Weapon of the Guild [The Chronicles of Grimm Dragonblaster, Book 2] (4 page)

Dalquist opened his purse to show the boy the gleaming wealth inside, and the boy stammered his thanks. The most he might have expected from this enterprise was seven or eight coppers; twelve must be an unaccustomed bounty. Dalquist waved an imperious hand.

"However, child,” he continued, looking straight into the boy's wide eyes, “should our horses be restless or dirty when we return here, it will go ill with you, I assure you. Should you take your eyes from these mares for one minute and allow them to be stolen, it will go very hard indeed with you. Should anyone overpower you and attempt to steal them, you will run at once to the bar and inform me, and I will deal with the miscreants myself. Do not attempt to deceive me for a moment, for we mages have ways of knowing the truth; we also have ways of enforcing our will that you would not find pleasant. Do I make my meaning crystal clear?"

"Quite clear, Lord Wizard,” the boy quavered. “I wouldn't try to swindle a mighty magician like you, never! You'll find your horses waiting here groomed, well-fed and watered when you come back, I promise you. You have the word of Dor Hamel on it."

Dalquist smiled. “Thank you, Dor. I am sure you will take good care of our mounts, and if so, you have nothing to fear, either from my companion, Grimm, or me. Just be aware that I have some idea of the price of such horses in this town, and I know the names of the men who deal in them, just as I am sure you do. Let us say no more on the matter."

Dalquist turned to Grimm and said, “The food here is adequate and the drink acceptable. We should also be able to find at least a couple of bold adventurers here to aid us in our Quest." As the two mages walked away, Grimm stopped at the door of the tavern and whispered, “Weren't you a little hard on the boy, Dalquist?"

"I told you I know this town, Grimm,” the older Questor replied in the same low tone of voice. “I told you much about honour here but, even so, it has more than its share of cutpurses and brigands. All too many ‘honoured guests’ here leave on foot with empty purses and false tales of masked robbers that appear without warning in the night and disappear without trace. Everybody in this town knows everybody else, and they are masters of the barefaced lie, who will just dare you to make an accusation that must be backed up with evidence or force.

"I don't
like
Drute, but it does house a goodly number of brave swordsmen and professional thieves who hold to a code of honour that might seem strange to us, but it's all that prevents total anarchy. Just follow my lead and we'll be all right."

Dalquist opened the door, which squealed alarmingly—there were no magic portals here, opening silently at the least touch!—and the two Questors walked into a smoke-filled room resonating with loud voices from all corners.

As they entered, the hubbub fell for a moment to a low level, as various villainous-looking types, some with gaudy tattoos, some with livid, grotesque scars and all bearing weapons, cast appraising gazes at the two visitors.

Dalquist stepped up to the bar and made an imperious gesture to the bartender, a man even more muscular and imposing than the most fearsome of the steel-sporting bravos who had scrutinised Grimm and Dalquist on their entry. However, the bulky man's voice was surprisingly high and pleasant, belying his outward appearance.

However, Grimm could see this was not a man to be trifled with. Although his hair might be grey and his brow lined, the corded muscles on his giant arms showed he kept himself in good shape. The Questor imagined this human titan could handle any trouble that might arise in the tavern.

"Questor Dalquist, it is good to see you again,” the landlord boomed, his mouth stretched into a broad grin. “I see you have a new companion."

"This is my fellow Questor, Grimm Afelnor, Uril,” Dalquist replied, returning a polite nod. “This is his first expedition, but he is a mighty mage, nonetheless. I would take it as a signal favour if you would hold him in the same regard you do me."

"Welcome to
The Broken Bottle
, Questor Grimm. I am your host, Uril Shamas, and I offer you homage as a Guild wizard. A glass of Callorion Red for you, perhaps, Questor Dalquist? It's very good indeed."

Dalquist nodded.

"And what would you care to sample, Questor Grimm?"

Grimm scanned the various brews on offer, and his eyes lit on a pump legend that piqued his interest. “I think I would like to try a pint of your ‘Midnight Ale', Mr. Shamas. It sounds intriguing."

"An excellent choice, Lord Mage,” the landlord responded, with a friendly smile. “The brew is full-flavoured, foamy and just right for a thirsty traveller, although not for the dilettante, you understand. Please call me Uril."

Grimm looked at Dalquist and winked as he drew his staff close to him.

"Thank you for the warning, Uril,” he said, remembering to keep his tone of voice cool and formal. “Do not fear; we mages have a way with alcohol."

"I meant no slight, Questor Grimm, I assure you,” the landlord said and laughed. “I'm sure your capacity for drink is formidable.” Uril placed a glass of rich red wine before Dalquist and a foaming, red-brown pint before Grimm. The young mage took a sip of his beer and found it nutty, warming and refreshing, quite at odds with the dubious promise of the tavern. After his riotous, drunken Ceremony of Acclamation, he knew well the effects of alcohol, and he vowed to use the magic in his staff to keep them at bay.

The muscular landlord raised his eyebrows in question, and Grimm responded. “This is an excellent brew, Uril. It seems you keep a fine cellar here."

Dalquist nodded. “And the Red is as good as ever, Uril. Thank you.” He handed over three coppers, which the landlord accepted with a friendly smile as he glided with surprising grace towards another thirsty customer.

Dalquist moved over to a small table, and Grimm followed him. “It's early yet, Grimm,” he muttered

“Let's see who comes in before we make a move. Uril seems to approve of you, and that's a good start. You've made a favourable impression on him, which should help you to be better accepted here." The two mages sat for a while, reminiscing of earlier times. Grimm allowed the drink to cheer him, although he used Redeemer to keep the merriness at a manageable level whenever the strong beer threatened to overwhelm him.

After an hour or so, a slender young man entered the bar, dressed in fine, loose robes and carrying a polished rapier in a low-slung silk baldric. The man carried himself with a loose-limbed confidence, and he appeared quite at ease in the rough company. He purchased a glass of wine from Uric, for which he paid with a freshly minted silver piece, waving away the handful of copper change, for which the burly landlord thanked him. The swordsman moved to a table on the left side of the bar, and Grimm saw he left his rapier and his sword arm free. With a respectful nod to the others arrayed around the tavern, he sat and sipped his wine.

"He looks a likely type, Grimm,” Dalquist whispered. “He may be here plying for trade. Let's go and have a word."

"He looks a little foppish to me, Dalquist,” Grimm replied, frowning, “and he hasn't a mark on him. Some of the other men here seem more like dangerous fighters, don't you think?"

"Don't mistake him for a dilettante, Grimm. He's comfortable in this rough place and he looks confident with his steel. Look at those little notches on his blade; this is no pretty toy, and the warrior keeps it clean and well-honed. This is a man who's been in many fights and values his weapon. On the other hand, he bears no visible scars, which implies he has done well in those fights. Some flaunt battle scars as proof of prowess, but I view a whole skin as better evidence."

I can see I'll have to get rid of a lot of preconceptions if I'm to play this game well, Grimm thought as they strode over to the young swordsman.

"I am Questor Dalquist, and this is my fellow mage, Questor Grimm. We are Guild Mages looking for a skilled and experienced swordsman to aid us on an important Quest. You look to be a man familiar with the blade. Would you be interested in joining us for a week or so?” Dalquist asked quietly, holding up his left hand to show his blue and gold Guild Ring.

The blond swordsman looked up for a moment and motioned Grimm and Dalquist into the chairs opposite him.

"I'm Harvel Rusea, Lord Mage,” he said in a deep, calm voice. “I'm your man, if you can afford me—but I warn you, I don't come cheap. I'm older than I look, and I've been in many battles at odds that would have been fatal to lesser swordsmen."

Dalquist shrugged. “We might feel happier to meet your stipulated fee if you could give us some evidence of your skill,” he said, swiftly adding, “not that we doubt your word."

"Uril!” Harvel shouted, pointing to the sword at his side. “Just how good am I with this thing?"

"Questor Dalquist, if you want a good swordsman, you can't get much better than Harvel, here,” the huge landlord rumbled. “We first met when we fought together in the Sugar Wars, under Lord Dravin's flag, and you know of my fighting experience.

"Harvel's one of the five best men with a sword I've ever met, and I served in one man's army or another for over thirty-five years. Whatever he asks for, I advise you to give it to him; he's worth it. And he can keep his mouth shut, too."

"Thanks, Uril. Pity I can't say the same for you,” Harvel called back. Instead of taking affront, Uril laughed and turned to serve another customer.

"Well, Harvel, it seems you come highly recommended,” Dalquist said. He made a gesture with one hand and muttered a spell in his personal spell-language. “There; I have cast a spell so no eavesdropper can listen to what we say,” the Questor said. Dalquist then embarked on a detailed explanation of the Quest, without mentioning High Lodge or that the Eye of Myrrn had been stolen from a Guild House.

"It sounds like an enjoyable diversion, mage,” Harvel said, smiling, when Dalquist had finished.

"If the expedition is acceptable to you, what are your terms?" Harvel mentioned the sum of four gold pieces a week. Dalquist politely refused and offered two. Eventually they agreed on two and a half gold pieces, ten percent of any booty taken, and a replacement weapon of equal value to the sword at his side if it should be badly damaged or broken. Both Dalquist and Harvel spat on their palms and shook hands to solemnise the deal, and Dalquist relaxed his spell. The swordsman called to Uril for another round of drinks. Harvel and Dalquist began to exchange adventure stories the inexperienced Grimm could not hope to match, so the junior mage contented himself with occasional polite nods, interjecting murmurs of appreciation at appropriate intervals. Although the magic contained in Redeemer countered the intoxicating effects of alcohol, it did not lessen drink's demands on the bladder. After a few glasses of beer, Grimm found himself needing to use the jakes, and he excused himself, threading his way through the mass of bibulous humanity thronging the bar. On the way back, he bumped into one of the scarred ruffians who seemed to form a large part of the tavern's regular customers. The impact spilled a minute quantity of wine onto the man's grubby, threadbare clothes.

"Watch where you're going, can't you?” the warrior growled. “You clumsy young oaf; I ought to teach you some manners, and I'm just about in the mood to do that,” he snarled, with a belligerent jut of his jaw.

"Please excuse my clumsiness,” Grimm said. “Let me buy you another drink to make amends."

"Think you can buy me with your blandishments, boy? I'll have no stripling catamite fawning over me!" Several heads turned towards the argument, and Grimm swallowed, remembering Dalquist's advice to leave no slight unanswered. The tipsy man seemed ready for a fight.

Grimm could not see the fearsome Uril, and nobody else seemed inclined to intervene. He saw Dalquist and the foppish swordsman sitting at ease on the other side of the bar, impassive, although Grimm knew they must both be listening to the exchange with interest.

The young Questor took a deep breath and drew the wispy tendrils of his will into a dense nugget of determination, as he had been taught.

This will be a one-sided battle
, he told himself, feeling the power build within him.
This muscle-bound
bruiser doesn't stand a chance.

"In truth, I have little experience in the ways of love,” he said in a low voice, “but I do not desire the bed-company of my own sex. Should I so desire, I would not choose as my partner a bloated, big-mouthed oaf such as you. So you must swallow your disappointment and find yourself another young boy with whom to spend your nights and to soothe your bruised ego." A low groan arose from some quarters of the bar as the brute stood to tower over the mage. Grimm suppressed a nervous gulp; he stood six feet tall, but this brute overtopped him by inches. In a reflex motion, he brought Redeemer to a ready position.

"Think that
toothpick's
going t'protect you,
boy
?” the fighter slurred. “Think you can insult Harman Hammerfist and get away with it?"

The tall man drew a well-worn sword, brandishing it in a threatening manner that implied some skill with the blade.

"Do you think you can insult a
Guild Mage
and get away with it?” Grimm said in a contemptuous voice. He knew now a fight was inevitable, and he let his training take over, like a cool, refreshing wind that blew all fear and uncertainty from him.

"I was prepared to accept your bluster as the mindless ramblings of a drunkard,” Grimm said. “Now, you have gone too far. Apologise at once, or know the wrath of a Mage Questor."

"A wizard? You never said nothing about being no wizard,” the man spluttered, suddenly concerned.

“You haven't got none of them gold rings on that stick."

"You gave me little chance to mention it before you called me a pederast's toy,” Grimm replied in a cold voice that surprised even him. “Put that sword away and apologise humbly for your rash words, or it will be the worse for you."

"How do I know you really are a wizard?” Harman asked, with a suspicious glint in his eyes.
This is a dangerous question to ask a walking weapon like a Questor
, Grimm thought. There were several ways in which he could prove what he was, but Harman wouldn't survive many of them. Pointing at the sword, he muttered
"Ch'teerehch'ye!"
and the weapon's blade fell into glittering dust like flour, leaving the hapless Harman gaping at the now-useless hilt.