"Ah, yes-'an undertaking of the gravest import for the security of the Guild', Lord Thorn called it," the old man said, beaming. "I'm to take you at once."

Things may be looking up, the Questor thought, feeling his heart beat faster as he followed Doorkeeper out of the cell.

This doesn't sound like another sewer expedition.

The balding, red-faced Thorn Virias' outward semblance gave the impression more of a harried clerk than the Prelate of a Guild House. Nonetheless, Dalquist gave a courteous, sincere bow on entering Thorn's private chamber. The Prelate was a full Questor of the Seventh Rank, a veteran of dozens of Quests; a man to be respected.

The Prelate dismissed Doorkeeper with a nod and a wave of his hand, leaving Dalquist alone with his lord and master.

"Greetings, Questor Dalquist," Thorn intoned, leaning back in his ornate throne, which stood behind a large desk festooned with an untidy profusion of scrolls and books. "I trust you are well rested after your recent Quest?"

The younger mage yearned to dispense with small talk and cut to the heart of the matter, but he knew the Prelate regarded protocol as essential to the harmonious running of the House. Too direct and blunt an approach might be taken as an insult.

"Quite well, thank you, Lord Prelate," he replied, standing erect and rigid. "The task was not too arduous."

Disgusting, yes, but not physically arduous, he added as a mental codicil to his statement.

"I must congratulate you on gaining the fifth ring to your staff, Brother Mage," Thorn said. He smiled and opened a desk drawer, from which he withdrew a green bottle and two glasses. "May I interest you in a modicum of this brandy? It is an excellent vintage, I assure you."

Dalquist had heard tales of the senior mage's fondness for strong drink, and he took care to keep his response polite and neutral.