A mage in the making cogd-1 Read online

  Dalquist nodded. "Think nothing of it. Believe me; I know only too well how difficult enjoyment can be to find at times for charity Students. Enjoy your books."

  "I will, Dalquist," Grimm whispered, as the mage left the room, closing the door behind him.

  When the mage had left, Grimm turned his voracious gaze to the nearest bookshelf. Thaumaturgy and Its Application to Meteorological Phenomena sounded intriguing, but it seemed to consist of nothing but cryptic diagrams, so he put it back on the shelf.

  Meditation; the Art of Inner Calm sounded boring, as did A First Primer of Cadences and Chants. He picked up The Necromantic Vocation and leafed through it, but he soon returned it to the rack with some distaste; it seemed the book was concerned mostly with dead bodies.

  The books seemed to be in no particular order that he could fathom, so he began to dart around at random.

  Finally, he hit upon Herbs and Plants; Their Attributes and Uses and took it to a battered but comfortable leather chair near the door. Opening the book, Grimm saw a beautiful, hand-painted picture of a herb he knew well. Dock, he thought, it's good for nettle stings. Reading on, he saw that its "primary attributes" were "cool", "shady" and "watery". Then, as he read on, he saw that the "secondary attributes" were "Febrifuge", "Balm" and "Emetic".

  Looking further down the page, there were further details of the kinds of magic to which the dock was "sympathetic", those to which it was "antagonistic"-which, Grimm gathered, meant unkind, although he couldn't see how a herb could be either kind or nasty-and the "tertiary attributes", which were described by strange, angular symbols.

  At the bottom of the page was the cryptic comment Suitable in all cases in the primary and secondary phases where indicated, tertiary attributes to be applied only by Healers of the Third Rank and above, on pain of undesired resonances in the infrastomal conjoints. This meant nothing to Grimm, but the words had a certain ring of majesty about them.

  As he read on, he saw many plants and herbs that he recognised and others he did not, but even the humblest weed seemed to have significance far above his imaginings and his comprehension. Grimm was still engrossed in the book when the urgent peal of a bell sounded in his head, if not in his ears. With a start, he turned to see Doorkeeper towering above him.

  "It is twelve o'clock. We must go to the Refectory now, young Grimm, or you will miss your luncheon. We can't have a growing lad missing his meals." Grimm had not been aware of the passage of time, and he realised that he had spent nearly two hours absorbed in the strange book.

  "I'm sorry, Doorkeeper. The book was very interesting."

  Doorkeeper glanced at the title of the volume that Grimm held, and he raised his eyebrows quizzically. "Isn't that book a little old for you? Surely you don't understand it all."

  Grimm shook his head. "I just like the words. I know a lot of these plants, but I never knew that there was so much to know about them.

  "Groundsel's good for bad dreams," he said, eager to relate what he had learned, "and blackweed can be used for colic. Bottle-spurge can be used in the… in the second phase of… of thaumaturgic group spells of the third order, whatever that means."

  Doorkeeper could not understand why anybody might read for pleasure. The last time he had read an entire book was on the day before he was finally Acclaimed as a Mage, and that was just so he could be sure of what he had to do at the ceremony. Ever since that time, he had vowed with fierce determination to avoid literature whenever he could.

  Muttering to himself, "Can't be good for the eyes," he led Grimm down the worn spiral staircase and into the corridor.

  Chapter 7: Long Arm of the House

  Dalquist was on his way through the great hall back to his own cell to engage in some study when an insistent tickle in his forebrain told him that Lord Prelate Thorn required his presence immediately.

  His heart began to beat faster. This could be what he had been waiting for! Checking his reflection in the black sheen of the magically sharp Breaking Stone, he smoothed his brown beard and ordered his hair as best he could without the aid of comb or brush. When the Prelate called, one did not dally!

  With a tug at his robes, he strode resolutely towards Thorn's turret, letting his staff, Shakhmat, bob merrily at his side in a jaunty manner of its own accord. After a few moments, he remembered proper mage protocol, took tight hold of the baton and assumed a more sedate manner. He would be on his guard, too, with his language. Formal Mage Speech would be the order of the day.

  The tightly winding staircase was very difficult to negotiate whilst carrying a six-foot staff, which hampered him to a considerable extent, with Shakhmat clattering on the turret's stone walls every few steps, announcing his approach. It occurred to Dalquist that this might not be coincidental. Thorn must have chosen this tower as his sanctuary for this very reason: its defensible qualities.

  Drawing a deep breath in an attempt to still his pounding heart, the young Questor knocked three times on the door and waited. A laconic "Come" issued from the inner sanctum and Dalquist entered the chamber. Closing the door behind him, he took two steps forward and stood ramrod-straight before the battered oak desk, Shakhmat at half an arm's length from his right side as he had been taught.

  He stared straight ahead, trying not to be distracted by the occasional pink flash from Lord Thorn's bald patch as the Prelate scanned a number of papers in what seemed almost a studied show of indifference. After several minutes, the ruddy face lifted, and the Prelate locked his powerful gaze onto Dalquist's eyes.

  "Thank you for coming, Rufior. Your name is Danquest, is it not?" The Prelate's tone suggested that he did not care one way or the other.

  "Dalquist, Lord Prelate." The young mage did not dare to say more.

  "Ah, yes, I thought so," Thorn drawled. "I never forget a name or a face." The Prelate's gaze dared Dalquist to comment, but the Questor remained mute.

  Thorn adopted an almost avuncular manner, motioning Dalquist to sit in the comfortable leather chair opposite the Prelate. The Questor sank warily into the squeaking leather, trying to make as little commotion as possible.

  Thorn put his hands together as if praying, his index fingers touching the tip of his nose, deep in momentary thought. After a few moments, he pulled a half-full bottle from a desk drawer.

  "Would you care for a drink, Questor Dalquist? I have a fine brandy here."

  Dalquist ached for Thorn to get to the point, but he dared not say so.

  "No, thank you, Lord Prelate."

  Thorn regarded with an unmistakeable look of longing at the bottle, but he replaced it in the drawer, unopened.

  "A matter has been brought to my attention, Questor Dalquist; a serious matter, which greatly affects the House. I need the services of a good, loyal Questor to resolve it. Are you that mage?"

  Dalquist could hardly bring the words out. "Certainly, Lord Prelate. I am honoured that you should have selected me for this role." He maintained an outward icy calm, but inside he was rejoicing. A Questor with no Quests to his name was nobody. After this, he would be able to walk with pride and look other Questors in the eye. He would also be entitled to bear the first gold ring on his staff, showing that he had undertaken a Quest for his House. He would also be on his way up the ladder to the coveted Seventh Rank.

  Thorn considered further. "Could you kill a man if you had to, Questor Dalquist?"

  Dalquist felt taken aback by the blunt question, but he managed a careful answer. "I find the idea distasteful, Lord Prelate, but I have been told many times that a Questor often needs to act without thinking, even if this includes killing. I am certain that I am capable of killing, if necessary, to defend myself."

  Thorn managed a ghost of a smile. "What would you do if I told you that an unresisting man might need to be killed without posing a direct threat to you?"

  Dalquist was a kind and considerate young man who loathed wanton cruelty, but he was not a normal man. Forged in the emotional heat and pain of a Questor's Ordeal, he had bee
n coached, cajoled and coerced into obeying the orders of his superiors under all circumstances. The Guild and the House came first, and Thorn was the direct representative of both.

  The young man was no mindless automaton, for a Mage Questor needed a quick mind and the ability to assess a situation at a moment's notice and act accordingly. Nonetheless, loyalty to the House was almost paramount among his drives. Lord Thorn would not be asking Dalquist to do this if he had not a good and pressing reason for it.

  "I would not enjoy it, Lord Prelate, but I know that I could perform such an act if you required it of me in your capacities as Prelate and representative of the Guild." Only a small moue of distaste betrayed Dalquist's feelings. Thorn proffered a warm and almost amicable smile.

  "It may not be necessary to do so, Dalquist. Indeed, I hope it is not; I have never developed a taste for homicide myself, but I have often had to commit it when duty demanded it. I leave the ultimate decision to you."

  Dalquist looked a little discomfited, as well he might, but he had the good sense not to demur.

  "However, a man needs to be removed from office and replaced by his younger brother; a man somewhat more… amenable to the House's philosophy. If the older brother will not see reason, it may be necessary to impose the ultimate sanction. However, if you can approach him closely and compel him to resign his post by the use of magic, then so much the better. One of the problems that you may have is part of the reason why I want him removed from office: he distrusts Guild Mages and does not allow us free passage through the town of Shelt, a town directly between here and High Lodge. It is irksome to have to ride around the town, and even more so to pay heavy tolls in order to ride through it. Our Lord Grall of Shelt has refused my entreaties to erect a Guild House in the town, and I feel that he will become an ever-sharper thorn in our sides as he grows in confidence. He has been almost openly flippant towards me on occasions."

  Dalquist felt a shock of surprise. "Surely, Lord Prelate, this is a matter for High Lodge to resolve. The man insults the whole Guild by insulting one of its House Prelates."

  Thorn leant forward, fixing Dalquist's eyes with his own, and he spoke slowly, with exaggerated clarity. "I do not want High Lodge to hear about this Quest until it is completed, Questor Dalquist. Is that clear?"

  The Questor almost gulped. What Thorn was suggesting was close to a breach of Guild protocol, although Dalquist knew it was not the place of a mere tyro to say so.

  "Quite clear, Lord Prelate."

  "I want Grall out of office by whichever means may be necessary, and I want you to bring this about. I have told Lord Grall that I am sending a representative from the House to essay further negotiations with regard to concessions for House members. I would do the deed myself, but Grall is deeply suspicious of me."

  With good reason, it would seem! Dalquist thought, suppressing a wry smile.

  "Grall is surrounded by a large retinue of armed guards at all times, and so you may require a certain level of destructive magic in order to escape if you are forced to execute him.

  "His brother, Burres, is the only logical choice as his successor: an ambitious young man who wants nothing more than to forge close links with the Guild and with this House in particular, since he was once a Neophyte here. He hates Grall with an abiding passion.

  "However you achieve the deed, Burres wants it known throughout the town that Grall has been removed or humbled at my behest. He does not want it thought an accident. The townspeople will soon see that it is in their own best interests to recognise as a leader someone with such powerful friends, or to eschew one who has roused the ire of such people. With Grall dead or discredited, Burres is confident that he will succeed his despised brother."

  Dalquist liked the sound of the Quest less with every second. Thorn made it sound so surgical and neat, but Dalquist might have to cause a great deal of destruction to prove his, or rather Burres', point, and he pointed this out to Thorn.

  "That is precisely why I need a young, strong Questor, to show both Burres and the people of Shelt that we have youth and zest on our side, as well as power. We must appear as a young, virile, vigorous House."

  Thorn waved his right hand in an airy manner. "Now, Questor Dalquist, I am sure that you will want to read up on the customs and geography of the area, so I will not detain you further. You are to leave for Shelt in three day's time. I have faith in you, Dalquist. See that it is not misplaced."

  A dozen objections fluttered like sun-intoxicated mayflies in Dalquist's brain, but he knew that they would not sway Thorn one iota. Worse, some other Questor might be given the Quest. He bowed respectfully and left Thorn's room.

  ****

  Pouring himself a large amount of brandy, Thorn knew Dalquist might face considerable danger in Shelt but, on the other hand, he would be well rewarded with gold and status. Thorn was happy that he would be able to present a full-blooded young Questor to the attention of High Lodge, and he thought of the revenues accruing to the House from all the new Students he would be receiving from the grateful or cowed people of Shelt. This, he thought, was good. It seemed that this Questor Dalquist had been well trained. A few surreptitious Spells of Compulsion and the odd Geas or two might help, but the Prelate felt that the hunger for his first ring might prove all the encouragement the young man needed. In any case, Thorn could always claim that Dalquist had exceeded his orders if things went wrong.

  Chapter 8: The Refectory

  Doorkeeper chivvied Grimm along the corridor and past his cell. At the far end of the corridor was another walkway, whose entrance was almost hidden in shadow. This corridor was as dimly-lit as the first, but bright light lay at the end of it, and as they approached the exit it opened into a large, well-lit quadrangle, from which further passages led off at various angles, like the legs of some gigantic insect.

  Doorkeeper stopped for a moment and spoke in the dull monotone of one reciting a speech that had been delivered many times before. "To the left, here, is where the paying Students live. That corridor just beside it leads to the study areas. The classrooms are to the right of that, and the refectory is ahead. To our immediate right is the passage to the Assembly Hall, and off to the left is the recreation area. You may enter the wealthy Students' area only when you are invited, but you may use the other areas whenever you have free time. The corridor over there leads to the West Wing, where the mages and Adepts live and study, and that is closed to all Students."

  Grimm had initially thought that, when told that he would be confined to the Scholasticate, he would be incarcerated in his miserable cell, but now that he caught a glimpse of just how large the Scholasticate was he began to think that his imprisonment might not be so bad after all.

  One fly in the ointment was the fact that the sound of the luncheon bell in his head was unpleasantly dissonant, and Grimm cared little for the realisation that he should hear this exquisitely irritating noise three times a day for the rest of his spell in the Scholasticate.

  "If you want to explore further after luncheon, feel free to do so except where I told you not to. Now we must eat; I am absolutely famished after such a long, busy morning. We must hurry, or we will be late."

  Moving straight on, they proceeded through a further quadrangle, well lit and decked with a tasteful display of large and colourful flower bowls, and Grimm saw further passages leading into the distance as they passed into the corridor directly ahead. The Scholasticate seemed even larger to the young boy than the village of Lower Frunstock where he had spent his whole life!

  At the end of the corridor was a broad opening with a pair of open, metal-barred gates. Doorkeeper raised a hand and the gates swung open with a slight creak. With an expansive gesture, he led Grimm into an enormous room, bigger than any the boy had yet seen. At one end of the room was a small, cramped, terracotta-tiled section with four long stone tables bearing dull but clean cutlery, each table with a wooden bench on either side and equipped with a wooden salt mill and a small pot of what looked li
ke mustard.

  The rest of the Refectory consisted of a much larger and more spacious area with alternating black and white marble floor tiles and tasteful murals on three walls, broken only by a large door and a hatchway, which were cunningly decorated to blend into the mahogany-panelled wall. In this area, there were neat rows of round tables with varnished and polished parquetry tops in varying sizes, ranging from small and intimate to larger tables suitable for a group of about ten persons to dine in comfort. The chairs bore faded but comfortable-looking cushions.

  Each table was furnished with gleaming knives, forks and spoons in a bewildering number of varieties, a tasteful, fresh arrangement of flowers, fine linen napkins neatly folded into silver rings, delicate fingerbowls and an assortment of sauces and condiments.

  Grimm did not need to ask which area was reserved for the charity Students, and he unconsciously edged towards the rude stone tables.

  "This is the Refectory, Grimm," the mage said. Grimm thought this statement somewhat superfluous, but he held his tongue. "The larger area is, of course, reserved for mages and wealthy Students. I will sit with you here, in the area allocated to charity Students."

  Doorkeeper spoke with an uncharacteristic, pompous air, as if bestowing a great honour. He sat on one side of one of the tables and Grimm sat opposite him.

  The boy was about to ask how one obtained food in this deserted place, when the large door opened and a boy of maybe fifteen years of age emerged. He was clad in a starched white kitchen suit, and he wore a clean apron and a white cap that struggled with only partial success to retain a mass of unruly, greasy black locks. He sauntered across the floor with no apparent urgency, his head bowed.

  Then, he noticed Doorkeeper and hurried across the room to arrive at the table, almost breathless. Bowing his head, he brought a card from his uniform pocket and smartly presented it to the mage. "Lord Mage, what is your pleasure?" he recited in a singsong manner, as if parroting a rote phrase.