapped. “These idiotic lights make it impossible to see anything. Let's just give him the Seventh Rank and an entry in the next edition of Deeds of the Questors.

" Get on with it, fool!"

"Um, yes, Lord Dominie,” Shael stammered. “The Lord Dominie confers upon Questor Dalquist of Arnor House the degree of the Seventh Rank. He also wishes to coffer—that is, confer— upon Questor Grimm of Arnor House the dangle— ow!— the degree of ... it doesn't say anything here, Lord Dominie." Horin waved his hand in exasperation. “Oh, let's say Fifth Rank, shall we? I presume you're not going to tell me that this skinny one is already a Fifth? He doesn't look old enough to be out of leading-strings, from what I can see."

"Er, no, Lord Dominie, Questor Grimm is a...” Shael looked deeply concerned, perhaps at the idea that this adolescent string bean was about to be promoted to a rank higher than his own.

"Then that's that,” Horin growled. “Thank you, good Questors. You are a credit to your House and your Guild; that will be all. Go and see Junior Armourer Threll; he will put the tags on. You may go." Having retrieved the worrisome charm, he seemed no longer interested. Shael ushered Grimm and Dalquist out of the chamber, and the audience was at an end. The Facilitator, in his haste, neglected properly to close the door. The last thing Grimm heard as they sped down the corridor was “23D, Lord Dominie; Scholasticate supplies for Jeral House..." As they hurried along the corridor, Grimm knew he should feel elated at his rapid succession; instead of that, he just felt a great sense of anti-climax as the glittering scales fell from his eyes. Dalquist looked little happier even at having gained the ultimate mage rank. The young Questor thought fondly of the spectacle of his Acclamation, in contrast to the farcical comedy that had just been played out in this august institution.

Chapter 16: Beguilement

Assistant Sub-Vice-Facilitator-in-Chief Shael hustled the two mages along the corridor at a brisk pace. Grimm had seen the look on Shael's face when Horin had so casually promoted him to a rank higher than the long-serving Facilitator's, but it seemed the corpulent functionary was not one to harbour a grudge. As they careered along the passageway, his vocal tone was friendly enough.

"We'll just be off to see Junior Armourer Threll, get those tags put on your staffs ... er, staves, that is. After that, I'm to be your escort during the rest of your stay here. Would you believe that they're leaving all the important visitors and petitioners to that idiot, Junior Under-Assistant-Facilitator Jorel?" Dalquist shrugged as well as a man might whilst speeding along in floor-length robes and carrying a six-foot staff in one hand.

"I don't know this Jorel, I'm afraid,” he gasped, “Mage ... um, Facilitator Shael, do you think we could possibly slow down a little?"

Shael stopped dead in the middle of the corridor, and Grimm and Dalquist nearly cannoned into him.

“I'm sorry, Questor ... Dalquist, is it? Yes, force of habit, I'm afraid. Always scurrying about the place, I am; I need to be kinder to myself now and again, I think. I'll be happy to take you on a guided tour of our magnificent edifice when we have finished with Threll. I'm sure you'll both be very impressed." The senior Questor nodded slowly. “I'm sure we will be, Facilitator Shael. I just wonder why we were asked to remain here for three days just for the sake of a five-minute ‘thank you, and sod off’ hearing like the one we've just had."

"Oh, Questor Dalquist, that was not all, not by any means. At the end of the week, there is a ceremonial dinner for all newly-promoted mages. Each mage has the opportunity to introduce himself to his peers. You can't miss it."

"I could try,” Dalquist said, dryly. “It sounds about as enjoyable as having a boil lanced."

"Oh, no, it's great fun. When I got my third ring, two years ago, there were over fifty of us at the dinner. We all had a lot to drink, and there were spells flying around the room all night.” The portly man set off again, but at a more sedate pace.

"What did you do before you became a Facilitator?” Grimm asked.

"Oh, I was picked out as a Facilitator very early on, Questor Grimm. In my old House, I had the vocation of Seer, but I must admit I'm a bit rusty on those skills now. Not much cause to use them. Mind the stairs, now."

Grimm thought of Shael as a High Lodge equivalent of the Arnor House Doorkeeper; a harmless incompetent hived off into a largely ceremonial job where he could do no harm, but for which he was supremely qualified. From the length of the man's title, he assumed that there were several other mages with similar posts; Shael might be quite correct in his assessment of his junior. After ten minutes of navigating through the sumptuously panelled catacombs of the Lodge, they reached a door marked ‘T226'. Shael knocked perfunctorily with his three-ringed staff and opened the door. Grimm and Dalquist walked into what appeared to be a moderately-sized warehouse, with grimy racks filled with boxes of rivets, hinges, bolts, metal ingots and other mechanical items. To Grimm's eyes, it was much more reminiscent of the smithy at Lower Frunstock than the abode of a full Guild Mage. A pasty-faced, surly-looking man of maybe fifty years of age shuffled out of the shadows and stopped in front of Shael, leaning one-handed on one of the racks. Unlike most mages, he had a close-cropped skull, and he wore a stained leather apron over simple, grey robes. Nonetheless, Grimm saw the blue-gold Guild ring on the grubby man's ring finger.

"What you got for me this time, Shael?"

"Just a couple of ring jobs, Threll,” Shael trilled, “two on this one and four on this one.” The Facilitator's eyes rolled at this last pronouncement.

"Don't get many fours round here, Shaely. How'd he swing that?” Threll asked, ignoring the two Questors.

"They both brought some jewel back, Threll,” Shael said with a shrug. “Lord Prelate was in a real hurry, and he's been having problems with Drunar's new ‘Desired Light’ charms; he couldn't see a thing. So, he just waved his hand and there you are; four tags."

"Hmm. Makes you wonder why you bother, sometimes."

Grimm felt annoyed by this casual dismissal of the arduous Quest being batted back and forth over his head. That these pampered, bureaucratic caricatures of true mages should regard their own pathetic jobs as of equal worth to a Questor's life of risk and hardship made his ire boil up like bile.

"Questor Dalquist and I abstracted a magical gem from a powerful demon that intended to use it to spy upon the whole Guild,” he snapped. “Both of us risked our lives more than once to resolve a situation that affected everybody, including you.

"Shael, I'm sorry I got promoted over you; you're right. I know Lord Prelate Horin was distracted, and he probably granted me a higher status than I deserved, or than he would have done if he hadn't been in such a hurry. I can't help that, and I'm not about to play the martyr by turning down this bounty. Would you have acted any differently, Shael? If I have it wrong, feel free to enlighten me." He stood with his arms folded. Redeemer floated in mid-air at his side.

"So that's two ring jobs; a two and a four,” Threll intoned in a resigned manner. “If you want them, gentlemen, I'd be grateful if you'd hand the sticks over. I haven't got all day, you know." Feeling harsh words rising in his throat, Grimm kept his lips closed, knowing he would see no more of the odious little man after he had finished.

The Junior Armourer took Dalquist's staff, Shakhmat, and deftly swung it in a circle around the back of his hand. Grimm could almost feel the anger boiling within Dalquist at this affront. Although nothing Threll could do might harm the impervious rod, it was an essential adjunct to a mage's soul, and should be treated with respect.

"I'd be grateful if you treated my staff with a little more consideration, Armourer Threll,” Dalquist snapped.

"Not going to hurt it any, am I, Questor? Some people ... I don't know. Try to do an honest job..." Muttering darkly, Threll placed the staff in a grooved, eight-foot jig with adjustable ends, which he closed snugly against the brass shoes of Shakhmat. He took a scroll from his pocket and adopted a dramatic pose, his legs apart, holding the scroll at arms’ length; the grubby mage looked as if he were about to deliver some royal decree.

The spell consisted of thirty-one syllables, as Grimm counted. At least Threll seemed to know his craft, and a sixth gold circle appeared around the circumference of the staff, perfectly spaced in relation to the five it had already borne. After another repetition, Dalquist's staff bore its full complement of seven rings, indelibly bonded to the wood.

Releasing a pair of catches, the Armourer withdrew the staff from the jig, and held it out to Dalquist without looking at him. Grimm wondered if his brother Questor was about to cave in the sloppy artisan's skull, so dark was his expression, but Dalquist stayed his hand and his mouth. Threll spun around to face Grimm, his right hand outstretched. “Are you waiting for a royal invitation or something, brother?"

Grimm moved closer to the ill-tempered mage. “I wish you had met our Magemaster Faffel, Threll,” he said, smiling. “I'm sure he would have appreciated the way you go about your work." Threll grunted. “What'd he teach? Spellcasting, was it?"

"Protocol, Decorum and Courtly Graces,” Grimm replied with a pleasant smile. The implied rebuke seemed to wash over the Junior Armourer's head.

"Not surprised at that, Questor. I bet he'd have been impressed by a nice, efficient department like this. Stick, please ?"

To Grimm's regret, not even the imbecilic Threll was stupid enough to try to take a mage's staff without permission. The resultant fulminating that this would have caused might have taught the unpleasant little man some manners...

Grimm handed over Redeemer with a resigned sigh, and Threll managed to complete the spell for the requisite number of repetitions. He miscast once, and clasped his hand to his brow in pain as Grimm fought to suppress a satisfied smile. This surly little man wouldn't have survived five minutes of Crohn's tutelage, he thought.

Even an Adept should have been able to recite such a simple spell at least a dozen times from memory, even without a scroll to aid him, and without a single error. The use of a scroll should have precluded any miscast.

"Thank you, Armourer Threll,” Grimm said, as the surly mage handed Redeemer back to him. “I trust you will look me up, should you ever occasion to visit Arnor House.” A few days in the House would do the unpleasant artisan some good, he thought.

"Not likely!” the Armourer snorted. “I'm perfectly happy here, thank you very much."

"I'm glad to hear it, Threll,” Dalquist said. “It seems to me that you belong here.” The Armourer nodded, perhaps harbouring the impression that he had just received a compliment.

"Gentlemen, perhaps we should be moving on now,” Shael said, re-assuming his official role, “if we are to take in as much of the Lodge as possible in the short time available." The three mages left Threll's gloomy little warehouse, with considerable relief on Grimm's part, and the Questor noticed that the hapless man had resumed formal Mage Speech. At least he seemed happier now.

"I suggest our next stop should be your Accommodation Block,” the Assistant Sub-Vice-Facilitator-in-Chief suggested. “Do you have bags with you?"

"We left them in the waiting room where you first met us,” Dalquist replied.

"In that case, I will give instructions for them to be taken to your rooms,” Shael said. He took a small gem from a pocket and muttered into it for a few moments. “It is all taken care of: you will be residing in Rooms 1449 and 1450, Accommodation Block 15, while you are with us." Dalquist laid an avuncular hand on Shael's shoulder.

"Facilitator Shael, we Questors are independent types,” he said, with an ingratiating smile. “Perhaps you might appreciate a little time to yourself, while we plan our own itinerary. After your hard work on our behalf, this seems only fair."

The Facilitator looked uncertain. “That is a generous offer, Questor Dalquist. I have been working very hard for some time. Nonetheless, you will be unable to find your way around here without a constant guide, and I must take my responsibilities seriously. Each of your rooms bears an ivory cartouche; you only need but touch it, and I will be with you within minutes."

Dalquist's spoke in a sweet, almost seductive voice: “Your estimable Senior Doorkeeper mentioned that all the members of staff within High Lodge possess charms to guide you around this magnificent establishment. I feel sure a clever, resourceful fellow like you could lay his hands on a brace of these gems in a moment."

Despite the fact that he must be almost old enough to be Dalquist's grandfather, Shael seemed cowed by the tall Questor. “It is most irregular, Questor Dalquist,” he said, with a nervous shake of his head.

"But not forbidden, Facilitator Shael? We feel so guilty at the idea of poaching upon your precious, hard-earned free time. An important mage such as your good self must be in demand all the time. I can tell how onerous your vocation must be; you look so pale and tired, Brother Mage. A short vacation would surely be just the thing to revitalise your zeal and efficiency." The pathetic functionary hesitated, twitching his head while his eyes scanned the ceiling, but then he seemed to reach a firm decision. Fishing in his numerous pockets, which seemed to contain an unending supply of paper, keys, fluff and other detritus, he at last produced a handful of small charms, two of which he pressed upon Dalquist and Grimm.

"No, it is not forbidden, Questor Dalquist,” he responded. “However, should the Senior Doorkeeper, or any other Lodge functionary, ask you of my whereabouts, I would request that you reply to the effect that I am answering a call of nature, or some such innocuous statement. I must, at all costs, maintain the appearance of preserving the formalities at all times."

"We would not dream of compromising your well-earned leisure,” Dalquist assured him. “If you would just be so kind as to explain the working of these baubles, we will be on our way." The operation of the gems seemed to be simplicity itself. The holder merely needed to speak the name of the location that he sought, such as ‘Accommodation Block 15', and a magical green luminescence would appear along the shortest path he needed to take to reach his destination.

"Thank you, Facilitator Shael, your guidance has been much appreciated,” the senior Questor said. “We will be sure to speak well of you, should anybody inquire of you." Shael gave a thankful, relieved nod and rushed off down the corridor at a breakneck pace.

"Well, Grimm,” Dalquist said, “shall we stay together, or would you rather explore on your own?"

"If you don't mind, Dalquist, I'd rather choose my own path,” Grimm replied. “For most of the last ten years, I've been locked up within the bounds of Arnor House. It would be nice to wander around alone for a while, without purpose and without cares. I hope you're not offended by this." Dalquist smiled. “Not in the least, my friend. Mages of our calling are almost expected to show an independent streak. We can compare notes later, perhaps during dinner. There is a splendid Refectory here, as I recall. What do you say to the idea of meeting back at the Refectory in four hours?"

"That sounds ideal, Dalquist. Four hours it is."

* * * *

Grimm found it pleasant to wander about the Lodge without any firm destination or goal, but he had to admit that the endless series of identical passageways tempered any sense of real exploration.

"Entrance Hall,” he instructed the magical gem, and a bright green strip appeared along a corridor to the right.

After five minutes of following the glowing arrow, he recognised the splendid staircase that led back to the hall. Within two minutes more, he had gained the archway that led back to what he now thought of as the ‘real world'.

The confusion of the early afternoon had subsided to a low hubbub, and Grimm found that he was able to move freely among the petitioners and the reception desks.

"One rainstorm, localised, of three days’ duration, good sir: two gold pieces. I wish your farm bounty and increase."

"A termination of pregnancy will cost you five silver pieces, Miss. Yes, Miss, I am aware who you are, but High Lodge cannot extend lines of credit, even to the illustrious."

"One cosmetic illusion of two days’ duration: seven pieces of gold." From these brief exchanges, Grimm gathered that the mighty High Lodge ran on hard cash, rather than on philosophical, philanthropic principles; he also noted the relative values of these judgements. He found the discourse in the hall dull and money-oriented, rather than giving him an interesting insight into worldly life, and he became bored. He was about to go in search of further diversion when he felt a tug at his sleeve.

He turned to his right to see an attractive girl of perhaps his own age standing at his side. She was about five feet in height, with flawless skin and large, lambent, blue eyes, and she wore a simple, black-and-white habit that marked her as a member of some religious order. To an adolescent who had been raised in a strict, all-male environment, she seemed like an angel. Grimm might be a potent Mage Questor, a lethal Weapon of the Guild, but he was still a sixteen-year-old youth.

"Lord Mage, I am Sister Madeleine,” the vision of loveliness intoned, her eyes wide. “I wonder if you could help me."

Grimm felt awkward, unsure of how to respond. “What's the problem, er, Sister?” He had forgotten to use the formal, stilted Mage Speech expected of a member of the Guild in his dealings with outsiders, but it did not seem to matter.

Sister Madeleine drew him to a corner of the hall; the simple pressure of her small hand on his shoulder seemed to electrify the young Questor.

"There's no problem, Lord Mage,” the nun whispered, “I just wanted to ask you a question." Grimm was puzzled. What could a young nun want of him? “What ... what is it?” he asked, his tone brusquer than he had intended.

The girl lowered her eyes, revealing disturbingly long, dark lashes “What's your name?"

"Er, G-grimm Afelnor,” Grimm stammered. He felt completely unprepared for this situation. “Look, um, Sister, I have to..."

Sister Madeleine giggled, and Grimm felt a hot flush warming his face.

"It's all right, Gur-Grimm Afelnor,” she whispered. “I won't eat you. I just wondered why you're so young. All the other mages around here look ancient. It makes a change to see someone of my own age around here."

"I'm a Mage Questor,” Grimm said, feeling as if his head were stuffed with cotton wool, “we don't take as long to develop our powers as other mages. If you'll excuse me, I'll just..." The girl approached Grimm closely, and Grimm felt as if the hall had just become much warmer. “I didn't just want to know that, Gur-Grimm Afelnor. I'd like to get to know you a little better. How long will you be here?"

Grimm's mouth worked uselessly for a couple of moments.

"Listen, Sister Madeleine,” he said in a reasonable facsimile of a firm voice. “I'm really not supposed to get involved with Seculars—that is, um, people outside the Guild." He looked into the blue eyes for a long time, but Madeleine did not speak. At last, Grimm blurted, “If you don't mind me saying, you don't seem awfully religious to me, Sister M-Madeleine. What's your Order?"

"Oh, I'm with the Sisters of Divine Mercy,” the nun said, with a dreamy smile. “My Order isn't all that strict, Questor Grimm. We are expected to exercise decorum and so on during hours of observance, of course, but we are allowed a limited amount of socialising. I've been resident here for three weeks as an assistant to my Prioress. She's been liaising with the Prelate over the possibility of formal recognition of our Order by the Guild, giving us primacy over other religious orders in towns and cities where the Guild is established."

She bit her lower lip in a manner that Grimm found highly appealing. He was not experienced enough in the ways of the distaff sex to realise that he was supposed to. “Are you allowed alcohol, Grimm?” she asked.

Grimm thought of the drunken affair of his Acclamation ceremony and nodded. “Surely they don't let you drink, Sister Madeleine?"

"No, but there are beverages other than alcoholic ones that I am allowed,” she said with a smile. “There is one bar in what you call the Secular zone, where Guild members are allowed to mingle with outsiders. I'd like to meet you there in a couple of hours."

Grimm's head felt his head spin.

"A couple of hours sounds just fine to me.” It seemed as if somebody else had spoken.

"I'll see you in two hours, then.” As she walked away, Madeleine blew Grimm a small kiss over her shoulder. The kiss seemed to impact his cheek with the gentle caress of a feather stuck to the head of a sledgehammer. Grimm found himself beginning to count the minutes until they met again. He felt happier than he could remember.

He might have felt different, had he been able to see the rather sinister, knowing, self-satisfied half-smile on the young nun's face as she walked back to her quarters.

Chapter 17: Infatuation

Grimm almost danced, fighting hard to keep a dreamy, beaming smile from his face. The invaluable locating gem lit the way to his room, and he felt as if his feet bore wings. He debated with himself over what he should say to Dalquist, and decided not to mention Madeleine to his friend. All the Guild Rules emphasised that close relations with women were anathema to Guild Mages, and could sap a magic-user's power.

Still, Grimm thought, what harm can there be in a little convivial company for the evening?

He was, of course, deluding himself. A part of him recognised that it was wrong to deceive his friend; if he believed that his little soiree was so innocent and harmless, why did he need to keep it from Dalquist?

Unfortunately, the frontal lobes of Grimm's brain were no longer in full control of his actions.

* * * *

Grimm realised he did not know which of the two rooms mentioned by Shael had been reserved for him; however, the terminus of the magical green trail made clear which door was his. It opened at his touch, and he stepped inside as if wafted on a breeze.

The splendour of the room was in keeping with the rest of High Lodge, richly carpeted in blue and gold, with a sumptuous four-poster bed and tables of tempting sweetmeats and viands. Crystal decanters of wine and liquor were also in evidence, but Grimm had his mind on only two things: Madeleine, and the desire to impress her.

A magical fire burnt in a grate in the middle of the wall to the left of the door, producing no smoke and consuming no fuel. A hipbath had been thoughtfully placed beside the fire, with a selection of unguents and oils. Grimm thought that a hot bath was just what he needed.

He stripped off his expensive silk robes and carelessly let them fall to the floor. A kettle was provided for hot water, but Grimm had no need for such mechanical devices. He filled the bath with cold water and cast a variant of his well-practiced Fire spell at the bath. He miscast twice, something that had not happened since he had become an Adept, but he dismissed the discomfort this brought. On the third attempt, he directed a small portion of his energies into the water until steam began to rise. Still wearing his seraphic smile, Grimm lowered himself into the bath. He intended to appear at his very best for his meeting with Madeleine.

* * * *

"How fared you with our young Questor friend, Sister Madeleine?” The harsh, sibilant, voice sounded like the rustle of dry, dead leaves underfoot.

The young Sister bore little resemblance to the gauche, flirtatious girl who had so entranced the Questor. Her eyes hooded, she took an apple from a tray and took a mouthful from it before answering.

"It was easy, Prioress. He's just a boy. I'll have him eating out of my hand before you know it." A wizened hand snatched the half-eaten apple from the girl and tossed it on the floor. “Just remember, Madeleine: he is also a powerful Mage Questor, and I want him to stay that way. If you exceed my orders, Sister, you know what will happen to you."

The old woman picked up a stout rod from behind her and waved it threateningly. Madeleine clasped her hands and sank to her knees. “I apologise, Reverend Mother. Everything will be as you order. Please forgive my levity."

Still waving the stick, the Prioress continued, “I do not wish for tainted goods, girl, so bear that in mind. I want you to ensure that he is so infatuated that he will seek me out at once when I take you away from him.

"If he wants to see you again, he will need to do a few favours for me; nothing much; just enough to get used to the idea of working for me on occasion. Just remember, promise all, but give little."

"Of course, Reverend Mother,” Madeleine said, puzzled, “but if you want his services, why do you not just command him to do as you wish?"

Snorting in exasperation, the Prioress replied, “I may want a difficult service from him in the near future, one that will involve overcoming his whole will. I have seen that he is a strong one. Even I may not have sufficient power to defeat all of his motivation. Each time he performs a little task for me, I gain a greater insight into his soul.

"Nonetheless, Sister, you are not here to ask questions. You are here to do as you are told."

"Reverend Mother, I am yours to command, as always."

Lizaveta leaned forward, her shrivelled face a stern mask. “Ensure that you do not forget that, dear Sister, or it will be the worse for you."

* * * *

Grimm arrived in the bar long before the appointed time. It was a large, crowded room with many bays, and Grimm started each time somebody entered the room. The low, subtle lighting seemed ideal for a romantic meeting, but it made identification difficult.

He had spent a considerable time in preparation for this meeting. After much deliberation, he had selected a deep blue velvet robe, and he had tied back his long, brown hair in a neat queue. His beard was trimmed and pomaded, and he had even combed his eyebrows. Sitting in a comfortable chair, his entrails writhed as he awaited Madeleine's arrival.

Grimm had begun to fear that she had changed her mind, as the allotted time came and went, but his heart seemed to flip as the young nun came into view. Lurching to his feet, he pulled out a chair, into which Madeleine sank with demure femininity.

"Sister, I'm so glad you came,” Grimm said, trying to sound mature and failing miserably, his voice almost an octave above its normal pitch.

"Please, Grimm, just call me Madeleine outside my hours of Observance.” Her wide, blue eyes seemed to fill his field of vision. “You don't mind me just calling you ‘Grimm', do you? All these mage titles just seem so stuffy . You don't have to say ‘Sister', either. When I'm free, ‘Madeleine’ is all you need to call me."

"Ah; that's ... that's fine, M-Madeleine,” Grimm stammered, feeling like a fool. “Um, would you like something to drink?"

"Spring water will be fine, thank you, Grimm,” the girl replied sweetly, her eyes not leaving his. Seeing no waiter, he excused himself and went in search of one. This was not an easy task in the labyrinthine bar, and he felt himself becoming frustrated, eager to return to Madeleine's attentions. As he walked by a pillar for perhaps the fifth time, Grimm saw Dalquist, standing with his arms folded across his chest, his lips compressed in a thin line.

"Oh, er, hello, Dalquist,” Grimm said, “I was just..."

"You were just making a complete idiot of yourself, Questor Grimm! Look at you, a Guild Questor playing lapdog to a supposed religious! What sort of a nun acts like this: have you thought of that?" Grimm became annoyed. “Dalquist, this doesn't have anything to do with you! You—"

"Yes, it does, Grimm,” the older Questor interrupted. “You are not here as a free agent, but as a representative of Arnor House. What sort of marks do you think Magemaster Faffel would give you for Courtly Graces and Decorum right now?” The older man's words were soft, but intense.

"Dalquist, I'm well aware of my responsibilities to the House,” Grimm muttered, “but I'm not some bloody slave. I also know that I owe you a lot, but that doesn't give you the right to run my life." Dalquist sighed. “Grimm, have you checked that girl's aura? I have. It's as clear as a baby's conscience." Grimm smiled, but not in a friendly manner. “Well, there you are. She's as innocent as she looks. I must say that that was pretty underhanded, though..."

Dalquist leaned close and hissed, “Too damned clean, Grimm. Nobody in the world is that innocent. There's absolutely nothing in that aura: no impatience; no excitement; and no bloody infatuation . Somebody is screening that aura from my Sight. I have no idea how to do that, and I don't know of any other mage who does; there's some magic involved that we don't know about, and that worries me." Grimm thumped Redeemer on the floor in annoyance. “I think you're just jealous, Dalquist. I think you need to get out more often, and get on with your own life instead of trying to run mine.” He stormed off in search of a waiter, furious at what he saw as his friend's unwanted interference.

* * * *

Dalquist approached the girl, who regarded him with a cool, neutral expression. “May I help you?” she asked.

"I will be brief,” the Questor intoned. “I do not know what your little game is, but I do know that you are not some lovelorn ingénue engaged in innocent flirtation. I want you—no, I instruct you—to end your little game, now."

"My word, Questor, how forceful you are,” Madeleine said in a jaded tone. “Still, I'm afraid I'm going to have to turn you down. And, since the members of my Order are officially under the protection of Lord Dominie Horin during our stay here, I don't think there's a lot you can do about it, unless you want to blast me into tiny fragments. I don't think that would look very good, now would it? The murder of a sweet, innocent nun would not go down well here, I imagine. Ah, here comes my good friend, Grimm." Her face broke into a warm smile at Grimm's approach. The young Questor placed a glass of water and a glass of wine on the table, and snarled, “Excuse me a moment, Madeleine. I'd just like a quick word with my colleague, Dalquist."

He put a none-too friendly hand on his fellow Questor's arm and propelled him into a vacant bay. “You couldn't leave it alone, could you? You just had to interfere. I'm warning you, Questor Dalquist, if you can't be happy for me then just leave me alone, or you and I will fall out." Dalquist felt stunned by the ferocity of his younger friend's reaction. Surely there was something more than simple adolescent infatuation at work here; nobody could have gone through the rigorous training in self-control that every Questor underwent, only to sink into this mindless, self-indulgent behaviour. Grimm seemed unable to listen to reason; dry talk of duty and responsibility might serve little purpose except to widen the nascent gulf between the two mages.

Dalquist could detect no mage influence at work on his friend, but he knew something was afoot. He decided to act with the greatest of care.

"I'm sorry, Grimm. I just wanted to be sure you weren't hurt. Please forgive me for my concerns. Let's meet up over breakfast tomorrow, and we can start again."

Grimm took a deep breath, and lifted his hand from Dalquist's shoulder. “Perhaps, Dalquist; I'll see how I feel in the morning.” He turned on his heel and returned to Madeleine without a backward glance. Dalquist looked at the pair. Grimm wore a vacuous smile on his face as he stared into the girl's eyes. She had hold of his hands, looking to Dalquist like some improbable hybrid of a mindless innocent and a complete slut. Some magic other than puppy love was at work here, and he intended to find out what it was.

Dalquist made a few inquiries and ascertained that the Prioress of the Order was in residence. Perhaps a visit might be in order.

* * * *

It took little time to find the Prioress’ apartments with the aid of the marvellous Charm of Location, and Dalquist wondered just how he would handle this situation. It seemed to him improbable that wild, irate accusations would bring the Reverend Mother to his side; calm diplomacy would be necessary. Power and presence, Questor Dalquist: power and presence at all times, he reminded himself as he approached the chamber.

A gentle tap at the door was answered with a sibilant, “Enter, Supplicant,” and Dalquist entered the room.

This was no austere religious refuge. Compared even to the opulent splendour of High Lodge's quarters, this suite of rooms seemed extravagant. A small, shrivelled woman dressed in a flowing, white dress lay at her ease on a comfortable, blood-red divan furnished with gold-tasselled cushions and brocade drapes. The old woman nodded.

"Ah, Lord Mage; I bid you 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’ words might be polite, but Dalquist found the sound of her voice unsettling, hideous, and the Questor had to fight to keep his facial expression deferent and neutral. The woman held out her left hand, which bore a large ruby ring on the third finger.

Dalquist proffered a deep, respectful bow, dropping to one knee as he kissed the proffered ring, with Shakhmat floating in the air behind him.

"Thank you, Reverend Mother,” he said. “My name is Dalquist Rufior, and I have come here on behalf of my fellow Questor, Grimm Afelnor. Are you aware that one of the Sisters of your Order is currently consorting with him?"

The Prioress shrugged. “A harmless dalliance, I am sure, Questor Dalquist. My Order does not forbid innocent, platonic friendships between the sexes. I feel sure that this is no more than a friendly liaison between two young people."

Dalquist rubbed his chin. How was he to approach this difficult subject? “Reverend Mother, I have reason to believe that this is not a platonic friendship. It seems to me more like some kind of amorous ensorcellment. My colleague seems no longer under his free will. He is a Questor, a mage of extraordinary self-control and willpower, and yet he appears to have surrendered himself completely to the attentions of this young nun of your own Order. Some kind of magical influence seems to be at work here, a magic of a type with which I am unfamiliar."

Lizaveta stood up, her head at the level of the underside of Dalquist's chin, a solemn expression on her face. “Questor Dalquist, this is a most serious allegation. Have you identified the spell involved?" Dalquist sighed. “Reverend Mother, I have not. However, I do know that some unfamiliar magic is at work. The girl somehow hides her true aura from my Mage Sight."

Lizaveta raised her eyebrows. “My word,” she said, running a hand through her thinning, white hair, “this is a sorry state of affairs; a witch within my own Order! I will have her expelled immediately." Dalquist shook his head. “That is not all, Reverend Mother. The girl Madeleine does not appear to be casting the magic on her own. Much of the power seems to originate from outside her." Lizaveta's friendly expression disappeared in an instant, as if washed from her face by some sudden, torrential downpour. She closed her eyes and muttered a few words. Dalquist staggered backwards, raising a hasty counter-spell with a nonsense phrase of his own as he felt the cold thrill of some unfamiliar force beginning to bite into his bones.

"So, now the truth is out,” he snarled, “Know that you are dealing with a Mage Questor, witch. I am no besotted adolescent, unaware and unprepared. I suspected that some such treachery might be in the offing, and you will find me a harder nut to crack than my poor, love-struck colleague. Akukka-huck-k'kakka! "

A battle of iron wills was under way.

* * * *

The Prioress flinched as Dalquist's spell struck her, a shocked expression on her face as the pain of the Questor's power scorched her very nerves. Panic rose and agony began to wash through her body, but she knew that the mage was merely a man, a pathetic slave to the demands and complaints of his body. Lizaveta was a woman, and she had borne three children, two of which had been stillborn. Men have no idea of what real agony is!

Marshalling her strength, she accepted the pain and dismissed it, subsuming it into the depths of her psyche. All Lizaveta could do was to hold the awful force at bay, but she managed to prevent it from disorienting the higher functions of her brain.

This mage made a bad mistake by assaulting me with a spell of pain, she thought. A spell of destruction would have been all but impossible to ward off, but the fool still sees me in some neglected corner of his male brain as a life-giver, a weak, little old lady; a grandmother. While her body twitched, no longer under her direct control, the Prioress drew to herself the power of the earth, the potent energy of Geomancy: an energy that came from without, not from within her own spirit. Communing with the earth, Lizaveta directed it at Dalquist with a single, mighty effort of will. She felt the Questor's spell weaken and fail as he fought to block the Compulsion spell she had hurled at him. The Prioress knew she could not access the deepest recesses of his will. She could not see deeply enough into the realms of the man's soul, so well-protected by bands of discipline and willpower, but she was, at least, able to hold him at bay.

He is a strong one, she thought, as the mage made a fortress, a battering-ram of his masculine strength and resolve that threatened to overwhelm her own defences. Now it was down to a naked struggle, a war of inner forces.

I will win. This helpless...

With a frigid shock of sheer terror, Lizaveta began to feel her resistance crumble as the Questor's awful, shocking, masculine energy battered her. Under the ruthless, animalistic assault, she felt her will becoming compressed to a mote, a poincture, as she felt the layers of her personality stripped away from her, one by one.

The dwindling soul called Lizaveta knew she had made a bad mistake: she had allowed herself to become slack in the forty years since she had last taken a Guild Questor's will... Just as she knew she was on the point of surrendering to the powerful magic-user, all resistance ceased. Gasping for breath, her vision misty and tinged with grey, she looked up to see Madeleine standing in the room, arms outstretched, a broken alabaster vase in one hand. Dalquist was kneeling before her, motionless, expressionless, his face a mask of vacuity.

Madeleine, too, was red-faced and breathless. “I sensed that you were in danger, Reverend Mother, and rushed to your aid. I made my excuses to Questor Grimm, saying that I would return in a few minutes.

"I met this mage not thirty minutes ago, and I thought that he might prove troublesome. I am glad I arrived here in time."

Now that Dalquist was safely restrained, Lizaveta took a few moments to compose herself. She smoothed her hair and her white dress, and she drew a succession of deep breaths, trying to still her pounding heart. Madeleine, younger and stronger, seemed already to have recovered, and she reached towards Dalquist's floating staff, Shakhmat.

" Sister! ” Lizaveta screamed. “Do you not know the power resident within a mage's staff?" Madeleine stopped her hand with a jerk and looked at the Prioress with wide eyes.

"Reverend Mother,” she gasped, “what can we do? We cannot leave the Questor in this state indefinitely."

Lizaveta snorted. “I do not know enough to control the man's total will, but it is a relatively easy task to manipulate memories without disturbing his basic drives. Go back to your puppy; I can deal with this situation alone, now."

The Prioress waited until Madeleine had departed. She rolled her eyes and made a simple gesture. Dalquist's gaze flicked upwards into Lizaveta's amber eyes, his body as still as a statue.

"You remember nothing of our struggle, Questor Dalquist,” the Reverend Mother said in an intense voice. You are happy for your friend, Grimm Afelnor, and you see nothing wrong in this innocent little flirtation. There is nothing unusual about this relationship, and you will inquire no further. When you leave here, you will not remember that you have met me, but you will remember what I have said as if the conclusion is your own. You slipped on the marble floor of the bar and hit your head on the wall. This is too embarrassing to admit, and you dare not mention it to your peers." For a few moments more, Dalquist knelt, immobile, and then blinked and shook his head as if trying to clear a momentary confusion.

"So, you see, Questor Dalquist,” the Prioress hissed in a poor facsimile of a calm, honeyed voice,

“Nothing in the rules of our Order prohibits our Sister Madeleine from carrying on an innocent friendship with your colleague."

Dalquist appeared to come to his senses, but his eyes were still distant. “Ah, yes, thank you, Reverend Mother, I just wanted to be certain that my friend would not get into any trouble with you. I am relieved that he will not. He and Sister Madeleine will make such a nice couple." Chapter 18: Like Sunshine in Summer

Grimm awoke early, with the name of Madeleine on his lips. He felt joyous; perhaps a little too happy, he thought, as the room seemed to begin to sway and swivel; slowly at first but at an ever-increasing pace.

A low throb began to build in his right temple, rising to an insistent, thudding pain that seemed as if it might burst his head. His stomach began to protest, also, and his mouth felt as dry as a desert. He had enjoyed himself so much the night before, talking to and even dancing with Madeleine, and he had not noticed at the time the effects of the considerable amount of alcohol he had consumed. He reached for Redeemer, but he realised that he must have left his staff in the bar.

"Redeemer, come here."

Nothing in the mortal world could prevent a mage's staff from returning to him when summoned. If it was within plain sight, it could travel directly to his hand; if not, it would utilise a form of teleportation without the mage needing to cast the least spell. In a few moments, the rod appeared in his hand. Grimm felt the pounding in his temples and his entrails cease, and he took stock of his surroundings. He was on top of his bed, still wearing his velvet robes. A colourful profusion of other clothes lay scattered in bright abandon across the floor, along with toppled bottles of bath oil and scented powders. Grimm, shocked at the disarray he saw, began to realise the depths of intensity of his feelings on the previous night, in his eagerness to impress Madeleine.

During his long, difficult years in the Scholasticate, the Magemasters had drilled a strong sense of neatness and order into him. Still numb with horror at his uncharacteristic acts of the night before, the mage began to tidy up the room in an almost fanatical manner.

Grimm shook down his clothes, brushed them and put them, neatly folded, in the large chest-of-drawers provided for the purpose. He took care to clean the spills and stains from the walls and carpet, replaced fallen bottles on their appointed shelves, righted a toppled table and made his bed. After half an hour's frenzied effort, the Questor felt satisfied that the chamber was in its original, pristine state, whereupon he turned his attention to his own appearance and hygiene. Feeling clean and whole once more, Grimm took a frugal breakfast from the splendid array of food provided, now feeling ready to face the new day.

He mused on the events of the previous evening, and on Dalquist's comment that he was making a damned fool of himself over Madeleine. The girl was very attractive, and Grimm certainly felt very flattered at her attentions, but he had to admit that his reactions had been extreme, to say the least. The way I turned on Dalquist was unforgivable, he thought, his entrails churning with unease. I wouldn't blame him if he never talked to me again. I've got to apologise to him and try to make amends.

A door connected the two mages’ rooms, and Grimm strode towards it with a resolute tread, his firm knock being answered with a cheerful “Come in, Grimm” from the older mage. Drawing a deep breath, he opened the door into a room that was the mirror image of his own and saw that Dalquist was taking a hearty breakfast. Grimm knew how the Questor appreciated good sustenance, and his friend seemed to be making the most of the high life while it lasted. He felt a flush of relief that Dalquist did not seem to harbour any resentment over Grimm's earlier show of disrespect.

"Good morning, Grimm. I trust you enjoyed yourself last night?"

"Very much, Dalquist,” Grimm replied, nodding. “Madeleine is a lovely girl, and I feel very privileged to have made her acquaintance. I just wanted to apologise humbly for the way I spoke to you last night. I had no right to sound off at you the way I did; you are senior to me, and I know also that you only have my best interests at heart."

Dalquist, his mouth full, waved airily at a seat, which Grimm took. After the senior Questor finished his mouthful of food, he wiped his mouth and beard with a silk napkin and turned to face his young colleague.

"Well, Grimm, I was taken aback by the way you treated me, and I wouldn't recommend you to repeat it; it's a bad habit to get into, especially with senior mages. On the other hand, I thought afterwards about what you had said and I had to admit that my own behaviour lacked a little ... no, no, Grimm, please hear me out!

"We both know that intimate relations between a mage and a woman can destroy the magic-user's powers. I didn't want you to take that awful risk. You are, of course, still indebted to the House. Nonetheless, as I think of it now, nothing could have been more innocent. A Questor and a nun, holding hands and dancing; what could be less sinister than that? I ought to know you well enough by now to know that you would never let things go too far."

Grimm felt surprised at Dalquist's rapid volte-face . Although his friend seemed to have calmed down a little from the night before, the young mage had the impression that Dalquist was only trying to heal an incipient rift in their relationship. He also remembered his behaviour on the previous night; his carefree cavorting and his desire for Madeleine. He was not as sure as Dalquist that he would be able to prevent

‘things going too far', should the opportunity ever present itself. Grimm made a determined pledge that, this evening, he would act in a more circumspect manner, as befitted a Mage Questor of the Fifth Rank.

"Are you going to see Madeleine tonight, Grimm?” Dalquist asked, smiling.

"This afternoon,” Grimm corrected, “She said that today she would be allowed to wear Secular clothes. It will be nice to see her in something a little less formal than a nun's habit; I'm looking forward to it." Dalquist grinned. “I can't blame you there, Grimm. She's a comely lass, and a habit is scarcely flattering attire for such a pretty girl. Enjoy yourself, my friend, with my blessing. What will you do to pass the hours until then, other than counting the minutes?"

Grimm returned the smile with warmth. “I thought I'd do a little research, Dalquist. A place like this should have a splendid library."

Dalquist nodded, gulping down another mouthful of food like a famished man. “Good man. We mages are always learning. Perhaps I'll see you later?"

"Perhaps you will, Dalquist. On the other hand, you know what I'm like with books. I hardly notice the passage of time."

The older man wagged his finger in a mock warning gesture. “Just you make sure that you meet that girl up this afternoon, Afelnor, or you'll be feeling the weight of Shakhmat resting none too gently on your head!"

"I'll be there, Mother Hen.” Grimm laughed. “I'll be there, don't you worry."

* * * *

Grimm tried thinking ‘Library’ and consulting his borrowed Gem of Location, but the charm just flashed at him, which, he understood, meant that there was more than one place with that appellation. He tried

‘Senior Doorkeeper', and found that the stone worked on people as well as locations. After following a winding trail, he found the tall, regal-looking man in one of the winding, identical corridors of the Lodge. The Senior Doorkeeper swivelled smoothly around at his approach, as if he were on well-oiled, silent castors.

"How may I help you, Questor Grimm?” The dark man's tone was cool, doubtless as a result of his altercation with Dalquist the day before.

"I wish to carry out some research, Senior Doorkeeper,” Grimm replied in a civil manner, “and it seems you have more than one library here. Would you be so kind as to direct me to the most appropriate one for my purposes?"

The tall man sniffed. “We have five libraries, Questor Grimm, covering Civil Law, Thaumaturgic Research, Guild History, Biology and Technology,” the Senior Doorkeeper said, with a trace of pride.

"You have a library of Technology? ” Grimm felt stunned. In Arnor House at least, this discipline was regarded with suspicion, if not with outrage.

"It is necessary on occasion to study an enemy's ways, so as to understand him better, Questor. We of High Lodge are not as hidebound as the incumbents of certain provincial Houses.” This was almost a direct insult, and Grimm swallowed a sharp retort.

"Thank you for your kind assistance, Senior Doorkeeper. I think I can find my own way from here.” He gave the man a curt nod and turned on his heel, a gesture whose impact was lessened by the fact that Grimm almost tripped over Redeemer in the process. He could almost feel the Senior Doorkeeper's superior, smug smile burning into his back as he walked away, and he knew that his own face and aura were red.

* * * *

The phrase ‘Library—Guild History’ evoked an immediate, decisive response from the gem, which shone a clear green path before him. In fifteen minutes, he had reached his goal. A simple door led into a vast complex of shelves and racks, regimented and rectilinear. This library was three times the size of Grimm's comfortable old haunt in the Arnor Scholasticate, but it was too cold and clinical for Grimm's taste. How would he ever find anything in this monstrous place?

He saw a wide, semicircular desk a few yards inside the door, at which sat a grizzled old mage dressed in simple dark-grey robes. The man sat leafing through sheaves of paper, muttering and clicking to himself like some fleshy millrace capable of grinding facts and figures into intellectual flour. Grimm waited while the aged mage hummed and ticked his way through several sheets of paper, and then essayed a soft “Excuse me.” The mage's head popped up with a sudden jerk, like that of a clockwork bird.

"Yes, may I help you?” The man's delivery was rapid, monotonous and staccato, again as if he were some machine made flesh. “Scholar Grell Librarian of this establishment what would you like to see?"

"Do you have any old copies of standard Guild reference works I could peruse?” Grimm asked, forcing himself not to copy Grell's rapid-fire pattern of speech.

"Selections date back nearly three hundred years which category please?" Grimm tried to force his voice into its accustomed mode, but gave up the effort. “Deeds of the Questors sixty-five to thirty years ago original editions if available."

Grell's hand flicked out and opened a drawer in a cabinet at his left side. His deft fingers riffled through a series of cards and then stopped in an instant, as if at some predestined position.

"Rack E-323 Questor good reading Brother Mage."

The old man's gaze dropped back to his work, as if he had already forgotten the mage standing before him.

At least the library was laid out in a sensible order, and Grimm had little trouble in finding Rack E-323. He had decided to see if he could find any details of Loras’ deeds as a young Questor. Arnor House seemed to have expunged all records of his grandfather's name from all records. Perhaps, he thought, High Lodge might be a little more catholic in its retention of documents; it was. He found what appeared to be untouched copies of the periodical dating back to two hundred years before, and more.

Although the monetary wealth he had received from the grateful people of Crar was considerable, he felt rich beyond his wildest dreams at the sight of these dusty tomes. He leafed through several copies, careful not to damage the delicate, yellowed paper, until he found his first mention of his grandfather in a document dating back fifty years.

Afelnor, Loras, Third Rank Questor, is recognised for exemplary service to the Guild. This mage is hereby raised to the Fifth Rank, with congratulations from a grateful Presidium. Olaf Demonscourge, Seventh Rank Questor, is unanimously voted a yearly bequest of eight hundred gold pieces.

The relevant Quest was described in some detail. The senior mage on this expedition was Olaf Demonscourge, whom Grimm had last seen in a fierce battle between inebriation and imbecility at the young mage's ceremony of Acclamation. It was hard to think of the venerable Olaf as a relatively young man, maybe fifteen years older than his friend Dalquist, but it was even more of a shock to think of his grandfather, Loras, as a proud, vigorous nineteen-year-old Questor in the prime of his life.

* * * *

The Quest seemed simple enough at first. A large group of brigands had been disrupting free trade and free travel within the demesnes of the Guild. Olaf and Loras were despatched to offer warning that the bandits were treading on dangerous ground; it was assumed that the presence of two full Guild Questors would be sufficient to persuade this band of desperadoes to abandon their plundering ways. The Quest did not go as planned; it took on a more sinister turn when the despoilers revealed that they had a pair of powerful mages within their own ranks: a Weatherworker and an Illusionist who had abandoned the Guild in search of a wealthier lifestyle.

The two Arnor Questors defeated the renegade magic-users after a series of violent encounters, during which Olaf suffered a serious wound, a well-directed bolt of lightning, only to find that the outlaws had invested the town of Shuralla and taken the Earl's family prisoner.

Loras entered the town alone and defeated the brigands without the loss of a single hostage. An engraving, showing a proud, defiant-looking Loras carrying the Earl's baby daughter to her grateful father's arms adorned the page.

In later accounts, Loras’ name appeared several times, involving cunning espionage, daring seizures and even political assassinations.

However, one aspect of Loras’ character that shone out from the accounts of his deeds as a Guild Questor was a love of innocent life. Time and again, he seemed to have gone out of his way to prevent needless deaths, even at considerable risk to his own life. He had gained the Seventh Rank by the age of twenty-four, and had been feted and rewarded by the Guild on countless other occasions, on many occasions in the company of his great friend Thorn Virias, Grimm's own Prelate. Grimm found it intriguing that the various accounts so often mentioned his grandfather's great humanity and compassion, his desire to prevent unnecessary bloodshed. He had killed when ordered to do so, or when dire necessity had arisen, but he had never gloried in the act. Of course, the authors of the Deeds of the Questors extolled the glories and virtues of the various Quests in extravagant language, but they seemed never to have dwelt on the more merciful qualities of other Questors in such glowing terms. Many of the other mages recognised and honoured by the Guild seemed bloodthirsty in comparison. Would such a mage have attempted to murder an old man, merely in an attempt to gain accession to a title? To Grimm, the idea seemed ludicrous, if one was to judge from the annals of the High Lodge records. The written career of his grandfather suggested an almost fanatical dedication to the ideals of his Guild, paramount amongst which was a deferent acknowledgement of one's seniors and betters. Grimm, himself, had found little pleasure in his rapid advancement to the Fifth Rank, knowing that it had only been granted due to the Lord Dominie's extreme diversion at the time, thanks to the return of the worrisome Eye of Myrrn and the heavy demands on his time. The young Questor would not have considered refusing or questioning the honour for a single moment, but he would, in truth, have preferred an honest promotion based on his actions alone.

Grimm sighed to himself, and his eyes brimmed with tears. Loras must have felt compassion for the old, ailing Prelate of Arnor House and tried to bring a merciful end to the ancient mage's confusing and painful life. Although such an act was treason, Loras’ motives could only have been those of compassion and pity for a man he revered; a man whose cruel suffering Loras had become unable to bear. Grimm could stay his bitter tears no longer, and he let them fall in a silent stream down his cheeks as the distant Scholar worked through his papers. In part, the tears were for Grimm himself: for the lowly status that he had been forced to accept because of his grandfather's misjudged acts; but also for a wronged man he loved with all his heart.

He grasped Redeemer to his side and considered the name he had given the staff, and the private oath he had sworn.

Grandfather, the name of Afelnor will shine again within this Guild, on my life. I will not allow our shared name to remain a synonym for treachery and betrayal.

Grimm heard the tolling of a distant bell and realised that the hours had flown by. He replaced the last volume in its appointed place, and he dashed from the library to meet Madeleine.

* * * *

She was there, her long blonde hair cascading over her shoulders, a desolate expression replaced in a swift heartbeat by a warm, beautiful smile of greeting. Madeleine wore a long, violet dress that clung to her splendid figure, hinting at pleasures of which the inexperienced Grimm could only guess. Madeleine was beautiful, and Grimm could not tear his gaze from her.

Her sweet voice and the long, fluttering lashes over sapphire-blue eyes came like soothing balm to his troubled soul. “Grimm, thank you so much for coming to meet me. I was getting worried that you might not show up."

Grimm found himself giggling like a child. “Madeleine, Madeleine, I would have crawled over hot coals to reach you. You mean so much to me."

Her warm smile suffused his very being. “And you are very dear to me, too, my Grimm. I don't know what I might be without you."

She was like sunshine in summer, warmth in winter, happiness and joy. Grimm marvelled at how quickly his earlier dark mood had passed. He felt so carefree and unrestrained in Madeleine's presence; it was like...

With a decisive thump in some deep region of his mind, Grimm realised the truth. It's just like being drunk.

He clutched Redeemer to himself and accessed the spells within the staff, the spells he had once thought frivolous and unworthy of a Guild Mage, and the scales fell from his eyes. Madeleine was indeed a beautiful girl, but she was not worth his life, his soul, his oath. He now realised he had been ensorcelled, rather than entranced.

Chapter 19: Punishment

Grimm felt as if icy needles were being inserted into his spine.

"What's the matter, Grimm? Don't you like my new dress?” Madeleine asked.

"Never mind that,” the young Questor snapped, “What have you been doing to my mind?" His tone had become icy cold; he knew what it had been like to lose control of his senses from his addiction to the herbs Trina and Virion, and he was determined that he would never again voluntarily surrender his will to another, or to external forces.

Madeleine's eyes widened, uncomprehending: a picture of baffled innocence. “I don't know what you mean, Grimm. I guess you haven't had much sleep recently, so I forgive you for..." Grimm did not listen to her. Instead, he concentrated on his thoughts. Remembering what Dalquist had said to him the day before, Grimm engaged his Mage Sight and studied the young nun's aura. He had been aware of the colours surrounding living creatures since he had been a small child, and he recognised at once that Madeleine's was unlike any he had ever seen before.

It was as if the young nun were swathed in a perfect, uniform, white shroud, without the slightest flaw, wrinkle or blemish. If the hurt, stunned expression on her face were a genuine window to her inner feelings, the aura should be suffused with crackling, roiling, ice-blue bolts, regardless of any lack of malice or duplicity in her soul. The aura was a shield, a sham construction designed to withstand only the most cursory inspection.

"Grimm, darling, what's come over you? Please, let me help.” Madeleine took his right hand, gently caressing it, and she tried to lock his gaze with her large, sapphire-blue eyes. A few moments before, Grimm would have lapsed into a dreamy delirium, lost in those azure pools of loveliness, but now he felt suffused with real, naked anger. He snatched his hand from her grasp, and thumped Redeemer on the floor with a loud noise that made the other people in the bar stare.

"Stop this sweet, innocent act, Madeleine,” he growled. “You have somehow been manipulating my will. I don't know how you've been doing it; I can only assume that it's some kind of witch magic. However this little trick is done, you can stop it right now; it won't work on me any more. What I want to know is why you were doing it."

The seraphic, dazzling smile dropped from the girl's face, as if a blind had been drawn, to be replaced with an ugly, sneering grimace. The transformation was sudden and shocking.

"Look at the great mage, Gur-Grimm Afelnor— hah! A pathetic, panting little boy playing a man's game. Your friend Dalquist is twice the man you'll ever be.” She laughed.

Grimm snatched Madeleine's small hand, none too gently.

"While we're on the subject, what did you do to Dalquist?” he hissed. “I thought his rapid acceptance of our loving little tryst was suspicious; now, I am convinced you were behind it." The girl tried to wriggle her hand free but could not do so. Madeleine gasped in pain as Grimm tightened his grip, grinding the small bones together. A well-dressed, burly Secular man stepped up and clapped his hand onto Grimm's shoulder.

"What's going on here?” he demanded. “Release that girl at once!" Without letting go of Madeleine's hand, Grimm turned his head to look at the would-be hero. “This is between the lady and me, friend,” he said in a calm voice. “I advise you to mind your own business." The man's face turned a little pale as Grimm showed his Guild Ring, but the bravo seemed to be no coward.

The Secular turned to Madeleine. “Everything all right, Miss?"

"Like he said, it's nothing to do with you, moron,” she hissed at him in a hateful, vindictive tone. “Now, kindly crawl back under whatever stone you came from!"

Affronted, the man stormed off, shaking his head as if wondering at the fickle ways of women. Grimm nodded. “A wise decision, Madeleine. I'm sure you don't want the whole of High Lodge hearing how you ensnare men's minds ... but let's get back to business. I want to know what you did to Dalquist and me, and why. I have no desire to hurt you, but I will if I must, and I can assure you there are things far worse than physical pain."

"All right!” she snapped, wincing. “Please, let go, Grimm. I won't run, I swear. I am sure you could catch me before I escaped, in any case.” It seemed as if she had abandoned her pretence at toughness. Grimm released the girl's hand, which she flexed and massaged, her eyes screwed up in pain as the circulation returned. He considered casting a soothing spell on the girl, but decided against it.

"Well?” he demanded.

Madeleine drew a deep breath, looking at the table. “I had a bet with some of the other girls that I could get a Mage Questor to do whatever I wanted. I figured that if you became infatuated enough, you would do just that."

"You lost the bet, I'm afraid,” Grimm said. “What about Dalquist?"

"I used a little witch magic on him too, when I saw he was trying to come between us,” she said. “When his guard was down, I planted a little idea in his head that it was all perfectly innocent, and that he had seen nothing amiss."

"Anything else? The truth, now."

"No, I swear, Grimm. That's all. Neither of you will be permanently affected. It was all just a game, a silly game."

"Drop the fake aura,” Grimm instructed. “I want to see that you aren't hiding anything."

"I can't,” she wailed. “It's a part of me. You can check in any Geomantic reference book if you like. I can't turn it on and off."

Her gaze was again on his, her eyes wide and pleading, and Grimm thought how once this expression could have moved him to tears. Now, he was just suppressing a strong desire to strangle the malicious little bitch.

"You made a serious mistake in trying to play with a Questor's mind, lady,” Grimm snapped, in no mood to be mollified. “You doubled your error by tampering with my friend's memories."

"I nearly got away with it, too, didn't I, Questor?” Madeleine tossed her long, blonde hair with a last flash of contemptuous defiance.

Grimm examined his fingernails. “I think I'll be having a word with your superior about this, Madeleine; I'm sure she'll agree that such behaviour is thoroughly unbecoming in a Sister of a respected Order. I'll leave the final decision to her, I think."

All pretence of bravado fled the young nun. Her eyes grew large again, but this time in a plain expression of absolute horror.

"You wouldn't! Please don't Grimm, I beg of you. Please don't tell Prioress Lizaveta. You don't know what she'd do to me,” she babbled in terror, falling to her knees.

Grimm felt a little satisfaction that Madeleine would be punished.

At least her reaction seems real this time, he thought. I hope Prioress Lizaveta has her kneeling in the chapel for a month.

"You made your bed, my darling. You can bloody well lie in it—alone,” he said. He meant it. “Thanks for telling me your Prioress's name, by the way. I'd have been lost without it." Ignoring Madeleine's heart-rending pleas, he took out the location gem and said, “Prioress Lizaveta." Without hesitation, the gem marked out a clear green path for him. He turned to the distraught girl and blew her a kiss, similar to the one she had blown him on their first meeting.

* * * *

Grimm knocked at the door indicated by the arrow-pointed end of the green trail. A dry, throaty “Enter, Supplicant” came from within, and Grimm opened the door, stepping into Prioress Lizaveta's sumptuous, luxurious chamber.

The Reverend Mother was on her feet, her ringed hand extended in expectation. Magemaster Faffel's terse, acrid lessons in protocol and courtesy flashed through Grimm's mind, and he made the required obeisance. After kissing the Prioress's ruby ring, he remained on one knee with his head bowed until the Prioress finally allowed him to rise.

She was now sitting at ease on the divan in the corner of the room, and she motioned Grimm towards a cushioned stool at its side.

"Welcome, good mage. It is always a pleasure to receive a visit from our thaumaturgic brethren. What may I do for you?"

Grimm found the old woman's harsh voice irritating in the extreme, but he kept his expression calm.

“Reverend Mother, I am Questor Grimm. I have come about one of your nuns, a girl named Madeleine."

"Ah, yes, a sweet young thing,” the Prioress crackled. “She told me that she was seeing some handsome young Questor. Such relations are not forbidden to our Sisters, as long as they keep to the bounds of propriety, so you have no need to ask my blessing."

No doubt, Lizaveta was trying to sound maternal and soothing, but Grimm found her voice repulsive to his sensitive ears.

"Are you aware that Sister Madeleine is a witch?” he asked.

If the Prioress was shocked at the question, she hid it well.

"Several of my flock are practitioners of Geomancy, Lord Mage,” she said. “So long as they are used only in devotion to our cause, the Order's Regulations do not proscribe such arts." Grimm laid Redeemer on the floor beside him and folded his hands across his stomach, the fingers interlaced.

"Reverend Mother,” he said, his voice stern, “I am now aware that Sister Madeleine was using her magic in order to infatuate me, to make me dependent on her, so I would obey her every whim. She also cast a spell on a fellow Questor, to fox his mind. Do your Regulations have anything to say about that?" His tone was rather brusquer than he had intended, but he was fuming with anger at Madeleine's acts and at his own foolishness. “I was on the point of becoming some drooling, love-struck fool before I managed to extricate myself."

The Reverend Mother's mouth compressed into a thin slit and her eyes narrowed.

"Indeed, Questor Grimm?” she hissed. “Such actions will not be tolerated by the Order; the girl will be taught the error of her sinful ways, I assure you."

Grimm bowed his head. “Thank you, Reverend Mother. I entrust her to your justice and commend her into your hands."

Lizaveta's face twisted into a hideous mask of pure fury. “Oh, yes, Questor, she will rue the day she was born; make no mistake about that . Please accept my personal apology on behalf of the Sisters of Divine Mercy, and you may rest assured that such wicked acts will receive their just deserts." Grimm stood and gave a fluent, respectful bow.

"Thank you, Reverend Mother. I feel sure you will ensure that justice is done. The girl is a menace."

* * * *

Lizaveta fumed inside, but she kept her tone calm, almost sweet, as she addressed the terrified girl lying spread-eagled before her.

"Well, dear Sister, it would appear that things have not gone quite according to plan." A muffled voice came from the floor. “It was your plan, Reverend Mother." Lizaveta leapt to her feet and screamed at the hapless Madeleine, “How dare you talk back to me, you incompetent little slut? Apologise at once!"

"I apologise with all my heart, Reverend Mother,” Madeleine responded. “I intended no disrespect." Lizaveta grunted. “A simple enough task, or so it seemed to me,” she hissed. “You said he was ready to eat out of the palm of your hand. What went wrong?"

"I don't know, Reverend Mother,” Madeleine cried, lifting her head from the carpet. “At one moment, he was a babbling, inanely grinning fool, the next, he was clear-headed and angry. It wasn't my fault, Reverend Mother. It must have been some Questor magic."

"Don't presume to talk to me about Questors, girl. I gave birth to one, the mage who is now Grimm Afelnor's own Prelate! This was no Questor magic of which I have ever heard. A Questor cannot cast a spell on his own brain, did you not realise that? No, this must be due to incompetence on your part!"

"Reverend Mother, I know that spell as well as my own name. It was working—"

"And then it stopped working!” Lizaveta snapped. “By the Names, girl, you will come to regret this ineptitude. By the time I have finished with you, you will know what discipline is! You may survive or you may not, but either way you will learn the meaning of true contrition." The Prioress of the Sisters of Divine Mercy snatched up a stout rod and strode towards the trembling body of Madeleine.

"What do you say, Sister?"

"Forgive me, Reverend Mother,” the nun whispered, her face ashen. “Show me, I beg you, the error of my ways..."

* * * *

Dalquist, sitting with Grimm in the bar, whistled in disbelief at the younger mage's revelations.

"Who would have thought you could escape a witch ensorcellment with the aid of spells to ward of drunkenness?” he said, shaking his head. “I guess Madeleine made a bad mistake in trying to get the better of a Guild Questor."

A dark look flitted over his face. “I hope the Order's punishments aren't too severe, though. I'd hate to think she'd be badly hurt, even after what she's done."

Grimm laughed, taking a draught of ale from his glass.

"I don't want that, either,” he said, “but the Sisters of Divine Mercy don't sound too severe if they allow the nuns to mingle with members of the opposite sex and wear Secular clothes. I'd imagine the worst Madeleine will get is a tongue-lashing and a long prayer session.

"Even so, I'll bet Madeleine must be kicking herself every time she tries to work out what happened. Books on Guild magic never talk about lowly spells like those for relieving inebriation! I bet that girl will be kicking herself for the next year or more."

* * * *

Lizaveta kicked the prostrate, bloodstained form once more, without response. “Girls these days,” she said, “have no stamina or endurance.” Using her scrying-crystal, she summoned a pair of trusted Sisters to remove the corpse in a large laundry-bag. Two further nuns entered and began to scrub the red-stained floor.

The Prioress watched the women labouring to restore the pristine whiteness of the carpet and her thoughts turned to young Afelnor.

This youth was not as broad-shouldered and muscular as Loras had been, but she recognised the immense power behind his dark eyes. She had been a fool to think that she would be able to control such a potent Questor with such hasty preparation. Without trying to match wills with Grimm, she had realised that, alone, she would not have stood a chance. It might take a little more effort to bend him to her will than she had imagined, but she thought that the challenge might be worthwhile. Wiping a drop of blood from her brow, she smiled. She was patient, and she could wait. Without doubt, another opportunity would assert itself to avenge her further against the man who had refused her advances so long ago. Chapter 20: The Last Day

Grimm felt in fine humour the next morning. This was to be his last day at High Lodge, and he felt far from unhappy at the prospect of leaving. The sumptuous appointments of the establishment might be impressive and luxurious, but the young mage found he preferred the more basic comforts of Arnor House.

He agreed with his fellow Questor, Dalquist, that something seemed a little sick and decadent about this magnificent, ancient institution, and he knew he would feel happier back home. At first, he had no idea of how he would spend his day until the evening's feast, but he eventually decided on visiting the library dedicated to Thaumaturgical Research, the study of the principles and practice of magic. Having been so easily gulled by the young witch, Madeleine, he felt determined to avoid being trapped in a similar fashion at a later date. He hoped that this library might furnish him with more understanding of witch magic; how to recognise and counter it, should he ever meet it again.

* * * *

The Location Gem led Grimm to another anonymous door. On opening it, he felt that this was a much more convivial place of learning than the library he had visited the day before. This room seemed far more in keeping with the musty, comfortable Scholasticate Library to which he had become accustomed. Wood-panelled and thickly carpeted, it seemed as if the room somehow exuded silence from its mute, ordered ranks of books, standing like proud sentries at attention in a vast parade of knowledge. The books Grimm could see were mostly old and well-thumbed, with cracked spines and faded titles. These leather-bound tomes seemed to be a well-loved and well-used resource.

Behind a well-worn, cluttered desk sat a slender mage with silver hair and lines on his face that bore mute testament to a humorous nature.

"May I help you, Questor?” he asked, in a warm and amiable tone. “I am Scholar Pruell Margat, the custodian of all books of Thaumaturgical lore in this establishment." He extended his hand, and Grimm took it, finding Pruell's grip firm and dry. Grimm no longer felt surprised when mages guessed his Speciality; the sight of a mere boy bearing a Mage Staff could only mean one thing.

"I am Questor Grimm Afelnor, Scholar Pruell,” he said, smiling. “I'm honoured to make your acquaintance. To be frank, I'm pleased and surprised to see such a friendly face in here." Pruell's face crinkled. “We're not all high-and-mighty types here, Brother Mage,” he said. “I come from Girard House, to the north of here, where we're a little more relaxed and a little less haughty in our dealings with the Craft than some I could mention.” His face assumed a mock expression of mournful exasperation.

Grimm would never have considered Arnor House as relaxed, but he sympathised with the Scholar's sentiments.

"I am from Arnor House, Scholar Pruell, and I, too, yearn to return home, even though I have only been here for two days. Things here are a little too spit-and-polish for me." The Scholar nodded. “What is your interest here, Questor Grimm? I hold volumes on all aspects of magical lore."

"Do you hold any volumes on ... on Geomancy that I might peruse?” Grimm asked, remembering Prioress Lizaveta's term from the night before.

Pruell rubbed the angle of his jaw. “I have a few books on the subject; theory only, I'm afraid,” he said.

“There isn't much call for that subject here, but I know you Questors are a little different from the rest of us.

"Rack 17, just over there,” Pruell said, indicating the relevant area with an outstretched hand. “I hope you find what you are looking for. I'm sorry I can't be of more help, but my knowledge and education are, of course, limited to sleights of a more runic persuasion."

"I understand, Scholar Pruell,” Grimm said. “Thank you very much for your help.” With a polite nod, he headed for the relevant rack of books.

* * * *

Scholar Pruell had not lied about the paucity of books on Geomancy in the library; Grimm could find only five such volumes. However, 'Geomancy; Principles of the Art' seemed more than adequate for his needs.

As he read, he found that a fundamental difference between the magic of witches and mages was the source of power. As he knew well, mage power came from within the body of the mage, whereas it seemed that the power of a witch was drawn from the living earth itself. A mage spell patterned the mind in order to give form and effect to the marshalled energies of the body, and witch spells seemed more like a form of meditation, opening the mind to act as a conduit for Geomantic forces. In both cases, the amount of energy that could be controlled was a function of the caster's will. Mage enchantments generally acted on objects, either as a means of destruction or transformation, or as a way of giving form to naked energy. The spells of witches, however, acted directly on living creatures, seeing beneath the flesh and accessing the target being's inner drives, emotions and motivations, changing and controlling aspects of its actions, or even enabling the witch to transfer her consciousness to the mind of the spell target.

As Grimm read on, he began to see how Madeleine had been able to manipulate his emotions, changing his very brain chemistry without his knowledge. The book implied that this was a basic form of the art, equivalent in status to the Minor Magics practiced by Guild Mages, but very effective, nonetheless. A major limitation of this type of magic was that the caster could only amplify emotions and drives that already existed in the target's psyche; Grimm had found Madeleine attractive, and she acted on that fundamental drive, enhancing and augmenting it. However, although she had almost driven a wedge between him and Dalquist, she could not have motivated him to kill his friend unless he had already possessed some seed of deep hatred for the older Questor that could be nurtured and persuaded to flower. Even if he had loathed Dalquist with every fibre of his being, the young witch would have had to batter down his self-control and his conscience, engaging in a contest of wills: Grimm knew a Questor's will to be all but indomitable in such a contest.

Grimm put the book down and rubbed his forehead as if to stimulate his brain. Madeleine was surely too young to have been able to engage in a mind-to-mind contest of wills with a powerful mage like Dalquist and win. Yet that was what she would have needed to be able to do in order to change his mind about her relationship with Grimm.

Certainly, the older Questor had indicated that he felt that he might have been over-reacting on the last full night of Grimm's amorous enslavement, but the young mage, replaying the scene in his unfettered mind, realised that Dalquist had just been trying to mollify him. At that time, his confederate had not really been convinced of the innocence of the tryst. In that case, a more potent form of Geomancy would have been required to bring about the Questor's rapid change of mind, a sleight surely beyond Madeleine's abilities.

If not Madeleine, Grimm mused, then who did cast that spell?

Only a single candidate came to mind: the ancient Prioress, Lizaveta. It doesn't make sense. Why would the Prioress want to control me? There must be a dozen Questors here from different Houses, all much more experienced than I am. What does she want?

Why didn't she approach me directly, instead of employing all this subterfuge?

The questions buzzed around inside Grimm's skull like irritating flies around a horse's eyes, to no end, for many minutes. Then the answer to the last of these came to him: the old woman had recognised that she could not engage in a direct conflict of wills with him and win. She had doubtless sought to soften his resistance by means of his induced infatuation with her young acolyte, and then to break him down by a series of small encounters, each time chipping away a little at his resolve until he was finally hers to control.

Grimm picked up the book once more, and read further. At the highest levels of Geomantic control, the caster could manipulate her subject's very memories as well as his inner drives. With a cold shock that seemed to penetrate his very soul, he realised that that might well have been the explanation for his grandfather Loras’ bizarre and uncharacteristic actions, which had led to his expulsion from the Guild!

A powerful Mage Mentalist might have been able to force Loras into attempted murder, but only a witch could also have convinced him that it had all been his own idea. Only a witch could ever have done this to his grandfather.

What possible motivation could even a powerful witch have had for wanting Prelate Geral dead?

Grimm wondered. This makes no sense at all; you're fooling yourself, Afelnor. The book told him that, since time immemorial, witches and mages had coexisted in an uneasy but firm truce. Witches lacked a cohesive, comprehensive political organisation such as the Ancient and Honourable Guild of Magic-users, Sorcerers and Thaumaturges, and they therefore posed no threat to its continuation. There were small communes of witches, to be sure, but they seemed to possess few political aims that conflicted with the Guild. There did not appear to be any reason why the Prioress of an Order attempting to form a symbiotic, live-and-let-live association with High Lodge should wish to destabilise the Guild, either through the attempted murder of the Prelate of one of its oldest and most prominent Houses, or through the enslavement of one of its most junior members. Grimm had always been introspective, often debating his deepest motivations and impulses within himself. This had often served him well in the past, and he therefore engaged once more in inner dialogue. What concrete reason have I to assume that Prioress Lizaveta tampered with Dalquist's memories?

Only a vague suspicion that he sounded a little too sincere when he said he accepted my relationship with Madeleine.

Why would Prioress Lizaveta have risked her favoured Order's relationship with the Guild by trying to enslave a very junior mage?

The questions whirled in Grimm's head without resolution: there seemed to be no rational grounds for his suspicions.

Why do I feel so ready to accept that a witch forced Granfer Loras to try to murder the former Prelate? Yesterday, I convinced myself that Granfer acted out of pity for an ailing, suffering old man. What additional data do I have that persuades me to abandon this earlier viewpoint?

Only the fact that this new, more convoluted, explanation seems easier for me to bear. Why should I suspect Prioress Lizaveta of somehow having been behind Madeleine's actions?

Simply because the Reverend Mother is an ugly old lady with a harsh and unpleasant voice. This, Grimm realised with a start, was the same twisted rationale that had led to the brutal murders of so many harmless women in ancient witch-hunts of which he had read. He had no reason whatsoever to believe that the Prioress had acted against him; she had no motive whatsoever, and she had said and done nothing that might to convince him otherwise. Her outrage at Grimm's news of Madeleine's manipulation of him had seemed both convincing and appropriate for a woman in her position. Grimm told himself that he had constructed nothing more than a house of cards, no more robust and enduring than the one that he had struggled to build with the power of his mind when he had been an Adept, and just as precarious.

If Dalquist only pretended to change his mind, despite his having no recollection of this; if Loras, the mighty Mage Questor, had somehow been ensorcelled into attempting to murder his superior; if, if if ... These suppositions lead nowhere.

He could prove nothing more than Madeleine herself had told him; that this was merely some harmless prank that had gone too far.

Let it go, Afelnor, he told himself. You will never get anywhere with these paranoid ramblings. He picked up the book he had been reading and replaced it decisively on its shelf, vowing that he would put these ideas behind him.

* * * *

"Are you ready for the feast, Grimm?” Dalquist asked from the doorway connecting their two rooms.

"I suppose so,” the younger mage replied, with a deep sigh. “I wish we didn't have to go through with this charade."

At that, Grimm became aware of the sound of tapping, soft and yet urgent, from the chest-of-drawers. As he opened the top drawer, the cause of the noise became apparent as a tiny, familiar face looked up at him.

" I want to go, Grimm! The idea of a bunch of human mages telling tales of their great adventures seems wonderful,” the tiny figure piped, hopping up and down in the drawer in an agitated manner.

"Thribble!” Grimm exclaimed. “I thought I left you behind at the House. How did you get here?" If a demon's fang-filled expression could ever be said to be smug, then Thribble's was.

"I hid in the pocket of one of your robes, just after you packed it in the bag, Questor. I fell asleep on the journey, and I woke up confined in this drawer. It is not very nice in here, and I want to get out. I want to go to this party of yours more than almost anything. I promise that I won't make a sound; just let me travel in your pocket."

"I don't think that there's any harm in that, Grimm,” Dalquist said. “At least you'll know what Thribble's up to all the time."

"I suppose you're right, Dalquist. Thribble, you may accompany me as long as you stay out of sight. Some mages don't like the idea of humans consorting with demons." The tiny imp nodded vigorously. “Many of my kind harbour similar feelings, good mortal. I'll be quiet, I promise."

Resigned, Grimm held open a deep pocket in his yellow-and-blue robes, and the underworld creature hopped nimbly into it. As he did so, there came a polite knock at the door, which Dalquist opened. The visitor was Assistant Sub-Vice-Facilitator-in-Chief Shael.

"Greetings, Questors. I am here to accompany you to the banquet."

"Ah, Facilitator Shael, it is good to see you again,” Dalquist said. “I trust you have enjoyed your unscheduled break from your doubtless onerous duties."

"Thank you, Questor Dalquist. I am afraid I have been unable to enjoy it as fully as I might have. I have been scared to leave my room, in case I should bump into the Senior Doorkeeper or one of my superiors; I was, after all, instructed to accompany you everywhere during your stay here. I trust you, at least, spent an agreeable time in the House?"

Dalquist looked at Grimm with a raised eyebrow, and the young mage rolled his eyes.

"No problems at all, thank you, Facilitator Shael,” Grimm said with a smile. “High Lodge has been a never-ending source of wonder and fascination for us both."

Shael looked a little anxious. “I am happy to hear that, Questor Grimm. Um ... gentlemen ... may I relieve you of the Gems of Location I loaned you? There might be all sorts of trouble if it were discovered that I had surrendered them to you."

Both Questors handed over the small jewels. Grimm, for one, felt happy to do so, since he had no intention of remaining in High Lodge for longer than was absolutely necessary. Relief was apparent on the nervous Mage Facilitator's face. “Thank you so much, Brother Mages. If you would now be so good as to accompany me, we may make our way to the Hall of Celebration."

* * * *

Richly panelled in dark wood, the hall was brightly illuminated by twinkling crystal chandeliers high above. A lush, crimson carpet covered the floor, and Grimm saw tables filled with extravagant delicacies, viands and liquors along each wall. Several mages were already present, helping themselves to sweetmeats or chatting in small cliques around the hall, each group seeming to maintain the maximum possible distance from each other.

At the far end of the hall rose a marble dais with a gilded lectern. Portraits of various Guild notables hung on every wall, and a large picture of Lord Dominie Horin hung behind the dais, a stern, wise face that seemed to survey the room from every angle.

"Well, doesn't this looks like fun?” Dalquist muttered to Grimm, in a resigned manner. “I hope they don't keep the jolly revelries going all night. We've got to be up early tomorrow."

"Please excuse me for a moment, gentlemen, I have to circulate,” Shael said, his voice filled with an air of self-importance. “Do, please, enjoy yourselves."

"Be sure of it, Facilitator Shael,” Grimm said, sighing. Turning to his friend, he muttered, “Look at all these old fossils, Dalquist. It doesn't look like there are any Questors around here."

"High Lodge doesn't have any,” Dalquist replied. “All the Students here are of the paying kind; they rely on the loyal Houses to fulfil their Questing needs. This lot have got ‘High Lodge’ written all over them.

"Oh, there's a familiar face at least. It looks like old Thruwell Drought-breaker over there. He's a Weatherworker from our own House; he used to teach us Runes before you came to Arnor, until the high and mighty bloody Lodge poached him. Lord Thorn was none too pleased, I can tell you; but what High Lodge asks for, High Lodge gets."

Grimm followed his friend towards the grizzled mage, and Dalquist introduced him to the ancient Weatherworker, who was stuffing his face like a starving man. “Weatherworker Thruwell, it's good to see you again,” Dalquist said, bowing. “May I introduce my associate, Questor Grimm Afelnor?" The old mage peered at Dalquist through bleary, myopic eyes. “Rufior, isn't it?” he mumbled, through a mouthful of food. “I took you for Runes, as I remember,” he continued, after a mighty swallow. “A waste of my time, by the looks of it. You Questors don't seem to have much use for all that hard-learned wisdom. You are a Mage of the Seventh Rank, I see. It took me forty years of hard work to win that accolade, and it doesn't please me to see some young whipper-snapper throwing it all back in my face." Dalquist laughed. “Magemaster Thruwell, you haven't changed in the slightest. You're as friendly as ever."

The wrinkled pedagogue fixed his disapproving gaze on Grimm. “A child like this, with five rings on his staff; what is the world coming to?"

Grimm felt defensive. He knew his rapid succession to the Fifth Rank had been a lucky break, and yet he knew he had faced travails worse than any Magemaster had ever had to bear. “Weatherworker Thruwell, I—"

Dalquist interrupted, smoothly. “Questor Grimm proved instrumental in the defeat of a demon magic-user who was intent on stealing the innermost secrets of the entire Guild. Neither of us should have prevailed without the wise counsel of Magemasters such as you, and we thank you." He bowed respectfully, and Grimm followed suit with alacrity.

Mollified, Thruwell nodded. “I should think so, too,” he muttered, and shuffled over to one of the other groups.

"Well, it's always nice to see a friendly face,” Grimm said, with an ironic smile. Now, quite a few mages were milling around the hall. One of them, a tall, pale-complected individual with a bald head, looked around to as if to assess the level of attendance, then strode to the dais and rapped his staff three times on the lectern.

"If I might have your attention, gentlemen?

"Thank you. I would like to welcome you all to the Hall of Celebration. All of you have in some way recently distinguished yourselves in your service to the Guild, and we of High Lodge like to ensure that those rewarded by it will have a celebration to remember. I am Doorkeeper Shree, and I am to be your master of ceremonies for the evening. Perhaps we could all take a few moments to introduce ourselves and say a few words ... perhaps you would like to start the ball rolling, so to speak, Brother Mage?" Shree indicated a tired-looking middle-aged man with three rings on his staff and a mottled, discoloured complexion that said more about his Speciality than words could.

"Er, thank you, Doorkeeper Shree. Er, my, um, name is Argul Trug, and I am an Alchemist from Husel House. I like to cultivate flowers in my spare time. I was recently elevated to the Third Rank after discovering how to convert gold into pure lead."

"Why, thank you, Alchemist Argul. And what about you, sir..." Several people were already edging towards the door and Dalquist nudged Grimm in the ribs. “We said we'd be here, and we are. Did anybody say anything about being here all night?"

"They did not,” Grimm replied. “What about you, Thribble? Can you bear to be dragged away from all this revelry?"

The small demon's head popped up from Grimm's pocket, bearing a somewhat annoyed expression.

“This is a snare and a delusion. These people are boring; I don't want their stupid stories."

"I couldn't agree more, Thribble. What do you say that we go back to our room? I'm sure I have some good brandy in there, and I know how you like a drop of that."

The demon looked pleased at the idea, licking his lips with his forked tongue in anticipation.

"Just one problem,” Dalquist said. “How do we find our way back without the aid of one of Shael's wonderful little gems?"

"Leave it to me,” the demon squeaked. “I have a perfect memory, and I remember every little twist and turn that we took on the way. Lead me to my beverage!"

"Very well, Thribble, an early night it is. I can't wait to get back home." Chapter 21: In the Bowels of High Lodge

Back at the Accommodation Block, Dalquist bade Grimm goodnight, and told him that Cally should be arriving with the carriage to take them back to Arnor House at first light.

"It won't be a moment to soon for me, Dalquist,” Grimm said with fervour. “I can't wait to be back where I belong."

"I can only agree,” the senior mage replied. “I'm going to get some sleep, and I suggest you do the same."

Grimm looked at the tiny, expectant face of Thribble protruding from his pocket. “I will do so in a little while, Dalquist. Our small friend Thribble seems to have a considerable thirst, which it would be inhospitable not to slake, so I'll share a drink or two and chat for a while longer before I retire. Goodnight."

When Dalquist closed the door, the demon looked eager as the young mage took a small thimble from a pocket and filled it with amber liquor. Grimm took a rather more generous measure for himself, and felt good humour seeping through him as the alcohol sent warming waves into his body. The human and the demon chatted for a while, as Grimm gave Thribble an unvarnished account of Madeleine's attempted ensorcellment of him, and his gradual realisation of the truth of their relationship. Thribble listened, rapt at first, but, after two thimblefuls of good brandy, the minuscule imp was in an uproarious state, laughing, clapping his hands and dancing. After a while, he fell asleep, and Grimm laid the demon carefully inside his travelling bag, shutting him in the chest-of drawers. The netherworld being snored at a volume that belied his minute frame, but the heavy wood of the closed drawer attenuated this to a bearable level.

Grimm downed a couple more brandies, and then reached for Redeemer in order to clear his head. However, instead of annulling the effects of the alcohol, he backed it off just a little, retaining the pleasant, warm, good-humoured sensations he had felt earlier.

He read a little from a book he had borrowed from the library of Thaumaturgical Research, but his eyelids began to flutter, the words began to blur and the book eventually fell from his hand. Grimm snuffed the light, and was quickly asleep.

* * * *

A sharp smell of ammonia seemed to bring him to his senses, and Grimm felt himself drifting upwards and outwards, until he found himself looking down at what appeared to be his own, sleeping body. The mouth hung slightly open, and the eyes rolled and darted beneath their lids as if seeking some fugitive prey.

His senses seemed acutely heightened; even in the dark room, colours appeared bright and vivid, and it was as if he could see every thread in his blanket and hear every tiny sound; Thribble's amplified snoring grated like a rough thread being drawn through the mage's ears.

Ears? Surely nothing so crude and corporeal; Grimm was aware of his essence , but he had no sense of encumbrance or limitation, such as that imposed by a mere mortal body. He was flying, soaring, floating in the air. Grimm Afelnor had often tried to achieve this effect before, but the best he had achieved was an uneasy, wobbling, precarious levitation that was more strenuous than exhilarating. This was different; this was liberation and joy, a pure, unalloyed sense of freedom he had never before experienced.

As if drawn by some invisible thread, he felt himself moving down through the floor, which proved no barrier to his ethereal form. Vague images flitted through his consciousness: the Senior Doorkeeper berating one of his underlings for sloppy dress; an Adept's staff shattering against a Breaking Stone similar to that at Arnor House; a hot, busy kitchen buzzing with activity. Still he moved downwards at a relentless, increasing pace.

It seemed as if an age passed before he ceased his downward journey, and the dream-Grimm could now take stock of his surroundings. This was no chandelier-lit, mahogany-panelled realm of extravagance; there were bare stone walls and a flagstone floor, dappled with flickering shadows from crude rush torches and oil lamps. Moisture dripped from an unseen ceiling. He guessed he was in the very bowels of High Lodge, deep beneath the ground, within that monstrous edifice's very foundations, and that these regions were visited only infrequently.

A corner of his mind wondered who had illuminated these dingy catacombs, and for what purpose: workmen, perhaps, or victuallers replenishing the Lodge's capacious storehouses, he surmised. Despite his heightened senses, he felt no sense of urgency, just a mild interest in his surroundings. He drifted through the stone-pillared labyrinth, aimless and unrestricted. Under normal circumstances, he might have felt more than a little claustrophobic at finding himself in such a dimly-lit, dingy maze, aware of the crushing weight of the gigantic structure, millions of tons pressing down upon the roof above him, but he felt that the entire structure could collapse at this point and leave him utterly unscathed. The catacombs were like a blancmange; each part identical in form and construction to each other. The layout seemed to be in the form of a regularly spaced lattice of massive stone pillars, sinking deep into the earth and supporting the entire weight of the Lodge. Not for the first time, Grimm supposed that some mighty magic must have been invoked in the raising of this titanic building. Surely no secular architect could have been so bold as to envision such a massive undertaking, and no common artisan or engineer would have known how or where to start its construction.

The disembodied consciousness of Grimm Afelnor became aware of a distant humming, a rhythmic pulse that waxed and waned in a metronomic, hypnotic fashion. It was far in the distance, and it would have been inaudible to mortal ears, but it came through clearly to spirit-Grimm's heightened senses. Without volition, he felt drawn inexorably towards it, unerringly guided through the warren of anonymous, identical passages.

Closer, closer; the relentless rhythm, now identifiable as a low chant, seemed to fill his consciousness, subsuming and swamping his very will. It was as if he were some passive castaway in a thick, heavy, glutinous sea, being carried along on an unchanging wave.

Dream-Grimm saw a door ahead of him, surrounded by an aura of golden light that streamed from its edges. A mere physical portal was no barrier to his ethereal form, and he drifted through it as easily as his physical body might have moved through a curtain of mist.

This was a crypt , a place of the dead, he realised. The mortal Grimm might have shuddered in superstitious, subliminal uneasiness, but his spiritual avatar watched unmoved. Racks and racks of ornate coffins rose thirty feet to a vaulted ceiling, arrayed neatly around the walls of a circular room, maybe fifty feet in diameter and dished in the middle, like some giant serving-bowl. In the middle of the bowl, the roaming dream-spirit saw a circular dais, on which was mounted a gilded wooden throne with a blood-red velvet cushion. To one side of this was a large basket of silver metal, filled with carefully arrayed blocks of some wood emitting a pungent, aromatic perfume. Was this some altar of consecration for departed souls?

The chanting grew more intense, and spirit-Grimm sensed that he was approaching the door of the crypt. The door opened, and a hooded, black-robed figure entered; behind it, a group of four chanting, grey-garbed entities in a square formation, a cloth-bound bundle borne on their shoulders. The figure in black sank onto the throne in the centre of the crypt; the hood slipped back and dream-Grimm recognised Lizaveta, the Prioress of the Order of the Sisters of Divine Mercy. The grey chanters released their burden carefully, reverently onto the flagstones at the Prioress's feet. They, too, doffed their hoods, to reveal young, female, glassy-eyed faces bearing identical expressions of utter adoration. The chanting ceased as if on cue, and the Sisters chanted, "All hail, Reverend Mother," in perfect unison.

"Sisters of our serene Order,” Lizaveta hissed from her throne, the sibilants sounding like daggers drawn from wet silk scabbards. “We are here to commemorate the untimely demise of our dear, recently departed Sister. A tragedy, indeed, that she passed to the other side so soon; her service to the Order held much promise.

"Alas, she succumbed during a well-merited Trial of Devotion. Her spirit proved weak and, regrettably, unworthy of our deep love, and of the trust placed in her. However, even in her weakness, she may make us stronger, and become a part of us all. Sister Jelana, step forward!” Lizaveta held out her shrivelled, ringed left hand.

One of the Sisters approached the throne and curtseyed deeply, her forehead almost touching the floor. She held the pose for what seemed like an eternity, and then took the Prioress's hand. With tears glistening in her misty eyes, she kissed the old woman's profession-ring with a fervid passion.

"I am at your bidding, Reverend Mother."

"Beloved Sister, most fortunate amongst women, to you falls the honour and the privilege of consigning the memory of our dear, lost Sister to our hearts and memories, in the certain knowledge that she will not be forgotten for as long as our blessed Order remains."

The nun sank her head to the cold flagstones once more. “Blessed be our glorious Order,” she recited in a tremulous, passionate voice. “Blessed be the Earth Mother and her chosen acolytes; as below, so above."

"As below, so above,” came the affirmative chant from the other Sisters.

"So let it be,” Prioress Lizaveta intoned.

Spirit-Grimm hung in the air, unseen by the cloaked devotees. Some portion of his being seemed unable to tear itself away from this increasingly forbidding place. A mote of untouched consciousness urged him to return to the living world, but he felt incapable of doing so.

Sister Jelana rose to her feet, nodded her head reverently towards the Prioress and then faced her three fellow devotees of the Order. “Mother Earth, succour us and guide us,” she crooned in evident ecstasy, her face a mask of unalloyed joy.

"Nurture us and empower us,” the nuns chanted, wearing expressions of pure rapture. Jelana raised her hands and chanted in a guttural voice, hot tears of devotion flowing from her eyes. The blocks of fragrant wood in their shining crib smouldered and then took flame. Aromatic smoke filled the chamber, and the entranced Sisters seemed almost to swoon, releasing ecstatic cries and reeling as if possessed.

The chosen daughter of the Order removed a large, sheathed blade from her robe, slipped it free of its leathern confinement and held it above her head.

"Mother Earth, Goddess of our Order," the nun screamed, "we beg you to consecrate this blade and make it pure. Pray, guide my hand truly, so that we may make our departed Sister live again in our hearts and our bodies!"

The cloth shroud of the bundle was flung aside, and Grimm's disembodied spirit saw what appeared to be a brown, wooden representation of a bloated, malformed human. Jelana held the wide blade to her face and then offered it to Lizaveta. The Prioress nodded solemnly, whereupon the honoured Sister of Divine Mercy turned to the brown simulacrum as howls of pleasure, mingled with agony, arose from the other devotees.

The inner voice within spirit-Grimm's sensorium rose to a shriek, but he felt completely unable to drag himself away from the bizarre spectacle.

The shining blade rose and fell. Instead of the crisp, decisive sound of metal biting into inanimate wood, he heard the wet, heavy crunch of a butcher's cleaver cutting into fresh meat. A thin, red fluid, tinged with yellow, began to flow from the brown figure as Jelana lifted aloft something resembling a human, female leg, complete with the protruding stub of a severed femur. Dream-Grimm noticed that the brown tint was only on one side of the limb; the remainder of the leg was marbled with purple and red, shading to an ivory tint at what looked like the rear of the thigh and the calf. The severed member was flung onto the pyre, sending greasy waves of smoke into the atmosphere.

One Sister sprung forward, bearing a shining crystal chalice and scooped up the gruesome, turbid fluid that ran towards Lizaveta's throne. “Reverend Mother, accept this gift from our departed Sister in remembrance of her sweet soul.” She sank to the ground before the gilded throne, the cup held above her head.

The Prioress held the chalice to her lips and opened her mouth wide. Down went the disgusting, thick liquid, and Lizaveta's eyes rolled in ecstasy. “Sister Madeleine,” she intoned, red liquid running down to her chin to drip to the flagstones, “so sweet she was—so sweet she is !” She cackled hysterically at her own wit.

The ensorcelled Sisters began to tear at the misshapen figure with knives, and even with bare fingers, ripping gobbets of all-too-real flesh from white bones and flinging them onto the fire...

* * * *

"Wake up, Grimm! Wake up! It's almost time to leave."

Grimm lifted his head, bleary-eyed and confused, from the pillow. He emitted a groan and dragged himself upright in the bed.

"I just had the most awful nightmare imaginable, Dalquist,” he said, his mouth dry and his tongue thick “I just want to get out of here."

Dalquist nodded sagely. “Unfamiliar surroundings can often have that effect; I spent an uneasy night myself. You have time to prepare for the journey and to eat breakfast, but be quick. I will be back to chivvy you again in half an hour."

Grimm made no reply, but he raised a hand in assent. When Dalquist departed, the young man made an uncharacteristically hurried toilet, in order to leave time to break his fast, but he found that even the tempting foods laid out in his room could not awaken his appetite. When the senior Questor returned, he found his friend almost distraught.

"What is it, Grimm? Surely you've had bad nightmares before?"

"Dalquist, it all seemed so real! I was in the catacombs below the Lodge, and I saw the Sisters of Divine Mercy dismembering the swollen corpse of Madeleine and drinking her blood. I can't shake it from my mind."

Dalquist rubbed his chin in cogitation. “You feel guilty about Madeleine, as if you could have persuaded her to give her love freely, without artifice. You hate the Order that commands her true allegiance, and you're transferring your frustration onto them."

Grimm sighed. “You must be right, Dalquist.” In truth, he found his friend's explanation facile and simplistic, but he told himself that he was simply overwrought after a horrible dream, and that he was trying to read deeper meanings into a sinister reverie.

Grimm stood with a decisive gesture. “All right, Dalquist, I'm ready to leave, and it can't be a moment too soon for me. I'm a simple, provincial Questor, and I just want to get back home, back to somewhere that I can fit in."

"Amen to that, Brother Mage.” The older mage laughed. “Oh, don't trip over that book." Grimm picked up the book that he had started to read on the previous night and snapped it shut, placing it on the shelf beside the bed. “Right, let's be on our way, Brother Mage." Chapter 22: Xylox the Mighty

Grimm Afelnor thought he had never been more bored in his whole life. In the six months since his visit to High Lodge and his lucky accession to the Fifth Rank, nothing exciting seemed to have happened. The Prelate had forbidden the Questor leave to visit his grandfather, without giving any reason, and Grimm had nowhere else to go

Lord Thorn did, at least, send him on two further Quests, but neither brought him much credit or glory. The first of the Quests involved nothing more arduous than simple escort duty; Grimm accompanied a shipment of gold on a journey from Sturat Port to Fraasia across the Sturan Sea. His companion mage on this voyage was Gulari Ferat, a Mage Weatherworker of the Third Rank. Gulari remained terse and uncommunicative throughout the journey, preferring to consult his Weatherworking librams and guides. Grimm suffered from seasickness on the first three days, and his stomach remained uneasy for some time thereafter. Grimm understood fully the causes of motion sickness, but he was unable to cast curative spells on himself; this was one of the main limitations of Questor magic. In his uneasy state, he dared not attempt runic magic, which required perfection in every syllable.

Grimm knew that a small dose of Trina could cure seasickness, but he had no intention of risking re-addiction to that potent substance.

Gulari called up a gentle breeze to drive the ship when it became becalmed, but this was the only magic cast throughout the Quest. Grimm intended to pursue a rigorous, daily regimen of magical and physical exercise, but he spent most of the time facedown in his hammock, shivering and retching, his face ashen and sweaty. The Quest proved otherwise uneventful.

On the second Quest, on behalf of High Lodge, Grimm travelled alone to the city of Viere. The city fathers had defaulted on their tithes to the Guild, pleading poverty, but the presence of a full Guild Questor soon persuaded them to admit that the city's financial position was a little more secure than they had claimed.

With Lord Thorn's permission, Grimm visited his Barony of Crar, but his demon friend, Shakkar, acting as Seneschal, had proved an extraordinarily able administrator during the young Baron's absence. Grimm held an informal meeting with the Council of Crar, but the general opinion seemed to be that the Seneschal was doing a fine job; Grimm's intervention was not required, in any capacity. The young mage had hardly seen his friend, Dalquist since their visit to High Lodge; as a full Mage Questor of the Seventh Rank, having fulfilled his financial obligation to Arnor House at last, Dalquist was living far away, returning only briefly to be dispatched on a Quest of his own. Grimm bided his time. He yearned to be out on the road again, amongst good friends and good companions, using his powers to the full in the defence of Guild values and principles. He was a Mage Questor, not some bodyguard or financial enforcer, but he learned that the valorous exploits mentioned in the Deeds of the Questors were rare exceptions, rather than the rule. He concentrated on becoming as fit as he could be, mentally and physically, ready to take on the rigours of the trail once more. His minuscule demon companion, Thribble, did not help matters by reminding Grimm on numerous occasions that he wanted to gather more material for tales with which to bedazzle his fellow netherworld creatures on his eventual return to the demon realm.

Grimm was now seventeen years old, still slender but wiry, and possessed of considerable strength and stamina, but with no release for it other than his daily exercises. He tried to contact his old Scholasticate friends, Madar Gaheela and Argand Forutia, but both were at crucial stages in their magical training; their respective Magemasters forbade external distractions.

More than once, Grimm eyed with longing the pouch containing the addictive herbs Trina and Virion, which he always carried with him. He was over the worst of his addiction now, but the ennui brought on by waiting for his next real Quest re-awoke the hunger within him. He felt tempted on many occasions to smoke just a small quantity of the herbs, but he managed on each occasion to leave the pouch unopened. He refused to become a puppet of the substances again, but his lengthening period of inactivity served only to increase the frequency and intensity of the yearning.

Something must happen soon, he told himself. Any day now; let me just get through today. Tomorrow, something must happen. Tomorrow, or the day after...

* * * *

Lord Prelate Thorn Virias ploughed through his endless paperwork. The financial situation of Arnor House had improved since he had been elected a permanent member of the Guild Presidium and since the House's subsequent rise in reputation, but Thorn still looked for reasons to dispatch his Questors on demanding and risky Quests, so he could enhance his own prestige and status within the Guild and place High Lodge in his debt.

Lord Prelate Thorn? The mental message emanating from Thorn's scrying-crystal carried greater urgency than might have been expected if High Lodge were requesting triplicate copies of Arnor House's accounting records, and Thorn looked up from his papers.

Lord Dominie Horin, it is good to hear from you again, thought Thorn, placing his hands on the crystal. What may I do for you?

Lord Thorn, I wish to acquaint you with a worrisome state of affairs. Guild Mages seem to have been resigning their vocations at an alarming frequency in recent months. We at High Lodge have recently lost a prominent Mage Mentalist, Bronin Wearth, called the Mindmaster, after thirty years of staunch service. He has always been a dedicated, trustworthy servant of the Guild, and his resignation is most out of character for this dependable and loyal mage. I see from the records of other Houses that at least five other such occurrences, all equally puzzling, have taken place in the last two months. The only common factor seems to be that all of these mages have resigned after visiting the newly dedicated House at the foot of the Shest Mountains, and that nothing more has been heard of them since. All of the mages who have resigned were either Mentalists or Illusionists; in other words, manipulators of the mind. I am concerned that the mages may be setting up some clandestine activity in opposition to us; there must be some reason for this silence. Many Prelates are convinced that nothing sinister pertains to these events, but I am persuaded otherwise. I wish to invoke a formal Quest to investigate these disappearances, and I need the assistance of a Prelate whom I can trust implicitly to implement it; of course, given the apparent risks involved in this undertaking, it will not be held against you should you refuse. Thorn had no intention of refusing such an opportunity, but he made as much of the moment as he could, in order to maximise Dominie Horin's gratitude at his eventual acceptance. Lord Dominie, I feel indeed gratified by your confidence in Arnor House. However, I am sure that you realise only too well that our resources at this time are limited. We have three Questors available for the service of our Guild, dedicated men who are all eager to serve, but the Quest you have outlined does place great demands upon the House.

Thorn waited a few moments before continuing, giving the impression that he was in deep cogitation. Very well, Lord Domini, he continued, the needs of the Guild must come before those of an individual House; you may rely on me. I will despatch a pair of Questors to the region of Shest at once. We will get to the bottom of this worrying mystery as soon as possible. Thank you, Lord Thorn, Horin responded. I have, of course, the greatest faith in you. I will leave the resolution of the issue entirely to you. I would like to clarify one thing: should these mages be engaged in some clandestine enterprise contrary to the aims of the Guild, I authorise your Questors to take whatever action is necessary to settle the matter, up to and including vital termination of any renegade magic-users.

Thorn started. You will give us carte blanche to execute Guild brethren , Lord Dominie? He felt shocked; such explicit permission was rare, and the idea of the ruthless execution of a group of Guild Mages was distasteful even to the hard-nosed Prelate.

Only if they are shown to be acting against our interests, you understand, Prelate Thorn. If they have been somehow abducted or duped, then they must be rescued.

I understand, Lord Dominie. You may rely on Arnor House to provide a speedy and efficient resolution of your concerns, one way or the other.

* * * *

Xylox Ceras, Mage Questor of the Seventh Rank, called ‘The Mighty’ was no libertarian. Despite the considerable wealth he had accrued over twenty years of Quests, he habitually wore simple woollen robes in grey, black or brown; his tastes were starkly ascetic. In truth, Xylox was a miser, but he regarded himself as an upholder of prudent frugality.

He felt, therefore, more than a little displeased when he laid eyes upon his fellow Questor, Grimm Afelnor. The young man wore extravagant, brightly coloured silk robes, and Xylox thought he could smell pomade and perfumed soap on the Questor's hair and skin.

Xylox the Mighty believed that a mage, particularly a Questor, should always project an air of austere gravity, and he had worked hard to achieve this throughout his life as a Guild Mage. As the senior active Questor of Arnor House—since old Olaf Demonscourge was almost in his dotage—Xylox sought to surround himself with a stern aura of mystery.

"Questor Xylox, I am Questor Grimm Afelnor,” the young fop said, rising from his seat and extending his hand. “I feel honoured to make your acquaintance at last. I have read much of your exploits in the Deeds of the Questors."

Xylox frowned: this Grimm must be at least four inches taller than he, and slender with it; this was another black mark against Questor Grimm, as far as he was concerned.

However, Xylox was a Guild man, first and last: he automatically took the proffered hand and shook it.

"Greetings, Questor Grimm,” he said in a cool voice. “You are aware that we are to Quest together; I understand that Lord Thorn deigned to brief you in person.” Xylox's tone was polite, but cold and distant; the older mage believed Lord Thorn should have trusted him to brief this young popinjay. The young man nodded. “I am looking forward to it, Questor Xylox. I am still relatively inexperienced, and I yearn for a chance to prove myself as a Questor."

At least this Afelnor sounds keen enough, the Mighty thought. He cast an eye at Grimm's staff, noting with some disbelief the five rings of gold adorning its head. Perhaps the boy was older than he looked.

"Have you no cognomen, Questor Grimm?” he asked, frowning. “I was granted the sobriquet ‘The Mighty’ after my eleventh Quest, at the age of twenty-seven. Until that time, I was a Questor of the Third Rank, only reaching the Fifth Rank after my cognomen was ratified by High Lodge." This Grimm's face seemed to twist in embarrassment. “In truth, Questor Xylox, I have only been on three Quests since my Acclamation. Two of them took place after I had acceded to the Fifth Rank." A delicate shade of purple suffused Xylox's ruddy features. “You reached the Fifth Rank after a single Quest?” he almost shrieked. “What did you do? Did you save Lord Dominie Horin's life, or prevent High Lodge from falling? Or do you have relatives at High Lodge?"

"I had the ... good fortune to be called before the Dominie when he was distracted and overworked,”

Questor Grimm confessed. “He did not check my staff; in fact, he barely looked at me at all. He just pronounced me a Fifth Rank Mage, and Questor Dalquist and I were hustled out of the room." Xylox shook with anger. “Why did you not tell the Dominie there had been an error? Bah, those rings on your staff are just a sham! I think this an utter disgrace. You will find to your cost that Xylox the Mighty does not tolerate dishonesty."

The foppish young man stepped close to Xylox and looked him full in the face, his lids narrowed, his dark eyes blazing. Xylox felt a little uncomfortable that he had to look up to meet his gaze.

"Questor Xylox, if you are determined to dislike me then there is very little that I can do about it,” the jumped-up urchin drawled. “However, will you look me in the eye and tell me that every one of your glorious victories told in the ‘Deeds’ was merited and without even a little embroidery? Are you trying to belittle me, to put me in what you see as my proper place? If so, I am not impressed.

"Like all Questors, you must have come here a pauper, just as I did. You went through the agonies of the Questor's Ordeal, just as I did. And you have a hole in your arse, just as I do." Xylox snorted in outrage. “Why, you disrespectful little upstart !" he hissed. “Is this how you have been taught to address your elders and betters? If so, standards in the Scholasticate must have slipped considerably since my day!"

"That you are older than me, I can see,” Questor Grimm said. “That you are my better, I would need to see demonstrated before I could pronounce judgement. I am fully prepared to give you all the respect your high stature deserves, but I refuse to stand here to be belittled just because somebody has an inflated opinion of himself."

The older man found himself dumbstruck at the young Questor's effrontery, and he felt for a moment as if his eyes would explode from his head like miniature cannonballs, but he calmed down at last, recognising a certain humour in the situation.

He, Xylox the Mighty, prided himself above all on plain speaking, with no frills. Here he was, being confronted by somebody employing his own kind of language against him. This young Questor might be a preening popinjay, but at least he had the strength and self-confidence to stand up to Xylox. The senior mage could not ever see himself becoming Questor Grimm's friend, but he could see how the young man might be a useful companion, provided that he remembered just who the senior mage was.

Taking a deep breath, Xylox extended his hand again, and the younger mage took it, his eyes hooded as he shook it.

"Questor Grimm,” Xylox said after a deep breath. “I am Questor Xylox. We are to be on a Quest together. I am pleased to meet you."

Questor Grimm smiled. “Questor Xylox, I am honoured to make your acquaintance." With the ice at least thawed, Grimm and Xylox sat down to discuss details of the forthcoming Quest. Chapter 23: What Happened to the World

"So we are agreed,” Xylox said. “I suggest that we leave in two days. We will make a detour to Drute and seek to hire two or three warriors to accompany us on the Quest, and then move on to Griven, from where the missing mages were all last heard."

"Two days?” Grimm queried. “I would as soon leave today, even right now."

"Questor Grimm, I have matters at court to which to attend,” the senior Questor intoned in a haughty voice, and Grimm nodded in understanding. He knew that Xylox, with High Lodge's blessing, was the senior magical adviser to the court of King Delamat, far to the north. The King was a staunch ally of the Guild and he only employed Guild Mages, in return for the promise of magical aid from the Houses should his small kingdom ever be attacked. Xylox had a staff of some twenty mages of all disciplines and he was reputed to rule over his staff like a martinet, which Grimm could well believe.

"Two days it is, Xylox. I am sure that you will leave everything in top shape."

"My title is ‘Royal Questor Xylox',” the older man corrected. “A man with important responsibilities at a Royal Court is accustomed to full protocol at all times."

Grimm bridled a little, but took care to hold his annoyance at the Questor's fustiness in check. Nonetheless, he thought it would do no harm to bring Xylox High-and-Mighty down a peg or two.

"As you insist that we maintain full Court protocol, Brother Mage, you should be advised that my correct title is Lord Grimm, Baron of Crar."

Xylox's eyes narrowed. “Is this some idea of a joke, Questor Grimm? If it is, I fail to understand such asinine levity.” He fixed the young man with a piercing look.

Grimm's gaze remained level. “On the contrary, Questor Xylox, I have full right to the title ‘Baron of Crar'. I have the Council-attested and sealed credential in my room in the West Wing, if you would care to peruse it."

Xylox suffered a brief paroxysm, his face red as if he was in dire apoplexy. The idea of addressing this recently-Acclaimed youth as ‘Lord Baron’ was unappealing.

"I apologise, Lord Baron,” Xylox said, after a long pause. The older man even bowed his head, although his face was purple with mortification.

"I received the accolade from the grateful people of Crar after my first Quest,” Grimm continued, turning the knife in the wound; he knew from his researches that Xylox had won many awards and titles over the years, but he had never been awarded the hint of a peerage. Grimm was determined that Xylox not see him as some upstart who had been given everything by lucky chance.

Seeing that Xylox appeared almost about to explode from the burden of embarrassment that he was carrying, the younger mage relented in his torment. “On the other hand, you could just let me call you

‘Xylox’ when we are alone together or in the House, and you might then address me simply as ‘Grimm'. And perhaps we could even relax the use of Mage Speech on the odd occasion?" Xylox straightened up and cleared his throat. “As you say ... Grimm , this might make for a more harmonious relationship. Xylox it is. As for using common speech in private, I will have to think about it. Good day to you."

When Xylox had left, Grimm grinned. At this rate, he might be able to make a human being of his fellow mage within a decade or two.

* * * *

After a day and a half of intense study, Grimm had learnt as much of the missing mages’ disappearance as he could. Each of them had sent his letter of resignation from the town of Griven, at the foot of the Shest Mountains, and Grimm knew that the region was known to hold relics of ancient Technology. He had always been interested in the ancient and arcane art as a Student, and the Scholasticate Library held many books on the subject, despite the widespread hatred with which the discipline was regarded throughout the Guild.

Knowing he might encounter Technology on the Quest, he renewed his childhood interest in the subject, haunting the Library like a wraith whilst waiting for Xylox to return from court. Grimm also researched the potential hazards and problems that might lie ahead of them, immersing himself in geography, politics, culture and other dull subjects.

Late on the second day, Grimm found his vision beginning to swim after his day's studies.

"That'll do for today, I think,” he muttered, and began to replace the books he had been perusing on their respective shelves. As he replaced the last volume on the top shelf, he noticed a book with the faded title ‘Magical Life from Technological Death’ It was dusty, and looked as if it had not been read in decades, or even centuries.

Intrigued by the title, he carefully took down the book, blew off the worst of the dust and took it to a table. Laying it down carefully, reverently, he eased open the dry leather covers to reveal yellowed paper which bore neat but faded handwriting. The flyleaf told of how the contents of the book had been handed down and updated for six hundred years, and the tome's dilapidated condition showed that it was even older than this.

Taking great care not to damage the brittle pages, he began to read a fascinating and terrible story of pride, suffering and painful rebirth. Many of the names and references were beyond his ken despite his earlier studies, but he felt unable to tear his eyes from the delicate pages. This was the story of the death of a proud, mysterious world, and the birth of his own familiar world. He felt his eyes growing wider and his hands beginning to tremble as he read. As he had been taught, Technology had indeed wreaked grievous destruction on the world, but it had also given birth to his own way of life.

Before the Final War, there had been no elves, dragons, witches or mages in the world. Grimm could not comprehend many of the details, but it seemed that the awful flames of destruction had somehow brought about a change in humans and animals. Death had brought forth new life, but only at the expense of countless millions. The Technologists might have died in that conflagration, but they took with them carpenters, mothers, babies, nurses, blacksmiths ... the pages told horrifying stories of the awful aftermath of the deluge of flame.

* * * *

Grimm closed the book and held it in palsied hands, as if it were some small, venomous beast. All he had ever read of the art of Technology had concentrated on the functions and attributes of the astonishing machines that had once held sway over the world, and he had mourned its demise. Now, he began to understand the detestation with which the Guild regarded Technology; it had proved a useful tool but a callous, unfeeling master. Were it ever to rise again, his familiar world might be destroyed, and who could guess what might replace it?

I wouldn't be alive without that awful war, he thought. Everything I know would never have come to be. I always thought the Magemasters were exaggerating when they said that Technology had destroyed the world, but they weren't. We daren't let that happen again. It was marvellous while it lasted, but it mastered even its own masters. They died at the hands of their own creation... He put down the book with a shake of his head, and Xylox entered the room. “Questor Grimm, I am ready to leave. Have you gleaned all that we need to know about the regions through which we will pass?"

Grimm nodded, mute with emotion, tears glittering in his eyes at what he had just read.

"What affects you so, Questor Grimm?” the older man demanded. “Is it that book you were reading?"

"The book is about Technology,” Grimm said, a heavy lump in his throat.

"Technology?” Xylox seemed to grow six inches in height in his indignation. “You are a lover of Technology?” His voice scorched the word with an avid flame of anger and contempt. Grimm shook his head, fighting his turbulent and conflicting emotions. Then he collected himself and looked the senior mage straight in the eye. “Questor Xylox, why do you hate it so?" Xylox almost recoiled at the question, but he had been forced to consider his motivations. “To be blunt, Questor Grimm, I detest Technology because the art is hated throughout the Guild, and because I have been taught to share that view. However, that is sufficient reason for me, and it should be sufficient reason for you."

"Questor Xylox, words cannot express the loathing I now feel for the art.” Grimm's words were hot and venomous. “Those arrogant bastards, the scions of Technology, nearly destroyed the world. You and I were born from that awful conflagration, but only at the cost of untold suffering, death and misery. I will fight Technology to my last breath, but to fight it, one must understand it. We may meet it on this Quest, and I wish to be able to recognise it when I see it. I am ready, and a new fire burns in my heart. Believe me, I was once interested in Technology, but I hate it now."

Grimm's words were fervid, intense and quavering with suppressed anger, but his gaze did not waver in the slightest. At last, Xylox nodded. “That is as it should be, Questor Grimm. If you are ready, we will leave in the morning."

Grimm nodded. “I'll be ready, Questor Xylox. I wouldn't miss it for anything." Chapter 24: The Elf and the Albino

It seemed to Grimm that the disreputable-looking tavern in Drute, the Broken Bottle, must be a popular one with Questors. The landlord, Urel, had recognised Dalquist on Grimm's first Quest, and he now recognised Xylox.

"Questor Xylox, Questor Grimm, it is good to see you again; welcome back to the Broken Bottle. What may I offer you to wash the dust of the trail from your parched throats?"

"Do you keep any ten-year Turaz Red in your wine-cellar, landlord?” Xylox asked. “I find it a particularly fine vintage, and it suits my palate well. I allow myself few pleasures in life, but I confess to a fondness for this noble blood of the grape. I seem to remember that I first sampled it in this very hostelry, many years ago."

"I keep a few bottles of it especially for your consumption, Questor Xylox,” Urel said, with a respectful bow; he seemed familiar with the older mage's rather pompous wiles.

The landlord placed an ornate goblet in front of the older mage and brought out a green bottle, making great show of displaying the label to Xylox. Either by chance or artifice, the portion of the label with the year of vintage was scuffed and illegible. The hosteller poured a small quantity of the clear, ruby liquid into the goblet and offered it to the senior mage.

Xylox held the cup to his nose, closed his eyes and swirled the wine in the goblet, wafting possibly imaginary waves of aroma towards his nostrils with his free hand. Tipping the goblet towards his lips, he allowed a small quantity of the liquid to enter his mouth. Fascinated and repulsed in equal measure, Grimm watched as Xylox swilled the wine around in his half-open mouth, taking a series of brief, staccato breaths. Then he seemed to chew the wine as if it were a piece of meat, his eyes still closed as if seeking some arcane augury or prophecy from the depths of the goblet. The extraordinary performance concluded with the mage's delicate ejection of the masticated mouthful into one of the battered iron spittoons scattered around the stone floor.

"Adequate,” the mage intoned, finishing the contents of goblet in a single gulp and handing the goblet to the landlord for a refill.

"And you, Questor Grimm?” A brief smile flitted across the landlord's face, and Grimm felt almost certain that his fellow mage had been gulled into accepting a lesser vintage than that for which he had asked.

Suppressing a grin, the young man ordered a flagon of ale bearing the intriguing name of ‘Old Head-cracker'. It was a deep, red-brown beverage with a creamy, foaming head. He took a sip and found the brew very refreshing and palatable, but he knew that he would need the aid of Redeemer's spells to remain sober if he were to consume more than a couple of pints of the ale. Thanking the landlord, Grimm moved to a table in the middle of the bar, at which Xylox had already installed himself. The older man seemed lost in thought, staring into his goblet of wine as if in deep meditation. Grimm looked around the bar in search of likely warriors, but there were only four other patrons present. Three of these were old and white-bearded, and the other was a younger man in the final stages of a titanic battle against the massed forces of incipient inebriation.

As the sun began to fall from its zenith, the bar began to fill, but none of the customers looked promising. Xylox interrupted his impassive reverie from time to time, scanning each new patron with a stern and critical eye for a brief moment, but he seemed no more impressed than his companion. The landlord kept the two mages well supplied with drink, for which the young mage expressed fulsome gratitude. His older companion acknowledged the hosteller with no more than a curt nod.

After the landlord brought the mages their fourth round of drinks, another group of customers entered, and Grimm felt a hand on his shoulder. Whirling around, with a firm grip on Redeemer, he felt his face break into a broad grin.

"Crest, it is good to see you! The easy life seems to agree with you,” he observed, noting the half-elf's healthy complexion, and his immaculate black velvet suit of clothes. Crest was no less enthusiastic in his greeting.

"Questor Grimm, you old demon-masher! You look well. Life's been pretty boring since we last met; perhaps you're here to change that?"

Xylox seemed to snap out of his daydream, and he stared at the slender, olive-skinned, black-garbed figure with an expression of deep disapproval, perhaps because of Crest's familiar manner with a Guild Mage.

Remembering his manners, Grimm made the introductions. “Questor Xylox, it looks as if we may be in luck. Crest, here, is an expert with either whip or dagger, and a master of locks beside. He was with Dalquist and me during our last Quest, and he proved a valuable member of the team.

"Crest, my esteemed colleague is Xylox the Mighty, one of the most senior Questors in our House."

"Master Crest, please excuse us for a moment."

Xylox almost yanked Grimm from his seat and into a vacant corner of the bar.

"Have you forgotten all that you were taught about deportment and protocol?” the senior Questor snapped. “You seem to me far too easy-going with this Crest, and I regard this as deleterious to Quest discipline. Allowing a mere Secular to address you in such a manner cannot be decorous; I think Crest's manner is totally unfitting for a hired warrior. From now on, I would appreciate it if you were to restrict yourself to Mage Speech when dealing with underlings. I suggest that we wait for a more suitable and more respectful fighter to come along."

"Crest is not an underling,” Grimm whispered, hotly, folding his arms across his chest. “We faced a mighty demon-sorcerer together and almost died. I have no intention of treating him like common hired help. I urge you to accept him as he is; Crest is a good, fearless fighter. He can open locks in silence and with ease, whereas you or I would have to destroy the door. I would add that no other likely warriors have come our way today. I think it would be pretty imprudent to reject one just because his attitude didn't come up to your concept of Guild expectations.

"As a last comment, I have a favour to ask: we may be Questing together for some time, and we seem to have started off on the wrong foot. I am sorry if this is due to me, and I promise to do my best not to embarrass you. But I do wish you would at least try to meet me halfway. I do not want to freeze out a good friend because it makes me look more dangerous and unapproachable. Can you not live with that?

You may think that it's bad for discipline to be easy-going, but I think that it's a better way to inspire loyalty.

"You are in charge of this Quest. I will not forget that; you are the senior mage, and I will accord you all due respect. But it seems as if every time we talk, there is an argument. I think that is bad for discipline, and I do not think that it is all due to me. There must be a little give and take on both sides." Xylox looked taken back by the young Questor's forthrightness, as if he might excoriate his young companion for impertinence. However, Grimm knew that, along with an overbearing and pompous nature, Xylox the Mighty was known for a basic sense of fairness. The young magic-user also knew that he had not, in truth, asked for anything unreasonable, just for a little accommodation. He saw Crest eyeing the pair of mages with an expression of cool amusement. The older man stood silent for some time, rubbing his nose with his forefinger, but he ended up taking a deep breath and nodding. “Very well, Questor Grimm, I will accept your recommendation of Crest as a companion, and I will agree to overlook your familiar way with him, so long as he does not expect me to act in the same manner. Let us return to your elven friend."

"Well, gentlemen? Am I in or out?” Crest asked.

"I have been advised by my brother mage, Questor Grimm, that you are a talented fighter and thief,”

Xylox declared, resuming his imperious mask. “The offer is standard Guild rates of pay, with which you are no doubt familiar, and equal shares of any booty with the exception of magical items. Is this acceptable to you?"

Crest shrugged. “As I told Baron Grimm, it's been pretty boring since we parted company. Money, I can always find. Action's not so easy.

"Very well, Questor Xylox, I'm your man."

Crest spat on the palm of his hand and held it towards the senior mage. Xylox indicated his younger companion. “Since it was Questor Grimm who recommended you, your compact will be with him." Crest shrugged again and shook hands with Grimm, who suspected that Xylox had merely been keen to avoid a distasteful, saliva-damp handshake.

"What now, Questor Xylox?” the junior mage asked. “Do we have a full team?" Xylox considered for a moment, but shook his head. “It is better to employ one warrior for each mage, someone who can fight on when the magic-user has exhausted his power.” Turning to the half-elf, he asked, “Master Crest, do you know of any other experienced warriors currently in residence in Drute?"

"What about Harvel?” Grimm asked. “Is he available?"

The slender thief shook his head. “He managed to get a job as bodyguard to some fat, wealthy nobleman or other. I'm pretty sure he wouldn't be tempted. On the other hand, do you see that man in the corner there: the one in the red jerkin? I've heard Harvel talk of him before as a good friend and an indomitable warrior. His name's Tordun."

Xylox regarded the large warrior with a dubious expression. “I had already dismissed him as a possible candidate. Look at his white hair and beard. He is too old."

Crest laughed. “Haven't you ever seen an albino before, Questor Xylox? Look at his pink eyes." Both Xylox and Grimm blinked in incomprehension.

"Albinos have no skin, eye or hair pigment,” explained Crest. “It's a hereditary thing. Don't worry; it's not catching. If you'll hang on for a moment, I'll see if I can persuade him to come on over." Grimm saw Crest stride over to the pale-skinned man, and an animated conversation took place. At the end of this, the albino nodded and stood, and the mage gaped as he unfolded himself like a pocket ruler. The albino stood at least eight inches taller than Grimm's six feet, and he dwarfed the shorter Crest. Tordun's sleeves and leggings seemed stretched tight over strings of large cannonballs. His shoulders and neck were massive, and he carried a fine broadsword in a scabbard at his back. Grimm was not sure if it was his imagination or not, but it seemed almost as if the floor shook as the giant albino approached. Tordun carefully lowered himself into a chair at the mage's table. The chair protested, but it held.

"My name is Tordun,” the giant rumbled in an impressive bass. “I understand that Crest and one of you mages travelled with Harvel the Blademaster. Which of you was that mage?"

"I Quested with Harvel,” Grimm replied. “He was a good man."

"He still is,” the enormous warrior boomed. “You must be Questor Grimm. Harvel spoke quite well of you, although he says you ruined a perfectly good jacket when you vomited over him."

"I was very sick at the time,” Grimm admitted. He saw no need to mention that his nausea had been caused by a massive dose of the drugs he still carried at his side.

"Harvel and I trained together,” Tordun said. “We were like brothers once, and each of us has saved the other's life more times than I can recall. He has told me a lot about Crest, although I never met him before today, and he speaks well of you, Questor. Very well, I am your man. How does this work? I've never worked for mages before."

Xylox explained the basic Guild pay scale for hired warriors, but Tordun haggled for a flat fee. In the end, Grimm said he would make up any shortfall from the albino's proposed fee out of his own pocket. The huge swordsman shook Xylox's hand, and he was in. With the group complete, Xylox explained the details of the Quest to the warriors.

"So what you're saying, Questor Xylox,” Crest said, “is that these mages are either under their own control, in which case they need to be dissuaded, or prisoners, in which case they need to be rescued?"

"Essentially true,” Xylox replied. “We leave for Griven at cockcrow tomorrow. By my reckoning, we should be there by mid-afternoon, if all goes well."

If all goes well, Grimm thought. That would be nice, for a change.

Chapter 25: A Warning from General Q

The party rode in a diamond formation: Xylox at the front, Grimm at the rear, Crest to the left and Tordun to the right. The young mage saw that, despite the hot weather, the giant swordsman was swathed from head to foot in dark, heavy clothes. He had pulled the hood of his travelling-cape down almost over his eyes, and he wore heavy leather gloves. Sweat beaded Tordun's pale forehead, and he panted as he rode along on his placid pack horse, his head bowed.

"Tordun,” called Grimm, who had chosen to dress in cool, lightweight, silk riding clothes. “Do you come from a cold region? If you don't mind me saying, you seem a little overdressed for this weather."

"I feel uncomfortable in these thick clothes, Questor,” the giant rumbled, “but bright sunlight is not kind to my skin or my eyes. I would rather be broiled in my own juices than done to a turn in the sunlight. Don't worry: it will not affect my efficacy as a fighter. I have had to dress in this manner, in all weathers, since I was a child, and during my extensive training."

Grimm wondered if his Questor magic could allow the albino to ride in comfort. He had never tried his hand at Weatherworking, but he considered trying to blot out the sun with a dark cloud. However, he remembered Dalquist once saying that such magic was best left to the Specialists. A Mage Questor was best suited to destructive spells, and such an attempt might swamp the party with torrential rain, turning the firm, dry trail to an impassable quagmire. Not a desirable situation, Grimm decided.

"Could you not cover your skin with a dark pigment, such as greasepaint, Tordun?” he asked.

"I've tried it,” grunted the swordsman. “My skin burns just as easily." Grimm's thoughts turned to a book that he had read many years ago, as a Student. It had talked of

‘black light', and he had found this oxymoronic phrase incomprehensible at the time. More recently, he had read of areas of the world that spawned strange and fantastic travesties of animals and plants and caused people to suffer from some strange affliction that seemed to emanate from the very ground. It was said that short exposures to this pervasive illness produced an effect akin to severe sunburn. Perhaps the sickness was allied to the ‘black light'—something unseen and insidious that could penetrate substances that visible light could not.

If I could only understand this ‘black light', Grimm thought, I might be able to devise some magical palliative.

The miles passed in silence while Grimm cogitated. From the position of the sun, he guessed the group would reach Griven within three or four hours. As the party rode through a clearing in a small copse, a short, brown-clad man jumped in front of the riders, apparently unarmed and waving his hands in the air. Xylox reined in his whinnying horse and the others followed suit.

"What do you want?” the senior mage demanded.

"We would like to discuss your purpose in this region,” the small man replied.

" We? ” Xylox queried. “You are alone. Our purpose is no business of anybody but ourselves." The short man chuckled. “There are bowmen and swordsmen hidden in the trees,” he said. “You're surrounded."

Xylox snorted. “Know that you have chosen your prey unwisely, footpad. You interrupt the passage of two Guild Mages at your peril. Step aside, and cease this foolishness."

"My patience is not inexhaustible,” he added, as the man made no effort to stand aside. “Leave while you yet may."

"Dear me! Why do you utter such unfriendly words to a man who merely wishes to talk to you?

Dismount and allow me to put a proposition to you: a proposition to everybody's advantage." Grimm scanned the trees with his Mage Sight. He saw at least a dozen men hidden in the trees on all sides, and he had little doubt that Xylox was also aware of this.

"I prefer to remain mounted, thief. I will make no compact with you,” the senior Questor declared. The infuriating, cheerful-looking little man tilted his head to one side as if appraising Xylox's deepest import. “I'd strongly recommend that you dismount, Questor. Let me assure you that I have no intention of robbing you. I just wish to give you a little friendly advice concerning your Guild colleagues. The ones you're looking for?"

With a start, Grimm felt the mind of Xylox inside his head. Questor Grimm: dismount, but do nothing until I give the word. Trust me. I have the situation under control. Out loud, the older thaumaturge said, “Very well. You seem to hold all the aces at this time.” Turning to the others, he called out “Dismount, and do nothing hasty."

The small man blanched a little when the full bulk of the giant Tordun became apparent, as the pale warrior dismounted.

"Slowly, snowball!” he snapped. “I wouldn't want my men's fingers to slip on their bowstrings." Grimm felt the tension rising, as the albino bristled at the insult, moving his hand to his sword, and the mage saw Crest's hand creeping towards his dagger-filled bandolier.

"Easy, gentlemen,” Grimm muttered. “Questor Xylox has something in mind, though I've no idea what. Just be ready."

Xylox approached the small man, who held up a hand, the smile back on his face. “That's quite far enough, mage, thank you very much."

"Very well,” the Questor growled, folding his arms across his chest. “Speak."

"My name is Choan” the man said. “I represent a ... business concern , which your ex-colleagues have recently joined. It is a private company, and your friends were offered attractive benefits to join. They are in no danger."

"I will believe that when I hear it from them in person.” Xylox's tone was icy and dangerous.

"Impossible, I'm afraid,” Choan said, still smiling. “Their new employer, who is also my employer, asked me to tell you that your friends are quite happy, and they do not wish to be disturbed. They say that they have served your Guild for long enough. The director of the company takes very good care of his employees, many of whom are powerful magic-users. In return, they would do almost anything for him. Do I make myself clear?"

"Abundantly,” Xylox replied. He began to step towards Choan.

"No further, mage,” the short man warned. “My bowmen have instructions to shoot if I am harmed." Xylox held out his hand and muttered. His staff flew from a scabbard on his horse's flank and into his hand. “I do not react well to threats,” he growled.

With a determined air, he strode once more towards Choan.

"Er, Xylox,” Grimm called, uncertain. “There are definitely bowmen..." At that moment, four cloth-yard arrows flew from the undergrowth towards the mage. Just as it seemed that he was about to be skewered, the arrows stopped, hovered for a moment and then flew back into the undergrowth. A chorus of screams arose from the bushes as Xylox grabbed the hapless Choan in a grip of iron.

Six swordsmen ran from the bushes, with their weapons drawn and murder in their eyes. Before Grimm or Crest could react, Tordun drew his sword from the scabbard on his back and charged, scattering the swordsmen converging on Xylox. With a mighty roar, he pulled his sword though a great arc, and the six bladesmen fell to the ground, their bodies all but severed at the waist. At the terrified Choan, vainly struggling to escape Xylox's strong grip, the giant waved the gory blade. “I don't like being called ‘snowball',” he growled.

"I'm sorry,” the trembling man squeaked.

"You will be a lot sorrier if you fail to give us some answers, Choan,” Xylox vowed. “Master Crest, would you be as kind as to watch the trail in case of further intruders, so we shall not be disturbed?

Thank you.

"Now, Choan, if your answers do not satisfy me, I shall give you to our large friend, Tordun, for his entertainment. I advise you to tell the truth, since you should be aware that we mages have our ways of detecting lies. Do you understand?"

Choan licked his lips and flicked his gaze towards the irate Tordun.

"Do lie,” the albino breathed. “We could have so much fun together."

"Stop struggling, Choan,” Xylox chided. “It will do you no good. Questor Grimm, if you would be kind enough as to employ your Mage Sight and tell me when our friend is lying?"

"That will be a pleasure, Questor Xylox,” Grimm said, engaging his magical sixth sense.

"Now, let us start with an easy question,” Xylox rumbled. “Who is your employer?"

"He's a warrior,” Choan squeaked. “General Sleafel Quelgrum: they call him General Q." Grimm nodded, signifying that Choan was telling the truth or, at least, that he thought he was.

"Did the mages willingly join him?” Xylox demanded, shaking his prisoner. “The truth, now!"

"N-no, the general had them pacified first."

" Pacified? What is that?"

"I don't know,” Choan cried. “He gave them some sort of invitation they couldn't refuse, and then he did something to their minds. He's interested in mind control; I don't know why." Xylox turned to Grimm. “Is he telling the truth?"

"I think so, Questor Xylox...” Grimm paused, and his brows wrinkled in puzzlement. “His mind's not whole!” he exclaimed. “There is some sort of control network running through his head. It's..." Choan jerked into rigidity, his eyes staring. The would-be assassin gurgled and then slumped in Xylox's arms.

"He is dead!” the Questor exclaimed, inspecting his unmoving ward.

"I imagine General Q didn't want Choan to tell us any more,” Grimm said. “I just wonder how he knew we were coming."

"Perhaps somebody in Drute sent a message ahead of us,” Xylox hazarded.

"It was not I,” Tordun declared. “Feel free to use your truth-magic on me."

"I know,” Xylox replied. “I have already done so for both you and Master Crest." Although Grimm knew such an act to be outside the bounds of Guild protocol, he recognised Xylox's act as just another expression of contempt for those he regarded as his inferiors. Xylox rose to his full height and let Choan's stiff body topple to the ground. He spoke a few words of his own Questor thought-language, and the corpses dissolved into a fine dust that drifted away on the soft, warm breeze.

"A useful spell,” Grimm observed. He had a similar spell of his own, but he could not see how to use it on more than one object at a time.

"I call it my spell of ‘Area Dissolution',” Xylox said, puffing out his chest. “It can be useful for the speedy disposal of waste."

"What did you do to turn back those arrows, Questor Xylox?” Grimm asked. “I heard you cast no spell."

Xylox opened the neck of his robe and pulled out a red pendant on a gold chain. To the naked eye the gem might appear unimpressive, but Grimm's Mage Sight revealed the power within it, and he whistled in appreciation.

"A self-powered charm of Projectile Repulsion,” the senior mage explained. “They are not easy to find, and this one cost me a small fortune, but I feel much safer wearing it. It was this little trinket that gave me the confidence to grab Choan. It automatically returns a projectile to its source. If the bowman is a good shot, he dies."

"I must get one of those,” Grimm breathed. He had considered the hidden bowmen a major threat, but Xylox's little trinket meant that the mage need never fear such attacks.

"So what now, Lord Questor?” Tordun rumbled, having carefully cleaned his blade and sheathed it.

“How do we find this General Q? It sounds as if we may need a bigger group."

"We carry on to Griven, as we are,” Xylox declared. “Let us see what we can find out there about the General."

The group mounted up and prepared to move out.

"Just one thing, Questor Xylox,” Grimm called. “What would you have done if Choan had fully answered all of your questions?"

"I would have told Tordun to make his death quick and painless,” the older magic-user replied. “He made a bad mistake by taking on a pair of Guild Questors with such inadequate forces. Such stupidity does not deserve to live."

"He called me ‘snowball',” Tordun growled ominously. “If your friend Xylox hadn't got to him first, he would have found that an even bigger mistake."

Grimm had new respect for the formidable albino as the party continued south towards the town of Griven. He could tell the pale giant had spoken the truth, even without using his Mage Sight. Chapter 26: The Market Place

A battered, faded sign announced the outskirts of the town of Griven. Small numbers of huts and houses, seemingly scattered at random, gave way to small groups of dwellings in a regimented, grid-like formation. The rutted road widened out and became smoother the nearer they drew to the town centre. Grimm saw a dilapidated hut at the side of the road, beside which sat a man of late middle age, dressed in dry, cracked leather armour, a dented steel helm and roughly-patched trousers terminating at his knees.

On noticing the group's approach, the man drew himself up from his canvas seat and stepped into the road, a serviceable but heavily-notched halberd held at an angle across his chest. Xylox reined in the party.

"Welcome to Griven,” the guard wheezed, in a voice that spoke of decades of worship at the shrine of tobacco smoke. “I would like to ask you a few questions as to the purpose of your visit."

"Of course,” Xylox replied. “Ask your questions."

The guard cleared his throat with some difficulty and drew a grubby piece of paper and a stubby pencil from a small leather satchel at his side.

"Are you all together?"

"Yes.” The guard filled in a box on the sheet with laboured strokes of the pencil, his furrowed brow and silently moving lips indicating that literacy might not be his strong point.

"How long will you be staying?"

"We are just passing through. However, we may stay for a day or two depending on how pleasant we find the town."

The guard ran a finger slowly down the page. “That isn't on the list, I'm afraid, Lord Mage. Can I say

‘three days'?"

Xylox waved his hand in a gesture of mild impatience. “As you will, gatekeeper."

"Is the purpose of your visit business or pleasure?"

"Pleasure,” the Questor replied firmly. “Have you many more of these questions to ask? Our time is precious."

"Only ... forty ... forty-three more to go,” the guard wheezed with a cheerful grin. “Do you have any externally produced or purchased goods to declare?"

"No,” Xylox said. “But I am a swift reader and writer. If you would be good enough as to give me the form, we might be able to get this over with a little sooner."

The guard's face assumed an expression almost of panic. “Oh, no, Lord Mage, I couldn't allow that. Job demarcation, you know.” The guard collapsed into an extended paroxysm of violent coughing.

"We could just ride through,” Tordun whispered to Grimm. “This old codger couldn't do much to stop us."

"We don't want to draw any attention to ourselves,” the Questor muttered in return. “Not all the guards in Griven may be as superannuated as our friend here."

The mighty albino lapsed into dark mumblings about bloody bureaucracy, and how the best cure for red tape was a good, sharp sword.

The gatekeeper flapped his hands and wiped tears from his eyes, as the paper and pencil dropped from his grasp. He seemed unable to continue.

"Gatekeeper,” Xylox said, his voice dripping with false concern. “The stress of your responsibilities seems to have laid you low. A glass or two of medicinal brandy would seem to be in order. I appreciate the importance of rigid job demarcation, but if you allow me to complete the form, I will ensure that it reaches the proper authorities. I will be sure to say, if asked, that it was you who filled it in." Unable to speak, the guard, his face suffused with red, picked up the paper and pencil, thrust them into Xylox's outstretched hand and staggered off, hawking and spluttering. When the gatekeeper was safely out of sight, Xylox crushed the sheet into a ball and casually tossed it over his shoulder.

"Perhaps we can move on now,” he said, with an undeniable note of satisfaction in his voice.

"You didn't have anything to do with that little episode, did you, Questor Xylox?” Grimm asked suspiciously.

"As I said, our time is precious,” the senior mage replied with an air of sublime unconcern, without answering the question. “Let us move on."

Grimm felt certain that his fellow Questor had somehow provoked the poor man's sudden attack, but he deemed it better to avoid further argument.

* * * *

The adventurers left their horses outside the main market square, in the hands of an ostler plying for trade outside his barn. Xylox seemed pleased that the man took care to give him a detailed receipt, but Grimm felt unsurprised: from what he had seen, this town seemed to run on pieces of paper. On foot, the two mages and their warrior companions strode into the huge, busy market square, and Grimm almost staggered at the overwhelming noise that assaulted his ears.

Vendors lustily extolled the dubious advantages of their various wares from brightly caparisoned stalls, whilst prospective customers seemed determined to broadcast their haggling skills to all and sundry at top volume. The whole market area was covered by a series of vast canvas sunshades, and Tordun doffed his hood, removed his gloves and opened the neck of his costume with a sigh of relief. The warrior's skin regained some of its normal, healthy pallor.

The people of Griven seemed to have little sense of anything but their own business. They would walk erratically, looking nowhere except at the contents of the various stalls, and then lurch to a halt without warning. The lemming-like townsfolk gave Tordun a wide berth, but they barged continually into Xylox, Grimm and the slender Crest. The senior mage lashed out with his staff from time to time, but the oblivious people avoided its avid bite by swerving at the last moment. Grimm considered erecting a magical ward around himself and his companions, but the spell might place a considerable drain on his store of magical energy. Xylox told him often enough that a prudent mage guarded his strength until it was needed, and the advice seemed sensible. As a small figure barged past him, Grimm felt a slight tug at his pocket. His right hand shot out and grabbed a small wrist. Looking down, he saw a small, scruffy urchin struggling in vain to get away from him.

As this seemed only to be a small boy of maybe twelve years, he did not want to call down the wrath of whatever passed for the law here in Griven. Nonetheless, he thought that instilling a little fear into the pint-sized would-be pickpocket might dissuade him from persevering with a life of crime that might lead to the gallows when he was older.

"Thief, know that you have attempted to steal the purse of a Guild Mage,” he growled. “Do you have any idea of the gravity of your offence? I may well..."

At that moment, another of the city's guards arrived.

"Leave it to me, Lord Mage,” the man said, saluting. “We don't like thieves here. I'm sorry that such a thing should happen to you in our town."

He grabbed the child by the arm and began to drag him away.

"Ah yes, we've had trouble with this one before,” the guard said, turning the urchin's face into the light with a rough hand. “She'll learn the error of her ways soon enough, and no mistake." She? As Grimm looked closer, he could see that the pickpocket was no boy of twelve, but a small girl. Her face wore a mask of defiance, but her complexion was pale and blemished, speaking of a life of hardship and malnutrition.

Turning to the guard, Grimm asked, “What is the punishment for thievery in Griven?" The guard thrust his hand under the girl's chin and turned her face left and right in appraisal. “A girl such as this, Lord Mage, of a suitable age ... I guess she'll go to the slave block at the weekend. Five years or so as a bonded concubine ought to make her regret her thieving ways."

"Do you intend to wait there all day, Questor Grimm?” Xylox called impatiently.

"A few moments more, if you please, Questor Xylox,” Grimm replied. Turning back to the guard, Grimm forced onto his face what he hoped was a lecherous look.

"Good watchmen,” he whispered, smiling, “we are both men of the world. My visit to Griven will not last until the weekend. How much might a slave girl in this condition be expected to fetch at the block?" The guard mused. “A young girl like this, washed and dressed in seductive clothes ... I'd guess seven gold pieces or so."

Grimm drew a deep breath; he did not know the Grivense penalty for attempting to bribe a city guardian, but he was about to find out. With a forced smile of bonhomie on his face, he draped a friendly and conspiratorial arm around the guard, whilst the girl regarded him with cold, flint-like eyes.

"If I were to offer a bid of ten gold pieces,” the mage said, “I feel sure I could rely on a loyal public servant like you to ensure the relevant forms and bills of sales were completed." The guard cast a few furtive glances around him. “Fifteen,” he muttered.

"Thirteen,” Grimm countered.

"Done,” the guard whispered. “Thirteen golds, six to be paid in advance."

"Done,” Grimm agreed, holding out the requisite six gold pieces.

"Meet me at the town guardhouse in three hours,” the guard whispered. “I'll bring the signed and stamped ownership papers, and you bring my ... our seven pieces."

"I'll be there,” Grimm said. “Just remember one thing, my friend. Attempting to cheat a Guild Questor could cost you a lot more than thirteen pieces of gold. This is just a friendly warning. I trust you will regard it in that light. I also want your assurance that I will receive untouched goods for my money." The guard nodded earnestly. “I know better than to mess with men like you, Lord Mage. She'll be waiting for you, just as she is.

"Come along, girl,” he said, yanking the girl's wrist. She went along with him, but she cast a look of purest hatred over her shoulder at Grimm.

"What are you doing?” Xylox demanded. “A Guild Questor buying a street urchin as a concubine—the concept is outrageous!"

The Senior Questor's knuckles were white as he gripped his staff. Tordun and Crest seemed no happier than Xylox, their expressions dark.

"Oh, come on, fellows!” Grimm protested as soon as the guard had left. “What sort of person do you take me for? The moment the papers are handed over, I will give them to the girl. She will be free to go; perhaps she will choose a more lucrative and licit career from now on." The two warriors looked relieved. “I never really doubted you, Questor,” Crest said, embarrassed. “But you were a very convincing actor."

A sudden thought seemed to flit across his brow. “It looks like I'd better keep my more larcenous talents well hidden round here. The thought of being sold off as a pet stud to some bloated noblewoman doesn't appeal to me!"

Xylox snarled, “So, are you going to spend your money on every thieving little waif or stray who comes your way? Thirteen gold pieces to buy freedom for a reprobate girl who will doubtless end up in the same predicament a week from now; hah! I take no pleasure in saying this, Questor Grimm, but you have been spendthrift and reckless."

"With respect, Questor Xylox,” Grimm retorted, “it is my money to spend as I see fit. Call it a moment of madness, if you wish, but I will not have you as my conscience. The girl was caught because I was intent on teaching her a lesson; my mistake, my expense."

"I will not have a female vagabond discommoding our mission,” Xylox grumbled. “We have a Quest to complete."

"Do not worry,” Grimm assured him. “After this evening, we will never see her again. I suggest we scout the area and see if we can learn anything about the whereabouts of this General Q." Chapter 27: Drexelica

At Xylox's suggestion, the members of the group had separated, so as to maximise the chance of gleaning relevant information about General Quelgrum; they were to meet at a stone obelisk in the town centre in five hours’ time. Each member of the team was expected to garner at least one relevant fact concerning the mysterious General.

For a while, Grimm wondered just how to pose appropriate and useful questions without arousing suspicion. He decided to engage some of the Grivense townspeople in casual discourse, including the apparently innocuous word ‘general’ in his speech, while using his Mage Sight to study the aura of each person to whom he was talking. It made him uneasy to do so, but he guessed this was the only way to elicit the information he required without giving away his true purpose. It took some effort to approach each stranger whilst maintaining a spontaneous, innocent, carefree air, but Grimm managed to do so.

"Greetings, friend; a lovely day, is it not?” he carolled cheerfully to the thirtieth person or so, a surly-looking, one-armed individual sitting at an isolated knife and sword stall. The knife-seller shrugged. “It's all right, I suppose. Have you come to buy, or just to pass the time of day?"

Grimm smiled. “That depends on the quality of your wares, good stallholder. I find myself in need of a decent hunting knife, like that one."

He indicated a blade near the front of the display. It was a fine piece of workmanship, with an ebony haft and a blade of fine-grained blue steel with a gold inlay in the shape of a fire-breathing dragon. It looked very expensive.

At once, pale-green tendrils of avarice flickered through the stallholder's aura, and the man's smile showed that he sensed the prospect of a lucrative sale.

"Ah, yes, that's a lovely piece of work, Lord Mage; you have a keen eye for quality. It was one of the last pieces forged by the great Amar Strufel before he died. Blades like this are rarely seen since the death of Amar, I assure you. Please, pick it up and feel the fine balance in the knife. Note the keen edge. Such a blade will stay sharp when inferior examples would become dull and notched." Grimm did as the stallholder suggested. The man had not lied; the workmanship was superb. He hefted the blade, turned it this way and that and rubbed his forefinger along the wide blade. The steel bore the texture of the finest silk, a texture he knew well from his youth in the smithy.

"It is indeed splendid,” he said, “a marvellous piece of work. I have an idea of the prices of blades for general use, but I imagine this would cost a little more." Grimm noted a definite surge in the knife-seller's emotion at the use of the word ‘general'. Interesting, he thought. Perhaps I'm getting somewhere here.

"Of course, the knife is a little more expensive than your ordinary blade,” the stallholder said, with the confident patter of a salesman who senses a big sale. “Nonetheless, it is a bargain at three gold pieces; you will never have need of another. Three golds; say it quickly. Not too much for a piece of this quality, is it?"

"Indeed, the offer does seem tempting,” Grimm said, rubbing his bearded chin. “I had not expected to come upon such a fine blade so easily, without having to fight through a crowd of eager buyers. It makes a pleasant change to be able to do so, rather than to have to wait in a general line." Grimm saw a massive, unmistakable spike of naked fear flower in the stallholder's aura before it was subsumed by the swarming tentacles of avarice. As the knife-seller opened his mouth to close the sale, Grimm looked around himself to verify that nobody was close, gathered his will into a tight knot in his sensorium and projected it at the vendor with the force of a cannonball. No magical word or gesture was necessary; this was a naked contest of wills, and the mage felt confident of success. He needed a fair amount of energy in order to crush the hapless man's will, but he did not begrudge it. After a few moments, the knife-seller's eyes became blank, staring orbs and his body relaxed.

"Your will is mine,” Grimm droned. “You will do as I command."

"I'll do as you command,” was the lifeless response, devoid of personality.

"What do you know of General Sleafel Quelgrum?” Grimm asked, in a pleasant, conversational tone.

"I sell weapons to his army,” the one-armed man replied. “I make little, if any, profit from the sales, but he isn't a man to be trifled with. He frightens me. I'm not supposed to tell anybody about him."

"Do you know what his interest might be in controlling a group of Guild Mages?"

"No. He has an army, but I don't know anything about any mages." Grimm paused a moment as a man-at-arms strode towards the stall, but the guard seemed uninterested in purchasing weapons, and he passed on by.

"Does the General, or one of his acolytes, buy the weapons in person, or do you ship them to him?"

"He made the first few purchases in person. I think that was just so he could scare me; it worked. Since then, I have had the blades and other weapons shipped directly to him at Glabra."

"Glabra? Where is that?” Grimm asked.

"It's thirty miles to the northwest of here, as the crow flies but, of course, I have to send the wagons around the Shest Mountains, through the Grunet Badlands. That adds another forty miles to the trip. I lost several good men there; they got sick and died."

Grimm had read of the Grunet Badlands during his researches. He knew that a vile, wasting sickness resided in the desolate region; a reputed legacy of the Final War.

He furrowed his brow. From his limited knowledge of the local geography, there seemed to be a far more direct route.

"Why don't you ship over the mountains?” he asked, puzzled. “That way, you could avoid the Badlands."

"I can't get a wagon train through the mountain pass,” the knife-seller replied, his eyes still glassy and dispassionate. “A pack-horse might get through, I suppose, but not a caravan of heavily-laden carts. The General wants his weapons on demand, and I'm scared to refuse him. After I sent a few loads to him, he gave me some metal ... clicky things he said would help in Grunet. When it clicks a lot, you move until it clicks less; then you don't get so sick. I don't lose nearly so many men now." The knife-seller's talk of 'clicky things' meant nothing to Grimm but, from what the vendor had said, crossing the mountains on horseback seemed to be a valid means of access to Glabra.

"How far is Glabra from the other side of the mountain pass?"

"I don't know,” the ensorcelled man admitted. “But my men tell me they can see the General's camp from miles away. There's a great big curved wall you can't miss. It should be easy to find." Grimm decided he was unlikely to glean much more from the knife-seller. He hoped Xylox would approve of the information he had gathered.

The mage glanced at a large clock-face on a nearby building; he was supposed to pick up the girl from the guardhouse in ten minutes.

Drawing a deep breath, he began to withdraw the sharp strands of his will from the glassy-eyed stallholder. As the first vague signs of self-awareness began to show on the man's face, Grimm said,

“You will remember nothing of what has just passed between us. All you know is that I am interested in the blade. Is that understood?"

The one-armed man squirmed as Grimm lanced into his mind a blade keener than any on his stall.

"You only want to buy the knife,” he moaned, as if caught in the crossfire of pain and ecstasy. Grimm sighed in relief as he drew his mind back into his own head. The knife-seller was disorientated for a few moments, but he soon gathered his wits with a shake of his head.

"What was I saying? Oh, yes. You will never find a blade of this quality for such a low price,” he said, recovering his confident sales patter. “It is a bargain at three golds."

"I might pay three if you were to include a good quality leather scabbard,” countered Grimm, maintaining an even tone despite the painful pounding in his temples.

"Three-fifty,” the stallholder replied.

"Three-twenty-five. That is my final offer."

"Are you trying to steal the food from my children's mouths?” the vendor cried, but he paused for a few moments. “Very well; the blade is yours. You drive a hard bargain, Lord Mage."

* * * *

Grimm was out of breath by the time he reached the guardhouse, a squalid little ivy-infested rotunda at the southern side of the market square, and he took a few moments to compose himself. He made to open the heavy oak door when he saw a movement in the bushes to the left of the building.

"Lord Mage!” A harsh whisper came from the greenery. It was, of course, the guardsman with whom he had arranged the transfer of the girl to his ownership.

"Why are you skulking there in the undergrowth? Is there some problem?” Grimm snarled.

"No problem, Lord Mage,” the guard assured him. “I have the papers of ownership ready, signed and sealed, and the girl is in one of the cells, untouched as you requested. However, I would be very grateful if you gave the remaining seven golds to me now, outside the guardhouse. Some of the boys inside are asleep, and I don't want to disturb them."

Grimm smiled. No doubt, the guard had told his cronies little if anything of the offer. Suppressing a grin at the man-at-arm's evident discomfiture, he handed over the gold coins, which rapidly disappeared inside the man's jerkin.

"If you'd be so kind to wait here, Lord Mage?” The guard all but skipped into the rotunda, now apparently unconcerned for the slumber of his fellow watchmen. Several minutes passed, and Grimm began to wonder if he had been duped, despite his earlier warning of dire retribution, but the guard emerged at last, dragging the kicking, cursing girl behind him.

"You've got a live one here, mage,” the man gasped, jerking his arm away from the girl's mouth as she attempted to bite him. “All I can say is ‘good luck'. I reckon you'll have your hands full."

"Oh, I like a good fight,” Grimm said. “Do you have the papers?" The guard, still struggling with his captive, managed to produce a pair of documents from his jerkin with his free hand.

"Paper—quieten down, you minx!—of ownership, five years—ouch! Five years, but if you don't say anything, I won't either. Look here; grab hold, will you? She's eating me alive!" Grimm took the girl's wrist, and he had to force her to the ground to stop her trying to sink her teeth into his arm.

"All right, just hand them over. I haven't got all day,” he grunted.

"Would you sign here, please, Lord Mage?” the guardsman asked, grinning at Grimm's predicament and holding out another scrap of paper and a pencil. The Questor saw that the sum written on the bill of sale was five gold pieces, but he pretended not to notice. With some difficulty, he transferred the fiercely struggling girl to his left hand.

"Lean over, please, guardsman.” As the guard obligingly bent down, Grimm felt tempted to ram the pencil into the loathsome man's back, but he restrained himself and signed the receipt, using the obligingly offered expanse of leather-armoured skin as an easel.

Straightening up, the watchman pocketed the slip of paper, smiling.

"She's all yours, Lord Mage. Enjoy yourself."

With a repulsive wink, he excused himself and headed into the town square, doubtless in search of Griven's fleshpots. The girl continued to squirm and spit at Grimm, and he subdued her with an intense push of Questor power combined with the Minor Magic spell of Inner Quietude.

"Listen, girl!” he whispered. “You're free. Your life is your own again. Take it, and find a better way of living; one that doesn't involve trying to steal from Guild Mages. Most of them aren't as forgiving as I am.

"If you need money to rebuild your life, I'll give you money. Take the paper. You are your own person once more. I have no claim upon you. You're free."

Recovering her senses as the spell wore off; the girl stared at the paper in her hands.

"I have this collar round my neck,” she said, in a quiet and surprisingly educated voice. “It marks me as a slave, no matter what pieces of paper I have. The guards put it on me; they say even a blacksmith couldn't cut it without cutting my head off."

The collar was an ugly, heavy brass ring, hinged at the back and welded at the front. Grimm shrugged. “Perhaps a blacksmith couldn't get it off, but maybe the son and grandson of blacksmiths can do better,” he said. He had expended a considerable amount of his inner store of energy that day, but he knew that he had more than enough in reserve for his spell of Enhanced Disintegration. The spell-word "K'shaat'ka" escaped his lips, and a tendril of energy entered the collar, travelling around its circumference, feeling the inner structure of the metal. With a blue coruscation, the ugly slave-collar shivered into glittering dust that drifted to the ground. The girl looked amazed.

"There you are,” Grimm said in a matter-of fact manner. “Now you are truly free. You can go where you will. Just don't steal any more, and you should be all right."

"Thank you,” the grubby girl whispered, bowing her head in apparent sorrow. “I am grateful, really, but I can't stay here. The town watchmen know me as a thief now. I didn't want to steal in the first place, but my parents were killed when our house collapsed in high winds two years ago. I had to get enough money to eat, and I was not prepared to become somebody's doxy. I guess I'm too proud to beg, and beggars are tolerated no more in Griven than thieves in any case. I do have some small talent with witchcraft, but not enough to set up a stall."

At the mention of the word ‘witchcraft', Grimm thought of the manipulative Madeleine. “You are a witch?” he found himself asking in disbelief. His tone was harsher than he had intended.

"Not really,” the girl said, apparently taken aback, if not offended. “I have the basics, but little more than that. I know a few small healing charms and pot-mending spells, but little else. Don't you like witches or something?"

"I'm sorry if I offended you by the question ... what is your name, by the way?"

"Drexelica,” the ex-slave replied, pouting. “Most people call me Drex."

"Well, Drex,” Grimm said, his hands spread wide in an attempt at conciliation, “I'm afraid my only experience with a witch wasn't a good one. She tried to enslave me with some sort of love spell." Drexelica snorted. “We aren't all like that, mage. I was taught only to help and heal with magic, and I can't even do much of that. Witches are pretty common around here; it's a perfectly respectable occupation for a woman."

"I'm sorry, Drex. Let's start again, shall we? My name is Grimm Afelnor."

"Pleased to meet you, Questor Grimm,” Drexelica replied. “Questor Grimm, I think perhaps I should tell you about a little custom around here. If you save somebody's life, you're responsible for them until they save yours. Now that I can't show my face around here, I need you to take me with you until I can stand on my own two feet again. In return, I'll cook for you and do as you say. Within reason, that is. If you say no, I will follow you anyway."

She crossed her arms defiantly.

"Drexelica,” Grimm replied, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot in some embarrassment, “I think you ought to know we are going to a hazardous region to face a powerful and dangerous man who seems to be able to collect mages like other people collect rare bottles of wine. You would be a liability to us."

He tried to sound firm and decisive, but he knew he had failed.

The grubby girl looked unimpressed, and she smiled in a reasonable imitation of sweet innocence. “I've survived two years of living rough on the streets of Griven. I'll bet that was scarier than anywhere you're going, Questor Grimm. I'm going to stick with you, so you'd better get used to the idea." Grimm pondered. What if Drex was a spy for General Q? He dared not take the risk.

"Drex,” he said firmly. “I want to use magic on you, to see if you're telling the truth. If you refuse, I will leave you standing here like a statue until my companions and I have gone, and you'll never find us. I promise not to extract any information other than the assurance that you pose no threat to us. Do you agree?"

Drexelica shrugged. “I don't seem to have any choice."

The girl shut her eyes in apparent resignation as Grimm engaged his Mage Sight. Her aura was as white as snow, featureless and blank. Grimm now knew that this was the mark of a witch, but Drex had already told him that she was a Geomancer.

He groaned: he knew he would have to dig deeper into his depleted reserves of energy. He was glad that he did not have to use as much power as he had on the blade-seller; he would not have to block all memory of the mental invasion from the girl.

To ascertain that she was utterly under his control, he ordered her not to blink, and then touched her eyeball. She did not flinch in the least; this satisfied him that his spell had succeeded. To dispel all doubt, he walked around to her back and pushed her suddenly. Had he not been ready to catch her, she would have fallen flat on her face. She must be at his command.

"What is your purpose with me?"

"You are responsible for me because you freed me. I cannot stay here, and I need protection until I can find a new home."

"What do you know of General Sleafel Quelgrum?"

"Nothing."

"Do you intend any treachery, or theft from me or my companions?"

"No."

Grimm could think of no more relevant questions, and he released the spell. “Drexelica, you said that you are my responsibility until you save my life. That may be sooner than you think."

"How so?” Drex asked, puzzled.

"Because my dear colleague Questor Xylox is going to try to kill me when I bring you with me,” he said and sighed. “Come along."

Chapter 28: You Are Finished

Grimm and Drexelica arrived at the obelisk to find that Crest was already there. Appraising the grubby street urchin with a critical eye, the expert wielder of blades spoke in a slightly disparaging tone.

"So this is your new purchase, eh, Questor Grimm? I hope she's worth the money.” With a deft side step, the nimble elf avoided the girl's vicious answering kick with ease.

"Let me make things nice and clear,” Grimm said, annoyance clouding his face. “Drexelica is not my property. I have dissolved her slave collar and surrendered the document of manumission to her. She is free."

"Is that the only reason she's still with you, mage? If you've freed her, why is she still with you? Am I expected to believe that it's pure gratitude on her part?” Crest asked with a sly wink. Grimm felt the hot waves of an incipient blush washing over his face. “By the customs of Griven, it seems I've taken responsibility for her life until she saves mine,” he said in a gruff voice. “She travels with us only until I return to Crar. She can find a new life there."

"So it's a business relationship,” Drex said, with a slightly pompous air. “I do the cooking, he does the protecting. If you continue to say nasty things about me, I shall spit in your food.” She stamped her foot to emphasise her annoyance, and she shot a look of pure venom at Crest. The whip-master raised his hands in mock surrender. “Very well, lass; I know when I'm beaten." The elf rolled his eyes as if to say, Rather you than me, mage.

Seeking to change the subject, Grimm turned to the business of the Quest. “Did you learn anything about General Quelgrum?"

Crest glanced first at Drex, and then back at Grimm. In a conspiratorial whisper, he asked “Should we be discussing such matters with this girl present?"

Grimm drew a deep breath: the half-elf was right.

"Drexelica,” he said, “would you mind moving out of earshot for a while? We do have business to discuss."

Drex folded her arms across her chest. “I shall go where I want or stay where I am, if I like. It's a free town. You can't make me go if I don't want to."

"You couldn't be more wrong Drex,” Grimm replied, just about holding on to his temper. “I can leave you frozen to the spot, dead to the world until I cancel the spell. Or you can do as I ask. It's up to you." It could not have been easy to flounce in a coquettish manner whilst dressed in patched, dirty rags, but Drexelica managed it. “Very well, mage, I'll do it for you, but not for him. " She stuck her tongue out at Crest and moved away while remaining in full sight.

"You've certainly got your hands full with that one, Questor,” the elf observed, blowing out his cheeks.

“If you're ever bold enough to let that little spitfire cook for you, I'd advise you to check for poison before you eat it."

"All right; that's enough, thank you very much!” Grimm snapped, eager to get away from the subject of the troublesome girl. Inside, he quailed at the thought of explaining to Xylox that the group would be taking on another member, in the form of the hot-tempered Drexelica. He fixed Crest with a stern eye.

“The Quest; you do remember that we're on a Quest, don't you, Crest?"

"I remember perfectly well, mage ,” Crest answered. “I was able to glean some information indicating that the mages have all visited Griven within the last few weeks, and that they all left in the direction of the Shest Mountains. I'm sure I didn't arouse any suspicion; I just listened to the gossip around the town. These pointed ears serve me well,” he added with some pride.

"I found out where the General has his camp,” Grimm said, glad to be back on firm ground. “He's buying a large number of weapons, and I assume he's preparing for some kind of war. The disappearance of the mages must be connected with that in some way."

At that moment, Xylox and Tordun arrived together, the haughty mage dwarfed by the giant albino swordsman.

"Greetings, Questor Grimm; greetings, Master Crest,” cried Xylox. “Tordun and I have obtained some interesting information..."

He stopped and swung around to face Grimm. “Why is that street-slattern here, may I ask?" Xylox's tone had cooled noticeably, and his expression was dark.

"I can't seem to get rid of her, Questor Xylox,” Grimm replied, on the defensive. “It's a long story."

"Tordun, Crest, kindly go and watch over the girl while I have a quiet word with my esteemed fellow mage.” Xylox's tone of voice was low and dangerous, indicating anything other than admiration for his younger colleague.

The warriors shuffled off, and Grimm could see a cool smile of amusement on Crest's face as he walked away.

"Questor Grimm,” Xylox hissed. “Is this some kind of pleasure trip, a jamboree for all-comers?” His eyes were narrowed and angry. Before Grimm could defend himself, the senior mage answered his own rhetorical question. “It is not . It is a solemn, sober expedition for the good of the Guild we both serve. How dare you discuss details of a Guild Quest in full sight of a Secular vagabond?"

"I made sure she would not hear any of my discussion with Crest,” came the weak reply. Grimm felt as if he was on the receiving end of one of Magemaster Crohn's verbal assaults, and just as insecure as he had felt on such occasions. He switched to the starchiest Mage Speech, almost as a form of defence.

"The woman-child is free now. She chooses to stay with me rather than to take her chances in a town where she is known as a thief. I make no claim upon the girl, but I cannot stop her. I have warned her of the potential risks of the Quest without giving any details of its aim, but she is undeterred. I would also remind you, Questor Xylox, that the valorous Crest is a skilled thief as well as a warrior."

"You cannot stop her?” Xylox's tone was scornful, disbelieving. “Here is a Guild Mage, a Questor whom our esteemed Lord Dominie, in his wisdom, has seen fit to honour by accession to the Fifth Rank of our order, and yet such a powerful thaumaturge cannot stop an adolescent female urchin from following him!"

The senior mage's scornful tenor indicated that, had he been the Lord Dominie, Grimm would have been censured rather than promoted.

"Questor Xylox, I could have blasted the girl into a million fragments or turned her into a mindless zombie, had I so wished. However, it was I who drew the attention of the town watchmen by remonstrating at her attempted theft of my money-pouch, an act of desperation prompted by poverty and the indifference of the townspeople of Griven towards the plight of the needy. I therefore felt considerable guilt at the prospect of the girl being sold, like prime livestock, to the highest bidder. I feel no shame at this. Having purchased her freedom, I felt I could not ignore her heartfelt plea for a better life or, at least, a different one."

"Guilt? Shame? Feelings? Such vague and emotional motives should not be part of the lexicon of a full Guild Mage! Have you forgotten your solemn Oath?” Xylox's voice trembled with rage, but Grimm felt his own ire rising within him like hot, acidic bile, and he looked his senior directly in the eye. Humility, be damned!

Xylox's talk of the Guild Oath brought thoughts of Grimm's disgraced grandfather Loras Afelnor, the hated Oathbreaker. The young mage had sworn to redeem his family name, and he would let no man call him traitor.

"I am a Guild Mage, Questor Xylox, and I have sworn a blood oath to uphold the principles of the Guild, just as you have; an oath I will never forget or betray. But I have not surrendered my humanity, nor will I ever do so; not for you, not for my revered Magemaster, Crohn, not for the Lord Dominie. I have killed, and I will doubtless kill again some day, perhaps far sooner than I would wish; but I swear on my life and my soul that I will never snuff out the life of a human just in order to remove some trifling inconvenience. I will not push or bully another human being just because I can do so with ease. A Questor is supposed to be a paragon amongst mages; a gentleman, a scholar, a weapon of the Guild to be directed towards only its vilest enemies."

Grimm raised his voice almost to a shout. “Are you trying to tell me that this insecure, helpless young girl is a worthy target for such a weapon? If so, I invite you to vent your wrath upon her; know, however, that if you do so, you will earn nothing but my rankest contempt, Xylox the Mighty. You will deserve nothing more."

Grimm now straightened up to his full height, forcing the senior mage to look upwards in order to meet the younger Questor's censorious gaze. Long moments passed as the each magic-user attempted to stare down the other to no avail; each possessed willpower beyond the comprehension of most mortals. Finally Xylox spoke, but his voice was not one of surrender or conciliation.

"Very well, Questor Grimm,” he said. “You will have your way for one last time. As senior mage, I rebuke you for your weakness, and you may be sure that I will include this censure in my report to Lord Prelate Thorn on our return. However, I have decided to allow this ... this street creature to accompany us, as long as she does not pose a threat to the potential success of our Quest. I make this decision because I feel it is bad for discipline to override the decision of another Mage Questor in the face of mere Seculars.

"As a last remark, I will declare that I regard you as quite unfit to hold the staff and the ring. I will tell Lord Thorn as much when I return to the House, and I will recommend that you never be sent on another Quest for as long as you may live. After many years of loyal service, Prelate Thorn listens to my advice, as you will find. You are finished, Questor Grimm; enjoy the title while you still hold it. I will not seek to embarrass you by mentioning this to the warriors, but I will not forget how you have spoken to me, your senior mage. You can be sure that I will also keep a close eye on your friend Dalquist, who chose to heap such extravagant praise on such a recalcitrant excuse for a mage after his first Quest." Grimm shrank from the wrath of Xylox's verbal onslaught. With a hot shock of dismay, he realised he had gone too far by confronting the proud senior mage. After all his suffering, all his struggle, he knew that the older man could destroy him with a word, and that he would do so without the slightest qualm.

"I care not what happens to you, or to this girl; I hope that you are happy together,” Xylox said with an air of deep satisfaction.

"From this point on, I wash my hands of you. Do whatever you want, because your days as a Guild Mage are numbered. When I have finished with you, she may be your only friend in the House scullery, where you belong. The proud and lucrative Barony of Crar may well await you, but you are not yet free to pursue your own desires. You still owe the House and the Guild the considerable cost of your scornfully rejected education, and you will repay it, my friend, I assure you. I will recommend that you pay with servitude rather than cash. I suspect Lord Thorn will agree with me." Xylox stretched and assumed a satisfied expression, indicating that he knew full well that he had won the final victory over his upstart junior. “For the nonce, we have a Quest to complete: your last Quest, I am afraid, Questor Grimm. If you carry out your remaining duties in a satisfactory manner, I may recommend that you be allowed a dishonourable discharge from the Guild, rather than condemning you to servitude. It is up to you. I, at least, know where the best interest of the Guild lies. Acknowledge my superiority, and you may be allowed to bask in your unearned wealth. If you attempt to balk me again, you will learn what it means to try to oppose a true, loyal, Questor of the Seventh Rank." Grimm said nothing. His lofty ambitions, his heartfelt dreams, had all been scotched by a moment's hot-headed opposition to a vain, yet influential and powerful, man. At that moment, he knew himself damned.

"Tell me what you have learned concerning the Quest, Brother Mage, and you may yet raise yourself in my estimation."

The older man's voice bore a tone of quiet triumph.

Numbly, Grimm told him all he had learned, as Xylox made notes on a paper pad.

"Questor Xylox,” he whispered. “I am your man for the remainder of this Quest. I spoke to you in an unforgivable manner and I accept your judgement, whatever it may be. My Oath still binds me, and I offer my life for our Quest. I beg you to spare this girl, no matter what may happen. She is even more wilful than I, but she seems to have no malice in her. Pray, do not destroy her for youthful impetuosity." Xylox indicated assent. “We must move on; time is of the essence. Kindly make the necessary orders, Questor Grimm."

Grimm nodded, feeling as if scalding water had been poured across his back. He now knew that he had made a huge mistake in standing up to the powerful, older man, but he swore to fight to the last. Assuming a confident air, he shouted “All right, everybody, it's time to go. Let's fetch the horses, and head up into the mountains. Look lively now; we haven't got all day." Xylox smiled, as if bestowing some benison upon his junior mage. He looked as if he had had a very good day.

Chapter 29: In the Mountains

"Lord Mage, what's the matter?” Drexelica asked in a soft, concerned voice. She clung to the young mage as he rode out of Griven at the rear of the party, having no horse of her own. Grimm could think of nothing but his folly in opposing Xylox in such a bullish, confrontational manner; he felt tired and crotchety after a sleepless night. His confident, angry, defiant words rattled around inside his head, battering against the inner walls of his skull and becoming more strident and louder by the minute. He ignored the girl's solicitous question, excoriating and berating himself for having tossed away his heartfelt dreams in a moment of idiocy.

How could I have been so stupid?

"Questor Grimm, is it me? Are you in trouble? Is it my fault? Please say something.” Drex's tone was more urgent, almost pleading.

"Just call me Grimm,” he grunted. “That's my name, not ‘Lord Mage’ or ‘Questor'.

"Yes, I am in deep trouble, Drex, and it is over you. Still, don't blame yourself; it was my decision to take you with us and nobody else's.” He returned to his self-pitying reverie.

"It's that horrible man, Xylox, isn't it?” the girl said, denying Grimm the solitude he sought. “I couldn't hear what he was saying to you, but I could see the way he looked at you and me. If you like, I'll tell him that the whole thing was my fault and my idea. You were just being kind." Grimm turned his head as far around towards Drex as he could. “Don't you dare to say anything to Questor Xylox,” he hissed. “You'll only make things worse.

"If that were possible,” he added with a deep sigh.

He had visions of a High Conclave like the one his grandfather, Loras, had faced, with stern-faced, nameless mages joining in a Great Spell to strip him of all his magic. Grimm imagined the final step would be the reduction of his staff, Redeemer, to a simple wooden rod, after which he would then be ordered to smash the baton into ineffectual splinters against the preternaturally sharp Breaking Stone, in a parody of his proud Acclamation a scant twelvemonth before.

He groaned at the thought of being forced to work in the kitchen or the scullery, open to derision and contempt from the lowliest Student. This could become as bad as his Questor Ordeal, but it might last for years, without any prospect of an end until his eventual, ignominious dismissal from the Guild. The day was fine, with warm sunlight streaming down from a cloudless sky but, to Grimm, the sun in all its majesty seemed to be mocking him. Nothing could bring light to the dark gloom in his soul.

"I can make you feel better,” Drex whispered. “My mother taught me a few spells—"

"I don't want any witch magic!” Grimm said, his voice harsher than he intended. “My mood may not be bright, but at least it is mine , not some bloody fantasy. I won't have anyone tampering with my emotions again."

He yearned to gorge himself on the bitter, acrid, soothing smoke of Trina and Virion, but he knew he could not do so and still claim his mind as his own. This made his temper even worse.

"Oh, suit yourself then, you stupid boy!” the girl snapped, turning away from him. That's all you are, a stupid boy moping as if his favourite toy's been taken away. You look like a dying duck in a thunderstorm!"

Drexelica's irate words struck home: Grimm knew she had spoken the truth. This knowledge did little to assuage his misery.

The last few, straggling houses of Griven gave way to a wide, open plain, and the trail stretched far away towards the imposing Shest Mountains. The young mage began to indulge his maudlin introspection more and more.

If I die here, who would mourn my passing? Grimm wondered. Nobody, it seems... Crest reined in and came alongside Grimm's horse. “What's the matter, Questor Grimm? It's a lovely day. You might as well enjoy it while you can. It'll be cold and cloudy in the mountains, and we'll be there soon enough."

"Don't you start, Crest!” Grimm snarled. “I'm alright."

"Fair enough, Questor,” Crest said with a shrug. “After all, I'm only the hired help, aren't I? You sure that horse is high enough for you?"

Grimm did not respond. Crest's tone was cold, but the elf's opinion of him seemed immaterial.

"You can stew in your own juice for as long as you want, as far as I'm concerned. When you do decide to rejoin the human race, be sure to let me know, won't you?"

Clicking to his horse, the half-elven whipmaster returned to his place at the left wing of the party without a backward glance.

* * * *

After five hours’ ride, the trail petered out into a rocky, scree-covered slope that led into the foothills of the mountains. Grimm urged his horse alongside Xylox's. He did not want to talk to the unpleasant mage, but he was determined to play the role of Questor to the last.

Xylox did not deign to face his younger colleague. “Yes, Questor Grimm, what is it?” His voice was neutral; perhaps it would not be good for discipline to demonstrate his low opinion of Grimm to ‘the hired help', Crest and Tordun.

"Have you given any thought as to how we will camp down tonight, Questor Xylox?” Grimm asked.

“We do not possess a tent, and there is no chance of reaching Glabra by nightfall."

"I will raise a ward around us to protect us from the elements,” the older man replied, adjusting his position as his horse skittered on the increasingly treacherous trail. “I have such a spell contained in my staff, Nemesis; once activated, it requires little energy to maintain it, and I can even do so in my sleep. Do not concern yourself, Questor Grimm. Everything is in hand."

Disconsolate, Grimm returned to the rear of the party. It seemed as if Xylox were trying to marginalise him, to remove him of all responsibility in the conduct of the Quest. Drex tried a few more conversational gambits, but Grimm felt even less inclined to talk than before, as the trail wound upwards into the mountains. As riding conditions worsened and the altitude increased, the girl fell silent, the only noises being the crunch of the horses’ hooves on the loose scree and the panting of the riders. The bright sun of mid-afternoon became blotted out by cold clouds that dampened Grimm's clothes and made him shiver. Although he was wearing sensible riding clothes, they were not intended to protect against such conditions. He could feel Drexelica shivering, nestling close against his back in an attempt to draw some heat from his body. He lent her one of his cloaks to try to minimise the heat loss from her small body, but her teeth began to chatter. Nonetheless, he did not hear a single complaint from her. The giant Tordun, at least, was well covered up, and his large body provided him with some protection against the cold, but the slender Crest writhed in evident discomfort. The elf's head lolled from one side to the other, and he often clasped his hands over his exposed ears. As for Xylox, the senior mage seemed as imperturbable as the mountains themselves, and Grimm thought that ‘cold rock’ described the Questor's heart well. He hoped the unpleasant thaumaturge was suffering as much as the rest of the group, but he doubted it. Xylox was like stone.

* * * *

At last, even though at least two hours of sunlight remained, even the redoubtable Xylox flagged. By this time, Grimm suffered waves of nausea and bouts of double vision.

"That will do for today,” the older mage gasped, his face as impassive as ever, but ashen. “Let us make camp here. Questor Grimm, be so good as to clear a space for us." Grimm slid from the saddle in a barely-controlled tumble, fighting to stay conscious. He had no idea what caused this disorientation, but he could see that he was not alone in his affliction: Drex slumped over the back of Grimm's horse, Crest was reeling and even the mighty Tordun showed traces of blood on his upper lip, and his pink eyes seemed glazed and febrile.

It took Grimm five attempts to clear snow from an area of the rock, using his normally dependable Flame spell, and felt a flush of relief when he succeeded. Lifting Drex from his horse—she seemed to weigh little more than a feather—the mage carried her to the rough circle, and Tordun did the same with Crest. Xylox, his eyes bloodshot and dull, managed to evoke his ward, which kept the biting wind from the party, and their body heat soon brought the internal temperature to a bearable level. Grimm assumed that the cold was the reason for the strange illness that seemed to have affected the adventurers, and he waited for his head to clear as his shivers ceased.

It did not, and Grimm felt shocked to see a small trickle of blood running from Drex's open mouth. Within an hour, Xylox's ward failed, and the older mage was unable to muster sufficient power to resurrect it. Grimm tried to produce a similar magical construct of his own, but he failed. At least he no longer felt the cold, only a muzzy feeling that sent waves of torpor through his limbs. All he needed to do was sleep. Sleep ...

Grimm Afelnor had one last thought before consciousness faded: I'm sorry, Granfer Loras; I failed. I wanted so much to redeem the name of Afelnor, and I tried my best. It just wasn't enough.

At least I didn't end my days in disgrace...

This last thought brought Grimm a small glimmer of contentment. Now, Xylox could not carry out his threat to break him. He would, at least, die as a Mage Questor of the Fifth Rank. His head felt as heavy as a lump of concrete, but he managed to turn it to see Redeemer lying in the snow, her five rings gleaming with fierce pride. After a few minutes of gazing at his beloved Mage Staff, Grimm could no longer keep his eyes open, and a deep blackness descended upon him.

* * * *

Powdery snow rippled in sinuous tendrils around the five motionless figures huddled on the mountaintop, and the light began to fade. Layer upon layer of stark, implacable peaks stretched as far as the eye could see, and the only sound to be heard was the howl of the biting winds.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Alastair Archibald began to write ‘The Chronicles of Grimm Dragonblaster’ fifteen years ago in a series of French hotel bars while travelling abroad on business. After joining fanstory.com in 2004, the single book, A Mage in the Making soon bloomed into a seven-book series. In 2005, Alastair became the FanStory Author of the Year.

Book 1 in the series was published by Whiskey Creek Press in March 2007, and Book 2 was published in September 2007. The remaining five books are due to be published in the period 2008-2009, with Book 3, Questor scheduled for release in March 2008.

Alastair lives in southeast England. When not writing, he is a keen guitarist, singer and pool player. To learn more about Alastair's books, visit his website at:

www.ajarchibald.wcpauthor.com/

For your reading pleasure, we invite you to visit our web bookstore

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