Quelgrum's eyes bulged. “Where on earth did they get all the money to make this, let alone to be able to run it?"
Despite knowing the General's question was rhetorical, Grimm answered him.
"All I know is that my stipend as Baron of Crar would barely begin to cover it, General,” he breathed.
Up ahead, he saw a small, windowed kiosk, beside which was a red-and-white striped pole, barring further progress. As soon as Quelgrum reined in the horses in front of the barrier, a tall, slender man stepped out from the kiosk, offering a crisp, faultless salute that, Grimm imagined, would not have been out of place in the General's army. The old soldier's formal, precise answering salute seemed to confirm this; the General placed a high premium on tidiness, order and discipline, and this man seemed to possess great quantities of each.
As the gatekeeper approached, Grimm took note of the man's immaculate, dark-blue uniform, similar to that worn by Quelgrum's cadre, with a tightly knotted strip of cloth around his neck and razor-sharp creases in his straight trousers. Mirror-polished black shoes, gleaming buttons and a peaked cap added to the dazzling effect. The Questor also saw that the watchman wore a Technological weapon in a leather holster at his waist.
"I see you are a military man, Sir,” the gatekeeper said, his pose ramrod-straight as he held the salute.
“Staff Sergeant Hamar, at your service, Sir. Welcome to the Mansion House."
"Stand easy, Staff,” replied Quelgrum, slipping back into his martial role with ease. “I am General Sleafel Quelgrum, and my companion is Baron Grimm Afelnor of Crar."
As with the guards who had accosted the party earlier, the young mage thought that Hamar's gaze rested perhaps just a little too long on his Guild ring. Ah, you're just getting paranoid. You've got an over-active imagination, Afelnor, he chided himself.
"Your fame precedes you, General,” the Staff Sergeant said. “At your service, Lord Baron.” Hamar's face wrinkled, and reddened a little. “I'm sorry, sir; I'll have to ask you to leave your hardware here. We don't allow offensive weapons in the House. The same goes for your companions in the back. Staves and small blades of less than three inches’ length are all right, but whips, swords, daggers, cudgels or other offensive weapons are not permitted. I'll have to search you and the wagon, I'm afraid."
Quelgrum's eyes narrowed.
"Sorry, General, that's not my rule, but a standing order.” Hamar's tone remained deferent and apologetic. “I'm sure you understand. Please step down from the vehicle."
Quelgrum sighed and turned his head around. “You heard the man,” he called. “Hand ‘em over."
The three warriors and two mages clambered out of the wagon, as Grimm and the General climbed down.
Hamar carried out an efficient, dispassionate search of each member of the party and began to deprive them of their weapons. Tordun, in particular, looked particularly pained as he handed over his broadsword.
As the Staff Sergeant moved to the back of the wagon, Grimm felt the unmistakable tingle of magical power being unleashed; a large amount of it, if the young mage was any judge. The syllables that came from Guy's lips were, of course, unintelligible to anyone but him, being in his personal Questor spell-language, but Grimm guessed that the older thaumaturge had released a potent spell of Compulsion.
"There's nothing in the wagon, sentry,” Guy said in an easy, reasonable voice. “It's clean."
Grimm gaped as the Staff Sergeant turned to face Guy, wearing a tolerant smile. “I'm sure you're right, sir, but I have to search it anyway,” he said with a cool voice as he climbed into the conveyance.
At any other time, Grimm would have felt some pleasure at the sight of the Great Flame's slack jaw and stunned, bulging eyes, but not now; Hamar had withstood a full Compulsion spell from a Questor of the Seventh Rank without showing the least sign of discomfort, or even of having noticed the spell. To add to Grimm's unease, his Mage Sight showed him that this was no Technology-controlled slave like those he had met at the mountain fortress of Haven. Neither saw he the least sign of magic in the man's aura: not even the blank white aura of a witch.
"I gave him a full-strength Compulsion,” Guy whispered, his eyes wide with disbelief. “He should be a drooling puppet by now. The spell was good."
"I know, Guy. He must be wearing some weird sort of ward."
"I could take him out, easily,” Tordun rumbled. “Just say the word."
"We've still got our staves, Grimm,” Guy said, his face determined. “He wouldn't stand a chance."
Grimm shook his head. “I don't think we're alone here, Tordun. I'm pretty sure there are armed men with Technological weapons, hiding in the undergrowth."
"Well, well well,” Hamar called, his voice dulled by the wagon's canvas cover. “Quite an armoury you have here; good quality hardware, too. Don't worry, Sirs, we'll take good care of it."
The Staff Sergeant emitted a shrill whistle and five armed men emerged from the bushes, firearms at the ready. Grimm gathered his power, ready to strike, but no direct assault appeared to be in progress.
Hamar hopped down from the wagon. “Juran, you and Mardel take inventory, and make out a receipt for the weapons,” he said, his orders crisp and precise. “Gyor; double over to the House and ask them to make ready for our guests. Bort; I want you and Fasar to take these gentlemen's luggage to their rooms when it's been checked."
The five men saluted, and replied as if with one voice: “Understood, Staff!"
The soldiers rushed to carry out their senior's orders, efficient and economical in their movements.
Hamar turned to Grimm. “If you and your companions would be so kind as to follow me, gentlemen, we'll make our way over to Reception.” The Staff Sergeant gave another of his sharp salutes.
Grimm's stomach roiled with misgiving. It seemed to him as if all initiative had been stripped from him, as an unaccustomed sense of indecision dulled his thoughts. This situation seemed somehow false; as if the Mansion House staff had been expecting him and his companions since their first arrival in Yoren. He felt his mind and his heartbeat racing to no end. What to do? He had never felt so helpless in his life.
So he's got a powerful spell-ward I can't detect, he thought, trying to marshal his mental processes.
That's no reason to suspect him of evil intent. There are magical skills outside the Guild's control, I imagine. I'd have one myself, if I knew where to get hold of one, or how to make one. I don't like this place, anyway, and I'll recommend we get out of here as soon as we've got the information we need.
The gatekeeper's actions so far had been irreproachable, but Grimm did not feel comfortable that his hard-won powers might be so easily nullified. He felt not so much threatened as naked, and he was unsure of how to respond.
Quelgrum broke the silence. “Thank you, Staff,” he said in a cool voice. “We're in your capable hands."
* * * *
If anything, the interior of the House was even more magnificent than its glorious exterior. Grimm regarded the plush, crimson carpets, rich mahogany panelling and lustrous brass fittings with appreciative eyes. If this was some kind of prison, at least it was a luxurious one. Soft lights cast a warm, orange glow on the scene, and the mage heard soft, unobtrusive music, enhancing the cool, calm, soothing atmosphere. Despite his earlier misgivings, the mage began to feel a lot happier about this strange place. Surely there could be no harm in staying in such a cheerful, comfortable establishment.
A gentle fragrance permeated the air, and a wide, sweeping marble staircase dominated the entrance hall, seeming to run up to dizzying heights. As Grimm and his friends regarded the opulence of the décor, a young woman stepped out of a back room to stand behind a large, polished counter that ran the length of the far wall. Golden hair fell over her shoulders in flowing waves, and her pale, delicately-painted face wore a beaming smile.
"Welcome to Mansion House,” she said, her cheeks dimpling. “May I ask how long will you be staying, gentlemen?” Her voice was
soft and sweet, and Grimm felt himself almost lost in the depths of those large, lambent, blue eyes.
"Er, I'm not sure.” The young mage felt lumpen and clumsy in the presence of this vision of feminine pulchritude, and tried not to notice the expanse of flesh revealed by her low-cut, white blouse. “One day, maybe two."
He sensed his face growing warm, and he coughed in an attempt to hide his unaccustomed bashfulness.
As he stole a glance at his companions, he realised that he was not alone in his feelings. Even the cynical Guy seemed dumbstruck by this lovely girl's beauty, and Tordun's normally white face had turned a shade of puce.
It went beyond physical attraction; Grimm felt his heart pounding and his blood surging. He had only ever experienced such confusing feelings before when in Drexelica's amorous embrace. Even the girl's delicate perfume seemed to befuddle him.
"We usually ask our guests to register,” she said, sweeping an errant lock of hair away from her eyes with a slender, long-fingered hand. The casual gesture only seemed to enhance her attractiveness. “However, I can tell you've had a long journey; I'm sure you'll want to bathe and relax for a while first. Your bags have been sent to your rooms, and I have a full receipt for your weapons."
"All in good time, Miss,” the General said. He seemed to be the only member of the party not nonplussed to the point of idiocy by the lovely girl.
"I just wondered if you could help us. We heard that a deputation from the Order of the Sisters of Divine Serenity had made their way here, only a short while ago, and we wished to pay our respects. I just wondered if they left any forwarding address, or if you knew which route they might have taken when they left."
The receptionist's dimples did not seem to faze Quelgrum, who responded with a cool, polite smile.
"Ah, yes; I do remember a party of nuns here a couple of weeks ago,” the girl cooed. “Unfortunately, I wasn't here when they left. Let me look in the guest book."
She leafed through the large, leather-bound ledger in front of her. “Mr. Chudel, the Manager, handled the formalities when the party left. Perhaps they told him something about their destination; I don't know. Mr.
Chudel usually asks for a forwarding address, in case a guest has left anything behind."
Her brow wrinkled. “If you'll forgive me for saying so, sir, you and your companions do not seem to be
... religious types. I just wondered what the extent of your interest in the Sisters might be; I'm sure you'll understand that we need to respect our guests’ privacy."
"Prioress Lizaveta acted as witness at my wedding, many years ago,” came the General's smooth reply.
“I promised to present my heartiest respects if we ever met again, but we lost contact. When I heard she had visited Yoren, I was reminded of my promise to her. If you'd just introduce us to Mr. Chudel, I'd be very grateful."
The receptionist produced another of her dreamy, dazzling smiles, and Grimm felt as if his knees had turned to treacle. “I'm afraid he's out of town at the moment, sir. He's expected back the day after tomorrow. If you like, I'll ask him to have a word with you before you leave."
"I'd really appreciate that,” Quelgrum said. “It would mean a lot to me.” Despite his earlier, cool manner, even the General now appeared quite relaxed.
"The nightly rate for seven rooms is twenty-eight gold pieces, Sir. First night is payable in advance, I'm afraid."
Grimm scrambled in his commodious purse for the large, heavy coins, smothering a curse at the sudden clumsy tremor in his fingers. He scarcely counted as he splashed the money onto the counter in several handfuls. Several of the coins bounced onto the floor behind the counter, and he winced.
"I'm sorry,” he said, spreading his hands in abject apology.
"That's all right,” the receptionist said, dimples forming on either side of her mouth as she displayed a flawless, snow-white set of teeth.
Power and presence, the Questor chided himself. What's the matter with you, Grimm? Get a grip on yourself, will you?
Am I bewitched? he wondered, remembering his enforced infatuation with Sister Madeleine on his first visit to High Lodge.
However, his current befuddlement bore no relation to the overpowering effects of Madeleine's Geomantic spell; yes, he felt happy and a little lusty, but the all-consuming passion and semi-intoxication he had experienced in the dead Sister's presence was absent. Although he found the girl very pretty, his mind was still his own.
I'm just happy to be out of that rat-hole, he told himself. Is that such a crime?
With smooth efficiency, the young woman handed a key to each man. “You're all on the second floor, nice and close to each other,” she said, cheery and enthusiastic, as she began a sing-song litany that she had obviously repeated many times before.
"The restaurant's open all day. All we ask is that you make a reservation an hour before you wish to eat.
We offer a free laundry and repair service, and there is a bar open until three in the morning, should you develop a thirst. If you need anything, just pull the bell-cord in your room, and an attendant will be dispatched as soon as possible...
"Oh, yes, there is just one more thing, gentlemen. If you intend to visit tonight's Pit contests, it's best to reserve your places in advance. It's a very popular attraction."
"What's the Pit?” Grimm asked, trying hard to suppress his burgeoning, inappropriate emotions.
"Ah, you gentlemen can't be from this vicinity,” the receptionist responded, smiling again. “The Pit is what we call our unarmed martial arts arena. Boxing, wrestling, that sort of thing. Many of our guests come from far afield, just to witness the Pit bouts. We have bookkeeping staff on hand to assess the odds and take the bets. I'm told it's very spectacular, although I've never been there myself: I don't like violence."
"I think I'd like that,” Harvel declared. “I used to do a little prize-fighting in my youth."
"Me, too,” Tordun said. “I've fought in many a ring, and I was unbeaten in over fifty fights."
Guy gave an enthusiastic nod. “That sounds like a good night's entertainment to me."
Grimm felt the unmistakable push of excess testosterone in his bloodstream, no doubt left over from the brief fight in the alley. “I'll go."
A good, fair series of fights might be just the thing to quiet his roiling emotions.
Only Numal demurred. “Not my sort of thing, I'm afraid. I'll just stay in my room with a good book, if you don't mind.” He gave an apologetic shrug. “Necromancer Numal, room 272, please, receptionist."
No surprises there. Grimm suppressed an amused smile as the girl handed the Necromancer his key.
Numal doesn't have quite the same drives as the rest of us.
"Then that's settled,” Quelgrum said. “Six seats for the Pit, please."
"Fights start at ten hours tonight,” the receptionist said, dimpling again in that endearing manner, and scribbling in the ledger. ‘Six Pit reservations it is. Just show your room keys to the attendant on entry; it's best to get there early if you want good seats.
"Welcome to Mansion House, gentlemen. I hope you enjoy your stay."
With that, the stunning vision was gone, and Grimm felt an almost physical pang of loss at her departure.
"Still want to camp out on the plain, Lord Baron?” Quelgrum said, with a wry smile.
"Not on your life, General!” Grimm wagged his right index finger in a mock reprimand. “If we have to wait a couple of days for this fellow Chudel, I can't think of a better place to stay while we're waiting.
There's no Guild rule that says we have to live like vagrants while we're Questing, you know!"
It was not a witty, humorous sally, and the chorus of chuckles from Grimm's companions might have seemed forced and inappropriate at any other time. However, the young mage no longer cared.
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Chapter 27: The Pit
With an approving nod, Grimm eyed himself in the full-length mirror in his room.
Tonight, I'm going to be the very epitome of the cultured, sophisticated Questor, he vowed, adjusting the folds in his yellow-and-blue silk robes so that they fell just right. As he donned the magical gems loaned him by the Dominie, he felt pleased that none of the periapts indicated any magical interference; his unaccustomed surge of good humour could therefore only be explained by the salubrious surroundings in which he found himself.
An hour remained until the Pit bouts started, so Grimm decided to burnish and polish Redeemer. At least that should occupy his mind for a while.
As he searched in one of his commodious travelling bags for his cleaning kit, he heard an impatient thumping sound from the other; a sound he knew only too well. He opened the clasps on the other bag, and a tiny, grey-green creature, the size of a mouse, hopped out onto the bed.
"Thribble!” he cried. “I might have known that you would have tagged along."
"How else am I to get material for my sagas, Questor?” the small demon squeaked. “I heard your little scuffle in the town square, but I'd rather have seen it. I was a little hurt that you didn't invite me along in the first place."
Grimm smiled. Thribble had proved himself a valuable and stalwart companion ever since he had first called the netherworld being into the mortal world. The mage knew he had indeed been negligent not to consider his minuscule but valiant demon friend when planning the Quest.
"I'm sorry, Thribble; I've had a lot on my mind recently. You should have asked."
"I know what you've had on your mind, mortal!” the imp chided in his piercing, reedy treble. “Human rutting? Ugh! The very thought makes my stomach churn."
Grimm gulped, as he felt a cold, iron frisson of guilt at the way he had reacted to the beautiful receptionist. One day away from Crar, and he was already beginning to act as if he had forgotten his beloved Drexelica. Thank the Names that the demon had not witnessed the disgraceful display of jejune immaturity he had displayed in the Mansion House lobby!
"Don't worry, Thribble.” The Questor patted his robe pocket. “You can travel with me from now on. I'm sure you'll find more than enough to satisfy even your insensate demands for story material."
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