Truth and Deception cogd-4

by Alastair J. Archibald

  "Very well, gentlemen; if you'll give me a few moments to wash and dress, we'll go to my day-room, where we can discuss things in a more comfortable and civilised environment."

  ****

  Grimm's 'day-room' was a spacious, semicircular room, with a huge bay window giving excellent views of the bustling, colourful city fifty feet below. Either side of the door stood ten-foot-tall racks of books, reaching almost to the ceiling. The floor was tiled in alternating squares of black and white marble. Ten comfortable black leather armchairs were arrayed around a round, polished mahogany table, ten feet in diameter, which sat on a circular woven rug decorated with muted patterns in pastel shades of green, red and blue.

  "I never thought I'd like this place," Crest confessed. "But it looks like you've done wonders with it."

  "General Quelgrum can take most of the credit," Grimm said. "His men did most of the work. My… housekeeper, Drexelica, suggested most of the improvements. It's certainly a great improvement on the previous occupier's taste."

  The two warriors nodded. Both had encountered the demon Starmor, the tower's former owner, who had turned Crar into a ghastly marionette parody of a bustling, prosperous city. Both had also been present at the climactic battle that led to the humanoid monster's end.

  The tower had been an ebon monstrosity, suffused with the ever-present moaning of tormented souls, whose anguish provided a store of emotional energy for the demon's potent magic. The only reminder now of this was a soft, harmonious, almost intangible music that permeated the structure; the sound of spirits at peace, freed from Starmor's torments.

  "Once, I'd never have believed that this could be a nice place to live," Harvel said, his eyes roaming around, taking in the room's sparse, yet tasteful appointments. "It's a little quiet for my tastes, but it's a pleasant and peaceful retreat now, a good place to relax after the rigours of the road. You've done pretty well for yourself, Questor Grimm."

  "Speaking about the 'rigours of the road', what about this Quest, Lord Mage?" Crest, always the more pragmatic of the two warriors, asked. "Pleasant as your home from home is, I don't want to spend six months here while my fop of a friend performs a blow-by-blow assessment of the decor."

  "We're to hunt down a religious order," Grimm said. "The Order of the Sisters of Divine Mercy. We're to render them powerless, by whatever means are necessary."

  Harvel gaped. "A bunch of nuns? What did they do, Questor, interrupt the Dominie's meditation by praying too loud, or something?"

  Crest joined in, his face a mask of astonishment. "In my life, I've fought demons, Argolian pirates, Gamenite Janissaries and packs of were-beasts in the grip of full baresark rage. I draw the line at parties of schoolchildren, old ladies and nuns!"

  Grimm waved his hands. "Has either of you ever had his mind enslaved by another?" he demanded, not waiting for an answer. "It happened to me when I became addicted to those damned herbs, Trina and Virion, and yet I'd rather go back to that pathetic, helpless state than face this sweet, blameless Order alone."

  The mage suppressed a shiver, recollecting just how close he had come to being a mindless, adoring puppet.

  "A poor, innocent little nun befriended me on my first visit to High Lodge," he continued, pushing through the mingled emotions of shame and self-accusation that threatened to unman him

  "I thought I was in love, but she was, in truth, putting me under a witch spell. I became besotted, and I nearly turned against Questor Dalquist, whom I'm sure you remember.

  "She failed, I'm pleased to say, but I was lucky. As I now know, the Order's superior killed her for failing to enslave me and had her body butchered in the crypts under High Lodge. The elders of the coterie drank her blood, gentlemen, and it looked like they enjoyed it."

  "A gruesome little tale," Crest admitted. "But have you ever thought she might have been executed for what she did to you? Some of these Orders have pretty strict rules."

  "That's not what happened at all, Crest!" Grimm spoke rather louder than he had intended. He felt his temperature rising, and he called Redeemer to him, accessing the charm of Inner Calm he had placed on the staff. The spell took the edge off his righteous anger, but a trace remained, bubbling beneath the surface of his psyche. The two warriors looked on with bemused expressions as the Questor struggled with his emotions.

  "I'm sorry, Crest; I shouldn't have shouted at you," Grimm said, at last. "Indeed, I might have left it at that. But I was in High Lodge only a fortnight ago, and I was foolish enough to confront the Prioress with my suspicions after she tried to cozen my affections. I was on my guard, and she wasn't able to take control of me. However, she told me that she had power over the Lord Dominie himself, and that I'd be a fool to try to expose her to him."

  "Really, Questor Grimm, you do seem to enjoy belittling yourself." Harvel laughed. "The old lady-I presume she was old? — might just have found you attractive. It could happen, you know; you're not too ugly a specimen, in the right light."

  Grimm shook his head. "With another mage, Necromancer Numal, I went down to the crypts, where I saw the girl's body desecrated. There was another mage already there: Questor Guy, called the Great Flame. He's Prioress Lizaveta's illegitimate grandson, and he hates her with a passion, but even he's not foolish to make a direct assault on her, despite being a Seventh Rank Questor of some years' experience. We found that Lizaveta had power nodes distributed throughout High Lodge. I don't think she did that just because she felt insecure and lonely in her old age. She put her hooks in Lord Horin, as she'd told me, and I nullified her power by drawing the soaked-in blood from the earth beneath the Lodge and destroying her throne."

  Harvel shrugged. "All right; she's no sweet little old lady, I'll grant you that. Nonetheless, if you've destroyed her power, why do you need to pursue her now?"

  "I've only destroyed her power base at High Lodge," Grimm said. "There must be a Priory somewhere, and you can bet that it's a far more potent focus of her energies than anywhere else. I aim to find that Priory and wipe out her influence, once and for all."

  Crest scratched his nose, his brow furrowing. "Why didn't your Lord Dominie just destroy her when he had the chance, and be done with it?"

  "I don't know, Crest," Grimm said, trying to fight the irritability that seemed almost his constant companion these days. "Perhaps he was still befuddled by the remnants of her spell. Perhaps she retained enough latent energy to persuade him to let her go. Perhaps Horin's getting senile. I don't know the reason, all right?

  "What I do know is that I've been given a task, and I'm going to carry it out to the best of my abilities! Is that understood?"

  The Questor saw the two warriors regarding him with cool stares, and it seemed to him as if the temperature in the room had dropped by several degrees.

  "I'm sorry, Crest," he said, slapping his hand to his left temple and dragging it across his forehead. "I shouldn't have talked to you in that manner; I owe you much more than that. I think I've just been working a little too hard for the last fortnight, and I've hardly left myself time to think. This is my first Quest as the Senior Mage, and an important one. I don't want to make a mess of it.

  "Please, Crest, Harvel, forgive me if I've been a little short with you."

  Grimm noticed the elevation of Crest's right eyebrow.

  "All right, a lot short," he said. "I'm sorry. What more can I say?"

  Crest shook his head. "Don't worry; you're forgiven as far as I'm concerned, Mage. I just wondered if part of you was still yearning for those herbs of yours. As I recall, you were 'a little short' with us when you used them, too."

  The Questor sighed, ashamed to feel the prickling of hot, angry tears at the margins of his eyes. To hide these, lest they be misunderstood, he shut his eyes tight. In what had become almost a reflex action to any kind of confrontation, he found himself drawing his power into a tight knot.

  You're wound too damn… tight, Afelnor! he chided himself. Let go, can't you? These are your friends, and you don't have m
any of those to spare! They're just worried about you, even if they don't need to be.

  Grimm heaved a long, shuddering sigh, letting his frustrations and worries go as best he was able.

  "Sometimes I find the yearning for the smoke a little intense," he said to Crest. "However, this isn't one of the times, I assure you. I'm just worried and overwrought. A good night's sleep will see me right, I promise."

  After remaining silent for a few seconds, Crest said, "Well, least said, soonest mended, I suppose, so let's say no more about the matter. So where is this den of diabolic evil, then?"

  "They were last seen heading south-east from High Lodge; that's all I know, I'm afraid, gentlemen. Still, at least I know it's not here, and I'm fairly sure it's not likely to be anywhere with an established Guild presence. I propose we start our search in Yoren, about three days' ride from here-a couple of my spies have told me a party of nuns passed through there recently."

  "I know that town; it's pretty rough, Lord Mage," Harvel said. "Just as well you'll have a couple of seasoned warriors with you."

  "Oh, I can take care of myself, Harvel. Don't worry about me."

  Harvel leaned closer, a grim, humourless smile on his face. "In Yoren, they don't play fair, Questor, and they're people who tend to despise the Guild ring. I'd give that place a wide berth if I were on my own, and I've got eyes in the back of my head, not to mention full battle honours in three wars."

  Crest's expression darkened. "Harvel's right, for once in his life, Questor. They may not like lawmakers-an attitude with which a man in my line of work can sympathise-but they really detest Guild Mages. So don't get cocky, Grimm. Remember that Harvel and I hail from Drute, and you know what a fun little town that is. So when I tell you even we Drutians steer clear of Yoren, you'd better believe that we know what we're talking about. Seventh Rank Mage or not, they'd eat you for breakfast. These fellows don't stand in line and take turns to attack you."

  Grimm bit back an acid reply. He was strength and power personified; what could some pathetic provincial Secular with a bad attitude and a dagger do to him? Ready to give a cool and measured defence of his magical abilities, he noticed the terrible intensity on the faces of his two warrior friends. He opened his mouth to reassure Harvel and Crest of his invincibility, but he did not speak.

  Yes, he might be the Dragonblaster, a Questor of the Seventh Rank, but he realised that he was desperately ignorant of the ways of the world. Both Crest and Harvel were experienced men of the world and hardy warriors; it would be foolish to laugh at their concerns. These men had been familiar with Guild Mages for longer than Grimm had lived.

  Despite the proud protestations of his unthinking, demanding hormones, he was still a seventeen-year-old boy, and it would be wise to heed the advice of these men, even if it hurt him to admit it. As he had worked through his maps and itineraries, Yoren had seemed just another named dot on a piece of paper, and he would have marched into it as if he owned the place, without the warriors' warnings.

  "I think… I'm sure you're right, fellows. I'll take your advice, I promise. Just smack me on the head if I get a little over-confident in Yoren."

  The two warriors laughed, their worries evidently appeased by the Questor's conciliatory tone.

  "We will, Lord Mage," the smiling Harvel said. "But just remember, it might be too late by the time we get to that stage."

  What about Guy? The thought popped unbidden into Grimm's head. I may be a little too cocksure for my own good, but he's like a bull in a china shop!

  "Er, gentlemen, there's another mage who'll be coming with us: another Seventh Rank Questor. It would be good if you had a few words with him before we go any further. He's just a little hot-tempered at times. A bit self-opinionated, too."

  Crest's brows threatened to disappear into his high hairline. "More hot-tempered and self-opinionated even than you, Grimm? Get him in here now, before we have a full-scale war on our hands! And is there any chance of getting some breakfast around here? I'm starving."

  "While you're at it, Questor, how about handing round the maps for the route you're thinking of taking?" Harvel said. "Crest and I are pretty well-travelled, and we may be able to give you a few more bits of useful advice. Come on, you look like a soggy piece of string; you're worn out! You can't do it all on your own, you know. You've got our word that we won't peach to anyone what we're doing, so just trust us, can't you? Crest and I have planned more expeditions than you've had hot dinners, so let us do the planning while you get fit and mage-like. We'll do the logistics, too, if you like."

  Grimm shook his head. "General Quelgrum's doing the logistics."

  Harvel glanced at Crest and rolled his eyes. "Oh, yes; I forgot you had a real, live General on your household staff, Lord Mage! I suppose I should feel honoured, but just five minutes ago you were trying to kill each other, as I recall.

  "If you want to invade some foreign country and lay it to waste with a lot of fire and noise, I'm sure Quelgrum's your man. But if you want to plan a sneaky, underhand, skulk through the gutters, I think you'll find Crest and me more than qualified to do the job. So just leave the good General and your arsehole mage friend to us and relax for a change, can't you?"

  Grimm felt as if matters were being taken out of his hands, but he no longer cared. Waving his hands in surrender, he felt a smile beginning to crawl across his face.

  "Hey, this mage can almost smile!" Harvel said, and Grimm allowed his expression to collapse into a full, unfettered grin. "What do you think, Crest, is he human?"

  Crest nodded. "Grimm, go and stuff your face, or scratch your spots, or do whatever else you normally do at this time of the morning, and take it easy for one day in your life.

  "I wouldn't trust General Quelgrum a lot further than I could spit a rat. So just leave a message for him and and your fellow mage to come and see us, give us your maps, and then sod off, there's a good Mage."

  "Don't forget the food." Harvel wagged his right index finger in admonition.

  Grimm felt as if he ought to be angry, but he also felt as if ten tons' weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

  "I'll do that; thank you, fellows. I was beginning to feel I was going to make a complete idiot of myself," he said, as the tension eased.

  He knew he could trust these men.

  "Early days yet, mage," Harvel said. "It still might happen, but we can all be idiots together when it does, eh?"

  Grimm laughed happily, thinking of the happy prospect of a day spent with his beloved Drexelica. "Thank you so much, my friends."

  "That's enough!" Crest snapped, in a mock show of annoyance, and Grimm recognised a parody of his own attitude just minutes before. "Just get us what we need, push off and enjoy yourself!"

  Grimm stood and offered an elaborate bow.

  "By your command, Lord Crest," he said, smiling.

  As he walked from the chamber, he felt as if a string was being pulled tight within him, as if he might be losing control, but he let it go with gratitude.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter 22: Heartfelt Discussions

  Grimm discovered Drexelica sitting alone in the immaculate kitchen of the tower. He could not help but notice the disconsolate expression on her face, and the way she flicked through the pages of a book, sparing each page only a scant glance. Despite the fact that his shadow fell across her, she did not look up.

  "Drexelica, it's me: Grimm."

  "I used to know somebody with that name," she said, without raising her head. "I wonder where he's gone."

  The Questor noted the unmistakable catch in her voice, and made to sit on the table opposite her high-backed chair.

  "Please don't sit there," she said in a harsh voice. "That table's for preparing food, and I've only just cleaned it."

  "What's the matter?" Grimm said. "You don't have to sit in here. There are plenty of more comfortable rooms in the tower."

  As her eyes lifted to meet his, the young mage noticed grubby tracks on he
r cheeks.

  "What's wrong with the kitchen, Lord Baron? Isn't that where a serving maid belongs?"

  "I don't think of you as a serving maid, Drex. I love you!" Grimm longed to take her in his arms, but he felt too awkward and confused to do so.

  "At least you remember my name," she said, her eyes glistening. "That's something I can be grateful for, I suppose."

  The Questor realised that in the fortnight since his arrival back at Crar, his main topics of conversation with Drexelica had gone little further than requests for meals. They had slept together, but he had always been too tired to exchange more than desultory titbits of information. The forthcoming Quest had so consumed his mind that he had spared no thought for the woman he loved.

  Leaning closer towards her, he felt the catch in his own voice as he said, "Drex, I've been a fool these last two weeks, and I want to make it up to you in any way I can."

  Grimm felt helpless in the face of the torrent of tears which she no longer held back.

  "Please don't cry," was all he could say. "It'll be all right now. I've come to my senses, I promise."

  The girl rose to her feet, flinging her book to the floor. "It'll never be all right!" she sobbed. "I want to tell everybody that we're together, but I can't! I want us to be a normal couple, but the bloody Guild always gets in the way! As soon as this Quest's over, there'll be another, and another, and another! I owe you my life for what you did for me in Griven, and I'll never forget that, but I had such… high hopes for us. When we first came here, I thought we could be happy together, but now I know it's never going to happen. Never!"

  Grimm felt his mouth move, willing words of comfort and wisdom to come forth, but his tongue and throat seemed paralysed. Despite his love for Drexelica, a part of him longed to be somewhere else, battling demons, dragons or ogres; somewhere he knew the rules. Here in the kitchen, facing a sobbing girl, he felt powerless and pathetic.

  He watched as Drex screwed her face up and shivered, taking several deep breaths. When she opened her eyes again, he saw that they were red, but tearless.