You wanted this responsibility, Afelnor, he told himself. Nobody forced it on you-in fact, you argued with Dominie Horin that you should be given charge of the Quest. This may be one of the easiest decisions you have to make, so make it!
"We keep moving, General,” he said. “We'll replenish our supplies on the way back. We'll travel lighter and we can reduce unwanted contact to a minimum. After what happened at Yoren and Brianston, I'd prefer not to take the risk of this place housing some weird, sacrificial death-cult with a fanatical desire for Technology, blind albinos, mages or whatever. I think the potential risks outweigh the possible advantages."
"You are in charge, Lord Baron,” Quelgrum said, and Grimm could swear the old soldier's faint sigh betokened relief. “We ride."
Guy poked his head through the slit in the canvas cover. “Are we staying here tonight, or what?"
Grimm turned to face the Questor. “No, Questor Guy,” he said in a cool, neutral voice. “We're going to carry on to the outskirts of Rendale and camp out there."
"Ah, come on, Grimm!” Guy moaned. “You're not scared of a place like this, are you? I, for one, could do with a decent meal before we face my darling Grandmamma, and this town looks pretty damn’ safe to me!"
"I wasn't scared of Yoren at first, nor Brianston, Guy.” Grimm fought to keep his expression calm and his voice level. “However, my overconfidence cost Crest his life, caused Harvel to quit and lost Tordun… well, we all know what happened to Tordun. Regardless of how Anjar looks or seems, it is a potential threat. I prefer not to take that risk.
"Perhaps your eyebrows and hair would agree with me,” he continued, eyeing the hairless pink arcs above the Great Flame's eyes, and the uneven, semi-scorched mop that had replaced his normal, artful coiffure.
Now I understand what Mage Speech is all about, flashed a thought through his brain, bringing sudden understanding. I always thought cutting out vernacular, contractions and everything was just another petty restriction, but it helps you keep your distance-and that's what I have to do here.
"Even so,” Guy said, “I think I ought to have some say-"
"We have a problem here, Brother Mage,” Grimm said, his dark eyes hooded.
"What's that, Dragonblaster?” Guy's expression suggested he did not really care about the answer to his question. Still, Grimm felt a small shiver of relief at the fact that the older mage had evidently decided to abandon his former, sarcastic nickname for Grimm-Dragonbluster.
"The problem is that you are labouring under the delusion that I am in command of this expedition and you are the second-in-command,” the younger Questor replied."
Without giving Guy a chance to respond, he continued, “The fact of the matter, distasteful as it may appear to you, is that I am in charge, as decreed by the Lord Dominie, and you are not! Do you have a problem with that, Great Flame?” He fixed his gaze on Guy's glacier-blue eyes with the intensity only a Questor could command.
Guy was no dilettante; he matched Grimm's stare with the same cool glare of authority, and several moments passed in silence.
At last, Necromancer Numal broke the deadlock with a plaintive cry from within the wagon: “Well, are we stopping here or not, Questor Grimm?"
Not looking away from Guy's fierce gaze for a moment, Grimm said, “We will be moving on, Brother Mage."
As if on cue, Quelgrum flicked the reins and the obedient horses trotted back onto the road. Grimm's eyes began to water, and he felt a mild flush of pleasure as he saw traces of moisture around the older Questor's lower eyelids.
"You are welcome to stay here if you wish, Questor Guy,” Grimm said. “Shakkar, please begin a survey of the region around Rendale."
"At once, Lord Baron,” the demon rumbled, rising back into the sky and beating his way south-west on thundering wings, the sound diminishing as he climbed into the blue expanse.
After a few more moments of staring, Guy nodded slowly. “All right, Questor Grimm, if that's the way you want to play it; I'll go along with you-for now."
Ending the staring match, he nodded, and, muttering, “Play your puerile, little games of ascendancy if you want to,” he ducked back under the wagon's canvas cover.
Grimm flicked a swift glance at Quelgrum, as the soldier guided the vehicle with sure, confident hands with the ghost of a smile on his lips.
"Do you find something amusing in that exchange, General?” he demanded.
"Not at all, Lord Baron,” the soldier replied. “As a matter of fact, I thought you handled that situation well. For what it's worth, I also agree whole-heartedly with your decision."
Grimm nodded, feeling a distinct glow of pleasure at the General's assessment, but he said nothing.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter 32: Preparations
Within quarter of an hour, the wagon was back on the open road, heading south-west. The Anjarians had paid the travellers little heed, and the vehicle's progress had not been impeded. For a little while, Grimm continued to worry about the lingering effects of recent strain on the party, but the conversation in the rear of the vehicle seemed as animated and good-tempered as ever. Putting his fears behind him, he turned his attention to the matter of the Quest, and how it might be expedited.
Do we turn up en masse, knock at the door and demand to see the Prioress? he wondered. Do we blast our way in and proceed to destroy the place?
His mind returned to Horin's order: “I wish you to confront this odious cult directly and, if necessary, to destroy it.” It had all sounded so simple and clear-cut in the comfort of the Dominie's chamber, but the young mage began to feel grave misgivings squirming in his entrails. What to do?
You can't do this alone, Grimm, he thought. Quelgrum is the most experienced warrior of all of us; I'm sure he has an opinion.
Almost as if he had read the Questor's mind, Quelgrum leaned over and said, “Have you given any thought about how we're going to carry this off, Lord Baron?” He kept his voice low.
"I… I wanted to ask your advice on our tactics, General,” the young mage said. “Have you any recommendations to offer?"
"A few,” the soldier admitted. “For a start, it's always a good idea to hide your true numbers, especially if your force is small. Keep ‘em guessing. My advice would be for you and me to approach the Priory, with the others out of sight."
Grimm nodded. “I agree with you in principle, General. However, I recommend that I make the initial approach alone. I have some experience now of the kinds of tricks Geomantic magic can play with the unwary mind, and I'm unlikely to be caught napping."
"Under those circumstances, Lord Baron,” Quelgrum said, “I insist on a thorough reconnaissance of the area before we do anything. If at all possible, I would advise you to post Sergeant Erik and me behind any available cover, so we can lay down suppressing fire with our rifles if anything untoward happens. I fancy even a witch will find a rifle bullet troublesome if she doesn't expect it.
"I'd also advise you not to enter the Priory; persuade this Lizaveta woman to come out to you. We can't protect you if you go inside."
"What if Lizaveta won't come out?” Grimm asked. “What if she insists on me entering the Priory?"
The General rubbed his chin. “Then that's probably the time to up the ante…"
Grimm furrowed his brow; the soldier's words meant little to him.
"I mean, to make a few vague threats. Make it clear that it's not a request, and that there will be dire consequences if she won't come out. Don't be too specific, but let them know we're ready for trouble."
"And then, General?"
"Well, if the old lady still won't play ball, I'd advise you to leave,” the General said. “Assuming we've got some kind of defensible position, the Sergeant and I can lob rifle-grenades at the door, the windows and the walls from a distance. We've still got plenty of ammunition; incendiary, armour-piercing and high-explosive. We should be able to crack the place open like an egg."
"I don't want to ca
use any unnecessary bloodshed, if we can avoid it,” Grimm said. He had no idea of the capabilities of most of Quelgrum's arsenal, and he worried that many, or even most, of the Prioress’ charges might be unaware of her evil ways. “I don't want the deaths of a score or more innocent women on my conscience. Your explosive weapons may be a little too indiscriminate, General."
"Then we'll throw down some fire just short of the Priory, Lord Baron, just to show them a sample of what we can do. Perhaps you and Questor Guy would like to display a few of your own fireworks, just to add some emphasis. The main thing is not to let them guess exactly how many there are of us, or what kind of weaponry we have at our disposal.
"After our little demonstration, you can return to negotiation. That's when you go pot limit-sorry, Lord Baron-when you tell them that the whole place will be wiped out if the old lady doesn't appear. If that doesn't work, we'll have to reconsider our options. Whatever happens, we shouldn't commit to a firm plan until we know the lie of the land."
Grimm mulled over the soldier's suggestions for the next few miles, as the wagon jounced and bobbled over the road's numerous ruts and irregularities. Try as he might, he could not think of a better scheme than Quelgrum had proposed.
"Very well, General,” he said at last. “I'll go along with that."
****
Kargan awoke to a fierce throbbing in his right temple; he touched a finger to his head and felt a lump the size of a small egg, wincing at the contact. Opening his eyes, he saw he was lying on a straw mattress in a small room. On a stool beside him sat Mistress Drima.
"Are you feeling better, Magemaster Kargan?” Loras’ wife asked in a pleasant, soothing contralto. “You had quite a fall there."
I wonder if she sings, thought the Mentalist, ever the musical epicure. I hope that lovely voice isn't marred by a pair of useless ears…
"Some of my teeth seem to be loose,” he said, probing his dental armoury with a careful tongue, “but I seem to be all right, otherwise."
"Loras is full of praise for you,” Drima said, smiling, and Kargan could see a clear trace of moisture around her eyes. “He wants to talk to you as soon as you're able to see him; he says you can restore his powers."
Kargan started, sending a red-hot thread of pain through his head. Loras has had sensual relations with a woman at least once, he thought. Questor Grimm is the proof of that.
Guild lore prescribed strict celibacy for all mages; the least dalliance with a member of the distaff sex would cause the loss of all thaumaturgic ability. Kargan wondered how best to remind Loras of this basic fact. Nonetheless, after his former, vainglorious boasts, he had to try to soften the blow as best he could. He knew the former Questor must be aware of this basic tenet of Thaumaturgy.
"I'm ready, Mistress Drima,” the mage declared, levering himself into a sitting position, his vision blurring for a moment, “although Questor Loras may not like my answer.” He swayed a moment, as the pain in his head surged.
Drima sighed, took a bottle and wetted a cloth with its contents. Kargan allowed her to dab the cloth on his aching temple. “Witch hazel,” she said, as the Mentalist winced a little at the contact. “It should draw the bruise out."
The former teacher looked the Mentalist straight in the eye. “Loras knows what I've known for a long time,” she said. “He didn't mean to kill Prelate Geral. That's what's kept him awake every night for as long as I've known him. He tried to hide it from me for many years, but I always knew there was some deep, dark secret he felt he had to keep from me. He didn't succeed in deceiving me; my dear husband often talks in his sleep, and he sometimes screams. When we met our grandson, Grimm, at the end of last year, he let his mask slip a little, and I told him what I know. Whatever you tell Loras now, I don't care; he knows his destructive self-recrimination is groundless. For that, I thank you. Regardless of anything else you can do for him, I thank you with all my heart. I'll fetch him for you now."
As Drima left the room, Kargan nodded, gingerly touching the lump on his head, which now throbbed rather less than it had. After a few moments, Loras entered. His expression and his posture reflected a man far more at ease than Kargan expected.
"How are you, Mentalist Kargan?” asked the former Questor, his voice solicitous.
"I'll be fine, Master Loras,” the Magemaster said, with a shrug. “Don't worry about me; I've had far worse injuries after bad miscasts. However, I'd be grateful if you would tell me how you feel about the little journey we made this morning."
Loras sat at the foot of the bed and shrugged.
"I do not know: stunned, angry, relieved… it has all been so sudden. I discovered I had been betrayed by a man I loved as if he were my own brother, and that is a hard thing for someone to bear. On the other hand, I know that I am no renegade, no Oathbreaker."
"What do you intend to do, Master Loras?” Kargan asked.
"Once you have restored my powers, Magemaster, I intend to call challenge on Thorn before the entire Presidium. I'll see that traitorous rat stripped of his magic, as I was. I want to be able to show my staff and my Guild ring before the whole world, as a proud mage once more."
Kargan squirmed a little; the subject he now had to broach was a delicate one. “I've been thinking about that,” he said, “and I think the restoration of your sleight might be… problematical."
"What?” cried Loras, his eyebrows raised. “You told me you could return my powers! Did you then lie to me?"
Kargan squirmed on the straw-filled mattress; the former mage's expression was one of hurt and surprise, rather than of anger. “It's just that… you know… you've had physical relations with a woman,” he said, kneading his hands. He felt his cheeks burning with embarrassment, as if he were a callow adolescent. “You know what that can do to a mage,” he finished, in a low mumble, not meeting Loras’ dark eyes.
For a moment, Kargan almost feared that the muscular smith might hit him; Loras’ face reddened, and his lower lip trembled. Then the storm broke as the former Questor burst into tumultuous laughter, tears of mirth running down his swarthy cheeks. Kargan caught a desperate edge of incipient hysteria in Loras’ laughter, and he wondered if the smith had lost his reason. However, after what seemed an age, Loras’ hilarity began to subside.
"You do not… really believe that… that old wives’ tale, do you, Magemaster?” he gasped between hiccups of mirth. “How old are you, for goodness’ sake?"
"What does that have to do with anything?” Kargan demanded, beginning to feel hot pangs of irritation mingling with his embarrassment. “That's one of the foremost tenets of Guild lore!"
Loras brought himself under control with a shudder. “I am sorry,” he said, wiping his eyes. “I forget sometimes the cloistered life you non-Questors lead.
"It suits the Guild well for its mages to lead a circumscribed life; it keeps all their attention focused on their jobs. High Lodge wants its alumni to hold it in the highest possible esteem, and wives and children would only get in the way."
Kargan felt as if his soul were draining away through his spine and soaking into the ground. His mouth worked for a few moments before he could speak. “Do you mean to tell me it's not true?” he croaked.
"It is true enough, if you believe it,” Loras said. “I believed it for many years, despite all my travels through the world. I was a good, obedient, celibate Questor for the House well into my twenties. However, the scales fell from my eyes on my eighth Quest; I was sent to… now where was that place?"
Loras’ eyes scanned the low ceiling for a few moments, as if seeking divine enlightenment.
"Galan,” he said at last. “That was the name. I was dispatched to Galan to reason with a former mage who had opened an unaffiliated school of magic without Guild approval. He was a Weatherworker named Barras, as far as I recall, a former Arnor mage who had grown dissatisfied with his lot.
"It was an easy enough Quest; the mage was terrified that I would blast him into atoms, or his precious Scholasticate. I…
persuaded him that it would be better for his health and wealth to apply for Guild status and pay his dues; he agreed almost at once. Galan House is now a respected, obedient member of the Guild hierarchy, as far as I know."
"Yes, yes,” Kargan said impatiently. “It's to the north-west of here, about fifty miles. What does Galan House have to do with… you know?"
"Galan has… or, rather, it used to have, a thriving brothel,” Loras said. “Of course, that had to be brushed under the carpet once it came under the Guild's influence, but Barras invited me to join him there one night. I refused to do so, of course, like a good, celibate Questor, but I saw him pay a girl and enter the brothel.
"Now, I don't know if he actually had… intimacy with the girl. Some men, as I understand it, have, shall we say, strange desires that do not involve physical contact. However, he told me he had, and I have no reason to doubt it."
"Did you see the Weatherworker cast any magic afterwards?” Kargan asked, unwilling to believe.
Loras shook his head. “He was in poor shape, and I could tell he had neglected his studies,” he confessed. “However, the encounter piqued my interest, and I asked a few careful questions in the town. I learned that a Mage Manipulant in the fledgling House was a frequent customer at the brothel, and that he often made displays of magic at town fairs.
"Since that time, I have met several prominent Guild mages with wives and children, although they keep their families secret. They are mostly Questors like me… like I was. After all, Questors tend to see a little more of the world than other mages, and we meet many more people. Take it from me, Mentalist; this prohibition is false! Sexual intimacy does not remove a mage's power!"
"They lied to me!” Kargan gasped, still stunned by the smith's words.
Loras’ face twisted into a wrinkled smile. “There are many Guild lies to which you may have to get used,” he said. “This is just one of them! Whatever spells you have that could return my powers to me, I beg you to try them. I have decades of self-doubt to overcome."
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