Perfuco snorted. "General, I am far older than you. I am a Seventh Level Mentalist, and I have borne my staff with pride for more than thirty years. My skill can beguile and befuddle any Secular, and I have a level of willpower that can overcome any normal man's. Nonetheless, my mental drive is as that of an ailing child's compared to a Questor's will. They are dangerous, Sir; I urge you to reconsider!"
Quelgrum looked his Chief Magical Adviser straight in the eyes, putting down his liquor glass. "It's just envy, isn't it, Perfuco? Are you worried that I'll throw you over for this Xylox character and cast you into the desert?"
The Mentalist threw his hands into the air. "I trust you more than any man alive, General. I speak from a position of pure reason, and I beg you to destroy these loose cannons, for the sake of your security."
The General chuckled, in the manner of a father comforting a frightened child.
"I've been handling cannons since I was a youth, Perfuco," he said. "Cannons and men; both need to be treated with care and caution, and I'd be a fool to think these two guys were any different. That's why I want you to be present at the dinner tonight; look at them with your magic sight, and tell me if they're on the level or not.
"I can't imagine Armitage has sent me a pair of wildcards, my friend, but, just in case, keep an eye on them, will you? Don't worry, I'm not about to replace you with some newcomer: I trust you."
Perfuco sighed. "As you wish, General," he said. "I imagine they are quite drained after three days in the desert, so it may be some time before they are able to exert their full power. I will give you a fair and unbiased assessment of their conditioning tonight, and I trust you to act accordingly."
Quelgrum smiled, and consulted his ancient wristwatch. "We have five hours or so before dinner, Perfuco; I advise you to rest for a while, so you can be at your best tonight."
****
The cart rumbled and squeaked on and on, while Thribble tried to marshal tendrils of reason into coherent thought. The wagon stopped several times, and the grey imp heard hissing, banging sounds that sounded as if the gates of Hades were being opened for him. He knew of the human superstition, and the fear of eternal fire bloomed as strongly within the underworld as it did on the plane of mortals.
The demon's stupefied, irrational state was not helped by the strong smell of human perspiration and the low temperature within the cart. Thribble's journey through the air ducts of Haven had cooled his body even more than this, but he had not had to contend then with mortal body odour and all-consuming terror. His senses were exceptional in comparison to those of a mere human, and he felt swamped by all manner of unpleasant sensations, sapping him of the capacity of logical thought.
A simple solution must be at hand. There must be some way to outwit these simple, soggy, gooey, mortal morons, if only I could think of it!
****
Grimm lay on the simple bed, dead to the world. Even in sleep, a Questor could manipulate the processes of his mind. Instead of surrendering to the dreamless impassivity born of exhaustion, the mage gathered and arranged his innate power as best he was able in the few hours available to him. He knew a battle lay ahead, and he vowed that he, a full Guild Questor, would not be found wanting when the storm broke.
A wayward part of his mind screamed that he would not be ready, that he would be discovered as a mage free of compulsion, and that he would be destroyed by the General's powerful allies whilst still weak. He crushed the treacherous fear with the adamantine will born of years of rigorous training, pushing himself to the limit, even in the welcome arms of restorative sleep.
Tremble, Quelgrum; I am coming! Tremble, Quelgrum…
The repetitive mantra ran through Grimm's active mind as he slept.
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Chapter 24: A Convivial Meal
"So who d'you reckon for the boxing next week, Cooper?" the deeper-voiced human said, as the cart rattled and bounced the minuscule sprite in his wheeled prison.
"I've got a bundle on Mulambe," Cooper replied. "That guy's got a left hook like a bloody wrecking ball."
"And a jaw like a plate-glass window, from what I hear. Naah, all my money's on Gomez; he's a scrapper, a real street fighter."
Each mortal argued the merits of his champion and the failings of the opposing pugilist with vigour. Their loud voices hurt Thribble's ears, and the soldiers did not slow their progress in the least as they bickered.
Surrender seemed the only option; however, the demon remembered only too well how Administrator Armitage had seemed so interested in the live dissection of the underworld creature. Thribble could not believe the feared General Q would be any softer-hearted than the Haven chief, and the tiny demon, terrified of fire as he was, preferred even that option to having his entrails opened and inspected while he still breathed.
There must be something I can do, short of alerting the soldiers to my presence! the imp thought, cudgelling his brain as he fought to stem the destructive, disorientating panic threatening to swamp him. His only talents were very short-range teleportation, and mimicry. Swathed in malodorous cloth as he was, Thribble knew his voice would never reach the clumsy, insensitive ears of the soldiers, and the metal walls of the cart seemed somehow to prevent his translocation abilities, or at least to pose severe limits on them; he had already tried to pass through the iron partitions and failed.
As the humans' vociferous argument raged above him, Thribble thought he might be approaching the problem in the wrong manner, but it seemed as if the processes of his mind were flowing like cold treacle. The cart rolled on with slow but inexorable progress towards his doom, as he struggled to marshal his reeling thoughts into rationality.
****
Colonel Perfuco regarded his beloved General, unease causing his stomach to gripe. Having at first asked the mage to attend the dinner meeting with the Questors and their retinue, Quelgrum had now changed his mind, saying that he preferred not to 'show his hand' too early. Perfuco did his best to convince his superior of just how severe a threat a pair of Questors could pose.
The Mentalist had taken part in three House Quests, and one of these had involved an attack by a group of armed, trained renegades. On this occasion, he had seen for himself the terrifying power of a lone Guild Questor; the attacking force of some twenty experienced men had been routed in an instant, as if the mage had swatted a fly. A handful of blinded, burning, shattered men survived to flee the field, disorientated and maddened by pain, and the single mage had pursued them with ruthless efficiency, blasting each of the attackers into a spray of wet, bloody fragments.
The Questor spared a single warrior from the carnage, a grizzled, muscular, battle-scarred veteran of some forty summers. Perfuco remembered how the burly axe-man had trembled and pleaded for his life as the willow-thin mage had stood over his scorched and bleeding foe, his eyes like shards of flint.
"You have witnessed the penalty for attempting to assault a Guild Questor," the slender thaumaturge told the hapless man in a cold, emotionless voice. "I spare you your miserable, cowardly existence, so you may spread the word to others of your wretched kind; only death awaits those who would oppose us. Get out of my sight, you crawling slug, and remember that you only live because I chose to spare you."
Perfuco still shivered at the memory of the remorseless, brutal execution of nineteen humans by a single Questor.
"General Quelgrum," the nervous Mentalist said, "I urge you to allow me to interview and assess these mages before you meet them; the risk is too great for you to face them alone. I am particularly worried that you still cannot contact Haven." The mage had visions of the mountaintop complex razed to the ground, its broken corridors heaped high with frozen corpses.