The old mage peered at Dalquist through bleary, myopic eyes. "Rufior, isn't it?" he mumbled, through a mouthful of food. "I took you for Runes, as I remember," he continued, after a mighty swallow. "A waste of my time, by the looks of it. You Questors don't seem to have much use for all that hard-learned wisdom. You are a Mage of the Seventh Rank, I see. It took me forty years of hard work to win that accolade, and it doesn't please me to see some young whipper-snapper throwing it all back in my face."
Dalquist laughed. "Magemaster Thruwell, you haven't changed in the slightest. You're as friendly as ever."
The wrinkled pedagogue fixed his disapproving gaze on Grimm. "A child like this, with five rings on his staff; what is the world coming to?"
Grimm felt defensive. He knew his rapid succession to the Fifth Rank had been a lucky break, and yet he knew he had faced travails worse than any Magemaster had ever had to bear. "Weatherworker Thruwell, I-"
Dalquist interrupted, smoothly. "Questor Grimm proved instrumental in the defeat of a demon magic-user who was intent on stealing the innermost secrets of the entire Guild. Neither of us should have prevailed without the wise counsel of Magemasters such as you, and we thank you."
He bowed respectfully, and Grimm followed suit with alacrity.
Mollified, Thruwell nodded. "I should think so, too," he muttered, and shuffled over to one of the other groups.
"Well, it's always nice to see a friendly face," Grimm said, with an ironic smile.
Now, quite a few mages were milling around the hall. One of them, a tall, pale-complected individual with a bald head, looked around to as if to assess the level of attendance, then strode to the dais and rapped his staff three times on the lectern.
"If I might have your attention, gentlemen?
"Thank you. I would like to welcome you all to the Hall of Celebration. All of you have in some way recently distinguished yourselves in your service to the Guild, and we of High Lodge like to ensure that those rewarded by it will have a celebration to remember. I am Doorkeeper Shree, and I am to be your master of ceremonies for the evening. Perhaps we could all take a few moments to introduce ourselves and say a few words… perhaps you would like to start the ball rolling, so to speak, Brother Mage?"
Shree indicated a tired-looking middle-aged man with three rings on his staff and a mottled, discoloured complexion that said more about his Speciality than words could.
"Er, thank you, Doorkeeper Shree. Er, my, um, name is Argul Trug, and I am an Alchemist from Husel House. I like to cultivate flowers in my spare time. I was recently elevated to the Third Rank after discovering how to convert gold into pure lead."
"Why, thank you, Alchemist Argul. And what about you, sir…"
Several people were already edging towards the door and Dalquist nudged Grimm in the ribs. "We said we'd be here, and we are. Did anybody say anything about being here all night?"
"They did not," Grimm replied. "What about you, Thribble? Can you bear to be dragged away from all this revelry?"
The small demon's head popped up from Grimm's pocket, bearing a somewhat annoyed expression. "This is a snare and a delusion. These people are boring; I don't want their stupid stories."
"I couldn't agree more, Thribble. What do you say that we go back to our room? I'm sure I have some good brandy in there, and I know how you like a drop of that."
The demon looked pleased at the idea, licking his lips with his forked tongue in anticipation.
"Just one problem," Dalquist said. "How do we find our way back without the aid of one of Shael's wonderful little gems?"
"Leave it to me," the demon squeaked. "I have a perfect memory, and I remember every little twist and turn that we took on the way. Lead me to my beverage!"
"Very well, Thribble, an early night it is. I can't wait to get back home."
Chapter 21: In the Bowels of High Lodge
Back at the Accommodation Block, Dalquist bade Grimm goodnight, and told him that Cally should be arriving with the carriage to take them back to Arnor House at first light.
"It won't be a moment to soon for me, Dalquist," Grimm said with fervour. "I can't wait to be back where I belong."
"I can only agree," the senior mage replied. "I'm going to get some sleep, and I suggest you do the same."
Grimm looked at the tiny, expectant face of Thribble protruding from his pocket. "I will do so in a little while, Dalquist. Our small friend Thribble seems to have a considerable thirst, which it would be inhospitable not to slake, so I'll share a drink or two and chat for a while longer before I retire. Goodnight."
When Dalquist closed the door, the demon looked eager as the young mage took a small thimble from a pocket and filled it with amber liquor. Grimm took a rather more generous measure for himself, and felt good humour seeping through him as the alcohol sent warming waves into his body.
The human and the demon chatted for a while, as Grimm gave Thribble an unvarnished account of Madeleine's attempted ensorcellment of him, and his gradual realisation of the truth of their relationship. Thribble listened, rapt at first, but, after two thimblefuls of good brandy, the minuscule imp was in an uproarious state, laughing, clapping his hands and dancing. After a while, he fell asleep, and Grimm laid the demon carefully inside his travelling bag, shutting him in the chest-of drawers. The netherworld being snored at a volume that belied his minute frame, but the heavy wood of the closed drawer attenuated this to a bearable level.
Grimm downed a couple more brandies, and then reached for Redeemer in order to clear his head. However, instead of annulling the effects of the alcohol, he backed it off just a little, retaining the pleasant, warm, good-humoured sensations he had felt earlier.
He read a little from a book he had borrowed from the library of Thaumaturgical Research, but his eyelids began to flutter, the words began to blur and the book eventually fell from his hand. Grimm snuffed the light, and was quickly asleep.
****
A sharp smell of ammonia seemed to bring him to his senses, and Grimm felt himself drifting upwards and outwards, until he found himself looking down at what appeared to be his own, sleeping body. The mouth hung slightly open, and the eyes rolled and darted beneath their lids as if seeking some fugitive prey.
His senses seemed acutely heightened; even in the dark room, colours appeared bright and vivid, and it was as if he could see every thread in his blanket and hear every tiny sound; Thribble's amplified snoring grated like a rough thread being drawn through the mage's ears.
Ears? Surely nothing so crude and corporeal; Grimm was aware of his essence, but he had no sense of encumbrance or limitation, such as that imposed by a mere mortal body.
He was flying, soaring, floating in the air. Grimm Afelnor had often tried to achieve this effect before, but the best he had achieved was an uneasy, wobbling, precarious levitation that was more strenuous than exhilarating. This was different; this was liberation and joy, a pure, unalloyed sense of freedom he had never before experienced.
As if drawn by some invisible thread, he felt himself moving down through the floor, which proved no barrier to his ethereal form. Vague images flitted through his consciousness: the Senior Doorkeeper berating one of his underlings for sloppy dress; an Adept's staff shattering against a Breaking Stone similar to that at Arnor House; a hot, busy kitchen buzzing with activity. Still he moved downwards at a relentless, increasing pace.
It seemed as if an age passed before he ceased his downward journey, and the dream-Grimm could now take stock of his surroundings. This was no chandelier-lit, mahogany-panelled realm of extravagance; there were bare stone walls and a flagstone floor, dappled with flickering shadows from crude rush torches and oil lamps. Moisture dripped from an unseen ceiling. He guessed he was in the very bowels of High Lodge, deep beneath the ground, within that monstrous edifice's very foundations, and that these regions were visited only infrequently.
A corner of his mind wondered who had illuminated these dingy catacombs, and for what purpose: workmen, p
erhaps, or victuallers replenishing the Lodge's capacious storehouses, he surmised. Despite his heightened senses, he felt no sense of urgency, just a mild interest in his surroundings.
He drifted through the stone-pillared labyrinth, aimless and unrestricted. Under normal circumstances, he might have felt more than a little claustrophobic at finding himself in such a dimly-lit, dingy maze, aware of the crushing weight of the gigantic structure, millions of tons pressing down upon the roof above him, but he felt that the entire structure could collapse at this point and leave him utterly unscathed.
The catacombs were like a blancmange; each part identical in form and construction to each other. The layout seemed to be in the form of a regularly spaced lattice of massive stone pillars, sinking deep into the earth and supporting the entire weight of the Lodge. Not for the first time, Grimm supposed that some mighty magic must have been invoked in the raising of this titanic building. Surely no secular architect could have been so bold as to envision such a massive undertaking, and no common artisan or engineer would have known how or where to start its construction.
The disembodied consciousness of Grimm Afelnor became aware of a distant humming, a rhythmic pulse that waxed and waned in a metronomic, hypnotic fashion. It was far in the distance, and it would have been inaudible to mortal ears, but it came through clearly to spirit-Grimm's heightened senses. Without volition, he felt drawn inexorably towards it, unerringly guided through the warren of anonymous, identical passages.
Closer, closer; the relentless rhythm, now identifiable as a low chant, seemed to fill his consciousness, subsuming and swamping his very will. It was as if he were some passive castaway in a thick, heavy, glutinous sea, being carried along on an unchanging wave.
Dream-Grimm saw a door ahead of him, surrounded by an aura of golden light that streamed from its edges. A mere physical portal was no barrier to his ethereal form, and he drifted through it as easily as his physical body might have moved through a curtain of mist.
This was a crypt, a place of the dead, he realised. The mortal Grimm might have shuddered in superstitious, subliminal uneasiness, but his spiritual avatar watched unmoved. Racks and racks of ornate coffins rose thirty feet to a vaulted ceiling, arrayed neatly around the walls of a circular room, maybe fifty feet in diameter and dished in the middle, like some giant serving-bowl. In the middle of the bowl, the roaming dream-spirit saw a circular dais, on which was mounted a gilded wooden throne with a blood-red velvet cushion. To one side of this was a large basket of silver metal, filled with carefully arrayed blocks of some wood emitting a pungent, aromatic perfume. Was this some altar of consecration for departed souls?
The chanting grew more intense, and spirit-Grimm sensed that he was approaching the door of the crypt. The door opened, and a hooded, black-robed figure entered; behind it, a group of four chanting, grey-garbed entities in a square formation, a cloth-bound bundle borne on their shoulders.
The figure in black sank onto the throne in the centre of the crypt; the hood slipped back and dream-Grimm recognised Lizaveta, the Prioress of the Order of the Sisters of Divine Mercy. The grey chanters released their burden carefully, reverently onto the flagstones at the Prioress's feet. They, too, doffed their hoods, to reveal young, female, glassy-eyed faces bearing identical expressions of utter adoration. The chanting ceased as if on cue, and the Sisters chanted, "All hail, Reverend Mother," in perfect unison.
"Sisters of our serene Order," Lizaveta hissed from her throne, the sibilants sounding like daggers drawn from wet silk scabbards. "We are here to commemorate the untimely demise of our dear, recently departed Sister. A tragedy, indeed, that she passed to the other side so soon; her service to the Order held much promise.
"Alas, she succumbed during a well-merited Trial of Devotion. Her spirit proved weak and, regrettably, unworthy of our deep love, and of the trust placed in her. However, even in her weakness, she may make us stronger, and become a part of us all. Sister Jelana, step forward!" Lizaveta held out her shrivelled, ringed left hand.
One of the Sisters approached the throne and curtseyed deeply, her forehead almost touching the floor. She held the pose for what seemed like an eternity, and then took the Prioress's hand. With tears glistening in her misty eyes, she kissed the old woman's profession-ring with a fervid passion.
"I am at your bidding, Reverend Mother."
"Beloved Sister, most fortunate amongst women, to you falls the honour and the privilege of consigning the memory of our dear, lost Sister to our hearts and memories, in the certain knowledge that she will not be forgotten for as long as our blessed Order remains."
The nun sank her head to the cold flagstones once more. "Blessed be our glorious Order," she recited in a tremulous, passionate voice. "Blessed be the Earth Mother and her chosen acolytes; as below, so above."
"As below, so above," came the affirmative chant from the other Sisters.
"So let it be," Prioress Lizaveta intoned.
Spirit-Grimm hung in the air, unseen by the cloaked devotees. Some portion of his being seemed unable to tear itself away from this increasingly forbidding place. A mote of untouched consciousness urged him to return to the living world, but he felt incapable of doing so.
Sister Jelana rose to her feet, nodded her head reverently towards the Prioress and then faced her three fellow devotees of the Order. "Mother Earth, succour us and guide us," she crooned in evident ecstasy, her face a mask of unalloyed joy.
"Nurture us and empower us," the nuns chanted, wearing expressions of pure rapture.
Jelana raised her hands and chanted in a guttural voice, hot tears of devotion flowing from her eyes. The blocks of fragrant wood in their shining crib smouldered and then took flame. Aromatic smoke filled the chamber, and the entranced Sisters seemed almost to swoon, releasing ecstatic cries and reeling as if possessed.
The chosen daughter of the Order removed a large, sheathed blade from her robe, slipped it free of its leathern confinement and held it above her head.
"Mother Earth, Goddess of our Order," the nun screamed, "we beg you to consecrate this blade and make it pure. Pray, guide my hand truly, so that we may make our departed Sister live again in our hearts and our bodies!"
The cloth shroud of the bundle was flung aside, and Grimm's disembodied spirit saw what appeared to be a brown, wooden representation of a bloated, malformed human. Jelana held the wide blade to her face and then offered it to Lizaveta. The Prioress nodded solemnly, whereupon the honoured Sister of Divine Mercy turned to the brown simulacrum as howls of pleasure, mingled with agony, arose from the other devotees.
The inner voice within spirit-Grimm's sensorium rose to a shriek, but he felt completely unable to drag himself away from the bizarre spectacle.
The shining blade rose and fell. Instead of the crisp, decisive sound of metal biting into inanimate wood, he heard the wet, heavy crunch of a butcher's cleaver cutting into fresh meat. A thin, red fluid, tinged with yellow, began to flow from the brown figure as Jelana lifted aloft something resembling a human, female leg, complete with the protruding stub of a severed femur. Dream-Grimm noticed that the brown tint was only on one side of the limb; the remainder of the leg was marbled with purple and red, shading to an ivory tint at what looked like the rear of the thigh and the calf. The severed member was flung onto the pyre, sending greasy waves of smoke into the atmosphere.
One Sister sprung forward, bearing a shining crystal chalice and scooped up the gruesome, turbid fluid that ran towards Lizaveta's throne. "Reverend Mother, accept this gift from our departed Sister in remembrance of her sweet soul." She sank to the ground before the gilded throne, the cup held above her head.
The Prioress held the chalice to her lips and opened her mouth wide. Down went the disgusting, thick liquid, and Lizaveta's eyes rolled in ecstasy. "Sister Madeleine," she intoned, red liquid running down to her chin to drip to the flagstones, "so sweet she was-so sweet she is!" She cackled hysterically at her own wit.
The ensorcelled Sisters b
egan to tear at the misshapen figure with knives, and even with bare fingers, ripping gobbets of all-too-real flesh from white bones and flinging them onto the fire…
****
"Wake up, Grimm! Wake up! It's almost time to leave."
Grimm lifted his head, bleary-eyed and confused, from the pillow. He emitted a groan and dragged himself upright in the bed.
"I just had the most awful nightmare imaginable, Dalquist," he said, his mouth dry and his tongue thick "I just want to get out of here."
Dalquist nodded sagely. "Unfamiliar surroundings can often have that effect; I spent an uneasy night myself. You have time to prepare for the journey and to eat breakfast, but be quick. I will be back to chivvy you again in half an hour."
Grimm made no reply, but he raised a hand in assent. When Dalquist departed, the young man made an uncharacteristically hurried toilet, in order to leave time to break his fast, but he found that even the tempting foods laid out in his room could not awaken his appetite. When the senior Questor returned, he found his friend almost distraught.
"What is it, Grimm? Surely you've had bad nightmares before?"
"Dalquist, it all seemed so real! I was in the catacombs below the Lodge, and I saw the Sisters of Divine Mercy dismembering the swollen corpse of Madeleine and drinking her blood. I can't shake it from my mind."
Dalquist rubbed his chin in cogitation. "You feel guilty about Madeleine, as if you could have persuaded her to give her love freely, without artifice. You hate the Order that commands her true allegiance, and you're transferring your frustration onto them."
Grimm sighed. "You must be right, Dalquist." In truth, he found his friend's explanation facile and simplistic, but he told himself that he was simply overwrought after a horrible dream, and that he was trying to read deeper meanings into a sinister reverie.
Grimm stood with a decisive gesture. "All right, Dalquist, I'm ready to leave, and it can't be a moment too soon for me. I'm a simple, provincial Questor, and I just want to get back home, back to somewhere that I can fit in."
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