Kargan turned to Loras, looking him straight in the eyes.
"Questor Loras, if Thorn asks of my whereabouts, tell him I have fled the House, fearing his wrath,” he said, speaking quickly; time was of the essence.
"Why, Mentalist Kargan?"
"It's best you know as little as possible. Do you think you could hide a lie from Thorn?"
"I do not know,” Loras said. “He will surely scan my aura at the earliest opportunity-as I will his. He is likely to notice any deception on my part."
Kargan held out Seeker. “Take hold for a moment, Questor Loras,” he said, and the smith extended a gnarled hand to grasp the rod; a Mage Staff did no harm if its owner gave permission to touch it.
The Magemaster closed his eyes for a moment, accessing a spell hidden within Seeker and sending it into Loras.
"There,” he said. “Any signs of deception in your aura should be masked now."
"A useful sleight,” Loras said, raising his eyebrows in appreciation. “I have never heard of such a spell outside the realms of Geomancy."
"It's one I devised,” Kargan said. “Doorkeeper will return soon; I must go."
"Good hunting, Mentalist,” Loras muttered, as Kargan hurried off into the depths of the Hall. The Great Portal swung shut, leaving the smith outside. Loras had no intention of setting one foot inside Thorn's demesnes for the moment.
The evening breeze freshened, and the smith drew his red cloak closer around his body.
Long minutes passed. Loras heard the distant, shrill bark of a fox, and a terrified avian cacophony soon followed.
Good hunting for somebody, he thought with a faint smile. I trust my own delving will be as successful.
He knew he had always been a stronger Questor than Thorn, but he lacked practice in the arcane arts. Drima's warning came back to him:
"What makes you think you can beat Thorn?"
Loras had to acknowledge that her doubts might be justified. Righteous rage was a poor substitute for confident, practiced skills.
At last, the door swung open, spilling golden night into the dusk, and Loras beheld a man he had not seen for more than half a Secular lifetime. For a few moments, he did not recognise Thorn; time had not been kind to the Prelate. The flowing blond locks of youth had been replaced by a few, greasy, white tendrils plastered over a ruddy pate, and the once-wiry Questor now bore a distinct paunch and heavy jowls.
Nonetheless, the amber eyes and heavy brows were unmistakable. This was, indeed, Thorn Virias.
"Greetings, Loras,” the Prelate said, his mouth crinkling into a smile. “It is good to see you."
Loras bit back a vicious retort; he longed to launch a meaty fist into Thorn's flabby jaw, but he restrained himself.
"I wish I could say the same, Thorn,” Loras growled, “but I cannot. You betrayed not just me, but also our House and our Guild. I am here to demand that you resign your post and submit yourself to the High Dominie's scrutiny. I know all: how you placed the pillow in my hands and summoned Urel and Olaf; how you engineered my disgrace and the false shame under which I have laboured for the past decades. It is over, Thorn."
"I have waited for this moment, Loras,” Thorn whispered. “For as long as you have suffered, so have I. Waiting, fearing your return and your wrath. Now you are here, I feel only relief that this ordeal is over."
Loras defocused his eyes, accessing his Mage Sight to scan Thorn's aura. He saw the characteristic hues of sorrow, shame, resignation and trepidation, but no deception at all.
"It was entirely my mother's doing, Loras. She used me as much as you, for her own ends. I was a puppet in her hands until she forced me to cast a Compulsion on your grandson, Grimm; he is a remarkably potent Questor, and his resistance provoked a Resonance that nearly killed me. It was only by shaking off that Resonance that I managed also to break free of my mother's influence. Since that moment, I have been dedicated to her downfall."
Can it be true? Loras wondered. Thorn's aura says so.
Lizaveta was so beautiful and beguiling… she nearly ensnared me, and I only shook off her Geomantic blandishments with the greatest effort of will.
"I have been under her influence for the whole of my life, Loras,” Thorn said. “I was brought up under her domination and power. When I placed that pillow in your hands, I was as much a puppet as you.
"Do you not remember how I pleaded for your life at your trial?"
You did indeed, Thorn. The other members of the Conclave howled for my blood, and only you spoke out for me.
"If I accept your story, Thorn,” Loras said, still wary, “will you accompany me to High Lodge to put matters straight?"
"I can do no less, I suppose,” Thorn said. “What do you wish from me?"
"My reinstatement as a Guild Questor, the clearing of my family name and your resignation from the Guild,” Loras replied, fighting to keep his voice level as Thorn responded with a slow nod.
This was going better than he could have dreamed.
"I see the justice in your demands,” Thorn said, “but I have a duty to the House, and I am no longer under my mother's influence. I cannot in conscience just resign for something that was not my fault. May we discuss this in the warmth of my study? It is getting cold out here."
Loras looked again at Thorn's aura. Relief, concern and indecision flickered through the astral shades, but he saw no sign of deceit.
"What of my grandson, Grimm, since you placed the Compulsion on him?” demanded Loras. “Where is he?"
"I have supported him whole-heartedly, Loras,” Thorn declared. “Once my own spell was lifted, I recognised the threat my mother posed to our Guild, and I despatched him to depose or destroy her at all costs. He has a retinue of warriors and two Guild Mages at his disposal, since I deemed that no cost was too great. The Dominie has sanctioned the Quest."
Loras’ eyes narrowed. “Does the Dominie know the full truth, Thorn?"
"I… I was weak,” confessed Thorn. “It is not a prideful thing for a Questor of the Seventh Rank to confess that he was under another's spell.
"I intend to rectify matters, but only after Questor Grimm succeeds in his Quest, as I am sure he will."
Loras scanned Thorn's aura once more, with minute scrutiny; his old friend seemed to be telling the undiluted truth. He shivered in the evening breeze and nodded.
"Very well, Thorn,” he said. “We will discuss the matter further inside the House. However, I should warn you that I have regained my powers in full measure, and I am well capable of defending myself if you resort to magic."
"You were always suspicious, Loras!” Thorn crowed, reaching forward to clap the smith on his right shoulder. “However, as your Sight will have told you, I intend no treachery."
Kargan stood at the end of the long, dark, subterranean tunnel, taking a series of deep breaths. For many decades, he had held sway only over groups of unruly, high-spirited boys. He had played a role for most of that time as a slightly insane demagogue who lived only for his work, and he had played it well.
However, now he would have to play another part to the limit of his abilities.
Kargan hoped the guardian at the end of the corridor was the vain, shallow Faffel, but he saw Questor Xylox standing outside the cells. Gathering his resolve, he stepped forward and almost lost his footing on the slippery, damp flagstones. Seeker's brass-shod foot clanged on the floor as Kargan struggled to regain his balance.
"Hold!” the Questor shouted, spinning around. “Who is that?"
For a moment, Kargan feared that Thorn might have declared him a renegade, but he was relieved that Xylox seemed to accept his presence, as the Magemaster stepped into the pool of light around the cell doors.
"Oh; greetings, Magemaster Kargan,” he said. “What brings you here?"
"Greetings, Questor Xylox!” Kargan crowed, playing the ebullient eccentric to the hilt. “I have returned from my furlough, and Lord Thorn has requested that I relieve you. He wishes you to inspect the schoolrooms, after I told him that I heard a strange noise in one of the classrooms. I fear there may be unauthorised intruders. A Questor will be better able to deal with interlopers than a mere Mentalist."
"I was not told of this,” Xylox grumbled. “I am not due to finish this watch for another three hours. Magemaster Faffel is to relieve me. I need to speak to Lord Thorn before I quit my post."
Kargan fought rising panic, and he gripped Seeker in a white-knuckled hand. “Lord Thorn is attending to urgent House business, Questor Xylox, and he cannot be disturbed. Please inspect my aura, and you will see I tell the truth."
Kargan bargained on the fact that Mage Sight was second nature to a Guild Mage, and that a clean aura was regarded as the sign of an honest man. He fought to keep his breathing even as Xylox inspected his soul's masked signature. He felt sure his spell was good, but it had never needed to stand up to a Questor's scrutiny before.
"Magemaster Kargan, this is most irregular, not to mention improbable!” the younger mage growled, “but I have no cause to doubt your word, and you are the Senior Magemaster in residence. From which classroom did the noise come?"
"I really cannot say, Questor Xylox,” Kargan said, with an airy gesture. “When the Students make their nocturnal racket, it is hard to tell the location of any unusual noise. It might be best to check all of the classrooms, just to be sure."
Xylox grunted. “Well, it cannot be a worse assignment than waiting here for hours on end,” he said. “You are to hammer on the cell doors from time to time and demand a response. If none is given, you are to stride into the cell and rouse its inmate. It is an unpleasant duty, but Lord Thorn has decreed it."
"Fear not, Questor Xylox,” Kargan said, with a manic grin. “There will be no unauthorised sleeping on my watch, I assure you!"
Xylox grunted, handed the Magemaster a thick bunch of keys, and strode off, muttering, “Most irregular."
Kargan wiped a slick sheen of sweat from his forehead with his handkerchief. As soon as he heard the end door open and close, he opened the nearest cell door after fumbling with the keys Xylox had given him.
A hot, cloying, overwhelming stink greeted him, redolent with the stomach-churning, foetid stench of ordure, and he feared for the life or sanity of the cell's occupant. His mouth filling with saliva and his entrails protesting and twisting, he forced himself to enter the noisome chamber.
As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he saw a hunched figure crouched on the damp flagstones. It seemed almost impossible to believe that this huddled mass of misery was a human being, but he realised that this soggy bag of mortality was the once-proud Magemaster Crohn.
The old tutor, known as “The Mindstealer", looked as if his own mind had been stolen.
Gagging in the ghastly stench, Kargan grasped Crohn under the armpits and began to haul him out of the dingy cell.
"Come on, old friend,” he gasped, trying to breathe only through his mouth. “You're free.
"Come on; help me, damn you!"
"I've done noth'n wrong,” Crohn slurred, making no effort to aid Kargan. “Sleep…"
Kargan gave the Senior Magemaster a burst of energy from Seeker. “Soon, you can rest, Crohn!” he shouted into the man's ear. “Now, you must fight! I have to get you and Questor Dalquist out of here, and you have to help me!"
"Questor Dalquist,” Crohn said, his voice a little stronger and clearer. “Yes, help him."
Kargan pulled the mage from the stinking room into the corridor and gave him another burst of much-needed strength.
"Rest here,” he gasped, lowering Crohn to the floor. “I'll get Questor Dalquist out, but you'll both have to help me!"
"I will do what I can,” Crohn said, looking more helpless than Kargan had ever seen him. “I am so tired…"
Even in this miserable state, he still uses Mage Speech, Kargan thought, with a frisson of admiration. Such a resolute man deserves to be saved!
He tried the same key on the next door, without success. Sweating with the fear that Xylox or Faffel might return at any minute, he tried another key; after two further abortive trials, the third key turned smoothly in the lock.
As the door swung open, Kargan gagged at the noisome smell, marvelling at Xylox's powers of intestinal fortitude.
Dalquist sat slumped against a corner of the cell, and Kargan could see the Questor's eyes were wide open, if glassy. His beard and hair were matted and unkempt, and the young mage muttered a repetitive mantra:
"Damn you all; I am innocent. I am a Guild Questor above all. Damn you all…"
"Yes, damn them all!” Kargan cried, conscious that, at any minute, someone might intrude on his treason. “Wake up, Questor Dalquist! You are innocent, and we need to get away from here!"
"Damn you all,” Dalquist muttered, his eyelids flickering as he toppled forward.
Kargan delved deep into Seeker's remaining reserves and took Dalquist's right hand, wrapping the limp fingers around the staff.
Dalquist's blood-shot eyes jerked open, and his hand clenched tight around the staff. He gasped as a ruddy flush ran into his pale, grimy face.
"Enough!” Kargan groaned, a grey mist beginning to cloud his vision. With a sudden surge of panic, he realised that Dalquist had already drained Seeker's resources and was now accessing his own vital force with rapacious speed. His heart pounding, he drew a measure of the energy back into his own body.
The Questor tore his hand away from the staff as if it had turned red-hot.
"I'm sorry, Magemaster Kargan,” he said, his voice vibrant with its normal confidence. “I must be getting greedy. Thank you so much for helping me."
"Can you spare a little of that strength for Magemaster Crohn?” Kargan said as the mists cleared from his vision. “I gave him a little before I got you out of that hell-hole, but I don't think it was enough."
"Of course,” Dalquist said. He called out “Shakhmat!” and his staff appeared in his hand.
"I've missed you, old friend,” he muttered, clutching it to his chest like a boy embracing a pet dog. The Questor moved towards the slumped figure of the hapless Crohn, and said, “There's plenty of energy to spare in here, Mindstealer, and you need it badly."
Crohn nodded, and placed his hand on Shakhmat, just under the bottommost of the seven gold rings. Kargan marvelled at the sight of vitality returning to the Senior Magemaster, as if he were being inflated by an air pump.
"Thank you, Questor Dalquist,” the Magemaster intoned after a few seconds. “I fancy I can shift for myself now."
In an instant, Crohn's own staff appeared in his hand, and the senior mage completed his transformation from a semi-comatose geriatric to a Seventh Rank Mage in full command of his faculties and his powers.
"I am filthy,” Crohn declared, his steel-grey eyes shining once more as he ran his fingers through his matted hair and beard. “I need a bath."
"We have more pressing concerns,” Kargan said, all too conscious of the pressure of time. “We have a formidable cabal now. I suggest we confront Thorn at once and demand that he submit himself to the Dominie's justice. Questor Loras is with him, but I fancy he is out of practice. He may need help."
"Two Questors, a Mentalist and a Manipulator ought to be able to make the Prelate see sense,” Dalquist said, shaking down his grubby robes, “even if we don't quite look the part."
"What in Perdition are you doing, Magemaster Kargan?” came a voice from the far end of the corridor, and Kargan spun to see the figure of Xylox, his staff at the ready. “Have you forgotten Lord Thorn's orders?” The Questor's eyes seemed to blaze, and blue flames flickered at the end of his staff.
Dalquist leapt to the fore: he slipped on the slick floor, and Kargan winced as he heard the sickening crack of the young Questor's head impacting the wall. Dalquist twitched a couple of times and lay still.
"So you are in this filthy conspiracy, too, Kargan.” Xylox stepped forward, his eyes narrowed to slits. “You're finished; all of you. Or perhaps you fancy your rune magic against my Questor powers? That, I assure you, gentlemen, would prove a foolish and fatal mistake."
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