Seneschal Shakkar's head lolled on his scaly neck. He knew he was close to exhaustion as he approached the southern boundary of Anjar. His right wing had been badly torn in the encounter with the zombies, and he could not sustain flight for long. His legs were designed to ensnare and disembowel prey, not to carry him swiftly over long distances. He also had lost a considerable amount of blood, and he needed frequent rest periods.
He was accustomed to physical wounds healing within a few hours, but the zombies’ claw-gashes remained open, weeping with blood and cloudy fluids. His steps were slow and clumsy; the only thing that kept him going was the knowledge that Baron Grimm and his retinue were now in the power of Prioress Lizaveta, as was Mistress Drexelica.
Of my own free will, I swore an oath to Baron Grimm, he told himself. He has been a friend to me ever since he freed me from Starmor's evil influence. I cannot and will not let him down.
Or Sergeant Erik, he thought, forcing his taloned feet to keep moving. Erik has been a good companion and I would prefer him to remain alive. I also admire Tordun; he is a powerful and resourceful fighter. General Quelgrum is an efficient organiser and he motivates his men; Crar would be the poorer without him.
He did not think much of Necromancer Numal, who was no warrior, and he disliked the manner in which Questor Guy had sought to belittle Baron Grimm at every opportunity, but he had no wish to see them dead. Once, he had despised humans, and, out of necessity, he had consumed the flesh of many when he was Starmor's prisoner. Nonetheless, he now saw much to admire in these strange, short-lived creatures; they did not all cower in fear and succumb to domination when threatened, and the demon had seen evidence of nobility, self-sacrifice and honour in several of the frail beings.
I will never eat the meat of humans again, he muttered. I will eat grass, earth or stones before I ever consume manflesh again.
He could not admit, even to himself, that he had come to admire humankind, but he acknowledged some admirable qualities on occasion.
These creatures deserve the opportunity to grow and develop, he thought, his lungs burning as he trudged towards a large building. Perhaps they are worth saving, after all.
To Shakkar's surprise, the streets looked deserted; the last time he had seen Anjar, it had been a hive of industry, with scores of Anjarians buying, selling and going about their daily business.
As he drew closer to the building, a human emerged from a small side doorway.
"Hold, demon!” the man shouted, from a distance of thirty feet. “Who are you, and what do you want?"
"My name is Shakkar, Seneschal of the Barony of Crar; I beseech your help,"
The man approached the demon and whistled through his teeth as his eyes fell on Shakkar's suppurating wounds.
"I presume you've fallen foul of the Night Ones,” he said. “I'll ask our resident Healer, Porpitt, to tend to your injuries. He used to be a Guild Mage, and he has some knowledge of the demonic physique."
The man extended his right hand to Shakkar, which the demon recognised as a sign of non-confrontation. The Seneschal followed suit, taking the human's appendage in a careful, gentle grip.
"I am Peder Mallion, Mayor of Anjar,” the man said, pumping Shakkar's heavy hand with some difficulty. “I'm happy to see that your confrontation with the Night Ones was not fatal, but you need medical care."
"I will not argue with that, Mayor Peder,” Shakkar said, “but I must make a few other demands on your time first."
"In good time, Lord Seneschal,” Peder replied. “I insist that Healer Porpitt attend to those gashes first; the Night Ones’ blows cause fatal infections if not treated in time."
Shakkar's wounded left leg buckled and he sprawled to the dirt, almost taking Peder with him.
"Very well, Mayor Peder,” he said, his head spinning. “I agree. I am not in quite full fighting condition, and the undead monsters may have infected me with some strange sickness."
His head fell back; his neck seemed unwilling to support his weight. “I feel a little strange,” he mumbled.
"I'll assemble a party of men to carry you into the Great House. This can't wait,” the Mayor said, running into the large building at considerable speed.
Shakkar had never suffered a bodily illness before in his life but, now, his heart pounded and his scaly skin grew even colder as weakness flooded through his once-mighty frame. Now, his vision blurred, and he began to mumble in his native demon tongue. The last thing Shakkar saw before blackness took him was the image of his long-dead clutch-mother.
Grimm awoke with a start as he heard the key clang in the lock of his cell door.
"Good morning, Questor Grimm,” Prioress Lizaveta said, resplendent in pearl-white robes. “Did you sleep well?"
"Where are your attendants today, Prioress?” he demanded, sitting up with some difficulty.
Lizaveta laughed; a sound like gravel being crushed under an iron boot. “They await my call, young mage. I thought it would be pleasant to have a little chat with you before your more… physical education begins; if that should become necessary."
"You're wasting your time, Lizaveta,” Grimm growled, with a fervour he did not feel. “You may as well summon them right now. I will not betray my House or my Guild!"
"Spoken like a true slave,” the Prioress replied, clapping her hands like a happy child. “Do you enjoy pain? Are you so eager to suffer again, just so your vaunted High Dominie can live like a prince?"
"He resisted your advances, Prioress, as did my grandfather. Should I submit where they did not?"
Choler flooded into Lizaveta's cheeks.
"That bloated idiot, Horin,” she said, her words slow and deliberate, “only withstood my magic with your aid. I hoped that your grandfather, Loras, would respond to me without Geomantic persuasion, but he did not.
"Consider my position,” she continued, her eyes gleaming like chips of glass. “I am proud to be a witch; I hail my calling, as you hail yours. Why should I be considered a second-class magic-user because of my sex? Why must I seek respect from within the insipid refuge of religion? Do you think of women as mere baubles, to be displayed on some Guild ornament-shelf?"
Grimm shrugged.
"The question is a reasonable one,” Lizaveta demanded. “Is your only answer a slovenly shrug?"
"I'm not responsible for the way the world is!” Grimm snapped. “Yes, women are treated badly in our society. Can I change that? No!
"Should I then help to tear down the regime which gave me, a disgraced blacksmith's grandson, a sense of self-worth and self-respect? The Guild gave me all you seek, when I had no right to demand it; I won't betray it."
Lizaveta came close to Grimm, until her lined forehead almost touched his. “Should I then abandon my dreams because I should not change what is?
"Answer my question: why should not witches be granted equal respect to their male counterparts? Your beloved Drexelica is a witch, but you prefer to see her as a concubine, do you not; a comfortable pillow, to give you solace and understanding when you return from your arduous travails? When she came here, she was ashamed of her magical legacy. I taxed her, harangued her and bullied her, until she recognised the true power within her.
"Does that sound familiar, Questor Grimm?"
She's twisting words! Grimm thought, trying to find a way to answer the shrivelled woman.
"You just want me to say women are better than men,” he said at last. “That witches are more principled and egalitarian than mages."
"I did not say that!” Lizaveta said, her brows raised. “I just asked you to tell me how you think of women in general and of witches in particular. Is that such a hard question to answer?"
Grimm fought to find a suitable riposte, but he found none. However, every moment he forestalled the unwelcome attentions of Lizaveta's lieutenants was another moment of respite, another moment of hope. He knew he must speak.
"Women are oppressed in our society,” he admitted, opening his palms towards the Prioress. “Witches are held in lower regard than Guild Mages; perhaps unfairly. However, I have met only three witches in my life, as far as I know: you, Sister Madeleine and Drex. You condemned my grandfather to a life of misery and self-contempt; Madeleine tried to enslave me and failed, and you killed her; Drex, the love of my life, calls me a despoiler of women, at your command. Should I hail you as a liberator? I don't think so. Just call in your torturers.
"That's all I have to say. Do what you want."
Grimm hoped he had persuaded Lizaveta to talk further, to allow him to regain a little strength, but he knew a sudden shift in allegiance would seem suspect.
The Prioress said, “Madeleine died after I beat her; a weak heart, I suspect. Did your friend, Neophyte Erek, fare any better as a Neophyte Questor-a youth in such despair he took his own life? How many times did you consider suicide during your own Ordeal, Grimm?"
"How did you hear about Erek? Was it pillow-talk from Lord Horin when you held him under your spell?"
"Thorn told me,” Lizaveta replied, with the trace of a smile on her lips.
Grimm felt a shock of horror blaze through his body like a flash-fire. He had guessed that Lizaveta had tried to control Thorn, but he had assumed that the Prelate had shaken off the shackles of her control since she disowned him.
"I know what you are thinking, Grimm. You think he resisted me from the first, don't you? I assure you, this defiance is a recent development. He has been telling me Guild and House secrets for years."
Grimm nodded, mute; learning from Lizaveta that Thorn was her son had been shock enough, but to think that his Lord Prelate was a traitor to the Guild…
"You're lying,” he said. “Lord Thorn… I think you tried to control him, but you failed."
"Thorn knew all about what happened to your grandfather."
Grimm felt his eyes bulge.
"Indeed, he benefited from it. He was a full, if unwilling, participant. While my spell held Loras’ will in abeyance, Thorn placed the pillow in his hands. He raised the alarm, so that other mages could witness his heroic rescue of Geral.
"I have owned Thorn's will all his life."
Grimm's world seemed to tumble around him like an ill-built house of cards. The very metaphor brought back vivid memories of his own Questor training, when he had been required to construct such a pasteboard edifice with the power of his mind alone.
This time, more than his pride was at stake.
His hatred had been reserved for Lizaveta alone, ever since he had discovered her part in Loras’ downfall. Now, he had to accept that Lord Thorn, a man in whom he had placed his implicit trust, had betrayed Loras as part of a plot to destabilise the very Guild he claimed to serve.
As Grimm fought to rationalise this new learning, he heard a soft rap at the door.
"Enter,” Lizaveta barked, turning her back on him.
The door opened to reveal Sister Judan, who gave a respectful curtsey. “Begging your indulgence, Reverend Mother,” she said. “The pale giant is very sick. He does not respond to the standard healing spells. The sickness is eating him up; I've never seen a disease advance so quickly. I consulted Sister Mercia, Reverend Mother, but even she could not help."
Lizaveta shook her head, and turned back towards Grimm, her face ashen. “Our discussion can wait,” she said. “I understand you have some knowledge of herbs. Perhaps you would like to minister to your friend?"
The Questor saw deep concern etched into her face.
Grimm's mind reeled. “Why do you care what happens to Tordun, or Erik, or any of us?” he demanded. “We're all just pawns in your game, aren't we?"
"I dislike needless death, Grimm. Your friends are not essential to my plan, but I do not wish them to die, either."
This woman's just full of surprises, Grimm thought. I'll bet she poisoned Tordun, just to see my reaction. This must be some sort of test.
"Of course I want to help, if I can,” he said. “How far does your largesse extend, Reverend Mother?"
"What do you mean, Questor Grimm?"
"How about healing some of my injuries?” he asked. “I'm not in the best condition to play Healer at the moment."
Lizaveta shrugged. “Of course,” she said.
"I'll need medicinal herbs-I don't know which ones at the moment. I may also need to talk to my other companions."
The Prioress nodded, but did not speak. If she was acting, she was a superb actress!
What's she up to? he wondered, before clarity flashed into his mind: Of course! She doesn't know what it is, and she's worried that it might be contagious! So much for the new, caring Lizaveta!
"You will receive whatever you need, Questor,” the Prioress said in a low voice, and Grimm could swear he heard a tremor of fear in her tone. “This cannot wait."
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