Dragonblaster cogd-5

by Alastair J. Archibald

  At these words, Dalquist saw the Prioress’ face assume a vicious snarl, and the old woman flung a spell that made his former self stagger backward. Blue motes filled the air as dream-Dalquist countered the ensorcelment with Questor magic.

  "So, now the truth is out,” he gasped, “Know that you are dealing with a Mage Questor, witch. I am also not some besotted adolescent, unaware and unprepared."

  "That was rather good, Questor Dalquist.” Kargan seemed to be enjoying himself, “a nice turn of phrase, and excellent presence."

  "This isn't some Scholasticate lesson, Magemaster,” Dalquist snapped, as a fierce exchange of magic turned the air into a blue, soupy fog. “This is part of my bloody life!"

  "She is a strong one,” Kargan observed. Lizaveta's defiant snarl remained undiminished as spell after spell crashed into her. “You wouldn't think it to look at her. Ah, there we go! You're beginning to get the upper hand now."

  Lizaveta sank to her knees, her eyes becoming glazed and unfocused, and Dalquist felt rather proud of his commanding presence. This was a conflict of which he had been unaware, and it was a revelation to see himself in action.

  The Questor heard the door creak, and he turned to see a small, violet-clad figure entering the room. It was Sister Madeleine, the sweet, cheerful young nun whose innocent dalliance with Grimm had prompted the meeting.

  However, this girl's expression was far from innocent as she saw the altercation. Her face a mask of hatred, her mouth compressed into a tight slit, she raised her hands as the two combatants battled on, seemingly oblivious to her presence.

  Dalquist shot out a hand as Madeleine strode forward, trying to stop her. His arm swept straight through the nun, as if she were no more substantial than mist. Madeleine squeezed her eyes shut, her flawless, gritted teeth exposed in a feral grimace as dream-Dalquist toppled to the floor. The magical fight was over.

  He felt stunned, drained and astonished. His memory was invalid, a fantasy.

  "Say something, Questor Dalquist,” Kargan said.

  Dalquist shook his head in confusion. “This whole meeting seems strange to me now, Magemaster. I remember meeting Lizaveta well enough, but in a quite different sense; a purely social one. As I now realise, I only began to recall any contact with the Prioress when Shakkar mentioned her name. What seemed so sure a few hours ago now seems hazy and indistinct."

  "That is the nature of recall,” the Mentalist declared. “In memory, context is everything."

  After a brief exchange between Lizaveta and Madeleine, the younger nun left the room, walking right through Dalquist as she did so.

  Now, dream-Dalquist lay rigid, staring up at his nemesis, his face wearing a stony, blank expression.

  "When you leave here,” Lizaveta was saying, “you will not remember that you have met me, but you will remember what I have said as if the conclusion is your own."

  "But I do remember-almost. Or, rather, I thought I did,” Dalquist said, his mind reeling with confusion.

  "Rationalisation,” Kargan said. “You could not have justified defending Lizaveta to yourself, if you had no memory ever of meeting her. Nonetheless, this is the truth of the matter. You were ensorcelled by a powerful witch, and her spell has been controlling your thoughts and emotions, to some extent, ever since this time."

  "Ah, yes, thank you, Reverend Mother,” the empty-faced figure said. “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."

  Dream-Dalquist rose to his feet and left the chamber, now wearing a seraphic, mindless smile.

  "Wait!” Kargan cried, as Dalquist turned to follow his former self. “There may be more interesting revelations here.” The Mentalist's warning hand on his shoulder felt as solid as any mortal's, and Dalquist turned to watch the Prioress.

  Lizaveta shook down her crumpled, white dress and arranged her dishevelled hair, checking her reflection in a full-length mirror. After a deep breath, she strode over to a leather-topped desk, sat down and drew a glass globe towards her.

  The Prioress’ hands looked like avaricious, pink spiders as they scuttled over the surface of the crystal sphere, which began to emit a pale green glow at her touch.

  After many minutes of glass-fondling, she snorted and jerked in the chair, as if suffering a brief fit.

  "Worthless ingrate!” she snapped. “Were you intending to leave me waiting all night, you poor excuse for a mage?"

  "It seems you are not the only mage victim of her magic,” Kargan said.

  "So you say,” Lizaveta snarled, in response to some unheard reply. “I am so sorry to disturb the rest of such a busy, important man! I trust now you are ready to attend to your mother, after your slothful reverie?"

  This situation grows stranger by the minute, Dalquist thought. The mage son of a witch mother!

  "Yes, yes, yes-I know all that!” the nun growled. “However, the truth is that you have been drinking again, is it not?

  "What? Do not dare to take that tone with me!"

  It seemed strange to Dalquist to hear a conversation from one side, but he felt fascinated by the unilateral discourse.

  "I am so sorry to hear that! However, it might interest you to hear that your poor mother has been engaged in mortal conflict with one Questor Dalquist… yes, I thought that might wake you up!"

  Who is she talking to? the Questor wondered. If I could only hear the other side of the conversation…

  "No, he is not damaged, he has just… changed his mind, shall we say?” Lizaveta chuckled, a sound like worms wriggling through a pile of dead leaves.

  Who in Perdition is she talking to?

  "So the poor, beleaguered, worshipful Lord Prelate Thorn is worried about his little chickens, is he? Well, then, he'd better start working a little harder, had he not? You will never become Dominie by lying on your back in a drunken stupor all day!

  "Perhaps not; but I will it, oaf! Take better control of your underlings, or you and I will fall out. Is that quite understood?

  "Good. See that you remember that, Thorn."

  The words hit Dalquist with the force of a gale. He might not like Thorn, but he had never suspected that the Prelate might be the puppet of some Geomantic megalomaniac.

  He looked at Kargan; the Magemaster's face was ashen, his eyes wide.

  "I had no idea!” the older mage gasped.

  "Nor I,” Dalquist said. “Thorn must-"

  The Prioress’ brows lowered. “Do not try, ever to play the mighty sorcerer with me, Thorn!” she said, snorting. “Loras Afelnor was twice the mage you are, and you know what I did to him! I made a mistake by not taking him as my consort, but I will not make the same mistake twice. Just remember that Grimm Afelnor might be your vassal, but he will belong to me! I trust you understand me well.

  "Horin is expendable; remember that. You will be his replacement.

  "Yes, I thought you might say that. However, that is the end of the matter. That is all, Thorn, dear son."

  The nun snatched her hands from the globe like a conductor bringing some orchestral crescendo to a staccato close. The green glow ended, and the bauble became, once more, a plain glass sphere.

  Dalquist's mind whirled. He had felt sorrow for the extra burden Grimm had borne as both a charity Student and the grandson of the Betrayer, and he had understood the young Questor's reservations in this regard. However, it now seemed that Grimm's suspicions were more than amply confirmed. Loras had been, somehow, ensorcelled by this woman, and his grandson was, even now, marching into her demesnes.

  "I had no idea,” Kargan said, his face red and sweaty.

  "Nor did I, Magemaster.” Dalquist fought to control his veering emotions. “But we need to get back now. The House may be at risk, Kargan. Grimm is also in danger, and, should he be compromised, perhaps even the Guild itself."

  "He had a lovely voice… such fine delivery-"

  "Never mind that,” Dalquist snapp
ed. “How do we get back to the real world?"

  Kargan shook his head, as if trying to clear his thoughts.

  "The book is open at the correct page on my work table,” he said. “You must focus on the memory of my chamber. At the moment of casting of the spell, our physical bodies will appear to freeze. We then take up the same positions, inside them, and I will deliver the closing incantation."

  "I'm ready,” Dalquist declared, and Kargan nodded. The Questor closed his eyes and remembered…

  …he looked down at his supine form, and then across at the past image of the Mentalist. Dream-Kargan's face was an intent mask of concentration: his brow furrowed; his flesh red and sweaty. Nonetheless, the flawless voice belied this impression of effort, flowing cleanly from one tongue-tangling phrase to the next.

  "…ajamar-asturantikhurimat-TE!"

  "That's it,” the ‘real’ Kargan said, as the two images became stiff and immobile. The earlier Mentalist still stared at the book on the table, and the figure of Dalquist lay frozen on the couch, his eyes shut.

  ****

  "Let's take up our positions. I'll go first, and I want you to tell me when my posture exactly coincides with my older version. There is a little leeway built into the spell, maybe two inches in any direction, but greater accuracy will maximise the chances of success."

  "What about me?” Dalquist asked. “You're looking at the book, and I have my eyes shut. How can you tell me when I'm in position?"

  "I was careful to place my chair in the optimum position, Questor Dalquist, so I can see you without moving my head. At the end of the spell, I was focusing on the first syllables of the closing chant, so it should be easy to resume that posture."

  "How will the chair and the divan support us, Magemaster Kargan? Won't we just sink through them?"

  Kargan shook his head. “The preamble to the spell provides fixed, solid reference planes for just such an eventuality. It's all horribly complicated, and I can't pretend I understand it all, but we won't fall to the floor any more than we're falling through it now. Thank the Names; this bit is supposed to be considerably easier than the initial casting. Remember, it doesn't have to be exact."

  After a few adjustments, Dalquist declared himself satisfied; he could not tell where one image of Kargan ended and the other began.

  His own position was more difficult to ascertain; Kargan fussed for several minutes, advising Dalquist to move an arm here, a leg there, and so on. At last, Kargan said, “Hold it just there, Questor. Close your eyes… excellent. Here we go."

  Whereas the spell had taken maybe fifteen minutes to cast, its closure lasted only a few moments. After scant score of runic syllables, Dalquist felt a strange tension pulling on his entire body, and he almost cried out in pain. After another few runes, Kargan stopped chanting.

  When the Questor opened his eyes, Kargan was on his feet, stretching and beaming. The chair was empty. Dalquist sat up and knew that he, too, was back in the mortal world.

  "Bledel Soulmaster's Temporal Divinatory Conjunct,” the Mentalist said, shaking his head as if in disbelief. “It's a shame nobody will ever know of it except you and me, but that will be enough for me."

  "Never mind that, Kargan,” Dalquist said. “What do we do now? We know Thorn is a traitor to the Guild. I say we contact the other members of the Conclave at once."

  Kargan sighed. “We can't, Questor Dalquist, not on spoken evidence alone. How can we prove any of it? This is only the starting point. We need solid, tangible evidence, and people we can trust."

  "Crohn and Doorkeeper,” the Questor said at once. “I'd trust either of them with my life."

  "You may have to! What you… what we're proposing is mutiny. The punishment is death."

  Dalquist felt his guts churning; he knew Thorn was a traitor, and that he, or, rather, his dominant mother, intended to overthrow the Lord Dominie. He also knew that Thorn had, in intent or deed, been involved in the downfall of Loras Afelnor. This situation could not be allowed to continue.

  To confront the Prelate directly would be sheer folly, akin to suicide; how to proceed?

  Kargan rubbed his chin. “Loras Afelnor might be a useful ally,” he mused. “He, too, seems to be a victim in all of this."

  Dalquist shrugged. “I imagine if anyone could confront Thorn with any hope of success, it would be him. But Loras Afelnor, Mage Questor of the Seventh Rank, is dead and buried. The Conclave took his magic from him."

  Kargan shook his head. “No power on Earth can rob a mage of his powers. All the Conclave's Great Spell did was to place a perdurable mental block on him, so he was unable to access them. That's Mentalist's work, so I know what I'm talking about, Questor Dalquist."

  Dalquist suppressed the urge to laugh. “That spell was cast on Loras by a full Conclave. How could we two ever hope to lift it?"

  Kargan shrugged. “I've served on a Conclave before; I was only there to supply energy for the spell, as are most of the attendees. Usually, the lead mage sets up the ensorcelment, while the others passively reinforce the magic. I recommend that, for now, we keep our heads low and act like good little boys. However, I want you to fill your staff with energy, as much as it can hold. I do not have that particular sleight, but perhaps you can do the same for me and the other mages. With Crohn and Doorkeeper on board, we might just be able to swing it."

  Dalquist's mind reeled with possibilities and caveats: if they could keep his mind closed to Thorn's prying; if they could convince the other mages to go along with the plan; if Loras, after decades of inactivity, could defeat Thorn and force him to confess his guilt…

  He looked at Kargan. The Mentalist's expression was rapt and cheerful, as if they were planning some pleasant jaunt rather than the overthrow of their lord and master.

  If… if… if… he thought. Oh, well; it can't be helped, I suppose. I'd feel like worthless scum if I passed this up.

  "All right, Magemaster Kargan, I'm in. I guess we're both traitors now."

  Kargan nodded. “Right; I've got a ton of marking to do, as well as lesson preparation, and I'd guess you're in the same boat. I'll tackle Doorkeeper while you start to get Magemaster Crohn on board. But let's tread carefully."

  "I agree. Take care, Magemaster Kargan."

  The two mages exchanged a solemn handshake; now, they were conspirators in a dangerous game.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter 20: Goodbye to Diplomacy

  Grimm felt all but naked without Redeemer, but he felt confident in his innate abilities as a Questor. As the rotunda's inner door swung open, he drew his energies together in a tight knot, ready to wreak destruction at the first sign of a threat. He was ready for anything…

  …except a small boy. The dark-haired youngster looked perhaps ten years of age, and he pushed a covered trolley almost as tall as he. His blond head was bowed, and his dull, brown robes reminded Grimm of those he had worn as a humble student.

  Guy did not bother to conceal a cool, odious smirk. “So this is what all the panic's about, is it? Looks like he's about your limit, eh, Dragonbluster?"

  Grimm swallowed a sharp retort at Guy's wilful play on his hard-earned title, which, he suspected, he would hear on frequent occasions from now on. He knew he had let himself down badly with his earlier display of self-pity, and it might take some time before he could regain his companions’ full respect; although Guy had not shown him much respect since their very first meeting.

  "I didn't know who was coming, Questor Guy,” he said. “I thought Gruon might have become hungry again."

  As the boy approached, Grimm hailed him in a gentle voice. “Who are you, son?"

  Not looking up, the child replied, “My name's Atur, please, sir. It's my job to feed the city's guests.” He removed the cloth from the trolley, to display a wide range of viands, beverages and sweetmeats. “Rev'nant Murar sends his… sends his regards, and please if you'll tell him what you like to eat so he can give you what you want."

  "We want
to get out of here, boy,” Guy growled. “That's all. Murar isn't about to turn me into some mindless bloody-"

  "It's not the boy's fault we're here, Great Flame,” the General snapped, as the child seemed to shrink from the Questor's hot words. Walking over to Atur, Quelgrum put a grandfatherly hand on the boy's shoulder.

  "It's all right, Atur,” he said. “Nobody's going to hurt you. We were just… surprised, that's all. We weren't expecting one of Gruon's nephews."

  The boy's brown eyes opened wide. “Oh, no, sir, I'm not lucky enough to be one of them. I'm only a Realster like you.” He shrugged in an apologetic manner.

  Grimm nodded. What did Murar and his fellow Revenants care if a Realster boy suffered injury or even death at the hands of their unwilling guests?

  "If you'll excuse me, sir,” Atur said, “I do ‘ave me duties to perform, like."

  Slipping from under the General's hand, the boy picked up a hand-bell from the cart's lower shelf and rang it lustily. As the various inner doors of the structure swung open, Grimm began to appreciate just how many Realsters were imprisoned in Brianston.

  The crowd swarming into the central plaza looked to be at least fifty strong, ranging in age from about Artur's age to the mid-thirties.

  Well, at least they're generous with the food, he thought, stepping to one side as the Realsters rushed to the trolley and began loading plates and bowls with what looked to be the choicest of victuals. Elder men and women, each laden with several containers, handed the bowls to the children as they were filled. The cheerful youngsters pranced away, to return a few minutes later for more.

  That must be for younger children who are still inside, mused Grimm. Or older…

  No! There aren't any old people here, and there never will be unless we can do something! As for the food, the Revenants just want fat, contented milk cows-blood cows-for Gruon, who doesn't even really exist!

  It seemed to the mage that the eight pints of scarlet dragon-milk inside him were heating up. Imperturbable as ever, Guy stepped up and was handed a plate by Artur.