By the time those two ever come before a Conclave, he thought, they'll believe the truth of every single accusation. Mother might think she's the only one who can control a mage's mind, but I have some skill in that area myself. It's almost a shame she may not live long enough to find out about it.
It was late, or, rather, early in the day, and Thorn resisted the urge to act at once. Taking a deep, appreciative draught of wine from his glass, he decided that the interrogation could wait for a day or two, until Crohn and Dalquist were softened up a little. He had given orders to Wiirt, Xylox and Faffel to stand guard over the two mages around the clock, and to wake them whenever they showed signs of torpor.
In view of the loss of three Scholasticate Magemasters, Thorn had decided that the next few days would be declared a holiday. By happy coincidence, Urel Demonscourge, the House's senior Questor, had just passed the age of one-hundred-and-twenty; this should provide good grounds for the brief furlough.
He doubted that any of the Students would complain.
Except for young Chag, Thorn reminded himself. The boy's anger and pain grow daily, and he's at a critical juncture. I'll take the Neophyte under my wing until the new Senior Magemaster is chosen. I will give him my personal attention. I would ask Magemaster Kargan to take over the boy's conditioning, but I think he's just a little too open and easy-going with the Students, at times. He's also the Senior Mentalist in the House, and I'll need him for the trial, when Crohn and Dalquist are good and ready to acknowledge their guilt. There's no sense in tiring him out now.
Kargan now felt satisfied that he had now stored an accurate memory of the rune-sounds of Bledel Soulmaster's Temporal Divinatory Conjunct in his staff. Despite his fatigue, the aches and pains in his body had abated, and he felt ready to ride again.
I guess Loras wouldn't have appreciated my hammering at his door in the middle of the night, anyway, he thought. Perhaps he'll be a little more receptive to what I have to say now.
His horse grazed placidly where he had left her. Kargan unfettered the animal and replaced the bit in her mouth. Climbing up on the tree-stump, he gathered up his robes and clambered astride the mount. Shaking the reins and clicking, he eased the filly into a brisk trot, deciding, at first, against a reckless, headlong gallop.
The narrow, tree-lined road was still empty for as far as the eye could see, so he worked his mount up to a canter, working with the horse, rather than against her. He confined himself to the subtlest of guiding motions, as the filly grew accustomed to him, and found the experience far more rewarding this time.
As he rode, he began to sing a song from his distant youth. The horse seemed to appreciate his voice, pricking her ears up as he sang, and Kargan could swear there was a little more spring in her stride. He continued to sing, and the willing animal's hooves ate up the miles.
A chorus of cockerels greeted his arrival in Lower Frunstock, and the golden dawn light cast long shadows on the ground. A few chimneys already showed tendrils of smoke, and he could see a few figures moving about, despite the early hour. The ramshackle thatched cottages and shops were a far cry from the opulence in which Kargan had been raised, but he found a distinct bucolic charm in the small hamlet's easy, unhurried appearance.
"Mornin', mage!” a young milkmaid called, already tending her charges, and Kargan brought the filly to a halt.
"Good morning to you, my dear!” the Mentalist said. “Would you be so kind as to direct me to the town forge?"
The girl stood up and wiped her hands on her apron. Adjusting the cap on her head, she rose from her stool, and Kargan saw this was no willowy maiden. She was golden of hair and pink of face, but her arms were like tugboat hawsers, knotted and sturdy.
"Wuthabeethupprorrthlowrforrge?” she demanded, her friendly smile revealing twin rows of small, crooked teeth.
"I beg your pardon?” The milkmaid's heavy accent was almost impenetrable to him.
"Would tha’ be the upp'r or the low'r forge?” she repeated in a loud, slow voice, as if addressing a rather backward child.
"I don't know,” the Magemaster confessed. “I'm seeking the forge of one Loras Afelnor."
The girl's face cleared. “Oh, well, you'm be wantin’ th’ upper one, then,” she said. She followed this with an incomprehensible series of instructions, but Kargan noted her pointing finger's gyrations well enough. Only one chimney in that direction showed smoke, and he knew that smiths started work early in the day.
"Thank you so much, my dear,” he said, taking a silver coin from his pocket and proffering it.
The milkmaid eyed the coin with suspicion. “Whass that for?” she demanded, her eyes narrowed.
Kargan frowned. “Why, for your time, of course."
"F'r me toime? Oi ain't that kind o’ girl, Oi'll ‘ave ye know!” she cried, raising a ham-like fist that Kargan knew might well flatten him.
"I only offered it to thank you for taking the time to give me directions!” he protested. “I didn't mean anything else by it, I promise you!” He realised he was sweating, despite the cool morning.
"Oi don't take nuffin’ fer advoice anyone'd know,” she said, with a dainty sniff that seemed at odds with her powerful frame. “Thank'ee, but Oi'd rather ye kept yer money."
In a whisper, the girl no doubt considered confidential, but which almost overpowered the restless mooing of her cows, she said, “'Sides, me old man'd ‘ave it off me later, anyway. Sorry Oi took offence; Oi can see ye're a gent, and ye didn't mean no ‘arm. Ye can't ‘elp th’ fancy words, Oi can see that."
"Well, thank you anyway,” Kargan said, raising the reins.
"If ye're in The Black Churn later on, ye can buy me a drink,” the girl said, her voice conciliatory. “'Ow about that?"
"That sounds very fair to me,” Kargan replied, wanting nothing more than to escape. “The Black Churn it is."
"Oi'll be waiting,” she said, with a fair imitation of a coquettish smile. “Two o'clock, don't ye be late."
Kargan nodded politely. “I wouldn't miss it for the world,” he said, vowing to give the hostelry the widest berth possible. “Until then…"
He flicked the reins and eased the horse forward, not daring to look back as he traversed the increasingly muddy street.
Lower Frunstock proved to be a tumbledown rabbit-warren of alleyways, dirt tracks and runnels. Navigating his way to the forge proved far harder than he had expected; many a promising thoroughfare led to a dead end.
However, at last, he found himself in a wide, paved courtyard outside the forge.
A short, burly man with black, greying hair stepped from a passageway and knuckled his forehead.
"Good mornin’ to ye, Lord Mage,” the man said. “I'll be reckonin’ ye'll be after a decent saddle and tack, by the looks o’ things. Am I right?"
"Well, that would be nice,” the mage confessed. He had never learned how to saddle a horse and, although he knew how to ride bareback, it would be far more comfortable to ride in style.
"I'm Harvel Angol, full partner in this smithy,” continued the muscular man, and Kargan blinked: this bulky man shared his first name with the slender, foppish swordsman who had joined Questors Dalquist and Grimm on their first Quest together. He suppressed a smile. This man would never be a dainty fencer; the contrast was ludicrous.
"I'm really looking for Que… for Master Loras Afelnor,” the mage said, sliding from the filly with all the decorum he could manage. A shock of pain blazed through his spine and legs as his feet took his weight, but his pride still outweighed his discomfort.