He grabbed his green clothes and dressed, feeling as if he had been returned to a state resembling humanity. Crest had already stripped off his clothes in preparation for his own cleansing, and Grimm showed him the working of the water controls.
"If you feel quite ready, Questor Grimm," Xylox said, with a shadow of his earlier, acerbic manner, "perhaps we may now discuss some kind of plan of action."
Grimm flicked his eyes at Foster, and back at the senior mage.
Is Xylox stupid enough to discuss underhand matters in front of Foster? Grimm wondered.
"I mean of course, with regard to this evening's dinner with the esteemed General," the older thaumaturge continued. The young mage relaxed a little.
Somehow, they must persuade Foster to leave them at some point so that they could converse with freedom. For the moment, the man seemed only to have eyes for the blessed, cleansing stream of water, under which Crest was now gyrating; or perhaps it was the slender body of the half-elf the pilot found alluring. Grimm had never been able to empathise with such predilections, but he found them more baffling than repulsive.
"Perhaps the General will introduce us, as former Guild Mages, to his retinue of Illusionists and Mentalists," he said. "It would be good to know that they are well."
Glancing at the distracted pilot himself, Xylox muttered, "Perhaps it would be a good idea to set free your demon friend, to scout the lie of the land." Grimm's hand flew to his mouth.
"Is there a problem with that, Brother Mage?" Xylox asked. Grimm shook his head, dumbstruck for a moment. Then he found his voice.
Casting another swift look at Foster, who was still eying the cleansing facility, he leaned closer to Xylox.
"He's still in my old robes!" he muttered, his tone urgent and worried. "I'd forgotten all about him." For once, the senior Questor did not upbraid Grimm for not using the cold, formal Mage Speech.
"In that case, the plan may need amendment," the grizzled magic-user muttered. "I must confess that the little imp might well have been of use to us. I will think further on what information we may glean at the dinner.
"Foster," he called, raising his voice. "I will use the facility next, if you do not object."
Grimm paid little attention to the brief argument that ensued. What would happen to his demonic friend, if he were found?
****
Thribble awoke to turmoil. He was still in Questor Grimm's robe pocket, but the familiar warmth of his human friend was absent, and he shivered. He felt himself flying through the air, and he came to rest with a significant impact; it was only his small mass that saved him from injury. Thrusting his head from the garment, he found himself smothered by a sweaty, malodorous mound of clothing that landed atop him; Thribble's sensitive nose told him that the noisome vestments belonged to Questor Xylox.
He was in an open-topped box of some sort, and he heard a pair of human mortals conversing above him.
"What are we goin' to do with all this junk?" The voice was high-pitched and whining, laden with boredom.
"'S all goin' in the furnace, what d'you think?" came the gruff reply. "We got to burn it all. Looey Harman's orders: she reckons they're all diseased, or summat."
"I reckon she's diseased 'erself; she's sex-starved, she is. She needs a good man to put 'er right, I reckon."
Long moments passed as the two men discussed just what they would like to do to Lieutenant Harman in order to 'cure' her supposed malady. Thribble fought waves of sheer panic at the very thought of being plunged into a furnace; contrary to common human conceptions, although demons enjoyed hot, torrid conditions, not all could thrive amidst flames for more than a few seconds. He was one of those few who could not.
As the humans' fantasies grew ever more bizarre and perverted, the demon sought to bring his inner, animal brain under the control of his cerebral cortex. He feared fire above all, and he could almost feel his flesh crisping and flaming at the thought; his panic threatened to blot out his rational mind. He tried to flip into his extra-dimensional cubby-hole; a move he had perfected during the party's imprisonment at Haven. Nonetheless, his crowding fears prevented him from marshalling his thoughts. The walls of the container were too high for him to reach, and he began to feel a claustrophobic, crushing panic closing in upon him.
As the lurid, and increasingly improbable, dialogue reached its end, Thribble sensed motion, as one of the two menials began to push the malodorous box in which the grey imp lay.
This must be some kind of cart, the wheels emitting awful, discordant harmonics, some above the normal range of human hearing. The vile screeching caused the netherworld creature's sensitive ears considerable anguish, adding to his mental confusion.
You have prided yourself that you have a brain finer than any mortal's, the imp chided himself. Use it!
Nonetheless, Thribble's normal, clear thoughts were swamped by the burgeoning, all-consuming panic that filled his brain.
The cart's wheels emitted a disharmonious continuo as the imp was wheeled towards his fiery doom.
****
"So, Colonel Perfuco; what can you tell me about these Questors?" General Quelgrum sat at ease in a deep, leather armchair and puffed on an opulent cigar. A balloon of brandy nestled in his left hand, and he raised it to his nose, swilling it with an appreciative expression before he allowed some of the liquor to trickle down his throat.
A saturnine, wrinkled man sat opposite the General, with sparse, grey hair hanging over a greasy pate. He wore clothes just like Quelgrum's, but his left hand bore an ornate, blue-and-gold ring, and a black, brass-shod staff lay at his feet, like an obedient dog awaiting its master's command.
"Questors are commonly known as 'Weapons of the Guild', Sir," Perfuco said. "A pair of these, if Pacified and under your control, could be of great use to our cause. However, I doubt it. Their willpower and self-control is remarkable, even amongst the rolls of Guild Mages; I suspect that Level Two Pacification might be insufficient to control them in the long run."
"What of these particular pair of Questors?"
"The older one, Xylox the Mighty, is known to me," the mage said. "He hails from Arnor House, one of the oldest and most prestigious Houses in the Guild. He is reckoned one of the most potent Questors that we… that is, they, have at their disposal. The younger one bears five rings on his staff; he is very young to have attained such status, and he must also be reckoned as a powerful magic-user."
The General took another luxurious swig of brandy. "What is your advice, Perfuco?"
"Kill them now, General," Perfuco advised, his voice curt and intense. "You could find they are far more trouble than they are worth. The risk is not worth taking; you have no idea of the destruction a pair of Questors could cause if not fully restrained."
The General yawned and stretched. "Destruction is my business, my friend; I don't like it, but I have a destiny to fulfil. This place is dying, and I need to lead my loyal followers to some kind of viable future. I live for them, and only for them; a pair of human weapons sounds ideal for my purpose.
"From what you've told me, your High Lodge is bloated and decadent, with few strong mages of its own. My army might or might not win the day for us on its own, so we have concentrated on recruiting Mentalists and Illusionists to aid us. It seems to me that a pair of magical weapons, as you call them, could sway the balance.
"I'll risk anything for the sake of my beloved command, Perfuco; anything at all. They rely on me, and we have centuries of tradition and honour to uphold. If we need a little insurance to ensure the loyalty of these guys, I want you and your friends to provide it."