"Aren't you going to introduce me to your companion?" Guy asked, as if the three mages were attending some society party instead of standing in a dank tomb.
"Er… Questor Guy, this is Necromancer Numal," Grimm said, feeling quite out of his depth. "Numal, this is Questor Guy from Eron House, called the Great Flame."
"I'm pleased to meet you, Necromancer Numal."
The imperturbable older Questor extended his hand, but Numal's face wore a blank, pale mask of shock, and he did not respond. The pale luminescence of his spell of Illumination guttered and died, but the group was not plunged into darkness.
"Illumination is a vitally useful spell to cast on one's staff," Guy drawled. "I'm surprised a Questor of the Sixth Rank didn't have the same idea. War-maker, here, has a score of useful Minor Magics cast on her. Light, heat, minor wards, dowsing…"
Grimm realised that, despite his two arduous Quests, he was still a relative tyro in his craft. The only spells he had placed on Redeemer were for the relief of intoxication, and he now recognised the ability of a mage's staff to become a receptacle for a multitude of enchantments, enhancing his potency as a Questor.
"So, just what are you doing here, Questor Grimm? Your friend doesn't seem much use for whatever it is. He looks like a bit of a weak reed to me. If you're thinking of going up against dear old Grandma, you're going the wrong way about it."
Guy's sneering tone raised Grimm's hackles, and he spoke before he realised the full import of the Questor's words.
"Just who do you think you are, Guy Great Flame?" he snarled. "You walk around as if… what did you say?"
"Grandma: it's a vernacular term for a parent's distaff progenitor. I'm sure you've heard the term before. Dear, sweet, virginal Prioress Lizaveta is my grandmother."
"Lizaveta is your grandmother?" Grimm felt too stunned to say anything more profound.
"Give that boy a prize!" Guy laughed. "With a sharp mind like that, you'll have your seventh ring within a week, youngster."
"What makes you think we want anything to do with Prioress Lizaveta?" Grimm blustered, hardly able to think.
"This is hardly a congenial, cheerful gathering-place for bored mages, now, is it?" Guy seemed to be enjoying himself. "For the record, I've only discovered my relationship with the hag in the last few months, and I hate the wizened, raddled old bitch with all my heart and soul."
"Why?" The younger Questor's mind was racing, but he found himself unable to elicit a more cogent response.
Guy leaned back against the altar stone, crossing his arms and legs in a nonchalant manner. "The child speaks! 'Why?', it says! I suppose you just want to pay heartfelt homage to the old cow. Perhaps I'm wrong; perhaps you were just looking for a convivial little soiree with your pathetic little friend, and you just happened upon this pleasant picnic spot. Come on, Questor Grimm, surely you can do better than that."
Grimm did not trust Guy in the least, and he felt unwilling to reveal his true purpose in the crypt to this mercurial fop. He saw the older mage's eyes roll and guessed that Guy had noticed the mistrust in his expression.
"All right, Grimm," Guy said, sighing. "A little act of faith: I hate Lizaveta, and I'd like to kill her. If you can remember how, use your Mage Sight on me and tell me I'm lying; I dare you!
"They do teach you toddlers how to do Mage Sight these days, I suppose? Go on, I won't hurt you, I promise."
Trying to control his fury at Guy's ever-present sarcasm, Grimm unfocused his eyes and used his Sight on the mage. He saw indications of slyness, shiftiness and unreliability in Guy's aura, yet none of them pertained to his statement concerning the Prioress; Guy had spoken what he regarded as the absolute, literal truth in this respect. Grimm's entrails squirmed with doubt, but he decided to tell the haughty mage the true reason for his incursion into the crypt. It would be a relief to tell someone else of his secret.
"Very well, Questor Guy: I also seek the downfall of Lizaveta and her Order. I'm on a secret Quest to seek out evidence of any wrongdoing on their part, and to report back to my House Prelate. When I was last here, a nun of the Order tried to beguile me by using Geomancy to take control of my emotions. When I managed to break free from her influence, I accepted her explanation that it had only been some prank but, later that night, it seems I travelled on the astral plane to this place, and I saw Lizaveta and a group of other nuns butcher her battered body and drink her blood. I gather that my breaking free of her spell constituted a failure on her part. Perhaps Prioress Lizaveta had other plans for me, and Madeleine's actions were somehow a part of this scheme. I brought Necromancer Numal with me, hoping he'd find some trace of murder or bloodshed here, so we could amass some concrete evidence to take back to Lord Thorn."
"You're honoured, Grimm," Guy said, whistling. "As far as I can tell, the old hag's pretty selective about her pets. Bravo, youngster."
The older Questor sat on the altar stone and made an ostentatious show of inspecting his immaculate fingernails for a few seconds.
"I've been on the trail of dear Grandma for months now," he said, "and I've seen her sneak down here on occasion. I got it into my head that she had treasure stashed here, and that's what I was looking for. I thought I could hurt her that way. Your way seems a bit more promising."
"Why do you hate her so much?" Grimm asked, leaning on Redeemer. "You already know my reasons, so you have the advantage over me."
"Well, I suppose it won't do any harm to tell you," the older Questor said. "You seem a simple enough lad, blacksmith's boy and, if anyone should ask, I'll just deny I was ever here."
He shuffled on the angular stone and grimaced. "This place was never built for comfort, I must say.
"Well, I don't remember anything of my parents; I was brought up by my uncle Gerilon. He was a rich merchant, and I went to a good elementary school. Still, he was as stingy as they come in other respects, liberal with his strap and the back of his hand. When I was seven, he couldn't wait to get rid of me, and he sent me to Eron House. I assumed I'd be well provided for, but the crabby old bastard sent me there as a charity case. Then there was the bloody Ordeal; even you know how that goes, I imagine."
Grimm nodded. If Guy's Ordeal had been even a tenth as severe as his, then he could not help but feel a certain amount of sympathy for the man.
"If there was one thing that sustained me through my time in the Eron Scholasticate, it was my hatred of Gerilon. The tight-fisted old get had piles of cash, and yet he let me slum it out as a bloody charity case."
Grimm saw Guy's hands clenched tight, the knuckles bone-white, his face contorted in an expression of pure rage. The young mage felt no need to access his Mage Sight to confirm the truth of Guy's muttered, angry words.
Guy continued. "Last year, I found out my parents aren't actually dead. I still don't know who they are, but I do know my father is some high-ranking mage in a major House, not some squalid little backwater like Eron. For all I know, he's here at High Lodge, maybe a member of the damned Presidium. It seems I was the regrettable by-product of some little drunken dalliance he had with some serving wench and, of course, he wouldn't want to admit that, would he? His mother was, or is, Prioress Lizaveta. She is the only member of my real family whose identity I know, and I hate her for hiding the truth from me. And for letting me freeze in a clammy cell as a charity boy."
Grimm decided he did not want to find out how Guy had discovered the information; he had the unpleasant feeling it might well have involved the direct, and possibly brutal, interrogation of the hapless Gerilon.
"Still, that's enough of happy family memories," Guy said, hopping off his uncomfortable, unyielding perch. "What do you say we wake up Grandfather, here, and get on with it?"
Grimm had all but forgotten Numal. He turned towards the pathetic mage, who was hunched over his staff, his bottom lip trembling and his eyes distant.
"Necromancer Numal!" Grimm called, as loudly as he dared. "Wake up!"
Guy pushed past the younger Questor. "Allow me, youngster." Towering over the catatonic thaumaturge, he gave Numal a stinging slap on the right cheek. "Hey, old man, you have a job to do, or had you forgotten? It's time to go to work!"
The Necromancer's hand flew to his cheek. "You hit me," he said in a plaintive, child-like voice.
"Give the man a cigar!" Guy said. "So there is someone hiding in that pathetic sack of flesh, after all!"
"He hit me, Grimm…"
"Come on, man! Wake up, will you?" Grimm felt near the end of his tether. "Our Guild may be in danger, and you have a sworn oath to fulfil!"
"All right," muttered Numal, caressing his face. "Just don't strike me again."
Grimm could see Guy's face contorting into a contemptuous sneer, as the older Questor raised his staff in a threatening manner.
"All right, all right," Numal said, waving his hands. "I'm sorry about that. I'll do it."
The Necromancer sank to his knees, planted his hands on the rusty-coloured depression in front of the altar and shut his eyes. A monotonous, rhythmic chant rose from his lips, and Grimm saw a faint, blue coruscation playing around Numal's splayed, trembling fingertips.
Despite the Necromancer's funk, the droning incantation sounded flawless to Grimm's ears, and the Questor moved closer to Guy as Numal continued to chant.
"Supposing Lizaveta comes here and finds us, Questor Guy? Do you have any plan of action in that case?"
Guy rolled his eyes in a mockery of self-condemnation. "Ah, here's a man who's made careful plans!
"Do you really think I'd come down here if I didn't know the old witch was otherwise occupied? I know full well she's in conference with that old fool, Horin, at this very moment. I have some spies here; they don't know it, but they're acting for me. For some reason, dear Grandma fancies him, and she goes to see him at the same time every week. We won't be interrupted."
She's probably just sinking her claws deeper into Dominie Horin, Grimm thought. This is worse than I thought.
"Don't you feel any loyalty for the Guild, Guy? Don't you realise she's probably trying to draw Horin further into her influence?"
"Oh, of course, I never thought of that," Guy said, slapping his hand onto his brow again. "How I envy you these inspired intellectual insights.
"Oh, look. I do believe Granddad's finished doing his Necromancer bit."
Grimm saw Numal had risen to his feet and was wiping his hands on his black robes.
Guy stood with his hands on his hips. "Well, old man? Found anything?"
Numal nodded. "There's been a lot of death here. Violent death. I heard at least five anguished souls crying out for vengeance."
"Did you manage to identify any of them, Numal?" Grimm asked, breathless. "Did they say anything?"
The Necromancer shrugged. "I don't know how to interpret dead-speech yet. When I do, I'll be eligible for the Second Rank."
Guy snorted in contempt, turning his back on Numal. "You can't do a whole lot, can you, old-timer?"
Grimm sighed. "Numal, we're in a crypt: there are coffins all round the room. If you don't understand what these souls are saying, how do you know for certain you're not hearing their occupants?"
"Please, Grimm, do give me some credit," the Necromancer snapped, seeming more confident now. "What I did was to locate and follow the silver cords of those who had either died here, or who had been here shortly after their deaths. I told you about silver cords back at Arnor. The astral plane is a four-dimensional construct stretching through space-time, leaving a trace in every three-dimensional location that the body's been in after death. After a few weeks, the cord snaps back to the soul, and what we call the 'prompt mortal sign' disappears. I wouldn't have been able to find any trace of the owners of these old coffins. The signs I found had to be recent, even if I couldn't understand what the souls were saying. At least five people have died violently here recently, or their bodies were here shortly after they died."
"It's not much to go on, is it?" Guy said. "It's hardly a damning, earth-shattering discovery."
Grimm shook his head. "Questor Guy's right, Numal. It is a bit thin. Is there anything else you can do?"
The Necromancer scratched his nose. "Like what?"
"Well, I don't know," confessed Grimm. "Can you tell if any of them actually died here, for example?"
"Not with any certainty."
"You two are about as much use as a sundial in a coal mine," Guy said. "I think I'll go back to what I was doing before you barged in. There must be something valuable in here, something Lizaveta wants to keep secret."
He moved over to the altar and began to examine it in minute detail, presumably hunting for hidden catches or hinges.
"I'm sorry, Grimm," the hapless Necromancer whispered, but Grimm was no longer listening. Something about what Guy said had begun to buzz in his mind like a restless fly.
"Why here?" he muttered.
"What do you mean, 'why here?'" Guy snorted as he searched. "She's not likely to start sacrificing people in the middle of the Great Hall, is she?"
Grimm frowned, trying to force understanding from his brain. "I mean, why right here? It's in the exact geometric centre of the Lodge, as far as I can tell. Any other crypt would do just as well. And why sacrifice people at all?"
The kneeling Guy faced Grimm and rolled his eyes. "Isn't it obvious, smithy boy? This is the Lodge's innermost crypt, so nobody's likely to find it by accident. As for sacrifices, some of these religious types have weird beliefs.
"You do ask some asinine questions. It's a wonder to me you were ever accepted as a Student, let alone Acclaimed. Please don't hesitate to shove off whenever the fancy takes you."
With a despairing toss of his head, the older Questor returned to his search.
There was… something I read in one of the Lodge books: something about a 'base of power'. Witches need something to anchor them to a place, so they can draw power from the earth. Localising the field of influence can concentrate it, if there's some deep tie to the area, like a tree, or a monument.
"The location's important, Guy," Grimm said, his voice burning with intensity. "It's more than just a nice, secret cubby-hole. This is how she's able to exert her maximum control, and she'd need it if she was trying to influence a powerful mage like Horin. There's more than religious mumbo-jumbo at work here. Geomancy is an art, just like sorcery, and it has its own rules and requirements."
Guy did not respond, having turned his attention to Lizaveta's throne. "Aha! Just as I thought!" he crowed, reaching under the lip of the cushioned seat.
Grimm heard a distinct click, as a grinning Guy swung the seat upwards.
"This must be where she keeps her treasure!"
"It looks more like old rags to me, Questor Guy," Numal said.
Guy stared down at the cavity he had opened, and Grimm saw the Necromancer had been correct in his observation. The older Questor frowned, scrabbling through the scraps of cloth as if hoping to find untold wealth beneath. At last, he stood up, his forehead lined with puzzlement.
"That's all it is: just old rags and bones," Guy grumbled, letting the fragments fall. "What in Perdition does the old cow want them for?"
Grimm smiled: he was beginning to think he had the answer.
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