Then he had leapt into his new, unofficial Quest with almost frenetic zeal, despite knowing that such a secret undertaking would garner him neither acclaim nor official recognition. Grimm just felt so honoured that Lord Thorn trusted him to carry out the deed alone. When he encountered Crohn in the dining gal ery, he had been fil ed with the warmth of deep gratitude at the very sight of the man who had made him what he was: a Mage Questor.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Numal's quizzical gaze as he mul ed over his recent behaviour.

Nonetheless, he was in no mood to answer until he was ready. He had chewed Numal out, considering that the man had belittled and demeaned his cal ing. Then he had turned his back on his best friend, after Dalquist's suggestion that Lord Thorn might be responsible for an uncaring and cal ous disregard for his Neophytes. Perhaps he was....

No! The thought-word slammed through his head like a crossbow bolt, and Grimm stifled the thought at birth. He was just becoming older and wiser, and finding a new and just respect for his superiors.

If only my Names-cursed head didn't ache so much!

"Let's just forget the whole thing, shal we, Numal?" Grimm said. "It was just a sil y misunderstanding, after al . I've had a bad headache for a while now, and I just can't seem to shift it. That's al there is."

Grimm forced a smile onto his face, although it felt as if it hung there like a lead weight.

A relieved sigh from Numal told him that the matter was al but forgotten, and the pain in his skul seemed to lift a little. Nothing mattered but his Quest. Somehow, Grimm knew, his incessant, cursed introspection was causing the pain, and it appeared that al he needed to do to al eviate the dul , dismal ache was to keep his mind occupied.

At last, he noticed the beauty of the morning: the lovely play of light and shade across the forest, the dappled patterns of green and brown across the land, the deep blue of the celestial vault, and the invigorating warmth of the golden, rising sun.

"Numal, I think your suggestion of a little sing-song would be just the thing to celebrate this gorgeous day.

Do you know The Fair Maiden of Sambata?"

"I think I remember that ditty," the older mage replied. "You take the main line, and I'l take the counterpoint."

The rest of the morning seemed to fly by as the two mages sang and joked together.

As the sun passed its zenith, High Lodge hove into view and, for once, Numal was silent as the fantastic, golden edifice revealed itself.

"Impressive, isn't it?" Grimm felt like an old hand now. It might be only his second visit to the Lodge, but he spoke as a man of the world sharing familiar wonders with a cal ow ingenue.

Numal gaped as the bizarre, fabulous structure began to reveal itself: the bulbous cupola with its lace-like metal spider's web, the sky-probing turrets; the lambent sheen of the stonework.

" Impressive? " Numal yelped. "It's incomparable!"

As the cart bore down towards the wide, empty plain on which High Lodge sat like some misshapen, golden mushroom, the radial tracery of roads leading to the Lodge became apparent, delicate black lines on pale-green baize. Now, the sheer scale of the immense structure began to assert itself, and Numal whistled in appreciation.

"It's utterly magnificent! I had no idea..."

Numal's voice was like that of a smal child visiting a vast bazaar, fil ed with enticements and wonders beyond his imagining, and Grimm smiled.

"I defy anybody to see this and remain unmoved, Numal. I was just as stunned as you on my first visit, I promise you."

As the cart approached the main gate, reserved for visiting mages, Grimm leaned towards his companion.

"It'l be the stiffest Mage Speech you've ever used from now on, I'm afraid. They're pretty starchy here, even compared to Arnor, but you'l soon get used to it."

Al Numal could manage was a nod, his lower jaw slack and unresponsive.

Grimm brought the cart to a halt in front of the two halberd-wielding guards who oversaw the gate, their weapons barring access. "What business have you here?" a third man cried, stepping forward. He wore leather armour embel ished by a burnished, silver escutcheon on his left breast, which, Grimm guessed, was some badge of rank, but this signified nothing. In this establishment, mages ruled supreme.

"Questor Grimm and Necromancer Numal from Arnor House seek admission," Grimm cal ed, showing the blue-gold ring adorning his left ring finger. He nudged Numal with his elbow, and the Necromancer fol owed suit.

"Thank you, Sirs, that's quite in order," the officer said, and Grimm felt pleased that the soldier's manner held no hint of servility. "If you'd be so good as to leave your cart here, I'l have someone take care of it, and I'l make sure your bags are taken to your rooms."

As the two mages stepped from the conveyance, the officer clapped his hands, and the two guards swung their halberds into a vertical position.

The gate was, of course, shut, but Grimm waved his left hand at the portal and it opened, just like the main door of Arnor House.

The main concourse of the Lodge was as bustling and noisy as Grimm remembered it from his previous visit, and he saw the tal , imposing form of the Senior Doorkeeper standing just inside the doorway. The Doorkeeper's black staff, resplendent with seven gleaming gold rings, hovered obediently at his side.

"Greetings, Brother Mages," the urbane mage intoned in a rich, deep voice.

"Greetings, Senior Doorkeeper," the Questor replied.

"Ah, Questor Grimm, it is good to see you here once more," the urbane, dark-skinned mage rumbled, and Grimm marvel ed anew at the man's prodigious powers of memory, even if the ritual greeting held little warmth.

"Senior Doorkeeper, may I present Necromancer Numal, only recently Acclaimed? Numal, this is the Senior Doorkeeper of High Lodge...

" Numal! " Grimm jabbed an impartial elbow into the Necromancer's side.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Senior Doorkeeper." Numal turned his wide eyes from the mil ing crowd of mages and Secular petitioners fil ing the enormous lobby.

"Remember, Mage Speech only," Grimm whispered, noting Numal's inadvertent contraction and the Senior Doorkeeper's disapproving gaze at this breach of Lodge protocol.

Numal drew himself to his ful height and cleared his throat. "My apologies, Brother Mage," he said, with the ful punctilio expected of a thaumaturge. "I found myself distracted by the magnificence of this splendid establishment."

"Understandable," the elegant major-domo said, nodding. "Welcome, Necromancer Numal, to High Lodge. Your baggage is being conveyed to your rooms: four-thirty-five and four-thirty-seven in the Accommodation Block. Would you be so kind as to accompany me?"

Grimm knew the Lodge was like a rabbit-warren, al but impenetrable in its intricacy, except to its incumbents.

"Senior Doorkeeper," he said in a polite voice. "Our long journey has given me a considerable thirst, and I would relish the chance to slake this before we settle in. Would you be so kind as to furnish us with Location Stones, so that we may find our way without imposing on your valuable time?"

The dark man's eyes widened, as if Grimm's request might constitute some heinous breach of protocol, but he nodded.

"Very wel , Questor Grimm. Your request is irregular, but not unreasonable." He fished in a commodious pocket, and drew out a pair of green gems. "I wil trust you to return these baubles before you leave High Lodge. They are not to leave here with you. Is that wel understood?"

Grimm bowed his head. "Brother Mage, I swear as a representative of Arnor House that your trust wil not be misplaced."

He took the gems, passing one to his bewildered and uncomprehending companion. "Thank you, Senior Doorkeeper."

He felt tempted to add "That is al , my man," but stopped himself. He might find the mage's prissy ways irksome, but it would be fol y to antagonise him; he was only fulfil ing his role to the best of his abilities.

"Oh, I have just one more thing to ask," he said, remembering his mission. "Are the Sisters of Divine Serenity stil domiciled here?"

Senior Doorkeeper nodded. "Yes, Questor Grimm. Many Seculars here are in need of spiritual enlightenment, and the Sisters fulfil that need admirably, although they accept no male devotees. May I ask, therefore, what interest a Fifth Rank Mage Questor might have in an exclusively female religious Order?"

"My interest is purely academic, I assure you, Doorkeeper. It is, after al , incumbent upon a Guild Mage to be aware of the tenets of alternative creeds, so that he may avoid unfortunate breaches of protocol in social situations." This might be the simple answer, the rote answer, but the Questor felt surprised and not a little disgusted at how easily the falsehood rose to his tongue.

His expression unreadable, the imperturbable Senior Doorkeeper flowed away, back into the anonymous crowd.

Grimm felt the ache in his head begin to grow again, and he grabbed Numal by the shoulder. "Do you fancy a drink or two, Numal? It's been a long morning."

The Necromancer seemed fascinated by the ebb and flow of humanity within the hal , but he nodded, tearing his eyes from the mortal tide. "Al right, Grimm. Yes, I suppose a drink might be nice."

The young Questor felt as if he were trapped within some crazy dream, a bal being batted back and forth in some cosmic game. It was as if he were already drunk, before he had sampled even a drop of alcohol. Something seemed to push him onwards.

Action, not idleness! the insistent inner voice screamed.

Was he going mad? He had to do something to stil the raving beast in his head. Vortices seemed to swirl and careen within his skul , but he no longer cared. The head-voice screamed at him, urging him not to rest. Grimm knew he must stay awake, although sleep seemed to offer such a sweet consummation.

"I know just the place," he said at last, winking. "Come with me."

As the two mages walked across the crowded hal , a smal sound, like the mewling of a wounded cat, emerged from Grimm's throat, but it was swal owed by the clamour of the swarming multitude.

Lord Thorn groaned as hot shafts of pain stabbed his brain, and his trembling hands hovered over the green crystal, barely touching it. He could hear Questor Grimm's words through his spel -link with the youth, but only with great effort.

Half a bottle of brandy had failed to al ay the incessant, agonising stabs that now plagued him, and he knew his spel of Compulsion had not gone as wel as he had thought. Somehow, the Afelnor boy seemed to be fighting the spel . Something had to give, and Thorn felt determined it was not going to be him.

Once more, the liquor made its burning trail down the Prelate's throat, but he resolved that he would take no more.

Names curse it, this boy is strong. But I'll be damned if he's as potent as a Seventh Level Questor of forty years' seniority!

Reaching into reserves he had not touched for decades, Thorn reasserted his authority and reinforced his spel , despite the silver lances of pain that now speared into his eyes. After a few moments, he felt the resistance, the self-examination cease, and he began again to hear through the youth's ears: "Do you fancy a drink or two, Numal? It's been a long morning."

Good lad, Questor Grimm. Drink should lower your resistance.

Thorn's eyes ached and his body felt as limp as warm lettuce. He fel back in his throne, exhausted, and he knew despite his proud boast to himself, he was not the potent sorcerer he had once been.

Chapter 9: Introspection and Investigation.

Dalquist sighed, shut his book with a bang and rubbed his sore eyes, realising that he had just read the same paragraph three times without registering its contents. The sun's orb was bisected by the horizon, and the Library was now empty.

Tertiary Rune Structures in Translocative Applications would have proved a tedious and chal enging book to the vast majority of mages.

However, to a Mage Questor, a thaumaturge who could make his own magic without recourse to the strictly-regimented, pedestrian panoply of rote-learned runes, it was little more than sheer torture. Added to this, the Questor's mind was far from focused on his reading.

He considered how honoured he felt when Senior Magemaster Crohn requested that he become an Associate Magemaster: to any teaching Guild House, the Scholasticate was the very hub, the life-essence that sustained it. One of the most valuable contributions a mage could make to his House was to engage in the effort to turn cal ow, ignorant Students into ful Guild Mages. However, the gulf between a Mage Questor and a practitioner of any other Speciality was enormous. Most Magemasters took decades to master the complex rune interactions governing their crafts, whereas Questors were free spirits, unfettered by the restrictions of a limited set of spidery characters, their only limits were those imposed by their imaginations.

No, he told himself. It's not studying these runes that's disturbing my concentration. It's Grimm.

Dalquist squeezed his eyes shut and slapped his left palm onto his forehead, as if this might clear his thoughts. He remembered Grimm as a frightened, insecure seven-year-old Student, trying to pretend that he had not been weeping. There had been power in his eyes even at that tender age, and also signs of great intel igence. Dalquist had led the boy to the very place in which he now sat, and Grimm had reacted as if al his birthdays had arrived at once.

Later on, there was a traumatised adolescent, recovering from his violent Questor Outbreak and so pleased to see his older friend. Dalquist spent many, many days and months with the new Adept, in the company of Crohn, patiently teaching the boy how to control and ration his thaumaturgic energies, so he could use his mind to open a door without smashing down the surrounding wal at the same time. Grimm had been patience and persistence personified, despite the trauma he had suffered.

Dalquist recal ed the young First Rank Questor, his confidence growing every day on the arduous Quest to free the city of Crar from the influence of the demon lord, Starmor, his friendship with the senior mage burgeoning into a relationship of staunch trust and mutual respect.

Despite the seven nightmarish months of Questor Ordeal Grimm had described, far worse than Dalquist's own period of suffering, the young man turned into a stable, level-headed person, amiable and reliable.

Yes, he had turned surly and vicious during the period of his unintentional addiction to the herbs Trina and Virion, but that had passed. Were the insidious pangs of drug withdrawal perhaps reasserting themselves?

Dalquist opened his eyes, leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling without seeing. Indeed, Grimm's rages, while his body had craved the fumes of the mind-altering herbs, had been sudden and severe, but they had been uncontrol ed, directed at anybody in his vicinity. On their meeting the day before, Grimm had seemed as companionable and placid as ever, until the subject of Lord Thorn's possible complicity in the indiscriminate application of a new, more vicious Questor Ordeal had arisen.

Grimm then turned on his fel ow mage, his most loyal al y, Dalquist Rufior. The change in his demeanour had been startling, his lips drawn back from his teeth in a snarl as he extol ed the virtues of the House, the Guild, and of Lord Thorn in particular.

This was not the Grimm Afelnor Dalquist remembered, but a pale imitation with Grimm's face: a marionette dancing at the command of another.

A single, muttered word escaped his lips: "Thorn."

A shock of realisation flashed through Dalquist's brain like a lightning bolt, painful in its intensity.

It has to be Lord Thorn who turned Grimm in this way...

The only Mentalist within the House of sufficient skil to overcome the phenomenal, Ordeal-induced wil power of a Questor seemed to be Magemaster Kargan, and he seemed on good terms with his former pupil. Only another mage of the same cal ing or a potent Questor might even hope to achieve the feat. The only other Questors in the House, apart from Dalquist himself, were the doddering Olaf and the haughty Xylox.

Olaf was no longer the mighty thaumaturge he had been in his youth, and Dalquist could not imagine him prevailing in a contest of wil s with Grimm.

On the other hand, Xylox could not be so swiftly dismissed as a candidate.

Dalquist knew Xylox and Grimm had been on far from good terms during their recent Quest, and the petty mage was just the kind to seek to instil in the high-spirited young Questor a sense of proper respect for his superiors. Nonetheless, Xylox the Mighty, despite his extravagant soubriquet, was notable for his parsimony, not least in the expenditure of his magical energies. Dalquist had once Quested with him, and he had lost count of the number of times he had been subjected to the man's censorious watchword: a true Questor conserves his strength.

Xylox, whatever his faults, was ever true to his dicta, and Dalquist could not imagine him expending a vast amount of thaumaturgic power just to teach a recalcitrant junior mage a lesson.

That left the Lord Prelate. At sixty years, Thorn was stil young for a mage, who might reasonably expect to live to an age of a hundred and thirty years or more. He was a Mage Questor of the Seventh Rank, with almost four decades of experience. Whilst it was not unknown for Neophytes and Adepts to be placed under spel s of Compulsion to reveal nothing of their training to Seculars or Students, it went against al House protocol to place such a spel on a ful Guild Mage, who might reasonably be expected to fulfil his sworn Oath under al circumstances. Loyalty to the House and the Guild was burnt into al magic-users at an early age, but by more conventional means.

Dalquist rubbed his chin.

Just what are you trying to imply, Rufior? he chided himself. Why would Lord Thorn feel the need to impose his direct will on the House's most junior Questor?

This is going nowhere. I need more information. For example: has the Questor Ordeal really been increased in severity since my day, or could Grimm have been exaggerating?

Senior Magemaster Crohn might be the key. He had been Grimm's personal nemesis during the Neophyte's Ordeal. Had he been suborned to exceed the normal bounds of discipline in order to produce a new Questor at al costs, or had it been his own idea? It would require the height of tact and diplomacy to discover the truth from such a senior and wel -respected mage, but Dalquist believed himself equal to the task. He was an experienced and careful mage, and he was not about to raise major ructions in the House, based only on vague suspicions and doubts.

Dalquist located Crohn, at last, in one of the Scholasticate classrooms, wading through a tal pile of papers. It could not be denied that the man was a dedicated and thorough educator.

The Senior Magemaster looked up, and his face brightened as he rose to his feet. "Questor Dalquist, how may I help you? How go your studies?"

Although the Questor's mind was turbulent, he remembered his Mage Speech. One of the advantages in this formal, cumbersome mode of discourse was that the slow, wordy manner of delivery gave time to think of just what to say.

"None too wel , I fear, Senior Magemaster. As you may imagine, I have already forgotten much of what I learned about runes."

Crohn wagged an admonitory finger. "That is the trouble with you Questors: in one ear, and out of the other. I would remind you that we have an urgent need for more Magemasters; or would you prefer to pol ute Arnor House with unorthodox-thinking Outsiders?"