"So have I, warrior," the young Questor snarled. "And . need him alive!"

"Do yourself a favour, kid; I'm being more than fair here." The fighter raised a large, knotted fist. "Get out of my way and you won't be hurt. We have no quarrel with you; our argument is with Kel er, but we're in no mood to negotiate. We're losing patience with Old Father Time, here."

Tordun interposed himself between Grimm and the enraged fighter. "If you want to fight someone, you could always start with me," he growled. "I am no fonder of the Pit-master than you, but the Questor, here, has a prior claim over al of us."

"You're just a new boy, Tordun," a man from the back cried. "I've been enslaved by this sick bastard for nigh on six years, and some of the other men have been fighting under the col ar for much longer than that."

Another fighter forced his way forward. His face was a patchwork of swel ings and livid scars, and his eyes blazed with an almost feral light. "I've been under Kel er's spel for fifteen years," he said. "I almost died three times after a beating and I've kil ed two good friends, thanks to this bloody col ar. And you reckon you've got more claim on him than us? You don't look much older than fifteen years yourself, conjuror. If you've real y got an older grudge than that, it must've been in a previous life! Stand aside!"

A fierce susurration of assent rose from the other warriors, and only the threatening bulk of Tordun stayed a direct assault Grimm let the pejorative term, *conjuror', slide, and he faced the new interlocutor. "I have little claim on Kel er for my own sake," he said, forcing his voice into a calm, passive tone, although his emotions blazed inside him.

"Thirty years ago, my grandfather was a Mage Questor like me He was stripped of his powers and expel ed from the Guild in disgrace after an evil witch's spel . I know Kel er knows something about it, and I want to hear the truth from his lips."

" Expelled? That doesn't sound too bad," a man cal ed from somewhere in the crowd. "It's a hel of a lot better than being enslaved. Get out of the way, mage, and give us our rightful revenge." A cheering chorus of agreement greeted this sal y, but the fighters stil hung back. However, Grimm could tel their wrath would not be contained for long.

" Pauper! Traitor's spawn! Rat's bastard!" the Questor screamed, giving vent to al the frustration and anger in his body. "From the age of seven until I gained my Guild ring, I spent scarcely a single day without hearing some such insult; many were much worse. Most were accompanied by beatings, and I lacked the size or the skil to fight back, unlike you. Most of the Students in my House regarded me as something lower than pond-scum, and my lowly, despised station ensured I was put through a frightful, awful ordeal that drove me to the very brink of madness. During that time, I was beaten almost into unconsciousness nearly every day, and I was not permitted to fight back! You, at least, are al owed to retaliate against your assailants.

"My grandfather, Loras, whose name should be hal owed throughout the Guild, is remembered as a renegade and a turncoat, who tried to murder a man for the sake of his own advancement! You have a decade of vengeance to expunge; I have a man's reputation to restore: his self-respect; his name; his life!

"I do not ask that Kel er's life be spared, just that he be al owed to live long enough to tel me what I need to know to exonerate my grandfather. I have no quarrel with any of you, but I will fight to keep him alive for long enough to obtain the information I crave. That is al I want from him; then, you may have him.

"Is that acceptable?"

The fighters muttered and grumbled to each other, and the apparent spokesman nodded. "Ten minutes,"

he said. "No more than that."

The large man put two fingers in his mouth and whistled; Grimm winced at the volume of the piercing sound. The angry fighters retreated to the margins of the Pit, but they gathered around the only exit, preventing any chance of egress.

Grimm, satisfied he would be left unmolested for the moment, turned to the Necromancer.

"What's going on, Numal?" he demanded. "Is Kel er stil alive?"

The grey-haired mage nodded, and spoke in the same strange, strangled monotone he had used before.

"We were just having a friendly little discussion when this mob of bruisers turned up, and I readied myself for a little bit of action. Then I found that this worn-out wreck of a body didn't have a hel of a lot of energy in it. I'm almost glad you turned up, youngster. I thought you were done for."

Grimm rubbed his aching left temple, confused; this did not sound like the effeminate, timid Numal at al .

He shook his head, uncomprehending.

"I'm Guy Great Flame, dimwit." the grey-haired man said in the same grinding monotone. "I'm in Numal's body for now, and he's in mine. It's some kind of bloody Necromancer spel . If you want to play with the old boy for a while, it doesn't bother me, I suppose. Al I want to do now is to get back to my own body."

Grimm nodded slowly; it al made a certain, bizarre sense now. He decided that deeper explanations could wait until later, and he knelt by the side of the fal en Pit-master, slapping Kel er's cheeks until the erstwhile Master of Ceremonies opened his eyes.

"Don't hurt me!" the man screamed. "I swear I'l tel you everything I can, as long as you don't hurt me!"

Kel er tried to scramble away, despite the fact that his back was already against the far wal of the cubicle.

"You don't have any choice, filth." Grimm breathed, feeling righteous wrath burn through him. "Tel me what you know about Loras Afelnor and Prioress Lizaveta, or I'l make you wish I'd left you to the tender mercies of your former slaves! Talk, or suffer; it's al the same to me!"

Kel er's empty, pleading eyes told the mage that the Pit-master had lost al sense of resistance.

"I don't know it al ," Kel er said, "but I do know that Loras Afelnor destroyed the slave market in this town about forty years ago. Slavery was the only means of survival for Yoren at the time, and he ruined us in a single day."

"My heart bleeds for you," Grimm growled. "Keep talking; by my reckoning, your good friends from the Pit wil be coming for you in about nine minutes. What about Prioress Lizaveta?"

"She told me she'd fixed him," the Pit-master babbled. "She cast a spel over the whole Mansion House so that we couldn't be tainted by Guild mind-magic, and she said we didn't have to worry about old Loras any more.

"Don't hurt me!"

"I know damned wel she fixed him," Grimm snapped, in no mood to extend any kind of warmth towards the pathetic man. "What did she say she'd done to him?"

Kel er's eyes flicked around, as if he were trying to find some way to escape from his desperate situation, but his gaze came back to the Questor's unremitting, intense stare.

"She said she'd made him attack some man; I don't know who, I swear," the Pit-master babbled, his face sweaty and furtive. "But she said he'd know nothing about it, and that it'd finish him. He'd never be able to bother ... someone again."

Grimm shot a magical pang of pain at the wretched man. "Who would he be unable to bother? Talk, you bastard, talk! "

"I'm trying to!" the Master of Ceremonies screamed, now appearing smal and insignificant. Grimm knew he could crush this pathetic bug in an instant, but he preferred to stay his hand in the hope of further revelations. His Mage Sight told him that al of the craven man's statements to him so far had been true.

"Kel er; I know I cannot coerce your mind through magic," he said, his voice soft but urgent, "but I wil know the moment you utter the least lie. Al Guild Mages can do this, but none of them can deal out punishment the way a Questor can.

"A single evasion or mistruth wil condemn you to an unimaginably painful and slow death, I assure you.

Only absolute, literal truth without prevarication or evasion wil preserve your miserable life.

"Do you understand, worm?"

Kel er nodded, his eyes wide and terrified. Grimm suppressed a smile. This was as it should be.

"I wil not hurt you for tel ing the truth, whatever it may be," he said, and the cool voice seemed to come from outside him. "But a lie, any lie, wil bring instant, agonising retribution. Do not worry about tel ing me what I want to hear, but, rather, fear my wrath if you try to mislead me in any way.

"I want a clear statement from you: to your certain knowledge, did Prioress Lizaveta cast a spel on Loras Afelnor, so that he would disgrace himself in the eyes of the Guild? Did she ensorcel him so that he attacked a man without his own volition? Was that the act that assured his expulsion from the Guild?"

Kel er looked from Tordun, to Grimm, and back again, and his expression bordered on sheer panic.

"Just the truth, Kel er," Grimm said. "Whatever the truth may be, I swear I wil not hurt you for tel ing it.

Any lie wil bring you anguish beyond imagining."

Kel er drew a whooping draught of air, his eyes threatening to burst from his face. "Lizaveta is ... a very powerful witch. She made Loras Afelnor attack a very important man in the Guild," he gasped. "And she cast the spel so he wouldn't ever remember it. That's al I know; I swear it, mage."

Grimm felt a smile spreading across his face, and he knew it was not an amicable one. "Wel done Kel er.

I see you spoke the truth. I have one more, very important question for you: where is the evil bitch's priory? If you tel me that, you won't see me again, I promise."

"She'l kill me, Questor!" the man screamed. "You don't know what she's like!"

It did not even need a spel -phrase; the Questor just concentrated a stream of energy at the floor. The concrete began to smoke and spal , as smal , angry, glowing fragments flew away, and the stone-like material turned an evil, glowing blood-red.

" She's in Rendale! " Kel er yel ed, as if the words had been ripped from his very soul. "Rendale, I tel you! It's about eighty miles south of here.

Take the south road to Brianston, then go thirty miles southeast onto Merrydeath Road. Anjar is five miles to the east of that, and Rendale's twenty miles south-west of Anjar, on the Ijar Road."

"Thank you, Kel er." Grimm smiled. "That's al I need to know. Thribble, did you hear al that?"

He patted his pocket, before remembering that the demon had left him. To his great relief, he heard a familiar, high voice from Numal-Guy's robe: "Al heard and registered, mage. I'l be happy to tel anyone in your Guild, if they should ask me."

The young mage smiled; he had al the evidence he could ask for. The Guild Presidium would surely accept the word of a Divulgent demon, after due investigation! Mage Sight would reveal that the imp was giving the unvarnished truth, as he had heard it. Grimm swore he would extract a more detailed account from the Prioress herself, when they met again.

"Thank you, Kel er. That is al ."

"You'l let me live?" the Pit-master pleaded. "You swore! "

"I swore I wouldn't hurt you if you told the truth, Kel er. As far as I can tel , you have done that, so I'l leave you alone. Instead, I'l leave you to the welcoming party this concerned group of men has planned for you.

"Goodbye, Kel er."

The Questor turned to the mass of assembled fighters, and said, "He's al yours, gentlemen. Enjoy."

He felt in no mood to query the toss, and he turned to Guy-Numal, ignoring the Pit-master's pitiful pleas as his former slaves converged upon him.

"Let's see how Crest and Harvel are doing, Guy," he shouted, over the growing tumult. "After that, I'm just about in the mood to destroy this whole, stinking slave-pen."

Guy laughed. Perhaps it was just his unfamiliarity with Numal's vocal tract, but the sound seemed to drip with evil.

"I'd like that a lot." The older mage grinned. "Once I'm back in my own body, I'l be just about ready to do just that. You're a man after my own heart, Questor Grimm!"

The young mage was not sure if that was a compliment or not, but he nodded, as the maddened fighters tore into the hapless body of their former master.

"Come on, Tordun. Let's get back to our own kind."

"Brianston it is," the albino said. If he was concerned about the shift in Grimm's personality, he did not show it.

Chapter 36: Farewell To Yoren.

Grimm felt a refreshing wind of relief blow through him as Dr. Hubin told him that neither Crest nor Harvel harboured life-threatening injuries.

Crest's skul had been scored by a projectile (which, Grimm learned, was properly cal ed a *bul et'), but he was otherwise unhurt. Harvel had been hit in the left shoulder by one bul et, and a second had passed clean through his midriff. However, by a miracle, the second bul et had missed al his vital organs and major blood vessels. Although the doctor had immobilised Harvel's left arm with a sling, the warrior's sword arm was unaffected.

The doctor left without a word, and Grimm felt almost overjoyed as the tiny demon, Thribble, ran to his feet.

"I prefer your pocket to Numal's!" the imp crowed, hopping onto the mage's extended hand.

"I'm glad to have you aboard once more, demon," Grimm said. "Quests wouldn't be the same without you."

With the underworld creature back in his pocket, Grimm felt the team was complete once more.

Numal, stil in Guy's body, sat upright and conscious. He looked weak, but otherwise little the worse for wear.

"Right, Numal," the Necromancer's mouth said, behind which remained the mind of Guy Great Flame.

"You've had my body long enough. Do whatever you have to do to get me back inside it."

"I can't do that," Numal-Guy said, in a similar, slurred monotone. "I don't think your body has enough strength in it to cast the spel at this time, and I haven't yet mastered your vocal organs. A miscasting could be disastrous."

"I was able to cast spel s wel enough from your body, Grandfather," Guy-Numal said, twisting his borrowed face into a rough facsimile of a sneer. "I think you just want to hang on to a young, virile body while you have the chance.

"Perhaps I can persuade you to change your mind."

The Questor smiled and produced a smal , beige box studded with coloured excrescences.

Grimm guessed the Technological artefact had something to do with the hated col ars of enslavement, and he knocked the box from the liver-spotted hand.

Guy-Numal spun around, his face a red mask of fury.

"Just who the hel do you think you are, wonder-boy? I was only joking with Granddad, here. Just butt out and mind your own bloody business; you don't own me!"

Grimm felt a hot, angry rush of blood spreading through his face; he might have disparaged Numal's powers and courage on occasion, but the Necromancer had, for once at least, acted with great bravery, and Grimm felt the fact should be acknowledged.

"Just a moment, Great Flame," he said. "We both know that Questor magic isn't the same as rune magic.

Precision is everything with a runic spel : pronunciation, cadence and tone are al vital factors. Almost any old gibberish wil do for a Questor spel .

"Numal's done a very brave thing here, and it's about time you acknowledged it! Without his courageous actions, we might al have been kil ed.

As it is, we've won: we need to get on with our Quest as a team, not bicker about who's trying to cheat whom! No, I don't own you, but I am in charge of this bloody Quest, at the behest of Lord Dominie Horin; this is not a democracy, my friend, and it's high time you realised that!"

Realising he had left Redeemer in the Pit, he summoned it, and it appeared in his upraised right hand in an instant. Looking Guy-Numal straight in the eyes, he smashed the staff's brass shoe into the brown artefact with ful force, shattering it into fragments.

"Right! That's it!" Guy-Numal cried. "You've been asking for this for a while now. Let's have it out! You and me, right here, right now!"

Grimm's rage evaporated, and he felt only calm. "I don't think you're in any condition to oppose a young, virile Seventh Level Questor, are you ...

Granddad?"

If Guy had had the ability to kil with the power of his gaze alone, Grimm knew he would be a smoking pile of ash at that very moment. However, the older Questor's borrowed eyes were the first to look away.

"Al right, youngster. You win-this time. We'l be having a few words later on, though; believe me!"