Magemaster Kargan lounged on the divan in his cluttered room, trying to concentrate on the book he had been reading. However, he felt restless, flicking through the pages without taking in more than a line or two of text. He knew he should try to get some much-needed sleep, but this, too, seemed beyond him.
Perhaps a little walk would help.
The Mentalist tossed the book onto the table beside him. He sat up and stretched for a few moments before rising to his feet in a swift, decisive motion and leaving the room, summoning his staff, Seeker.
As he walked along the long, dimly-lit corridor, he saw thin strips of light under several of the doors.
Seems like I'm not the only one who can't sleep, he thought, realising he knew the identities of few of the cells’ occupants. Scholars, perhaps, scouring old spells in the hope of discovering some new wrinkle or pervulsion that will bring its discoverer fame and fortune? The odd Necromancer, pondering the mysteries of bones and entrails, maybe? An Alchemist researching some fantastic elixir?
He realised that, after many decades’ residence in Arnor House, he knew next to nothing about his neighbours’ activities at night.
This is a sick place, he told himself. I've lived in the same cell for fifty years or more, but I don't even know the name of the mage in the next room, or what his Speciality is. I don't even feel the desire to ask. We're so obsessed with rank and secrecy that we've lost sight of our humanity; an entire commune of hermits, each defending his minuscule territory like a feral dog on a patch of dirt, barking at strangers.
He thought back to his younger days as an eager First Level Mage. He had been so keen to contribute to the House, so eager to make his mark… that proud mage had soon been replaced by an embittered old man who had only just begun to sense the miasma of suspicion and jealousy permeating the very foundations of the ancient fortress.
More than that, he now knew that the very man who directed the House's affairs was a traitor to the Guild, and he began to feel the weight of his years pressing down on him.
As he approached the West Wing stairwell, he sighed, fighting black waves of depression that threatened to overwhelm him.
If I can do anything to alleviate the sickness in this place, I will, he vowed to himself, his hand hovering over the door handle at the end of the corridor. Thorn has to go! With any luck, Dominie Horin will appoint someone like Crohn in his place; he can be a dry old stick at times, but he's a decent enough fellow, and I'm sure he's got the House's interests at heart.
He sighed again; most Prelates were chosen from among the ranks of the Questors, of whom the senior was the crusty Olaf Demonscourge.
That's all we need; an old fool like Olaf calling the shots!
With a sad shake of the head, he opened the door and made his way down the staircase to the Main Hall. Where he would go from there, he still did not know. At the foot of the stairs, he paused.
What in Perdition's going on here? he wondered, as he heard a thump and a clatter from behind the door.
Opening it just a crack, he saw the source of the brief commotion.
Magemaster Faffel stood in the centre of the hall, clutching his lower back, his face contorted in pain. At his feet lay his Mage Staff and, to Kargan's astonishment, the unmistakable, immobile form of Magemaster Crohn.
"I did not accept the lofty position of Magemaster just to be used as a common labourer,” Faffel complained through gritted teeth. “Why could the House servants not be used for this duty? My lumbar region feels as if it may already have suffered irreversible damage."
"You heard Lord Thorn's orders, Magemaster Faffel,” another, deeper voice replied; Kargan could not see the second speaker; the pyramidal Breaking Stone blocked his view. “These two renegades are to be held incommunicado until a suitable Conclave may be assembled to try them. Remember; we are bound under a vow of silence until then. Nobody else is to know of this until Lord Thorn announces the Conclave; they may have other confederates, who must be unmasked."
"I never trusted Crohn,” Faffel said, still massaging his back. “He was no true Magemaster; he treated the Students with far too much lenience."
"I agree,” said the disembodied voice. “He trained Questor Grimm, who, in my opinion, is a disrespectful whelp unfit to bear the Guild Ring. However, I never suspected that the man was a traitor, too.
"I would be grateful if you would take up your load again; Questor Dalquist is no lightweight, either."
"You are younger than I, Questor Xylox,” Faffel grumbled, but he hoisted the slumped burden onto his shoulders in any case.
"Punisher!” At this, Faffel's staff leapt into the air as the tutor staggered under the dead weight of Crohn and headed for the lower staircase. The baton bobbed behind the irascible Magemaster like a faithful hound, and Kargan saw the burly form of Questor Xylox move into view, with the form of Dalquist slumped over his broad, meaty shoulders.
Kargan felt another cold shock spearing through his heart: somehow, Thorn had discovered the cabal, and the Mentalist knew he would be the next to be seized if either Crohn or Dalquist confessed. He had no idea what means of persuasion might be applied to the two mages, and he had no intention of waiting around to be apprehended.
My only choices seem to be either to petition Lord Dominie Horin, or to try to reason with Questor Loras, he thought, and I imagine Thorn will report me to High Lodge as a renegade as soon as my name's mentioned.
That left Loras; somehow, Kargan had to convince the blacksmith-mage to undergo Bledel's spell, if he could perform it again so soon after his last casting. Then, if he could convince Loras of the truth of the matter, he would have to try to find some way to remove the Conclave's block on Loras’ powers-if he could even conceive how to do so.
That's a lot of ‘ifs', and I don't even know where Loras lives, he thought. On the other hand, I'm pretty sure Doorkeeper does…
When he felt sure Xylox and Faffel were out of earshot, he headed straight for the major-domo's cell, one of the few mage chambers on this level.
Glancing quickly over each shoulder to ensure he had not been followed, Kargan knocked at the door.
Come on, Doorkeeper! You're always in bed by this time!
On receiving no response, the Magemaster knocked just a little harder, to no greater effect, and he feared to make more noise. If he opened the door, so close to the lower stairwell, Doorkeeper might make some outcry that would be overheard, and he dare not take that risk.
What would wake Doorkeeper up?
As if a lightning flash had lit up some dark corner of his brain, he knew the answer: the old man's duty to greet any errant mage returning to the House. As quietly as he could, he hurried over to the Main Portal. He raised his ringed left hand, and the door opened. Kargan stepped outside into the dark, cool night, turned around and waited for the great, oaken door to close.
Come on; come on! he thought, tapping his right foot in his impatience.
At last, the dark portal clicked back into place, and the Magemaster waved his left hand, causing to open it again. He stood in the doorway, preventing the door from closing.
After a few moments, as Kargan had hoped, the hunched, shambling figure of Doorkeeper emerged from his chamber, muttering under his breath. As he hustled towards the doorway, he looked up, his eyes meeting the Mentalist's. As Doorkeeper's mouth opened, Kargan raised both hands, his fingers spread in supplication, and shook his head, trying to convey his urgency to the old mage.
"Welcome home, Brother… what?"
Doorkeeper's eyes were wide and uncomprehending.
"Doorkeeper, I just need a little information,” the Magemaster said. “I needed to speak to you quite urgently, and you didn't answer when I knocked at your door."
Doorkeeper suppressed a yawn. “I do not understand, Magemaster Kargan.".The old man's eyes narrowed, and he cocked his tousle-haired head to one side. “What's so urgent at this time of night? You aren't playing some silly trick on me, are you, Magemaster Kargan? It's cold with the door open."
"You remember when we last spoke of Questor Loras and Lord Thorn, Doorkeeper?"
The factotum nodded, his face almost like that of a confused, small child who had lost his mother in a crowded bazaar. “You wanted to know about Questor Loras’ reactions, and Lord Thorn's, after… after Lord Geral… after he…"
Doorkeeper's speech was far from succinct at the best of times, and this was not one of them.
"Never mind that, Doorkeeper.” Kargan tried to keep his voice level. “I'm doing a little research at the moment, and I need to visit the High Lodge library, just to consult some records. It would be really helpful if you could give me a little background."
"What sort of background, Magemaster Kargan?"
The Mentalist knew it was important not to involve the major-domo too much; if Thorn became paranoid, he might interrogate him, and Kargan had no idea how much Doorkeeper would reveal under questioning. He needed to pose his questions with care.
"I need to be back for lessons by tomorrow afternoon,” he said, “so I have to make an early start if I'm to get to High Lodge and back by then."
Doorkeeper nodded slowly. “What do you want to know, Magemaster Kargan?"
Kargan scratched his head. “How old was Lord Thorn when it happened?"
Doorkeeper shrugged, clutching his dark robes around his body. “I suppose he was about thirty, thirty-five… yes, about thirty-five. That must be right, because I'd just-"
"And Lord Rulec was Dominie at the time?” Kargan did not wish to give the old man too much time to think.
"No, that's not right, I'm sure,” Doorkeeper said, furrowing his brow. “It must have been Lord Algar at that time. Lord Rulec didn't come in until… until…"
Kargan saw his chance. “Was that not near the time that Questor Loras was exiled to… oh, what is that place called?"
"Lower Frunstock?"
"Yes, that's the name of the place,” said the Mentalist. “When he was exiled, he became a blacksmith, didn't he?"
"Yes, that's right, a smith.” Doorkeeper flapped his right hand over a cavernous yawn. “What's this all about, Magemaster Kargan? I'm very tired. I have so much to do, you see. Nobody-"
"Nearly finished,” Kargan interrupted, worried that at any time Xylox or Faffel might return from the lower depths of the House. “I'm not all that interested in Lord Thorn or Questor Loras, but I'm just trying to find out if…"
His mind raced as he tried to find some innocent explanation for his hasty nocturnal flight.
Doorkeeper provided him with the answer. The major-domo's face cleared and he smiled. “Oh, I understand, Magemaster Kargan. Yes, I see now. Lord Rulec came from a family of smiths, too. Is that what this is about?"
"That's it, Doorkeeper,” Kargan said, flushed with relief. “I'm trying to compile a history of Lord Rulec's life, and I thought I'd contact his family. I was trying to think of who else was a smith, and who might know where his family was located."
"That's easy, very simple, Magemaster Kargan, indeed,” the old mage babbled, smiling. “I had the honour of escorting Lord Rulec to his family home many years ago. A very great honour, I can tell you…"
Doorkeeper's face clouded. “You won't get there and back in a day. It's in Kuloka, far to the west. You'll never do that in half a day-"
"That's all right, Doorkeeper,” Kargan said, putting a friendly hand on the major-domo's left shoulder. “I've just remembered I don't have to take any classes tomorrow, after all. I should be able to go to Kuloka, make my enquiries and return in a day and a half. That will be just enough time. Thank you so much for all your help."
"I'm sure you're very welcome, very welcome indeed,” the old man said. “Please be sure to give my best wishes to Lord Rulec's family. They will remember-"
"I will,” Kargan said. “If anybody should ask after me, just remember that I'll be in Kuloka, talking to Lord Rulec and his family. Thank you, Doorkeeper."
"My pleasure, Magemaster Kargan,” Doorkeeper replied, his eyes bleary. “May I go to bed now?"
"Of course, good Brother Mage; sleep well."
With that, Kargan stepped away from the door, allowing it to close. With any luck, Doorkeeper would remember only this fact when questioned; the information the Magemaster had actually wanted-the location of Loras’ home-would be buried in the false trail that the major-domo had inadvertently helped to lay.
If I remember rightly, Lower Frunstock's about thirty miles south-east of here, he thought, hurrying to the stables at the side of the House. On a fast horse, I should make it in a couple of hours.
Stealing through the shadows like a footpad, Kargan reached the deserted stables in a few minutes. The door was padlocked, but his trusty Mage Staff, Seeker, made short work of the lock.
The horses whinnied and nickered in their stalls, but softly. Kargan muttered the Minor Magic spell of Light, and Seeker emitted a soft, yellow glow that lit the stable and the tackle hanging on the wall. He had no idea of how to saddle a horse, but he had been taught to ride by the Senior Wrangler on his father's estate. The Wrangler was, or had been, a simple plainsman, and he had taught the youthful Kargan how to ride bareback, controlling a horse only with his knees, thighs and voice. It would be hard going, but Kargan had only thirty miles to cover, after all.
Selecting a likely steed, a slender, wide-eyed, chestnut filly, he comforted the animal with a series of clicks and coos. Taking a blanket from a pile to his left, he draped it over the horse's back. With practiced ease, he fashioned a length of rope into a simple curb bit, which the animal accepted with no more complaint than a soft whinny.
He dragged a crate over to the open stall and tried to mount the horse, managing it on his third attempt. The horse's hooves clattered on the stable's flagstone floor, but she seemed to be a tractable beast, well used to the presence of a human on her back.
It seemed strange, after all these years, to be astride a horse without full tackle and stirrups, but the Senior Wrangler's lessons had not been wasted. Kargan flicked the crude reins and clicked, pressing his knees gently into the beast's sides, and she began to trot out of the stable, into the black night.
The mountain pass was a trial, and the Magemaster's knees and hips sent bolts of fire through his spine by the time he had reached its foot. However, once he had reached the broad, level streets of the slumbering town of Arnor, he gave his mount her head, growing in confidence as he navigated the filly onto the open plain. With his eyes now adapted to the darkness, he hunkered down over her back and followed the trail to the south-east.
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