Grimm smiled. "Armitage may well understand Technology in all its aspects," he said, his voice like oil flowing over wet ice, "but what does he know of magic? Next to nothing, I feel sure. How would he know that our skills were blunted by those metal walls?
"As for Perfuco, he knows how we Questors make our own magic; as a Seventh Rank Mentalist, he will be familiar with his own rigid, standard, runic magic, but I will wager anything you like that he knows next to nothing of what a Questor can do in that regard.
"I have noticed how Perfuco looks at us. He is scared of us, Questor Xylox; scared witless, as he should be!"
Xylox put his hands on his hips, lowered his brows and opened his mouth, as if he was about to utter a stinging rebuke at what he regarded as a facile argument, but it seemed as if his caustic words become entangled on his tongue.
"It is our only realistic chance," Grimm said, remorseless, forgetting his ridiculous, revealing garb as he moved to stand directly in front of the pompous, bigoted, but powerful thaumaturge. Since he stood a full six inches shorter than his junior, Xylox was forced to look up to meet Grimm's piercing gaze.
Long moments passed, and neither magic-user looked away; this was a true meeting of the minds. At last, Xylox spoke, as the girl and the two warriors looked on in fascination.
"Do you think it will be as simple as that?" His tone was incredulous, but no longer scathing.
Grimm stepped back and sat on the end of one of the beds, surrendering his psychological advantage of superior height.
"No, Brother Mage," he said, "I do not expect it to be simple at all. Unless we are remarkably fortunate, we will have to fight our way to the General and cause the sort of devastation that only Questors can. We will have to gamble every resource at our command on the success of the plan, and then brazen it out with a ruthless, skilled commander of armed men.
"We may all end up dead, or as Quelgrum's helpless playthings. The assault on High Lodge may yet go ahead. In the space of a few days, all we have sworn to defend may lie in ruins. Civilisation as we know it may come to an end: but we can't just ignore the danger, hoping it will go away."
Grimm let the words hang. He felt by no means confident in the success of his plan, but he had come a long way from his past incarnation as a frightened, insecure Student.
I am a Mage Questor, Grimm told himself, building his confidence. I am a true Weapon of the Guild; may woe betide those who dare to stand in my way!
He was prepared to fight, or to die in the attempt, rather than submit to the subjugation of his precious will.
Grimm decided that he had raised the tension in the room to sufficient intensity. He stood and looked each of his companions in the eye in turn as he spoke.
"I, for one, do not intend to lie down like a lamb awaiting slaughter. Will you join with me?"
Tordun was the first to speak. He took down a bottle from the metal structure by one of the beds and wrenched the various cross-members free from the main upright of the stand. The result of this destruction was a rough, but workable, spear.
"Death before dishonour, eh, sorcerer? That's a song I know well. I'm with you."
Crest picked up the scattered pieces of metal from the floor and hefted them. "I suppose I could use these as throwing knives, or something. The balance is a little off, and the points are non-existent, but I'm game; anything's better than waiting to be killed or turned into a vapid moron. Some of these glass shards could be useful, too. Count me in."
Drex shrugged, and Grimm tried to ignore her shapely, exposed legs. "I'll join you," she said, enthusiastically beaming. "I owe you a life, after all, Questor Grimm, so I'm more than happy to watch your back." She moved to his side, so close that he felt the heat emanating from her small body.
Grimm felt his face growing hot, remembering the revealing robe he wore. However, the burgeoning feelings gave him strength, gave him vitality, and he drew his shoulders back. A battle was coming, and he would not be found wanting!
Energy bloomed within him, threatening to explode from the fleshy confines of his body, but he held it in check with control born of years of denial and self-discipline. He was acutely aware of the girl at his side, but he found her now a fount of strength rather than a source of awkwardness.
"Will you join us, Questor Xylox?" he intoned in a dispassionate voice. "If not, we will do this without you; however, I would far rather have a mage of your power and ability on our side."
As the young thaumaturge spoke, he no longer cared if the task was feasible or not; he was strength; he was power!
He almost laughed, half-drunk with the heady knowledge of his deadly potency. Fifteen hundred Seculars, and five superannuated Specialists-at that moment, they seemed as nothing to him. His long-denied emotions gave him wings, and his spirit soared.
****
Xylox's eyes slid back and forth between the people in the small room. Tordun's face was rapt; his teeth bared, his eyes wide, his expression one of barely-concealed blood-lust. Crest stood, his expression unreadable, but his manner resolute. The girl, whatever her name was, stood at Questor Grimm's shoulder, her face a mask of determination.
And then there was Questor Grimm. Even in his brief, revealing attire, the young mage looked every inch the commanding, decisive Questor, his staff poised in his hand as if seeking a target. This was no cavalier, jejune stripling, Xylox realised.
Something had changed. This boy-this man-was dangerous and determined, and the intensity in his gaze would surely cause any unseasoned Secular to drop his weapon and run at the very sight of those black, fathomless eyes. He was a true Weapon of the Guild.
All his life, Xylox had sought that same effortless poise; that stare, that presence. He had chosen a life of stark asceticism, in the hope that it might make him appear more austere, more formidable, to his foes and his fellow mages. Nonetheless, he had to admit to himself that this skinny, gangling youth, dressed in a revealing, ludicrous shift, was not just impressive: he looked almost frightening in his intensity.
He, Xylox, Mage Questor of the Seventh Rank, called 'the Mighty', knew he could never hope to match such lambent power and presence: 'Power and presence complete the mage-'how many times had that been drummed into him as a callow Student?
Power and presence do complete the mage, Xylox realised, almost as if understanding the old cliche's import for the first time.
This youth had both, in abundance! How could he, Xylox the Mighty have been so wrong, so hidebound in his prejudices? He had been prepared to throw this powerful youth, this valuable Guild resource, on the scrapheap in order to validate his own sense of self-worth.
Xylox was unaccustomed to self-analysis; he had held his Mage Staff and his Guild Ring for more than half of his life, and he knew, or thought he knew, how to act as a leader.
Nonetheless, at this moment, he mentally surrendered his notional command of the Quest. His own staff might bear seven rings, and Questor Grimm's only five, but he remembered his Oath and his duty; the slender youth might hold the only key to the success of the Quest.
Aware that all eyes were upon him, he considered his words with care. He was still the Senior Questor but, at this moment, the other members of the team seemed bonded to Grimm Afelnor and his desperate, if heroic, plan. If he were to be of any use at all, Xylox would have to support his junior as best he could.
"Questor Grimm," he said, in a low, hesitant voice. "Since this reckless assault is your plan, I feel it only fair that you should carry it through. For good or for ill, until the conclusion of this attempt, I cede control of our activities to you."
A long pause followed, and Xylox gathered his courage into a tight ball within him. "Questor Grimm; until this battle is at an end, I surrender myself to your authority. May the Names guide us and help us!"