"I need to be back for lessons by tomorrow afternoon,” he said, “so I have to make an early start if I'm to get to High Lodge and back by then."
Doorkeeper nodded slowly. “What do you want to know, Magemaster Kargan?"
Kargan scratched his head. “How old was Lord Thorn when it happened?"
Doorkeeper shrugged, clutching his dark robes around his body. “I suppose he was about thirty, thirty-five… yes, about thirty-five. That must be right, because I'd just-"
"And Lord Rulec was Dominie at the time?” Kargan did not wish to give the old man too much time to think.
"No, that's not right, I'm sure,” Doorkeeper said, furrowing his brow. “It must have been Lord Algar at that time. Lord Rulec didn't come in until… until…"
Kargan saw his chance. “Was that not near the time that Questor Loras was exiled to… oh, what is that place called?"
"Lower Frunstock?"
"Yes, that's the name of the place,” said the Mentalist. “When he was exiled, he became a blacksmith, didn't he?"
"Yes, that's right, a smith.” Doorkeeper flapped his right hand over a cavernous yawn. “What's this all about, Magemaster Kargan? I'm very tired. I have so much to do, you see. Nobody-"
"Nearly finished,” Kargan interrupted, worried that at any time Xylox or Faffel might return from the lower depths of the House. “I'm not all that interested in Lord Thorn or Questor Loras, but I'm just trying to find out if…"
His mind raced as he tried to find some innocent explanation for his hasty nocturnal flight.
Doorkeeper provided him with the answer. The major-domo's face cleared and he smiled. “Oh, I understand, Magemaster Kargan. Yes, I see now. Lord Rulec came from a family of smiths, too. Is that what this is about?"
"That's it, Doorkeeper,” Kargan said, flushed with relief. “I'm trying to compile a history of Lord Rulec's life, and I thought I'd contact his family. I was trying to think of who else was a smith, and who might know where his family was located."
"That's easy, very simple, Magemaster Kargan, indeed,” the old mage babbled, smiling. “I had the honour of escorting Lord Rulec to his family home many years ago. A very great honour, I can tell you…"
Doorkeeper's face clouded. “You won't get there and back in a day. It's in Kuloka, far to the west. You'll never do that in half a day-"
"That's all right, Doorkeeper,” Kargan said, putting a friendly hand on the major-domo's left shoulder. “I've just remembered I don't have to take any classes tomorrow, after all. I should be able to go to Kuloka, make my enquiries and return in a day and a half. That will be just enough time. Thank you so much for all your help."
"I'm sure you're very welcome, very welcome indeed,” the old man said. “Please be sure to give my best wishes to Lord Rulec's family. They will remember-"
"I will,” Kargan said. “If anybody should ask after me, just remember that I'll be in Kuloka, talking to Lord Rulec and his family. Thank you, Doorkeeper."
"My pleasure, Magemaster Kargan,” Doorkeeper replied, his eyes bleary. “May I go to bed now?"
"Of course, good Brother Mage; sleep well."
With that, Kargan stepped away from the door, allowing it to close. With any luck, Doorkeeper would remember only this fact when questioned; the information the Magemaster had actually wanted-the location of Loras’ home-would be buried in the false trail that the major-domo had inadvertently helped to lay.
If I remember rightly, Lower Frunstock's about thirty miles south-east of here, he thought, hurrying to the stables at the side of the House. On a fast horse, I should make it in a couple of hours.
Stealing through the shadows like a footpad, Kargan reached the deserted stables in a few minutes. The door was padlocked, but his trusty Mage Staff, Seeker, made short work of the lock.
The horses whinnied and nickered in their stalls, but softly. Kargan muttered the Minor Magic spell of Light, and Seeker emitted a soft, yellow glow that lit the stable and the tackle hanging on the wall. He had no idea of how to saddle a horse, but he had been taught to ride by the Senior Wrangler on his father's estate. The Wrangler was, or had been, a simple plainsman, and he had taught the youthful Kargan how to ride bareback, controlling a horse only with his knees, thighs and voice. It would be hard going, but Kargan had only thirty miles to cover, after all.
Selecting a likely steed, a slender, wide-eyed, chestnut filly, he comforted the animal with a series of clicks and coos. Taking a blanket from a pile to his left, he draped it over the horse's back. With practiced ease, he fashioned a length of rope into a simple curb bit, which the animal accepted with no more complaint than a soft whinny.
He dragged a crate over to the open stall and tried to mount the horse, managing it on his third attempt. The horse's hooves clattered on the stable's flagstone floor, but she seemed to be a tractable beast, well used to the presence of a human on her back.
It seemed strange, after all these years, to be astride a horse without full tackle and stirrups, but the Senior Wrangler's lessons had not been wasted. Kargan flicked the crude reins and clicked, pressing his knees gently into the beast's sides, and she began to trot out of the stable, into the black night.
****
The mountain pass was a trial, and the Magemaster's knees and hips sent bolts of fire through his spine by the time he had reached its foot. However, once he had reached the broad, level streets of the slumbering town of Arnor, he gave his mount her head, growing in confidence as he navigated the filly onto the open plain. With his eyes now adapted to the darkness, he hunkered down over her back and followed the trail to the south-east.
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Chapter 28: The Storm Gathers
Kargan realised his belief that he might reach Lower Frunstock in the space of two hours might be an optimistic estimate. He had not forgotten how to ride without a saddle, and the filly was speedy enough on level ground, but he had failed to take into account the journey's toll on his body.
Twenty years of riding nothing more than a comfortable chair had softened his muscles and his stamina, and his body had forgotten just how much hard work was required to control a horse without saddle, stirrups or spurs. After riding hard for half an hour, he had to stop for several minutes in order to rest.
He brought the animal to a halt by a tree-stump, so that he would be able to remount; he knew now that he could never hope to leap onto the horse's back from level ground, as he had once been able to do.
He dismounted, feeling pleased that he managed to remain on his feet, but his lower body ached abominably. After removing the filly's rude curb bit and hobbling her, Kargan clasped his hands behind his neck and leaned backwards, trying to ease the pain in his knotted muscles.
Some dashing rider you turned out to be, he thought, with a rueful, pained grimace. If you have to stop every thirty minutes, it'll take a bloody year and a day to get there. I'll be in no condition to cast…
Oh, no! Kargan spat out a heartfelt stream of obscenity, as he realised he had left the libram containing Bledel's spell in his chamber. He had left behind the only tool he might have used to convince Loras of Thorn's treachery.
He had managed to memorise several Divinatory spells, but this potent spell might take a lifetime to master without a scroll or libram to help him. From the eyewitness accounts Kargan had heard, Loras believed wholeheartedly in his guilt. If he had been beguiled by a similar hex to that used on Dalquist-and there was every reason to think that he had been there might be little the Mentalist could do to remove the block.
Kargan dared not return to the House-that was asking for trouble and at the very least, awkward questions. Kargan had prepared himself for this journey for some time: he had exercised his voice and his brain at every opportunity, and he had spent days in loading Seeker with all the magical energy he might require.
However, forgetting the scroll with Bledel's spell might make all this moot.
He scratched his grey beard and pondered. The s
ituation seemed intractable… or did it?
There's no block on my memory, he thought, and I know Demay's Spell of Recall like the back of my hand…
Kargan's problem with Dalquist had not been to retrieve the young mage's memories so much as to bypass the formidable blockage Lizaveta had placed on them. That would not be necessary to extract the details of Bledel's spell from his own mind.
Demay's hex is a Schedule Two Disassociative spell, he thought. I ought to know; I've used it enough times on myself, to remember where I've left things.
But is it powerful enough to pull out the memory of every single rune in a fifteen-minute Schedule Nine Engagement spell?
He knew the slightest error would render the spell at best useless; at worst, it could kill him. He had only ever used the Spell of Recall to recollect simple facts, such as a Student's name, or the location of a missing pair of shoes, and he felt chary about risking his life, his very soul, perhaps, on its limited powers.
On the other hand, he could not tolerate the prospect of the traitorous Thorn becoming Dominie, even if he had to put his life on the line to prevent it. He was confident in his abilities as a Mage Mentalist; his staff bore the seven rings that attested to mastery, and he had been teaching the craft for three decades.
His casting of Bledel's spell had been flawless, and he only needed to remember the stream of runes and inflections he had used on that day and dictate them into Seeker, as if it were some magical amanuensis. No great expenditure of energy would be required, since he would not actually be casting the enchantment.
It's a cheap enough spell, even extended over fifteen minutes, he thought. I can do it two or three times, and compare the results; if each recollection agrees with the others, I can have a high degree of certainty in the spell's accuracy. If I cast the spell on Seeker, I should be able to call it up when I need it.
He looked around him. The eastern horizon was still dark, so daybreak was still some way off.
It's worth a try.
Kargan clutched Seeker to him and began to cast the spell's first iteration.
****
Thorn felt ebullient and confident. Ever since Crohn and Dalquist had confronted him in this very office, he had been on the alert for the least sign of conspiracy, and his spy, Wiirt, had at last discovered the two mages engaging in mutinous conversation. It might take a certain amount of guile on The Prelate's part, but he felt sure he could convince the Presidium of the sorcerers’ guilt.
By the time those two ever come before a Conclave, he thought, they'll believe the truth of every single accusation. Mother might think she's the only one who can control a mage's mind, but I have some skill in that area myself. It's almost a shame she may not live long enough to find out about it.
It was late, or, rather, early in the day, and Thorn resisted the urge to act at once. Taking a deep, appreciative draught of wine from his glass, he decided that the interrogation could wait for a day or two, until Crohn and Dalquist were softened up a little. He had given orders to Wiirt, Xylox and Faffel to stand guard over the two mages around the clock, and to wake them whenever they showed signs of torpor.
In view of the loss of three Scholasticate Magemasters, Thorn had decided that the next few days would be declared a holiday. By happy coincidence, Urel Demonscourge, the House's senior Questor, had just passed the age of one-hundred-and-twenty; this should provide good grounds for the brief furlough.
He doubted that any of the Students would complain.
Except for young Chag, Thorn reminded himself. The boy's anger and pain grow daily, and he's at a critical juncture. I'll take the Neophyte under my wing until the new Senior Magemaster is chosen. I will give him my personal attention. I would ask Magemaster Kargan to take over the boy's conditioning, but I think he's just a little too open and easy-going with the Students, at times. He's also the Senior Mentalist in the House, and I'll need him for the trial, when Crohn and Dalquist are good and ready to acknowledge their guilt. There's no sense in tiring him out now.
****
Kargan now felt satisfied that he had now stored an accurate memory of the rune-sounds of Bledel Soulmaster's Temporal Divinatory Conjunct in his staff. Despite his fatigue, the aches and pains in his body had abated, and he felt ready to ride again.
I guess Loras wouldn't have appreciated my hammering at his door in the middle of the night, anyway, he thought. Perhaps he'll be a little more receptive to what I have to say now.
His horse grazed placidly where he had left her. Kargan unfettered the animal and replaced the bit in her mouth. Climbing up on the tree-stump, he gathered up his robes and clambered astride the mount. Shaking the reins and clicking, he eased the filly into a brisk trot, deciding, at first, against a reckless, headlong gallop.
The narrow, tree-lined road was still empty for as far as the eye could see, so he worked his mount up to a canter, working with the horse, rather than against her. He confined himself to the subtlest of guiding motions, as the filly grew accustomed to him, and found the experience far more rewarding this time.
As he rode, he began to sing a song from his distant youth. The horse seemed to appreciate his voice, pricking her ears up as he sang, and Kargan could swear there was a little more spring in her stride. He continued to sing, and the willing animal's hooves ate up the miles.
****
A chorus of cockerels greeted his arrival in Lower Frunstock, and the golden dawn light cast long shadows on the ground. A few chimneys already showed tendrils of smoke, and he could see a few figures moving about, despite the early hour. The ramshackle thatched cottages and shops were a far cry from the opulence in which Kargan had been raised, but he found a distinct bucolic charm in the small hamlet's easy, unhurried appearance.
"Mornin', mage!” a young milkmaid called, already tending her charges, and Kargan brought the filly to a halt.
"Good morning to you, my dear!” the Mentalist said. “Would you be so kind as to direct me to the town forge?"
The girl stood up and wiped her hands on her apron. Adjusting the cap on her head, she rose from her stool, and Kargan saw this was no willowy maiden. She was golden of hair and pink of face, but her arms were like tugboat hawsers, knotted and sturdy.
"Wuthabeethupprorrthlowrforrge?” she demanded, her friendly smile revealing twin rows of small, crooked teeth.
"I beg your pardon?” The milkmaid's heavy accent was almost impenetrable to him.
"Would tha’ be the upp'r or the low'r forge?” she repeated in a loud, slow voice, as if addressing a rather backward child.
"I don't know,” the Magemaster confessed. “I'm seeking the forge of one Loras Afelnor."
The girl's face cleared. “Oh, well, you'm be wantin’ th’ upper one, then,” she said. She followed this with an incomprehensible series of instructions, but Kargan noted her pointing finger's gyrations well enough. Only one chimney in that direction showed smoke, and he knew that smiths started work early in the day.
"Thank you so much, my dear,” he said, taking a silver coin from his pocket and proffering it.
The milkmaid eyed the coin with suspicion. “Whass that for?” she demanded, her eyes narrowed.
Kargan frowned. “Why, for your time, of course."
"F'r me toime? Oi ain't that kind o’ girl, Oi'll ‘ave ye know!” she cried, raising a ham-like fist that Kargan knew might well flatten him.
"I only offered it to thank you for taking the time to give me directions!” he protested. “I didn't mean anything else by it, I promise you!” He realised he was sweating, despite the cool morning.
"Oi don't take nuffin’ fer advoice anyone'd know,” she said, with a dainty sniff that seemed at odds with her powerful frame. “Thank'ee, but Oi'd rather ye kept yer money."
In a whisper, the girl no doubt considered confidential, but which almost overpowered the restless mooing of her cows, she said, “'Sides, me old man'd ‘ave it off me later, anyway. Sorry Oi took offence; Oi can see ye're a gent, and ye didn't
mean no ‘arm. Ye can't ‘elp th’ fancy words, Oi can see that."
"Well, thank you anyway,” Kargan said, raising the reins.
"If ye're in The Black Churn later on, ye can buy me a drink,” the girl said, her voice conciliatory. “'Ow about that?"
"That sounds very fair to me,” Kargan replied, wanting nothing more than to escape. “The Black Churn it is."
"Oi'll be waiting,” she said, with a fair imitation of a coquettish smile. “Two o'clock, don't ye be late."
Kargan nodded politely. “I wouldn't miss it for the world,” he said, vowing to give the hostelry the widest berth possible. “Until then…"
He flicked the reins and eased the horse forward, not daring to look back as he traversed the increasingly muddy street.
Lower Frunstock proved to be a tumbledown rabbit-warren of alleyways, dirt tracks and runnels. Navigating his way to the forge proved far harder than he had expected; many a promising thoroughfare led to a dead end.
However, at last, he found himself in a wide, paved courtyard outside the forge.
A short, burly man with black, greying hair stepped from a passageway and knuckled his forehead.
"Good mornin’ to ye, Lord Mage,” the man said. “I'll be reckonin’ ye'll be after a decent saddle and tack, by the looks o’ things. Am I right?"
"Well, that would be nice,” the mage confessed. He had never learned how to saddle a horse and, although he knew how to ride bareback, it would be far more comfortable to ride in style.
"I'm Harvel Angol, full partner in this smithy,” continued the muscular man, and Kargan blinked: this bulky man shared his first name with the slender, foppish swordsman who had joined Questors Dalquist and Grimm on their first Quest together. He suppressed a smile. This man would never be a dainty fencer; the contrast was ludicrous.
"I'm really looking for Que… for Master Loras Afelnor,” the mage said, sliding from the filly with all the decorum he could manage. A shock of pain blazed through his spine and legs as his feet took his weight, but his pride still outweighed his discomfort.
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