Grimm awoke early with a pounding head and a sore throat. He felt a little disorientated, and several moments passed before he remembered the reason for his discomfort. He felt a smile spreading across his face as he remembered the previous night's entertainment in the Pit. He had cheered and yelled with the best of them and had even made a considerable amount of money even after repaying Guy, thanks to Crest and Harvel's gambling acumen.
Still smiling, despite the hammer-blows resounding in his skull, he opened his eyes to see Thribble sitting on the small table beside the four-poster bed.
"Good morning, mortal." The grey imp's brows were knitted in perplexity.
"Good morning, Thribble. What's the matter?"
"You did not use to smile like this all the time. I cannot imagine why the sight of two humans battering each other should enthuse you so."
"It was sport, Thribble." Grimm stretched in an attempt to relieve the tight knots in his shoulders. "A contest of strength, skill, endurance and willpower: two athletes at the peak of physical perfection, each testing himself to the limit. It was a measure of the nobility of the human spirit."
"Is that why you cheered loudest when the men were visibly hurt, human? You looked like a hound baying for blood."
Grimm took a deep breath, and he felt his aches fading like dreams. At any other time, he might have felt hurt by the minuscule demon's assessment of him, but not now. He felt too cheerful to be dented by mere words.
"It's a human thing. You wouldn't understand," he said, sitting upright in bed.
Nonetheless, Grimm could tell the imp was still far from satisfied.
"All right, Thribble; out with it. What's bothering you?"
"I think you are under some sort of spell, like the one that witch cast on you at High Lodge. Your behaviour seems irregular and aberrant, and I find it more disturbing than amusing."
Grimm laughed at the sight of Thribble's sullen pout and hooded eyes. "All right, my suspicious friend. If it makes you happy, I'll check myself out. Redeemer!"
Thribble ducked as the staff flew into Grimm's hand, barely missing the demon.
During his last stay at Crar, Grimm had spent a considerable amount of time in imbuing Redeemer with several Minor Magic spells. He felt confident that he would be able to tell with ease if his mind was being controlled by another. He also knew that the food and drink he had taken at the Mansion House had not been poisoned or drugged; he had been loaned a dedicated magical charm, which would glow a virulent red in the presence of such substances. The charm had remained quiescent throughout his stay.
The mage shut his eyes and accessed the power within the staff; his Mage Sight visualised this action as leafing through the pages of a great book. He had not used Redeemer in this manner before, and he felt considerable pleasure at the convincing illusion.
Light, Heat, Cold… he thought, as his mental hand riffled through the pages. Ah, Spell Incursion; that's the one!
This spell would inform him if any Compulsion or Geas might be acting upon him, including the subtler Geomantic forms used by witches. If he had had this spell when he met Madeleine, he would not be here in Yoren now.
Grimm needed only a pinch of power to activate the magic, and he felt it take hold. He sat, motionless, for a few moments while the spell did its work. At the end of this time, he heard a clear, crystal chime in his head, rather than the insistent gong that would have indicated foul play.
"I'm clean, Thribble," he said, regaining his happy smile. "There are no drugs, poisons, trances or spells acting upon me. There's nothing in my body that shouldn't be there."
"Is there the possibility that you are labouring under a spell giving the illusion that nothing is wrong?" asked the imp, his face still a mask of worry.
"Not a chance, my netherworld friend. A potent Compulsion might have persuaded me not to access the spell at all, but the result cannot be perverted by internal magical influences. My will is my own, I'm afraid. For the last time: I'm just happy. Can't you just accept that?"
"I suppose so." The demon shrugged. "But it still bothers me."
"Now, Thribble, if you'd be kind enough as to excuse me, I've got to get ready for breakfast. I'm absolutely ravenous."
"I couldn't eat another thing." Harvel groaned as he loosened his belt buckle a couple of notches. "That was just so good!"
Grimm nodded, stifling a belch. For almost all of his life, he had been at the beck and call of bells, yells and duty. Here, in the spacious, well-lit restaurant at the Mansion House with his friends, he felt utterly at peace.
Rich, mahogany panelling highlighted the plush red carpet, and each table had a tasteful bouquet of flowers in its centre. Grimm admired the gentle twinkling of light in the crystal chandeliers that cast a warm glow on the restaurant, making it seem intimate and relaxing. High Lodge might have been opulent, but it had an austere, formal ambience that spoiled the full effect.
A rich man could happily spend the rest of his days in Mansion House, Grimm thought, and it appeared that the other guests shared this sentiment. Seven other tables were occupied, the groups of people at each ranging from a single man to a group of five men and five women; all of them wore happy smiles, and Grimm heard frequent bursts of laughter from the groups of guests.
He looked at the rest of his companions: Crest; Numal; Guy; Tordun; and Quelgrum. Each bore a similar look of contentment on his face, and Grimm felt an upsurge of fraternal love for his fellow men… or, perhaps, it was just a gastric reminder of the splendid meal he had just eaten.
"It's a shame we'll have to leave here tomorrow," Crest said, "just as I was getting used to the high life."
"Can't be helped," Grimm replied with a deep sigh. "We have a job to do."
"Still, there's always the Pit tonight," Quelgrum said, his expression eager, almost juvenile. "If it's anything like last night, we're in for a treat."
Guy nodded, lounged back in his chair and patted his belly.
"I might even join you tonight," Numal declared, "if it's as exciting as you say."
"It is," Tordun said with a vehement nod. "I wouldn't miss it for the world. It'll be almost a shame to go back on the road."
A long silence ensued as Grimm and his companions stared at their empty plates, their faces long and dolorous.
"It can't be helped," the young Questor repeated, trying to rouse the faint sense of duty within him. "We'll have to leave once we've talked to Mr. Chudel. He should, at least, be able to give us some idea of where Lizaveta's Priory is."
He smiled. "However, there's nothing to say that we can't enjoy ourselves while we're here!"
A chorus of good-natured cheers answered him, and Grimm vowed to make this stay one to remember. He opened his mouth again, but shut it as he saw a tall, bald-headed man walking towards the table. There was no doubt that the spectacle-covered eyes were fixed on him and his companions.
"Good morning, gentlemen," said the slender, hook-nosed man. "I trust you are enjoying your stay at Mansion House?"
"It's a marvellous place," Grimm said, echoed by his friends.
"Good, good." The bald man looked as if such news was a genuine pleasure to him, and Grimm warmed to him.
"My name is Keller Shampat; I run the Pit entertainments. Please call me Keller. Do you mind if I join you?"
"There's an open chair right here," Tordun said. "I'm sure we're all pleased to meet you, Keller."
"Thank you, gentlemen." Keller eased himself into the empty chair with a graceful, cat-like motion, and eyed each man in turn. "I saw most of you at the Pit last night, and you seemed to enjoy it."
Harvel nodded, his eyes wide. "We certainly did, Keller! That was a magnificent spectacle." The rest of the party nodded in agreement.
"I'm glad to hear it, good sirs. The Pit is a major source of revenue for Mansion House, and we pride ourselves on providing quality sporting entertainment."
"You need have no fears on that score, Keller," Tordun said. "Your fighters are a credit to you. I was particularly impressed by the way some of the losers fought, even after they realised they were going to lose. Dedication, stamina and heart are essential qualities for any pugilist, and those men had them in abundance."
Keller smiled. "That's why I wanted to talk to you, sir. You're Tordun, the White Titan of Gallorley, aren't you? I saw you fight about five years ago, and I've never forgotten it. I wondered if you would be prepared to join us?
"You'd find it well worth your while. Have no fear on that score," the Pit manager said quickly, as Tordun shook his head.
"That's not the issue," the albino replied. "I've retired from the ring, and I have no intention of going back to that life. I have all the work I need as a bodyguard and hired warrior, thank you.
"Now I am simply Tordun, at your service."
Keller sighed. "A pity, such a pity… The pugilistic world will be the worse for your retirement."
"Can't be helped." Tordun's brow furrowed in puzzlement, as if he had said something wrong.
Keller leaned forward, his eyes glittering behind the round, steel-rimmed spectacles. "An old friend was asking after you, Tordun," he said in an almost conspiratorial voice. "His fighting name is Shugar, the Anvil-fisted Avenger. He remembers you very well."
"I remember him, too, when the weather changes, Keller." Tordun smiled, massaging his right wrist. "He fought well last night; his opponent was spirited enough, but quite outclassed."
"Shugar would love to face you again," the Pit-man said. "He says he hasn't had a decent bout since he faced you; how about a single bout, tonight, just for old times' sake?"
Tordun flicked his eyes first at Grimm, then at Quelgrum. "I'd love to, Keller," he said.
Keller's expression brightened.
"But I can't. I have a job at the moment, and I can't afford to risk being crippled for the sake of a grudge match. I'm sorry, Keller; I do feel very flattered, but I'll have to refuse your offer, much though I'd love to accept."
"That's a shame, Tordun." Keller sighed as if this was the saddest thing he had ever heard. "Still, I suppose it can't be helped. Is there any reason why you can't come to meet Shugar and the other fighters in the Pit gymnasium this morning? Several of the boys have heard of you, and I'm sure they'd love the chance to meet a living legend."
Tordun laughed. "It might be stretching it a little far to call me a 'living legend', Keller, but I'd be happy to chew the fat with your boys for a while. As I said, they're a credit to you."
"Then that's settled!" Keller clapped his hands in evident pleasure. "As for tonight… would you gentlemen care to view tonight's Pit action from the best seats in the house, high above the stadium? As friends of Tordun, the White… of Master Tordun, that is, you'd all be honoured guests and be able to watch the fights in comfort. No queuing, no payment expected. It's my treat, gentlemen."
Grimm's heart leapt at the offer, but he could not ignore a sharp pang of conscience that jabbed his heart. His intention had been to leave Mansion House as soon as he had talked to Mr. Chudel, and he cast an anxious look at Quelgrum.
"What do you think, General? Should we stay another night, or leave today?" Although he took care to keep his tone neutral and serious, as if he felt equally happy with either option, he found himself hoping that Quelgrum would vote for the latter. He did not want to be the one to make this choice.
Quelgrum shrugged. "What difference will a few hours more make? I vote we stay tonight, and start out fresh in the morning."
To Grimm's immense relief, the other members of the team chimed in with an enthusiastic, almost school-boyish chorus of approval. "That seems unanimous," he said, relieved to be freed of the real decision to stay. "Who am I to argue? We can afford to stay one more night-after all, Mr. Chudel hasn't arrived yet."
"Excellent!" Keller said, rising to his feet. "Well, Tordun, the fighters have a busy schedule ahead of them. Wouldn't you prefer to come down to the gym while they're still loosening up for their main exercises?"
Tordun levered himself out of his chair. "That sounds good to me," he declared. "I'll see you later, gentlemen."
"What do we do for the rest of the day?" Guy asked, smoothing his hair back over his pate. "Shall we go for a walk outside? The grounds seem magnificent."
"Better not," Grimm said, clinging on to the shreds of his sense of duty. "We'd better hang around until this Chudel person comes back; he's got to be a busy man, and he may be difficult to contact once he's stuck into his duties. Besides, it's pleasant enough here, isn't it? Nobody else here seems to want to go outside."
"Well, I suppose so," Guy sighed, although Grimm could see that his expression was far from downcast. "Still, I had hoped to make a little more of this holiday than this."
"It's not a holiday," Numal said, with a rather pompous, pious expression on his face. "It's a Quest."
Guy opened his mouth to speak, but Grimm interrupted him. "Numal's right, Guy; perhaps we can come back here afterwards and really enjoy ourselves, but we're not on our own time at the moment."
Grimm half-expected an argument from the older Questor, but none came.
"I can't argue with that, Dragonblaster. Can't be helped, I suppose."
"That's right, Guy. It can't be helped," Quelgrum said.
Why do we all keep coming back to that phrase? Grimm wondered.
The words seemed almost like a devotional response; a mantra, a coda, a password. They reminded the young Questor of a resonance in a spell, where a mage became trapped in an incantation from which he could not escape; a single thought, chant or intent echoing in his head with ever-increasing intensity. Nonetheless, he knew that no magic was acting upon him, and that no poisons or drugs were in his system. He took a deep breath of the gently perfumed air and smiled.
We're just so relaxed and cheerful that we're lapsing into easy cliches, he told himself. There's no need to read some sinister bloody influence into every situation, Afelnor. We're not drugged or hexed; we're just happy!
"The bar's right next to the reception area," Crest said, beaming. "What do you say to the idea of an early morning drink?"
"Have you seen the prices here, elf-boy?" Harvel said. "At those rates, we'll be bankrupt before the morning's out!"
Grimm felt the gentle, tickling burn of nascent tears at his eyelids. These were such simple people; such honest people; such decent people! He would feel like a churl to spurn such sterling company.
"Don't worry, friends; I'll pay!" he said, burning with bonhomie and good humour. "Let's make the most of our time here while we have it!"
"It's a shame Tordun's not with us," Numal said, and Grimm shrugged.
"Can't be helped," he said, and then clapped a hand over his mouth as if he had committed some solecism.
Quelgrum started the laughter, quickly joined by Harvel and Guy. Crest sat for a few moments, his face reddening, and then burst into tearful guffaws, after which Numal exploded into a bloated, teary, puce-faced tirade of glee.
"Did I say something wrong?" Grimm felt more than happy to play along with the humorous melee. "Oh, well, I suppose it can't be helped."
He tried to keep his face placid and open, but he could not resist the itch any longer. He laughed, over and over again, until hot tears burned their way down his aching cheeks, the sensation intensified by the sound of booming laughter from guests at other tables, who could not even have heard what had caused this merriment.
Could any place be better than this? he wondered. As he eyed the hysterical groups of people sitting around the restaurant, he knew the answer. All of these people were good, worthy souls, with whom he felt an unaccustomed spirit of community.
He rose to his feet. "The drinks are on me, everybody!" he shouted, his heart almost bursting with fullness. "All day!"
The raucous chorus of appreciative cheers that greeted this announcement filled Grimm's heart. The shade of Magemaster Crohn seemed to hover over him, wagging a censorious finger, but he dismissed the vision with a single effort of will. He felt determined to savour his momentary popularity to the full.
"Drink! Drink! Drink!" he shouted, dancing like a pagan festival spirit. "It's all on me!"
Thribble, sitting in the Questor's pocket, felt a horrified stab of lightning run through him at his human friend's bizarre and uncharacteristic behaviour. Despite Grimm's protestations, he knew that the mage must be possessed by some sort of compulsion. This was not the young mortal he had come to know and respect. While all around him guffawed and cackled, the demon slid to the ground, using Grimm's robe as a break-fall. This man, Keller, seemed to be a dangerous influence, and the imp decided to follow the Pit-master as he walked away with a strange smile on his face.
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