****
"I'm still stunned, General," Foster said, sipping his coffee. As I remember it, Armitage himself told me the group had been Pacified before we left."
"Are you sure Armitage was all right last time you saw him, Pilot Foster?" Quelgrum asked.
Foster's brow furrowed. The fact of the memory was clear enough, but the mental imagery seemed dim and formless.
"Yes, I'm… quite sure, General," he said, though his dull tone indicated anything but certainty. The pilot rubbed his brow. "I guess it might be a bit clearer after a good night's sleep."
"Perfuco?" Quelgrum muttered to the magic-user at his right elbow.
"He is labouring under some sort of Geas, General," the mage whispered, leaning close to the General. "We cannot rely on Foster's memories, but he is not attempting to deceive us; we cannot trust his recollections, but we can trust him. His Level Three Pacification is, at least, intact. It seems that even a Mage Questor cannot break that."
"Well, with any luck we'll soon have a pair of Questors at our beck and call," Quelgrum said. "That ought to make getting into High Lodge even easier."
"I just want to be sure that we…" the mage said, continuing in a fully audible voice, "…what was that?"
"What was what?" Foster demanded, craning his neck.
"I could swear the door opened a crack for a moment," the thaumaturge said, shrugging after a few moments. "Oh, I guess we are all just a little tired, Sir. With your permission, I would like to get some rest."
The General yawned and stretched. "That's a good idea, Perfuco. I'm about ready to hit the sack myself. Good night, Foster, Perfuco."
"Good night, Sir."
Perfuco strode off to his room, but he was too tired to notice the grey figure hiding in the shadows just behind him.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter 28: Perfuco's Revenge
Magemaster Perfuco Starm, Mage Mentalist of the Seventh Rank, awoke early; refreshed, alert, and ready for the challenges of the new day. He looked back on his dingy existence as a Guild Mage, back at Fendurk House, and he smiled. His life had changed so much since he had been contacted by the General's emissary and persuaded to work for this great cause. Instead of endless hours of rote-learning and practice, so he could try to drive the tenets of his art into the thick heads of ungrateful Students, he now enjoyed a pivotal role in the planning of a noble venture. Every day was different and interesting; he now undertook his duties with the same determination and enthusiasm he had once felt for his craft.
The only fly in his ointment was that damned Technologist, Armitage. Perfuco could not blame General Q for making use of the tools of the ancient art, but he knew that, for the soldier, this was born of dire necessity and the love of his people. Armitage revelled in the subject; he revered it, worshipped it above all else. His only loyalty to the cause stemmed from the fact that the General kept him supplied with his glass and metal toys.
The mage felt uncomfortable that such a man should be given such a high status in Quelgrum's inner cadre, and Perfuco felt sure his beloved leader had been tricked or misled by the Scientist; it should be magic, and magic alone, that led the army to victory and security. Had not thaumaturgy proved itself by surviving where Technology had faltered?
Still, it seemed as if the wily soldier had, at last, become wise to the blandishments of the arch-Technologist, and Perfuco felt delighted to have been selected as the instrument of his enemy's downfall.
The old mage took his time over his morning shower, relishing the sting of the fresh, cold water on his body, scrubbing his skin until it glowed with health. The Mentalist knew in some dim corner of his mind that only the once-hated Technology provided this water in the middle of the desert and provided his room with light and heat, but this seemed somehow unconnected to his hatred for Armitage.
As the mage donned his crisp, green uniform-so much more utilitarian and comfortable than those baggy old mage's robes! — he felt a warm glow of pride that the General had chosen to confide in him on the previous night. He still felt a frisson of angst that Quelgrum had decided to keep them alive, but he could not refuse a direct order.
He frowned: he could not quite remember receiving the command to take over the Questors' retraining in person, but it blazed in his head as if he had just been given it. He needed to tread with care, since the General had told him there might be several unwitting traitors under the Professor's command, and Perfuco was not even to report on his success to his commander, lest treacherous, Technological ears were listening. That Perfuco's meritorious deeds might go unheralded was a disappointment, but this was washed away by the joy he felt at the potential frustration of his evil foe.
A polite rap at the door announced that his breakfast had arrived. Opening the door, he gave perfunctory thanks to the young private, and took the meal back into his chamber, wolfing it down with unaccustomed gusto.
Today would be a good day.
****
Thribble crouched in Perfuco's briefcase, nervous and racked with uncertainty. He had spent the night whispering the same order, over and over again, into the mage's ear in a perfect imitation of Quelgrum's voice. He could tell the order had been received from the Mentalist's cheery good humour; nonetheless, Thribble felt uncertain as to whether his plan would succeed or fail.
It had been a complicated order, repeated perhaps a thousand times throughout the night, and much depended on the effectiveness of the mage's rushed mental conditioning. The least request for clarification from the General would ruin the demon's whole plan in an instant.
Another important factor was the speed with which Perfuco could bring his magic to bear; the old Technologist might have scientific means at his disposal to destroy the magic-user, long before a lengthy spell was even half-cast. The imp would be on hand when the thaumaturge confronted the scientist, since part of the spurious order had warned the mage to carry his case with him at all times, to prevent the depredations of hidden spies. However, whether Thribble could do anything to sway the situation, once contact had been made, was doubtful. All depended on speed and secrecy.
The demon felt a jerk as the bag was taken up; for good or ill, the plan was underway!
****
Perfuco strode with a spring in his step, determination etched on his face. He reached the laboratory without attracting any undue attention, and he opened the door without knocking. Six white-coated figures spun round at the sudden intrusion, and Armitage said "What the hell do you want, wizard?"
Perfuco bristled at the term. "A 'wizard' is a circus performer, a mountebank, a charlatan, Armitage. The correct term for a true Guild magic-user is 'mage', and my rank is that of Colonel."
"That doesn't answer my question, Colonel Perfuco, Sir," Armitage snarled. "I have important work to do for the General, and I'd get along faster without interruptions on your part!"
"On the General's personal orders, Armitage," Perfuco said, suppressing a smug smile, "I am taking over this operation. You are to surrender the subjects to me, forthwith. I will be taking over their training, in view of your singular lack of success in that regard."
The Professor slammed his clipboard down on a nearby table, as the young assistants goggled at the argument; they seemed to relish every moment of it.
"I've received no orders on this!" the scientist snapped. "I want confirmation from the General himself." Armitage strode towards the intercom terminal.
"I am afraid I cannot allow that," the Mentalist said, raising his hands above his head. He spat out a rapid, painfully-memorised sequence of syllables in a loud, high-pitched voice, and all movement in the room ceased, except for his own.