"I understand that congratulations are also due to you, Questor Grimm or, should I say, Baron Grimm?"
"Thank you, Lord Prelate. This was indeed great fortune, for I am now a wealthy man. However, I am more content to be fortunate enough to be able to think of myself as a full-blooded Guild Questor. The wealth into which I have come is, of course, welcome."
Perfect modesty, Thorn thought. That is just what I might have said to my Prelate as a youth, you lucky little urchin.
"May I assume, Questor Grimm, that you will be authorising the free passage of Guild Mages into and out of the city of Crar?"
Afelnor can hardly refuse, Thorn thought.
"Indeed, Lord Prelate, I have already given such instructions to my Seneschal, Shakkar, to ensure that fair tolls are charged for entry to the city. Bearers of the Guild Ring are, of course, exempt from such fees."
Thorn's brow furrowed. "Ah, yes; this Shakkar must be this demon with which you have been consorting. I trust you do not intend to make a habit of associating with such creatures. Some of us in the Presidium are nervous of their motives."
A polite smile split the Questor's stony face, transforming it. "The solemn word of a demon is, as you know, inviolate, Lord Prelate. I have been most careful to ensure that Shakkar will do nothing inimical to the aims of the Guild. I will, with your permission, make periodic visits to Crar to ensure that my instructions are being carried out to the letter."
Thorn shook his head. "Although you are no longer a Student, Afelnor, I regret that this is a most critical time in your vocation. Having seen some of the outside world and its baser temptations, you may feel seduced by it. I regret that you must remain resident at the House for the nonce."
The Prelate watched the slender youth for a few moments, searching for any sign of annoyance or petulance, but he saw none, even though he knew Afelnor must be disappointed.
The boy's self-control is exemplary. I must find another Quest for him soon.
"I will, however, review this situation after your next Quest, Afelnor, subject to a satisfactory report from the senior mage."
"Thank you, Lord Prelate," Afelnor replied, bowing. "I appreciate your generosity."
"A carriage will arrive here in the morning to convey you to High Lodge. I am advised that you will be staying there for three days. There may be dances and festivities which you will be expected to attend during this time."
"Thankfully, Lord Prelate, I now have plenty of changes of clothes, and I will ensure that I heed Magemaster Faffel's kind advice concerning proper deportment at such affairs." The quirky smile flitted briefly once more across Grimm's face.
"Thank you, Questor Grimm, and well done. I will expect a report from you on your visit when you return. Enjoy yourself. That will be all."
At Thorn's usual peremptory dismissal, Grimm stood, bowed with immaculate courtesy and exited the room.
The Prelate, full of his election to the Presidium, drew his scrying-crystal to him. Lizaveta would surely be pleased at his news.
****
Grimm made his way down the stairs to the Great Hall to where Dalquist was waiting, and he blew out his cheeks in an explosive exhalation.
"Dalquist, I never want to go through that again! I felt like I was in front of some damned inquisition!" He shivered in mock terror.
"Did he accept your report, Grimm?"
"I think so, Dalquist. I was nervous as Hell, but I don't think I showed it. I was sitting straight as a ramrod."
Grimm swiped his hand through his hair in relief.
"That's the only way to deal with Lord Thorn," Dalquist said and chuckled. "I think the old sod's got 'Power and Presence' tattooed on his backside. You'll do. I was worried that recent events might have got the better of you, which is why I gave you that little test yesterday. If you can face down Thorn, then the Broken Bottle should be a cakewalk from now on."
"Dalquist, does the Refectory have any alcohol?" Grimm asked. "I could do with a little restorative drink right now."
"I think we could get the staff to come up with something," the older Questor replied, smiling. "I could do with a stiff medicinal dose as well."
A small head, like a fuzzy, horned marble, arose from Grimm's left pocket.
"What about me?" a familiar voice twittered.
Grimm started. "I'd all but forgotten about you, demon. I trust you'll keep your mouth shut about what you've heard over the last couple of days?"
Thribble licked his tiny lips with a minuscule forked tongue. "If you were to obtain a minim of peach brandy, human, I might be persuaded to forget my own name."
"We'll see what we can do, Thribble," Dalquist said, with a broad smile.
****
Grimm felt more than satisfied. His Mage Staff, Redeemer, was no longer naked. A smart, indelible gold ring now signified his full acceptance into the ranks of the Guild Questors, and he had eaten a splendid lunch. He liked to take a short nap after a heavy meal when he was able to do so, but he always needed a little literary diversion before he could drift off to sleep. Since he had read all the books in his room, he went in search of new inspiration in the Scholasticate Library.
As usual, the labyrinthine room was all but deserted. A young Student was diligently studying a text that Grimm knew only too well: 'Mental Control and Mediation; Finding One's Inner Self.'
An old mage, an Alchemist, to judge by his mottled and stained skin, sat snoozing at one of the corner tables.
Grimm moved to a rack of books labelled 'Guild History', and he climbed atop a set of wheeled steps in order to reach the top shelf. He reached out to take a tome called 'High Lodge: Flower of the Guild' when he noticed that the book to its right was inverted. Long schooling in decorum and neatness had led him to deplore disorder, and he removed the book in order to replace it in the correct orientation. As he did so, a small sheet of paper, too large to be a page marker, fluttered to the floor.
Intrigued, he climbed down to retrieve the page. The paper was crisp and slightly yellowed, implying that it might offer a view of olden times in the House, and he opened it with care. Maybe this was some secret note from one miscreant Student to another, outlining some prank that they might play on one of the Magemasters; perhaps it was merely a set of revision notes for some long-since Acclaimed Neophyte. Either way, it might prove interesting.
L.A.,
I feel constrained to bring to your awareness some most urgent news of which I have recently become aware. Not all of this House are as trustworthy as they might appear; vile intrigue is afoot. Speak to nobody of this note. I entreat you most urgently to meet me outside the West Wing at midnight tomorrow, when I will acquaint you with some disturbing information of the greatest import to your well-being.
Your friend,
Kitaur
Grimm was shaken by the note; the letters 'L.A.' were the very initials of his disgraced grandfather. The note spoke of 'vile intrigue' and 'disturbing information'. Grimm still felt embarrassed at how he had been fooled by Starmor, and the demon's mention of Loras' betrayal, and he felt determined not to read too much into the note. Any number of mages might have had the same initials, and Grimm knew from 'The Deeds of the Questors' that there were at least two other mages with the same initials. The House rolls must be full of such names.
Nonetheless, he still could not imagine that the loving man who had raised him was a callous murderer. Leaving the Library, careful not to disturb its two occupants, he went in search of Magemaster Crohn.
The Senior Magemaster sat at a heaped desk in his chamber, leafing through notes that doubtless told of the conduct and progress of his Students. Crohn seemed so deeply engrossed in the papers that Grimm felt constrained to emit a polite cough in order to elicit the Magemaster's attention.
Crohn started and looked up from his work.
"Questor Grimm!" Crohn cried, favouring the Questor with a rare smile. "I am so pleased to see you back here. You seem to have done well from your first Quest; please tell me
all about it. I do not escape from this scholastic warren very often these days, and I am keen to hear of my former Student's achievements in the wider world."
Long moments passed as Grimm told Crohn of the Quest for the Eye of Myrrn. The Senior Magemaster sat rapt as Grimm wound through the essential details. At the end of the account, Crohn raised his eyebrows and nodded.
"It would seem that you have done well, young Afelnor. I congratulate you."
"Thank you, Senior Magemaster. I am sorry to interrupt your invaluable work, but I wish to ask a question of you."
Crohn opened his hands to Grimm, as if sweeping away the heaped papers on his desk. "Ask away, Questor Grimm. What is troubling you?"
Grimm had become adept at creative interpretations of facts, and he had a ready response.
"Magemaster Crohn," he said, "I was in the Library, looking up pervulsions of the runic Translocation spell that I used during my Quest, when I noticed what seemed to be a pertinent note in the margin, only I was unable to read it. The note was signed with the name 'Kitaur'. Does the name mean anything to you? I would like to speak with this mage, if he still lives."
Crohn mused for a moment, furrowing his brow.
"Kitaur… the name seems familiar… ah!"
The Magemaster's expression cleared.
"Now I have it," Crohn said, sighing. "Perhaps forty years ago, I knew of an Adept Necromancer named Kitaur Shirrar, a promising candidate for the Ring. I regret that Adept Kitaur fell down the stairs in the West Wing Tower and broke his neck. A great shame; he had completed his staff, and he died the night before his test at the Breaking Stone." The Magemaster shook his head in evident sorrow.
"Indeed, that is a great shame," Grimm replied, lowering his head. "I wonder if my grandfather, Loras, knew him."
Crohn shrugged. "I imagine so, Questor Grimm. Loras Afelnor was then a well-respected mage; many people knew him. I could not say if they were especial friends or not.
"I am sorry, Questor Grimm. I cannot tell you more. Still, since Kitaur was a Necromancer and not a Manipulant, I can only imagine that he wrote the annotation when he was a Student. I doubt that he could provide you with any insight other that that which you already possess."
"Thank you, Magemaster Crohn. I am sorry to have encroached on your valuable time; please excuse me."
****
Grimm lay on his bed and berated himself. He had been fooled once before by Starmor, and he refused to allow this small note to mislead him. Loras had confessed to his acts in front of a Conclave of Mages. Had any mage spell been acting on him, the Mage Sight of the gathered magic-users would have detected it. The initials, 'L.A', meant nothing. The note was undated, and it could have been written at any time within the previous fifty years.
The mage snuffed the candle beside his bed and tried to force himself to ignore the coincidence of the initials 'L.A.'. Nonetheless, he found himself unable to dismiss it.
Chapter 15: "The Best of Everything"
Grimm was pacing back and forth in the Great Hall long before Dalquist arrived. Despite lying on his bed since mid-afternoon on the previous day, he had only managed a miserable couple of hours' sleep. Inchoate, formless worries provoked by sight of the faded note he had found in the Library buzzed and wheeled like a swarm of angry hornets in the inner recesses of his brain and in his stomach, leading nowhere but refusing to leave him.
He had been sorely tempted to take some a deep draught of the Trina herb that he always carried, but he dulled the urge by smoking a prodigious amount of tobacco.
Focus, Grimm,' he thought, trying, yet again, to exercise rational control over these nameless worries. If it hadn't been for that monster Starmor playing with your mind, you wouldn't have given that damn note a second thought. Remember what Dalquist told you; there are all too many opportunities to fool yourself in this world. Don't rush to grasp them.
All he wanted was to be on his way down the road, to allow new sights and new experiences to wash these amorphous misgivings from his head. Pacing up and down the length of the hall had not helped in the least.
At last, his fellow Questor arrived, also a little bleary-eyed.
"Ah, Grimm, I guess you were too excited to sleep," Dalquist said, yawning. "So was I; a trip to High Lodge is a rare experience. Still, the carriage should be here shortly. Shall we wait outside? It looks like it's going to be a lovely morning."
Grimm nodded. Perhaps a change of scenery and some idle chitchat would be all he needed to clear his thoughts. Picking up an expensive leather travelling-bag, another example of the Crarian artisans' fine craftsmanship, he followed Dalquist to the door, which opened, as usual, to a simple gesture of the older Questor's ring-bearing hand.
Stepping outside, Grimm took a deep breath of the cool, sweet morning air and surveyed the hillside. A green swathe of evergreens slanted down the cool, misty hillside into the village of Arnor, and he could see some early tendrils of smoke rising from a few tiny, far-away domiciles. Perhaps one of these represented a smith like Loras, starting up his furnace, ready for the day's trade…
The familiar image of his dungaree-clad grandfather with his patched clothes and leather apron, stepping into the morning mist to open the smithy, comforted Grimm, easing the roiling worries in his head.
"May I ask what you're thinking about, Grimm?"
Grimm smiled. "I was just thinking about the early morning at the old smithy back home in Lower Frunstock, Dalquist," he said. "I never noticed the little town down there before, you know. It's a pleasant little vista."
Dalquist shrugged. "I came from Shadauk, myself. I'm city born and bred, even if I have spent nearly all my life here. I don't really like the countryside."
Grimm swept his hand to indicate the rolling expanse of greenery. "How can you not appreciate this, Dalquist? Just smell this bracing morning air!"
"It smells the same as it ever did to me, Grimm. I think it's a little late in my life to try to turn me into a poet, or a dreamer. Ah, here's the carriage."
A small, squat vehicle approached, drawn by two chestnut horses. The paintwork was a little faded, but Grimm could see that the carriage had, in better days, been a magnificent conveyance. Chipped, wine-red paint and gold coach-lines adorned the vehicle's sides, and dark-green wheels rolled beneath it. The driver climbed down to open the door, and he took the mages' bags for stowage on the carriage roof.
The driver was a small man, maybe five feet, five inches in height, with slightly bowed legs, a flat cap over greasy grey hair and a berry-brown, wind-chapped face that spoke of many years on the open road. Nonetheless, despite his diminutive stature, the driver handled the bags with almost contemptuous ease, taking the handles of both in one hand as he hauled himself back up onto the carriage.
"Lovely mornin', innit, gennelmen?" he cried in an almost melodic voice. "Welcome on board Ginny; 'least that's what I calls her."
"A lovely morning, indeed," Grimm called, climbing on board, adding politely, "a beautiful conveyance you have here, too, driver."
"Thank'ee, Sir Wizard. I've 'ad 'er nigh on twenny-five year now. Cally, me name is, sir. Cally Furman."
"I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Driver Cally," Dalquist called from the interior of the carriage. "I am Questor Dalquist, and my companion is Questor Grimm. We wish to travel to High Lodge in Zhure. I trust that you know the way?"
Cally snorted. "Been takin' wizards from 'ere to there for long enough now, gents. I should jest about think Ginny could take 'erself there, without me drivin' her."
Dalquist called back, "I would appreciate it if you called us 'mages', Cally, rather than 'wizards'. And I think we would both feel a lot happier if you stayed at the reins, too, if you do not mind."
"Sorry 'bout that, Lord Mage. I'll 'ang on tight then, shall I? 'Ere we go."
Cally made a clicking sound and shook the reins, and the blinkered horses began to trot down the mountain slope.
"You didn't have to be mean to the driver, Dalquist," Grimm
objected, "he was just making friendly conversation."
He felt that his friend had been a little unfair to a simple man who was just trying to be pleasant.
"I wasn't doing it to be mean," his companion replied. "I think you'll find that Cally knew well enough that the word was 'mage'. He was just testing me, to see if I'd correct him. One thing you have to be on your guard against is getting too friendly with Seculars. They may seem perfectly amicable and pleasant, or they may be seeing how far they can go with you, how far they can push you. That is what our friend, Cally, was trying to do.
"If you rise to his kind of bait, word soon gets around. Before you know it, you gain a reputation as an amiable, easy-going, timid little mouse.
"Remember: being a Mage Questor isn't about winning a popularity contest, Grimm. It's about projecting the right image. Would you have been able to carry off that little exercise in the Broken Bottle if you'd been laughing and joking with that clumsy drunkard a few moments before? No, either you'd have ended up in another fight, and you'd probably have had to kill him, or you'd have had to back down and sully the image of Questors everywhere. I was pleased about the way you handled the incident, Grimm, but you can't always tell who the troublemakers are at first sight. Some are just feeling their way, seeing how far they can go. You have to assume that all Seculars are a little like that."
Dalquist folded his arms and looked straight at Grimm.
"I only said that there was no need to be mean to Cally," the younger man said mildly, "I don't think a little politeness hurts."
"Politeness, yes," Dalquist said, "but Cally had just issued a challenge; just a little one, but a challenge nonetheless. Trust me on this, Grimm. You don't have to be unfriendly or brusque all the time, but you can't afford to get too close."
"There's shades on the winders if the sunlight's a bit too bright fer ye, Lord Mages," Cally carolled.
"Thank you, Cally. It is a little bright, at that," Dalquist called back, pulling down one of the window blinds.
Weapon of the Guild cogd-2 Page 19
