Dalquist groaned and muttered as he worked his way through the stack of Student paperwork before him. For a Mage Questor of the Seventh Rank to be used in this manner, as a Junior Magemaster, broke no Guild rules, but he felt as if his talents were being squandered.
Ever since he and Senior Magemaster Crohn had confronted Prelate Thorn over his ruthless treatment of Questor Grimm, Dalquist's life had taken a decided downturn.
We were foolish to try to quote regulations to Thorn, he thought, making a savage red slash through another botched, scribbled line of runes, and he's certainly making me pay for that rashness.
He wrote at the bottom of the page, ‘4/10: Woeful lack of attention to detail. See me,’ and he picked up another sheet from the pile.
I wouldn't feel so bad if I didn't know Lord Thorn was well within the letter of the law to do as he did. He could have had me stripped of my powers, exiled or even executed for mutiny. Instead, here I am marking shoddy work from worthless pupils whose only saving grace is the money in their parents’ coffers.
Oh, for goodness’ sake!
He drew a bold line through a complex, yet completely irrelevant, illogical series of runes. It was plain to Dalquist that this lout had not paid the least attention in the classroom, basking in the knowledge that his father was a wealthy High Court advocate, and that he could not be dismissed from the Scholasticate with ease.
'0/10: You have not even attempted to understand the principles or signatures of this spell. I suggest that your vocation lies elsewhere! See me.'
He reached out for the next sheet in the dwindling pile, but stopped short as he heard a soft rap on the door.
"Come in."
The door opened to reveal the grizzled form of the Mage Doorkeeper.
"I'm sorry to interrupt, Questor Dalquist, very sorry, indeed. I was just saying to… to someone the other day how I hated to be…"
Dalquist sighed. “Would you mind coming to the point, Doorkeeper? I am rather busy, as you can see."
Doorkeeper scratched his head. “What was it, now?-oh, yes, I remember!” The ancient mage smiled brightly. “You have a visitor at the tradesmen's entrance. That was the message!"
"Who is this visitor?” Dalquist did his best to maintain a polite tone. He loved Doorkeeper as if the old man were his kindly, if addled, grandfather, but it was often difficult to elicit concise information from him.
The major-domo scrabbled in his pockets for a few moments before he brought out a tattered, discoloured scrap of paper and consulted it.
"He says he's Sergeant Erik Romas, Brother Mage. He says it's very urgent."
Dalquist felt his already-frayed temper beginning to get away from him, and he made a mighty effort to maintain his equanimity.
"I don't know any such man, Doorkeeper. Is he a watchman? A soldier? A Court functionary? Is he demanding advice, vengeance, charity, or a job?"
The old man looked blank for a moment before answering. “I think he just wants to meet you for a moment, Questor Dalquist,” he said at last.
Dalquist looked at the pile of completed marking, assessing the remainder. “All right, Doorkeeper; I'll see this wandering Sergeant.
"Shakhmat!"
The staff, as much weapon as adornment, flew into his hand, and he stood. Truth to tell, his backside was beginning to develop an abominable ache after so many hours in an unyielding, wooden chair.
"Thank you, Questor Dalquist,” the major-domo said, bowing. “I knew you would understand. I'm a very busy man, of course, so if you would excuse me…"
"Of course, Doorkeeper. I know the way well enough."
The Questor looked at the lanky, grey-haired man before him, without the slightest trace of recognition. The supposed Sergeant wore no uniform; instead, he wore a loose, grey sarape, loose, beige trousers and an outlandish, broad-brimmed hat: his appearance was bizarre, indeed, almost ridiculous.
"I am Dalquist Rufior, Mage Questor of the Seventh Rank."
"I am Sergeant Erik Romas, Lord Mage.” The grey-haired man bowed in a clumsy manner.
"What do you want, Sergeant?” Dalquist remained wary of some potential trap but confident that his abilities as a Mage Questor would prevail in the event of any ambush.
The slender man looked around him, as if suspecting the presence of eavesdroppers. “I've brought someone to meet you, Lord Mage, but it would be better if we didn't discuss matters in the doorway. The… er… gentleman's name is Shakkar."
"Shakkar! Why did you not say so at once? Where is he?"
"Please, Sir… I mean, Lord Mage,” the bizarrely-disguised Sergeant whispered, looking embarrassed, “keep it down, would you? Lord Shakkar's in the bushes over there. He didn't think it was a good idea to present himself in person, being of a-shall we say-demonic persuasion."
Dalquist understood the need for caution: the huge demon would be conspicuous in any company. As a precaution against possible ambush, Dalquist engaged his Mage Sight, but he saw no trace of intended deception or malice in the Sergeant's aura.
"All right, Sergeant. Lead the way."
Erik led Dalquist past the fly-infested refuse bins at the rear of the House to a large, dense cluster of bushes. The mage prised away the thick foliage with the aid of his staff, Shakhmat, to see the grey form of the demon lurking within.
"It's good to see you again, Shakkar, but what's all this secrecy about?” he demanded “Is Questor Grimm all right? Is there some crisis in Crar?"
The demon levered himself up from his crouching position, unleashing a shower of leaves around him like so many snowflakes.
"I am pleased to meet you again, Questor Dalquist,” the bat-winged giant rumbled. “My reason for coming here is that I am deeply worried about the Lady Drexelica. She has disappeared, and there are indications that Prioress Lizaveta may well be behind it. We believe she intends to hold the girl as a hostage. That must mean she is aware of Lord Grimm's Quest."
Dalquist shook his head, confused. “Hold on for a moment, Shakkar; I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about. Would you mind going back to the beginning? What Quest? What have Prioress Lizaveta and Grimm's housekeeper got to do with it?"
"Lady Drex is more…” began Erik, a sly smile on his face, but Shakkar's angry frown stopped the Sergeant's words in mid-sentence as cleanly as if he had been punched in the throat.
"Lady Drexelica is more than just a valued employee, Questor Dalquist. She and Questor Grimm have been through a lot together. She is a… good friend, a friend the Baron would gravely miss."
Dalquist's eyes bulged. Grimm's not… playing around, is he? No. it can't be! He may be a little rash at times, but surely he'd never risk his powers over a brief dalliance!
He thought back to the words of the late, lamented Senior Magemaster Urel had addressed to him fifteen years before: “Loose women are a taint, Rufior: remember that, and remember it well. It were better by far that you put all your energies into your work rather than waste it on idle, lustful, polluting thoughts. It is only natural that a boy of your years will feel such vile urges, but you must resist them at all costs. The least physical contact with the distaff sex will sap your powers. Surrendering to these foul, physical urges will destroy any chance you have of becoming a mage."
No: Grimm wouldn't be that stupid. It must be as Shakkar says; Drex is just a valued companion.
"Of course,” he said to the demon, “but what about this Quest?"
"Questor Grimm is under orders to destroy Prioress Lizaveta and her foul order,” Shakkar replied. “That is all I know."
What? Dalquist thought. What threat can one old lady pose to the Guild or the House? Why, she was kind enough to me when I saw her…
A ghastly suspicion drifted into the Questor's mind. Is he on some personal vendetta because that nun, Madeleine, made a fool of him in High Lodge? Surely not! This must be some terrible misunderstanding.
"I'm sorry, Shakkar, but this all sounds very odd to me. There's very little I can do about it, in any case."
"You could attempt to contact Lord Grimm with Telepathy,” the demon growled.
Dalquist shrugged. “I could, but only if you can tell me where he is. It would be good to sort out this muddle. However, I can tell you with reasonable certainty that he isn't on any Quest as far as I know. Grimm hasn't even been back to the House since he went to High Lodge. Whatever he is doing is most likely his own idea. So do you have any idea of Questor Grimm's location?"
"He is somewhere in the region of Yoren,” the demon said."We thought you might be able to locate him and advise him."
"I need rather more precise directions than that, Shakkar!” Dalquist laughed. “I don't know anything about the area, I've never been there, and I can't cast such a potent spell in a wide arc."
"I do not know exactly where Lord Grimm is, Questor!” Shakkar bared his long fangs in an expression Dalquist could not read. “What I do know is that Lady Drexelica may be in danger from a foul, evil witch. Do you mean to tell me that you will not help your best friend in this regard?"
Dalquist's mind spun, as fragments of memories whirled through his head. He remembered visiting the Prioress’ apartments at High Lodge. Some sort of confrontation… no, no, NO!
"Prioress Lizaveta is a charming, harmless old lady!” he shouted. “Yes, she's a witch; what does that have to do with anything? I'll thank you to take your pathetic little suspicions and conspiracy theories elsewhere!"
Shakkar growled, and raised a single, huge, clawed hand.
"Don't, Shakkar.” Dalquist brought Shakhmat into view. “I respect you, but you'll be taking a big risk if you try to threaten me. Don't do it."
Despite his calm demeanour, the mage struggled with strange, conflicting emotions. What the hell's going on here? he raved inside his head. Pain seized his brain in an iron grip, and he almost howled in agony.
"I won't listen to you, Shakkar! Go back to Crar."
In a more conciliatory voice, he continued, “I'm sure it's just some minor misunderstanding. Just go back home, and I'm sure Grimm and Drexelica will be waiting for you. Goodbye, Shakkar."
He turned on his heel and strode back inside the House. Something seemed wrong, but he could not say what it had been. His head thrummed and ached, and he thought that an early night might be in order.
Shakkar felt numb; if he had one ally of whose aid he had felt sure, it was Questor Dalquist. For the first time in his life, he had requested aid from a trusted and respected mortal, and that request had been thrown back in his face.
"Some friend,” Erik observed. “He didn't even listen, Lord Seneschal. So what do we do now?"
"We fly, Sergeant.” The demon opened his bat-like wings. “I have not done this for some time, but I suspect that you will prove little encumbrance to me. I can fly faster than a horse can trot, and we will not be slowed down by hills or poor terrain.
"We go to Yoren, to see if we can obtain any information about either Lord Grimm's or Prioress Lizaveta's whereabouts. It is plain that we shall receive no help here. Take what equipment you need from the cart."
The Sergeant nodded. “I can't pretend I'm overjoyed at the prospect of dangling from your claws, hundreds of feet in the air, but we may well be able to catch up with Lord Grimm before he reaches the Priory, and warn him.
"Just don't let go of me, Lord Seneschal!"
Slashing his arms back and forth, the demon made a path for the soldier through the dense, thorny undergrowth; the thorns made little impression on his grey, leathery skin.
The cart was where they had left it, in a wide, circular clearing. The Sergeant shucked his disguise and donned his green uniform. He then began to clip various strange items to convenient straps on the tunic.
"What are you attaching to those bands, Sergeant?"
Erik smiled. “The bands are called ‘webbing', Lord Seneschal. I'm just getting some ammo, grenades, full canteens, food and so on. If we are going into combat, I want to be ready for it."
Shakkar felt a little surprised: until now, he had regarded Erik as an easy-going and rather lacklustre individual, but the prospect of violence and danger seemed to enthuse the man. Humans are strange, indeed!
"I hope we'll see a little bit of action,” the soldier said, hefting a large pack onto his shoulders. “It's what I've trained for, not policing arguing neighbours and bar-room brawls."
Shakkar eyed the growing mass of Erik's armoury with some misgivings. “I am strong, but my strength is not inexhaustible, Sergeant! How much does all that equipment weigh?"
"Eighty to a hundred pounds, I suppose, Lord Seneschal,” the Sergeant hazarded. “No more than a hundred and twenty. I weigh about twelve stone: one hundred and seventy pounds or so. Is that too much for you?"
Shakkar thought back to his miserable confinement on Starmor's punishment pillar. From time to time, the late Baron of Crar had seen fit to send him the occasional miserable miscreant for his delectation, and a few of the fatter morsels-people!, he reminded himself, with some distaste-had probably weighed close to three hundred pounds. Even in his half-starved condition, he had found it easy to hoist the struggling, screaming individuals into the air, baring his fangs and…
The demon slammed down mental shutters on these increasingly disturbing memories.
"I should be able to carry you, Sergeant, with or without your weaponry. Your… webbing should provide good purchase for my talons. Are you ready?"
"Not quite, Lord Seneschal,” Erik replied, fiddling with the horses’ traces.
"What are you doing, Sergeant? I cannot possibly take both you and a horse!"
"I'm just letting the horses go, Lord Seneschal. It'd be a pity to let them starve. Go on, nag, get out of here!” The soldier swatted one of the horses on the rump and it skittered away, followed by its equine companion.
Shakkar felt even more confused. He knew that, for some mortals at least, horsemeat was considered a delicacy. For others, the animals were a merchantable commodity and no more. And yet this strange mortal, whose trade was death, seemed concerned for the wellbeing of these creatures.
"Those horses may be worth a lot of money, Sergeant,” he said, as the glossy, muscular horses ambled away.
"Dead ones won't, Lord Seneschal. Perhaps someone'll get some use out of them, and good luck to him, but I won't have a pair of fine horses starving to death on my conscience.
"There; I'm ready now."
Shakkar took hold of the Sergeant's webbing and gave it an experimental tug. It seemed strong enough to hold him.
Spreading his wings in the clearing, the demon began to beat them with strong, rhythmic strokes, and he lofted into the air with the Sergeant dangling below him.
As he dragged himself higher into the sky and swooped south-eastwards, he wondered again about Erik's apparent altruistic feelings towards the animals and revised his opinion about the human race: they were not just strange, but mad as well.
Dalquist returned to his marking, but his attention began to wander.
He had met the old Prioress only once, and his memories of the meeting were fuzzy, yet favourable; however, that did not explain his savage, offhand, uncharacteristic dismissal of Shakkar's request for help. The Questor knew he had reacted just as Grimm had when ensorcelled. He put down his pen and pondered, staring at Shakhmat, with its seven gold rings: the symbol of his status as a Guild Mage.
Am I just tired and frustrated? I've been yearning for a Quest for months; is that it? Am I just getting jaded? Grimm's my friend and a brother mage. My first thoughts should have been for him, yet I just rejected Shakkar's words out of hand when he implicated Lizaveta-just like Grimm leapt to Thorn's defence when I implied the Prelate had been behind his brutal Ordeal.
Something very strange is happening here. One thing I do know is that Lizaveta is a witch-could she be working some Geomantic magic on me right now? What did happen to me in the Prioress’ room? The memories are blurred and lacking in detail: they're not like real memories.
That was it: maybe his rosy memories of the old lady were not true recollections at all! Dalquist knew he needed the services of a Mentalist if he were to recover the real details of that long-ago meeting in High Lodge.
I could go to Lord Thorn and tell him my suspicions, but… no, I don't really trust even him. His treatment of Grimm was definitely underhanded when he put that Compulsion on the lad, and I don't want him to do the same to me.
Dalquist blinked, confused by suspicion that began to surge inside his head.
What on earth has Thorn to do with Lizaveta? Why should he place a Compulsion on me, just because some witch may have ensorcelled me?
Of course, there was no reason… was there?
Who can I trust here? Crohn, certainly, and Doorkeeper… who else is there?
Kargan; the name floated unbidden into Dalquist's mind. He puts on a tough act, but he seems a straight enough arrow to me… and he's a Mentalist, too.
Kargan was an anomaly amongst the House's starchy senior mages: unlike them, he kept his face smooth, instead of allowing his beard to grow; he eschewed Mage Speech even when teaching his class; he wore blue-tinted spectacles instead of allowing a Mage Chirurgeon to correct his vision with magic. The man stopped short of acting improperly in front of the Prelate, but he was a nonconformist.
Kargan won't blab to anyone, I'm sure.
His suspicions crystallising into a hard lump, Dalquist went in search of the Magemaster. One way or the other, he would get some answers.
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