Weapon of the Guild [The Chronicles of Grimm Dragonblaster, Book 2] (33 page)

"I don't think that there's any harm in that, Grimm,” Dalquist said. “At least you'll know what Thribble's up to all the time."

"I suppose you're right, Dalquist. Thribble, you may accompany me as long as you stay out of sight. Some mages don't like the idea of humans consorting with demons." The tiny imp nodded vigorously. “Many of my kind harbour similar feelings, good mortal. I'll be quiet, I promise."

Resigned, Grimm held open a deep pocket in his yellow-and-blue robes, and the underworld creature hopped nimbly into it. As he did so, there came a polite knock at the door, which Dalquist opened. The visitor was Assistant Sub-Vice-Facilitator-in-Chief Shael.

"Greetings, Questors. I am here to accompany you to the banquet."

"Ah, Facilitator Shael, it is good to see you again,” Dalquist said. “I trust you have enjoyed your unscheduled break from your doubtless onerous duties."

"Thank you, Questor Dalquist. I am afraid I have been unable to enjoy it as fully as I might have. I have been scared to leave my room, in case I should bump into the Senior Doorkeeper or one of my superiors; I was, after all, instructed to accompany you everywhere during your stay here. I trust you, at least, spent an agreeable time in the House?"

Dalquist looked at Grimm with a raised eyebrow, and the young mage rolled his eyes.

"No problems at all, thank you, Facilitator Shael,” Grimm said with a smile. “High Lodge has been a never-ending source of wonder and fascination for us both."

Shael looked a little anxious. “I am happy to hear that, Questor Grimm. Um ... gentlemen ... may I relieve you of the Gems of Location I loaned you? There might be all sorts of trouble if it were discovered that I had surrendered them to you."

Both Questors handed over the small jewels. Grimm, for one, felt happy to do so, since he had no intention of remaining in High Lodge for longer than was absolutely necessary. Relief was apparent on the nervous Mage Facilitator's face. “Thank you so much, Brother Mages. If you would now be so good as to accompany me, we may make our way to the Hall of Celebration."

* * * *

Richly panelled in dark wood, the hall was brightly illuminated by twinkling crystal chandeliers high above. A lush, crimson carpet covered the floor, and Grimm saw tables filled with extravagant delicacies, viands and liquors along each wall. Several mages were already present, helping themselves to sweetmeats or chatting in small cliques around the hall, each group seeming to maintain the maximum possible distance from each other.

At the far end of the hall rose a marble dais with a gilded lectern. Portraits of various Guild notables hung on every wall, and a large picture of Lord Dominie Horin hung behind the dais, a stern, wise face that seemed to survey the room from every angle.

"Well, doesn't this looks like fun?” Dalquist muttered to Grimm, in a resigned manner. “I hope they don't keep the jolly revelries going all night. We've got to be up early tomorrow."

"Please excuse me for a moment, gentlemen, I have to circulate,” Shael said, his voice filled with an air of self-importance. “Do, please, enjoy yourselves."

"Be sure of it, Facilitator Shael,” Grimm said, sighing. Turning to his friend, he muttered, “Look at all these old fossils, Dalquist. It doesn't look like there are any Questors around here."

"High Lodge doesn't have any,” Dalquist replied. “All the Students here are of the paying kind; they rely on the loyal Houses to fulfil their Questing needs. This lot have got ‘High Lodge’ written all over them.

"Oh, there's a familiar face at least. It looks like old Thruwell Drought-breaker over there. He's a Weatherworker from our own House; he used to teach us Runes before you came to Arnor, until the high and mighty bloody Lodge poached him. Lord Thorn was none too pleased, I can tell you; but what High Lodge asks for, High Lodge gets."

Grimm followed his friend towards the grizzled mage, and Dalquist introduced him to the ancient Weatherworker, who was stuffing his face like a starving man. “Weatherworker Thruwell, it's good to see you again,” Dalquist said, bowing. “May I introduce my associate, Questor Grimm Afelnor?" The old mage peered at Dalquist through bleary, myopic eyes. “Rufior, isn't it?” he mumbled, through a mouthful of food. “I took you for Runes, as I remember,” he continued, after a mighty swallow. “A waste of my time, by the looks of it. You Questors don't seem to have much use for all that hard-learned wisdom. You are a Mage of the Seventh Rank, I see. It took me forty years of hard work to win that accolade, and it doesn't please me to see some young whipper-snapper throwing it all back in my face." Dalquist laughed. “Magemaster Thruwell, you haven't changed in the slightest. You're as friendly as ever."

The wrinkled pedagogue fixed his disapproving gaze on Grimm. “A child like this, with five rings on his staff; what is the world coming to?"

Grimm felt defensive. He knew his rapid succession to the Fifth Rank had been a lucky break, and yet he knew he had faced travails worse than any Magemaster had ever had to bear. “Weatherworker Thruwell, I—"

Dalquist interrupted, smoothly. “Questor Grimm proved instrumental in the defeat of a demon magic-user who was intent on stealing the innermost secrets of the entire Guild. Neither of us should have prevailed without the wise counsel of Magemasters such as you, and we thank you." He bowed respectfully, and Grimm followed suit with alacrity.

Mollified, Thruwell nodded. “I should think so, too,” he muttered, and shuffled over to one of the other groups.

"Well, it's always nice to see a friendly face,” Grimm said, with an ironic smile. Now, quite a few mages were milling around the hall. One of them, a tall, pale-complected individual with a bald head, looked around to as if to assess the level of attendance, then strode to the dais and rapped his staff three times on the lectern.

"If I might have your attention, gentlemen?

"Thank you. I would like to welcome you all to the Hall of Celebration. All of you have in some way recently distinguished yourselves in your service to the Guild, and we of High Lodge like to ensure that those rewarded by it will have a celebration to remember. I am Doorkeeper Shree, and I am to be your master of ceremonies for the evening. Perhaps we could all take a few moments to introduce ourselves and say a few words ... perhaps you would like to start the ball rolling, so to speak, Brother Mage?" Shree indicated a tired-looking middle-aged man with three rings on his staff and a mottled, discoloured complexion that said more about his Speciality than words could.

"Er, thank you, Doorkeeper Shree. Er, my, um, name is Argul Trug, and I am an Alchemist from Husel House. I like to cultivate flowers in my spare time. I was recently elevated to the Third Rank after discovering how to convert gold into pure lead."

"Why, thank you, Alchemist Argul. And what about you, sir..." Several people were already edging towards the door and Dalquist nudged Grimm in the ribs. “We said we'd be here, and we are. Did anybody say anything about being here all night?"

"They did not,” Grimm replied. “What about you, Thribble? Can you bear to be dragged away from all this revelry?"

The small demon's head popped up from Grimm's pocket, bearing a somewhat annoyed expression.

“This is a snare and a delusion. These people are boring; I don't want their stupid stories."

"I couldn't agree more, Thribble. What do you say that we go back to our room? I'm sure I have some good brandy in there, and I know how you like a drop of that."

The demon looked pleased at the idea, licking his lips with his forked tongue in anticipation.

"Just one problem,” Dalquist said. “How do we find our way back without the aid of one of Shael's wonderful little gems?"

"Leave it to me,” the demon squeaked. “I have a perfect memory, and I remember every little twist and turn that we took on the way. Lead me to my beverage!"

"Very well, Thribble, an early night it is. I can't wait to get back home."

Back at the Accommodation Block, Dalquist bade Grimm goodnight, and told him that Cally should be arriving with the carriage to take them back to Arnor House at first light.

"It won't be a moment to soon for me, Dalquist,” Grimm said with fervour. “I can't wait to be back where I belong."

"I can only agree,” the senior mage replied. “I'm going to get some sleep, and I suggest you do the same."

Grimm looked at the tiny, expectant face of Thribble protruding from his pocket. “I will do so in a little while, Dalquist. Our small friend Thribble seems to have a considerable thirst, which it would be inhospitable not to slake, so I'll share a drink or two and chat for a while longer before I retire. Goodnight."

When Dalquist closed the door, the demon looked eager as the young mage took a small thimble from a pocket and filled it with amber liquor. Grimm took a rather more generous measure for himself, and felt good humour seeping through him as the alcohol sent warming waves into his body. The human and the demon chatted for a while, as Grimm gave Thribble an unvarnished account of Madeleine's attempted ensorcellment of him, and his gradual realisation of the truth of their relationship. Thribble listened, rapt at first, but, after two thimblefuls of good brandy, the minuscule imp was in an uproarious state, laughing, clapping his hands and dancing. After a while, he fell asleep, and Grimm laid the demon carefully inside his travelling bag, shutting him in the chest-of drawers. The netherworld being snored at a volume that belied his minute frame, but the heavy wood of the closed drawer attenuated this to a bearable level.

Grimm downed a couple more brandies, and then reached for Redeemer in order to clear his head. However, instead of annulling the effects of the alcohol, he backed it off just a little, retaining the pleasant, warm, good-humoured sensations he had felt earlier.

He read a little from a book he had borrowed from the library of Thaumaturgical Research, but his eyelids began to flutter, the words began to blur and the book eventually fell from his hand. Grimm snuffed the light, and was quickly asleep.

* * * *

A sharp smell of ammonia seemed to bring him to his senses, and Grimm felt himself drifting upwards and outwards, until he found himself looking down at what appeared to be his own, sleeping body. The mouth hung slightly open, and the eyes rolled and darted beneath their lids as if seeking some fugitive prey.

His senses seemed acutely heightened; even in the dark room, colours appeared bright and vivid, and it was as if he could see every thread in his blanket and hear every tiny sound; Thribble's amplified snoring grated like a rough thread being drawn through the mage's ears.

Ears?
Surely nothing so crude and corporeal; Grimm was aware of his
essence
, but he had no sense of encumbrance or limitation, such as that imposed by a mere mortal body. He was flying, soaring, floating in the air. Grimm Afelnor had often tried to achieve this effect before, but the best he had achieved was an uneasy, wobbling, precarious levitation that was more strenuous than exhilarating. This was different; this was liberation and joy, a pure, unalloyed sense of freedom he had never before experienced.

As if drawn by some invisible thread, he felt himself moving down through the floor, which proved no barrier to his ethereal form. Vague images flitted through his consciousness: the Senior Doorkeeper berating one of his underlings for sloppy dress; an Adept's staff shattering against a Breaking Stone similar to that at Arnor House; a hot, busy kitchen buzzing with activity. Still he moved downwards at a relentless, increasing pace.

It seemed as if an age passed before he ceased his downward journey, and the dream-Grimm could now take stock of his surroundings. This was no chandelier-lit, mahogany-panelled realm of extravagance; there were bare stone walls and a flagstone floor, dappled with flickering shadows from crude rush torches and oil lamps. Moisture dripped from an unseen ceiling. He guessed he was in the very bowels of High Lodge, deep beneath the ground, within that monstrous edifice's very foundations, and that these regions were visited only infrequently.

A corner of his mind wondered who had illuminated these dingy catacombs, and for what purpose: workmen, perhaps, or victuallers replenishing the Lodge's capacious storehouses, he surmised. Despite his heightened senses, he felt no sense of urgency, just a mild interest in his surroundings. He drifted through the stone-pillared labyrinth, aimless and unrestricted. Under normal circumstances, he might have felt more than a little claustrophobic at finding himself in such a dimly-lit, dingy maze, aware of the crushing weight of the gigantic structure, millions of tons pressing down upon the roof above him, but he felt that the entire structure could collapse at this point and leave him utterly unscathed. The catacombs were like a blancmange; each part identical in form and construction to each other. The layout seemed to be in the form of a regularly spaced lattice of massive stone pillars, sinking deep into the earth and supporting the entire weight of the Lodge. Not for the first time, Grimm supposed that some mighty magic must have been invoked in the raising of this titanic building. Surely no secular architect could have been so bold as to envision such a massive undertaking, and no common artisan or engineer would have known how or where to start its construction.

The disembodied consciousness of Grimm Afelnor became aware of a distant humming, a rhythmic pulse that waxed and waned in a metronomic, hypnotic fashion. It was far in the distance, and it would have been inaudible to mortal ears, but it came through clearly to spirit-Grimm's heightened senses. Without volition, he felt drawn inexorably towards it, unerringly guided through the warren of anonymous, identical passages.

Closer, closer; the relentless rhythm, now identifiable as a low chant, seemed to fill his consciousness, subsuming and swamping his very will. It was as if he were some passive castaway in a thick, heavy, glutinous sea, being carried along on an unchanging wave.

Dream-Grimm saw a door ahead of him, surrounded by an aura of golden light that streamed from its edges. A mere physical portal was no barrier to his ethereal form, and he drifted through it as easily as his physical body might have moved through a curtain of mist.