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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.
He grabbed his green clothes and dressed, feeling as if he had been returned
to a state resembling humanity. Crest had already stripped off his clothes in
preparation for his own cleansing, and Grimm showed him the working of the
water controls.
"If you feel quite ready, Questor Grimm, Xylox said, with a shadow of his
earlier, acerbic manner, perhaps we may now discuss some kind of plan of
action."
Grimm flicked his eyes at Foster, and back at the senior mage.
Is Xylox stupid enough to discuss underhand matters in front of Foster?Grimm
wondered.
"I mean of course, with regard to this evening's dinner with the esteemed
General, the older thaumaturge continued. The young mage relaxed a little.
Somehow, they must persuade Foster to leave them at some point so that they
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could converse with freedom. For the moment, the man seemed only to have eyes
for the blessed, cleansing stream of water, under which Crest was now
gyrating; or perhaps it was the slender body of the half-elf the pilot found
alluring. Grimm had never been able to empathise with such predilections, but
he found them more baffling than repulsive.
"Perhaps the General will introduce us, as former Guild Mages, to his retinue
of Illusionists and Mentalists, he said. It would be good to know that they
are well."
Glancing at the distracted pilot himself, Xylox muttered, Perhaps it would
be a good idea to set free your demon friend, to scout the lie of the land.
Grimm's hand flew to his mouth.
"Is there a problem with that, Brother Mage? Xylox asked. Grimm shook his
head, dumbstruck for a moment. Then he found his voice.
Casting another swift look at Foster, who was still eying the cleansing
facility, he leaned closer to Xylox.
"He's still in my old robes! he muttered, his tone urgent and worried. I'd
forgotten all about him. For once, the senior Questor did not upbraid Grimm
for not using the cold, formal Mage Speech.
"In that case, the plan may need amendment, the grizzled magic-user
muttered. I must confess that the little imp might well have been of use to
us. I will think further on what information we may glean at the dinner.
"Foster, he called, raising his voice. I will use the facility next, if you
do not object."
Grimm paid little attention to the brief argument that ensued. What would
happen to his demonic friend, if he were found?
* * * *
Thribble awoke to turmoil. He was still in Questor Grimm's robe pocket, but
the familiar warmth of his human friend was absent, and he shivered. He felt
himself flying through the air, and he came to rest with a significant impact;
it was only his small mass that saved him from injury. Thrusting his head from
the garment, he found himself smothered by a sweaty, malodorous mound of
clothing that landed atop him; Thribble's sensitive nose told him that the
noisome vestments belonged to Questor Xylox.
He was in an open-topped box of some sort, and he heard a pair of human
mortals conversing above him.
"What are we goin to do with all this junk? The voice was high-pitched and
whining, laden with boredom.
"'S all goin in the furnace, what d'you think? came the gruff reply. We
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