Truth and Deception cogd-4

by Alastair J. Archibald

  Grimm considered his answer for some time. Divination was something of which he knew little, and he had thought that mastery of the sleight was confined only to Mentalists such as Magemaster Kargan at Arnor. From what little he knew of the spell, if he were subjected to such deep scrutiny, the older man would surely discover his liaison with Drexelica. That was something he was unwilling to surrender, at any cost.

  It seemed the older man had sensed the Questor's unease. "I already suspected that you have… another person in your life, Brother Mage," he said. "Your aura bears a taint of rose hue, a faint but undeniable indicator of requited love to those who understand the colours a little better than most."

  Grimm started; his deepest secret was discovered! However, Horin's next words acted as balm on his rising panic.

  "Put your mind at rest on this score, young Afelnor: this is not blackmail. I am prepared to overlook such an indiscretion, as long as it doesn't interfere with your dedication to the Guild. Whether or not you agree to submit to my Divination, I swear on my honour as Dominie that I will divulge this to no other. The sign will mean little to other mages, even those who break the taboo on using the Sight on their peers.

  "If you decline, I will ensure that you remember nothing of our meetings, other than the details I choose to allow to remain in your mind, I will send you back to your House, happy and fulfilled, but ignorant of our discussion."

  With the knowledge that his relationship with Drex was already in the open, Grimm found his decision easy.

  "I will submit to your questioning, Lord Dominie."

  Horin shut his eyes and began to mumble; his voice rose to a shout as he rushed into a complicated, impeccable dance with the powers of runic magic.

  This is no simple spell, Grimm thought as the old mage's face ran with perspiration. He's no Questor, but he's still a powerful mage.

  At first, the rhythmic, fluent runic chant seemed to have no effect, but the young mage noticed a subtle coruscation of blue motes playing around Horin's brow. He felt tendrils of force boring into his head from all directions, but, after an initial few moments of discomfort, he began to find the experience soothing and calming. He relaxed in his chair, sensing his cares and worries drifting away from him. It was so peaceful here…

  He heard Horin's voice as if it was inside his own head; the words were crystal clear. "What is your name?"

  "Grimm Afelnor." The name spilled from him before his mind had even formulated the intention to speak.

  "What are your goals in life?"

  Again, the dreamy words emerged from his mouth of their own volition. "I wish to exonerate the name of my grandfather Loras, and I wish to be recognised within the Guild for my worth and my achievements. I wish… I wish…"

  He began to writhe in his seat, and the Dominie's face turned pasty and sweaty.

  "Please don't fight me, Questor Grimm. It will only make things harder."

  Yes, of course: Lord Horin already knows about Drex. There is no need to fight.

  "I wish to live with Drexelica forever. I love her."

  "What are your feelings towards Prelate Thorn?"

  "He is my friend. He is stern and forbidding, but he has treated me well. His word is my law." The question appeared almost ludicrous, but Grimm found it easier to answer than not.

  "What of your attitude towards me, and any orders given by me?"

  "My Oath is to the Guild first, and my House second. Your orders supersede those even of Lord Thorn."

  "If I were to give you strict orders to conceal evidence from Lord Thorn, would you do so?"

  "I would not wish to do so, but I would have no choice but to comply."

  Grimm was aware of a dim discomfort, but it was almost as if it were being visited on somebody else. Once more, it was simpler just to answer the question put to him than to resist.

  "Have you any secret plans concerning your dealings with me?"

  That was an easy question to answer. "No."

  The older mage put several other searching questions to Grimm, concerning his loyalty to the Guild and his innermost desires, and the Questor answered all of them in a clear, unemotional voice. At last, with a rasping sigh, Horin turned away from the young Questor, who felt the magical tendrils withdrawing from his brain; his mind was once more his own.

  "You are a powerful one indeed, Questor Grimm."

  Horin was ashen and his voice, in contrast to the clear mental tones that he had heard during the Divination, was hoarse and mumbling. "I should have asked Mentalist Gowell to administer the spell. He was the mage who taught me the sleight when I first became Dominie. I thought myself well practiced in its use after all these years."

  "I'm sorry, Lord Dominie," Grimm felt unsure of how he might have done wrong. "I wasn't trying to resist you."

  An urgent, panicked expression flitted across the older mage's face. "Excuse me, please, Questor-"

  Cutting himself short, Horin vaulted from his chair and ran pell-mell across the room, upending two small tables in the process. Grimm, perplexed, saw him yank open a door in the corner of the chamber and launch himself into a small room. Within a few seconds, he heard the unmistakable sounds of wracking, violent retching and vomiting from within. These persisted for some time, and the young mage could hear Horin gasping and spitting. Then he heard the distinct sound of splashing water, and a soft, agonised groan.

  At last, the Dominie emerged from the small room, his face pale, a bloodstained handkerchief held against his nose with his right hand.

  The Questor leapt to his feet. "Are you all right, Lord Dominie? Shall I summon help?"

  Horin waved his free hand, and shook his head, although he did appear to be in some distress. "I'll be all right, thank you, Questor Grimm," he said, indistinctly through his handkerchief. "It's no worse than a bad miscasting."

  Grimm felt a momentary frisson of guilt that he felt no ill-effects from the meeting of the two mages' minds, but he said nothing as Horin lowered himself into his seat, and Grimm did the same.

  The older man inspected the red-stained cloth and stuffed it into a pocket in his robe. A delicate tracery of brown stains remained around his top lip, but Grimm considered it might be impolitic to mention it.

  "Thank you, Questor Grimm, for submitting to my questions," Horin said in a nasal tone. "I will now tell you what I have in mind."

  Grimm leaned forward, eager to hear Horin's plans for him. "Thank you, Lord Dominie." It was all he could say, under the circumstances.

  The Guildmaster looked around for a few heartbeats, his eyes looking to Grimm like animated currants set in a mass of pale, damp dough. He appeared almost feverish, but intelligence and strength of purpose burned in those eyes; this was no paranoid madman. Grimm could see that this was a man with a mission: a man fighting incipient exhaustion, despite the early hour.

  Summoning some inner reserve of energy, Horin mustered a clear, strong voice, as he spoke almost in the manner of Magemaster Crohn delivering one of his sonorous, interminable lectures.

  "This Guild has prevailed for more than a millennium, young Afelnor. It has survived insurrection, mutiny, treachery, opposition, war, famine and plague for more than thirty generations for one reason, and one reason only: the complete dedication of its members."

  Do I speak? Do I keep my mouth shut? Grimm wondered. It seemed easier to nod and say nothing.

  "This is my very life," the Dominie declared, "and yours, too, if you could but realise it, young Afelnor.

  "Are you pleased at your rapid elevation, Questor Grimm?"

  Grimm blinked: Horin's question appeared nuncupatory.

  "Yes, Lord Dominie; I feel very pleased."

  "Some of my fellow Presidium members consider me little more than a superannuated clerk, obsessed with trivia and minutiae, without strategic vision or imagination," the Guildmaster said. "You think you reached the Fifth Rank only due to my inattention and incompetence, don't you?"

  Grimm stammered, "I… I know you're a bu
sy man, Lord-"

  "Of course you do!" Horin cried, his eyes bright, feverish. "Poor old Horin, struggling with his silly papers, doesn't notice he is promoting a ringless First Rank novice well beyond the level merited by a single, if meritorious, Quest."

  Grimm felt his head spinning. What was the Guildmaster saying?

  "I have had my eye on you for some time, Afelnor. I could not have promoted you to the Sixth or Seventh Rank without my judgement being brought into serious question, or I would have done so. Your accession to the Fifth Rank was no fortuitous mistake, Questor Grimm. Have you ever heard Questors referred to as 'Weapons of the Guild'?"

  "Of course, Lord Horin." Grimm felt as if he were a leaf being swept along in a strong current, unable to change its course.

  "The Guild is my world, my universe, young Questor. I would do anything to protect or save it. I wanted a true, loyal weapon of my own to aid in the fight, and I selected you. Recent events have proved I was right."

  "Fight, Lord Dominie?" Grimm spluttered. "What fight, and why me? I'm hardly blooded as a Questor yet, and there are surely many of my kind, more experienced and resourceful mages who would prove more suitable."

  Horin laughed. "Not that many, Afelnor," he said. "Your power and resourcefulness are remarkable in one so young. Older Questors may have guile and cunning gained through a dozen Quests, but only a scant handful could match you in naked power, if any.

  "That is gratifying, but it is not the only reason I chose Grimm Afelnor to be my weapon. The other Questors are good men. Loyal men; powerful men; but they are bedazzled by wealth, status and privilege. They think being a Guild man is nothing more than formality and protocol; knowing the correct cutlery to use at a court banquet. Many of them leave the Guild as soon as they are able, rich mages who have paid off their debts. Other, more loyal mages perform their roles well enough, but they are nonetheless obsessed with games of precedence with their peers, as you already know well."

  Despite his confusion, Grimm laughed: the Dominie could only be referring to Questor Xylox. Then his face clouded.

  "What makes you think I will be any different, Lord Horin? I am rich beyond my dreams after my first Quest, and I'm pretty sure I could easily afford to buy off my indenture any time I wished."

  "But you won't," Horin said, "not even if we allow you to do so-and we don't have to, Afelnor.

  "You need the Guild as much as we need you. You have a mission, a personal mission, do you not?"

  "What?"

  "You are unique, Afelnor. You are the grandson of the reviled Oathbreaker. Your name is tainted beyond imagining, and you seek to cleanse it. You are kin to a man who tried to kill his lord and master, and there is no worse crime in the whole Guild. Because of your lineage, you are reviled by most, even beyond the petty prejudices of social class-consciousness.

  "I can help you achieve your aims, and I will, if you help me."

  Grimm slumped back in his chair and rubbed his perspiring brow with a palsied hand. He felt like a puppet whose strings had been cut, and he felt unable to speak.

  The Dominie leaned closer and said in a low voice, "Our life, our very existence is threatened, and I want an irreverent, hot-headed, impertinent grandson of a convicted traitor to help me, not a polished, scrubbed, silver-tongued paragon of Guild manhood."

  Grimm tried again to speak, but his tongue felt as if it were a lump of dead wood. Horin rose to unsteady feet, weaving like a drunken man, but the Questor knew that only the old man's body had betrayed him; despite the evangelistic gleam in those feverish eyes, the Dominie's sanity could not be in doubt.

  The old man laughed; a crackling, high-pitched squeak without the slightest hint of humour. "There is a sickness within our brotherhood, my young friend," he said. "After centuries, millennia of stability, a creeping, insidious malaise threatens the stability of the entire Guild. Following my dealings with the odious Lizaveta, I have begun to believe that she, or someone just like her, may be at the root of the problem."

  Grimm's forehead furrowed.

  "What is the nature of this sickness, Lord?"

  The young man saw the Guildmaster's wan complexion growing healthier by the moment, and he noted a little more animation in the Dominie's voice when he spoke.

  "There has always been rivalry and ambition within the Guild, young Afelnor," he said. "It is tolerated, and even encouraged, so long as it doesn't interfere with the smooth running of the institution. You are an ambitious young man, but that is only to be expected in a Guild mage.

  "However, I have noticed a distinct escalation in the unrest between the Houses in the last few decades. There is now far too much secrecy and skulduggery in an organisation that has always prided itself on openness and fraternity.

  "I have tried to eradicate this sickness at the root, but without success. There may be many causes for this malaise, but I cannot deny that this little attempt by Prioress Lizaveta to suborn me has shaken me beyond measure; my unease has not been diminished by your own experience with the young nun, right here in High Lodge. How many mages have been compromised or controlled by this woman and her Order?

  "I am mindful of the early wars between mages and witches, and I wonder if these latest affronts are skirmishes in a renewed conflict. Perhaps Lizaveta's order is no more than a front for a Geomantic supremacy movement."

  Grimm considered the Dominie's words: they sounded on first hearing like the paranoid maunderings of a worried man, but were they so improbable?

  Lizaveta's involvement in Madeleine's attempt to subsume his will seemed incontestable. Perhaps she had tried to perform similar magic on Loras, many years before, and his will had proved the stronger. The Dominie, although a potent mage, would not have presented such a difficult target, and the old witch had tried to use Grimm as her weapon without success. Maybe this was no coincidence; if Loras had rebuffed her, control of his grandson might seem like sweet revenge.

  Slowly, Grimm nodded; it all began to make sense to him. "I concur, Dominie; at the very least, Prioress Lizaveta's Order presents a serious threat to our Guild. May I ask what you have in mind for me in this regard?"

  It'll be some kind of fact-finding mission, I expect, he thought. Presumably, I'll have to interview various mages, to see if they've fallen under Lizaveta's influence. Tedious, but, I suppose, essential.

  "I want you, Grimm Afelnor, Mage Questor of the Seventh Rank, called the Dragonblaster, to find out. I wish you to confront this odious cult directly and, if necessary, to destroy it. I want this baleful influence eradicated, however you choose to achieve this.

  "I now know you are a truly loyal mage. I elevated you to the Seventh Rank as evidence of my good faith, and I expect you to carry out your side of the bargain. Will you do so?"

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter 19: "The Most Important Quest"

  Grimm started forward, and almost slid off the slick leather seat. "You want me to confront this nest of vipers directly, Lord Dominie? A single witch of that Order nearly managed to enslave me! I can hardly approach Lizaveta directly; she's already met me. Perhaps it would be better to choose another mage, Dominie, one unknown to her."

  Horin again made a show of inspecting his nails, as if embarrassed. "You already know of her ways, Questor Grimm; you are forewarned. I wish as few members of the Guild as possible to be alerted to this Quest, since I have no idea how far Lizaveta's influence has spread… and I do not wish it known that I, the Master of the Guild, was so nearly enslaved by Geomancy.

  "You are not to tell Lord Thorn, or any other member of the Guild, the true purpose of your mission. I don't want it known that there may be a weakness within our Brotherhood."

  Grimm leapt to his feet, his face hot and his fists balled.

  "Surely you don't expect me to do this alone? You ask the impossible, Lord Horin! I don't know where they are, and I have no idea of what obstacles I might meet on the way!"

  "Impetuous as ever, I see," muttered the elder mage. Then,
he raised his voice "Very well, Afelnor. You may recruit a few Seculars to your cause, so long as you tell them nothing of the task beyond what is utterly necessary."

  Grimm nodded, relieved. "I have an army under my command, Lord Horin. We'll soon resolve the situation."

  Horin sighed. "I'm afraid I can't allow that, Questor Grimm. An army would be far too conspicuous, and word would reach Lizaveta long before you would arrive. Worse than that, a panic might arise within the various Houses; they might assume that Lord Thorn was intending to eradicate his rivals, once and for all. You are, after all, an Arnor man."

  This is impossible, the Questor thought. Horin asks far too much of me. I may have hundreds of miles to travel, perhaps through barren and hostile wastelands, and my power is far from inexhaustible. I'll just have to turn him down.

  "Dominie," he said, drawing himself to his full height. "I thank you for your faith in my abilities, but I must decline; your conditions are too onerous. Please, just erase my memories and send me back to Arnor; reduce me to the ranks if you must. I'm sorry."

  Horin said, "I could order you, although I do not wish to do so. Does your sworn Oath mean nothing? What about your sullied family name?"

  Grimm winced, as if a pair of sharp barbs had struck his heart. As the grandson of the despised Oathbreaker, this question pierced him to the quick. Again, hot indignation threatened to overwhelm him. "I don't think my Oath requires me to commit suicide on your least command, Lord Horin. If you want to interpret my refusal as treason, then I can't do much about it, but what you propose will need more than a Questor and a couple of ignorant warriors. For the record, Dominie: I refuse. Do with me what you will."

  He sat back down and crossed his arms across his chest, his face burning with a combination of anger and contrition.