Weapon of the Guild cogd-2

by Alastair J. Archibald

  ****

  The Prioress flinched as Dalquist's spell struck her, a shocked expression on her face as the pain of the Questor's power scorched her very nerves. Panic rose and agony began to wash through her body, but she knew that the mage was merely a man, a pathetic slave to the demands and complaints of his body.

  Lizaveta was a woman, and she had borne three children, two of which had been stillborn.

  Men have no idea of what real agony is!

  Marshalling her strength, she accepted the pain and dismissed it, subsuming it into the depths of her psyche. All Lizaveta could do was to hold the awful force at bay, but she managed to prevent it from disorienting the higher functions of her brain.

  This mage made a bad mistake by assaulting me with a spell of pain, she thought. A spell of destruction would have been all but impossible to ward off, but the fool still sees me in some neglected corner of his male brain as a life-giver, a weak, little old lady; a grandmother.

  While her body twitched, no longer under her direct control, the Prioress drew to herself the power of the earth, the potent energy of Geomancy: an energy that came from without, not from within her own spirit. Communing with the earth, Lizaveta directed it at Dalquist with a single, mighty effort of will.

  She felt the Questor's spell weaken and fail as he fought to block the Compulsion spell she had hurled at him. The Prioress knew she could not access the deepest recesses of his will. She could not see deeply enough into the realms of the man's soul, so well-protected by bands of discipline and willpower, but she was, at least, able to hold him at bay.

  He is a strong one, she thought, as the mage made a fortress, a battering-ram of his masculine strength and resolve that threatened to overwhelm her own defences. Now it was down to a naked struggle, a war of inner forces.

  I will win. This helpless…

  With a frigid shock of sheer terror, Lizaveta began to feel her resistance crumble as the Questor's awful, shocking, masculine energy battered her. Under the ruthless, animalistic assault, she felt her will becoming compressed to a mote, a poincture, as she felt the layers of her personality stripped away from her, one by one.

  The dwindling soul called Lizaveta knew she had made a bad mistake: she had allowed herself to become slack in the forty years since she had last taken a Guild Questor's will…

  Just as she knew she was on the point of surrendering to the powerful magic-user, all resistance ceased. Gasping for breath, her vision misty and tinged with grey, she looked up to see Madeleine standing in the room, arms outstretched, a broken alabaster vase in one hand. Dalquist was kneeling before her, motionless, expressionless, his face a mask of vacuity.

  Madeleine, too, was red-faced and breathless. "I sensed that you were in danger, Reverend Mother, and rushed to your aid. I made my excuses to Questor Grimm, saying that I would return in a few minutes.

  "I met this mage not thirty minutes ago, and I thought that he might prove troublesome. I am glad I arrived here in time."

  Now that Dalquist was safely restrained, Lizaveta took a few moments to compose herself. She smoothed her hair and her white dress, and she drew a succession of deep breaths, trying to still her pounding heart. Madeleine, younger and stronger, seemed already to have recovered, and she reached towards Dalquist's floating staff, Shakhmat.

  "Sister!" Lizaveta screamed. "Do you not know the power resident within a mage's staff?"

  Madeleine stopped her hand with a jerk and looked at the Prioress with wide eyes.

  "Reverend Mother," she gasped, "what can we do? We cannot leave the Questor in this state indefinitely."

  Lizaveta snorted. "I do not know enough to control the man's total will, but it is a relatively easy task to manipulate memories without disturbing his basic drives. Go back to your puppy; I can deal with this situation alone, now."

  The Prioress waited until Madeleine had departed. She rolled her eyes and made a simple gesture. Dalquist's gaze flicked upwards into Lizaveta's amber eyes, his body as still as a statue.

  "You remember nothing of our struggle, Questor Dalquist," the Reverend Mother said in an intense voice. You are happy for your friend, Grimm Afelnor, and you see nothing wrong in this innocent little flirtation. There is nothing unusual about this relationship, and you will inquire no further. When you leave here, you will not remember that you have met me, but you will remember what I have said as if the conclusion is your own. You slipped on the marble floor of the bar and hit your head on the wall. This is too embarrassing to admit, and you dare not mention it to your peers."

  For a few moments more, Dalquist knelt, immobile, and then blinked and shook his head as if trying to clear a momentary confusion.

  "So, you see, Questor Dalquist," the Prioress hissed in a poor facsimile of a calm, honeyed voice, "Nothing in the rules of our Order prohibits our Sister Madeleine from carrying on an innocent friendship with your colleague."

  Dalquist appeared to come to his senses, but his eyes were still distant. "Ah, yes, thank you, Reverend Mother, I just wanted to be certain that my friend would not get into any trouble with you. I am relieved that he will not. He and Sister Madeleine will make such a nice couple."

  Chapter 18: Like Sunshine in Summer

  Grimm awoke early, with the name of Madeleine on his lips. He felt joyous; perhaps a little too happy, he thought, as the room seemed to begin to sway and swivel; slowly at first but at an ever-increasing pace.

  A low throb began to build in his right temple, rising to an insistent, thudding pain that seemed as if it might burst his head. His stomach began to protest, also, and his mouth felt as dry as a desert.

  He had enjoyed himself so much the night before, talking to and even dancing with Madeleine, and he had not noticed at the time the effects of the considerable amount of alcohol he had consumed. He reached for Redeemer, but he realised that he must have left his staff in the bar.

  "Redeemer, come here."

  Nothing in the mortal world could prevent a mage's staff from returning to him when summoned. If it was within plain sight, it could travel directly to his hand; if not, it would utilise a form of teleportation without the mage needing to cast the least spell. In a few moments, the rod appeared in his hand. Grimm felt the pounding in his temples and his entrails cease, and he took stock of his surroundings.

  He was on top of his bed, still wearing his velvet robes. A colourful profusion of other clothes lay scattered in bright abandon across the floor, along with toppled bottles of bath oil and scented powders. Grimm, shocked at the disarray he saw, began to realise the depths of intensity of his feelings on the previous night, in his eagerness to impress Madeleine.

  During his long, difficult years in the Scholasticate, the Magemasters had drilled a strong sense of neatness and order into him. Still numb with horror at his uncharacteristic acts of the night before, the mage began to tidy up the room in an almost fanatical manner.

  Grimm shook down his clothes, brushed them and put them, neatly folded, in the large chest-of-drawers provided for the purpose. He took care to clean the spills and stains from the walls and carpet, replaced fallen bottles on their appointed shelves, righted a toppled table and made his bed.

  After half an hour's frenzied effort, the Questor felt satisfied that the chamber was in its original, pristine state, whereupon he turned his attention to his own appearance and hygiene. Feeling clean and whole once more, Grimm took a frugal breakfast from the splendid array of food provided, now feeling ready to face the new day.

  He mused on the events of the previous evening, and on Dalquist's comment that he was making a damned fool of himself over Madeleine. The girl was very attractive, and Grimm certainly felt very flattered at her attentions, but he had to admit that his reactions had been extreme, to say the least.

  The way I turned on Dalquist was unforgivable, he thought, his entrails churning with unease. I wouldn't blame him if he never talked to me again. I've got to apologise to him and try to make amends.

  A door c
onnected the two mages' rooms, and Grimm strode towards it with a resolute tread, his firm knock being answered with a cheerful "Come in, Grimm" from the older mage.

  Drawing a deep breath, he opened the door into a room that was the mirror image of his own and saw that Dalquist was taking a hearty breakfast. Grimm knew how the Questor appreciated good sustenance, and his friend seemed to be making the most of the high life while it lasted. He felt a flush of relief that Dalquist did not seem to harbour any resentment over Grimm's earlier show of disrespect.

  "Good morning, Grimm. I trust you enjoyed yourself last night?"

  "Very much, Dalquist," Grimm replied, nodding. "Madeleine is a lovely girl, and I feel very privileged to have made her acquaintance. I just wanted to apologise humbly for the way I spoke to you last night. I had no right to sound off at you the way I did; you are senior to me, and I know also that you only have my best interests at heart."

  Dalquist, his mouth full, waved airily at a seat, which Grimm took. After the senior Questor finished his mouthful of food, he wiped his mouth and beard with a silk napkin and turned to face his young colleague.

  "Well, Grimm, I was taken aback by the way you treated me, and I wouldn't recommend you to repeat it; it's a bad habit to get into, especially with senior mages. On the other hand, I thought afterwards about what you had said and I had to admit that my own behaviour lacked a little… no, no, Grimm, please hear me out!

  "We both know that intimate relations between a mage and a woman can destroy the magic-user's powers. I didn't want you to take that awful risk. You are, of course, still indebted to the House. Nonetheless, as I think of it now, nothing could have been more innocent. A Questor and a nun, holding hands and dancing; what could be less sinister than that? I ought to know you well enough by now to know that you would never let things go too far."

  Grimm felt surprised at Dalquist's rapid volte-face. Although his friend seemed to have calmed down a little from the night before, the young mage had the impression that Dalquist was only trying to heal an incipient rift in their relationship. He also remembered his behaviour on the previous night; his carefree cavorting and his desire for Madeleine. He was not as sure as Dalquist that he would be able to prevent 'things going too far', should the opportunity ever present itself. Grimm made a determined pledge that, this evening, he would act in a more circumspect manner, as befitted a Mage Questor of the Fifth Rank.

  "Are you going to see Madeleine tonight, Grimm?" Dalquist asked, smiling.

  "This afternoon," Grimm corrected, "She said that today she would be allowed to wear Secular clothes. It will be nice to see her in something a little less formal than a nun's habit; I'm looking forward to it."

  Dalquist grinned. "I can't blame you there, Grimm. She's a comely lass, and a habit is scarcely flattering attire for such a pretty girl. Enjoy yourself, my friend, with my blessing. What will you do to pass the hours until then, other than counting the minutes?"

  Grimm returned the smile with warmth. "I thought I'd do a little research, Dalquist. A place like this should have a splendid library."

  Dalquist nodded, gulping down another mouthful of food like a famished man. "Good man. We mages are always learning. Perhaps I'll see you later?"

  "Perhaps you will, Dalquist. On the other hand, you know what I'm like with books. I hardly notice the passage of time."

  The older man wagged his finger in a mock warning gesture. "Just you make sure that you meet that girl up this afternoon, Afelnor, or you'll be feeling the weight of Shakhmat resting none too gently on your head!"

  "I'll be there, Mother Hen." Grimm laughed. "I'll be there, don't you worry."

  ****

  Grimm tried thinking 'Library' and consulting his borrowed Gem of Location, but the charm just flashed at him, which, he understood, meant that there was more than one place with that appellation. He tried 'Senior Doorkeeper', and found that the stone worked on people as well as locations.

  After following a winding trail, he found the tall, regal-looking man in one of the winding, identical corridors of the Lodge. The Senior Doorkeeper swivelled smoothly around at his approach, as if he were on well-oiled, silent castors.

  "How may I help you, Questor Grimm?" The dark man's tone was cool, doubtless as a result of his altercation with Dalquist the day before.

  "I wish to carry out some research, Senior Doorkeeper," Grimm replied in a civil manner, "and it seems you have more than one library here. Would you be so kind as to direct me to the most appropriate one for my purposes?"

  The tall man sniffed. "We have five libraries, Questor Grimm, covering Civil Law, Thaumaturgic Research, Guild History, Biology and Technology," the Senior Doorkeeper said, with a trace of pride.

  "You have a library of Technology?" Grimm felt stunned. In Arnor House at least, this discipline was regarded with suspicion, if not with outrage.

  "It is necessary on occasion to study an enemy's ways, so as to understand him better, Questor. We of High Lodge are not as hidebound as the incumbents of certain provincial Houses." This was almost a direct insult, and Grimm swallowed a sharp retort.

  "Thank you for your kind assistance, Senior Doorkeeper. I think I can find my own way from here." He gave the man a curt nod and turned on his heel, a gesture whose impact was lessened by the fact that Grimm almost tripped over Redeemer in the process. He could almost feel the Senior Doorkeeper's superior, smug smile burning into his back as he walked away, and he knew that his own face and aura were red.

  ****

  The phrase 'Library-Guild History' evoked an immediate, decisive response from the gem, which shone a clear green path before him. In fifteen minutes, he had reached his goal. A simple door led into a vast complex of shelves and racks, regimented and rectilinear. This library was three times the size of Grimm's comfortable old haunt in the Arnor Scholasticate, but it was too cold and clinical for Grimm's taste. How would he ever find anything in this monstrous place?

  He saw a wide, semicircular desk a few yards inside the door, at which sat a grizzled old mage dressed in simple dark-grey robes. The man sat leafing through sheaves of paper, muttering and clicking to himself like some fleshy millrace capable of grinding facts and figures into intellectual flour.

  Grimm waited while the aged mage hummed and ticked his way through several sheets of paper, and then essayed a soft "Excuse me." The mage's head popped up with a sudden jerk, like that of a clockwork bird.

  "Yes, may I help you?" The man's delivery was rapid, monotonous and staccato, again as if he were some machine made flesh. "Scholar Grell Librarian of this establishment what would you like to see?"

  "Do you have any old copies of standard Guild reference works I could peruse?" Grimm asked, forcing himself not to copy Grell's rapid-fire pattern of speech.

  "Selections date back nearly three hundred years which category please?"

  Grimm tried to force his voice into its accustomed mode, but gave up the effort. "Deeds of the Questors sixty-five to thirty years ago original editions if available."

  Grell's hand flicked out and opened a drawer in a cabinet at his left side. His deft fingers riffled through a series of cards and then stopped in an instant, as if at some predestined position.

  "Rack E-323 Questor good reading Brother Mage."

  The old man's gaze dropped back to his work, as if he had already forgotten the mage standing before him.

  At least the library was laid out in a sensible order, and Grimm had little trouble in finding Rack E-323. He had decided to see if he could find any details of Loras' deeds as a young Questor. Arnor House seemed to have expunged all records of his grandfather's name from all records. Perhaps, he thought, High Lodge might be a little more catholic in its retention of documents; it was.

  He found what appeared to be untouched copies of the periodical dating back to two hundred years before, and more.

  Although the monetary wealth he had received from the grateful people of Crar was considerable, he felt rich beyond his wildes
t dreams at the sight of these dusty tomes. He leafed through several copies, careful not to damage the delicate, yellowed paper, until he found his first mention of his grandfather in a document dating back fifty years.

  Afelnor, Loras, Third Rank Questor, is recognised for exemplary service to the Guild. This mage is hereby raised to the Fifth Rank, with congratulations from a grateful Presidium. Olaf Demonscourge, Seventh Rank Questor, is unanimously voted a yearly bequest of eight hundred gold pieces.

  The relevant Quest was described in some detail. The senior mage on this expedition was Olaf Demonscourge, whom Grimm had last seen in a fierce battle between inebriation and imbecility at the young mage's ceremony of Acclamation. It was hard to think of the venerable Olaf as a relatively young man, maybe fifteen years older than his friend Dalquist, but it was even more of a shock to think of his grandfather, Loras, as a proud, vigorous nineteen-year-old Questor in the prime of his life.

  ****

  The Quest seemed simple enough at first. A large group of brigands had been disrupting free trade and free travel within the demesnes of the Guild. Olaf and Loras were despatched to offer warning that the bandits were treading on dangerous ground; it was assumed that the presence of two full Guild Questors would be sufficient to persuade this band of desperadoes to abandon their plundering ways.

  The Quest did not go as planned; it took on a more sinister turn when the despoilers revealed that they had a pair of powerful mages within their own ranks: a Weatherworker and an Illusionist who had abandoned the Guild in search of a wealthier lifestyle.

  The two Arnor Questors defeated the renegade magic-users after a series of violent encounters, during which Olaf suffered a serious wound, a well-directed bolt of lightning, only to find that the outlaws had invested the town of Shuralla and taken the Earl's family prisoner.

  Loras entered the town alone and defeated the brigands without the loss of a single hostage. An engraving, showing a proud, defiant-looking Loras carrying the Earl's baby daughter to her grateful father's arms adorned the page.