"I was asking myself, not you,” he explained with a sigh, as Doorkeeper's eyes widened further in apparent confusion. The addled major-domo nodded, although he still seemed baffled; this was not unusual. Thorn stopped himself from growing angry; he knew it would only confuse Doorkeeper further.
"Where is Magemaster Kargan?” he demanded.
"He is-where is it…? It involved Lord Prelate Algar, I'm sure."
"Lord Algar,” Thorn said softly, as if trying to pacify a fractious child.
"Or Lord Rulec,” Doorkeeper scratched his bushy, grey eyebrows. “Yes, it was definitely Lord Rulec.
"Magemaster Kargan said he wanted to go to Kuloka, to find Lord Rulec's family records. I told him it was too far for one day, but he said-"
"Thank you, Doorkeeper,” Thorn interrupted the slow-witted factotum in order to restrain his frustration. “Do you know when Magemaster Kargan will be back?"
Doorkeeper shrugged. “He told me a day and a half,” he said, “but he's not back yet. As you know, I can always tell-"
"It can wait, Doorkeeper."
Kargan's absence bothered Thorn a little, but the man was no charity Student, required to remain on the premises at all times. Normal protocol required a Magemaster to request leave from the Senior Magemaster, but, of course, Crohn was unavailable, and Thorn had made no announcement concerning him. At least Kargan had informed Doorkeeper of his whereabouts.
It did not occur to the Prelate to inquire when the Mage Mentalist had left the House; he assumed that this had been after Thorn declared the impromptu holiday. It was perfectly reasonable that Kargan use his free time to indulge his hobbies.
"Thank you, Doorkeeper,” he said, with a faint imitation of a smile. “I will not keep you from your pressing duties any longer."
"Thank you, Lord Prelate, thank you so much. So few people understand all the work I have to do. I'm never still, never a moment's rest for me…"
Thorn waved a cool, dismissive hand and walked away from Doorkeeper, heading for the doorway to the secret dungeon level of which so few House alumni were aware. He waited by the black, pyramidal Breaking Stone, making a show of minute inspection of the ebon surface until the major-domo shuffled out of sight, still muttering about his endless travails for the House. Looking around to ensure he remained unobserved, Thorn unlocked the door to the lower level, opened it and stepped inside.
The winding steps were uneven and the light was poor, so Thorn made his way down the stairs with the greatest care. The walls and floors were damp and covered with moss and lichen, the only plants capable of growing in the low, flickering light.
By the time he reached the slimy flagstones at the foot of the stairs, his eyes had adapted to the gloom. His feet squished as he moved along the mossy corridor.
The passageway opened up to reveal four rusty metal doors and Questor Xylox, perched on a tall stool. He wore a heavy, blue cape around his shoulders, presumably to ward off the dismal hallway's pervasive chill. As he caught sight of his Prelate, he bounded to his feet, almost losing his balance on the slick flagstones in the process.
"Greetings, Lord Prelate."
"Greetings, Questor Xylox. How goes the vigil?"
"Slowly, Prelate Thorn. The traitors are in separate cells, as you commanded, and I check on each of them every hour. If they appear asleep or drowsy, I rouse them. However, they remain defiant. This is hard work."
Thorn nodded. “Patience, good Questor. Their treachery is undeniable, but we must persuade the miscreants to acknowledge their wrongdoing before trying them. I trust you and Magemaster Faffel to convince them to admit their treason."
"Lord Prelate,” Xylox said. “I thank you for the trust you have placed in me."
Thorn started at a sudden banging from behind one of the doors. Xylox jumped into action, battering the door with his staff.
"Be still, traitor!” he shouted, and the noise stopped.
Xylox sighed. “It is like this all day, Lord Prelate."
Thorn patted the mage on his shoulder with what he hoped was a gesture of paternal comfort.
"You serve your House and your Guild well, Questor Xylox. It will be remembered, I promise you."
The Prelate stepped carefully to the end of the corridor and took a small key from his pocket. Looking round to check that Xylox remained focused on his duty, he opened the door and walked into a small room lined with shelves.
My charms, he thought, regarding the objects on the dusty shelves: a bizarre collection of curios from his past. He picked up a boxy, fanged skull the size of a large dog's, a relic of his first Quest and fondled the bleached skull with something approaching reverence.
Olaf was slow to react when the were-beast attacked the party. However, my spell dispatched the creature in an instant; I reacted as quickly as thought. I was young, strong, swift and fearless then.
Thorn sighed. I feared nothing but Mother's wrath. I thought the old bitch might be pleased when I gained the first gold ring on my staff, but all she did was to remind me that Loras had two on his. Whatever I did was never enough for her.
He put down the skull and turned to face the middle shelf opposite the door. Its sole occupant was a black rod, six feet in length, with brass-bound ends. The staff's brass shoes were now dull and tarnished, and the once-gleaming black wood was now covered in dust-to touch another mage's staff without his explicit permission was to court injury, or even death-but the seven gold rings at the right-hand end still shone dimly through the grime.
I should have stood by you, Loras, and we could have defeated Mother together. I just wish it hadn't taken me so long to realise that. If only we'dThorn felt his heart surge as the staff shimmered and vanished. He needed to exert the utmost control over his bladder and bowels so that he would not soil himself. There was only one possible explanation for the baton's disappearance: somehow, Loras had regained his powers!
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Chapter 4: Arguments
Kargan had not eaten for a day and a half, and he devoured the substantial meal before him with gusto. It was simple enough fare: thick-cut ham, boiled cabbage and home-made mustard. Nonetheless, there was plenty of it, and the Magemaster enjoyed it as much as any splendid repast from the House Refectory.
Kargan leaned back in his chair and suppressed a satisfied belch. “That was excellent, Mistress Drima,” he said with feeling.
"Not quite up to Guild standards, I imagine, Magemaster Kargan,” Drima replied, smiling and revealing a set of flawless, pearl-like teeth.
"You do yourself an injustice, madam,” the mage declared, wiping his lips and beard with his napkin. “I often suspect that our cooks disguise indifferent ingredients by smothering them with sauces and spices. You have no such need to hide the quality of your cooking. A simple meal it was, but deeply satisfying."
Drima opened her mouth to speak, but her words were interrupted by the creak of a door. Kargan turned around to see Loras standing in the doorway, no longer wearing his rough smith's clothes. Instead of patched, stained dungarees, he wore a full set of scarlet, silk robes. The full sleeves and voluminous cowl might have looked foppish on a lesser man, but not on the tall, muscular Loras. Black eyes blazed from under the cowl, as if daring any man to mock their owner. The former Questor looked almost terrifying in his intensity and his bearing. The seven-ringed Mage Staff in Loras’ right hand completed the image of a powerful and dangerous master of thaumaturgy.
Drima's eyes widened and her jaw dropped, as if she had never laid eyes on this red-clad man before in her life.
"Loras!” she exclaimed. “You look so…"
"Dangerous,” Kargan added, after a few moments.
"I am,” the smith said in a cool voice. “I am a Mage Questor of the Seventh Rank, and I was betrayed by a man who swore undying brotherhood to me-a man I regarded as my most loyal friend. For all these years, he allowed me to wallow in guilt and self-condemnation; a far worse punishment than the most painful death.