"I think it'd be better if we camped out on the plain tonight, General,” Grimm said. “I'm worried I'll catch something if we stay here."
"I've stayed in worse billets than this, Lord Baron,” the old soldier replied, and Grimm shot him a quizzical glance, his eyebrows raised in disbelief. “Well; not too many, I'll have to admit, and not without an army to back me up. Perhaps you're right.
"Still, I wonder what we're going to do with the wagon and our baggage while we wander around town.
We're going to have to get out and walk at some point. Even in a place like this, I imagine that secure lodgings can be bought for some price."
"I could put a magical ward around it, if necessary; a spell proof against any physical incursion,” Grimm suggested.
"And that's a nice, simple spell, is it?"
The General's expression was neutral, but Grimm detected a slight but undeniable note of disbelief in his tone.
The Questor thought back to the climactic battle in Crar, when he and his companions had faced a maniacal horde of mindless attackers driven by the will of the demon, Starmor. Questor Dalquist had raised a small ward against the zombie-like horde, one a fraction of the size of that needed to protect the wagon. The spell drained Dalquist of most of his energy in the space of a few minutes. Grimm knew from his tuition in Spell Theory that the energy required for such a sleight was proportional to the cube of its radius. Dalquist's ward had been maybe six feet in diameter. A spell to protect the vehicle would need to be perhaps three times that size; twenty-seven times the energy would be required.
Still greater additional energy expenditure would be involved in casting the spell at a distance—this time, a square relationship applied. Dalquist had been three feet from the periphery of the spell's effect; to move a mere ten yards from the protected wagon would multiply the energy cost of the spell by a factor of a hundred. His fellow mage had maintained his ward for maybe three minutes; every additional minute would add to the energy cost. Grimm knew he was more powerful than Dalquist, but not thousands of times stronger. Even if Questor Guy agreed to share the workload, the scheme was unfeasible.
Dalquist hid the Eye of Myrrn, the Guild periapt at the heart of that particular Quest, in an extra-dimensional cubby-hole. Once an object was hidden in such a location, only minimal energy was required to keep it there. However, Grimm knew the energy required to create and maintain such a hiding-place was again proportional to the cube of its radius.
The Eye was only four inches across. If I were to scale a similar spell up to twenty feet or so, I'd need two hundred and ... two hundred and sixteen thousand times the energy.
After a few moments’ cogitation, he shrugged. “Bad idea, General; please forget I mentioned it."
"Mentioned what?” The soldier's tone was as good-natured as ever as he steered the horses around a knot of people, who seemed to be queuing for bread and quite oblivious of the approach of the large wagon.
Bringing the vehicle to a halt, Quelgrum called out to the huddled crowd. “Excuse me! Can you direct us to a lodging-house; preferably a good one, with a secure barn or stables?"
Most of the people ignored the General's cry, but one ragged man looked up. “Whassit worth t'find out?"
"Two silvers,” Quelgrum offered.
"Gerroff! That won't even buy me a bloody loaf o’ bread here! Two gold, an’ yer in bizness. I know a good, clean, posh place, wiv stables ‘n’ ev'ryfing! I'll tell yer fer two gold. Thass me only offer, take it or leave it."
"One fifty."
"You deaf, or sumfink? I said two! Ask me again, ‘n’ it's two fifty, mate."
Grimm handed the General four gold coins. “Ask him about Lizaveta's coterie,” he whispered. “Perhaps we won't need this mythical paradise, after all."
"All right, two gold,” the General said to the scruffy man. “Assuming you can guide us to a clean, decent place with secure stables.
"However, if you can tell us about a party of nuns who may have come through here recently, I'll give you four. That seems a pretty good bargain to me."
The ragged man stared at Quelgrum's open hand and its golden bounty. Wearing a smile that exposed a mouthful of multi-coloured, rotting teeth, he stepped out of the milling crowd and approached the wagon.
Grimm defocused his eyes and engaged his Sight; he wanted to be sure that any information given was true.
"You ain't stiffin’ me, are yer, guv'nor? Four gold if I tell yer what yer want ter know?"
"If it's worth buying,” the General warned him. “I'm not paying a penny for third-hand hearsay."
Grimm scanned the man's aura, finding it the most complex he had ever seen; instead of sheets or streaks of solid colour, he saw a confusing, flowing melange of mental states. Avarice, mixed with distrust, fought for position against brief, furtive islands of basic honesty and boldness. Envy mixed and melded with respect.
"Well, I ain't goin’ ter lie to yer, guv'nor,” the man said, his eyes flicking back and forth in a furtive manner, his voice low and conspiratorial. “I c'n only tell yer what I ‘eard, but I did get it straight from me bruvver Jory. E told me there was a party o’ nuns ‘ere a couple o’ weeks ago, prob'ly lookin’ for somewhere nice to stay, just like you. One of ‘em was a pretty little fing, an’ ‘e winked at ‘er. Jory says she gave ‘im this evil look. Next fing ‘e knows, ‘e's on ‘is knees, beggin’ forgiveness. There was this ugly old cow in charge ‘o these nuns, and ‘e ‘ad to kiss ‘er ring, like. Says ‘e was in a right old state, didn't even know what ‘e was doin’ or sayin'."
That sounds like Lizaveta's gentle coterie, Grimm thought. “Did your brother say which way the nuns were heading?” he asked.
"Jory says they went up to the Mansion ‘Ouse. That's the place I were goin’ ter tell you about. It's a right posh old place ter stay; too rich fer the likes o’ Jory and me, but I reckon it'd suit gents like you down to the ground."
"Where is this Mansion House?” Quelgrum demanded.
"Lemme see ... ooh, it's right on the tip of me tongue.... Funny ‘ow your mind c'n just suddenly go all blank, ain't it?” The grubby oracle cast a meaningful look at the coins in the General's hand.
"What do you reckon, Lord Baron? Is he telling the truth?"
"As far as he knows it, I'm fairly sure he is, General,” the Questor replied, in the same low voice. “He's confident about what he says."
He rubbed his temple; scanning the Yorenian's confusing aura had given him a headache.
"Here's two gold pieces for the information about the nuns. You get the other two when you give us clear directions to this Mansion House of yours.” The General held out two of the shiny, yellow discs in his open left palm.
The ragged informer hesitated for a moment. Then, as quick as thought, the coins disappeared. The man nodded, shaking particles loose from his shaggy-haired pate, which, Grimm thought, might have been either scurf or fleas. He hoped they were the former.
"Awright, guv'nor, I'll tell yer; yer look like an honest sort t’ me. Up ahead by the chandler's, there, you turn right into Dun Lane, then first left into Cheeble Street, see? Then yer take the third right into Goober Lane, an’ then you'll come to the old market square. ‘S not as nice as this new one, and there's some dodgy types round there, so you gents be careful."
Grimm suppressed a shudder at the thought of any place less salubrious than this grimy hell-hole.
"Now, from the old market,” the Yorenian said, seeming to revel in his new, if temporary, career as a tourist guide, “yer need to look for old Rambold's glue shop on the far right side. You should be able to tell it from all the flies.” He wrinkled his nose, and Grimm marvelled that a denizen of this benighted town could bear the capacity for disgust.
"Yer go up that road past Rambold's; that's Bottle Pass. Go all the way t’ the end o’ that an’ turn right inter Flobb's Lane. Turn left just past the Goat Inn, an’ you'll see the Mansion ‘Ouse up the ‘ill. Got it, guv'nor?"
Grimm felt b
ewildered by the complicated directions, but Quelgrum nodded.
"Eminently clear; thank you for your assistance.” The General tipped the remaining two coins into the shabby man's hand. “My apologies for taking up so much of your valuable time; enjoy your shopping."
"Shoppin'? I'm goin’ down the Blooter Arms fer a few pints first,” the smiling vagabond declared. “Me bleedin’ wife can wait a while fer ‘er bleedin’ groceries. Just remember, gents, if yer want any more ‘elp, Guller's yer man. That's me name: Guller. Jest ask fer me in the Blooter Arms; they all know me there."
With that, the shabby informer scampered into one of the dark alleys surrounding the square, and was gone.
"The Mansion House it is,” Grimm sighed. He did not hold out much hope for the Yorenian's luxurious description of the place; even a slaughterhouse might seem a palace to someone brought up in such depressing surroundings, but it did seem likely that someone there could provide further information on Lizaveta's movements.
"Where are we going?"
Grimm turned to see Guy's head protruding from under the wagon's cover, his twisted lip showing his distaste at his surroundings.
"Did I hear something about a mansion?” the older man demanded. “I hope so."
Grimm smiled. “Yes, Guy; a highly reliable source informs me it's a ‘right posh old place to stay', so it should suit you well. Then again, the definition of the word ‘luxury’ around here may differ a little from yours."
With a snort, the foppish mage ducked back under the canvas cover.
* * * *
The old market square lived up to the Yorenian's description. It appeared to Grimm almost as if some skeletal entity was arising from a sea of mud, as he heard the horses’ crisp hoof-beats turn into a series of dull splashes. He saw rotted sticks and spars standing at odd angles, and ragged scraps of grey cloth twitching in the desultory breeze. It was as if night had come early, as the tall buildings surrounding the half-sunken plaza blotted out the afternoon light. Grimm heard the high-pitched, mewling bark of an angry fox in the distance; an eerie, banshee-like sound. After that, all he heard was wet, squishing sloshes as the horses pulled the wagon through the mud that swamped the old flagstones; sounds that echoed dully from the grey walls surrounding the square.
His eyes cast around, looking for the glue shop of which Guller had told them, but all the dull, grimy-windowed buildings around the square looked the same. It was the mage's nose that first informed him of the shop's proximity; a disgusting, cloyingly-sweet, pungent smell began to pervade his nostrils, and he felt his eyes watering in sympathy. On the far side of the square, he saw a black cloud, and heard a growing drone; these must be the ever-present insect attendants of the glue shop. Grimm slapped at his arms, his face and his scalp as the wagon passed through the eager, buzzing horde.
Quelgrum wrinkled his nose and flapped at the black mass of winged assailants. “Can you imagine what it's like to work in there, Lord Baron?"
"I don't want to, General.” Grimm shivered as the soldier steered the vehicle past a crooked, hand-painted sign reading ‘Bottle Pass'. “I just want to get out of this dead place."
In the narrow, crumbling thoroughfare, Grimm saw the first signs of life since the wagon had left the new market square. Rats scampered through open sewers, ignored by a few, scattered drabs, who regarded the wagon with suspicious, envious eyes. It seemed to the mage as if he had descended into the nethermost pit of Hell, as he looked into the pale, dull, resentful faces of a score of damned souls.
Quelgrum needed to take care at the junction of Bottle Pass and Flobb's Lane, since the road seemed barely wider than the wagon. The horses reared and whinnied, but the General comforted them with a soft, clucking noise, keeping a firm hand on the reins.
Grimm approved; having grown up in a smithy, he recognised the worth of a man who treated troubled animals with kindness and understanding, rather than unthinking brutality.
The mage heard a growing, raucous sound as the conveyance trundled along Flobb's Lane. He noticed a battered, faded picture of a stick-like representation of a goat outside a slumped, hovel-like structure, outside which five men scrambled and rolled in a sea of red-streaked mud. The occasional bright flashes of blades and knuckle-dusters reinforced the message that this was no minor dispute over a spilled drink.
And I thought the Broken Bottle in Drute was tough, he thought, shaking his head as Quelgrum turned the vehicle left, barely missing the oblivious combatants.
Blessed, sweet sunlight!
It seemed to Grimm as if someone had lit a great candle in the sky as the wagon began to roll up an incline.
From perdition to paradise in the space of a few short yards!
The Questor's heart sang as he regarded a golden building sitting on a sward of purest green. A beige, tree-lined path marked the route to what must be the Mansion House, seeming as if it were some indication of ineluctable destiny. To Grimm, it felt as if a leaden weight had been removed from his chest as the grey, depressing drabness of Yoren was left behind and the wagon began to wind up the blessed, clean, even road.
Why doesn't everyone in Yoren come here? he wondered, savouring the fragrant, clean air that flooded into his lungs. Why would anyone want to live in that place?
It was not long before his rhetorical question was answered, as two men leapt into the road from behind the cover of the trees lining the avenue. Unlike the shabbily-attired attackers who had welcomed the adventurers on their first arrival in Yoren, these warriors wore heavy, padded jackets, and the blued-steel tubes they levelled at Grimm and Quelgrum looked familiar.
"They've got Technological weapons and armour,” the General muttered, confirming the Questor's suspicions as he reined in the horses. “No wonder they can keep the locals in check."
"What's your business here?” one of the ambushers demanded as he stepped forward. His speech was cultured, educated, and free of the heavy Yorenian accent.
"We need a place to stay, well away from that rat-hole,” Quelgrum said, maintaining a cool, unflustered face as Grimm laid his right hand on Redeemer, ready for trouble.
"Don't we all? Show me what you've got to offer; all of it,” the cloth-armoured man replied. “Don't worry; we're paid well enough. If you can pay, you should be allowed in. If not, I'd advise you to turn back.” His eyes were narrowed, suspicious.
Grimm held up his bulging money-purse, opening it just enough to show the gleaming coins within. “I think this should be sufficient for even the Mansion House,” he said. “If not, I have plenty more to spare; I am the Baron of Crar."
As the Questor held out his purse, he saw that the guard's eyes widened as they locked onto the blue-gold Guild ring on his marriage finger.
"Your servant, Lord Mage!"The man dropped onto his right knee at once, as did his companion. “I trust you realise that only people of quality are accepted here. Please forgive us the intrusion on your contemplation; you and your companions are more than welcome."
The two men disappeared into the undergrowth as quickly as they had appeared.
"What do you think was that all about, Lord Baron?"
"I suppose my full purse swayed them,” Grimm said, unsure that this was the truth. “Perhaps they just like mages at the Mansion House."
"I heard they despised Guild Mages in Yoren,” the General replied. “This just seems a little too cosy for me. In my army, we talk about ‘honey traps'. They're ambushes too sweet or tempting to resist."
After the depressing spectacle of the centre of Yoren, Grimm felt in no mood to argue as the increasingly imposing spectacle of the Mansion House hove into view. “Relax, General. He saw my money and my ring; that's all. I'd rather be here than down in the town, any day. We'll be all right, as long as we keep our wits about us."
"Hear, hear,” Guy cried, from inside the wagon.
Harvel called, “Are you going to pay for all this, Questor Grimm?"
Grimm smiled. “Of course, fellows! We don't have to slum i
t just because we're on a Quest. Keep alert, and we should be all right."
"You're in charge, Lord Baron,” Quelgrum said, as the magnificent building loomed before them, “and I'll do as you say. I just hope you're right. These chaps could be in league with Lizaveta, for all we know."
Grimm laughed. “Sometimes I think you worry just a little too much, General. I'm not going into this with my eyes shut, I assure you. Don't worry; I'll be on my guard, as will all of us."
As the wagon rumbled under an imposing stone arch, Grimm thought he heard a muttered prayer or imprecation from the old soldier, although he could not be sure.
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Chapter 26: A Cheerful Reception
The wagon rolled up the smooth, tree-lined track towards the Mansion House. Although the Questor's party suffered no further incursions, Grimm's sensitive ears picked up the occasional muttered voice and rustling sound from the undergrowth. He suspected that he and his companions had been under constant surveillance since they started up the winding path.
As the party neared the House, the young mage felt a shiver of awe running through him. He could not believe the contrast between the grand opulence of this building and the dingy squalor at the centre of Yoren; it almost made the fabulous, luxurious High Lodge look like a rather pedestrian town house.
Instead of dull, grey stone, the House seemed to be constructed of lustrous, iridescent marble, with complex, tasteful details picked out in gold. At the front of the building, he saw a long, pillared portico or cloister whose purpose, Grimm imagined, was to enable visitors to remain dry while exiting their vehicles in the rain.
And all these windows! There must have been over a hundred on the front of the building alone, and Grimm knew that glass, especially glass of this sparkling, flawless quality, was an expensive commodity.
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