Now that rescue seemed at hand, every member of the party took his fill of what remained of the water. Thribble popped out from Grimm's pocket, having been overlooked, as he often was, and said that he was a little thirsty. The minuscule demon gulped down a thimbleful of water and declared himself sated.
"What of your theory of cubes of flesh, Questor Grimm?" Crest asked. "Surely the imp must have been losing water at a far greater rate than any of us. I would've expected him to be a shrivelled husk by now, even if he was hiding in your pocket, out of the direct sun."
"Cubes of flesh?" the underworld creature said, his tiny brow furrowed. "What are you talking about, human? I have been asleep for most of the past two days."
Grimm reprised his earlier speech concerning the ratio of a body's surface area to its volume, and admitted that he, too, felt puzzled by Thribble's healthy, grey complexion.
"Oh, you are talking about the square-cube ratio," Thribble declared, his expression brightening. "I understand this well, and I comprehend your bafflement,"
"Just remember, man, that we are not all disgusting bags of mortal goo. We minor demons do not lose heat through vulgar perspiration but by direct radiation; the surface area to volume ratio allows us to do this. We must eat and keep active to warm ourselves in frigid temperatures, such as those in which you humans seem to thrive. In climates such as this, we bask and are somnolent; this is a pleasant temperature for me."
"But you admit to thirst, demon," the half-elf continued, "so even you must have been losing water, somehow."
"Even I need to drink sometimes, whip-master," Thribble said. "I last tasted water in Grimm's chamber at Arnor, before this Quest began. I would have said something before now, but the warm sun made me sleepy."
"I am glad you are happy," Grimm said, "but I wish to seek shelter from this merciless solar onslaught."
Thribble possessed little that might be termed a neck, but he contrived, somehow, to shrug. "If you wish, Questor Grimm," he squeaked. "Good day to you, Master Crest." He hopped back into Grimm's pocket, his home away from home.
Grimm sat opposite Xylox in their tent, and each mage avoided the other's eyes. Xylox spoke first, in a halting voice.
"I am prepared to put your earlier outburst down to temporary insanity induced by solar radiation," he said. "In a spirit of reconciliation, and in the interests of amicable relations, I am prepared to say nothing of the affair in my eventual report to Lord Prelate Thorn. The inevitable reprimand for your earlier conduct should suffice as discipline."
Grimm rubbed his burgeoning, unkempt beard. He knew his earlier reaction had been exacerbated by the merciless rays of the sun, but he still felt that the pompous Xylox was long overdue for a rebuke.
"Questor Xylox," Grimm said, "If any attempt at reconciliation was made, it was on my part, when I attempted to congratulate you for your handling of the growing tensions within the group. I still stand by that.
"However, you chose to throw that back in my face by belittling and denigrating my abilities as a Questor. I admit that my reactions were extreme, but I feel that some reaction was justified. I would remind you that I was not the first to raise his staff: you were."
"I was justified in seeking to chastise you; your vile posturing offended me," the older mage declared, rising to his feet. "As junior Questor, you owed me humility and respect, not bluster and braggadocio."
Grimm remained seated and silent, his eyes burning, and Xylox sat back down.
"You are the senior mage here; I cannot, and will not, deny that," the slender sorcerer said in a low, but intense, voice. "However, humility and respect run both ways. Whether you approve of it or no, I am a Mage Questor of the Fifth Rank, not some fumbling, helpless Neophyte, still wet behind the ears."
The middle-aged thaumaturge opened his mouth to speak, and Grimm stemmed his words with a sharp gesture of his hand; his red-rimmed eyes seeming to burn within his haggard face like burning coals.
"I will speak, Xylox!" he cried, choosing to omit the polite prefix of 'Questor'. "I, too, hold a Guild rank worthy of respect; respect that you have been studious, even gleeful, to deny at every opportunity. You do not mock me out of concern for our Quest, but because you enjoy mockery of what you regard as your inferiors, and because you mourn a lost youth; do not seek to deny it."
The older magic-user leapt to his feet, his impressive brows lowered over his eyes like grey thunderclouds hovering over a pair of blue lakes.
"Spying on another mage's aura is the height of impertinence!" Xylox cried. "How dare you commit such an abominable act on your superior?"
"I did not do so, Xylox," Grimm said, now feeling calm as he rose to stand, "although I must admit to severe temptation to do so, at times. However, you have amply confirmed my strong suspicions by that accusation. Had your motives been pure, you would have known that your aura would have been proof positive of the fact. In accusing me of training my Sight on your psyche, you have only proved what I already suspected."
Xylox's mouth opened again, but no words came from the older mage.
"You may tell Lord Prelate Thorn whatever you wish about me, Xylox," he said, "and I feel sure he will believe you. However, you are sorely deluded if you believe Lord Thorn will dismiss one of his few, precious Questors, a hard-won weapon, a bargaining tool, on the basis of a negative report from you.
"I give you a choice, Questor Xylox. Either accept me for my true worth as a mage, or know that I, your junior, will despise you as a bigot, a braggart and a sadistic tyrant: a man who attempts to prove his mastery, not through cool logic and powerful magic, but through mockery and petty slights towards those who are ill-able to defend themselves. I respect you as a powerful Guild Mage, Xylox but, as a human being, you leave much to be desired."
His words hung in the air, seeming to wheel around and around, like the vultures drifting overhead.
"There; I've said all I have to say, and bugger your precious bloody Mage Speech, for once," Grimm said, crossing his arms across his chest. "If you want to tear into me, and put a few more defamatory words into your diligent, impartial report to Lord Thorn, feel free to do so; you'll only reinforce my opinion of you. I just don't care anymore, Xylox: do what you want, as you always do."
The young mage stood with legs apart and arms akimbo, defiant and angry, as silence descended on the tent. He overtopped his senior by at least three inches, and he felt ill-disposed to show the least trace of humility or placation to the infuriating older mage. Long moments passed, and Xylox's expression passed through stages of anger, contemplation, and genuine worry.
Grimm knew he had shot his bolt; he had said all he intended, or wanted, to say; his anger had been expiated. His threat to Xylox might be puny, compared to what a bad report from the older mage could do to him, but he felt satisfied.
"Well, I'm in your hands, Xylox the Mighty," he said, in a mild voice, smoothing his ragged hair with his hands as best he could. "I still stand by my Oath, and I swear again to give my utmost for the success of this Quest. Whether you accept that in the spirit in which it is given, or not; it's up to you."
Xylox's staff, Nemesis, received its seventh and final ring before its owner reached twenty-eight years of age. He had held this coveted rank for twenty years, and he regarded it with fierce pride, although he tried to imply that such mundane concerns were beneath his lofty notice. Most of his early Quests were under the supervision of older Questors or alone, and he had to admit, even to himself, that he revelled in being the senior mage in a Guild Quest.
He had never had many, if any, true friends, and even he recognised that he had subsumed his loneliness by trying to be the most powerful, the most successful, Questor in the Guild. His considerable wealth brought him little pleasure, compared to the good opinion of his Prelate and the awe of his juniors.
He had hoped, without success, to tame this wayward, recalcitrant stripling, Questor Grimm, through displays of puissant abilities and his stern, sorcerous mien; but he had to admit that the skinny whelp had proved a reasonable asset towards the success of the Quest, even without such inducements. In addition to this, the young upstart had shown a surprising level of skill and thaumaturgic strength, before Xylox had defeated him in their enforced battle in Armitage's laboratory-or so he persuaded himself.
Xylox the Mighty recognised that something had gone wrong between the two mages from the start; he had convinced himself that the tall youth must have been to blame, but he could not put his finger on anything that Questor Grimm had ever done to give him such a poor opinion of him.
Perhaps I have been a little too hard on this youthful tyro; the young are so soft and intolerant of criticism these days, he thought. They seem incapable of handling the least rebuke.
Nonetheless, the senior magic-user felt hot embarrassment at how Grimm's forceful opposition had managed to goad him into violence, destroying the cool, dispassionate, rational air he had cultivated for so long. This fact alone showed that the youth did possess remarkable willpower, a prime attribute for a Guild Questor. The grizzled sorcerer also had to acknowledge, at least to himself, Questor Grimm's assertion that, without the energy that Xylox had stored in Nemesis, their battle might well have become difficult for him. He could not countenance the idea that he would have been defeated by the young Questor, but he had to admit that even his most powerful spells had failed to crush the youth. Yes; Grimm Afelnor would bear watching, but he might be a useful ally and a troublesome enemy.
"Questor Grimm," Xylox said, "this is not easy for me to say, but I acknowledge you as a mage of considerable power and resourcefulness. I admit that I must accept some of the blame for our failure to communicate, and that, on occasion, I may have allowed my zeal for the Quest to cloud my sense of fair play and justice."
Grimm's eyes widened and his hands dropped to his sides, softening his confrontational pose.
"I do not wish for us to be enemies," the older man continued, his face flushed; it was not just the desert heat that was to blame for this, as he struggled with words that were difficult for him to utter. "It is not good for morale, or for discipline. I accept that, at certain times, I may have appeared to you to be overbearing or arbitrary in my dealings with you, and for this, I… I apologise, without reserve, if this is so."
Xylox swept a hand through his hair, feeling a sense of deep embarrassment, even desperation, but the young mage remained silent, merciless; it was plain that Grimm expected more.
"I recognise also a trace of envy within myself at your rapid accession to the Fifth Rank, and that this may also have coloured my opinion of you from time to time. It is essential for the smooth running of this Quest that we mages present a united front, and so, in the interest of harmony between us, I promise to restrict my assessment of your character to your deeds in the furtherance of this enterprise."
"You have made similar, short-lived compacts to the same effect in the past," Questor Grimm said, his tone cool and dubious. Those black eyes seemed to burn into Xylox's soul, challenging and condemning him. "They did not last long, and I refuse to acknowledge that this has been due only to impertinence or rash behaviour on my part. You seem to glory in belittling me, exerting your authority through arbitrary and unjust demands, rebukes, strictures and downright insults. I have always been focused on this Quest, and I regard my status as a Guild Questor with no less pride than you; I am not about to jeopardise it by some brief, meaningless dalliance with a young girl, even if you think I do. I ransomed Drexelica only because I detest slavery in all its forms, not because I was thinking of sating my adolescent passions. This is the single act that you hold against me, because you cannot conceive that any but the baser instincts could reside within me. I have never given you any reason to believe this. It is pure prejudice: nothing more, nothing less."
Xylox was unused to being addressed in this manner, but even he had to admit that there was an uncomfortable ring of truth in his junior's words. He mulled over Grimm's actions during the Quest; other than rescuing the girl from the threat of slavery and debasement, had he really done anything to cause Xylox's low opinion of him?
The youth had been recalcitrant and impertinent at times, Xylox thought, but only when he was rebuked and pressured by his senior. It might be very bad for discipline to dress down the young Questor so many times in the presence of Seculars. And he could not deny the pleasure he had felt in exerting his superior rank over the youngster.
Xylox was a Questor of the old school, loyal to his House and his Guild unto death, but he had always prided himself as an even-handed and fair man. Had he been fair to Questor Grimm? On the very first occasion the two mages had met, Xylox had taken one look at the young Questor's gaudy, expensive attire, and he had taken an instant dislike to the boy. He had considered Grimm a dilettante; a primping fop.
Xylox fingers caressed an angry, red weal on his right cheek, a legacy of the unwilling battle Armitage had forced the two mages to fight.
The boy is indeed powerful, and I was untruthful when I implied that he had not hurt me in our fight, the Questor thought, feeling a cold, queasy unease at the knowledge that he had lied to a fellow mage.
Why have I felt such disregard for the boy? I have been excoriating him for his ease with Seculars, his taste in clothes and a freely-admitted interest in Technology. With the possible exception of inviting the thief-girl into our midst, he has acquitted himself well in this Quest. It would be to the detriment of our House if I were to allow my personal prejudices to taint the career of such a promising addition to the fold.
"Questor Grimm; I am sorry," Xylox whispered, after a very long pause. "Let us not dwell on the past. We may have a difficult road ahead of us, and I would rather travel it in a spirit of co-operation and mutual respect. I swear it, on my name, and on my reputation as a Mage Questor.
"From now on, I will seek to rebuke you only where your acts and attitudes impact on the conduct of the Quest. Let us start again, in the interests of amity and good relations. Should you proffer me advice, I promise to give it a fair, even-handed assessment, and I will take it in the spirit in which it is given."
The older mage extended his right arm, and, for the first time, the two mages clasped hands; if not in friendship, then in a closer understanding between them.
"I also apologise, Questor Xylox," Grimm said. "I, too, may have been blinded on occasion by false pride, and I commit myself to the successful conclusion of this Quest as your loyal aide, advisor and fellow mage."
It seemed like a new beginning, and the Questors' hands remained entwined for a few moments, before they disengaged and sat opposite each other. A few moments of contemplative silence passed before Xylox spoke again.
"Have you any concerns to relate to me, or any advice, at this time, Questor Grimm?"
Grimm seemed to relax, as if all tension had been released from his body. "I do have one concern, Brother Mage," the youth admitted. "You have persuaded Foster that all is well at Haven, and that we are all happy, deluded slaves of Armitage. I imagine the General will arrange transport for him back to the mountains, once he has delivered us. What do you think will happen when he arrives to find Haven desolate and deserted? These people seem to have Technological means of communicating over long distances in an instant, and it might not go well with us if this deception were uncovered."
Xylox bent his mind to the issue; the youth had raised a valid and worrying point. "You would perhaps recommend some sort of… accident for our Technological friend?" he hazarded.
The young sorcerer shook his head. "Foster is our passport into the General's demesnes; we need him. After our exertions, we both lack the strength to persuade him to delay his departure by magical means. I suggest we find more mundane means to compel him to put off his return to Haven. Have you noticed how he seems a little unsteady on his feet, and, perhaps, a trifle confused? Dehydration must be the cause; he is in no condition to travel."
Xylox found a rare smile creeping across his face; this Questor was more resourceful than he had at first thought.
"I must admit to some concern at Brother Foster's infirmity, Questor Grimm. Perhaps he is in need of a… spell of convalescence. I will brief the other members of the team to this effect; I am sure that we can reach a consensus on this issue."
"Foster said that a vehicle would be despatched to us in short order; I suggest that we work together on this. One of us also needs to convince Foster of his infirmity; I think that Tordun might be an excellent choice."
"Tordun?" Xylox exploded, a frown on his face. "He despises Foster with a passion, as do I!"
Grimm essayed a faint smile, his lips cracked and bleeding. "Just so: he can say that he realises now how ill the flier has been, because he had been so diligent in carrying out his mission. I do not think Tordun will enjoy expressing tender concern for Foster, but he is, nonetheless, intelligent, and I am sure that he is a reasonable actor. Words of pity from our white-haired colleague might work better than an impassioned plea from either of us."
"Very well; you may tackle Tordun, and I will ensure that the other members of the team are alert, on their guard, and of a like mind by the time the conveyance arrives here. I admit, still, to some misgivings as to how we will defeat the General, but we will cross that bridge when we reach it. Let's get started!"
Xylox realised he had lapsed from his usual, formal, Mage Speech for a heartbeat, but he no longer cared.
Yes; even this inexperienced Questor is worth more than a disparate group of Seculars, he thought.
[Back to Table of Contents]