"Crohn and Doorkeeper,” the Questor said at once. “I'd trust either of them with my life."
"You may have to! What you… what we're proposing is mutiny. The punishment is death."
Dalquist felt his guts churning; he knew Thorn was a traitor, and that he, or, rather, his dominant mother, intended to overthrow the Lord Dominie. He also knew that Thorn had, in intent or deed, been involved in the downfall of Loras Afelnor. This situation could not be allowed to continue.
To confront the Prelate directly would be sheer folly, akin to suicide; how to proceed?
Kargan rubbed his chin. “Loras Afelnor might be a useful ally,” he mused. “He, too, seems to be a victim in all of this."
Dalquist shrugged. “I imagine if anyone could confront Thorn with any hope of success, it would be him. But Loras Afelnor, Mage Questor of the Seventh Rank, is dead and buried. The Conclave took his magic from him."
Kargan shook his head. “No power on Earth can rob a mage of his powers. All the Conclave's Great Spell did was to place a perdurable mental block on him, so he was unable to access them. That's Mentalist's work, so I know what I'm talking about, Questor Dalquist."
Dalquist suppressed the urge to laugh. “That spell was cast on Loras by a full Conclave. How could we two ever hope to lift it?"
Kargan shrugged. “I've served on a Conclave before; I was only there to supply energy for the spell, as are most of the attendees. Usually, the lead mage sets up the ensorcelment, while the others passively reinforce the magic. I recommend that, for now, we keep our heads low and act like good little boys. However, I want you to fill your staff with energy, as much as it can hold. I do not have that particular sleight, but perhaps you can do the same for me and the other mages. With Crohn and Doorkeeper on board, we might just be able to swing it."
Dalquist's mind reeled with possibilities and caveats: if they could keep his mind closed to Thorn's prying; if they could convince the other mages to go along with the plan; if Loras, after decades of inactivity, could defeat Thorn and force him to confess his guilt…
He looked at Kargan. The Mentalist's expression was rapt and cheerful, as if they were planning some pleasant jaunt rather than the overthrow of their lord and master.
If… if… if… he thought. Oh, well; it can't be helped, I suppose. I'd feel like worthless scum if I passed this up.
"All right, Magemaster Kargan, I'm in. I guess we're both traitors now."
Kargan nodded. “Right; I've got a ton of marking to do, as well as lesson preparation, and I'd guess you're in the same boat. I'll tackle Doorkeeper while you start to get Magemaster Crohn on board. But let's tread carefully."
"I agree. Take care, Magemaster Kargan."
The two mages exchanged a solemn handshake; now, they were conspirators in a dangerous game.
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Chapter 20: Goodbye to Diplomacy
Grimm felt all but naked without Redeemer, but he felt confident in his innate abilities as a Questor. As the rotunda's inner door swung open, he drew his energies together in a tight knot, ready to wreak destruction at the first sign of a threat. He was ready for anything…
…except a small boy. The dark-haired youngster looked perhaps ten years of age, and he pushed a covered trolley almost as tall as he. His blond head was bowed, and his dull, brown robes reminded Grimm of those he had worn as a humble student.
Guy did not bother to conceal a cool, odious smirk. “So this is what all the panic's about, is it? Looks like he's about your limit, eh, Dragonbluster?"
Grimm swallowed a sharp retort at Guy's wilful play on his hard-earned title, which, he suspected, he would hear on frequent occasions from now on. He knew he had let himself down badly with his earlier display of self-pity, and it might take some time before he could regain his companions’ full respect; although Guy had not shown him much respect since their very first meeting.
"I didn't know who was coming, Questor Guy,” he said. “I thought Gruon might have become hungry again."
As the boy approached, Grimm hailed him in a gentle voice. “Who are you, son?"
Not looking up, the child replied, “My name's Atur, please, sir. It's my job to feed the city's guests.” He removed the cloth from the trolley, to display a wide range of viands, beverages and sweetmeats. “Rev'nant Murar sends his… sends his regards, and please if you'll tell him what you like to eat so he can give you what you want."
"We want to get out of here, boy,” Guy growled. “That's all. Murar isn't about to turn me into some mindless bloody-"
"It's not the boy's fault we're here, Great Flame,” the General snapped, as the child seemed to shrink from the Questor's hot words. Walking over to Atur, Quelgrum put a grandfatherly hand on the boy's shoulder.
"It's all right, Atur,” he said. “Nobody's going to hurt you. We were just… surprised, that's all. We weren't expecting one of Gruon's nephews."
The boy's brown eyes opened wide. “Oh, no, sir, I'm not lucky enough to be one of them. I'm only a Realster like you.” He shrugged in an apologetic manner.
Grimm nodded. What did Murar and his fellow Revenants care if a Realster boy suffered injury or even death at the hands of their unwilling guests?
"If you'll excuse me, sir,” Atur said, “I do ‘ave me duties to perform, like."
Slipping from under the General's hand, the boy picked up a hand-bell from the cart's lower shelf and rang it lustily. As the various inner doors of the structure swung open, Grimm began to appreciate just how many Realsters were imprisoned in Brianston.
The crowd swarming into the central plaza looked to be at least fifty strong, ranging in age from about Artur's age to the mid-thirties.
Well, at least they're generous with the food, he thought, stepping to one side as the Realsters rushed to the trolley and began loading plates and bowls with what looked to be the choicest of victuals. Elder men and women, each laden with several containers, handed the bowls to the children as they were filled. The cheerful youngsters pranced away, to return a few minutes later for more.
That must be for younger children who are still inside, mused Grimm. Or older…
No! There aren't any old people here, and there never will be unless we can do something! As for the food, the Revenants just want fat, contented milk cows-blood cows-for Gruon, who doesn't even really exist!
It seemed to the mage that the eight pints of scarlet dragon-milk inside him were heating up. Imperturbable as ever, Guy stepped up and was handed a plate by Artur.
"This braised liver looks good!” the older Questor exclaimed, heaping his plate high with meat and vegetables.
Quelgrum laughed. “Good blood food, Great Flame. Good to build you up for Uncle Gruon's delectation."
As the Breeders and their offspring melted away into their cubby-holes to eat, Crest, Harvel, Quelgrum and a shaky-legged Tordun approached the trolley for their own sustenance.
"Not eating, Lord Baron?” the General queried. “It's prime quality food."
"It could be drugged for all we know, General."
"What if it is? You won't be any better off starved. If an escape opportunity should present itself in a week or a month, how can you take advantage of it if you don't eat? In any case, you told me you borrowed a gem that tells you if food is poisoned or drugged. Questor Guy has one, too, but he's eating like it's going out of fashion."
Grimm shrugged. “I guess I just don't fancy fattening myself up for the slaughter."
Although he tried to hide it, he could not disguise the sulky tone in his voice. General Quelgrum either did not notice, or he pretended not to do so.
"Just tell yourself you're fattening yourself up for their slaughter,” the old soldier whispered. “Come on, eat."
"I'm sorry, General, but I'm just not hungry. I'm tired, and I'd rather sleep."
"You must eat, Sir,” the boy, Artur, insisted, his eyes wide. “See those holes in the walls?"
The Questor nodded.