Grimm almost danced, fighting hard to keep a dreamy, beaming smile from his face. The invaluable locating gem lit the way to his room, and he felt as if his feet bore wings. He debated with himself over what he should say to Dalquist, and decided not to mention Madeleine to his friend. All the Guild Rules emphasised that close relations with women were anathema to Guild Mages, and could sap a magic-user's power.
Still, Grimm thought, what harm can there be in a little convivial company for the evening?
He was, of course, deluding himself. A part of him recognised that it was wrong to deceive his friend; if he believed that his little soiree was so innocent and harmless, why did he need to keep it from Dalquist? Unfortunately, the frontal lobes of Grimm's brain were no longer in full control of his actions.
Grimm realised he did not know which of the two rooms mentioned by Shael had been reserved for him; however, the terminus of the magical green trail made clear which door was his. It opened at his touch, and he stepped inside as if wafted on a breeze.
The splendour of the room was in keeping with the rest of High Lodge, richly carpeted in blue and gold, with a sumptuous four-poster bed and tables of tempting sweetmeats and viands. Crystal decanters of wine and liquor were also in evidence, but Grimm had his mind on only two things: Madeleine, and the desire to impress her.
A magical fire burnt in a grate in the middle of the wall to the left of the door, producing no smoke and consuming no fuel. A hipbath had been thoughtfully placed beside the fire, with a selection of unguents and oils. Grimm thought that a hot bath was just what he needed.
He stripped off his expensive silk robes and carelessly let them fall to the floor. A kettle was provided for hot water, but Grimm had no need for such mechanical devices. He filled the bath with cold water and cast a variant of his well-practiced Fire spell at the bath. He miscast twice, something that had not happened since he had become an Adept, but he dismissed the discomfort this brought. On the third attempt, he directed a small portion of his energies into the water until steam began to rise.
Still wearing his seraphic smile, Grimm lowered himself into the bath. He intended to appear at his very best for his meeting with Madeleine.
"How fared you with our young Questor friend, Sister Madeleine?" The harsh, sibilant, voice sounded like the rustle of dry, dead leaves underfoot.
The young Sister bore little resemblance to the gauche, flirtatious girl who had so entranced the Questor. Her eyes hooded, she took an apple from a tray and took a mouthful from it before answering.
"It was easy, Prioress. He's just a boy. I'll have him eating out of my hand before you know it."
A wizened hand snatched the half-eaten apple from the girl and tossed it on the floor. "Just remember, Madeleine: he is also a powerful Mage Questor, and I want him to stay that way. If you exceed my orders, Sister, you know what will happen to you."
The old woman picked up a stout rod from behind her and waved it threateningly.
Madeleine clasped her hands and sank to her knees. "I apologise, Reverend Mother. Everything will be as you order. Please forgive my levity."
Still waving the stick, the Prioress continued, "I do not wish for tainted goods, girl, so bear that in mind. I want you to ensure that he is so infatuated that he will seek me out at once when I take you away from him.
"If he wants to see you again, he will need to do a few favours for me; nothing much; just enough to get used to the idea of working for me on occasion. Just remember, promise all, but give little."
"Of course, Reverend Mother," Madeleine said, puzzled, "but if you want his services, why do you not just command him to do as you wish?"
Snorting in exasperation, the Prioress replied, "I may want a difficult service from him in the near future, one that will involve overcoming his whole will. I have seen that he is a strong one. Even I may not have sufficient power to defeat all of his motivation. Each time he performs a little task for me, I gain a greater insight into his soul.
"Nonetheless, Sister, you are not here to ask questions. You are here to do as you are told."
"Reverend Mother, I am yours to command, as always."
Lizaveta leaned forward, her shrivelled face a stern mask. "Ensure that you do not forget that, dear Sister, or it will be the worse for you."
Grimm arrived in the bar long before the appointed time. It was a large, crowded room with many bays, and Grimm started each time somebody entered the room. The low, subtle lighting seemed ideal for a romantic meeting, but it made identification difficult.
He had spent a considerable time in preparation for this meeting. After much deliberation, he had selected a deep blue velvet robe, and he had tied back his long, brown hair in a neat queue. His beard was trimmed and pomaded, and he had even combed his eyebrows. Sitting in a comfortable chair, his entrails writhed as he awaited Madeleine's arrival.
Grimm had begun to fear that she had changed her mind, as the allotted time came and went, but his heart seemed to flip as the young nun came into view. Lurching to his feet, he pulled out a chair, into which Madeleine sank with demure femininity.
"Sister, I'm so glad you came," Grimm said, trying to sound mature and failing miserably, his voice almost an octave above its normal pitch.
"Please, Grimm, just call me Madeleine outside my hours of Observance." Her wide, blue eyes seemed to fill his field of vision. "You don't mind me just calling you 'Grimm', do you? All these mage titles just seem so stuffy. You don't have to say 'Sister', either. When I'm free, 'Madeleine' is all you need to call me."
"Ah; that's… that's fine, M-Madeleine," Grimm stammered, feeling like a fool. "Um, would you like something to drink?"
"Spring water will be fine, thank you, Grimm," the girl replied sweetly, her eyes not leaving his. Seeing no waiter, he excused himself and went in search of one. This was not an easy task in the labyrinthine bar, and he felt himself becoming frustrated, eager to return to Madeleine's attentions.
As he walked by a pillar for perhaps the fifth time, Grimm saw Dalquist, standing with his arms folded across his chest, his lips compressed in a thin line.
"Oh, er, hello, Dalquist," Grimm said, "I was just…"
"You were just making a complete idiot of yourself, Questor Grimm! Look at you, a Guild Questor playing lapdog to a supposed religious! What sort of a nun acts like this: have you thought of that?"
Grimm became annoyed. "Dalquist, this doesn't have anything to do with you! You-"
"Yes, it does, Grimm," the older Questor interrupted. "You are not here as a free agent, but as a representative of Arnor House. What sort of marks do you think Magemaster Faffel would give you for Courtly Graces and Decorum right now?" The older man's words were soft, but intense.
"Dalquist, I'm well aware of my responsibilities to the House," Grimm muttered, "but I'm not some bloody slave. I also know that I owe you a lot, but that doesn't give you the right to run my life."
Dalquist sighed. "Grimm, have you checked that girl's aura? I have. It's as clear as a baby's conscience."
Grimm smiled, but not in a friendly manner. "Well, there you are. She's as innocent as she looks. I must say that that was pretty underhanded, though…"
Dalquist leaned close and hissed, "Too damned clean, Grimm. Nobody in the world is that innocent. There's absolutely nothing in that aura: no impatience; no excitement; and no bloody infatuation. Somebody is screening that aura from my Sight. I have no idea how to do that, and I don't know of any other mage who does; there's some magic involved that we don't know about, and that worries me."
Grimm thumped Redeemer on the floor in annoyance. "I think you're just jealous, Dalquist. I think you need to get out more often, and get on with your own life instead of trying to run mine." He stormed off in search of a waiter, furious at what he saw as his friend's unwanted interference.
Dalquist approached the girl, who regarded him with a cool, neutral expression. "May I help you?" she asked.
"I will be brief," the Questor intoned. "I do not know what your little game is, but I do know that you are not some lovelorn ingenue engaged in innocent flirtation. I want you-no, I instruct you-to end your little game, now."
"My word, Questor, how forceful you are," Madeleine said in a jaded tone. "Still, I'm afraid I'm going to have to turn you down. And, since the members of my Order are officially under the protection of Lord Dominie Horin during our stay here, I don't think there's a lot you can do about it, unless you want to blast me into tiny fragments. I don't think that would look very good, now would it? The murder of a sweet, innocent nun would not go down well here, I imagine. Ah, here comes my good friend, Grimm."
Her face broke into a warm smile at Grimm's approach. The young Questor placed a glass of water and a glass of wine on the table, and snarled, "Excuse me a moment, Madeleine. I'd just like a quick word with my colleague, Dalquist."
He put a none-too friendly hand on his fellow Questor's arm and propelled him into a vacant bay. "You couldn't leave it alone, could you? You just had to interfere. I'm warning you, Questor Dalquist, if you can't be happy for me then just leave me alone, or you and I will fall out."
Dalquist felt stunned by the ferocity of his younger friend's reaction. Surely there was something more than simple adolescent infatuation at work here; nobody could have gone through the rigorous training in self-control that every Questor underwent, only to sink into this mindless, self-indulgent behaviour. Grimm seemed unable to listen to reason; dry talk of duty and responsibility might serve little purpose except to widen the nascent gulf between the two mages.
Dalquist could detect no mage influence at work on his friend, but he knew something was afoot. He decided to act with the greatest of care.
"I'm sorry, Grimm. I just wanted to be sure you weren't hurt. Please forgive me for my concerns. Let's meet up over breakfast tomorrow, and we can start again."
Grimm took a deep breath, and lifted his hand from Dalquist's shoulder. "Perhaps, Dalquist; I'll see how I feel in the morning." He turned on his heel and returned to Madeleine without a backward glance.
Dalquist looked at the pair. Grimm wore a vacuous smile on his face as he stared into the girl's eyes. She had hold of his hands, looking to Dalquist like some improbable hybrid of a mindless innocent and a complete slut. Some magic other than puppy love was at work here, and he intended to find out what it was.
Dalquist made a few inquiries and ascertained that the Prioress of the Order was in residence. Perhaps a visit might be in order.
It took little time to find the Prioress' apartments with the aid of the marvellous Charm of Location, and Dalquist wondered just how he would handle this situation. It seemed to him improbable that wild, irate accusations would bring the Reverend Mother to his side; calm diplomacy would be necessary.
Power and presence, Questor Dalquist: power and presence at all times, he reminded himself as he approached the chamber.
A gentle tap at the door was answered with a sibilant, "Enter, Supplicant," and Dalquist entered the room.
This was no austere religious refuge. Compared even to the opulent splendour of High Lodge's quarters, this suite of rooms seemed extravagant. A small, shrivelled woman dressed in a flowing, white dress lay at her ease on a comfortable, blood-red divan furnished with gold-tasselled cushions and brocade drapes. The old woman nodded.
"Ah, Lord Mage; I bid you welcome. How may I be of service to you? I normally receive visitors only by appointment, but I am happy to make an exception in the case of such a distinguished mage."
The Prioress' words might be polite, but Dalquist found the sound of her voice unsettling, hideous, and the Questor had to fight to keep his facial expression deferent and neutral. The woman held out her left hand, which bore a large ruby ring on the third finger.
Dalquist proffered a deep, respectful bow, dropping to one knee as he kissed the proffered ring, with Shakhmat floating in the air behind him.
"Thank you, Reverend Mother," he said. "My name is Dalquist Rufior, and I have come here on behalf of my fellow Questor, Grimm Afelnor. Are you aware that one of the Sisters of your Order is currently consorting with him?"
The Prioress shrugged. "A harmless dalliance, I am sure, Questor Dalquist. My Order does not forbid innocent, platonic friendships between the sexes. I feel sure that this is no more than a friendly liaison between two young people."
Dalquist rubbed his chin. How was he to approach this difficult subject? "Reverend Mother, I have reason to believe that this is not a platonic friendship. It seems to me more like some kind of amorous ensorcellment. My colleague seems no longer under his free will. He is a Questor, a mage of extraordinary self-control and willpower, and yet he appears to have surrendered himself completely to the attentions of this young nun of your own Order. Some kind of magical influence seems to be at work here, a magic of a type with which I am unfamiliar."
Lizaveta stood up, her head at the level of the underside of Dalquist's chin, a solemn expression on her face. "Questor Dalquist, this is a most serious allegation. Have you identified the spell involved?"
Dalquist sighed. "Reverend Mother, I have not. However, I do know that some unfamiliar magic is at work. The girl somehow hides her true aura from my Mage Sight."
Lizaveta raised her eyebrows. "My word," she said, running a hand through her thinning, white hair, "this is a sorry state of affairs; a witch within my own Order! I will have her expelled immediately."
Dalquist shook his head. "That is not all, Reverend Mother. The girl Madeleine does not appear to be casting the magic on her own. Much of the power seems to originate from outside her."
Lizaveta's friendly expression disappeared in an instant, as if washed from her face by some sudden, torrential downpour. She closed her eyes and muttered a few words. Dalquist staggered backwards, raising a hasty counter-spell with a nonsense phrase of his own as he felt the cold thrill of some unfamiliar force beginning to bite into his bones.
"So, now the truth is out," he snarled, "Know that you are dealing with a Mage Questor, witch. I am no besotted adolescent, unaware and unprepared. I suspected that some such treachery might be in the offing, and you will find me a harder nut to crack than my poor, love-struck colleague. Akukka-huck-k'kakka!"
A battle of iron wills was under way.
The Prioress flinched as Dalquist's spell struck her, a shocked expression on her face as the pain of the Questor's power scorched her very nerves. Panic rose and agony began to wash through her body, but she knew that the mage was merely a man, a pathetic slave to the demands and complaints of his body.
Lizaveta was a woman, and she had borne three children, two of which had been stillborn.
Men have no idea of what real agony is!
Marshalling her strength, she accepted the pain and dismissed it, subsuming it into the depths of her psyche. All Lizaveta could do was to hold the awful force at bay, but she managed to prevent it from disorienting the higher functions of her brain.
This mage made a bad mistake by assaulting me with a spell of pain, she thought. A spell of destruction would have been all but impossible to ward off, but the fool still sees me in some neglected corner of his male brain as a life-giver, a weak, little old lady; a grandmother.
While her body twitched, no longer under her direct control, the Prioress drew to herself the power of the earth, the potent energy of Geomancy: an energy that came from without, not from within her own spirit. Communing with the earth, Lizaveta directed it at Dalquist with a single, mighty effort of will.
She felt the Questor's spell weaken and fail as he fought to block the Compulsion spell she had hurled at him. The Prioress knew she could not access the deepest recesses of his will. She could not see deeply enough into the realms of the man's soul, so well-protected by bands of discipline and willpower, but she was, at least, able to hold him at bay.
He is a strong one, she thought, as the mage made a fortress, a battering-ram of his masculine strength and resolve that threatened to overwhelm her own defences. Now it was down to a naked struggle, a war of inner forces.
I will win. This helpless…
With a frigid shock of sheer terror, Lizaveta began to feel her resistance crumble as the Questor's awful, shocking, masculine energy battered her. Under the ruthless, animalistic assault, she felt her will becoming compressed to a mote, a poincture, as she felt the layers of her personality stripped away from her, one by one.
The dwindling soul called Lizaveta knew she had made a bad mistake: she had allowed herself to become slack in the forty years since she had last taken a Guild Questor's will…
Just as she knew she was on the point of surrendering to the powerful magic-user, all resistance ceased. Gasping for breath, her vision misty and tinged with grey, she looked up to see Madeleine standing in the room, arms outstretched, a broken alabaster vase in one hand. Dalquist was kneeling before her, motionless, expressionless, his face a mask of vacuity.
Madeleine, too, was red-faced and breathless. "I sensed that you were in danger, Reverend Mother, and rushed to your aid. I made my excuses to Questor Grimm, saying that I would return in a few minutes.
"I met this mage not thirty minutes ago, and I thought that he might prove troublesome. I am glad I arrived here in time."
Now that Dalquist was safely restrained, Lizaveta took a few moments to compose herself. She smoothed her hair and her white dress, and she drew a succession of deep breaths, trying to still her pounding heart. Madeleine, younger and stronger, seemed already to have recovered, and she reached towards Dalquist's floating staff, Shakhmat.
"Sister!" Lizaveta screamed. "Do you not know the power resident within a mage's staff?"
Madeleine stopped her hand with a jerk and looked at the Prioress with wide eyes.
"Reverend Mother," she gasped, "what can we do? We cannot leave the Questor in this state indefinitely."
Lizaveta snorted. "I do not know enough to control the man's total will, but it is a relatively easy task to manipulate memories without disturbing his basic drives. Go back to your puppy; I can deal with this situation alone, now."
The Prioress waited until Madeleine had departed. She rolled her eyes and made a simple gesture. Dalquist's gaze flicked upwards into Lizaveta's amber eyes, his body as still as a statue.
"You remember nothing of our struggle, Questor Dalquist," the Reverend Mother said in an intense voice. You are happy for your friend, Grimm Afelnor, and you see nothing wrong in this innocent little flirtation. There is nothing unusual about this relationship, and you will inquire no further. When you leave here, you will not remember that you have met me, but you will remember what I have said as if the conclusion is your own. You slipped on the marble floor of the bar and hit your head on the wall. This is too embarrassing to admit, and you dare not mention it to your peers."
For a few moments more, Dalquist knelt, immobile, and then blinked and shook his head as if trying to clear a momentary confusion.
"So, you see, Questor Dalquist," the Prioress hissed in a poor facsimile of a calm, honeyed voice, "Nothing in the rules of our Order prohibits our Sister Madeleine from carrying on an innocent friendship with your colleague."
Dalquist appeared to come to his senses, but his eyes were still distant. "Ah, yes, thank you, Reverend Mother, I just wanted to be certain that my friend would not get into any trouble with you. I am relieved that he will not. He and Sister Madeleine will make such a nice couple."