"How was your time as Neophyte, Numal? A little tedious, perhaps? Was the prime steak you were served a little tough on occasions? I'll wager any price you name that those last seven months made your forty-odd years seem like a picnic."
Grimm noted Numal's slack jaw, and several moments passed before the older mage got it under control.
"Can they really do that to you?” the Necromancer whispered, his eyes wide. “Magemaster Sheban was often brusque and curt when I skimped on my preparation, but he never raised a hand to me."
"They can do anything they want to a charity boy, Numal. Have you ever been forced to eat a whole bar of soap when you protested after the fifteenth slap of the day? Have you ever had to repeat a spell-chant twenty times without error, only to be beaten when fatigue made you botch a single syllable on the twenty-first? Have you ever looked over the edge into that black, deep abyss of insanity, and thought that it looked inviting?
"I ended up with the same meagre tokens of success you hold, but they mean something to me. They mean I survived: I prevailed against everything they threw at me. To me, that's no small matter.
"Yes, Lord Thorn and the Conclave bigwigs came to my damned party, but I was just glad to be alive and sane. I got drunk, stupidly drunk, but I never once moaned about the malign hand Fate had dealt me.
I bear the Guild Ring and I have my Mage Staff, and I'm bloody proud of them—as you should be of yours.
"Still, if you want to wallow in self-pity, go ahead. It's a free world, isn't it?"
Grimm felt astonished by the force of the tirade that had burst from him. Although he had never once raised his voice enough to attract the attention of the other mages in the Refectory, the fiery intensity of his feelings had not been dulled in the least.
Cold guilt began to wash over him; he had been unconscionably hard on Numal, his elder by many years, and he had a fervent hope that he had not alienated the man beyond redemption. His outburst had been unforgivable; he had used the Necromancer almost as a pugilist's punching-bag, using his Questor's iron will like a mailed fist.
"I'm sorry, Numal,” he said, his tone conciliatory and regretful. “I had no right to talk to you in that manner. Please accept my deepest apologies."
A long pause followed, and Grimm feared he had gone too far. Xylox had been right; he was too hot-headed. He felt immense relief as Numal proffered a wan smile and shook his head.
"Grimm, I'm so sorry. I had no idea that they could put a boy through that sort of ordeal. You're right. I never had to face hardship like that for a moment. I owe you an apology."
Numal rose to his feet, threw back his hood, and began to sing at top volume. His voice was rich, melodious and full.
"Let's all sing of Daffo the Clown,
"Daffo the Clown, Daffo the Clown!
"Let's all sing of Daffo the Clown, it's always fun when he's around!
"Merriment, pranks and japes surround our friend,
"Daffo the Clown, Daffo the Clown!
"Humorous and cheerful right to the end,
"Daffo the Clown's in town!"
As the other occupants of the Refectory stared in astonishment, Grimm smiled and gave respectful applause while the fearsome-looking Necromancer bowed.
"Please excuse me, gentlemen,” he called to the stunned assembly. “That was just a momentary excess of glee at my recent Acclamation; my apologies to you all for disturbing your meditation."
After a few grunts and grimaces, the other mages returned to their former activities.
"Numal,” the young mage said, “the House may have gained a mage, but the stage has lost a great talent!"
The older man shrugged. “Whatever I felt in the past is gone, and I can't help it now. I'm a Mage Necromancer. I never wanted to be one, but I guess I'll have to make the most of it. Now, I can go where I want to, when I want to. And we mages live a long, long time."
"We do,” Grimm agreed, although he harboured doubts about his own longevity if he had to complete many more Quests as arduous as the two he had already undertaken. “It's a new dawn, my friend."
As if to underline the Questor's words, the first true rays of morning sunlight began to stream through the high windows of the Refectory, and Numal smiled.
"Listen, Numal,” Grimm said. “I'm about to leave for a few days at High Lodge. I wonder if you'd like to accompany me; it's a long journey if you're on your own. Would you like that?"
"High Lodge!" Numal breathed. “I've heard it's a spectacular place."
"It is. Do you ride?"
Numal's face contorted in a puzzled frown. “Horses, you mean?” Grimm nodded.
"I'm afraid not,” the older man admitted. “My parents tried to teach me, but I was hopeless at it. I haven't had a lot of opportunities to follow it up since then."
"All right, I'll see if I can get Doorkeeper to organise us a cart, or something. Do you want to go?"
"Certainly...” Numal's face turned grave. “Questor Grimm, I don't want to cause offence, but you're not looking for some ... special ... friend, are you?"
A few moments passed before Grimm understood what the older man meant, and then he laughed.
“Numal, my life has been short on friends so far. I like you, but that's all there is to it. All I want is a sociable travelling companion, and I thought you'd benefit from a little time outside when you don't have to listen to an old man talk about how rich he is."
Grimm considered he might have allayed the Necromancer's concern more by telling Numal he had a beautiful girl waiting for him in Crar, but he had good reason to keep that fact hidden. He did find Numal good company, when he wasn't indulging in self-pity, but, more than that, a Necromancer might prove to be an ideal companion in his unofficial Quest to investigate the activities of the Sisters of Divine Serenity.
He was now sure that his former temptress, Madeleine, really had been butchered in the crypts of High Lodge, and a man capable of contacting the souls of the dead, however poorly, might be an indispensable asset to this end.
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?"
<
br /> 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 what 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 mornin
g 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."
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