Questor

by Alastair J. Archibald

  "I trust you'll all have dinner with me tonight?” Quelgrum said.

  "Dinner!” Tordun cried. “That is the sweetest word I have heard in the last three days!"

  Grimm expected the General to rebuke the titanic albino for speaking out of turn, but the soldier's leathery face crinkled into a warm smile, instead.

  "Then that's agreed,” he said. “I'm sure the ever-efficient Lieutenant Harman can find suitable quarters for you. I understand you'd like to be domiciled with Miss...” He consulted a piece of paper on his desk. “Miss Drexelica, is that right?"

  Drex stood rigid, her face as expressionless as stone, but she said nothing. Tordun looked little happier, but he nodded.

  "If it's convenient, General,” the sunburnt albino said, shuffling from foot to foot. Grimm was sure that only the ruddy burns on Tordun's face hid a hot, embarrassed flush.

  "I'm sure I can get you a billet together,” the officer said. “I'll wager a man of your size has appetites to match; am I right?"

  "So I've always said,” Tordun replied, with a rather queasy-looking smile.

  "And you, Miss Drexelica? Are you happy with the arrangement? We don't tolerate slavery here."

  Grimm thought this sounded odd from a man who was abducting Guild Mages and subjecting them to his will. Despite himself, he found himself beginning to warm to this charismatic tyrant. Drex cast her eyes towards Grimm for an instant, and the mage managed a slight nod as he met her gaze.

  "Tordun is my protector,” the girl said. “I will only feel safe with him."

  "Then that's arranged,” the General said. “Whatever else you may have heard, Miss Drexelica, we don't make war on young ladies."

  Drex's face flushed, and she dropped her eyes. Grimm was sure she had never before been called a ‘young lady’ in her whole life.

  The warlord stepped back to his desk and pushed a button. “Lieutenant Harman?"

  A buzz arose from the bureau, just recognisable as a human voice. "General?"

  "Our guests will need some accommodation for the night; I think we'll keep them out of the general barracks for the moment. One room for four?” he said, eying the two mages, Crest and Foster, who nodded.

  "Yes, a room for four and one of the married couples’ quarters."

  Tordun looked anywhere but at Drex's blazing eyes, but neither of them uttered a word of dissension concerning the arrangement.

  The General sat down behind his desk as a soldier entered the room. “If you good people will be so kind as to excuse me, I have a battle to win with an army of paper. I'll see you this evening, after you've had a good rest; good day to you."

  The audience seemed at an end, as Quelgrum rose to his feet and walked away, after offering a polite bow.

  Chapter 23

  In Quelgrum's Lair

  The room bore few decorations or luxuries, but it was comfortable enough. In an alcove at one end, with translucent curtains, Grimm found a shallow tub, far too shallow to allow an adult to lie down. Since he saw water in the bottom of the pan, the mage guessed it was some kind of washing facility. At one end of the enclosure, he saw a shining, segmented hose, leading to a strange appliance looking like a silver hairbrush with fine holes in place of bristles, and a pair of gleaming, knurled knobs.

  The adventurers looked at each other, without speaking. The fastidious Grimm inspected the white-tiled installation for only a few seconds before stripping off his borrowed, green clothes and stepping into the cubicle.

  One of the silver knobs bore a red escutcheon in its centre, and the other carried a similar mark in blue. Grimm guessed the blue symbol indicated ‘cold’ and its red counterpart, ‘hot'. He gave the blue knob a twist to the right, pulled it and pushed it; it did not move. With the curtains open, and under the cynosure of his colleagues’ eyes, he twisted the handle to the left, to find himself standing under an invigorating shower of wonderful, ice-cold water. The further he twisted the knob, the greater the flow. Twisting the other protuberance produced a warmer, and still stronger, stream.

  By a process of trial and error, he managed to adjust the water to a comfortable temperature. Basking in the jet of water, he noted one thing he recognised in this strange abode; a cake of soap. Luxuriating in the warm, fast-flowing stream, he washed the grime and encrusted sweat of the trail from his body and his hair, revelling in the growing sensation of cleanliness. When Grimm felt as if he had scrubbed every particle of dirt from his sore body, he turned the knobs to their former positions, and the flow of water stopped.

  He saw a large, white towel hanging on a rail just outside the cubicle. Grabbing it, he rubbed the residual moisture from his body, ignoring the complaints of his scorched skin. Grimm felt whole again; tired beyond measure, but clean after three days of desert torture.

  He grabbed his green clothes and dressed, feeling as if he had been returned to a state resembling humanity. Crest had already stripped off his clothes in preparation for his own cleansing, and Grimm showed him the working of the water controls.

  "If you feel quite ready, Questor Grimm,” Xylox said, with a shadow of his earlier, acerbic manner, “perhaps we may now discuss some kind of plan of action."

  Grimm flicked his eyes at Foster, and back at the senior mage.

  Is Xylox stupid enough to discuss underhand matters in front of Foster? Grimm wondered.

  "I mean of course, with regard to this evening's dinner with the esteemed General,” the older thaumaturge continued. The young mage relaxed a little.

  Somehow, they must persuade Foster to leave them at some point so that they could converse with freedom. For the moment, the man seemed only to have eyes for the blessed, cleansing stream of water, under which Crest was now gyrating; or perhaps it was the slender body of the half-elf the pilot found alluring. Grimm had never been able to empathise with such predilections, but he found them more baffling than repulsive.

  "Perhaps the General will introduce us, as former Guild Mages, to his retinue of Illusionists and Mentalists,” he said. “It would be good to know that they are well."

  Glancing at the distracted pilot himself, Xylox muttered, “Perhaps it would be a good idea to set free your demon friend, to scout the lie of the land.” Grimm's hand flew to his mouth.

  "Is there a problem with that, Brother Mage?” Xylox asked. Grimm shook his head, dumbstruck for a moment. Then he found his voice.

  Casting another swift look at Foster, who was still eying the cleansing facility, he leaned closer to Xylox.

  "He's still in my old robes!” he muttered, his tone urgent and worried. “I'd forgotten all about him.” For once, the senior Questor did not upbraid Grimm for not using the cold, formal Mage Speech.

  "In that case, the plan may need amendment,” the grizzled magic-user muttered. “I must confess that the little imp might well have been of use to us. I will think further on what information we may glean at the dinner.

  "Foster,” he called, raising his voice. “I will use the facility next, if you do not object."

  Grimm paid little attention to the brief argument that ensued. What would happen to his demonic friend, if he were found?

  * * * *

  Thribble awoke to turmoil. He was still in Questor Grimm's robe pocket, but the familiar warmth of his human friend was absent, and he shivered. He felt himself flying through the air, and he came to rest with a significant impact; it was only his small mass that saved him from injury. Thrusting his head from the garment, he found himself smothered by a sweaty, malodorous mound of clothing that landed atop him; Thribble's sensitive nose told him that the noisome vestments belonged to Questor Xylox.

  He was in an open-topped box of some sort, and he heard a pair of human mortals conversing above him.

  "What are we goin’ to do with all this junk?” The voice was high-pitched and whining, laden with boredom.

  "'S all goin’ in the furnace, what d'you think?” came the gruff reply. “We got to burn it all. Looey Harman's orders: she reckons they're all di
seased, or summat."

  "I reckon she's diseased ‘erself; she's sex-starved, she is. She needs a good man to put ‘er right, I reckon."

  Long moments passed as the two men discussed just what they would like to do to Lieutenant Harman in order to ‘cure’ her supposed malady. Thribble fought waves of sheer panic at the very thought of being plunged into a furnace; contrary to common human conceptions, although demons enjoyed hot, torrid conditions, not all could thrive amidst flames for more than a few seconds. He was one of those few who could not.

  As the humans’ fantasies grew ever more bizarre and perverted, the demon sought to bring his inner, animal brain under the control of his cerebral cortex. He feared fire above all, and he could almost feel his flesh crisping and flaming at the thought; his panic threatened to blot out his rational mind. He tried to flip into his extra-dimensional cubby-hole; a move he had perfected during the party's imprisonment at Haven. Nonetheless, his crowding fears prevented him from marshalling his thoughts. The walls of the container were too high for him to reach, and he began to feel a claustrophobic, crushing panic closing in upon him.

  As the lurid, and increasingly improbable, dialogue reached its end, Thribble sensed motion, as one of the two menials began to push the malodorous box in which the grey imp lay.

  This must be some kind of cart, the wheels emitting awful, discordant harmonics, some above the normal range of human hearing. The vile screeching caused the netherworld creature's sensitive ears considerable anguish, adding to his mental confusion.

  You have prided yourself that you have a brain finer than any mortal's, the imp chided himself. Use it!

  Nonetheless, Thribble's normal, clear thoughts were swamped by the burgeoning, all-consuming panic that filled his brain.

  The cart's wheels emitted a disharmonious continuo as the imp was wheeled towards his fiery doom.

  * * * *

  "So, Colonel Perfuco; what can you tell me about these Questors?” General Quelgrum sat at ease in a deep, leather armchair and puffed on an opulent cigar. A balloon of brandy nestled in his left hand, and he raised it to his nose, swilling it with an appreciative expression before he allowed some of the liquor to trickle down his throat.

  A saturnine, wrinkled man sat opposite the General, with sparse, grey hair hanging over a greasy pate. He wore clothes just like Quelgrum's, but his left hand bore an ornate, blue-and-gold ring, and a black, brass-shod staff lay at his feet, like an obedient dog awaiting its master's command.

  "Questors are commonly known as ‘Weapons of the Guild', Sir,” Perfuco said. “A pair of these, if Pacified and under your control, could be of great use to our cause. However, I doubt it. Their willpower and self-control is remarkable, even amongst the rolls of Guild Mages; I suspect that Level Two Pacification might be insufficient to control them in the long run."

  "What of these particular pair of Questors?"

  "The older one, Xylox the Mighty, is known to me,” the mage said. “He hails from Arnor House, one of the oldest and most prestigious Houses in the Guild. He is reckoned one of the most potent Questors that we ... that is, they, have at their disposal. The younger one bears five rings on his staff; he is very young to have attained such status, and he must also be reckoned as a powerful magic-user."

  The General took another luxurious swig of brandy. “What is your advice, Perfuco?"

  "Kill them now, General,” Perfuco advised, his voice curt and intense. “You could find they are far more trouble than they are worth. The risk is not worth taking; you have no idea of the destruction a pair of Questors could cause if not fully restrained."

  The General yawned and stretched. “Destruction is my business, my friend; I don't like it, but I have a destiny to fulfil. This place is dying, and I need to lead my loyal followers to some kind of viable future. I live for them, and only for them; a pair of human weapons sounds ideal for my purpose.

  "From what you've told me, your High Lodge is bloated and decadent, with few strong mages of its own. My army might or might not win the day for us on its own, so we have concentrated on recruiting Mentalists and Illusionists to aid us. It seems to me that a pair of magical weapons, as you call them, could sway the balance.

  "I'll risk anything for the sake of my beloved command, Perfuco; anything at all. They rely on me, and we have centuries of tradition and honour to uphold. If we need a little insurance to ensure the loyalty of these guys, I want you and your friends to provide it."

  Perfuco snorted. “General, I am far older than you. I am a Seventh Level Mentalist, and I have borne my staff with pride for more than thirty years. My skill can beguile and befuddle any Secular, and I have a level of willpower that can overcome any normal man's. Nonetheless, my mental drive is as that of an ailing child's compared to a Questor's will. They are dangerous, Sir; I urge you to reconsider!"

  Quelgrum looked his Chief Magical Adviser straight in the eyes, putting down his liquor glass. “It's just envy, isn't it, Perfuco? Are you worried that I'll throw you over for this Xylox character and cast you into the desert?"

  The Mentalist threw his hands into the air. “I trust you more than any man alive, General. I speak from a position of pure reason, and I beg you to destroy these loose cannons, for the sake of your security."

  The General chuckled, in the manner of a father comforting a frightened child.

  "I've been handling cannons since I was a youth, Perfuco,” he said. “Cannons and men; both need to be treated with care and caution, and I'd be a fool to think these two guys were any different. That's why I want you to be present at the dinner tonight; look at them with your magic sight, and tell me if they're on the level or not.

  "I can't imagine Armitage has sent me a pair of wildcards, my friend, but, just in case, keep an eye on them, will you? Don't worry, I'm not about to replace you with some newcomer: I trust you."

  Perfuco sighed. “As you wish, General,” he said. “I imagine they are quite drained after three days in the desert, so it may be some time before they are able to exert their full power. I will give you a fair and unbiased assessment of their conditioning tonight, and I trust you to act accordingly."

  Quelgrum smiled, and consulted his ancient wristwatch. “We have five hours or so before dinner, Perfuco; I advise you to rest for a while, so you can be at your best tonight."

  * * * *

  The cart rumbled and squeaked on and on, while Thribble tried to marshal tendrils of reason into coherent thought. The wagon stopped several times, and the grey imp heard hissing, banging sounds that sounded as if the gates of Hades were being opened for him. He knew of the human superstition, and the fear of eternal fire bloomed as strongly within the underworld as it did on the plane of mortals.

  The demon's stupefied, irrational state was not helped by the strong smell of human perspiration and the low temperature within the cart. Thribble's journey through the air ducts of Haven had cooled his body even more than this, but he had not had to contend then with mortal body odour and all-consuming terror. His senses were exceptional in comparison to those of a mere human, and he felt swamped by all manner of unpleasant sensations, sapping him of the capacity of logical thought.

  A simple solution must be at hand. There must be some way to outwit these simple, soggy, gooey, mortal morons, if only I could think of it!

  * * * *

  Grimm lay on the simple bed, dead to the world. Even in sleep, a Questor could manipulate the processes of his mind. Instead of surrendering to the dreamless impassivity born of exhaustion, the mage gathered and arranged his innate power as best he was able in the few hours available to him. He knew a battle lay ahead, and he vowed that he, a full Guild Questor, would not be found wanting when the storm broke.

  A wayward part of his mind screamed that he would not be ready, that he would be discovered as a mage free of compulsion, and that he would be destroyed by the General's powerful allies whilst still weak. He crushed the treacherous fear with the adamantine will born of years of rigoro
us training, pushing himself to the limit, even in the welcome arms of restorative sleep.

  Tremble, Quelgrum; I am coming! Tremble, Quelgrum...

  The repetitive mantra ran through Grimm's active mind as he slept.

  Chapter 24

  A Convivial Meal

  "So who d'you reckon for the boxing next week, Cooper?” the deeper-voiced human said, as the cart rattled and bounced the minuscule sprite in his wheeled prison.

  "I've got a bundle on Mulambe,” Cooper replied. “That guy's got a left hook like a bloody wrecking ball."

  "And a jaw like a plate-glass window, from what I hear. Naah, all my money's on Gomez; he's a scrapper, a real street fighter."

  Each mortal argued the merits of his champion and the failings of the opposing pugilist with vigour. Their loud voices hurt Thribble's ears, and the soldiers did not slow their progress in the least as they bickered.

  Surrender seemed the only option; however, the demon remembered only too well how Administrator Armitage had seemed so interested in the live dissection of the underworld creature. Thribble could not believe the feared General Q would be any softer-hearted than the Haven chief, and the tiny demon, terrified of fire as he was, preferred even that option to having his entrails opened and inspected while he still breathed.

  There must be something I can do, short of alerting the soldiers to my presence! the imp thought, cudgelling his brain as he fought to stem the destructive, disorientating panic threatening to swamp him. His only talents were very short-range teleportation, and mimicry. Swathed in malodorous cloth as he was, Thribble knew his voice would never reach the clumsy, insensitive ears of the soldiers, and the metal walls of the cart seemed somehow to prevent his translocation abilities, or at least to pose severe limits on them; he had already tried to pass through the iron partitions and failed.

  As the humans’ vociferous argument raged above him, Thribble thought he might be approaching the problem in the wrong manner, but it seemed as if the processes of his mind were flowing like cold treacle. The cart rolled on with slow but inexorable progress towards his doom, as he struggled to marshal his reeling thoughts into rationality.