exoneration Numal became morose and melancholy as he tossed back glass after glass of alcohol, and at one point he cried out, "When I was young, I wanted nothing more from my life than to make people laugh, to be happy. That person is dead, dead! You killed me! "

Crohn stepped quickly into the breach, presenting the new mage with another glass of wine.

"Necromancer Numal, you are in the company of brothers here. Be of good cheer! Gentlemen: another toast to the new mage!"

"To the new mage!"

Numal made no further outbursts, but Grimm thought, Poor bastard. That's what the Guild can do to a man. You can see it in Crohn, Thorn, Faffel, and even Kargan. What they did to me with insults and abuse, they did by grinding these men down with years of rules and regulations, stops, checks and bloody protocol. I'm never going to let that happen to me!

Grimm raised his glass again. "Congratulations to you, Numal. May the Names bless and keep you."

The new Necromancer appeared recovered after his earlier, emotional eruption, and his eyes almost focused on Grimm's.

"To the ... to the Houshe!" he slurred, drinking.

" The House! " echoed Grimm and the other mages, but the Questor's mind was on other things.

Tomorrow, he might need to face a monster. Despite the pity he felt for the lonely man, pressed into a cal ing he had never sought, Grimm made his excuses and left. He had a long day, or days, ahead of him.

Chapter 6: A Travelling Companion.

Grimm awoke early, with only wan, ruddy light creeping through his chamber window. After his customary, careful washing and grooming, he packed a large travel ing-bag with the various accoutrements he would require for a stay of a week or so at High Lodge and sauntered down to the Refectory for breakfast. He had been given three days' grace for the journey but, as the son of a blacksmith, he believed in striking while the iron was hot in more than one respect.

Although he knew there would be no staff on duty at this early hour, tables set with various food items and fruit juices were always available at this time, since several dedicated mages preferred to breakfast before the hubbub of a hundred hungry Students shattered the dawn's blessed peace.

On reaching the Refectory, Grimm felt no surprise to see several mages already taking their morning repasts. Five sat alone in silence, their attentions absorbed by scrol s or books, while four others sat in a huddled group, deep in earnest but quiet conversation.

The young Questor, although his appetite this morning was keen, decided to take a frugal meal; an over-ful stomach was not conducive to happy riding. A crusty rol , a smal pickled fish and a glass of orange juice would have to suffice. As he moved to a table, he noticed a solitary figure hunched over a ful plate. Although the mage's head was covered by a hood, Grimm noted his naked staff, bereft of any rings denoting status, marking him as a very recent addition to the senior ranks of the House. This silent figure could only be the new Necromancer, Numal.

"Greetings, Brother Mage."

Numal's head jerked up, and Grimm looked into a face of misery. The Necromancer's sal ow complexion seemed even paler than usual, and the Questor could not help but notice Numal's bloodshot eyes.

"Greetings, Grimm," was the whispered reply. "Do you think you could talk a little more quietly?"

Grimm suppressed a smile; Numal's malady was an easy one to cure. In a softer tone, he said, "Take hold of my Mage Staff, Numal. It has some very useful spel s cast upon it. Don't worry, it can't hurt you if you touch it with my permission."

The fledgling Necromancer reached out a trembling hand and clutched Redeemer. He shuddered as if palsied for a few moments, before fal ing back into his chair. Grimm was pleased to see that, although Numal's eyes were stil red, they seemed more focused and clear.

"Thank you, Grimm," Numal said. "I needed that. How did you do it?"

"It's just an application of the Minor Magics, Numal: a spel of Stability to steady your stomach and stop the world spinning around, and a spel of Clarity to clear your head. If you cast them on your staff, using the Third Instance, they'l stay there forever."

"What do I use for activation energy?" the Necromancer asked.

"They're simple enough spel s," Grimm said. "Body heat's more than adequate as a source of energy."

The new mage eyed his neglected breakfast with renewed interest and began to attack it with vigour, while the younger man polished off his own.

"I made a complete fool of myself last night, didn't I, Grimm?" Numal said, looking up from his breakfast.

His face was ruddy, embarrassed.

Grimm's shrugged. "Don't worry about it, my friend. *When the wine's in, the wit's out', as they say. I fel face-down into my food at my Acclamation feast. As I look back on it now, getting so drunk was unbelievably foolish. If you miscast a runic spel , it doesn't work and your hangover just gets worse. You can't miscast Questor magic; you invent it on the spot, but you can stil make mistakes. As a Questor, I could have wrecked the place if I'd cut loose with the wrong spel while drunk. I understand there are quite a few regrettable accidents at Acclamation banquets; it's an opportunity to let your hair down after years of self-denial."

"I don't have any hair," was Numal's sul en reply.

Grimm shrugged. "That's just a figure of speech. I'm sure a lot of mages lose control of their mouths at these affairs, and I doubt your heartfelt little outburst last night was any exception. Remember, I fel over and spewed my guts up in front of the Lord Prelate himself, so you can count yourself lucky."

"Looks like he couldn't be bothered to turn up for a mere Necromancer's celebration," the new mage observed. "You can bet if I'd been a Weatherworker, a Shapeshifter or..."

"Or a Questor." Grimm disliked the self-pitying tone in the Necromancer's words, and his mood was not improved by his growing headache.

"I know it must look that way, Numal," he continued, "but Magemaster Crohn told me Lord Thorn was in mortal combat with the quarterly accounts, or else he'd have been there."

Numal, his expression stil sour, opened his mouth to speak, but Grimm pre-empted him.

"Numal, my friend, did you join the House as a Charity Student?"

"Of course not: my tuition fees were paid by a trust fund set up by my now long-dead parents. They were keen enough to get rid of me, I noticed.

Oh, I got to go home during Scholasticate closures, of course.

Al my parents ever asked me was how I was faring with my studies: about the Magemasters, what I was learning. But I don't think they ever asked about me, my wishes or my feelings. My parents were both teachers, and I don't think they cared about anything else in the world.

"After seven years as a Student, and twenty more as a Neophyte, they died of Badlands sickness during some damned stupid expedition. Oh, the trust fund carried on paying for my tuition, and my uncle Baran, my father's brother, began to take me in during the holidays. He was no barrel of laughs, either. He was a merchant, and I think he thought more of his damned accounts than of me. Just like Lord Thorn."

"My heart bleeds for you, Numal," the Questor snapped. "I don't even remember my parents; they died when I was very smal . You wanted to be an entertainer, and I wanted to be a blacksmith, like the father I never knew, and my grandfather. So I guess neither of us got what he wanted."

Numal's mouth opened again, but Grimm interrupted him again. "Please let me finish, Necromancer Numal. Thank you. Al right, I passed from Student to mage in ten years, but they were ten years in which I never set a foot outside the Scholasticate wal s. Unlike you, I loved the people who brought me up, but I saw my grandmother only once in those long years. I didn't get to see my grandfather until after my Acclamation. My grandfather, Loras: the Renegade; The Oathbreaker; the Traitor. I'm sure you've heard of him."

Numal's eyes opened wide. "You are his grandson?" His voice was no more than a whisper, as if Grimm had spoken blasphemy or treason.

"I guess you can imagine how that glittering reputation brightened the days of a charity Student," the young mage growled. "Traitor's spawn: that's a pleasant little nickname, isn't it? I spent ten years wal ed up here, eating slop with the rest of the paupers while you ate the finest food the Refectory has to offer. I studied hard; I had to, just to keep myself from being condemned to an endless period of meaningless servitude."

Numal frowned and reasserted himself. "Ten years? You think that's a long time, Questor? I studied for four whole decades, just for a pretty ring and a piece of wood I made myself!"

Grimm felt heat flooding into his face. "Oh, that's not al , Numal, not nearly al . During the last seven months of my blissful tenure as a pauper Neophyte, I was slapped, harangued, beaten, starved and reviled on a daily basis by my tutor. He gave the other boys free reign to add to my misery, without the least interference from the Magemasters. At the end of that, I became a Questor, but it was a close cal between that and losing my mind. There were many, many days and weeks in those seven months that I gave serious thought to committing suicide, and only my determination to gain this pretty little ring sustained me.

"How was your time as Neophyte, Numal? A little tedious, perhaps? Was the prime steak you were served a little tough on occasions? I'l wager any price you name that those last seven months made your forty-odd years seem like a picnic."

Grimm noted Numal's slack jaw, and several moments passed before the older mage got it under control.

"Can they real y do that to you?" the Necromancer whispered, his eyes wide. "Magemaster Sheban was often brusque and curt when I skimped on my preparation, but he never raised a hand to me."

"They can do anything they want to a charity boy, Numal. Have you ever been forced to eat a whole bar of soap when you protested after the fifteenth slap of the day? Have you ever had to repeat a spel -chant twenty times without error, only to be beaten when fatigue made you botch a single syl able on the twenty-first? Have you ever looked over the edge into that black, deep abyss of insanity, and thought that it looked inviting?

"I ended up with the same meagre tokens of success you hold, but they mean something to me. They mean I survived: I prevailed against everything they threw at me. To me, that's no smal matter.

"Yes, Lord Thorn and the Conclave bigwigs came to my damned party, but I was just glad to be alive and sane. I got drunk, stupidly drunk, but I never once moaned about the malign hand Fate had dealt me.

I bear the Guild Ring and I have my Mage Staff, and I'm bloody proud of them-as you should be of yours.

"Stil , if you want to wal ow in self-pity, go ahead. It's a free world, isn't it?"

Grimm felt astonished by the force of the tirade that had burst from him. Although he had never once raised his voice enough to attract the attention of the other mages in the Refectory, the fiery intensity of his feelings had not been dul ed in the least.

Cold guilt began to wash over him; he had been unconscionably hard on Numal, his elder by many years, and he had a fervent hope that he had not alienated the man beyond redemption. His outburst had been unforgivable; he had used the Necromancer almost as a pugilist's punching-bag, using his Questor's iron wil like a mailed fist.

"I'm sorry, Numal," he said, his tone conciliatory and regretful. "I had no right to talk to you in that manner. Please accept my deepest apologies."

A long pause fol owed, and Grimm feared he had gone too far. Xylox had been right; he was too hotheaded. He felt immense relief as Numal proffered a wan smile and shook his head.

"Grimm, I'm so sorry. I had no idea that they could put a boy through that sort of ordeal. You're right. I never had to face hardship like that for a moment. I owe you an apology."

Numal rose to his feet, threw back his hood, and began to sing at top volume. His voice was rich, melodious and ful .

"Let's all sing of Daffo the Clown, "Daffo the Clown, Daffo the Clown!

"Let's al sing of Daffo the Clown, it's always fun when he's around!

"Merriment, pranks and japes surround our friend, "Daffo the Clown, Daffo the Clown!

"Humorous and cheerful right to the end, "Daffo the Clown's in town!"

As the other occupants of the Refectory stared in astonishment, Grimm smiled and gave respectful applause while the fearsome-looking Necromancer bowed.

"Please excuse me, gentlemen," he cal ed to the stunned assembly. "That was just a momentary excess of glee at my recent Acclamation; my apologies to you al for disturbing your meditation."

After a few grunts and grimaces, the other mages returned to their former activities.

"Numal," the young mage said, "the House may have gained a mage, but the stage has lost a great talent!"

The older man shrugged. "Whatever I felt in the past is gone, and I can't help it now. I'm a Mage Necromancer. I never wanted to be one, but I guess I'l have to make the most of it. Now, I can go where I want to, when I want to. And we mages live a long, long time."

"We do," Grimm agreed, although he harboured doubts about his own longevity if he had to complete many more Quests as arduous as the two he had already undertaken. "It's a new dawn, my friend."

As if to underline the Questor's words, the first true rays of morning sunlight began to stream through the high windows of the Refectory, and Numal smiled.

"Listen, Numal," Grimm said. "I'm about to leave for a few days at High Lodge. I wonder if you'd like to accompany me; it's a long journey if you're on your own. Would you like that?"

"High Lodge!" Numal breathed. "I've heard it's a spectacular place."

"It is. Do you ride?"

Numal's face contorted in a puzzled frown. "Horses, you mean?" Grimm nodded.

"I'm afraid not," the older man admitted. "My parents tried to teach me, but I was hopeless at it. I haven't had a lot of opportunities to fol ow it up since then."

"Al right, I'l see if I can get Doorkeeper to organise us a cart, or something. Do you want to go?"

"Certainly..." Numal's face turned grave. "Questor Grimm, I don't want to cause offence, but you're not looking for some ... special ... friend, are you?"

A few moments passed before Grimm understood what the older man meant, and then he laughed.

"Numal, my life has been short on friends so far. I like you, but that's al there is to it. Al I want is a sociable travel ing companion, and I thought you'd benefit from a little time outside when you don't have to listen to an old man talk about how rich he is."

Grimm considered he might have al ayed the Necromancer's concern more by tel ing Numal he had a beautiful girl waiting for him in Crar, but he had good reason to keep that fact hidden. He did find Numal good company, when he wasn't indulging in self-pity, but, more than that, a Necromancer might prove to be an ideal companion in his unofficial Quest to investigate the activities of the Sisters of Divine Serenity.

He was now sure that his former temptress, Madeleine, real y had been butchered in the crypts of High Lodge, and a man capable of contacting the souls of the dead, however poorly, might be an indispensable asset to this end.

Nonetheless, although Lord Thorn had named this as his next Quest, he had the distinct feeling that he was expected to vouchsafe as little information as possible; it might be better if Numal knew nothing of Grimm's ultimate purpose. He felt guilty about using the fledgling Necromancer in this manner, but he had a personal stake in this Quest.

Grimm faked an expression of exasperation and sighed. "Look, Numal, do you want to go to High Lodge, or not? If not, I'l cope, believe me.

Nobody's forcing you, you know. If you want, you can get a room on the other side of the bloody Lodge from me if you're worried about the prospect of me groping your body at night."

Numal waved his hands. "I'm sorry, Questor Grimm. Yes, I would like to see High Lodge, very much.

Please, excuse my suspicious mind. I've heard that you Questors are pretty direct, and I'm not used to that. I'l join you."

Grimm kept his tone cool. "Good man. I'l see if I can organise us a wagon, and you can make sure you're not needed here for any pressing reason. Meet me back in the Great Hal in two hours or so."

"You people don't hang about, do you?" the bald mage said. "You couldn't wait *til tomorrow, could you?"

Grimm realised that he might be pushing things too quickly. He had spoken of friends, and yet he had not spared a thought for his stalwart, reliable al ies, Madar and Argand, who had supported him when he had been a cal ow Student, and who were stil immured in the Scholasticate. His friend and fel ow Questor, Dalquist, might wel be in residence, and it would be the height of ingratitude to ignore him. Did he real y want to use Doorkeeper, as other unthinking souls did, as some menial servant, fit only to fulfil his whims and petty demands?

"Of course, Numal," he found himself saying. "Take as long as you need, within reason. I don't have to leave today, I guess I'm just a little taut; I've only been to High Lodge once before, and I don't want to be late."

Numal nodded. "Thank you, Questor Grimm. Shal we meet tomorrow?"

Grimm nodded his agreement, and Numal left the Refectory.

Am I becoming some kind of monster? Grimm asked himself. It's as if I'm becoming so immersed in my calling that I see people as only pawns in some game, to be moved and disposed of as I see fit.

Was he losing his humanity? He felt like an arrow in some great bow, pul ed back, ready to be released.

It seemed the further he progressed in his craft, the more he was in danger of becoming an automaton, a puppet of the House that had made him what he was. He was a lethal human weapon, and yet Grimm had little idea of his own motivations, no control over his destiny. He moved from situation to situation, crisis to crisis, al for the good of either the Guild or Arnor House. His concern over his grandfather's fate seemed to be only a sideline; when the Prelate, the House, or the Guild cal ed, he came. Anything else, no matter how important it appeared at first, became a mere distraction.

He might have felt even more disconcerted if he had known that this was just what Lord Thorn had intended for him from the start. The term *Weapon of the Guild' was not just a quaint, old-fashioned conceit. A good Questor was nothing more than a tool of his masters; a tool to be used to strike at their enemies.