"You are not to tell Lord Thorn, or any other member of the Guild, the true purpose of your mission. I don't want it known that there may be a weakness within our Brotherhood."
Grimm leapt to his feet, his face hot and his fists balled.
"Surely you don't expect me to do this alone? You ask the impossible, Lord Horin! I don't know where they are, and I have no idea of what obstacles I might meet on the way!"
"Impetuous as ever, I see," muttered the elder mage. Then, he raised his voice "Very well, Afelnor. You may recruit a few Seculars to your cause, so long as you tell them nothing of the task beyond what is utterly necessary."
Grimm nodded, relieved. "I have an army under my command, Lord Horin. We'll soon resolve the situation."
Horin sighed. "I'm afraid I can't allow that, Questor Grimm. An army would be far too conspicuous, and word would reach Lizaveta long before you would arrive. Worse than that, a panic might arise within the various Houses; they might assume that Lord Thorn was intending to eradicate his rivals, once and for all. You are, after all, an Arnor man."
This is impossible, the Questor thought. Horin asks far too much of me. I may have hundreds of miles to travel, perhaps through barren and hostile wastelands, and my power is far from inexhaustible. I'll just have to turn him down.
"Dominie," he said, drawing himself to his full height. "I thank you for your faith in my abilities, but I must decline; your conditions are too onerous. Please, just erase my memories and send me back to Arnor; reduce me to the ranks if you must. I'm sorry."
Horin said, "I could order you, although I do not wish to do so. Does your sworn Oath mean nothing? What about your sullied family name?"
Grimm winced, as if a pair of sharp barbs had struck his heart. As the grandson of the despised Oathbreaker, this question pierced him to the quick. Again, hot indignation threatened to overwhelm him. "I don't think my Oath requires me to commit suicide on your least command, Lord Horin. If you want to interpret my refusal as treason, then I can't do much about it, but what you propose will need more than a Questor and a couple of ignorant warriors. For the record, Dominie: I refuse. Do with me what you will."
He sat back down and crossed his arms across his chest, his face burning with a combination of anger and contrition.
Horin's face was a picture of indignation. "You dare to talk to your Guildmaster in this manner?" he spat. "By the Names, just who do you think you are?"
Grimm looked directly into the Dominie's angry eyes. "I am the mage you selected as your personal weapon, and I'm more than willing to carry out that role; but I can't do this alone. Without the aid of additional personnel, I believe this is a waste of time."
"Perhaps you're right, Afelnor," Horin snarled. "It appears that I may have misjudged your loyalty, zeal, gratitude and sense of duty."
The young mage sighed, frustrated; this was getting nowhere, and it might end up with Arnor House or even High Lodge gaining a new scullery servant. Antagonising the Master of the Guild was an ill-advised course of action to pursue. Grimm forced his burgeoning emotions into the back of his mind with the practised self-control of a Questor.
"Please forgive my outburst, Lord Horin," he said, spreading his palms before him in a gesture of supplication. "I had no right to speak to you in that odious manner. Nonetheless, I do find your conditions impossibly restricting, and I can't pretend otherwise. I recognise the threat to our Brotherhood, and I'm keen to eradicate it, if I can; however, I don't relish the prospect of going on an uncertain journey, to meet an implacable and powerful enemy of unknown resources in her own den. Remember, if I am defeated, Lizaveta may well gain the weapon she needs to achieve her ends, whatever they may be."
The Dominie seemed almost to suffer some kind of fit; with his face a delicate shade of scarlet and his eyes bulging, the older man bounced and quivered as if possessed.
"You are the most contumacious youth I have ever met! Do you think so little of your powers that one frail old woman can defeat you?"
"She nearly defeated you, Lord Dominie, right here in your own demesne." Grimm's soft response made a palpable impact on the Guildmaster; Horin's infuriated spasms ceased, and the Questor noticed that the older man's face lost some of its former choler.
"I may have to face a hundred powerful witches, Lord Dominie," he said, his voice level but tinged with defiance, "each of whom has orders to try to dominate me or destroy me.
"No, Lord Horin, I'm afraid I'm not confident enough to face that test; I'd rather die, or spend the rest of my days as a menial, than lose my mind to some Geomantic puppeteer. If that's my only choice, then so be it; I'll take the scullery over that, every time."
Horin reached for a metal flask of tea at his side, and poured himself a generous measure. "Are you sure you won't have some, Questor Grimm? It's a very good blend."
Grimm shook his head, his stern expression unchanged. Horin swallowed the steaming herbal infusion at a gulp, as if he had not noticed the brew's scalding temperature.
The Dominie put down his empty cup and saucer and looked the Questor straight in the eyes. "I didn't choose to raise you to the Seventh Rank with such unseemly haste only to demote you to the rank of servant, young Afelnor, and I suspect you know it."
Grimm shrugged. "I'm in your hands, Dominie."
The Guildmaster stood up and walked around the room, his expression distant and preoccupied. He rested a hand on a small, exquisite marble statue of a Thulian Troubadour in mid-performance, and muttered, "Shamfar Gurest's finest work, seven hundred years old. It's quite priceless."
The hand lovingly stroked the sculpture's silk-smooth curves and his eyes seemed to drink in the statue's rich detail; the musician appeared almost alive, his head thrown back, his eyes closed in the bliss of music, his hands caressing a stone lute.
This is Horin's form of displacement activity, Grimm thought. He's not a man to make snap decisions he might regret later.
Looking up from Shamfar's masterwork, his hands still resting on the cool marble, the Dominie said, "Very well, Questor Grimm, I'm prepared to consider any reasonable suggestions you may have. This is a matter of vital importance, and I don't want to rule out anything that might increase the likelihood of success."
"I want to take my friend, Questor Dalquist, with me," the Questor said. "I would trust him with my life, and his word is his bond."
"No," Horin replied. "I agree that a pair of Questors might be useful, but you will take Questor Guy with you. He already knows what took place last night. And you may take Necromancer Numal with you, for the same reason; I don't want wagging tongues around here if I can avoid it. I'll brook no argument on this score; neither Questor Dalquist nor any other member of the Guild is to be informed of any details of the Quest."
Grimm shut his eyes, and suppressed a groan; As a young Questor who had risen to the Seventh Rank without Horin's influence, Guy must be a powerful mage, yet he was capricious and unreliable. Numal, on the other hand, was a rank tyro, a ditherer who seemed quite unsuitable as a companion in a dangerous undertaking. Nonetheless, the Dominie seemed implacable in his resolve to inform as few Guild members as possible.
"If there are to be three mages on the expedition, one of whom is a tyro, I want at least three warriors along with us," Grimm countered. "I have three in mind: their names are Tordun, Crest, and Harvel. All have Quested with me before, and I trust them. They are all more than competent warriors, and they remain cool under pressure. In addition to these men, I request permission to take at least the leader of the Crarian army, General Quelgrum. He may be able to suggest cunning stratagems and tactics that we can employ, so as to avoid unwanted speculation as to our purpose."