Magemaster Perfuco Starm, Mage Mentalist of the Seventh Rank, awoke early; refreshed, alert, and ready for the challenges of the new day. He looked back on his dingy existence as a Guild Mage, back at Fendurk House, and he smiled. His life had changed so much since he had been contacted by the General's emissary and persuaded to work for this great cause. Instead of endless hours of rote-learning and practice, so he could try to drive the tenets of his art into the thick heads of ungrateful Students, he now enjoyed a pivotal role in the planning of a noble venture. Every day was different and interesting; he now undertook his duties with the same determination and enthusiasm he had once felt for his craft.
The only fly in his ointment was that damned Technologist, Armitage. Perfuco could not blame General Q for making use of the tools of the ancient art, but he knew that, for the soldier, this was born of dire necessity and the love of his people. Armitage revelled in the subject; he revered it, worshipped it above all else. His only loyalty to the cause stemmed from the fact that the General kept him supplied with his glass and metal toys.
The mage felt uncomfortable that such a man should be given such a high status in Quelgrum's inner cadre, and Perfuco felt sure his beloved leader had been tricked or misled by the Scientist; it should be magic, and magic alone, that led the army to victory and security. Had not thaumaturgy proved itself by surviving where Technology had faltered?
Still, it seemed as if the wily soldier had, at last, become wise to the blandishments of the arch-Technologist, and Perfuco felt delighted to have been selected as the instrument of his enemy's downfall.
The old mage took his time over his morning shower, relishing the sting of the fresh, cold water on his body, scrubbing his skin until it glowed with health. The Mentalist knew in some dim corner of his mind that only the once-hated Technology provided this water in the middle of the desert and provided his room with light and heat, but this seemed somehow unconnected to his hatred for Armitage.
As the mage donned his crisp, green uniform-so much more utilitarian and comfortable than those baggy old mage's robes!-he felt a warm glow of pride that the General had chosen to confide in him on the previous night. He still felt a frisson of angst that Quelgrum had decided to keep them alive, but he could not refuse a direct order.
He frowned: he could not quite remember receiving the command to take over the Questors' retraining in person, but it blazed in his head as if he had just been given it. He needed to tread with care, since the General had told him there might be several unwitting traitors under the Professor's command, and Perfuco was not even to report on his success to his commander, lest treacherous, Technological ears were listening. That Perfuco's meritorious deeds might go unheralded was a disappointment, but this was washed away by the joy he felt at the potential frustration of his evil foe.
A polite rap at the door announced that his breakfast had arrived. Opening the door, he gave perfunctory thanks to the young private, and took the meal back into his chamber, wolfing it down with unaccustomed gusto.
Today would be a good day.
Thribble crouched in Perfuco's briefcase, nervous and racked with uncertainty. He had spent the night whispering the same order, over and over again, into the mage's ear in a perfect imitation of Quelgrum's voice. He could tell the order had been received from the Mentalist's cheery good humour; nonetheless, Thribble felt uncertain as to whether his plan would succeed or fail.
It had been a complicated order, repeated perhaps a thousand times throughout the night, and much depended on the effectiveness of the mage's rushed mental conditioning. The least request for clarification from the General would ruin the demon's whole plan in an instant.
Another important factor was the speed with which Perfuco could bring his magic to bear; the old Technologist might have scientific means at his disposal to destroy the magic-user, long before a lengthy spell was even half-cast. The imp would be on hand when the thaumaturge confronted the scientist, since part of the spurious order had warned the mage to carry his case with him at all times, to prevent the depredations of hidden spies. However, whether Thribble could do anything to sway the situation, once contact had been made, was doubtful. All depended on speed and secrecy.
The demon felt a jerk as the bag was taken up; for good or ill, the plan was underway!
Perfuco strode with a spring in his step, determination etched on his face. He reached the laboratory without attracting any undue attention, and he opened the door without knocking. Six white-coated figures spun round at the sudden intrusion, and Armitage said "What the hell do you want, wizard?"
Perfuco bristled at the term. "A 'wizard' is a circus performer, a mountebank, a charlatan, Armitage. The correct term for a true Guild magic-user is 'mage', and my rank is that of Colonel."
"That doesn't answer my question, Colonel Perfuco, Sir," Armitage snarled. "I have important work to do for the General, and I'd get along faster without interruptions on your part!"
"On the General's personal orders, Armitage," Perfuco said, suppressing a smug smile, "I am taking over this operation. You are to surrender the subjects to me, forthwith. I will be taking over their training, in view of your singular lack of success in that regard."
The Professor slammed his clipboard down on a nearby table, as the young assistants goggled at the argument; they seemed to relish every moment of it.
"I've received no orders on this!" the scientist snapped. "I want confirmation from the General himself." Armitage strode towards the intercom terminal.
"I am afraid I cannot allow that," the Mentalist said, raising his hands above his head. He spat out a rapid, painfully-memorised sequence of syllables in a loud, high-pitched voice, and all movement in the room ceased, except for his own.
"Twenty years as a mage, without a single miscast," he muttered, satisfied at the outcome of the spell. The casting of this same spell on the previous night had cost him a considerable amount of energy, thanks to the presence of the two Questors; against six mere Seculars, it had proved easy.
Now came the more complex part. Perfuco lowered his voice to a deep, rumbling basso profundissimo, to enhance its effectiveness. "You may return to full awareness when I clap my hands twice," he began.
You have been told by the General to surrender the mages to me; all of you were present when this order was given. You are happy to do this," he said, adding with a smile, "due to your extreme, execrable incompetence."
Perfuco might have been Pacified, but he was not bereft of all initiative, since Quelgrum had not dared to tamper with the structure of his brain.
"You will not discuss this order with anybody, including the General himself, on pain of death. You will remember that the General has given you these orders in person; you will not question them, and you will not consider them at all unusual.
"You will take this subject back to the secure ward and sedate him," he said, indicating the comatose Questor lying on the gurney. "You will then return here, and remember only that you acted on General Quelgrum's direct, secret order. You will take no further action against the subjects, and you will say only that the conditioning is progressing well if anybody, including the General, asks you for details of the Pacification process; vile traitors may be listening."
Perfuco's brow furrowed. Now he had spoken them aloud, the General's orders no longer seemed as reasonable as they had. If Armitage really was a traitor, Quelgrum would have arrested him at gunpoint.
Why all this elaborate deception? he wondered.
His mind searched for a reasonable explanation for the bizarre orders, but his thinking was coloured by his enforced faith in the senior officer, and he supplied his own answer.
Of course! The General must be worried that Armitage has a coterie of spies and traitors at his command, and he wishes to flush them out by his own means. It would not do for the Professor to give away the game by acting in an odd manner. General Quelgrum is indeed a wise man, and it is not for me to guess his motives.
"You all trust me implicitly, as the General's faithful advisor," the magic-user said, now ad-libbing to his own advantage, "and you owe me homage only second to that which you owe him. You will report knowledge of any and all traitors within this compound to me in person, and you may do this whilst you are in this trance state, although you will remember nothing of having done so afterwards."
Perfuco felt a glow of pride at his initiative, and he waited for details of Armitage's beguiled agents to fall into his lap without any extra effort on his part, but only silence greeted him. Long moments passed, as the Professor and his acolytes stood mute and motionless.
This damned Technologist must have blocked such knowledge from his mind by some cursed, scientific means; no wonder the General is so suspicious of the man! The mage felt new respect at his employer's insight and ingenuity.
Realising that, with traitors to hunt, he could ill afford further magical expenditure on his mighty spell of Compulsion, Perfuco acknowledged partial defeat and clapped twice, after adding one, final remark.
"If you ever call me 'wizard' again, Armitage, you will suffer agonising pains in your entrails, which you will ascribe to your gluttonous diet. It will depart when you accord me my correct title of 'mage', or you address me as 'Colonel'."
After the mage clapped his hands, Armitage and his assistants blinked and shook their heads. Perfuco knew he had to fill the void in order to activate the Compulsion.
"So, if you would be so kind as to take this Questor back to the secure ward, Armitage, I will take charge of the prisoners," he said, as if making an arrangement with an old and trusted friend.
"Er, yes, that's right, wizard… OW!" Armitage doubled up, clutching his ample gut. His assistants appeared amused, rather than concerned, as awareness flooded into them.
"My title is 'Colonel', or 'mage', as I have told you, Professor Armitage," Perfuco said, in a soft voice. "Forget it at your peril."
With his sweaty face contorted in agony, Armitage gasped, "I'm sorry, mage."
In an instant, his face cleared, and he drew himself erect, puffing his cheeks out as he did so.
The Professor blinked, shook his head and cleared his throat. "I'm sorry about that, Colonel. Must have been something I ate; I must go on a diet, someday soon! Yes, that's quite in order. I've really lost my touch with these guys, so I'm only too happy to let a man of your competence take over."
He turned to one of his assistants. "Shemmur," he barked, "take the subject back to the secure ward, and get an IV into him; point-five percent Thorazine in saline; as usual."
"I heard the order well enough, Sir," the tech whined, grabbing the handles of the gurney. "I'm not deaf!"
"That's enough of your lip, sonny," Armitage snapped. "This is Colonel Perfuco, a senior officer. Try to show him you're some kind of soldier, even if you're not."
The boy let go of the trolley, and snapped into a pose of attention worthy of any parade ground, and he gave a perfect salute.
"Yes, Sir!" he shouted, looking straight at the mage. "I apologise for my insubordination, Sir!"
"Carry on, Private," Perfuco said, returning the salute and suppressing a smile. The boy stiffened even further under the Mentalist's stern gaze.
"Yes, Sir!" he cried, giving another flawless salute and clicking his heels. He even managed to make pushing the gurney look like a regulation parade-ground exercise, and the thaumaturge had to fight to keep his expression neutral.
It was nice to be in charge for a change!
Still, the mage had an important task to fulfil; he had traitors and renegades to unmask.
"Remember, Professor; not a word to anybody," he said, as he picked up his precious case. Noting a red gem on a silver chain on one of the tables, from which he sensed a heavy magical exudation, he picked it up, unopposed. His Mage Sight fastened onto the jewel, and he analysed it.
"Hmm… this is a gem of Missile Reversal, if I am not much mistaken," he said. "If you do not mind, Professor, I will take it with me."
"I don't mind at all, Colonel," Armitage said. "Feel free; it's no good to me."
Swift as a frightened rat, Thribble scuttled from the bag and regained the relative safety of the underside of the gurney.
After the trolley was wheeled into a white room, after a long journey, the imp noticed several occupied beds arrayed along the back wall, and no obvious exit; this must be his goal. As the private hoisted Grimm onto a bed with little ceremony, Thribble scuttled underneath. Agonising moments passed while the junior soldier fussed and fiddled around with straps and machines. The grey demon hunkered down, careful to avoid notice.
After what seemed like an age, the gangly youth finished his administrations, and he sauntered out of the room, swinging the empty gurney from side to side as if it were a dancing partner. Thribble was alone with a group of five drugged humans, with no idea of how to proceed. Once he was certain that no intrusion was likely, and that there were no guards present, he clambered up onto Grimm's bed, searching for the 'ivy' of which he had heard.
There was no horticulture in evidence, but the demon saw a clear, flexible tube that seemed to be inserted into Grimm's elbow, just after a leather strap. The tube ran up to a bottle held on a rack. The flask was full of what looked like water, but Thribble guessed that this must be the 'Thor scene', of which he had heard Armitage speak. He had no idea of what this substance might be, but he guessed it was the cause of Grimm's continuing torpor.
The demon drew the tube from the young mage's arm, revealing a shining, silver needle. The tube came free with a slight plop, releasing a little blood, and fell to the floor. Thribble knew he would not have long to act. He waited until the young Questor's eyelids began to flicker, and then he began to speak, not knowing if his human friend would hear him or not.
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