Truth and Deception cogd-4

by Alastair J. Archibald

  At last, his body was free of pain, and Tordun found himself lying on the floor of the room, curled up in a tight ball. To his disgust, he smelt the acrid odour of vomit, tasted the vestiges of bile in his dry mouth. Several minutes passed before he could speak.

  "All right, Keller. You win. I'll fight for you tonight," he growled, his voice scratchy and hoarse. "Just remember that I have friends here. They're not likely to stand by while you turn me into some sort of flesh-and-blood marionette."

  The Pit-master laughed. "After tonight, they'll be too busy experiencing the delights of their own collars," he said. "They won't be able to help you, even if they wanted to. And we haven't even started yet, my monstrous friend. That was Level Two, and the collar goes all the way up to Level Eight. Every one's different, each with its own distinct character. And each level's worse than the one before. It'd be a pity to waste all that extra capacity. At some point, probably Level Five or Six, you'll find that it doesn't hurt any more, and you'll begin to love me."

  "In your dreams, Keller," Tordun snarled. "I'll see you in hell first."

  "Do you know the beauty of it, Tordun?" Keller ignored the albino's defiance. "All that pain is in your mind. It doesn't strain your body at all. When you finally come to your senses, you'll willingly agree to fight just to please me, and you'll be as fit and strong as ever. The Pit's flooded with pheromones that ensure every fighter gives everything he's got.

  "The beauty of it all is that we still have hours to go before tonight's bouts. I can show you the full range of this pretty little bauble's wonders."

  Keller turned towards Shugar. "You tried to warn him, didn't you? That'll cost you dearly, I can assure you. You can join your friend, Tordun, in his exercises.

  "Right, shall we try Level Three? That's the spirit! Here we go…"

  Tordun's intended, defiant insult was subsumed by a howl of agony, as a pain beyond description deprived him of the power of speech.

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  Chapter 30: Clarity

  Grimm and his companions spent a cheerful day in the Mansion House bar. Grimm and Guy stood by, ready to dispense the necessary sobering magic when spirits rose too high. The bartender appeared whenever one of the drinkers put down an empty glass or tankard, filling it without prompting, so the two magic-users remained busy.

  Harvel insisted he could handle his drink well enough, but the young Questor reminded him that they were not on a pleasure outing.

  "Can't be helped, I'm afraid, Harvel. We have a mission to fulfil." The purpose of the Quest was already growing dim in Grimm's mind, but a strong spark remained: this Quest wasn't just for Dominie Horin or even Prelate Thorn; his besmirched family name was at stake, and that thought would not surrender to the drink.

  With a sigh, the inebriated swordsman grasped Redeemer, and his voice lost its manic edge.

  Grimm tried not to drink too much, wishing to keep his head clear. Nonetheless, even with the effects of the alcohol in his bloodstream damped down by Redeemer, he still felt cheerful; there just seemed to be something about this place…

  "I wonder what's keeping Tordun," General Quelgrum said, raising his glass to his lips and taking a robust swallow of the finest brandy. "He's been away for hours." The soldier glanced at the handsome pendulum clock above the bar. "It's getting near Pit time, and I, for one, don't want to miss it. Especially since we're getting grandstand seats."

  "Don't worry about Tordun, General. He's probably giving out pointers on proper fighting conduct," Crest suggested. "He's a bit of a legend around these parts, having been heavyweight champion of Gallorley for seven years. It's only a few miles from here, just the other side of Preslor."

  "I'd have thought he'd have been yesterday's news by now," Guy said, and a spirited discussion began. Grimm, however, did not take part, as a thought took hold of him.

  Preslor… Isn't that where Madar lived as a child?

  With a guilty start, Grimm realised he had spared his old Scholasticate friends, Madar Gaheela and Argand Forutia, barely a single thought since becoming a Questor. They had fought together, played together and laughed together. Only their unflagging friendship and support had made his tenure as a Student at Arnor House bearable.

  Here am I, laughing and joking in the lap of luxury, and Madar and Argand are slaving away over turgid books in the bloody Scholasticate, he thought. I've been back to the House several times since my Acclamation, and I only tried to look them up once!

  A cold shock of realisation descended like a sheet of rain, washing the dust from his brain. For the first time since his Arrival at Mansion House, his mind was clear.

  Something Madar had said long ago seemed to reverberate in his head: "It was purgatory going back home at the end of last term, Grimm. They don't like mages around there; they don't even like Guild Students. Preslor, Gallorley, Yoren; they're all the same. I was almost glad to come back."

  Crest had confirmed Madar's words back in Grimm's tower: "So when I tell you even we Drutians steer clear of Yoren, you'd better believe that we know what we're talking about. Seventh Rank Mage or not, they'd eat you for breakfast."

  And yet Grimm, Guy and Numal had been accepted into Mansion House without a second glance. Something was wrong here. He had told himself he had been paranoid for suspecting some of the Yorenians of staring just a little too long at his Guild ring; now, he was not so sure. There was also the matter of the gate watchman's strange, sinister immunity to Guy's Compulsion spell, which everybody seemed to have forgotten.

  Thribble had mentioned his own concerns about Grimm's behaviour, but the mage had just brushed aside the demon's doubts. He knew, beyond a shadow of doubt, that he and his friends were under no spell, either Thaumaturgic or Geomantic, and that they had not been drugged. Nonetheless, he had to acknowledge that his behaviour, and that of his companions, had been, to say the least, quixotic, ever since they had entered Mansion House.

  You need to lighten up, Grimm, boy, a voice said in his head. Go on; have another drink. Enjoy it this time. Don't bother with Redeemer.

  Shrugging, Grimm raised his tankard to his lips, and made ready to down it at a gulp.

  No, damn it! his forebrain screamed. Look at their auras first!

  The ruddy, foaming beverage before the Questor tempted him, but it would take only a moment to engage his Mage Sight.

  Although Guild protocol considered it the height of ill manners to scan a person's aura without first asking permission, the suspicion of pernicious sorcery would not leave him. It nagged him like a small hole in a tooth, which, to a questing tongue, felt as large as a cavern.

  He must learn the truth, at all costs!

  What his Mage Sight showed him shocked him to the core. Waves of cheerful orange flowed over the auras of his companions, swamping all other emotions. He concentrated his Sight on the melancholy, timid Numal, now as spirited a debater as the others. The invasive, orange tide seemed to ebb and flow in a complex rhythm and it took Grimm a little while to realise the source of this regularity.

  Then, it hit him, like a dazzling flash of light illuminating the inner recesses of his mind; the wave synchronised precisely with the Necromancer's breathing: strongest on each inhalation, then declining steadily until the next breath.

  Grimm tested this theory on himself; sure enough, his mutinous inner voice seemed most insistent when he inhaled. He held his breath as long as he could, and his rational mind began to regain control of his thought processes.

  "What are you playing at, Grimm?" Guy's loud, boisterous voice interrupted the Questor's intense reverie. "Holding your breath? Well, I'll bet I can hold my breath a lot longer than you can."

  "I bet you can't," Grimm said, breathing through his mouth, trying to keep his air intake to a minimum. "I'll bet you two golds you can't." He slapped two heavy coins onto the bar, which were soon matched by a pair from Guy's purse.

  "I'm in," Quelgrum said, swiftly covering the wager.

  Soon, the mahogany to
p of the bar was covered in gold. Grimm, despite his efforts to keep his mind stable, felt his rationality starting to slip as his body exerted its imperative demands for life-sustaining oxygen, overriding his conscious control. He must act, without delay!

  "Guy, Numal, use your Mage Sight, to ensure there's no cheating. Winner takes all. A deep breath, now. Go!"

  All five of his companions inhaled in unison, and Grimm saw Guy's and Numal's eyes widen. With luck, they had seen the same bizarre anomaly he had, and the Questor gestured with his eyebrows, indicating that the mages should continue to hold their breath.

  Twenty seconds passed. Quelgrum blinked, and the young Questor thought he saw a glimmer of rationality in the General's eyes.

  After thirty-five seconds, Crest's expression became confused, and he opened his mouth. Grimm shook his head, his eyes blazing. The half-elf closed his lips again.

  Harvel was the last to react. The inane smile departed from his lips, and the swordsman's face slumped into an expression of baffled concern.

  Grimm knew he had made his point, but what to do? No man could hold his breath forever. Already, he was beginning to feel his lungs burning, threatening to rebel.

  "We're getting out of here," Guy gasped, with the last dregs of his breath. "Now!"

  The six men rose as one and headed for the door, still resisting the urge to inhale, their faces purpling with the effort.

  "You haven't paid your bar bill, gentlemen," the bartender called, and Grimm flapped a hand at the pile of money on the counter. He saw a flunky, moving in to intercept the group. He pretended to stumble, shouldering the man aside in the process. At last, the group gained the grounds of the Mansion House and breathed in the sweet, untainted air.

  Whatever evil influence resided within the House, it doesn't seem to extend outside the building, Grimm thought, as he pulled in lungful after lungful of the blessedly clean atmosphere. His mind remained unaffected.

  "You'll catch your death out here, gentlemen," the servant who had followed the group outside pleaded, wringing his hands. "Please come back inside; your next two rounds will be free."

  "We wouldn't miss it for the world," the quick-thinking Quelgrum said, favouring the footman with a beaming smile. "This is a lovely place, we just want to clear our heads after all that drinking."

  "It's not healthy out there, sirs. Please come back in!"

  "Let me just explain something." The General stepped closer to the young footman. Without warning, the soldier stabbed two stiff fingers under the servant's breastbone. The flunky's eyes bulged, and he slumped; he would have fallen, but Quelgrum caught him in a crooked arm.

  "That's torn it," Crest said. "What do we do now? We can't go back inside."

  "Well, at least we know there's something funny going on in there," Harvel replied. "But I feel naked without a blade. What do we do?"

  "Oh, my! The barman's coming out," Numal said, back to his old, nervous self.

  Whereas the footman had been a youthful, slender stripling, the barman looked like the unlikely progeny of a beer-barrel and an angry she-bear. He stood well over six feet in height, and his shoulders seemed almost as broad. The bartender might be a little corpulent, but Grimm could tell that plenty of muscle lay beneath the layers of blubber.

  "Now, what's going on here?" the barman demanded. "If you think twelve gold pieces are going to cover your bar bill, you've got another think coming! Come back inside, and we'll discuss it. I may be able to make a discount in your case…"

  The barrel-shaped man's eyes widened as he saw the unconscious doorman nestled in Quelgrum's left arm. "What's happened to Challer, here?"

  "I'll handle this, granddad," Guy muttered to Numal, compressing his mouth into a grim, humourless slit and striding towards the steward. He babbled in his personal magic tongue, following the chant with the clear word, "Sleep!"

  The still-standing barman shouted, "You needn't try any of your foul Guild mind-magic with me! I'll call the-"

  Guy cursed under his breath. Instead of trying another spell, he whipped Nemesis around in a blurring arc, catching the portly man on the left temple. Grimm heard a sickening crack, and the bartender fell like an overbalanced pencil.

  "Lovely," the older mage said, with a satisfied smile, turning a single syllable into three. This time, his cheerful expression seemed genuine and unforced. "I enjoyed that."

  "Is he dead?" Numal asked, his face pale.

  "Who cares, old man?" Guy's expression resembled that of a cream-sated cat.

  The concept of a Necromancer being scared at the prospect of a dead body struck Grimm as intensely amusing, and he burst into laughter.

  "Don't worry; this is just me laughing," he said, between a pair of paroxysms. With some effort, he regained control, mastering the hysteria that threatened to overwhelm him.

  "I'm sorry about that," he said to nobody in particular. "I'm just relieved to be out of that… whatever it is."

  "I think I know what it is," Quelgrum said. All heads turned to face the old soldier, who still cradled the unconscious Challer. The General lowered the slender man onto the greensward at his side.

  "Well, don't just keep us in suspense, General!" Harvel cried. "Tell us what it is, and what we can do against it!"

  "I believe you've met Administrator Armitage from Haven Station, Lord Baron?"

  Grimm nodded, suppressing a shiver at his memories of his travails within Armitage's steel fortress in the Shest Mountains.

  "Well, once Armitage told me he had experimented with the control of malcontents by what he called 'pheromones'. They're perfectly natural substances, and we all have them. I don't fully understand it myself, but they influence the way we feel and act. I think they're spewing them into the air in Mansion House. We're pulling them into our bodies with every breath.

  "I think they have similar substance in the Pit, to turn us all into bloodthirsty maniacs, and to make us bet all our money. Whatever it is, the air holds the key. Thank you, Questor Grimm, for showing us the way. I should have realised, when my serious doubts began to fade away for no reason. Thank you for saving me from myself."

  The young mage heard a chorus of thanks from the other members of the party, and felt almost embarrassed at the sincerity of the responses.

  Even the acerbic, sardonic Questor Guy chose to speak: "I'd probably have spotted it myself before long, youngster, but thanks, anyway."

  The remark seemed to the young mage like pure Guy, and he felt much happier after hearing it. "Right, gentlemen; what do we do now?" he said, confident that his thoughts were once more his own. It was time to put this Quest back on track! "Come on, fellows! We still haven't seen Chudel, and Tordun may be in danger. What's the betting they've persuaded him to fight for them?"

  "Tordun in danger?" Crest said. "With all due respect, Questor Grimm, I think the man can take care of himself, even if he's addled out of his mind by some sort of chemical influence. He's a big boy now. Better think how we can take care of ourselves in there, without weapons."

  "Crest's right," Guy said. "Forget about Tordun for the moment. How do we avoid the effects of these damned pheromone things?"

  "What about this Chudel fellow?" Harvel demanded. "Come on, mage, you were the one who said it: we've got a mission to fulfil. What do we do?"

  Grimm rubbed his brow, feeling the weight of responsibility on his shoulders. For the first time, he realised-truly realised-the meaning of authority. For the first time in his life, he knew he could look to nobody else to make a decision for him; even Quelgrum stood silent, looking to him for guidance. This was his call, and his alone.

  The young man felt small, incapable and helpless for a few moments. He felt horrified that all these older, more experienced men sought his guidance, but he knew he must be strong, even if he had no idea of how to proceed.

  Quelgrum told you what to do, back in Crar! he reminded himself. "Don't try to do everything; delegate what you can't do!" Guy is just waiting for you to make a fool of yourse
lf; don't give him the satisfaction of floundering.

  He felt the first stirrings of a plan in his mind, and smiled.

  "Right, everybody, pay attention!" he said, unconsciously mimicking Quelgrum's military style. Even if the General noticed this, he did not betray the fact in his face.

  "Going back inside Mansion House will soon turn us into smiling idiots; we know that. On the other hand, the Pit will be opening soon. Tordun is probably in there, so that's where we'll go." It sounded so simple to Grimm, almost idiotic in its simplicity; but it was a plan of sorts.

  "And just how are we supposed to control ourselves in there?" Guy's tone was as sour as it ever had been. "They've got these bloody pheromone things in the air there, as well as in the main house."

  Grimm yearned for Quelgrum to interrupt with some Technological insight or advice, but the General did not speak. The Questor cleared his throat, trying to buy a little time for thought.

  This stratagem did not work; his mind seemed no clearer, and all eyes were still fixed upon him. It felt as if it were time to say something; anything…

  "Mansion House makes us happy, and the Pit makes us angry and overconfident," he said at last. "I'm hoping we can turn those feelings to our advantage." The young mage wished he felt more confident about his hastily-assembled half-theory as the other members of the group stared at him.

  "They're going to be looking for us," he continued, sure of this fact, at least. "They expect us to be at the Pit tonight, so they can spring some sort of surprise on us. We'll be there, but ready for action."

  He began to realise he was enjoying this. "If they want a 'fight', they've got one!" he cried. "We're not going to stand in line, like good little boys; we're going to barge in with full force. All right; I know there are no swords or daggers, but use your imagination. Punches, knee-thrusts into the groin, head-butts, anything! Don't worry about the really big fellows; Questor Guy and I will take care of them."

  "Thank you so much, Brother Mage," Guy muttered. "What about these wonderful magical wards they seem to have?"