"Comms were out, General," Foster said. "We had a very bad storm, I'm afraid. The Administrator thought you'd be very interested in these two magic-users and their companions. We found them in the mountains, suffering from altitude sickness, and we took them in. Don't worry, Sir, they've all been Pacified."
"A regrettable necessity," Quelgrum said, with a slight sigh. "I'd rather have a man with his mind intact, a man who served because he wanted to, but I guess that desperate times call for desperate measures. Which ones are the spell-casters?"
"This is Questor Xylox," Foster replied, indicating the older mage, "and this is Questor Grimm."
The General stepped forward, inspecting the mages with a keen eye. "I'm not familiar with your nomenclature, Questor Xylox. What makes you guys so special that Armitage would send you to me in the middle of a fierce snowstorm?"
"If my understanding is correct, General," Xylox said, "you have been concentrating your efforts on acquiring the skills of Mentalists and Illusionists. However, such mages are limited in their talents, as are most Specialists. My colleague, Questor Grimm, and I have the ability to cast any kind of magic, without resorting to scrolls or spell-books. We mature at a far younger age than do mages of other classifications, so we may have an active career of several decades."
Quelgrum rubbed his chin. "Interesting; yes, very interesting. Would you care to demonstrate some of this magic for me, Questor Xylox?"
"I regret that I am quite unable to do so, General," Xylox replied. "Administrator Armitage and Senior Technician Terrence put us through a rigorous series of magical tests before we left Haven. Foster's vehicle crashed in the mountains, and we have spent the last three days making our way through the desert. My colleague and I are all but exhausted, and we will require several days of rest before we are able to demonstrate our full capabilities."
Quelgrum slapped his right hand against his domed forehead. "Of course, my dear fellows; how remiss of me! You must feel quite drained and shattered after your ordeal; please accept my apologies for my callousness, and accept my hospitality for as long as is needed to restore you to full health.
"Pilot Foster; I can have a transport available for you by tonight. I imagine you'll want to get back to Haven as soon as possible."
The flier looked uncertain. "I'm sorry, Sir," he said. "My memory seems a little hazy after our trek through the desert, and I don't feel quite right. Perhaps I'd be better off for a couple of days' rest, too."
"No problem, Foster," the General replied, his voice reassuring and amicable. "I'll get in touch with Haven and tell them you're all right, but you may be a little late."
Xylox shot a sharp glance at Grimm, who gave a slight shrug. With any luck, failure to communicate with the mountain complex might be attributed to the continuing storm; in any case, the two Questors could do little in their current state. They had little choice but to try to brazen out any suspicion that might arise from any complications that arose.
"I trust you'll all have dinner with me tonight?" Quelgrum said.
"Dinner!" Tordun cried. "That is the sweetest word I have heard in the last three days!"
Grimm expected the General to rebuke the titanic albino for speaking out of turn, but the soldier's leathery face crinkled into a warm smile, instead.
"Then that's agreed," he said. "I'm sure the ever-efficient Lieutenant Harman can find suitable quarters for you. I understand you'd like to be domiciled with Miss…" He consulted a piece of paper on his desk. "Miss Drexelica, is that right?"
Drex stood rigid, her face as expressionless as stone, but she said nothing. Tordun looked little happier, but he nodded.
"If it's convenient, General," the sunburnt albino said, shuffling from foot to foot. Grimm was sure that only the ruddy burns on Tordun's face hid a hot, embarrassed flush.
"I'm sure I can get you a billet together," the officer said. "I'll wager a man of your size has appetites to match; am I right?"
"So I've always said," Tordun replied, with a rather queasy-looking smile.
"And you, Miss Drexelica? Are you happy with the arrangement? We don't tolerate slavery here."
Grimm thought this sounded odd from a man who was abducting Guild Mages and subjecting them to his will. Despite himself, he found himself beginning to warm to this charismatic tyrant. Drex cast her eyes towards Grimm for an instant, and the mage managed a slight nod as he met her gaze.
"Tordun is my protector," the girl said. "I will only feel safe with him."
"Then that's arranged," the General said. "Whatever else you may have heard, Miss Drexelica, we don't make war on young ladies."
Drex's face flushed, and she dropped her eyes. Grimm was sure she had never before been called a 'young lady' in her whole life.
The warlord stepped back to his desk and pushed a button. "Lieutenant Harman?"
A buzz arose from the bureau, just recognisable as a human voice. "General?"
"Our guests will need some accommodation for the night; I think we'll keep them out of the general barracks for the moment. One room for four?" he said, eying the two mages, Crest and Foster, who nodded.
"Yes, a room for four and one of the married couples' quarters."
Tordun looked anywhere but at Drex's blazing eyes, but neither of them uttered a word of dissension concerning the arrangement.
The General sat down behind his desk as a soldier entered the room. "If you good people will be so kind as to excuse me, I have a battle to win with an army of paper. I'll see you this evening, after you've had a good rest; good day to you."
The audience seemed at an end, as Quelgrum rose to his feet and walked away, after offering a polite bow.
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Chapter 23: In Quelgrum's Lair
The room bore few decorations or luxuries, but it was comfortable enough. In an alcove at one end, with translucent curtains, Grimm found a shallow tub, far too shallow to allow an adult to lie down. Since he saw water in the bottom of the pan, the mage guessed it was some kind of washing facility. At one end of the enclosure, he saw a shining, segmented hose, leading to a strange appliance looking like a silver hairbrush with fine holes in place of bristles, and a pair of gleaming, knurled knobs.
The adventurers looked at each other, without speaking. The fastidious Grimm inspected the white-tiled installation for only a few seconds before stripping off his borrowed, green clothes and stepping into the cubicle.
One of the silver knobs bore a red escutcheon in its centre, and the other carried a similar mark in blue. Grimm guessed the blue symbol indicated 'cold' and its red counterpart, 'hot'. He gave the blue knob a twist to the right, pulled it and pushed it; it did not move. With the curtains open, and under the cynosure of his colleagues' eyes, he twisted the handle to the left, to find himself standing under an invigorating shower of wonderful, ice-cold water. The further he twisted the knob, the greater the flow. Twisting the other protuberance produced a warmer, and still stronger, stream.
By a process of trial and error, he managed to adjust the water to a comfortable temperature. Basking in the jet of water, he noted one thing he recognised in this strange abode; a cake of soap. Luxuriating in the warm, fast-flowing stream, he washed the grime and encrusted sweat of the trail from his body and his hair, revelling in the growing sensation of cleanliness. When Grimm felt as if he had scrubbed every particle of dirt from his sore body, he turned the knobs to their former positions, and the flow of water stopped.
He saw a large, white towel hanging on a rail just outside the cubicle. Grabbing it, he rubbed the residual moisture from his body, ignoring the complaints of his scorched skin. Grimm felt whole again; tired beyond measure, but clean after three days of desert torture.