"Shakhmat!"
The staff, as much weapon as adornment, flew into his hand, and he stood. Truth to tell, his backside was beginning to develop an abominable ache after so many hours in an unyielding, wooden chair.
"Thank you, Questor Dalquist,” the major-domo said, bowing. “I knew you would understand. I'm a very busy man, of course, so if you would excuse me…"
"Of course, Doorkeeper. I know the way well enough."
The Questor looked at the lanky, grey-haired man before him, without the slightest trace of recognition. The supposed Sergeant wore no uniform; instead, he wore a loose, grey sarape, loose, beige trousers and an outlandish, broad-brimmed hat: his appearance was bizarre, indeed, almost ridiculous.
"I am Dalquist Rufior, Mage Questor of the Seventh Rank."
"I am Sergeant Erik Romas, Lord Mage.” The grey-haired man bowed in a clumsy manner.
"What do you want, Sergeant?” Dalquist remained wary of some potential trap but confident that his abilities as a Mage Questor would prevail in the event of any ambush.
The slender man looked around him, as if suspecting the presence of eavesdroppers. “I've brought someone to meet you, Lord Mage, but it would be better if we didn't discuss matters in the doorway. The… er… gentleman's name is Shakkar."
"Shakkar! Why did you not say so at once? Where is he?"
"Please, Sir… I mean, Lord Mage,” the bizarrely-disguised Sergeant whispered, looking embarrassed, “keep it down, would you? Lord Shakkar's in the bushes over there. He didn't think it was a good idea to present himself in person, being of a-shall we say-demonic persuasion."
Dalquist understood the need for caution: the huge demon would be conspicuous in any company. As a precaution against possible ambush, Dalquist engaged his Mage Sight, but he saw no trace of intended deception or malice in the Sergeant's aura.
"All right, Sergeant. Lead the way."
Erik led Dalquist past the fly-infested refuse bins at the rear of the House to a large, dense cluster of bushes. The mage prised away the thick foliage with the aid of his staff, Shakhmat, to see the grey form of the demon lurking within.
"It's good to see you again, Shakkar, but what's all this secrecy about?” he demanded “Is Questor Grimm all right? Is there some crisis in Crar?"
The demon levered himself up from his crouching position, unleashing a shower of leaves around him like so many snowflakes.
"I am pleased to meet you again, Questor Dalquist,” the bat-winged giant rumbled. “My reason for coming here is that I am deeply worried about the Lady Drexelica. She has disappeared, and there are indications that Prioress Lizaveta may well be behind it. We believe she intends to hold the girl as a hostage. That must mean she is aware of Lord Grimm's Quest."
Dalquist shook his head, confused. “Hold on for a moment, Shakkar; I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about. Would you mind going back to the beginning? What Quest? What have Prioress Lizaveta and Grimm's housekeeper got to do with it?"
"Lady Drex is more…” began Erik, a sly smile on his face, but Shakkar's angry frown stopped the Sergeant's words in mid-sentence as cleanly as if he had been punched in the throat.
"Lady Drexelica is more than just a valued employee, Questor Dalquist. She and Questor Grimm have been through a lot together. She is a… good friend, a friend the Baron would gravely miss."
Dalquist's eyes bulged. Grimm's not… playing around, is he? No. it can't be! He may be a little rash at times, but surely he'd never risk his powers over a brief dalliance!
He thought back to the words of the late, lamented Senior Magemaster Urel had addressed to him fifteen years before: “Loose women are a taint, Rufior: remember that, and remember it well. It were better by far that you put all your energies into your work rather than waste it on idle, lustful, polluting thoughts. It is only natural that a boy of your years will feel such vile urges, but you must resist them at all costs. The least physical contact with the distaff sex will sap your powers. Surrendering to these foul, physical urges will destroy any chance you have of becoming a mage."
No: Grimm wouldn't be that stupid. It must be as Shakkar says; Drex is just a valued companion.
"Of course,” he said to the demon, “but what about this Quest?"
"Questor Grimm is under orders to destroy Prioress Lizaveta and her foul order,” Shakkar replied. “That is all I know."
What? Dalquist thought. What threat can one old lady pose to the Guild or the House? Why, she was kind enough to me when I saw her…
A ghastly suspicion drifted into the Questor's mind. Is he on some personal vendetta because that nun, Madeleine, made a fool of him in High Lodge? Surely not! This must be some terrible misunderstanding.
"I'm sorry, Shakkar, but this all sounds very odd to me. There's very little I can do about it, in any case."
"You could attempt to contact Lord Grimm with Telepathy,” the demon growled.
Dalquist shrugged. “I could, but only if you can tell me where he is. It would be good to sort out this muddle. However, I can tell you with reasonable certainty that he isn't on any Quest as far as I know. Grimm hasn't even been back to the House since he went to High Lodge. Whatever he is doing is most likely his own idea. So do you have any idea of Questor Grimm's location?"
"He is somewhere in the region of Yoren,” the demon said."We thought you might be able to locate him and advise him."
"I need rather more precise directions than that, Shakkar!” Dalquist laughed. “I don't know anything about the area, I've never been there, and I can't cast such a potent spell in a wide arc."
"I do not know exactly where Lord Grimm is, Questor!” Shakkar bared his long fangs in an expression Dalquist could not read. “What I do know is that Lady Drexelica may be in danger from a foul, evil witch. Do you mean to tell me that you will not help your best friend in this regard?"
Dalquist's mind spun, as fragments of memories whirled through his head. He remembered visiting the Prioress’ apartments at High Lodge. Some sort of confrontation… no, no, NO!
"Prioress Lizaveta is a charming, harmless old lady!” he shouted. “Yes, she's a witch; what does that have to do with anything? I'll thank you to take your pathetic little suspicions and conspiracy theories elsewhere!"
Shakkar growled, and raised a single, huge, clawed hand.
"Don't, Shakkar.” Dalquist brought Shakhmat into view. “I respect you, but you'll be taking a big risk if you try to threaten me. Don't do it."
Despite his calm demeanour, the mage struggled with strange, conflicting emotions. What the hell's going on here? he raved inside his head. Pain seized his brain in an iron grip, and he almost howled in agony.
"I won't listen to you, Shakkar! Go back to Crar."
In a more conciliatory voice, he continued, “I'm sure it's just some minor misunderstanding. Just go back home, and I'm sure Grimm and Drexelica will be waiting for you. Goodbye, Shakkar."
He turned on his heel and strode back inside the House. Something seemed wrong, but he could not say what it had been. His head thrummed and ached, and he thought that an early night might be in order.
Shakkar felt numb; if he had one ally of whose aid he had felt sure, it was Questor Dalquist. For the first time in his life, he had requested aid from a trusted and respected mortal, and that request had been thrown back in his face.
"Some friend,” Erik observed. “He didn't even listen, Lord Seneschal. So what do we do now?"
"We fly, Sergeant.” The demon opened his bat-like wings. “I have not done this for some time, but I suspect that you will prove little encumbrance to me. I can fly faster than a horse can trot, and we will not be slowed down by hills or poor terrain.
"We go to Yoren, to see if we can obtain any information about either Lord Grimm's or Prioress Lizaveta's whereabouts. It is plain that we shall receive no help here. Take what equipment you need from the cart."