"Perhaps Thorn was worried that the members of the Conclave would see the spell rising from Loras’ dead body,” he hazarded. “Perhaps he felt guilt for his treachery."
"Supposition is neither evidence nor proof, Questor Dalquist."
"I know what I saw and heard,” the younger mage said. “I was not present when the offence occurred, but what I say is true!"
"A poor argument,” the Senior Magemaster said, shaking his head. “Where, may I ask, can you adduce any proof of your assertions?"
"I've consulted the Deeds of the Questors, Prelate Geral's own journals, and the Annals of Arnor House,” Dalquist said. “Loras’ name has been erased from all of them."
"Of course: this is standard practice in the case of traitors, and no proof of foul play at all. Do you have anything better?"
Dalquist rose from his chair. “That's why I'm here, Senior Magemaster,” he said. “I don't know where to look.
"However, I can see you don't believe me. Just report me to Prelate Thorn and be done with it, if you think me a liar!"
"I did not call you a liar, Questor Dalquist.” Crohn's voice was as smooth as the finest silk. “In fact, I believe you; I must. My Mage Sight tells me that you regard your words as the truth. The only alternatives are that you are insane, or that you are deliberately deceiving me with some subtle spell. I see no sign of the first, and I believe I caught you off your guard. That should preclude the second."
"Magemaster Crohn; that is a gross breach of protocol!” the Questor protested. “You used your Sight on me?"
"You made an extraordinary claim.” Crohn's face bore just the hint of a smile. “I felt it required extraordinary proof. Surely you did not expect me to accept your story otherwise?"
Dalquist felt a little shocked at the prim, proper mage's actions, but he had to acknowledge Crohn's reasoning. The old man could hardly have gone to Thorn's office and called him to task on such shaky reasoning.
"Of course, we cannot use the same technique on Lord Thorn,” Crohn said. “We need something a little stronger than hearsay before we could ever persuade a Conclave to use Mage Sight on the Prelate."
"I know that! That's the whole…"
Dalquist's ears might have lagged behind his mouth, but they caught up now.
"Magemaster Crohn; did you just use the pronoun ‘we'?"
Crohn nodded. “I have felt for some time that the Lord Prelate's activities have gone far beyond the bounds of the needs and requirements of the Guild. I found your story shocking, but not altogether incredible.
"However, I am sure you realise that the dangers of an unproved claim against a Prelate are considerable. Mage Sight is a powerful tool, but it is far from infallible, especially when one is dealing with mages of a senior rank. I believe you because I find your tale plausible. However, Prelate Thorn could argue that you, as a Seventh Level Questor, might be clouding or perverting your true aura."
Dalquist looked into Crohn's red-rimmed eyes and saw no trace of deception in them. However, he knew he was taking a great risk by trusting the old mage tutor too much.
"May I scan your aura, Magemaster Crohn?” he asked.
Crohn nodded. “Of course, Questor Dalquist. I appreciate your courtesy in asking me."
Dalquist unfocused his eyes in that special way, and scanned the old man's halo of colours for any sign of deception.
"Clean, I presume?"
Dalquist nodded.
"However, I advise you to keep watching, Questor Dalquist."
As the Questor held on to his Sight, he saw green tendrils of despair, red threads of anger and yellow wisps of jealousy waft through Crohn's aura. In the space of a few moments, the entire panoply of human emotion cycled through the old mage's psychic field, each one flickering for a few moments before being replaced by another. Dalquist's eyes grew large with astonishment.
"What in the…?"
"I have taught Students how to interpret auras for most of my life, Questor Dalquist. I have studied the phenomenon in great depth, and you will find that most Magemasters who teach the subject have done the same. I am capable of projecting any state of mind I wish. It is not an uncommon skill, but it is not something we teach to our Students, of course. It is a spell like any other of the Divinatory class; it can, therefore, also be used in a Projective or Resident manner. You see, therefore, that no inquisition based on Sight alone can be considered conclusive; not in a teaching House, at least."
Dalquist's mouth moved, but no sound emerged. He had been taught from an early age that the Sight was an infallible method of determining guilt or innocence, and Crohn's words had pulled this firm plank of faith from beneath him. He felt cold horror at the thought that he had exposed himself to a man whose aura he could not trust.
"Rest easy, Questor Dalquist,” the old man said. “I have no intention of betraying you. I know my scant words are a poor substitute for true Sight, but, then, I am sure you realise that I had no reason to tell you of this little wrinkle in the craft, had I intended subterfuge."
Dalquist nodded slowly. What the Magemaster said made sense.
"But how, then,” the Questor said, as a thought took hold of him, “is the truth of any matter to be found?"
"There are far more potent spells than mere Sight,” Crohn said. “However, they are all Great Spells, requiring the services of many powerful mages. We could never persuade the Presidium to cast such a Great Spell on a House Prelate without proof; solid, undeniable evidence. I am a member of the House Presidium, and you may take my word on this. Forget the Sight."
Dalquist sat back down and buried his head in his hands. He had hoped that the more mages he could get on his side, the better. However, Crohn had saved his embarrassment and, perhaps, his life. Despairing of ever finding stronger evidence, he had hoped that persuading a Presidium member to scan Thorn's aura and put him to the question might have sufficed.
With a faint groan, the Magemaster lowered himself into the chair opposite him, using his staff as a support. He sat in silence, as the Questor wracked his brains.
Loras might as well be dead, for all the evidence we're going to find here, he thought. What can we do? There must be something, someone…
"This is going nowhere, Magemaster Crohn,” he said. “Why don't we just sleep on it, and-"
The Questor saw Crohn start, and he spun around to see the door of the Library swing open. With horror, he saw the figure of Thorn framed in the doorway, and he slammed his mouth shut.
The Prelate strolled into the room a half-smile on his lips, and Dalquist saw two other men enter behind him: Magemaster Faffel and Xylox the Mighty.
Thorn ran a finger along one of the bookshelves and inspected it. “Dusty,” he drawled. “I must advise Doorkeeper to persuade the cleaning staff to pay greater attention to their duties."
Crohn rose to his feet. “Lord Prelate,” he said, his voice clear and cool. “What brings you here tonight?"
"What do you think, Crohn? Black, bloody treachery brings me here, and a pair of worthless rats who will soon learn the error of their ways."
Dalquist leapt to his feet, Shakhmat at the ready. “What do you mean, Lord Prelate? Are you accusing us of treason?” His heart was pounding, but he tried to keep his face open and guileless.
"Let us not play games, Questor Dalquist,” the Prelate said. “I have had my eye on you two for some time, and I have left standing orders with my servant, Wiirt, to be alerted whenever you are alone together. He saw you coming here and listened at the door. He could not hear all, but, I fancy, he heard more than enough, and he ran to tell me what he overheard. I roused these two valiant, loyal men from their slumbers to aid in your capture. You are planning to overthrow Lord Horin and, presumably, me. You are foul traitors to the House and to the Guild."
"If anyone is a traitor here, it is not us!” Dalquist snapped. “We discussed-"
"You were discussing how to conceal your auras from the eyes of others,” Thorn said, consulting a sheet of
paper. “Wiirt also tells me that you, Questor Dalquist, told Magemaster Crohn-and I quote-'Horin is expendable; you will be his replacement.’ Do you deny these words?"
"The words are quoted out of context!” Crohn protested, his face growing red. “The truth of the matter is that you are perverting-"
"Thishare foutreyan grouftit!” Thorn cried in his personal Questor language, and Crohn folded to the floor, unconscious.
Dalquist realised he would not be allowed to speak in his defence, and he readied a spell of his own against Thorn.
Too late! His own reflexes had been dulled by months of service in the Scholasticate, and he scarcely noticed the swish of a Mage Staff behind him before it impacted on the back of his skull. After a blazing flash of light inside his skull, he knew no more.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter 27: Flight
Magemaster Kargan lounged on the divan in his cluttered room, trying to concentrate on the book he had been reading. However, he felt restless, flicking through the pages without taking in more than a line or two of text. He knew he should try to get some much-needed sleep, but this, too, seemed beyond him.
Perhaps a little walk would help.
The Mentalist tossed the book onto the table beside him. He sat up and stretched for a few moments before rising to his feet in a swift, decisive motion and leaving the room, summoning his staff, Seeker.
As he walked along the long, dimly-lit corridor, he saw thin strips of light under several of the doors.
Seems like I'm not the only one who can't sleep, he thought, realising he knew the identities of few of the cells’ occupants. Scholars, perhaps, scouring old spells in the hope of discovering some new wrinkle or pervulsion that will bring its discoverer fame and fortune? The odd Necromancer, pondering the mysteries of bones and entrails, maybe? An Alchemist researching some fantastic elixir?
He realised that, after many decades’ residence in Arnor House, he knew next to nothing about his neighbours’ activities at night.
This is a sick place, he told himself. I've lived in the same cell for fifty years or more, but I don't even know the name of the mage in the next room, or what his Speciality is. I don't even feel the desire to ask. We're so obsessed with rank and secrecy that we've lost sight of our humanity; an entire commune of hermits, each defending his minuscule territory like a feral dog on a patch of dirt, barking at strangers.
He thought back to his younger days as an eager First Level Mage. He had been so keen to contribute to the House, so eager to make his mark… that proud mage had soon been replaced by an embittered old man who had only just begun to sense the miasma of suspicion and jealousy permeating the very foundations of the ancient fortress.
More than that, he now knew that the very man who directed the House's affairs was a traitor to the Guild, and he began to feel the weight of his years pressing down on him.
As he approached the West Wing stairwell, he sighed, fighting black waves of depression that threatened to overwhelm him.
If I can do anything to alleviate the sickness in this place, I will, he vowed to himself, his hand hovering over the door handle at the end of the corridor. Thorn has to go! With any luck, Dominie Horin will appoint someone like Crohn in his place; he can be a dry old stick at times, but he's a decent enough fellow, and I'm sure he's got the House's interests at heart.
He sighed again; most Prelates were chosen from among the ranks of the Questors, of whom the senior was the crusty Olaf Demonscourge.
That's all we need; an old fool like Olaf calling the shots!
With a sad shake of the head, he opened the door and made his way down the staircase to the Main Hall. Where he would go from there, he still did not know. At the foot of the stairs, he paused.
What in Perdition's going on here? he wondered, as he heard a thump and a clatter from behind the door.
Opening it just a crack, he saw the source of the brief commotion.
Magemaster Faffel stood in the centre of the hall, clutching his lower back, his face contorted in pain. At his feet lay his Mage Staff and, to Kargan's astonishment, the unmistakable, immobile form of Magemaster Crohn.
"I did not accept the lofty position of Magemaster just to be used as a common labourer,” Faffel complained through gritted teeth. “Why could the House servants not be used for this duty? My lumbar region feels as if it may already have suffered irreversible damage."
"You heard Lord Thorn's orders, Magemaster Faffel,” another, deeper voice replied; Kargan could not see the second speaker; the pyramidal Breaking Stone blocked his view. “These two renegades are to be held incommunicado until a suitable Conclave may be assembled to try them. Remember; we are bound under a vow of silence until then. Nobody else is to know of this until Lord Thorn announces the Conclave; they may have other confederates, who must be unmasked."
"I never trusted Crohn,” Faffel said, still massaging his back. “He was no true Magemaster; he treated the Students with far too much lenience."
"I agree,” said the disembodied voice. “He trained Questor Grimm, who, in my opinion, is a disrespectful whelp unfit to bear the Guild Ring. However, I never suspected that the man was a traitor, too.
"I would be grateful if you would take up your load again; Questor Dalquist is no lightweight, either."
"You are younger than I, Questor Xylox,” Faffel grumbled, but he hoisted the slumped burden onto his shoulders in any case.
"Punisher!” At this, Faffel's staff leapt into the air as the tutor staggered under the dead weight of Crohn and headed for the lower staircase. The baton bobbed behind the irascible Magemaster like a faithful hound, and Kargan saw the burly form of Questor Xylox move into view, with the form of Dalquist slumped over his broad, meaty shoulders.
Kargan felt another cold shock spearing through his heart: somehow, Thorn had discovered the cabal, and the Mentalist knew he would be the next to be seized if either Crohn or Dalquist confessed. He had no idea what means of persuasion might be applied to the two mages, and he had no intention of waiting around to be apprehended.
My only choices seem to be either to petition Lord Dominie Horin, or to try to reason with Questor Loras, he thought, and I imagine Thorn will report me to High Lodge as a renegade as soon as my name's mentioned.
That left Loras; somehow, Kargan had to convince the blacksmith-mage to undergo Bledel's spell, if he could perform it again so soon after his last casting. Then, if he could convince Loras of the truth of the matter, he would have to try to find some way to remove the Conclave's block on Loras’ powers-if he could even conceive how to do so.
That's a lot of ‘ifs', and I don't even know where Loras lives, he thought. On the other hand, I'm pretty sure Doorkeeper does…
When he felt sure Xylox and Faffel were out of earshot, he headed straight for the major-domo's cell, one of the few mage chambers on this level.
****
Glancing quickly over each shoulder to ensure he had not been followed, Kargan knocked at the door.
Come on, Doorkeeper! You're always in bed by this time!
On receiving no response, the Magemaster knocked just a little harder, to no greater effect, and he feared to make more noise. If he opened the door, so close to the lower stairwell, Doorkeeper might make some outcry that would be overheard, and he dare not take that risk.
What would wake Doorkeeper up?
As if a lightning flash had lit up some dark corner of his brain, he knew the answer: the old man's duty to greet any errant mage returning to the House. As quietly as he could, he hurried over to the Main Portal. He raised his ringed left hand, and the door opened. Kargan stepped outside into the dark, cool night, turned around and waited for the great, oaken door to close.
Come on; come on! he thought, tapping his right foot in his impatience.
At last, the dark portal clicked back into place, and the Magemaster waved his left hand, causing to open it again. He stood in the doorway, preventing the door from closing.
"Welcome home, Brother… what?"
Doorkeeper's eyes were wide and uncomprehending.
"Doorkeeper, I just need a little information,” the Magemaster said. “I needed to speak to you quite urgently, and you didn't answer when I knocked at your door."
Doorkeeper suppressed a yawn. “I do not understand, Magemaster Kargan.".The old man's eyes narrowed, and he cocked his tousle-haired head to one side. “What's so urgent at this time of night? You aren't playing some silly trick on me, are you, Magemaster Kargan? It's cold with the door open."
"You remember when we last spoke of Questor Loras and Lord Thorn, Doorkeeper?"
The factotum nodded, his face almost like that of a confused, small child who had lost his mother in a crowded bazaar. “You wanted to know about Questor Loras’ reactions, and Lord Thorn's, after… after Lord Geral… after he…"
Doorkeeper's speech was far from succinct at the best of times, and this was not one of them.
"Never mind that, Doorkeeper.” Kargan tried to keep his voice level. “I'm doing a little research at the moment, and I need to visit the High Lodge library, just to consult some records. It would be really helpful if you could give me a little background."
"What sort of background, Magemaster Kargan?"
The Mentalist knew it was important not to involve the major-domo too much; if Thorn became paranoid, he might interrogate him, and Kargan had no idea how much Doorkeeper would reveal under questioning. He needed to pose his questions with care.
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