Questor cogd-3

by Alaistair J. Archibald

  However, it would be very hard for even a small, renegade group of powerful magic-users to assemble and cast a Great Spell within the confines of the House without attracting the least attention. In addition to this, unless a vast, unfeasible conspiracy of lesser thaumaturges had been involved, such men would have been ineligible to vote on the issue of Geral's successor, and they could have disposed of Loras' suit without recourse to underhand means.

  Grimm now knew there were spells that could compel a man to act in a certain way, whilst maintaining the illusion of unfettered volition. This, at least, seemed to fit with the facts as he understood them. Nonetheless, it also seemed that such an enchantment could not have been raised within the House. He knew also that Loras had been held in great esteem at the highest echelons of High Lodge, and it therefore seemed improbable that the spell had been sanctioned by the Lord Dominie; in any case, if High Lodge had disapproved of the idea of Loras as House Prelate, the Dominie possessed an absolute power of veto over any such appointment within any Guild House. It was used only on the rarest of occasions; but it existed, nonetheless.

  Once again, Grimm had set up a structure designed to establish the innocence of his beloved grandfather, beyond a reasonable doubt; once again, it had proved no more substantial than a house of cards.

  Grimm felt exhausted after the exertions of the day, and his brainstem engaged in mortal combat with his cerebrum for control of his senses. The end result was a semi-conscious state, in which concepts, facts, numbers and images whirled through his mind in an endless, circuitous cavalcade of meaningless conclusions that demanded his mental attention with ruthless authority. When full awareness returned to him, weak, pallid rays of early morning light were creeping into the tent.

  ****

  "I trust you all slept well?" the ever-cheery Foster said. An access of unreasonable hatred flooded through Grimm at the man's indefatigable good humour, and he fought to dismiss it.

  "Quite well, thank you, Foster," he lied, forcing his unwonted hatred back onto himself at this facile falsehood.

  "I slept like a newborn babe," Crest declared. "Those green bags of yours are wonderful, Foster. I slept better than if I'd drunk myself into a stupor, and I don't have a hangover to contend with, either."

  Tordun looked bleary-eyed and a little unsteady on his feet. The titanic albino's strong reservations at the prospect of sharing a tent with a nubile young girl had been plain to see. A man of such scruples, also possessing high levels of masculine hormones, must have doubted his ability to control his physical desires when asleep, and perhaps he had chosen to remain awake, rather than to risk succumbing to dark, primitive inner drives he feared might overwhelm his sleeping body.

  Although the swordsman wore dark rings around his pink eyes, which stood out in stark relief against his translucent skin, Drexelica appeared well-rested and almost cheerful; Grimm noted that she did not cast her gaze in his direction for more than a brief moment.

  "Anyway, gentlemen," Foster said. "I admitted to a moment of forgetfulness last night about why we'd chosen this route; I'd really appreciate some enlightenment. It's my fault, I know; that bloody crash must have rubbed the memory from my head. But what are we doing here? Did I mention it before I took the chopper out of Haven?"

  The irritatingly fresh-faced Xylox shuffled closer to Grimm and whispered, "I would appreciate it if you would stand by me, in the improbable event that I should require additional thaumaturgic energy, Questor Grimm. I need to convince Foster of a matter contrary to his understanding and awareness; I need to create an entire false history, and this is even more difficult to achieve than a basic Compulsion."

  The young thaumaturge knew the previous night's brief rest had done little to replenish his depleted reserves, and that he might be of little use to Xylox in this matter; nonetheless, he had worked hard to build even the most fragile bridge between himself and the curmudgeonly mage, and he deemed it politic to comply with his senior mage's request.

  "I am at your disposal, Questor Xylox," Grimm whispered. "I will do my best to fulfil your needs."

  The two Questors approached the frowning Foster.

  "Do you not remember, Pilot Foster?" the senior mage asked, his voice one of deep concern.

  "Not at all, mage," Foster confessed. "I know it was my decision to come this way, and I can only imagine that it's something to do with General Q, but I can't remember a damn' thing about it. I only…"

  Fluent gibberish spilled from Xylox's mouth, as the senior Questor's twisted expression told of inner agonies. In counterpoint to this, Foster's visage lost all animation, as if a blackboard had been wiped clean. The spell went on and on, and Grimm could tell the frugal mage was expending his hoarded energies at a phenomenal rate as he babbled.

  The mage's face turned ashen, and he grabbed his colleague's right arm, still maintaining the cadence of the spell. Grimm felt much-needed power flowing from him like water cascading from a broken dam; it felt as if his head were being emptied, as if it might crumple and implode at any moment. His vision began to turn grey and hazy, his field of view diminishing in size with each second. The amount of energy Xylox was stripping from him was not the cause of his pain, but the rate at which it was being drained.

  Cold panic pulsed through his nerves, and he wanted to scream, "Enough, Xylox; enough!" but he could no longer spare the energy to speak.

  Was this what Granfer felt when he was stripped of his powers? he wondered, his fear subsiding to dull resignation. He would die here, a shrivelled, wasted husk, and Xylox would have delivered final adjudication on his despised junior. Just as Grimm's field of vision narrowed to the size of a small coin, Xylox released his arm: the spell must be complete.

  For several moments, Xylox gasped like a beached fish, and Grimm sank to his knees. The two warriors and the girl stood by, their expressions uncomprehending and concerned, but the Haven man's face was as blank as a fresh, clean sheet of paper, ready to be filled with new writing: Xylox's fantasy.

  Grimm's vision cleared, and he felt power rushing back into him like water flooding into a squeezed sponge that had just been released. His head ached, and needle-like pains pricked him behind his eyeballs, but he knew he still retained at least some of his power. He half-expected Drex to rush to his side in concern, but the girl seemed to look anywhere but at him. He gasped and blinked, trying to regain his composure, as the senior Questor addressed the ensorcelled pilot.

  "Foster, we have all been Pacified to Level Three; do you not remember?" Xylox's voice was steady and metronomic, husky yet clear.

  "I remember," was the dull, emotionless reply. "I was present when Administrator Armitage ordered it."

  "That is correct," Xylox said. "Armitage pacified us and then ordered you to take us to General Quelgrum for induction; we are all unwitting slaves of your Administrator, and we would do anything for him without knowing why. Haven is in good order, and Armitage is alive and well, as are all his acolytes."

  The pilot, shorn of his fearsome, Technological armour, nodded with elephantine slowness.

  "It was… it was Administrator Armitage's idea," he said in a hesitant monotone. "I must take you to the… the General. Armitage will be pleased."

  "You will act at all times as if we possess free will," Xylox said, leaning close to the flyer. "Armitage does not wish us to be aware of our enslavement, and you do not need to ask why."

  The mage's brow beaded with perspiration as he sought to drive his will into the pilot's sensorium. Despite the energies he had already expended, it seemed to take additional resources to push home each new concept and instruction.

  Foster twisted and groaned, as if caught in a mixture of agony and rapture. "It was Armitage's will," he whined in a childlike treble.

  Xylox groaned in a basso counterpoint; he must be reaching his limit of power. Grimm delved into his diminished reserves and sent a spurt of it, all he could afford to give, into his colleague, who tore a rasping, relieved sigh from the cool m
orning air.

  "You must take us to the General and his men," the older sorcerer whispered, his eyes red and dull. "We know nothing except our love for Armitage, and our need to obey the General."

  "Love of Armitage," the blank-eyed pilot agreed. Xylox snapped his fingers in the manner of a fairground mesmerist. Foster blinked, showing the first sign of animation since the Questor began his magically-enhanced speech, and his mouth flapped without sound.

  "So there we are," the older thaumaturge said. "I am sure you remember now, Foster."

  "Er, yes, Questor," Foster mumbled, shaking his head as if to clear some mental blockage.

  "That's right," he added in a clearer voice, as false awareness came to him. As far as Grimm could see, Foster was back in full charge of his mind and body after his indoctrination.

  "I'll bet you're looking forward to meeting General Q; he's a wonderful man, believe me," Foster said, smiling. "Still, we won't get there any quicker by standing around. Let's get these tents down, and I'll see what other provisions I can find in the chopper. We've got a fair trek before us."

  With a cheery whistle, his normal good humour restored, the pilot trudged off to the wreck of the helicopter, as if the group were on some summer picnic rather than stranded and bereft at the foot of a range of mountains at the edge of a burning desert.

  Grimm looked at Xylox. The older man was trembling, his face was almost as pale as the albino Tordun's, and the whites of his eyes had turned a delicate shade of red. The young Questor felt under no illusions that he was in any better shape than his colleague.

  "Questor Xylox," Grimm said to his fellow mage, urgency implicit in his tone, "I am in no condition to fight an obstreperous infant, let alone take on an army. I wager you are no less drained than I."

  "Nonsense," the boastful, proud Questor snapped. "I am Xylox the Mighty; I thrive on adversity, and may woe betide those who dare to oppose me!"

  Grimm said nothing, but he felt his expression radiating disbelief. Xylox tried to meet his gaze, but he looked away at the last moment.

  "I must admit that I might benefit from a few more hours of restorative sleep," the senior mage confessed, with a noncommittal shrug. "Perhaps even my powers may not be at their optimal level."

  "You are drained and exhausted, brother mage; do not seek to deny it. I am willing to confess, without the slightest hesitation, to feeling weaker than any stripling Student." Grimm's tone was firm and confrontational, even contemptuous, but, for once, Xylox did not bristle or remonstrate with his junior.

  "How are we to put up an effective magical presence in the face of an army aided by Guild mages?" the young sorcerer continued, remorseless and stern. "There will be few, if any, opportunities for sleep in the desert, and we cannot risk facing the General in our present condition."

  Xylox cast his gaze around him in a furtive manner. The two warriors and Drexelica were engaged in dismantling the tents, and Foster was busy within the bowels of the wrecked vehicle. It was plain that Xylox was not about to confess to the least incapacity or weakness within earshot of four Seculars.

  "Foster is motivated to move on," the stocky thaumaturge said. "I dare not risk trying to compel him to wait longer; I am ready to admit that I may lack sufficient resources to cast another Compulsion spell, at this juncture."

  This, from Xylox, constituted an admission of major weakness. The situation was as serious as Grimm had feared.

  "In any case, we have no food, and inanition poses a risk to all of us, not just you and I. We have two competent warriors with us, and we should move while they, at least, retain their strength and agility. What else can we do?"

  It seemed a knotty problem, and Grimm considered his colleague's argument with care; the junior Questor disliked the older man with a passion, but he felt unable to refute his logic.

  "I concur with your reasoning, Questor Xylox," he sighed, "although I must confess to some trepidation."

  Xylox frowned. "I have one stipulation, Questor Grimm: I feel no inclination to treat with an avowed Technologist. Since you seem to have a certain amount of… sympathy for this art, I will trust you to see that the man, Foster, remains true to the spell I have laid upon him, and that he takes us to our goal in good order."

  The senior Questor turned his back as Foster returned from the wreck, bearing a few packages and knapsacks, borne on a small, wheeled cart equipped with a yoke. The broken-down tents were loaded onto the cart, and Foster distributed a knapsack to Tordun, Crest and a disdainful Xylox, keeping one for himself. The muscular albino, covering himself as best he could from the destructive rays of the sun, put the yoke around his ample shoulders, and the Haven man donned a pair of dark spectacles.

  "If we're all ready, folks, I'd suggest that we start while the sun's low in the sky," Foster said.

  Grimm found the pilot's jocularity irritating, but he said nothing, acknowledging the man's words with a silent nod.

  "All set? Good; let's get moving, people."

  The party began the trek into the unforgiving, burning, golden wasteland that lay ahead.

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  Chapter 17: The Heat of the Day

  The party had left the margins of the Shest foothills more than two hours before, and the sun hung at an angle of forty degrees or so to the ground. Firm rock had long since given way to deep sand, and progress was slow.

  Drex, in particular, seemed to find the going difficult; she wore a long, heavy, velvet dress and thin pumps more suited to a dancehall than a desert.

  She was not the only person with problems; although the sun was nowhere near its zenith, Tordun was breathing heavily. He carried a heavy haversack, dragged a well-laden barrow, and he was covered from head to foot to shield his pale, sensitive skin from the vicious rays of the desert sun. In addition to the albino's all-encompassing robes, Grimm knew that Tordun still wore his heavy leather armour underneath.

  Only Foster seemed to be wearing clothing suitable for the oppressive terrain. The pilot had fashioned a burnoose from what appeared to be white silk. The sheer material was fastened around his brow with twine, and it hung over the back of his neck. He had stripped off his heavy pilot's outfit, and he had fashioned more of the light material into a flowing robe cinched at the waist. His heavy, durable leather boots also seemed the most suitable footwear for the demanding terrain. With the black spectacles completing his ensemble, Foster appeared almost comfortable in the morning sun.

  The Haven man seemed to have given no thought to the plight of the rest of the group, and Grimm felt moved to remonstrate. He knew Xylox would be too proud to admit to any weakness or incapacity, even if it might mean his death.

  "Foster, I understood that, in desert regions, it is best to travel at night and rest during the day," he said.

  "Well, on a long journey, with no end in sight, that's true enough," the pilot replied. "But we have no more than five days' walk ahead of us, at worst. We have a reasonable amount of water with us, and we need to use the sun to navigate. If you walk at night in the desert, it's easy enough to find yourself walking in circles, since most people have one leg slightly longer than the other. There's always the Pole Star, assuming there's no cloud, but it's not accurate enough in a blank landscape with no reference points.

  "The Pole Star is almost half a degree away from true north. If the General's compound were only a few miles away, that wouldn't be a problem, but a positional error of half a degree or so would see us lost in the desert. With the aid of the sun and a couple of sticks, I can ascertain our heading with reasonable accuracy. As long as I check frequently, we should be able to find our way well enough"

  "Have you no lodestone?" Grimm queried. What was all this talk about the sun and sticks? Had the Technologists lost the secret of one of the oldest methods of navigation the human race possessed?

  Foster looked blank for a moment, but his expression soon brightened. "Oh, you mean a compass. Yes, I've got one here."

  The Haven man produ
ced a transparent, rectangular device with what looked like a clock-face at its centre. There were two indicators: one was pale-green, the other, more slender, needle was red. "Which way do you think we're going?"

  Grimm knew that a lodestone always orientated itself around a north-south axis. The letters N, S, E and W made the device's operation clear.

  "North half East," he said.

  Then his brow furrowed in confusion: he realised the rising sun was over his left shoulder, indicating that they were moving in a south-westerly direction.

  "You see?" Foster said. "The mountains have a lot of iron in them, so the needle always points towards them, rather than to the north. A compass is useless here."

  Grimm found the pilot's perennial cheerfulness irritating, but he swallowed his annoyance. "Can we not use the position of the mountains as a nocturnal referent?"

  Foster shook his head. "It's too big, mage; too vague. In a few days, we'll have the General's compound in plain sight, and we'll be able to zero in on that easily enough-if we discipline ourselves. But we won't be able to see it at night.

  "Cheer up; it'll be uncomfortable and difficult, but we'll be all right if we all exercise a little discipline!"

  The Questor's felt his forbearance stretching to its limits.

  "Look at Tordun!" he snapped, indicating the heavily-attired, red-faced albino.

  "If he makes it through the day, I will be surprised; look at Drexelica's bleeding feet. You may be comfortable enough, but what of the rest of us?"

  "Feel free to ignore me if you want to die, mage," the pilot said. "I've been through survival training, and I know what I'm talking about. If you want to strip off, go ahead, but don't say I never warned you. If you do that, I can guarantee you'll be down from heat prostration in just a few hours. Sweat soaking into clothes evaporates slowly, taking the heat from your body, but it just drips off naked skin. It's gone in an instant, and it's wasted. You can survive far longer in the desert if you're well-covered."