Grimm Dragonblaster 5, page 17
Still, I wish something would happen, he thought. This is beginning to get...
"All finished,” Kargan said, with more than a trace of pride in his voice, and Dalquist opened his eyes.
“Bledel Soulmaster's Temporal Divinatory Conjunct, as promised. It's never been done before—at least, not here."
To his astonishment, Dalquist found himself not in some mystical dimensional construct, but still in the Magemaster's chamber. The Mentalist's grin seemed at odds with the prosaic surroundings, and Dalquist sat up, confused.
"Er, Magemaster Kargan,” he said, “We just seem to be where we were. We don't seem to have moved at all."
"Of course not, Questor Dalquist; we're here because this is where we are."
Has Kargan lost his mind? Dalquist wondered. Perhaps he thought he was casting a spell but was really just exercising his throat!
"Your mind is here, and now, Brother Mage,” Kargan said, an almost manic glint in his eyes. “So that is where we are. However, when you access a memory, we will travel to the time and place at which that memory was recorded."
"How does that help?” Dalquist frowned. “We've already established that I can't remember what happened to me in Lizaveta's study at High Lodge."
Kargan sighed. “It's complicated, but I'll have to ask you to trust me. I suppose a demonstration is in order. I'd like you to lie back again and close your eyes. Concentrate on ... let's say yesterday's lunch.
"By the way, you should find this pretty interesting."
Dalquist shrugged and did as the mad old man told him. This was an easy enough memory to access, and he took himself back to the previous afternoon...
With a start, he opened his eyes, as clamour assaulted his ears.
"Say something,” Kargan said. “Good, isn't it?"
He was standing beside Kargan in the middle of the Refectory, looking at himself. Students yammered, Neophytes and Adepts studied books and servants bustled around the hall, just as usual. He jumped as a waiter materialised in front of him, seemingly having just walked through him.
Perhaps this is just some bizarre illusion, he thought. All I've got to do is just—
"It's real, Questor Dalquist,” Kargan said. “We're real, too, but we're in a three-dimensional construct outside the normal, physical world. We can move around, see, hear and smell, but we can't interact. This is the Refectory, yesterday, not some fantasy or glamour designed to beguile you. While you refrain from concentrating on some other memory, we remain here."
Dalquist frowned. “How does this help? I can see myself eating a dish of chicken breasts, marinated with truffles and almonds. I already know I ate that."
"Come over here,” Kargan said, pointing to one of the Students’ huddles. “Come on, you can just walk through the tables and chairs; they're no barrier to us."
Dalquist followed the Magemaster, involuntarily flinching as he seemed to contact the diners and the furniture. However, Kargan had spoken truth; his apparently solid body passing through these obstructions as if they were not there.
"...so we'll jump on him right after the study period, yes?” one of the silk-attired Students said, his brown eyes earnest and intent. “We won't leave him with anything that shows at all, of course."
The red-headed, freckled boy opposite him snorted."You're crazy, Gura. Crohn'll know, for sure. You know what that'll mean."
Gura smiled. It was not a friendly smile. “Crohn the Moan? He's in on it, I tell you, Uras! As long as we don't maim or kill him, we can do what we like to that whining little pauper brat! And I say we show that wastrel rat, Chag-bag, who're the bosses around here."
"If you're sure it'll be all right, Gura ... all right; I'm in!"
"Me, too,” the other boys chorused, and Dalquist swayed a little, feeling nauseous.
"Pleasant little tykes, aren't they?” Kargan said. “I've had my eye on that Gura for some time."
"There's another boy being put through the Questor Ordeal, Kargan,” Dalquist said with dread certainty.
“I'd guess they're talking about Chag Jura—he's a Neophyte I took for Interpretation of Lore a couple of weeks ago. Thorn—Prelate Thorn—must have singled him out for special attention."
"I'd guess the note I received from Senior Magemaster Crohn has something to do with that,” the elder Magemaster said. “I must confess, I didn't read it. Politics makes me weary. Still, I bet you didn't know this nasty little conclave was going on yesterday, did you?"
Kargan's offhand tone showed that he had little idea of the torment that young Chag might suffer before—if—he ever became a Questor. Dalquist felt a bond with the Neophyte that few ordinary mages would ever understand; especially if the polite, pleasant youngster's treatment was anything like that accorded to Dalquist's friend, Grimm.
"I take your point, Magemaster,” Dalquist said, sighing. “We're in my memories, but out of them, so to speak. My act of remembering takes us to the correct place and time, but we're not a part of it. We're free to roam around, and see and hear whatever's going on."
"Exactly! So, if you'd just take yourself back to the moment when you knocked on Prioress Lizaveta's door, we should be able to see just what happened."
Dalquist nodded, trying to put thoughts of Chag Jura out of his head. He closed his eyes and remembered...
When he opened them again, he was standing behind another Dalquist, as the door to the Prioress’
chamber opened.
This is it! he thought. At last; now we'll get to the bottom of the matter!
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Chapter 18: Erik's Doubts
Shakkar felt himself sinking lower in the sky, as the ground cooled in the waning light of the dusk sun.
With senses that only another flying creature could appreciate, he felt his dangling, human burden sapping his lift and burdening him with drag. His back muscles screamed, and he knew he could not remain aloft for long. A strong opposing wind did not help matters, either.
"Sergeant Erik!” he yelled, his wings feeling leaden and stiff. “I must set down soon. What do your glass eyes tell you?"
"They're called ‘binoculars', Lord Seneschal. And they tell me there's a city coming up. From my maps and charts, this must be Brianston."
With hope giving his wings new strength, the demon flew on until he too saw the conurbation. Magnificent it was, with splendid silver spires and crystal castles bordering gold streets, and even Shakkar felt impressed at the abilities of humans to create such wonders. Demon architecture, he had come to realise, was dull and unimaginative in comparison to even the most ordinary of human edifices. The buildings of this city were far from ordinary.
"Impressive, isn't it, Lord Seneschal?” Erik yelled. “I think we should make our way to the central plaza.
There are a number of folk about. It looks as if they're having some sort of fiesta or party."
On the margins of the city, Shakkar banked his wings and began to descend. Ten feet above the ground, he released the sergeant, who rolled with practiced ease as he landed. In one smooth motion, he was on his feet as the demon's clawed feet contacted the earth.
"Looks deserted, Lord Seneschal.” The sergeant gestured towards the empty streets.
Shakkar nodded. “I presume they are all at the fiesta of which you spoke, Sergeant."
Despite the grandeur of their surroundings, Shakkar felt a little unnerved by the eerie stillness. This seemed like a ghost town, and he much preferred noise and bustle around him. However, the distant sounds of revelry soon reached his ears, growing louder as the man and the demon drew nearer to the town square.
"Not all,” Erik said, pointing to an approaching figure, a white-haired man dressed in flowing crimson robes. “We've got company."
Shakkar saw a broad grin on the old man's face.
"At least it looks like someone's pleased to see us, Lord Seneschal,” Erik muttered Shakkar grunted, “Or he knows something we do not."
"Greetings, travellers!” the old man cried. “We do not have many visitors to our fair city, and it is my pleasure to welcome you to Brianston.
"My, you're a size, aren't you?” he said, eyeing up Shakkar.
"I am Shakkar, a being from the nether regions, mortal,” the demon rumbled. “I bid you greetings, likewise. This is my companion, Sergeant Erik."
"Shakkar, Sergeant Erik, I bid you most welcome. I am Revenant Murar, an elder of this city, and its traditional Guide and Protector. May I ask what brings you to Brianston?"
"We seek information concerning a party which may have passed through here recently, Revenant Murar.” Shakkar kept his tone civil. “A party of four warriors and three Guild Mages. The smallest warrior is of the elven race, and the eldest may be wearing a green uniform similar to that of Sergeant Erik. Do you know anything of them?"
Murar rubbed his white beard, his brow furrowed. After a few moments, he shook his head. “Three Guild Mages!” he said, whistling. “I'm sure I would have remembered such a notable party, Shakkar, and I make it a point to greet all our visitors. No, I'm sorry to tell you that your friends have not passed through here."
"Perhaps somebody else may have seen them passing through,” the Seneschal suggested, “while you were otherwise engaged. Perhaps we might consult a few of the other citizens?"
"Impossible, I'm afraid, Lord Shakkar.” The Revenant's expression suggested the deepest sorrow and anguish. “We are in the middle of our five-yearly ‘Festival of Life'. It is a religious celebration, which is closed to non-citizens. In any case, even when I am unable to greet a party of travellers in person, another Revenant will inform me of all movements through the city. Visitors rarely pass through here, as I told you.
"Still, you are free to roam through Brianston as you will, but please take care not to disturb the revelries in the town square. If you require rooms for the night, I can direct you to suitable lodgings on the edge of town. We maintain a skeleton staff in one of the hostelries, even in mid-Festival."
"Why do you keep on staff for visitors who never come?” Erik asked.
Murar shrugged. “It is an old tradition, kept over from the days when Brianston was a major centre of trade, Sergeant. We are a thoughtful folk, and we do not abandon our customs lightly."
"May we wait until the Festival of Life has finished?” Shakkar asked. “Perhaps someone was remiss in their duties, and he or she forgot to inform you."
The old man spread his arms, his palms uppermost. “That would be most irregular. If such slackness should come to my attention, you may be sure that the culprit would be severely punished.
"The Festival will last another month, I'm afraid,” he added, retaining his cheerful smile. “Still, as I said, you are free of our town, except for the central area. If you wish to tarry in Brianston, you are more than welcome, subject to that single caveat."
The demon's tail thrashed in uncertainty; Murar appeared helpful and open, and Shakkar had no reason to doubt his words. He felt cold, unfamiliar tendrils of confusion multiplying within him: if he could not obtain news of Grimm's passage through this apparently central town, his search might prove fruitless.
"Thank you for your time, Revenant Murar,” Erik said, filling an uncomfortable silence. “You've been most helpful, and you may be sure that we will respect your customs to the full. We're both tired and hungry after a long journey, so if you'll be as kind as to direct us to this inn, we'll be on our way. I'm sure things will be a lot clearer after a peaceful night's sleep and a good meal."
"An excellent suggestion, Sergeant Erik,” the Revenant crowed. “Just follow this side road to the east for thirty minutes or so, and turn left at the fork in the road. The ‘Wanderer's Rest’ is quarter of a mile from there, on your right. You can't miss it.
"Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a central role to play in our festivities."
Erik smiled. “Of course, Revenant Murar! Ah ... by the way, who should we contact if we have further questions?"
"I'm sure the staff at the ‘Wanderer's Rest’ will be able to aid you in any enquiries concerning our fine city,” the old man replied. “Otherwise, the town centre is ringed by other Revenants at all critical intersections. They are forbidden to admit any outsider to pass during Festival, but I am sure they'll be more than happy to provide you with any information you may require."
"Thank you for your time, Revenant Murar. Shall we leave, Lord Seneschal?"
"What? You want to eat at a time like this?” Shakkar demanded, frowning as Murar walked away.
"Well, I must admit that I am getting sick of these dried rations,” Erik muttered. “But that isn't the main reason: I just wanted to get Murar out of the way. I don't trust him."
Shakkar felt nonplussed. Murar had seemed a decent sort for a human, and the demon had noted nothing suspect in his behaviour. However, he had to acknowledge that he was a mere tyro in the assessment of mortals, whose ways were often beyond him.
He waited until Murar was out of sight before speaking: “What are your suspicions, Sergeant?"
"Nobody's that happy for so long, Lord Seneschal. And did you see the way he swallowed and blinked when you mentioned Lord Grimm's party, just before he went into his wide-eyed, puzzled act?"
Shakkar shook his head. He had noticed nothing strange about the old man's demeanour at any time.
"Why, then, did you let Murar go, if you suspected deception?"
"I don't know for sure, Lord Seneschal, but I'd be willing to bet a week's wages he knows more than he's letting on. More than that; look at Brianston's location."
The soldier unfolded his map and indicated the city with his right index finger.
"He says they don't get many visitors here: how probable is that? Roads run between here and several moderate-sized towns. I just can't believe that nobody ever travels them. Most of the roads around Brianston are little more than scrubby dirt roads, full of rocks and ruts. Would you travel around it in a wagon, when these splendid, graded streets are available?"
Shakkar frowned. “Your reasoning appears sound, human, so I reiterate: why did you not detain Murar or press him further?"
"I just want to be sure, Lord Seneschal. I don't want to beat up a helpless old man just because of suspicions. I just want to scout out Baron Grimm's probable route, in the hope of finding some clue—
The soldier appeared to spasm as his face contorted. “Ugh, there's a rat on me!” he said, shaking his uniform jacket. “I hate bloody rats!"
Shakkar looked down to see the tiny, grey shape of Thribble sprawling in the dirt.
"That is no rat,” he growled. “Can you not see? It is Baron Grimm's companion, Thribble! That proves that the Baron was here!
"Hail, brother demon!"
Thribble shook the dust of the road from his minuscule body. “Greetings, Shakkar! And for your information, human, I do not take kindly to being compared with your overworld vermin!"
Erik shrugged “I'm sorry, Master Thribble. I just thought you—"
"Never mind that,” Shakkar interrupted, scooping the tiny creature into the palm of his shovel-sized, clawed right hand. He looked down into Thribble's dot-like eyes with concern. “Where is Baron Grimm, Thribble?"
"This is a strange town, Shakkar. Most of the buildings here are bizarre fantasies given form by the dreams of some creature the citizens of Brianston call ‘Uncle Gruon'. Most of the inhabitants seem also to be his mental constructs. From what I can tell, they need to keep this Gruon asleep by engorging him with the blood of living mortals. Lord Grimm and his fellow mortals are being kept for this purpose in a large stone building in the centre of the town. This Festival is in honour of the new guests; I gather that they will satisfy Gruon's appetite for many years, and keep the people of Brianston alive."
"Thank you, Thribble,” Shakkar growled, his animal hind-brain driving him to action. “Direct us to this building and I shall tear it apart. Sergeant Erik, you may use your Technological weapons to keep the crowd at bay while I concentrate on freeing Lord Grimm and his companions."
"With pleasure, Lord Seneschal!” Erik swung his firearm's strap from his shoulder and flipped a small lever on its side. “I never liked all this diplomacy stuff, anyway. General Quelgrum always thought it was a good idea to get the locals on our side, wherever we went. Even so, I've always preferred a stand-up fight."
Thribble said, “It is not so simple, friend Erik. They are not mortals like you, and your metal death-tube may not affect all of them.
"Likewise, brother Shakkar, I have seen the edifice in which Lord Grimm is being kept: I doubt that even your gigantic strength could batter through it. The walls seem to be constructed of solid stone blocks, so closely spaced that the slenderest knife-blade could not pass between them. The door seems to be constructed of thick metal."
"Why, you're just full of good news, aren't you, little feller?” Erik said, his face contorted in some mortal expression Shakkar could not read. “Have you any other handy tips for us?"
"I am only telling you what I know, mortal. I know your ‘gun’ thing will affect at least some of these people, although not all of them. I saw General Quelgrum use a similar weapon on the crowd when we were first taken. Most people seemed to be killed by the little pellets."
"They're called ‘bullets', friend demon."
"That is of little import,” the demon snapped, and Shakkar saw Thribble's tiny brows lowering. “Would you object if I just finished my assessment?"
Erik shrugged, and it seemed that Thribble took this as permission to proceed.
"Some were affected by these bullets, as you call them, but others did not succumb to them at all. I lost consciousness in the violence of the ensuing commotion, but before I fell I noticed Revenant Murar among the ranks of the unaffected. I just thought you should be aware of that."
Shakkar pondered, but not for long; his rampant hind-brain would not be balked in its desire for vengeance. The deep, feral sense of duty was strong within him, and it grew like an unslaked thirst.
