Grimm felt the Grivense urchin, who had taken the seat to his right, stiffen as if intending to deliver a stinging rebuke to the senior mage for his harsh, imperious words. He put his hand on her left shoulder and squeezed it gently, yet with an unmistakeable hint of urgency. He felt a measure of relief that she seemed to take the hint, and she remained silent.
The interior walls of the vehicle were garlanded with a complex maze of cables whose purpose Grimm could not begin to fathom, but he understood the reason for the holes drilled into the structural rings and girders supporting the outer skin of the craft; they must be intended to reduce the weight of the supporting members. Weight must be a major concern with any machine designed to take to the air.
He heard thumping noises from under his feet, and he guessed that Foster was disassembling his marvellous hut and loading the component pieces into the belly of the helicopter in a piecemeal fashion. A decisive, louder clack seemed to indicate that the process was complete, and Foster climbed into the front of the vehicle.
"All set, folks? Right, here we go.” The Technologist connected several cables extending from his helmet into receptacles at the side of his seat. He pressed several raised cartouches on a glowing panel in front of him covered with a profusion of clocks, lights and small levers with strange markings, and Grimm heard a whining noise start within the belly of the machine.
Flipping down a curved arm at the side of his weird helmet, Foster spoke the bizarre, unintelligible argot of Technology with a confidence that told of many years of familiarity with the equipment.
"Control; this is Hotel Romeo Two-Seven requesting permission to return this time. Five stragglers picked up, AAS, two thaumaturges in the group ... yes, I thought you might be interested. I guess you'll have a lot to talk about back there. Hotel Romeo Two-Seven is preparing for dust-off this time; estimated ETA, one five minutes. This is Hotel Romeo Two-Seven, listening; out."
Grimm heard Foster muttering an arcane litany as he pressed more cartouches, almost as if he was patterning his mind for a spell in the manner of a Guild Mage. “T and P are nominal,” muttered the strange man, “fuel looks good, APU is online, wind shear within limits, engine start."
A loud whine sounded from above the ceiling of the craft, soon followed by a spluttering cough, a roar and a steadily accelerating chopping sound. Looking up through a small window in the metal ceiling, Grimm saw the metal blades atop the machine start to rotate, faster and faster until they became blurred and he could no longer distinguish one blade from another.
Now Grimm could see why Foster had referred to the vehicle as a ‘chopper'.
"Cyclic and collective look good, throttle answers,” the Haven man muttered, casting his gaze upwards.
In a louder voice, he said “We're on our way, folks. Hang on; it may get a little rough, but it's nothing we can't handle."
The Technologist pulled the left-hand lever upwards. Grimm felt a brief pang of anxiety, as the vehicle jerked upwards and rocked from side to side, while Foster wiggled a stick at his right side.
"Sorry about that, folks. The collective's a little jerky; must be the cold. Ah, it seems all right now."
The roar increased as the pilot twisted the lever at his left hand, and the vehicle moved smoothly upwards. Grimm looked out of a small window beside him, and he felt a shock of dismay as he saw the prostrate forms of four horses lying on the mountainside. He felt moved to cry out to Foster to save the poor animals, and he wondered how he and his companions would reach Glabra without them, but he realised that the small metal craft had insufficient space for the mounts.
In any case, the sensitive animals were probably dead by now.
The chopping sound smoothed to a steady, chattering beat, and Foster moved the right-hand stick forward. The vehicle's nose tilted downwards, and it began to move forwards at an increasing rate.
"Next stop, Haven!” Foster cried in a cheery, confident tone loud enough to be heard over the roar pervading the structure. Grimm looked out of his window to see a field of fluffy clouds far below him; a strange vista indeed. The insubstantial celestial structures seemed to map out an alien landscape that subtly modified its boundaries and borders as he watched.
He stole a glance at his companions: Drex wore a broad, wondering smile on her face; Crest looked bewildered but unafraid; Xylox's lips moved silently in what Grimm took to be curses against the whole damned art of Technology; and the imperturbable Tordun seemed to be asleep.
Grimm marvelled at the strange, complex machine and its mastery of the air, but the rattling and shaking of the craft and the loud noises thrumming through its very structure made the marvellous aerial trip a far from relaxing experience.
As far as Grimm was concerned, flight was best left to the birds, bats and insects.
After maybe ten minutes’ unsteady flight, Foster brought the machine to a halt in the air. “This is Hotel Romeo Two-Seven, requesting landing clearance this time,” he said, although Grimm could not see anyone who might hear his words outside the vehicle.
The Technologist nodded, as if in response to some voice Grimm could not hear. “Ident is as follows, Control: Pilot Foster, two-two-niner-zero."
Grimm heard a buzzing, crackling sound from the pilot's helmet which he took as some response from Haven, and the vehicle began to descend towards a wide ledge far below.
With a gentle bump, the helicopter was once more on firm ground. Foster pressed a few more cartouches and the roar above the craft ceased, the illumination in the clock panel dimmed and the only remaining sound was a decelerating, whipping sound. Disconnecting himself from his equipment, the man turned to face his passengers.
"It's all done, folks. Welcome to Haven."
Grimm started as the sliding door opposite opened, revealing a pair of men standing outside, dressed in padded white-and-grey suits. They seemed well-protected against the vicious, flaying wind hurling needle-like shards of ice into the warm interior of the craft. The young Questor felt a popping in his eardrums, and he saw the elven thief, Crest, clapping his hands over his sensitive ears, his face a mask of pain. The men outside the helicopter carried metal sticks at which Grimm stared.
These must be ancient Technological weapons, he thought, gazing in wonder at the bizarre tubes, although they glisten and gleam as if new.
One of the men stepped forward and spoke gruffly, his voice muffled by swathes of cloth that covered his mouth.
"Welcome to Haven,” he said. “Step lively, now! Administrator Armitage is waiting for you."
Grimm and his companions were hustled through a metal door, and the Questor heard a loud hiss as it closed. Instinctively, he worked his jaw to ease the pain in his ears. The discomfort passed.
They were standing shivering in a small cubicle furnished with wheels, clocks, cartouches and coloured lights like those in Foster's cubicle within the helicopter. Their guide, or guard, pointed a metal implement at each of them in turn, studying a number of tiny, blinking lamps on its surface.
Pressing a stud on the wall, the man shouted “They're clean,” and the door in front of them slid smoothly open.
The cubicle opened into a large, metal-walled space, illuminated by a warm, orange light from the ceiling. Two further guards with Technological weapons stood before the cubicle's exit.
Behind the guards stood a tall, slender man dressed in loose, black trousers, a white shirt unlike any Grimm had ever seen, and a strip of cloth, knotted at his throat and hanging down his chest. He was tall and slender, with close-cropped brown hair and no beard.
This last shocked Grimm; a beard was the outward mark of a man of importance, and he could not understand why anybody in such a responsible position would want to remove it. The young mage might trim and shape his own whiskers, but he would no sooner shave them off than he would countenance walking around stark naked.
The strangely-dressed man eased the two guards aside. “Thank you, gentlemen; that will be all.
"Welcome to Haven, fr
iends,” he continued as the guards strode off, his voice a pleasant baritone. “I am overjoyed to meet you. Although we have many souls here at Haven, it's always a pleasure to see new faces. My name is Armitage, and I'm the Administrator of this facility, for my sins."
Armitage turned towards Xylox and spoke in a warm, friendly voice.
"Lord Mage, I'd guess you are in charge of this group? I am honoured to make the acquaintance of such a distinguished thaumaturge. We see so few mages here.” Armitage extended his hand towards the Questor.
Xylox cleared his throat. “I am Xylox Serenac, Mage Questor of the Seventh Rank and leader of this expedition. Well met, Armitage.” He took the Administrator's hand and shook it in a gesture that seemed to transcend the gulf between mages and Technologists.
Gruffly, Xylox introduced the rest of his group. “This is Questor Grimm, Fifth Rank,” he said “These two gentlemen are Crest and Tordun, warriors."
Turning to Drexelica with open contempt on his face, he added, “This is a thief girl who latched on to us in Griven. I advise you to watch out for your valuables when she is around."
Armitage walked straight past Xylox and approached Drex, who glared at the senior mage with an expression bordering on hatred.
"And what is your name, my dear?” the Administrator asked.
The girl reddened in embarrassment.
"I'm Drexelica,” she said, managing a clumsy curtsey. “I promise you, I only ever stole because I was hungry; I won't do it again. Grimm, here, is looking after me now."
"And how old are you, Drexelica?” Armitage's voice dripped with solicitous concern, as if the answer to the question might be of prime importance to Drex's wellbeing.
"I'm sixteen,” the girl whispered, her face crimson under the Administrator's intense gaze.
"Sixteen years old; that's charming,” Armitage said with a smile. “We don't see many young ladies here. Welcome, Drexelica."
The bare-faced man introduced himself cordially to Grimm, Crest and Tordun in turn. To Tordun, he added, “Master Tordun, would I be correct in assuming that you are hypomelanic?"
"I am an albino,” rumbled the giant swordsman, “if that is what you mean."
"It is,” Armitage said. “It might interest you to know that we have a very effective balm that can protect skin, even the palest skin like yours, from the worst effects of the sun. If you wish, I'll have one of our scientists prepare a batch for you."
Grimm gaped: he had never seen Tordun smile since he had first met the swordsman. The smile disappeared from the albino's face in an instant, but the mage could not deny what he had seen.
"Thank you, Armitage. I would appreciate that,” Tordun said, bowing.
Armitage said, “You seem very young to be a mage, Master Grimm. What sort of magic do you do?"
The Questor activated his Mage Sight again. He saw no indications of any Technology within Armitage's skull, but he did see small grey nodules in the man's aura, indicating either deception or deliberate concealment of something. This alerted Grimm to be on his guard.
"My magic, like that of most Questors, is largely destructive,” he said. “We mature young. Well met, Armitage."
The Administrator seemed more than a little interested in Crest. “May I ask where you are from, good Sir?"
"I'm from Drute, Administrator Armitage,” the elf replied, his expression revealing nothing, “as was my father. My mother was from Eeranna. In case you are interested, I am a half-elf."
"Interesting ... interesting,” Armitage muttered, nodding and smiling as he stepped back to face the group. “Well, my friends, I would guess you're feeling tired and grimy after your journey. I understand your travelling bags were retrieved from the mountain and are waiting in some rooms I've had prepared for you. You will stay for the night, won't you?"
Xylox nodded. “We would be happy to do so, Administrator Armitage. Thank you for the hospitality you have shown us."
Armitage bowed. “Please join me at dinner tonight, gentlemen and, ah, lady. If you'll be so good as to excuse me, I have some business to attend to."
One of the white-clad guards stepped forward. “If you folks'd care to follow me, I'll show you to the hab block: that's where you'll be staying while you're at Haven."
As the guard led the group down a bewildering series of passageways, Grimm saw that Haven seemed to be laid out as a series of concentric circles, with straight, radial corridors at regular intervals like spokes on a wheel. The guard explained the layout.
"The circles are numbered from one to twenty, and the segments between the corridors are all in different colours. The corridors have letters from A to AD. As you can see, we're currently in section Twenty Green, heading for corridor G and Blue sector. The hab block where you'll be staying is in section Seventeen Blue, so we'll be taking G corridor, moving towards the hub for three circles and turning right. It's really easy to find your way around once you know the co-ordinates of anywhere."
Several people milled around the walkways. Some were dressed like Armitage, others wore coloured one-piece suits, and a few wore white coats and carried Technological implements.
Grimm mused that none of these people seemed to be under fifty years of age or so. He only saw a single woman, who could not have been younger than sixty, certainly well beyond child-bearing age.
Perhaps this is why Armitage seems so interested in Drex, he thought, shivering at the idea before dismissing it as ridiculous. The Administrator seemed to be a gentleman, even if he were holding some secret.
"Here you go, people,” the guard called. “You can use rooms 112 to 116. Your gear's stashed in 112. Administrator Armitage'll be giving you a call in a couple of hours or so, I imagine. Be seeing you."
With what appeared to be a mock salute, the guard strode away.
Room 112 proved to be spacious, comfortably appointed and well lit. A large bed stood in the centre of the room. Opposite the head of the bed, Grimm saw a large, grey square plaque on the wall, whose function was not immediately apparent. The whole wall was festooned with coloured cartouches. At least the function of the bath, visible through a door opposite the entrance, seemed to be obvious.
Once inside the room, Xylox turned to Grimm. “Questor Grimm, what do you make of Brother Armitage?"
"He is hiding something, Questor Xylox. I saw definite hints of grey in his aura."
The older man nodded. “I agree.” Addressing the party, he said “We must all be on our guard. The flyer, Foster, had some sort of Technology in his head, and we know Armitage is concealing some ill intent from us. Do not touch any of the Technological devices in these rooms under any circumstances. At all costs, keep your wits about you and be on your guard for any kind of incursion or depredation."
Drexelica turned to Grimm and whispered, “What's the matter, Grimm? I like it here; it's so clean and bright, and Administrator Armitage seemed like a nice enough man to me."
"For once in my life, I completely agree with Questor Xylox,” Grimm replied. “Stay alert, Drex. I don't like this place at all."
Chapter 3
A Spell of Technology
Grimm stood before a full-length mirror in the tiled bathroom of his Haven room. With a minimum of fuss, he selected a red-and-black robe from his travelling-bag, along with a random handful of rings and pendants with which to adorn himself. Although he found great satisfaction in the wearing of fine clothes, he did not really care for baubles and gewgaws; however, his friend Dalquist had told him during Grimm's first Quest that Seculars seemed more impressed by a mage who wore such trappings.
He donned the robe and the gaudy jewels with an air of glum resignation; even the opulence of his expensive silk robe could not lift Grimm's encroaching melancholy.
Grimm had first encountered Drex when the girl attempted to steal his purse in the town of Griven. On learning that the penalty for theft in Griven was a period of slavery, he bribed the guard to sell Drex to him, whereupon he freed her. When the girl declared a
solemn obligation and refused to leave him, Xylox became enraged, and Grimm defied his senior. The older mage allowed Drex to remain in the group, as Grimm's responsibility, but he vowed to recommend that the younger Questor be stricken from the rolls of the Guild.
Whatever else Grimm might think of the acerbic Questor, he had no reason to think Xylox a liar or an emotional blusterer.
Once deprived of his hard-won status as Mage Questor, all that would remain of Grimm's years of struggle would be the Barony of Crar, and he doubted he would retain that position for long, once the Crarian Council discovered that he was a disgraced sorcerer, stripped of all power. In all probability, he would have to sell his fine wardrobe just to be able to live, until he could find a suitable trade. He was too old to be taken on as an apprentice, and he had no skills suitable for life in the Secular world.
Of course, Grimm knew, his grandparents, Loras and Drima, would take him in, but he could not bear to face the anger of his only known relatives at throwing away the wonderful chance he had been given to wash away the stains that tainted the name of Afelnor. Infinitely worse than harsh anger would be a reaction of bitter disappointment, or one of pity.
Once again, he cursed himself for his stupidity in opposing the proud Xylox.
With almost mechanical efficiency, Grimm dressed himself and began to arrange his hair and his beard, a living automaton going through a predetermined sequence of actions. As he withdrew a small pair of scissors from his bag, he felt the slightest shifting of weight in the leather receptacle. He stood back, arms akimbo, with a dark frown on his face.
A tiny, grey, bullet-like head slowly came into view. Wearing a sheepish expression, the minuscule demon drew himself from the bag and onto the slick tiles.
"Thribble!” Grimm crowed “Have you been following me yet again, in defiance of my strict instructions?"
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