"Redeemer, come here!” As ever, the staff flew to Grimm's outstretched hand like a well-trained kestrel returning to its keeper. Although the wood of a mage's staff was all but indestructible, he noted that the brass caps at each end were a little dull and scuffed. Opening one of his travelling bags, Grimm took out a polishing kit and applied himself with diligence to the task of making the brass gleam like bright gold.
He became so absorbed in his task that only when he finished did he realise that he had expected to find the tiny demon, Thribble, hiding in the bag, as was his wont.
He was not.
Grimm knew he had given his minuscule netherworld friend strict instructions to remain at Crar, but he still felt a little disappointed that the wayward demon had not disobeyed him yet again. Thribble might have proved very useful as an advance scout for the coming evening's visit to the crypts below the Lodge. In truth, he felt a little naked without the obstinate, self-willed little creature, who had saved his life on more than one occasion. Grimm was the senior mage on this Quest, and all the responsibility for its success or failure would be his.
"Better get used to it, Afelnor,” he muttered.
With his customary fastidiousness, Grimm checked his hair, his beard and his silk robes in the tall mirror fixed to one of the cupboard doors.
Yes, I'm presentable.
The only question now was what he would do with his time until the evening; his interview with the Lord Dominie was not due until tomorrow.
He rapped on the interconnecting door between his room and Numal's, but he received no reply.
Perhaps the Necromancer did not share Grimm's habit of rising before the sun, but then Numal had never undergone the gruelling regime of a charity Student. Grimm sighed. He felt nervous about the outcome of tonight's jaunt to the nether regions of High Lodge, and he knew the best way to combat this was to keep himself occupied.
He was almost pleased to hear a gentle knock at the main door of his chamber, which stirred him from his reverie. Opening it, Grimm saw a familiar face.
"Assistant Sub-Vice Facilitator-in-Chief Shael, it is good to see you!” The young Questor hoped he had correctly remembered the mage's cumbersome title in all its menial grandeur.
"Questor Grimm, I have the honour to report that I am now a full Senior Vice-Assistant Under-Facilitator.” From the broad, proud smile on the functionary's face, Grimm gathered that congratulations were in order, although the distinction between the two titles was lost on him.
Extending his hand, he said, “My heartiest felicitations, Assistant ... Brother Mage. I'm sure you worked hard for the honour, and I'm very happy for you.” The egalitarian, non-committal title seemed to be the safest form of address, rather than trying to negotiate the labyrinthine complications of Shael's rank.
"Thank you, Questor Grimm. In time, I'm pretty confident that I can work my way up to full Deputy Junior Sub-Facilitator, although the competition within the ranks is fierce, I assure you."
"I don't doubt it,” the Questor said, with an enthusiasm he did not feel. “May I ask what brings you here, Brother Mage?"
Shael beamed. “There is a cancellation: Shapeshifter Tharan was due to be granted his fourth ring at ten o'clock, but he is bedridden with gout, and he cannot travel. Remembering how kind you were to me on your last visit, I thought you might be happy to take his place."
Grimm racked his brain, but he could not imagine why Shael might feel so companionable towards him, and his puzzlement must have shown on his face.
"You were kind enough to return those Location Gems I leant you, before you left,” explained the slight, mousy little man. “That could have put me in a tricky situation, and might even have jeopardised my promotion. So few people appreciate the vital role we Facilitators perform."
"Please, don't mention it,” Grimm said. “I'm glad your diligence has been rewarded.” Shael's voice had a buzzing, droning quality, and Grimm stifled a yawn.
"Well, I'd love to stay and chat, Questor Grimm,” the small man said, “but I have a lot to do this morning, as usual. I'll call for you in plenty of time for your interview with Lord Horin."
Grimm extended his right hand, and Shael shook it, his limp grasp no more substantial than a handful of warm, damp lettuce leaves. The Questor resisted the urge to wipe his hand on his robes, and nodded politely.
"Thank you again for your diligent, meritorious attention ... Senior ... Assistant Under-Facilitator Shael."
Shael laughed. “You honour me, Questor Grimm, but it will be a few years until I reach the lofty heights of that rank. For now, I'm only a Senior Vice-Assistant Under-Facilitator, but I am ambitious."
"I can tell that,” Grimm said. “I'll be waiting here for your call, Brother Mage. Thank you."
With that, the audience was at an end, and the tedious Shael scurried off in a flurry of black robes, like a drunken raven attempting to lift itself from the ground. As he stood in the open doorway, Grimm heard eight soft chimes in the distance; that meant there were two hours or so to kill. High Lodge had three well-stocked libraries, but they were somehow clinical, impersonal, in comparison to the warm, friendly Scholasticate Library at Arnor he knew so well. If he desired to study a specific topic of information then High Lodge's facilities were second to none, but they were not conducive to the kind of whimsical browsing he loved.
He considered a session of meditation, to order his mind and relax his ever-tense body, but he had never managed fully to master the art; he always found it more of a painful trial of endurance than a soothing, serene enlightenment.
Another round of exercise, perhaps?
That did not appeal to him any more than did the prospect of sitting cross-legged and staring at the wall.
After a few minutes of mulling over his limited options for occupying his mind, he noticed a young, gaudily-attired peacock of a man striding down the corridor as if he owned it, a mage perhaps ten years older than he. He was slender, and as tall as Grimm. Bobbing behind him like a faithful hound was a staff bearing seven rings. From the mage's youth, he could only be another Questor, and Grimm's interest was piqued; he had never met a Questor from any House but Arnor, and High Lodge had none of its own.
The man wore robes of scarlet silk with gold edging, and Grimm noted soft boots of the finest tooled kidskin peeking from underneath the hem of his garment as he walked. A blue sash ran from the mage's right shoulder to his left hip, and he wore a cincture of what looked like pure gold around his waist.
Whereas every mage Grimm had ever met wore a full beard and long hair, if he had any hair, this popinjay was severely clean-shaven, and he wore his blond hair at shoulder length and sculpted into luxuriant waves. Grimm saw a single, artful curl somehow fixed into place over the man's right eye.
Nonetheless, this was no primping dilettante. Grimm remembered the elegant swordsman, Harvel, with whom he had travelled on his first Quest, and he saw the same steely glint in this mage's ice-blue eyes as he halted a few paces from Grimm.
"Looking at something, youngster?"
The mage's tone was pleasant, but Grimm could hear an unmistakable note of menace within it.
"I was just surprised to see another Questor,” he said. “You're the first I've seen here."
"Of course!” the older Questor snorted, rolling his eyes. “They don't have any Questors here, because they expect the Houses to do their dirty work for them."
The blue eyes scanned Grimm, as if taking in his full import, and he nodded; it seemed that the young mage had created a favourable impression.
"It's good to see someone else around here who knows the value of decent presentation,” he intoned. “I can't stand this sackcloth-and-ashes image that so many mages choose to show the world. I'm Guy Fulinar, Eron House, called the Great Flame."
"I'm Grimm Afelnor from Arnor House, Questor Guy."
"You're a Fifth Rank Questor, and you don't have a cognomen?” Guy said, almost sneering. “What is the world coming to? How old are you, anyway?"
&
nbsp; "Seventeen,” Grimm admitted. Determined not to sound defensive, he resolved to refrain from making excuses. “And I'll be receiving my sixth ring later this morning."
He seemed to have made some sort of impact on Guy, whose eyes bulged for a moment. Grimm guessed that Guy might still have been a mere Neophyte at the age of seventeen.
"How old are you, Questor Guy, if I may be permitted to ask?"
"Twenty-seven,” the older mage replied. “I didn't know the Guild had started Acclaiming infants."
Grimm bristled, and he clenched his fists. “When the infant is powerful enough, they make exceptions,”
he said. “And I am powerful, Questor Guy, make no mistake."
It seemed that nothing could prick Guy's bubble of self-confidence. “I don't doubt it, Questor Gribb—"
"My name is Grimm, Brother Mage."
Guy waved his hands. “Whatever; your diction isn't as clear as it might be. Still, it's not just power that makes a Questor. What of experience? I've been Questing for six years, and it's taught me a lot. Being a Questor has been good to me."
"And to me,” Grimm said. “On my first Quest, I was elected Baron of Crar, and I have all the wealth I can handle. Not bad for a blacksmith's son, I suppose. On my Quests, I've faced demons and Technologists, and I'm still standing strong. And I'm very, very rich."
At first, he felt it might be better not to mention that he had undertaken a mere pair of Quests, but he changed his mind. How better to puncture this man's serene self-confidence?
"Oh, Questor Guy, I just thought I'd mention that I've reached my present position after only two Quests.
Please don't try to play silly little games of precedence with me.
"Perhaps you'd like to complain to Lord Horin about my current status? Otherwise, please try to find your pathetic pleasures somewhere else, because I find your attitude just a little wearing. You may find Shael an easy target, and there are always the servants to belittle, if you run out of inspiration."
For a moment, to Grimm's immense satisfaction, Guy's eyes looked as if they might burst from their sockets, and the two Questors stood almost nose to nose for several seconds. Grimm allowed a small flicker of blue fire to quiver at his fingertips.
At last, Guy laughed, a hearty guffaw bursting from his lips. “I like you, Questor Grimm; perhaps adolescents today do have some spirit, after all! I'll see you around, youngster."
With that, the self-possessed Questor sauntered away, chuckling as he went.
May the Names prevent me ever turning out like you, Guy, Grimm thought, with a shudder. He knew Guy Great Flame, as a Questor, must have started as a pauper like he had been, but he could not imagine what might have turned a poor boy into such a snob.
* * * *
Since the Dominie's schedule seemed less hectic than on his previous visit to High Lodge, Grimm's interview with Lord Horin lasted somewhat longer than his first, hectic interview. The Dominie asked several searching questions concerning Grimm's last Quest, which Grimm answered as best he could. Grimm wondered if Horin was about to refuse his promotion, and he felt discomfited when the Dominie asked him about his visit to Prioress Lizaveta. The witch must have spoken the truth when she told him of her link with Horin.
However, much to Grimm's relief, the arch-mage accepted his statement that he had only gone to pay his respects. Perhaps Lizaveta had not told Horin about Drexelica, after all. He waited in patient silence while Horin read through Lord Thorn's report, after which the Dominie raised his head and nodded.
"Very well, Questor Grimm. Lord Thorn's recommendation is accepted, and I am pleased to confer upon you the degree and responsibilities pertaining to the Sixth Rank of our calling. Shael, please accompany Questor Grimm to the Armoury and arrange for the fitting of the sixth ring."
With that, the audience was at an end, and Grimm breathed a sigh of relief as he bowed and accompanied Shael from the chamber.
All that remained was the descent into the crypts with Numal, the gathering of information, and, with hope, a safe return to Arnor House. The rest of the day could not pass quickly enough for him.
* * * *
The two mages, guided by their invaluable Location Gems, made their way into the lower demesnes of High Lodge, their path lit by a simple, if effective, spell of Illumination cast by Numal. Grimm, his staff now bearing six rings, felt the leaden arms of responsibility closing around him as he tried to remember the route to the Sisters’ dark temple. The magical jewels were of no help now, since Grimm had no idea of where he was going. Numal grumbled and muttered behind him, and the Questor asked him to remain silent, with as much politeness as he could muster. Grimm's sensitive ears strained as he made his way through the dark catacombs, trusting in the memories of his nocturnal voyage to the place where Sister Madeleine had been butchered. Numal stayed close to his right shoulder, and, on occasion, Grimm felt the need to ask him to move further away. The Questor's task was made more difficult by the fact that, during his dream, he had seemed to drift through the stone walls rather than following the dripping corridors.
"It's down this passage,” the Questor said, with sudden certainty as he recognised a distinctive, spider-like crack in one of the stone blocks. “I'm sure of it."
"I don't like this,” complained the Necromancer, in a low voice. “This place is scary."
Grimm laughed, despite the churning anxiety in his stomach. “A Necromancer who's scared of crypts?
I'd have thought you'd be in your element here!"
Numal shivered. “I don't like close spaces,” he confessed. “It's as if the walls are closing in on me."
Wonderful: a claustrophobic, self-pitying Necromancer. That's just what I need.
"Just get a grip on yourself, will you, Numal? Please?"
"I'm sorry, Grimm, I can't help it. I never wanted to be a Necromancer, you know.” The older mage's voice took on an unmistakable note of incipient, rising hysteria, and his breathing became swifter and shallower. The magical illumination flickered and dimmed.
"Please don't start on that again, Numal,” Grimm said, with as firm a voice as he could manage while whispering. “We are what we are, and we have to play with the hands we're dealt. Just keep your voice down. It won't be much longer now: all we need is to go through this next door, and we're there. Do you see how clean the hinges and handle are?
"Come on, take a few deep breaths and steady yourself."
"I'm sorry, Grimm. I'll try."
As the hapless Necromancer shut his eyes and tried to control his fears, Grimm strained his ears for any sign of encroachment. All he heard was the steady, metronomic drip of moisture from the ceiling of the tunnel, and Numal's tortured, shuddering breaths. At last, Numal nodded.
"I think I'll be all right now, Grimm. Let's get it over."
They took the last few steps to the door, and Grimm opened it. The chamber was just as he remembered it: the shallow, brown-stained depression in the floor, the altar and the coffins lining the walls. The Questor felt an electrical thrill shoot through him as a figure emerged from the shadows. He readied his mind for magic, but stayed his power as the figure's face came into plain view.
Grimm blinked. “What in the Names are you doing here?"
"I might ask the same of you, Questor Grimm,” the resplendent figure of Guy Great Flame responded.
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Chapter 14: An Unexpected Guest
"Aren't you going to introduce me to your companion?” Guy asked, as if the three mages were attending some society party instead of standing in a dank tomb.
"Er ... Questor Guy, this is Necromancer Numal,” Grimm said, feeling quite out of his depth. “Numal, this is Questor Guy from Eron House, called the Great Flame."
"I'm pleased to meet you, Necromancer Numal."
The imperturbable older Questor extended his hand, but Numal's face wore a blank, pale mask of shock, and he did not respond. The pale luminescence of his spell of Illumination guttered and di
ed, but the group was not plunged into darkness.
"Illumination is a vitally useful spell to cast on one's staff,” Guy drawled. “I'm surprised a Questor of the Sixth Rank didn't have the same idea. War-maker, here, has a score of useful Minor Magics cast on her.
Light, heat, minor wards, dowsing..."
Grimm realised that, despite his two arduous Quests, he was still a relative tyro in his craft. The only spells he had placed on Redeemer were for the relief of intoxication, and he now recognised the ability of a mage's staff to become a receptacle for a multitude of enchantments, enhancing his potency as a Questor.
"So, just what are you doing here, Questor Grimm? Your friend doesn't seem much use for whatever it is. He looks like a bit of a weak reed to me. If you're thinking of going up against dear old Grandma, you're going the wrong way about it."
Guy's sneering tone raised Grimm's hackles, and he spoke before he realised the full import of the Questor's words.
"Just who do you think you are, Guy Great Flame?” he snarled. “You walk around as if ... what did you say?"
" Grandma: it's a vernacular term for a parent's distaff progenitor. I'm sure you've heard the term before.
Dear, sweet, virginal Prioress Lizaveta is my grandmother."
"Lizaveta is your grandmother?” Grimm felt too stunned to say anything more profound.
"Give that boy a prize!” Guy laughed. “With a sharp mind like that, you'll have your seventh ring within a week, youngster."
"What makes you think we want anything to do with Prioress Lizaveta?” Grimm blustered, hardly able to think.
"This is hardly a congenial, cheerful gathering-place for bored mages, now, is it?” Guy seemed to be enjoying himself. “For the record, I've only discovered my relationship with the hag in the last few months, and I hate the wizened, raddled old bitch with all my heart and soul."
"Why?” The younger Questor's mind was racing, but he found himself unable to elicit a more cogent response.
Guy leaned back against the altar stone, crossing his arms and legs in a nonchalant manner. “The child speaks! ‘ Why?', it says! I suppose you just want to pay heartfelt homage to the old cow. Perhaps I'm wrong; perhaps you were just looking for a convivial little soiree with your pathetic little friend, and you just happened upon this pleasant picnic spot. Come on, Questor Grimm, surely you can do better than that."
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