Grimm was pacing back and forth in the Great Hall long before Dalquist arrived. Despite lying on his bed since mid-afternoon on the previous day, he had only managed a miserable couple of hours' sleep. Inchoate, formless worries provoked by sight of the faded note he had found in the Library buzzed and wheeled like a swarm of angry hornets in the inner recesses of his brain and in his stomach, leading nowhere but refusing to leave him.
He had been sorely tempted to take some a deep draught of the Trina herb that he always carried, but he dulled the urge by smoking a prodigious amount of tobacco.
Focus, Grimm,' he thought, trying, yet again, to exercise rational control over these nameless worries. If it hadn't been for that monster Starmor playing with your mind, you wouldn't have given that damn note a second thought. Remember what Dalquist told you; there are all too many opportunities to fool yourself in this world. Don't rush to grasp them.
All he wanted was to be on his way down the road, to allow new sights and new experiences to wash these amorphous misgivings from his head. Pacing up and down the length of the hall had not helped in the least.
At last, his fellow Questor arrived, also a little bleary-eyed.
"Ah, Grimm, I guess you were too excited to sleep," Dalquist said, yawning. "So was I; a trip to High Lodge is a rare experience. Still, the carriage should be here shortly. Shall we wait outside? It looks like it's going to be a lovely morning."
Grimm nodded. Perhaps a change of scenery and some idle chitchat would be all he needed to clear his thoughts. Picking up an expensive leather travelling-bag, another example of the Crarian artisans' fine craftsmanship, he followed Dalquist to the door, which opened, as usual, to a simple gesture of the older Questor's ring-bearing hand.
Stepping outside, Grimm took a deep breath of the cool, sweet morning air and surveyed the hillside. A green swathe of evergreens slanted down the cool, misty hillside into the village of Arnor, and he could see some early tendrils of smoke rising from a few tiny, far-away domiciles. Perhaps one of these represented a smith like Loras, starting up his furnace, ready for the day's trade…
The familiar image of his dungaree-clad grandfather with his patched clothes and leather apron, stepping into the morning mist to open the smithy, comforted Grimm, easing the roiling worries in his head.
"May I ask what you're thinking about, Grimm?"
Grimm smiled. "I was just thinking about the early morning at the old smithy back home in Lower Frunstock, Dalquist," he said. "I never noticed the little town down there before, you know. It's a pleasant little vista."
Dalquist shrugged. "I came from Shadauk, myself. I'm city born and bred, even if I have spent nearly all my life here. I don't really like the countryside."
Grimm swept his hand to indicate the rolling expanse of greenery. "How can you not appreciate this, Dalquist? Just smell this bracing morning air!"
"It smells the same as it ever did to me, Grimm. I think it's a little late in my life to try to turn me into a poet, or a dreamer. Ah, here's the carriage."
A small, squat vehicle approached, drawn by two chestnut horses. The paintwork was a little faded, but Grimm could see that the carriage had, in better days, been a magnificent conveyance. Chipped, wine-red paint and gold coach-lines adorned the vehicle's sides, and dark-green wheels rolled beneath it. The driver climbed down to open the door, and he took the mages' bags for stowage on the carriage roof.
The driver was a small man, maybe five feet, five inches in height, with slightly bowed legs, a flat cap over greasy grey hair and a berry-brown, wind-chapped face that spoke of many years on the open road. Nonetheless, despite his diminutive stature, the driver handled the bags with almost contemptuous ease, taking the handles of both in one hand as he hauled himself back up onto the carriage.
"Lovely mornin', innit, gennelmen?" he cried in an almost melodic voice. "Welcome on board Ginny; 'least that's what I calls her."
"A lovely morning, indeed," Grimm called, climbing on board, adding politely, "a beautiful conveyance you have here, too, driver."
"Thank'ee, Sir Wizard. I've 'ad 'er nigh on twenny-five year now. Cally, me name is, sir. Cally Furman."
"I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Driver Cally," Dalquist called from the interior of the carriage. "I am Questor Dalquist, and my companion is Questor Grimm. We wish to travel to High Lodge in Zhure. I trust that you know the way?"
Cally snorted. "Been takin' wizards from 'ere to there for long enough now, gents. I should jest about think Ginny could take 'erself there, without me drivin' her."
Dalquist called back, "I would appreciate it if you called us 'mages', Cally, rather than 'wizards'. And I think we would both feel a lot happier if you stayed at the reins, too, if you do not mind."
"Sorry 'bout that, Lord Mage. I'll 'ang on tight then, shall I? 'Ere we go."
Cally made a clicking sound and shook the reins, and the blinkered horses began to trot down the mountain slope.
"You didn't have to be mean to the driver, Dalquist," Grimm objected, "he was just making friendly conversation."
He felt that his friend had been a little unfair to a simple man who was just trying to be pleasant.
"I wasn't doing it to be mean," his companion replied. "I think you'll find that Cally knew well enough that the word was 'mage'. He was just testing me, to see if I'd correct him. One thing you have to be on your guard against is getting too friendly with Seculars. They may seem perfectly amicable and pleasant, or they may be seeing how far they can go with you, how far they can push you. That is what our friend, Cally, was trying to do.
"If you rise to his kind of bait, word soon gets around. Before you know it, you gain a reputation as an amiable, easy-going, timid little mouse.
"Remember: being a Mage Questor isn't about winning a popularity contest, Grimm. It's about projecting the right image. Would you have been able to carry off that little exercise in the Broken Bottle if you'd been laughing and joking with that clumsy drunkard a few moments before? No, either you'd have ended up in another fight, and you'd probably have had to kill him, or you'd have had to back down and sully the image of Questors everywhere. I was pleased about the way you handled the incident, Grimm, but you can't always tell who the troublemakers are at first sight. Some are just feeling their way, seeing how far they can go. You have to assume that all Seculars are a little like that."
Dalquist folded his arms and looked straight at Grimm.
"I only said that there was no need to be mean to Cally," the younger man said mildly, "I don't think a little politeness hurts."
"Politeness, yes," Dalquist said, "but Cally had just issued a challenge; just a little one, but a challenge nonetheless. Trust me on this, Grimm. You don't have to be unfriendly or brusque all the time, but you can't afford to get too close."
"There's shades on the winders if the sunlight's a bit too bright fer ye, Lord Mages," Cally carolled.
"Thank you, Cally. It is a little bright, at that," Dalquist called back, pulling down one of the window blinds.
"You see," the senior mage said. "You can bet that he won't once forget that 'mage' title now. He knew it all the time, of course."
Grimm shrugged and turned to watch the passing scenery. He remained unconvinced by what Dalquist had said, but he could see that any indication of weakness in a Questor might lead to a reputation as a weakling. It might be nice to be popular, Grimm decided, but, given the choice, he would still prefer to be a Mage Questor.
Grimm had been overwhelmed by the grandeur and size of Arnor House when he first arrived there as a cold, wet, nervous child of seven. After nine years, even the mighty House seemed commonplace and unremarkable to him. Nonetheless, he felt stunned by his first sight of High Lodge. The entire, massive structure seemed to be made of lambent marble and gold, and it gleamed and glowed in the bright post-noon sun, standing proud, isolated on a hill.
The main structure was surrounded by what appeared to be a low wall, but, as the carriage drew closer, Grimm realised that the wall was around forty feet in height. Four vast white towers thrust proudly into the sky from the corners of the main keep, and an even taller cupola rose from the centre, swelling at the top like the cap of some enormous mushroom. The square protective wall leaned outwards, and an impressive array of castellations, archery-ports and trebuchets showed that this was a fortress and not an exercise in creative architecture; every bizarre feature seemed now to have purpose and meaning.
Around the periphery of the wall, perhaps twenty feet up, Grimm saw what appeared to be the spokes of some giant wheel; perhaps some kind of structure to support a huge sun canopy? On closer inspection, he realised that this was a structure to prevent the use of scaling ladders and the close approach of siege engines.
The spokes seemed too slender to support a man's weight, but the interaction of opposed forces ensured the rigidity of the structure. Grimm could hardly believe that mere mortals could have built such a fantastic, unworldly edifice.
Dalquist leaned over towards Grimm. "Impressive, isn't it? By the way, I'd advise you to close your mouth, unless you want to catch flies."
Grimm's mouth closed with a click; he was not aware that he had been gaping.
The carriage drew up to the main gate. Cally turned round to face the two Questors and knuckled his forehead.
"Here y'are, gen'lemen. If it's all right wi' ye, I'll be going into town for me lunch-me stomach thinks me throat's been cut."
Dalquist nodded. "Thank you, Cally; that will be all for now. We shall need you again at dawn, in three days' time."
He handed the man a silver coin.
"Thank'ee kindly, sir, thass very generous of ye. I allas said you mage types was real gents."
They stepped down from the carriage, and Grimm had to crane his neck to see the top of the central tower. High Lodge was truly immense! Cally handed them their bags and moved off, tossing the silver coin in the air, catching it with ease and whistling merrily.
The gate was a large arch, fifteen feet in height, with two raised portcullises about eight feet apart, with two muscular guards with halberds at each one, to whom Dalquist merely showed his Guild ring, and Grimm did likewise. The guards motioned the mages through to… pandemonium!
The Great Hall at Arnor House was large enough for at least two hundred people, but it was often, indeed usually, deserted. The hall at High Lodge was a hive of activity. Fluted marble pillars supported a gold filigree ceiling, and lines of people wound in and out of them like ants negotiating the tunnels of their underground lair.
A grand-looking old gentleman approached them, weaving his way through the crowd. He stood at least two inches taller than Grimm's six feet, with ebony skin, a dramatic shock of white hair and a long, slender beard of the same colour. He was dressed in immaculate midnight blue robes of crushed velvet, and Grimm noticed that the tall man's staff bore a full complement of seven rings.
"Brother Mages, I bid you welcome to High Lodge," the apparition intoned in a rich, sonorous, bass. "I am the Senior Mage Doorkeeper, and I welcome you to High Lodge."
Grimm and Dalquist exchanged glances. The difference between this self-possessed, dazzling man and their own bumbling major-domo was astonishing. Grimm had heard that High Lodge always got the best of everything, and what he saw did not contradict that. He could not imagine addressing this confident, impressive example of humanity as 'Doorkeeper'.
As the High Lodge Doorkeeper led them through the crowd, Grimm noted with surprise that most of them appeared to be Seculars. These people milled around a series of desks, behind each of which sat a uniformed functionary with a red uniform and a dark eyeshade. Each clerk or scribe sat behind a huge ledger, a pot of ink and a quill, and most were bespattered with ink on their tunics and their faces.
Grimm felt heat flooding into his face as he saw that many of the petitioners were women. Some of these women were very attractive, with expensive garments and alluring, artfully-painted faces, and the young mage felt constrained to look away whenever one of them looked his way.
Despite his monastic upbringing, he had seen women since he had been declared a mage, in the cities of Crar and Drute. Most had been blowsy, drink-sodden harlots or pale, downtrodden drudges, and he had pitied them rather than felt himself drawn to them.
These women laughed and smiled, their faces animated and vivacious as they stood in line or milled around the great hall in small groups. Some of the women looked towards Dalquist, who looked as uncomfortable as Grimm felt, or towards the Senior Doorkeeper, who seemed to take it all in his elegant, well-manicured stride.
What are all these pen-pushers doing here? Grimm wondered, trying to think of something else.
"These people are presenting petitions: pleas for Weatherworkers to ease drought;" the Senior Doorkeeper said, causing Grimm to start, "for Healers; for Necromancers to contact the dear departed; for Seers to find their lost treasure; people vying for trade as suppliers to the Lodge. The list is endless. Fear not, it is easier to breathe once one is safely inside."
"It must be a very demanding post that you have here," Grimm observed, with just a hint of envy as he saw another of the more attractive petitioners gazing at the urbane mage.
"The responsibilities are, on occasion, onerous," the dark-skinned man allowed, "but I supervise a staff of six other Mage Doorkeepers. High Lodge never closes its doors, and so a constant presence is necessary."
Pointing a manicured finger at a large double arch at the end of the massive hall, the tall mage said, "Secular members of staff take the left path, and mages go to the right.
"At any time, there is a complement of around one hundred and fifty Seculars present within High Lodge. Naturally, they have separate quarters so as not to disturb serious practitioners of the Craft with worldly trivialities. Allow me to lead you away from this turmoil."
The mage led the two Questors through the right-hand arch. At the instant they passed through the opening, the frenzied clamour from the main hall ceased, to be replaced by subtle, soothing music. The three mages were in a short corridor, with five doors on either side.
"These are the Doorkeepers' quarters," the guide explained. "At any one time, three Doorkeepers are on duty, and three off. We change the shifts on an eight-hour rotation."
"And you, Senior Doorkeeper? When do you sleep?" Dalquist asked.
The dark man shrugged. "I rest for four hours in each twenty-four, or less. I have little use for sleep; my post is far more important than idle slumber."
Grimm thought that, despite the Senior Doorkeeper's noble bearing and splendid appearance, he preferred the familiar, doddering incumbent of Arnor House.
At the end of the corridor, a labyrinthine network of corridors in dazzling profusion ran in all directions, like a warren built by schizophrenic rabbits, and the Senior Doorkeeper led them with cool confidence through the complex maze of tunnels. Grimm thought he would never get used to this complexity.
"Each mage or Student at High Lodge is given a stone which senses his desired destination and lights the way ahead," the Doorkeeper said, almost as if he had read the young Questor's mind, "a light that is apparent to his eyes only. However, after a decade or two, one finds that such baubles become unnecessary.
"We will take these stairs, Brother Mages."
A wide, sweeping, black marble spiral staircase, clad in a deep red plush carpet, rose to their right, extending upwards higher than the eye could see. After climbing three floors, Doorkeeper led his charges into another confusion of corridors. Several sumptuously-attired mages passed the small group, each one proffering a respectful nod towards the Senior Doorkeeper, who seemed to acknowledge this as his due.
The walls of the corridors on this floor were expensively panelled in what looked like mahogany, inlaid with exquisite marquetry in tasteful, contrasting colours.
"I can't help wondering how much this place costs," Grimm whispered to Dalquist.
"More than you could afford if you cleaned out the coffers of Crar a thousand times over, I would imagine," the older mage muttered. "I came here after my sixth Quest, and somebody told me that the place took nigh on three hundred years to complete."
"Three hundred and eight, to be exact," the Senior Doorkeeper intoned, solemnly. Immediately, Dalquist motioned the group to a halt with an irate gesture. He interposed himself between Grimm and the major-domo, who overtopped him by at least five inches, but he was not cowed in the least.
"Mage Doorkeeper, I trust that you are aware that it is considered the height of impropriety to use Telepathic skills on your brother mages without prior permission. Yet your unasked responses seem to have more than a little prescience about them. Are you using such techniques on us, by any chance?"
The tall man's face bore a cool smile, perhaps even a contemptuous one. Grimm felt a frisson of anger.
He thinks we're just petty-minded, provincial buffoons!
"Indeed, Mage Questor," the major-domo rumbled. "Many here at High Lodge prefer that I am receptive to their needs and requirements at all times. I will desist, if you wish." His expression suggested that he considered the mage before him but a few steps from terminal senility.
"I do wish so, Brother Mage! If you would be so kind as to let our thoughts remain our own, we should be most appreciative." His voice was polite, but his face looked as threatening as a thundercloud.
Grimm could almost have sworn that the Lodge Doorkeeper had emitted a quiet snort of affront. "Consider it done, Mage Questor. Your thoughts are your own." It needed little imagination to see that the man had all but added 'and you are welcome to them' to the last sentence.
The major-domo's demeanour cooled noticeably, and he said nothing more as he hustled them at great speed through another complicated series of passageways. At last, he stopped outside one of the doors in an anonymous corridor.
"If you would be so kind as to wait here for a while, gentlemen, somebody will come for you." He opened the door for them with evident ill grace, all but forcing them inside and almost, but not quite, slamming the portal behind them.
"I don't like that man," Dalquist said, once the door had closed behind them. "Presence is one thing, but he's too damn' polished. He thinks High Lodge is too good for us."
Grimm nodded, admitting, "I have to say, I do prefer our own Doorkeeper."
Grimm took stock of the room, which must have been five or six times better than his comfortable cell back at Arnor House. A long table ran the length of the room, with comfortable leather chairs arranged around it, and a magical fire burnt in a golden grate without consuming the logs around which it played.
A crystal drinks cabinet stood at the far end of the room, and the mage saw small tables arrayed around the wall, heaped with expensive viands and delicacies. Each of these tables bore a crystal vase with a delicate orchid. Grimm realised he was hungry and began to load a plate with food. Dalquist did the same.
"I don't like this place, either," the senior mage growled. "Don't get me wrong: while we have all this good food and drink on offer, I'll take it; but I don't think it's right to live like this. High Lodge is just too soft. I thought it was some sort of paradise on my first visit, but now I think it's little better than a decadent whorehouse. Did you see some of the mages we passed on the way here?"
"I think I know what you mean, Dalquist," Grimm said, after swallowing a mouthful of grilled ortolan. "They were confident, well-dressed, self-possessed to the point of arrogance, but they seemed to have all the presence and none of the power. When I was a Student, I used to think I'd scream if I heard that bloody phrase once more, but I think I know what it means now. None of this lot would last five minutes on a serious Quest; it's no wonder they get the various Houses to do all their dirty work." He sank into one of the deeply-upholstered chairs, which hissed slightly as he sat.
Dalquist followed suit, having helped himself to a generous glass of some noble vintage from the drinks cabinet. He placed a second glass before Grimm.
"I like comfort as much as the next man and I know you do, too, but how can you appreciate luxury if you live in it all the time? There's something sick in this place, a deep canker that saps all the majesty from it."
He took a deep gulp from the lustrous goblet and raised his eyebrows in appreciation. "At least the splendour of the food and drink matches that of the decor."
Grimm suppressed a gently mocking smile: Dalquist seemed in no mood to deny himself the opulence he had decried a moment before.
"We might as well enjoy it while we're here, I suppose," Grimm agreed, raising his glass. He did not really like wine, but he had to admit that this beverage was of exceptional quality.
After an hour or so, the Questors had requited their hunger and thirst and were deep in conversation. Grimm heard a polite rap on the door and called, "Enter."
A stout man with greasy grey locks and a sparse beard walked into the room, the rings on his staff marking him as a mage of the Third Rank. He consulted a small pocket-watch, and a grubby sheet of paper that he dragged from a pocket in his robe. Grimm heard him mutter, "Room thirty-four, four hours of the clock."
The portly man's expression brightened into a dazzling smile, revealing almost too many immaculate, pearly teeth.
"Greetings, brother mages," he crowed. "I am Shael, Assistant Sub-Vice-Facilitator-in-Chief of High Lodge. If you would kindly accompany me to the Presidium Chamber, Lord Dominie Horin awaits the pleasure of your company."
The man's words dripped with unction, but Grimm could tell they were empty and ritualistic. Of course, in such a fine establishment, Questors from provincial Houses would not merit any great ceremony. Even so, he felt his heart beating faster at the prospect of meeting the master of the Guild.
"If you would be so kind?" Shael pleaded. "The Lord Dominie has many demands on his time."
Dalquist looked at Grimm and rolled his eyes as the two mages levered themselves from their comfortable chairs and followed Shael out of the room.
It took several minutes, at a brisk pace, to pass along the length of the corridor past many identical doors, and Grimm guessed that each room might hold a party of disgruntled provincial mages patiently awaiting the Dominie's impatient pleasure. They reached a golden double portal decorated with intricate patterns, and waited a few minutes whilst Shael scanned his watch. Finally, the Assistant Sub-Vice-Facilitator-in-Chief rapped twice at the doors with his staff, to be greeted by a tired-sounding "Enter" from within the room.
Far from the opulent, orderly chamber that Grimm had expected, they walked into a chaotic mess. A vast, round table dominated the room, overflowing with scrolls, books and papers overflowing onto the sumptuously carpeted floor. A small man with a green eyeshade sat by the door, apparently deep in slumber. A corpulent, sweaty old man sat on the far side of the table, in front of an impressive bay window with diamond-shaped lights. Grimm realised that the Lord Dominie's portrait in the Great Hall at Arnor must have been painted many years before, and that the artist must have taken a number of liberties with his subject's image.
The two mages had both been well drilled in the protocol required on meeting the Lord Dominie. As one man, they grasped their staves at mid-length and sank onto their right knees, intoning in chorus, "Lord Dominie, a humble mage seeks admittance; kindly look upon me with favour."
"Yes, yes, yes," the Master of the Guild muttered in an irritated fashion. "Where are these mages' documents, Shael?"
Shael began to rifle through the papers on the desk, and the man with the eyeshade drawled, "23C, Lord Dominie; third pile on the right."
The Facilitator shuffled a few more papers and then evidently located the document he sought. He scanned the paper and looked up to face Horin.
"These two mages are from Arnor House, Lord Dominie: Questors Dalquist and Gramm." Grimm forbore from correcting Shael's mistake.
The Dominie showed interest and animation at last. "You have the Eye?"
"Yes, Lord Dominie," Dalquist said. He intoned a few nonsense words, and the gem that had caused so much trouble appeared in his hand with a discreet flash of blue light.
The man with the green eyeshade leapt up and all but snatched the Eye from the Questor's hand, running to take it to Horin. "It feels genuine, Lord Dominie."
The Dominie nodded, brushing heavy drops of sweat from his pink forehead. "If you only knew the sleepless nights this little beauty has cost me."
He uttered a long stream of runic syllables, and the gem disappeared. "Well done, good Questors. Thank you."
Horin looked sharply at the man with the eyeshade, who jabbed Shael in the ribs with a sharp elbow.
Shael yelped, cleared his throat and began to read from the sheet. Grimm saw the pathetic mage's lips moving in silence for a while before he spoke.
"Questor Dalquist! Questor Grimm! Beloved sons of the Guild! In rec-recognition of your meretricious…" Eyeshade jabbed him again, muttering "Meritorious".
"Of your meritorious and noble actions in the heroic revolution…"
Another jab.
"Resolution," Eyeshade growled.
"…resolution of a problem affecting the entire Guild, the Lord Dominie is pleased to confess… Ouch!"
"Confer," came the tired correction.
"Yes, to confer upon Questor Dalquist of Arnor House the degree of the Fifth Rank… er, Lord Dominie?"
"Yes, Shael, what is it?"
"Er, Questor Dalquist seems to be at the Fifth Rank already, Lord Dominie," the hapless mage said, pointing at Dalquist's Mage Staff.
"Oh, very well then, Shael," Horin snapped. "These idiotic lights make it impossible to see anything. Let's just give him the Seventh Rank and an entry in the next edition of Deeds of the Questors.
"Get on with it, fool!"
"Um, yes, Lord Dominie," Shael stammered. "The Lord Dominie confers upon Questor Dalquist of Arnor House the degree of the Seventh Rank. He also wishes to coffer-that is, confer-upon Questor Grimm of Arnor House the dangle-ow!-the degree of… it doesn't say anything here, Lord Dominie."
Horin waved his hand in exasperation. "Oh, let's say Fifth Rank, shall we? I presume you're not going to tell me that this skinny one is already a Fifth? He doesn't look old enough to be out of leading-strings, from what I can see."
"Er, no, Lord Dominie, Questor Grimm is a…" Shael looked deeply concerned, perhaps at the idea that this adolescent string bean was about to be promoted to a rank higher than his own.
"Then that's that," Horin growled. "Thank you, good Questors. You are a credit to your House and your Guild; that will be all. Go and see Junior Armourer Threll; he will put the tags on. You may go."
Having retrieved the worrisome charm, he seemed no longer interested.
Shael ushered Grimm and Dalquist out of the chamber, and the audience was at an end. The Facilitator, in his haste, neglected properly to close the door. The last thing Grimm heard as they sped down the corridor was "23D, Lord Dominie; Scholasticate supplies for Jeral House…"
As they hurried along the corridor, Grimm knew he should feel elated at his rapid succession; instead of that, he just felt a great sense of anti-climax as the glittering scales fell from his eyes. Dalquist looked little happier even at having gained the ultimate mage rank. The young Questor thought fondly of the spectacle of his Acclamation, in contrast to the farcical comedy that had just been played out in this august institution.