"Greetings, Thribble," the titan boomed. "It is good to see you again."
Shakkar fixed his eyes on Drexelica, who still sat on the divan. Her expression was nervous in the extreme.
"Grimm, will you not introduce me to this lovely, toothsome piece of mortal flesh?" The demon bared his fearsome array of dental weaponry once more, and Drex shrank back from the dread apparition.
Grimm suppressed a chuckle. "Drexelica, this is my good friend, Shakkar. Don't worry; he won't eat you, for all his terrifying aspect and his occasional lack of tact." He shot a hard look at the demon, who appeared unaffected even by the commanding gaze of a Guild Questor. "Shakkar, this is Drexelica, who will be keeping house for me."
Since sensual relations between mages and women were regarded within the Guild as unseemly, Grimm and Drex had agreed that the fewer people who were aware of their true relationship, the better. The Questor had implicit trust in his titanic ally, but he knew that Shakkar was, on occasion, a little clumsy in his speech. Of course, the ubiquitous Thribble knew that the two young humans were in love, but the minuscule demon, teller of sagas to his more powerful underworld kin, was well aware of the value of discretion in the information he revealed.
The girl held out her right hand, and Shakkar bent at the waist as if it were a hinge, touching his closed mouth to the proffered extremity in a lipless but gentle parody of a kiss. Drex laughed as the frightening apparition performed his solemn obeisance, and the demon jerked upright.
"Was my act somehow amusing to you, young female?" Shakkar demanded.
"I was just glad to see that a person with such big claws and teeth was also a real gentleman," Drex replied, and the demon snorted.
Grimm suspected that, if Shakkar were capable of blushing, his grey-green face would have been blazing cherry-red, and the mage could feel Thribble shaking in his robe pocket, as if the imp were seized by a fit of silent laughter. Shakkar's discomfiture notwithstanding, the ice seemed to have broken.
For the next two hours, Grimm and Shakkar discussed civic matters: the growing trade links that Crar had formed with surrounding towns since it had been liberated from the baleful dictatorship of Starmor; the disbursement of city funds; and the refurbishment of important buildings. If Drex found the discussion tedious, she hid it well, but she breathed a sigh of relief when Shakkar made his excuses and left.
"I doubt you'll ever find life with a Guild Questor normal, Drex," Grimm said with a smile. "If you wanted a quiet life in some peaceful backwater, with climbing roses up the walls and cows in the field, I'm afraid you've made the wrong choice of partner."
Drexelica laughed. "I'm not sorry at all, Grimm. I want only to be with you, no matter what happens. I know you won't be able to be at my side all the time, or even a lot of the time, but I'll try not to let it get me down."
"I have a duty to the Guild, and to my family name," Grimm said with a sigh. "I've made a public vow to uphold the values of the Guild, and a private one to redeem the name of Afelnor in its eyes. I can't just throw that aside, even for you, Drex. I wish I could, but I can't. I have my family's reputation to restore."
"I know, Grimm, and I surely respect you for it. For all the rotten life I had, I've never had to shoulder a bad family name, too. Is that why you call your staff 'Redeemer'?"
Grimm nodded. "My granfer, Loras Afelnor, is reviled as a traitor and a renegade, just because he took pity on a sick old man. He's tortured by the memory, and he so wants me to wash the blemish from our name. It's a heavy burden, but not one I can easily deny."
Drex took his hands in hers. "You don't really believe your Granfer tried to kill the old Prelate, do you, Grimm?"
Grimm shrugged. "He did try to kill Geral, Drex; I can't deny it, even to myself. I've met Granfer only once since I became a Guild Mage, but I saw the guilt and pain in his aura clearly enough. I didn't say anything about it to him, but I've seen his confession in the Guild records. Yes, he tried to kill the Prelate, surely enough… even so, something seems wrong about the whole thing."
Drex's brows arched. "D'you think his confession was forced out of him, then?"
The Questor shook his head. "I think Granfer's confession was true, as far as he knew. He was caught in the act by his best friend, who is now Lord Thorn, and he never even tried to deny the act.
"It's not what he did, Drex, but how he did it. Pushing a pillow over an old man's face… it's just so bloody physical. Granfer Loras was a Mage Questor of the Seventh Rank, an avatar of destruction, a Weapon of the Guild. There must have been a hundred ways he could have snuffed out Prelate Geral's life from a distance if he wanted to. It wouldn't have needed anything like as much power as it would to kill a younger mage. Geral was a tired old man, and he was dying."
The girl frowned. "But, Grimm, you just said you believed he did it. Now you're saying you don't. I don't understand. If he tried to snuff the old man, what difference does it make how he did it? Perhaps he was acting… in the heat of the moment, or something. Men don't always think things through too clearly, do they?"
Grimm laughed, although he saw little humour in the situation.
"A Guild Mage isn't like ordinary men, and a Mage Questor is even less so. You don't get to be a forty-year-old Questor of the Seventh Rank by acting on impulse," he said. "It's something I'm often guilty of, but I'm trying as hard as I can to eradicate it. I'll have to if I want to make old bones. Otherwise, sooner or later, some stupid mistake'll catch me out, and it could be fatal.
"Granfer Loras was an old hand, and he'd been on dozens of difficult and dangerous Quests. You can be sure he never acted just on the spur of the moment. And with an infinite number of spells potentially at his command-invisible, undetectable spells-you can bet he'd never have chosen to push a pillow in the old man's face. Not unless he wanted to be caught, and I don't believe that.
"The only other explanation I can think of is that someone-a single mage with unbelievable magical power, or a group of mages acting in concert-ensorcelled him into doing what he did." Grimm hissed through his teeth in an attempt to dispel the tension within him. "Everyone in the House expected Granfer to succeed Geral as Prelate. From what I heard, he wouldn't have had to wait long. He didn't need to take the risk of assassinating the old man just to get him out of the way… and even if his motivation was pure mercy, why did he choose such a blatant, obvious method? Geral couldn't have put up any resistance; Granfer could have stopped his weak heart in a second with a quick, merciful spell, instead of trying to smother him. He wouldn't even have had to leave his room.
"It doesn't ring right, Drex. It doesn't make any sense at all."
Drexelica leaned forward, cupping her chin with her right hand as if considering what to say next.
"Who got the most out of your granfer's disgrace, Grimm?"
The young mage shrugged. "Lord Thorn, I suppose. When Geral finally died, Lord Thorn became Prelate instead of Granfer."
He saw Drex's eyes narrowing, and he shook his head, seeing where the discussion was heading.
"Lord Thorn was Granfer's staunchest friend!" he protested. "The expected sentence was death, and only Lord Thorn's pleading swayed the adjudicator at Granfer's trial. If Thorn'd been the guilty party, why would he want to spare Granfer's life?"
Grimm sighed. He had nothing more than a slew of vague suspicions and doubts, nothing on which he could put his finger. He had considered the matter in some depth, but he knew he had no reason whatsoever to suspect Thorn of any wrongdoing. A spell capable of making a full Questor act against his will, while believing he was acting under free will, must be beyond the power of any single mage. Such an enchantment might have been carried out by a Great Spell, a large group of potent thaumaturges acting in concert, yet it seemed that Loras had been a popular mage, both within the House and at High Lodge.
No, Lord Thorn could not have done this.
After long cogitation, Grimm spoke.
"No, Drex, I don't for a moment think Lord Thorn did it.
I have absolutely no reason to suspect him. In fact, books I read at High Lodge led me to believe that the only possible explanation involved powerful Geomancy, witch magic, rather than Guild magic."
Drexelica started. "I'm not all that powerful, but I've read quite a lot about witchery, Grimm. You must believe me when I tell you no ordinary witch could cast a spell like that. It would take a more powerful witch than I've ever heard of. Why would a strong witch hate your grandfather so much? Witches don't have a lot to do with the Guild."
Grimm shrugged. "I don't know, Drex. Perhaps Lord Thorn could just tell me a little more about Granfer's manner when he committed the act: a peculiar expression on his face, an abnormality in his aura: something, at any rate. I mean to ask him, as soon as I get back to Arnor."
Drexelica put her hand on Grimm's shoulder and looked deep into his eyes. "If you're serious about doing that, do be careful, Grimm. You don't want to make Lord Thorn angry with you, do you? You said he can make you a poor servant for years if he wants to, and I don't want to lose you."
"I don't know what I want," the young Questor confessed in confusion and discomfort, waving his hands as if seeking divine inspiration. "But I'd never forgive myself if I knew that I'd left some stone unturned. Granfer's a stern man and a hard taskmaster, but he'd do anything for me. He and my grandmother Drima are all the family I've got."
"I know," the girl whispered. "Of course you need to find out what happened, but just be careful. Will you do that? Men can be so clumsy and tactless at times, and I worry for you."
"I'll be careful, Drex, I promise. Lord Thorn is severe, but I think he's fair and reasonable at heart, if he's in a good mood. He'll understand why I have to know, I'm sure. And in any case, I wouldn't worry too much about me being condemned to the scullery. I'm more useful as a Questor, and in any case, I'm sure I'm rich enough to pay off my education now. I've never been told what the tariff is for Questors, but I've got plenty of money now."
Drexelica hugged him. "Just you take care of yourself, Grimm, and come back to me. If you get yourself killed, you'll have me to answer to. You wouldn't like that, I promise you. I have my mother's temper at times, and she was a real witch in every sense."
She wagged a mock-admonitory finger in his face.
Grimm laughed, despite his sombre mood. "I'll be careful, I promise."
Then his face fell again. "You do realise that I may have to stay at the House for a while longer before I can come back home? I don't want anything more than to stay here with you, but I'm not a free man yet. After a few more Quests, a little more boost in reputation, and I may be trusted to spend all my free time in Crar without running away."
Drex nodded, her expression a little bleak. "I'll wait for you, Grimm Afelnor. I'll trust your friend Shakkar to look after me, and I'll be thinking of you while you're away."
Grimm shrugged. "It may not be too bad, Drex. Lord Thorn may not order me to stay at the House after all, and Quests don't come about all that often. I'll let you know, whatever happens."
"I know you will, Grimm. Anyway, enough of that! Why don't you tell me all about your first Quest, and your friend, Dalquist?"
"I'm sure Thribble here can tell it better than I could," Grimm replied, smiling. "What do you say, Thribble?"
The demon hopped onto the table in front of the divan, enthusiastic and athletic. "I thought you would never ask, human. I love to tell stories."
Drex clapped her hands and turned to Grimm. "He's so sweet, Grimm! I love him!"
"Sweet!" the demon squeaked in indignation.
"Please, just tell the story, Thribble, while I get my bags packed for the journey. Perhaps you'd like a little wine or brandy to lubricate your throat?"
"Brandy would be marvellous!" the demon crowed, clapping his tiny paws. "Well, young female, I first met Questor Grimm when the demon Starmor ruled this city: but it was a very different city then. Questor Grimm and his companions were trapped…"
Drexelica sat silent, her eyes wide as Thribble launched into his tale with his customary gusto. Grimm felt happy to let the demon take his mind off his uncertain future.
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Chapter 3: Lord Thorn's Assessment
The morning was warm and sunny, with a cloudless blue sky, but the young thaumaturge barely noticed. As Grimm rode up the winding mountain pass to the fortress that was Arnor House, his mind remained focused on his forthcoming meeting with Lord Thorn. On his last Quest, the senior mage, Xylox the Mighty, had promised that his report to the Prelate would be 'on balance, favourable'. However, the older Questor had made little secret of his dislike for Grimm, even if he appeared to respect his junior's resourcefulness and power. All depended on whether Lord Thorn's view coincided with that of Xylox, and the young Questor knew the Prelate's temper to be unpredictable at best.
At the very least, it seemed probable that Grimm would be required to stay at the House for a further period, away from his Barony and his beloved Drexelica. At worst, he might be censured, with a black mark to go on his record, which might blight his Guild career and bar further promotion.
As the black stronghold hove into view, Grimm quashed his anxieties and fears; there was little point in worrying about what he could not change. As he approached the entry portal, he dismounted and hobbled his horse at the wooden rail by the path, and he strode to the door with a determined manner. He raised his ring-bearing left hand and the door swung open to reveal the familiar, bowed figure of the aged major-domo known to all in the House by the simple appellation of Doorkeeper.
"Questor Grimm!" the old man crowed, his face crinkling into a smile. "It is wonderful to have you back where you belong, marvellous, yes, marvellous, indeed."
Grimm knew he truly belonged with Drexelica, but he was not about to say so; even the most innocent relationship with a member of the distaff sex was frowned upon within the Guild.
"Greetings, Doorkeeper, it's good to be back."
A House servant appeared, and Doorkeeper instructed him to stable the mage's horse, and to take the luggage to Grimm's room. "So, Questor Grimm, did you have a good retreat at Crar? I've heard the weather can be quite bad down there, quite horrible at times, I've heard, I think."
"I had a marvellous time, thank you, Doorkeeper."
"I'm afraid I can't spare you much time, Questor Grimm." Doorkeeper's wizened face bore an apologetic expression. "I have some important things to do for tonight, some very important business. Adept Numal's staff rebounded three times from the Stone this morning, and he is now a full Mage Necromancer. His Acclamation feast will be held this evening, and, as usual, I will be required to arrange it all. So much work; you'd think they'd take pity on my poor old bones…"
Grimm's brow furrowed. The name Numal seemed somehow familiar to him, but he could not quite place it. When the major-domo finished his wordy, babbling lament, he said so.
"You met him at least once," replied Doorkeeper. "I introduced him to you in the Refectory on your first day here, all those years ago."
With a sudden rush, recollection flooded into Grimm's mind. Numal was the strange, sepulchral figure who had told the seven-year-old Student of his hidden desire to be an entertainer. Numal's words, spoken so long before, flew into his brain: In my youth, I was told that my imitation of Daffo the Clown was very amusing.
So the would-be entertainer had mastered his craft at last, exchanging song and dance for the ability to communicate with the dead and to augur the future from chicken entrails. Part of Grimm's psyche rejoiced at the pale, sad-looking man's success after years of unremitting effort, while another mourned the death of the would-be comedian and dancer. The stage's loss had been the House's gain.
"Still, that's enough talk," Doorkeeper said, interrupting the young mage's philosophical musings. "You'll want to get ready for your meeting with the Lord Prelate, I'm sure. Your usual room's made up in the West Wing, and Lord Thorn isn't expecting you for another hour."
Grimm smiled. "What woul
d I do without you, Doorkeeper? Thank you. I know the way; I also know you must have a lot to do."
Making his excuses, the Questor strode through the Great Hall. Was it his imagination, or was the vestibule not quite as magnificent as he remembered it? The blue and gold hexagonal paving slabs that made up the hall, the same colours as his fine silk robes, seemed duller than he recalled. For the first time, Grimm noticed distinct scratches in the blue sky-dome, and the dreamy, soft tones pervading the chamber seemed tired and lifeless, having once brought visions of heaven to him. Only the black, eternal Breaking Stone, against which each hopeful Adept must test his hand-made Staff before he could be declared a full Guild Mage, looked pristine and fresh.
The stairs winding up to the West Wing mages' chambers bore deep, semicircular depressions, marking the passage of countless generations of House incumbents, a heritage of centuries. Grimm's room, however, was just as he remembered it; basic, perhaps, but comfortable beyond the dreams of any mere charity Student. He was pleased to see his bags were already waiting for him on his bed, which had the distinctive, clean smell of fresh linen. He noted the full ewer of water and the soap by the washbasin, and he stripped off his robe.
Grimm felt dusty and grimy after his long journey, and he found the cold water bracing and refreshing. His worries seemed to wash away with the dirt of the road, and he hummed a cheerful tune as he laved himself. Taking a soft, white towel from one of his travelling bags, he rubbed down his body until his skin shone pink. Still naked, he took forth a small pair of scissors and trimmed his dark brown beard and his fingernails. He then started on his hair, brushing it until it shone, and then tying it in its accustomed place at the nape of his neck. At last, Grimm donned fresh clothes. He looked with a critical eye at his reflection, in the round mirror behind the wash basin. Something was missing…
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