Truth and Deception cogd-4

by Alastair J. Archibald

  Nonetheless, although Lord Thorn had named this as his next Quest, he had the distinct feeling that he was expected to vouchsafe as little information as possible; it might be better if Numal knew nothing of Grimm's ultimate purpose. He felt guilty about using the fledgling Necromancer in this manner, but he had a personal stake in this Quest.

  Grimm faked an expression of exasperation and sighed. "Look, Numal, do you want to go to High Lodge, or not? If not, I'll cope, believe me. Nobody's forcing you, you know. If you want, you can get a room on the other side of the bloody Lodge from me if you're worried about the prospect of me groping your body at night."

  Numal waved his hands. "I'm sorry, Questor Grimm. Yes, I would like to see High Lodge, very much. Please, excuse my suspicious mind. I've heard that you Questors are pretty direct, and I'm not used to that. I'll join you."

  Grimm kept his tone cool. "Good man. I'll see if I can organise us a wagon, and you can make sure you're not needed here for any pressing reason. Meet me back in the Great Hall in two hours or so."

  "You people don't hang about, do you?" the bald mage said. "You couldn't wait 'til tomorrow, could you?"

  Grimm realised that he might be pushing things too quickly. He had spoken of friends, and yet he had not spared a thought for his stalwart, reliable allies, Madar and Argand, who had supported him when he had been a callow Student, and who were still immured in the Scholasticate. His friend and fellow Questor, Dalquist, might well be in residence, and it would be the height of ingratitude to ignore him. Did he really want to use Doorkeeper, as other unthinking souls did, as some menial servant, fit only to fulfil his whims and petty demands?

  "Of course, Numal," he found himself saying. "Take as long as you need, within reason. I don't have to leave today, I guess I'm just a little taut; I've only been to High Lodge once before, and I don't want to be late."

  Numal nodded. "Thank you, Questor Grimm. Shall we meet tomorrow?"

  Grimm nodded his agreement, and Numal left the Refectory.

  Am I becoming some kind of monster? Grimm asked himself. It's as if I'm becoming so immersed in my calling that I see people as only pawns in some game, to be moved and disposed of as I see fit.

  Was he losing his humanity? He felt like an arrow in some great bow, pulled back, ready to be released. It seemed the further he progressed in his craft, the more he was in danger of becoming an automaton, a puppet of the House that had made him what he was. He was a lethal human weapon, and yet Grimm had little idea of his own motivations, no control over his destiny. He moved from situation to situation, crisis to crisis, all for the good of either the Guild or Arnor House. His concern over his grandfather's fate seemed to be only a sideline; when the Prelate, the House, or the Guild called, he came. Anything else, no matter how important it appeared at first, became a mere distraction.

  He might have felt even more disconcerted if he had known that this was just what Lord Thorn had intended for him from the start. The term 'Weapon of the Guild' was not just a quaint, old-fashioned conceit. A good Questor was nothing more than a tool of his masters; a tool to be used to strike at their enemies.

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  Chapter 7: Friendly Discourse

  Grimm Afelnor stood in the doorway of the Scholasticate Library and smiled at the young man sitting at a small table and grimacing as he shuffled through a jumbled mass of books and papers.

  "Grimm! It's good to see you again!" Questor Dalquist rose from his seat and clapped his young friend on the shoulder with his customary warmth. "I understand further congratulations are in order."

  Grimm shrugged. "I'm just lucky, I suppose."

  "Don't belittle yourself, Grimm. Luck is an important factor for a successful Questor; some would say an essential one. Our Quest together was no cakewalk, and from what I've read, it seems your second was even harder. You're a rising star within the House, Grimm Afelnor. Having gained the Sixth Rank after two difficult trials, you can be sure Lord Thorn will soon entrust you with your own Quests, and the responsibility and credit for the success of these will be all yours."

  The overriding principle within Arnor House and, to an even greater extent, within the Guild was 'rank hath its privileges'. An expedition's senior Questor was expected to garner the lion's share of the honours and plaudits, since he would bear the brunt of any failure. The life of a Mage Questor might often be dangerous and challenging, but it was at least exciting, offering the potential for great rewards commensurate with the risks taken for those daring or lucky enough to gain promotion to higher rank. The desire of all young, hungry Questors was to strive and succeed against mighty odds and, with luck, to become 'noticed' by their superiors.

  Even beyond the coveted Seventh Rank, the potential prizes of a position on the Conclave, the individual Houses' ruling bodies, or even election to the post of Prelate beckoned. Beyond Prelateship, the opulence and prestige of High Lodge awaited the most ambitious, the most talented, the most daring and above all the most fortunate mages.

  "And you, Dalquist?" Grimm asked, as the two mages sat down at the table. "I never had you marked as a bibliophile. Are you studying in preparation for another Quest?"

  Dalquist shook his head. "No such luck, I'm afraid, Grimm. However, it's not too bad. Senior Magemaster Crohn's asked me to help out in the Scholasticate on occasions. It seems our recent successes-namely yours and mine-have led to an increase in Student uptake, and Crohn desperately needs more Magemasters. I'm just boning up on rune signatures, and I should start as probationary Magemaster in the next few weeks."

  "Congratulations, Dalquist." Grimm tried to keep his tone bright, but did not fool his friend.

  "I know, Grimm, I know." Dalquist smiled and raised his hands in mock-surrender. "A Mage Questor teaching runes to a bunch of snotty Students seems a sheer waste of talent, like shackling a racehorse to a farm cart. But I'll only be doing this in between Quests and, if I'm good at it, it'll get me noticed by the Conclave. I'll still be a Questor, first and foremost, I promise you.

  "It's easy duty, if you ask me. It's a lot better than sitting around in my room, waiting for the call to risk my life on some soon-forgotten Quest. I thought of hiring myself out to some insecure prince or Duke as a magical advisor once I've paid off the House for my tuition, but politics bores me stupid."

  "Me, too," Grimm said with fervour. He had found his brief sessions presiding over the city council meetings of his barony of Crar mind-numbingly tedious.

  Nonetheless, at least he had the companionship of his lover Drexelica to sustain him, although he dare not admit this, even to his closest friend; the misogynistic Guild regarded even the most innocent flirtation with a woman as a serious crime. Sexual congress was regarded as the ultimate transgression, since it was believed to erase a mage's powers. Grimm now knew this to be no more than a myth, whose reason he could not fathom. Nevertheless, it would be impolitic in the extreme for him to say so; even to Dalquist.

  "I'm really happy for you, Dalquist," he said. "As a Magemaster, perhaps you'll get the call to raise another Questor. Who could be a better choice than a man who's actually faced the Ordeal and won?"

  The senior mage shuddered. "No thanks, Grimm! I'd rather eat broken glass. Two years of chiding, nagging, and shouting at some hapless kid doesn't appeal to me. You had it much easier, getting through in seven months. I guess you were lucky there, too."

  "Lucky?" Grimm exploded, unable to believe his friend's insouciance. "Are you serious?"

  Dalquist laughed. "Well, of course I know how tough it is, Grimm. I often found myself wanting to kill Magemaster Urel. I broke out when he whacked me with his staff for dropping a plate in the Refectory, and you know the result of that. I really lost it, but that impromptu display of amateur demolition did make a Questor of me, after all."

  The young Questor gaped in sheer astonishment. Dalquist must be some superman to have withstood two whole years of the daily torment Grimm had faced.

  "I think another day of w
hat I faced would have seen me mad or dead," he declared, shivering a little. "I guess you're made of stronger stuff than me, and I respect you even more for it. I scarcely knew my name by the time Magemaster Crohn had finished with me. How did you stand it for two whole years?"

  Dalquist frowned. "I know you're no weakling, Grimm. You're more powerful than I was at your age, and your willpower and drive are second to none. The Questor Ordeal's designed to drive a man, or boy, to his limits. I reached mine after two years, and you're at least as strong as me in that regard; perhaps stronger. Power like yours doesn't come from nothing." He leaned back, his brow still furrowed. "Could you give me an account of a typical day you spent as a Neophyte Questor? Assume you're telling someone who knows nothing of it."

  Mercifully, Grimm now found memories of much of his Ordeal to be little more than a blur, but he applied himself to his friend's request, rubbing his bearded chin as if it could stimulate recall.

  "Well, if I'd displeased Crohn the night before, I might have to do without breakfast. We'd start the morning with three hours' repetition of a long runic spell, often one I didn't know. If my repetition rate was too slow, Crohn slapped me; or worse if he was in a bad mood. He could scream at me for as much as twenty minutes because I'd made even a small mistake on one of the repetitions, and then we'd start over. That'd lead to another three hours' practice, with a slap or a kick for each mistake. More screaming by Crohn, and, of course, a proper beating if I hadn't already had one. If I hadn't made a mistake, he'd beat me for my tone of voice or my facial expression, or the condition of my shoes, or because his arm ached from beating me the last time… any little thing he could think of, you know. That might mean bread and water for lunch, or perhaps no lunch, and then we'd start again in the afternoon.

  "The evening session could go on into early morning until I could hardly speak. I'd be given exercises to complete for the next session, but I'd be so hungry and tired I could never finish them in time. Sometimes you just have to eat and sleep. If I did manage to finish them, get some scraps to eat and grab a couple of hours' sleep, it was a good day, but it became almost impossible by the end. You could have closed your thumb and forefinger around my bicep, and my clothes just seemed to hang off me-so I often got beaten for looking untidy, even if my clothes were clean and in good repair.

  "Sometimes, on very rare occasions, Crohn seemed to take pity on me-he'd pretend he was too busy to attend to me the next day, and he'd forget to give me any exercises. I'd spend half the day in bed and the rest in the refectory, but I couldn't keep food down. I wasn't allowed to talk to anyone or go to the Library, of course, so all I had was myself."

  Grimm swallowed, trying to keep his voice level. "Of course, those little days off were just designed to make it even harder to start again. The next day, Crohn often told me how nobody would miss me if I died, and sometimes I really, really thought about… you know…"

  The mage's voice faded almost to a whisper as emotion stuffed an iron ball into his throat. "You know the way it goes, Dalquist. Seven months of that nearly finished me; I'd never have lasted two years!"

  The senior Questor whistled. "Grimm, I can assure you Urel wasn't anywhere near that hard with me, and I thought he was a tyrant. Sure, he slapped me on occasion, and I had privileges revoked. I was restricted to bread and water from time to time, yes, and I was barred from seeing my friends. Still, I always had the sense that Magemaster Urel was testing me, and he usually stopped short of outright assault. I now realise he was seeing how far he could take me, and then backing off. Things got worse as time went on, but at a measured rate, stretching me, pushing me to the limit. Towards the end, the last month or so, I'd start to have the odd day where he'd treat me like you describe, but I couldn't have stood a solid month of that, let alone seven. I saw the way you looked after your Outbreak, and it puzzled me that you were as shattered as you were. Now I understand. Crohn must be a complete sadist."

  Grimm waved his hands, as if to expunge Dalquist's last words. "But he's not, Dalquist. Almost the first words I remember when I awoke after my Outbreak were 'I'm sorry, Grimm, so sorry. I had no choice.'"

  Dalquist entwined his hands, the index fingers forming a steeple that touched the middle of his forehead, just over the bridge of his nose. Long moments passed before he spoke again.

  "There was a Neophyte a couple of years above me, with Crohn as his personal tutor. What was his name…

  "Mitar: that was it. I'm pretty sure he was being tried out as a Questor, too. He liked books and music, just like you and, of course, Crohn took those privileges away from him. After a few months, Mitar started to act strange. He'd sit in the Refectory, rocking back and forth and muttering to himself. I was still a Student in those days, and we all used to laugh at him. You know how cruel boys can be."

  Grimm nodded. He remembered only too well the sly trips and pushes, and the venomous hisses of 'Traitor's by-blow' from the shadows. Yes, boys could be unimaginably cruel at times.

  "After a few days of this," Dalquist said, enunciating his words with great care, "Crohn came into the Refectory and sat with him. We all thought it was odd, a Magemaster sitting in the paupers' area. I couldn't hear much, but I caught the words, 'terrible mistake', and Magemaster Crohn led him away by the hand, as if he were a toddler. We didn't see him for a few days, but he was much better when he came back. He said he was being tried out as a Healer instead. I believe he's an Adept now."

  "There you are," Grimm replied, "Crohn's not a total sadist after all."

  Dalquist shook his head. "Perhaps not, but I think things must have changed over the years. Look at what happened to your friend, Erek. He never should have been put through the Ordeal. Too sensitive, too highly-strung, but they pushed him and pushed him anyway, and he killed Senior Magemaster Urel and hanged himself. Something's changed in Arnor House, and I don't like it."

  Grimm sighed. "Lord Thorn must have found out what happened. Don't you think he would have told Crohn to take it easy after what happened to Erek and Urel, once he discovered the truth?"

  Dalquist's looked into Grimm's eyes, his expression stern. "Grimm Afelnor, you have a brain in your head, a good one, too. Use it! Of course Lord Thorn would have done that once he realised what had been going on… unless he was the one who ordered it."

  Grimm opened his mouth to expostulate, but the words did not seem to come. The fatherly Urel was no sadist, either, and yet he had pushed Erek beyond his limits of tolerance. Crohn was a dedicated, kindly educator, and he had taken Grimm to the very edge of that same precipice.

  Surely… no, it couldn't be!

  "I'm sorry, Dalquist, but I can't believe that. Lord Thorn's done all right by me, and you, too. I don't think he'd tolerate a regime of concentrated brutality like that. I think we both owe him a debt of gratitude, not innuendo and slander."

  Dalquist snorted. "Well, it looks like it worked on you, then. Grateful Grimm Afelnor, Mage Questor, Weapon of the Guild, thankful to his betters for being beaten and starved every day. Just open your eyes, will you?"

  Grimm stood, his face burning. "I'm sorry, Dalquist, but I really don't want to talk about this. Perhaps when I come back you'll be in a more reasonable state of mind.

  "No, I don't want to hear any more, thank you!" He turned on his heel, and strode towards the door.

  "Grimm, just listen to yourself!" Dalquist shouted.

  Without turning round, his hand on the handle of the door, Grimm snapped back, "No, you listen, Dalquist. I think it's high time you realised who your real friends are. You owe Lord Thorn everything, as I do! I think a little appreciation would be in order, don't you?"

  Not waiting for his friend's reply, he opened the door, stepped through and slammed it behind him, nearly tripping over Redeemer. The unpleasant, dissonant lunch bell began to rang, reminding him of his empty stomach, and he made his way to the Refectory, his emotions varying between sorrow for having fallen out with his friend, and anger at Dalquist's rank ingratitude. Perh
aps he would meet his old Scholasticate friends, Madar and Argand, at lunch: a little friendly discourse might improve his mood.

  ****

  His two friends did not appear in the Refectory, and Grimm stared at his empty plate, not even remembering what he had eaten. A group of humble charity Students chatted and squabbled with customary gusto in their dingy corner of the room, and the Questor became more and more annoyed as he tried to marshal his thoughts over the incessant clamour.

  "Show a little respect for your seniors, can't you?" he snapped. "It's all I can do to hear myself think!"

  The loud conversation stopped as if a branch had been lopped from a tree, and Grimm saw several mages were looking at him, their faces shocked and incredulous.

  What's the matter with you idiots? What this House needs is a little more respect! The words rose in the Questor's gorge like acid bile, but he managed to stop them before they reached his mouth. In ill humour, he rose to his feet and swept from the Refectory.

  "What am I? I'm a freak, a sport, a mutant!" That was what he had screamed at Magemaster Crohn during his violent Outbreak, the final, cataclysmic eruption marking his transition from humble Neophyte to powerful Questor. Words torn from a callow adolescent, filled with pain and confusion, before the sick-sweet realisation that he had prevailed against almost insuperable odds.

  He rubbed his pained brow, grimacing. Had he not left all that debilitating angst behind him? Surely so, and yet he had subjected Numal to a vicious tongue-lashing that very morning, and now he feared he had lost a valued friend to an unaccustomed burst of vitriol. Where was that Questor self-control? Where was that iron command over his emotions, now?

  He knew he must seek out Dalquist again and beg his forgiveness, but he, who had faced demons without fear, who had risen from the lowly status of a blacksmith's son to the rank of Baron, could not face such a confrontation.