Weapon of the Guild [The Chronicles of Grimm Dragonblaster, Book 2] (29 page)

"My word, Questor, how forceful you are,” Madeleine said in a jaded tone. “Still, I'm afraid I'm going to have to turn you down. And, since the members of my Order are officially under the protection of Lord Dominie Horin during our stay here, I don't think there's a lot you can do about it, unless you want to blast me into tiny fragments. I don't think that would look very good, now would it? The murder of a sweet, innocent nun would not go down well here, I imagine. Ah, here comes my good friend, Grimm." Her face broke into a warm smile at Grimm's approach. The young Questor placed a glass of water and a glass of wine on the table, and snarled, “Excuse me a moment, Madeleine. I'd just like a quick word with my colleague, Dalquist."

He put a none-too friendly hand on his fellow Questor's arm and propelled him into a vacant bay. “You couldn't leave it alone, could you? You just had to interfere. I'm warning you, Questor Dalquist, if you can't be happy for me then just leave me alone, or you and I will fall out." Dalquist felt stunned by the ferocity of his younger friend's reaction. Surely there was something more than simple adolescent infatuation at work here; nobody could have gone through the rigorous training in self-control that every Questor underwent, only to sink into this mindless, self-indulgent behaviour. Grimm seemed unable to listen to reason; dry talk of duty and responsibility might serve little purpose except to widen the nascent gulf between the two mages.

Dalquist could detect no mage influence at work on his friend, but he knew something was afoot. He decided to act with the greatest of care.

"I'm sorry, Grimm. I just wanted to be sure you weren't hurt. Please forgive me for my concerns. Let's meet up over breakfast tomorrow, and we can start again."

Grimm took a deep breath, and lifted his hand from Dalquist's shoulder. “Perhaps, Dalquist; I'll see how I feel in the morning.” He turned on his heel and returned to Madeleine without a backward glance. Dalquist looked at the pair. Grimm wore a vacuous smile on his face as he stared into the girl's eyes. She had hold of his hands, looking to Dalquist like some improbable hybrid of a mindless innocent and a complete slut. Some magic other than puppy love was at work here, and he intended to find out what it was.

Dalquist made a few inquiries and ascertained that the Prioress of the Order was in residence. Perhaps a visit might be in order.

* * * *

It took little time to find the Prioress’ apartments with the aid of the marvellous Charm of Location, and Dalquist wondered just how he would handle this situation. It seemed to him improbable that wild, irate accusations would bring the Reverend Mother to his side; calm diplomacy would be necessary.
Power and presence, Questor Dalquist: power and presence at all times
, he reminded himself as he approached the chamber.

A gentle tap at the door was answered with a sibilant, “Enter, Supplicant,” and Dalquist entered the room.

This was no austere religious refuge. Compared even to the opulent splendour of High Lodge's quarters, this suite of rooms seemed extravagant. A small, shrivelled woman dressed in a flowing, white dress lay at her ease on a comfortable, blood-red divan furnished with gold-tasselled cushions and brocade drapes. The old woman nodded.

"Ah, Lord Mage; I bid you welcome. How may I be of service to you? I normally receive visitors only by appointment, but I am happy to make an exception in the case of such a distinguished mage." The Prioress’ words might be polite, but Dalquist found the sound of her voice unsettling, hideous, and the Questor had to fight to keep his facial expression deferent and neutral. The woman held out her left hand, which bore a large ruby ring on the third finger.

Dalquist proffered a deep, respectful bow, dropping to one knee as he kissed the proffered ring, with Shakhmat floating in the air behind him.

"Thank you, Reverend Mother,” he said. “My name is Dalquist Rufior, and I have come here on behalf of my fellow Questor, Grimm Afelnor. Are you aware that one of the Sisters of your Order is currently consorting with him?"

The Prioress shrugged. “A harmless dalliance, I am sure, Questor Dalquist. My Order does not forbid innocent, platonic friendships between the sexes. I feel sure that this is no more than a friendly liaison between two young people."

Dalquist rubbed his chin. How was he to approach this difficult subject? “Reverend Mother, I have reason to believe that this is not a platonic friendship. It seems to me more like some kind of amorous ensorcellment. My colleague seems no longer under his free will. He is a Questor, a mage of extraordinary self-control and willpower, and yet he appears to have surrendered himself completely to the attentions of this young nun of your own Order. Some kind of magical influence seems to be at work here, a magic of a type with which I am unfamiliar."

Lizaveta stood up, her head at the level of the underside of Dalquist's chin, a solemn expression on her face. “Questor Dalquist, this is a most serious allegation. Have you identified the spell involved?" Dalquist sighed. “Reverend Mother, I have not. However, I do know that some unfamiliar magic is at work. The girl somehow hides her true aura from my Mage Sight."

Lizaveta raised her eyebrows. “My word,” she said, running a hand through her thinning, white hair, “this is a sorry state of affairs; a witch within my own Order! I will have her expelled immediately." Dalquist shook his head. “That is not all, Reverend Mother. The girl Madeleine does not appear to be casting the magic on her own. Much of the power seems to originate from outside her." Lizaveta's friendly expression disappeared in an instant, as if washed from her face by some sudden, torrential downpour. She closed her eyes and muttered a few words. Dalquist staggered backwards, raising a hasty counter-spell with a nonsense phrase of his own as he felt the cold thrill of some unfamiliar force beginning to bite into his bones.

"So, now the truth is out,” he snarled, “Know that you are dealing with a Mage Questor, witch. I am no besotted adolescent, unaware and unprepared. I suspected that some such treachery might be in the offing, and you will find me a harder nut to crack than my poor, love-struck colleague.
Akukka-huck-k'kakka!
"

A battle of iron wills was under way.

* * * *

The Prioress flinched as Dalquist's spell struck her, a shocked expression on her face as the pain of the Questor's power scorched her very nerves. Panic rose and agony began to wash through her body, but she knew that the mage was merely a man, a pathetic slave to the demands and complaints of his body. Lizaveta was a woman, and she had borne three children, two of which had been stillborn.
Men have no
idea
of what
real
agony is!

Marshalling her strength, she accepted the pain and dismissed it, subsuming it into the depths of her psyche. All Lizaveta could do was to hold the awful force at bay, but she managed to prevent it from disorienting the higher functions of her brain.

This mage made a bad mistake by assaulting me with a spell of pain,
she thought.
A spell of
destruction would have been all but impossible to ward off, but the fool still sees me in some
neglected corner of his male brain as a life-giver, a weak, little old lady; a grandmother.
While her body twitched, no longer under her direct control, the Prioress drew to herself the power of the earth, the potent energy of Geomancy: an energy that came from without, not from within her own spirit. Communing with the earth, Lizaveta directed it at Dalquist with a single, mighty effort of will. She felt the Questor's spell weaken and fail as he fought to block the Compulsion spell she had hurled at him. The Prioress knew she could not access the deepest recesses of his will. She could not see deeply enough into the realms of the man's soul, so well-protected by bands of discipline and willpower, but she was, at least, able to hold him at bay.

He is a strong one,
she thought, as the mage made a fortress, a battering-ram of his masculine strength and resolve that threatened to overwhelm her own defences. Now it was down to a naked struggle, a war of inner forces.

I will win. This helpless...

With a frigid shock of sheer terror, Lizaveta began to feel her resistance crumble as the Questor's awful, shocking, masculine energy battered her. Under the ruthless, animalistic assault, she felt her will becoming compressed to a mote, a poincture, as she felt the layers of her personality stripped away from her, one by one.

The dwindling soul called Lizaveta knew she had made a bad mistake: she had allowed herself to become slack in the forty years since she had last taken a Guild Questor's will... Just as she knew she was on the point of surrendering to the powerful magic-user, all resistance ceased. Gasping for breath, her vision misty and tinged with grey, she looked up to see Madeleine standing in the room, arms outstretched, a broken alabaster vase in one hand. Dalquist was kneeling before her, motionless, expressionless, his face a mask of vacuity.

Madeleine, too, was red-faced and breathless. “I sensed that you were in danger, Reverend Mother, and rushed to your aid. I made my excuses to Questor Grimm, saying that I would return in a few minutes.

"I met this mage not thirty minutes ago, and I thought that he might prove troublesome. I am glad I arrived here in time."

Now that Dalquist was safely restrained, Lizaveta took a few moments to compose herself. She smoothed her hair and her white dress, and she drew a succession of deep breaths, trying to still her pounding heart. Madeleine, younger and stronger, seemed already to have recovered, and she reached towards Dalquist's floating staff, Shakhmat.

"
Sister!
” Lizaveta screamed. “Do you not know the power resident within a mage's staff?" Madeleine stopped her hand with a jerk and looked at the Prioress with wide eyes.

"Reverend Mother,” she gasped, “what can we do? We cannot leave the Questor in this state indefinitely."

Lizaveta snorted. “I do not know enough to control the man's total will, but it is a relatively easy task to manipulate memories without disturbing his basic drives. Go back to your puppy; I can deal with this situation alone, now."

The Prioress waited until Madeleine had departed. She rolled her eyes and made a simple gesture. Dalquist's gaze flicked upwards into Lizaveta's amber eyes, his body as still as a statue.

"You remember nothing of our struggle, Questor Dalquist,” the Reverend Mother said in an intense voice. You are happy for your friend, Grimm Afelnor, and you see nothing wrong in this innocent little flirtation. There is nothing unusual about this relationship, and you will inquire no further. When you leave here, you will not remember that you have met me, but you will remember what I have said as if the conclusion is your own. You slipped on the marble floor of the bar and hit your head on the wall. This is too embarrassing to admit, and you dare not mention it to your peers." For a few moments more, Dalquist knelt, immobile, and then blinked and shook his head as if trying to clear a momentary confusion.

"So, you see, Questor Dalquist,” the Prioress hissed in a poor facsimile of a calm, honeyed voice,

“Nothing in the rules of our Order prohibits our Sister Madeleine from carrying on an innocent friendship with your colleague."

Dalquist appeared to come to his senses, but his eyes were still distant. “Ah, yes, thank you, Reverend Mother, I just wanted to be certain that my friend would not get into any trouble with you. I am relieved that he will not. He and Sister Madeleine will make such a nice couple."

Grimm awoke early, with the name of Madeleine on his lips. He felt joyous; perhaps a little
too
happy, he thought, as the room seemed to begin to sway and swivel; slowly at first but at an ever-increasing pace.

A low throb began to build in his right temple, rising to an insistent, thudding pain that seemed as if it might burst his head. His stomach began to protest, also, and his mouth felt as dry as a desert. He had enjoyed himself so much the night before, talking to and even dancing with Madeleine, and he had not noticed at the time the effects of the considerable amount of alcohol he had consumed. He reached for Redeemer, but he realised that he must have left his staff in the bar.

"Redeemer, come here."

Nothing in the mortal world could prevent a mage's staff from returning to him when summoned. If it was within plain sight, it could travel directly to his hand; if not, it would utilise a form of teleportation without the mage needing to cast the least spell. In a few moments, the rod appeared in his hand. Grimm felt the pounding in his temples and his entrails cease, and he took stock of his surroundings. He was on top of his bed, still wearing his velvet robes. A colourful profusion of other clothes lay scattered in bright abandon across the floor, along with toppled bottles of bath oil and scented powders. Grimm, shocked at the disarray he saw, began to realise the depths of intensity of his feelings on the previous night, in his eagerness to impress Madeleine.

During his long, difficult years in the Scholasticate, the Magemasters had drilled a strong sense of neatness and order into him. Still numb with horror at his uncharacteristic acts of the night before, the mage began to tidy up the room in an almost fanatical manner.

Grimm shook down his clothes, brushed them and put them, neatly folded, in the large chest-of-drawers provided for the purpose. He took care to clean the spills and stains from the walls and carpet, replaced fallen bottles on their appointed shelves, righted a toppled table and made his bed. After half an hour's frenzied effort, the Questor felt satisfied that the chamber was in its original, pristine state, whereupon he turned his attention to his own appearance and hygiene. Feeling clean and whole once more, Grimm took a frugal breakfast from the splendid array of food provided, now feeling ready to face the new day.

He mused on the events of the previous evening, and on Dalquist's comment that he was making a damned fool of himself over Madeleine. The girl was very attractive, and Grimm certainly felt very flattered at her attentions, but he had to admit that his reactions had been extreme, to say the least.
The way I turned on Dalquist was unforgivable
, he thought, his entrails churning with unease.
I
wouldn't blame him if he never talked to me again. I've got to apologise to him and try to make
amends.