Truth and Deception cogd-4

by Alastair J. Archibald

  "Numal, were you lying to me when you told me I had travelled in the astral plane?"

  "I was not!" snapped the Necromancer, rising to his feet, his face a crimson mask of outrage. "Are you daring to brand me a liar now?"

  Before Numal could say more, Grimm screamed, "I had that dream when I was last here! I saw the crypts below High Lodge, and I saw the body of a girl being butchered and eaten by the very order I now seek to destroy.

  "Tell me now that I imagined it: the dream you told me was proof of my astral projection! Your very words convinced me that what I saw was real. If you now wish to call me a liar, I invite you to use your Mage Sight on me. I'm telling the truth: there is a grave threat to our Order. Yes, I am upset, but I think I have every right to be."

  Now, it was Numal who seemed on the defensive, his face etched with horror and disgust. "I spoke the truth; I swear it, Questor Grimm! You never told me any details of your dream. Did you really see scenes of cannibalism, right here in High Lodge?"

  Grimm nodded. "All I have is the memory of that awful dream, and I don't think that alone will serve as evidence for Lord Thorn. Yet that was what I saw, and my recent, rash actions have done nothing to shake my conviction that what I saw was real."

  Numal seemed to slump into a shapeless mass, like a snowman melting in the spring sun. "What do you want, Questor Grimm?" His voice was resigned, although Grimm could tell that Numal was still not quite convinced of his veracity, or even of his sanity. Nonetheless, at least he seemed a little rattled.

  "I want you to accompany me to the crypts underneath the Lodge." Grimm locked his gaze upon Numal's eyes. "Our Location Gems won't be much use down there, but I'm pretty sure I'll be able to find the right place. When we get there, I want you to scan my aura, and tell me if that's where I went on my astral voyage. Then I'd like you to tell me if there are any signs of the depredations that I saw in my 'dream'."

  Numal shuffled on his bed; he looked ill at ease, if somewhat more compliant than he had been on Grimm's entry to the room.

  "All right, Questor Grimm. Suppose I accept your proposition: where does this leave me?"

  Grimm smiled. "We take our information to Lord Thorn, and I swear on my Ring that I will say that you acted only on my instruction as the senior mage. All I ask of you is to tell Lord Thorn what you divined from the location."

  "All right," Numal said, and then his face froze. "My, you're a fine friend, aren't you? That's all you ever wanted me here for, isn't it?"

  The young mage considered debating this point, but then dropped the idea. He might have been unreasonable after his ensorcelment, but Numal seemed to have forgotten one of the most basic precepts of the Guild: rank hath its privileges.

  Perhaps, as a scion of a wealthy family, the old truism had not been drilled as often into Numal as it had into Grimm when he had been a Student.

  "It's a tough life, isn't it, Numal? The fact is that I first asked you to come with me as a friend, someone who first showed me that a man could be a loyal House subject, and yet remain a human being. You implied I might be some kind of catamite, and yet you still agreed to come. I have tolerated your accusations, in recognition of my earlier unreasonable actions.

  "However, I have now notified you of a direct threat to our Order, and I counsel you to act as a sworn Guild Mage. I would rather have you as a friend than as an enemy, but I'll let you make the decision. If you choose to back out now, I'll let you do so, in the sure knowledge that you lack the courage of your convictions. On the other hand, if you stand by the assertions you made to me in the Refectory the day before yesterday, you are duty bound to do as I ask. You must then accept that I am in charge, and I'll brook no deviation from my orders. It's a simple decision, Numal: are you in or out?"

  Grimm pulled himself to his full height, the top of his head a full six inches above Numal's. "If you're out, then run off back home, and prove yourself a coward. Stay with me, and I'll be sure to give you full credit for your stalwart support."

  Grimm crossed his arms and glared.

  "You make it sound so tempting, Grimm Afelnor," Numal declared, his mouth twisted. "I suppose if I refuse you, you'll tell Lord Thorn I let you down."

  "Not at all, Numal; you have free will to accept or refuse my request. Your only guide will be your conscience. If you refuse, just remember that I'd be more than capable of bending you to my will, if I chose, but I'll stay my hand. I just want you to know that."

  Numal hunched his shoulders as if chilled, and he twisted his head from one side to the other. "That's just plain blackmail! You bastard, Grimm Afelnor!"

  "Not guilty," Grimm said, hardly daring to breathe. Without the Necromancer to corroborate his story, he might be unable to prove anything.

  At last, Numal spoke again. "What are we up against here?"

  Grimm suppressed a sigh of relief. "There is a religious order present at High Lodge: the Sisters of Divine Mercy, whose Prioress is a woman called Lizaveta. She's a witch, and so are at least some of her minions."

  "What's wrong with that, Grimm? My cousin, Jennaia, is a witch, and highly valued in her community. Witchcraft isn't illegal."

  "Human sacrifice and cannibalism are," the Questor snapped back. "As I told you, that's just what I saw during my little night-time jaunt. Lizaveta presided over the whole ghastly ceremony. The Sisters are under the direct protection of Lord Horin, and Lizaveta implied to me earlier that she has some sort of control over him."

  Numal sat back on his bed, his expression one of stunned bewilderment, and he whistled. "Questor Grimm, I'm sorry I was so blind to your true motives in asking me to accompany you. If true, this is indeed serious."

  "I hope you can forgive me for all my secrecy in this matter, Numal; I was under strict orders from Lord Thorn to keep the mission as clandestine as possible. If it hadn't been for… my former colleague, and his funny little mind games, things might have gone somewhat smoother than they have."

  Numal frowned, and leaned forward, his hands clasped between his knees. "Grimm, you said you made a grave mistake. You haven't told this Lizaveta woman what you intend, have you?"

  Now, Grimm felt cold fingers of uncertainty caressing his spine. How much could he afford to tell Numal, a man of whom he knew so little? Unless he was willing to open up to the Necromancer, his Quest might be for naught. However, thanks to Grimm's maladroit handling of Lizaveta, the old witch had a lever to use on him: her knowledge of his illicit love, Drexelica. The revelation of that knowledge to Horin, or to Thorn, would break him, and the only way to avoid that was to destroy the Order, or, at least, its influence over the Dominie.

  Lizaveta might have been lying to him, of course, but Grimm doubted it.

  A firm resolution surged within him: he would allow nothing to come between him and the girl he loved. He knew he was taking a serious risk, but he knew he must tell Numal the full truth. The greater risk was that the Necromancer might refuse his much-needed aid if he did not see the full picture.

  "Numal," he said, his voice low, "I am about to tell you something I wish to keep strictly between the two of us. You must swear not to reveal a word of what I'm about to tell you to anyone else."

  Numal's expression was wary, his eyes hooded. "How can I make such a promise, Grimm, if I don't know what you're going to say?"

  The Questor closed his eyes and took a deep breath; this was not going to be easy. He rubbed his beard as if this might inspire him, but it did not.

  What to do? Ah, to Perdition with it!

  Perhaps if he spoke quickly, the confession might not feel as bad.

  "I have a lover, Numal," he said, "a female lover."

  Numal's eyes bulged. "You have a what?"

  Grimm nodded. "It's true. I can tell you from… personal experience that what the Guild tells us about sexual relations between mages and women is a lie, Numal. I'm still as powerful as I ever was."

  "Could they break you for it?"

  Grimm nodded. "Perhaps. I don't know, but I'll
bet the Guild don't want that little secret exposed. They want to keep our minds on our vocations."

  Numal spoke in a slow drawl, as if he were measuring each word. "And… just how much bearing does that have on your 'mistake'?"

  "Quite a lot," Grimm admitted. "Lizaveta used some Geomantic equivalent of Mage Sight and divined it from my aura, or my mind."

  Words tumbled from him like leaves from a windswept autumnal tree. Despite his fears, confiding in someone else made a lot of his stress and anxiety melt away.

  "I'm in your hands, Numal," he said. "The Quest remains as I told you, although I'll admit to a personal stake in its success."

  Numal crossed his arms and gazed at the ceiling for several seconds.

  "All right, Grimm," the Necromancer said at last, "I'm willing to pretend you never told me that, and I don't want to know anything more about it. If there are any repercussions from this, I expect you to indemnify me, is that clear?"

  "Quite clear, Numal," the Questor said, relieved beyond measure. "If anybody asks me, you were only motivated by your concern for the security of the Guild. You have my bond on this. Thank you."

  "Right," Numal said, assuming a professional, no-nonsense air. "Do we move tonight?"

  Grimm shook his head. "I think it's a little too soon after my little encounter with Lizaveta. We'll go tomorrow night instead."

  Numal nodded. "What's the plan?"

  "Straight in, straight out, my friend; you sniff out the crypt while I stand guard and, when we've got the information we need, we get out. We say nothing to anybody here, but we both report our findings back to Lord Thorn. I'll need your back-up on that."

  "All right, Questor Grimm. Perhaps this will get me my first ring."

  "If I have anything to do with it, Numal, it will. Remember: straight in and straight out."

  "It sounds as if it might be fun, Grimm. I'm with you, as long as you don't turn funny on me again."

  Grimm laughed, relieving the tension within him. "I think I'm over that now, Numal. With a Sixth Rank Questor at your back, I don't think you'll have anything to worry about."

  "Very well, Questor; I'm in. Now, kindly be so good as to make yourself scarce. I want to be sure I'm in top Necromancer form tomorrow night, and I want to be sure you're in full fettle as well. Good night, Grimm."

  "Good night, Numal, and thank you."

  As he walked to his room, Grimm still felt nervous, but his confidence was growing. He was a full Guild Questor, and on his guard; Lizaveta and her Sisters wouldn't know what had hit them!

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter 13: The Sixth Ring

  After his ablutions and his habitual morning exercises, Grimm took a leisurely breakfast in his chamber, savouring each mouthful. The food at Arnor House, or, at least, the food for full mages and paying Students, was of good quality, but the sustenance provided at High Lodge was never less than superb. With an epicure's dedication, Grimm waded his way through a meal of smoked ham, fresh-baked bread and a succulent kedgeree. The Questor stifled a satisfied belch, despite the fact that there was nobody there to hear him; Magemaster Faffel's lessons in Courtly Graces had made their mark.

  "Redeemer, come here!" As ever, the staff flew to Grimm's outstretched hand like a well-trained kestrel returning to its keeper. Although the wood of a mage's staff was all but indestructible, he noted that the brass caps at each end were a little dull and scuffed. Opening one of his travelling bags, Grimm took out a polishing kit and applied himself with diligence to the task of making the brass gleam like bright gold. He became so absorbed in his task that only when he finished did he realise that he had expected to find the tiny demon, Thribble, hiding in the bag, as was his wont.

  He was not.

  Grimm knew he had given his minuscule netherworld friend strict instructions to remain at Crar, but he still felt a little disappointed that the wayward demon had not disobeyed him yet again. Thribble might have proved very useful as an advance scout for the coming evening's visit to the crypts below the Lodge. In truth, he felt a little naked without the obstinate, self-willed little creature, who had saved his life on more than one occasion. Grimm was the senior mage on this Quest, and all the responsibility for its success or failure would be his.

  "Better get used to it, Afelnor," he muttered.

  With his customary fastidiousness, Grimm checked his hair, his beard and his silk robes in the tall mirror fixed to one of the cupboard doors.

  Yes, I'm presentable.

  The only question now was what he would do with his time until the evening; his interview with the Lord Dominie was not due until tomorrow.

  He rapped on the interconnecting door between his room and Numal's, but he received no reply. Perhaps the Necromancer did not share Grimm's habit of rising before the sun, but then Numal had never undergone the gruelling regime of a charity Student. Grimm sighed. He felt nervous about the outcome of tonight's jaunt to the nether regions of High Lodge, and he knew the best way to combat this was to keep himself occupied.

  He was almost pleased to hear a gentle knock at the main door of his chamber, which stirred him from his reverie. Opening it, Grimm saw a familiar face.

  "Assistant Sub-Vice Facilitator-in-Chief Shael, it is good to see you!" The young Questor hoped he had correctly remembered the mage's cumbersome title in all its menial grandeur.

  "Questor Grimm, I have the honour to report that I am now a full Senior Vice-Assistant Under-Facilitator." From the broad, proud smile on the functionary's face, Grimm gathered that congratulations were in order, although the distinction between the two titles was lost on him.

  Extending his hand, he said, "My heartiest felicitations, Assistant… Brother Mage. I'm sure you worked hard for the honour, and I'm very happy for you." The egalitarian, non-committal title seemed to be the safest form of address, rather than trying to negotiate the labyrinthine complications of Shael's rank.

  "Thank you, Questor Grimm. In time, I'm pretty confident that I can work my way up to full Deputy Junior Sub-Facilitator, although the competition within the ranks is fierce, I assure you."

  "I don't doubt it," the Questor said, with an enthusiasm he did not feel. "May I ask what brings you here, Brother Mage?"

  Shael beamed. "There is a cancellation: Shapeshifter Tharan was due to be granted his fourth ring at ten o'clock, but he is bedridden with gout, and he cannot travel. Remembering how kind you were to me on your last visit, I thought you might be happy to take his place."

  Grimm racked his brain, but he could not imagine why Shael might feel so companionable towards him, and his puzzlement must have shown on his face.

  "You were kind enough to return those Location Gems I leant you, before you left," explained the slight, mousy little man. "That could have put me in a tricky situation, and might even have jeopardised my promotion. So few people appreciate the vital role we Facilitators perform."

  "Please, don't mention it," Grimm said. "I'm glad your diligence has been rewarded." Shael's voice had a buzzing, droning quality, and Grimm stifled a yawn.

  "Well, I'd love to stay and chat, Questor Grimm," the small man said, "but I have a lot to do this morning, as usual. I'll call for you in plenty of time for your interview with Lord Horin."

  Grimm extended his right hand, and Shael shook it, his limp grasp no more substantial than a handful of warm, damp lettuce leaves. The Questor resisted the urge to wipe his hand on his robes, and nodded politely.

  "Thank you again for your diligent, meritorious attention… Senior… Assistant Under-Facilitator Shael."

  Shael laughed. "You honour me, Questor Grimm, but it will be a few years until I reach the lofty heights of that rank. For now, I'm only a Senior Vice-Assistant Under-Facilitator, but I am ambitious."

  "I can tell that," Grimm said. "I'll be waiting here for your call, Brother Mage. Thank you."

  With that, the audience was at an end, and the tedious Shael scurried off in a flurry of black robes, like a drunken raven attempting
to lift itself from the ground. As he stood in the open doorway, Grimm heard eight soft chimes in the distance; that meant there were two hours or so to kill. High Lodge had three well-stocked libraries, but they were somehow clinical, impersonal, in comparison to the warm, friendly Scholasticate Library at Arnor he knew so well. If he desired to study a specific topic of information then High Lodge's facilities were second to none, but they were not conducive to the kind of whimsical browsing he loved.

  He considered a session of meditation, to order his mind and relax his ever-tense body, but he had never managed fully to master the art; he always found it more of a painful trial of endurance than a soothing, serene enlightenment.

  Another round of exercise, perhaps?

  That did not appeal to him any more than did the prospect of sitting cross-legged and staring at the wall.

  After a few minutes of mulling over his limited options for occupying his mind, he noticed a young, gaudily-attired peacock of a man striding down the corridor as if he owned it, a mage perhaps ten years older than he. He was slender, and as tall as Grimm. Bobbing behind him like a faithful hound was a staff bearing seven rings. From the mage's youth, he could only be another Questor, and Grimm's interest was piqued; he had never met a Questor from any House but Arnor, and High Lodge had none of its own.

  The man wore robes of scarlet silk with gold edging, and Grimm noted soft boots of the finest tooled kidskin peeking from underneath the hem of his garment as he walked. A blue sash ran from the mage's right shoulder to his left hip, and he wore a cincture of what looked like pure gold around his waist. Whereas every mage Grimm had ever met wore a full beard and long hair, if he had any hair, this popinjay was severely clean-shaven, and he wore his blond hair at shoulder length and sculpted into luxuriant waves. Grimm saw a single, artful curl somehow fixed into place over the man's right eye.

  Nonetheless, this was no primping dilettante. Grimm remembered the elegant swordsman, Harvel, with whom he had travelled on his first Quest, and he saw the same steely glint in this mage's ice-blue eyes as he halted a few paces from Grimm.