Weapon of the Guild [The Chronicles of Grimm Dragonblaster, Book 2] (5 page)

"That could as easily have been your head,” Grimm said in a threatening monotone. “One more word of bluster or insult, and it
will
be. Apologise at once, before my forbearance is exhausted." All braggadocio and bravado seemed to flee Harman after this demonstration of power, and it seemed the adrenaline of terror had chased the alcoholic befuddlement from the fighter's brain. For a moment, he appeared to be trying to remember the working of his own mouth before he found his voice.

"I humbly beg pardon, Lord Mage, for my hasty words,” he said, with crystal clarity. “I was drunk, and I'm ashamed at what I said. I beg you to forgive me.” Harman's voice was little more than a whisper, his face ashen, still holding the useless stump of his sword.

All eyes in the bar seemed to be on Grimm and Harman. Uril had returned, and he shook his head, perhaps baffled by the foolishness of a man seeking to tangle with a Guild Questor.

"I believe some here did not hear your apology, yet your insult was audible to all,” Grimm snarled. “I request that you repeat your last statement in a voice loud enough for all to hear." Harman, red-faced, stared fixedly at the floor as he repeated his apology in a louder voice.

"Think yourself fortunate indeed you still live, only because a Guild Mage stayed his hand from righteous vengeance,” Grimm hissed. “I advise you to measure your words better before you speak them in future. As a last piece of advice, should any nameless ruffians happen to surprise me in some dark alley while I am here, I may well assume they have been sent by you. After I have dealt with them, I shall seek you out and you will find out to your cost that I can perform much more powerful, painful and destructive magic than the simple spell I have just demonstrated."

Grimm raised a hand and Harman flinched. The mage contented himself by allowing a single blue flame to issue from each of his fingers for an instant before letting them die.

"Do I make myself quite plain, Harman? For your own sake, you should hope nobody else is foolish enough to trifle with me. If you have any friends, which I would find hard to credit, it would be in your best interest to counsel them to steer well clear of me. Now get out of my sight." The hapless Harman Hammerfist muttered a disavowal of any intended treachery and he shuffled out of the silent bar. Grimm followed him with deliberately contemptuous eyes. Then he returned to Dalquist and Harvel. The former hubbub resumed as if a signal had been given, and several people gave Grimm respectful nods as he passed, which he acknowledged politely.

"You should have left that oaf Harman as a smoking spot of grease on the floor, mage,” the swordsman grumbled as Grimm returned to his seat. “He's been a thorn in the side of many here, but he's never been stupid enough before to pick on a ring-bearing mage."

"What was that spell, Grimm? I can shatter substances, but I can't do what you did just then,” Dalquist muttered, keeping his voice low.

Grimm noted his friend's wide eyes, and he knew Dalquist was impressed by his impromptu spell—the first he had ever cast to resolve a real-world problem.

"Oh, just for a moment, I saw the forces holding the metal together,” Grimm muttered, feeling as if he might burst from sheer pride. “I told them to let go. The effect was quite nice, I think, even if it took a lot of energy.” He smiled. “I think I'll call it the Spell of Enhanced Disintegration." Grimm drained his beer-mug and used Redeemer to reduce the intoxicating effect of the ale down to a pleasant, warm glow. He then ordered another round, addressing the landlord with politeness but with a definite ring of confidence in his voice. Uril's response, although amicable, carried an unmistakable note of respect and even deference.

"You see, Grimm?” Dalquist whispered. “Being even a tyro Questor of the First Rank can raise a man above the commonplace. Now you have proven yourself here, you have gained more respect than the mere label ‘mage’ would grant you. You handled the situation in exactly the right manner: without unnecessary bloodshed, yet sending an unequivocal warning to others without employing hollow threats or bluster. I don't think you'll have any more trouble here."

They drank a little more, and now even the self-possessed swordsman seemed to take interest in Grimm, asking of his background and eagerly devouring what little Grimm felt Guild protocol allowed him to tell of his magical training. Harvel listened to Grimm's account of his violent Outbreak and the destruction of a classroom with no trace of disbelief, nodding and smiling appreciatively. Dalquist had just begun to launch into a tale of the aftermath of one of his Quests when a shadow fell across the table. Grimm had particularly acute hearing, but he felt stunned that he had heard nothing to warn him of any approach. He looked up, startled, to see a slender man with shoulder-length dark hair, olive skin, catlike eyes and markedly pointed ears. From his studies, the young mage knew the interloper must be a member of the Elven race: the first sentient non-human he had ever encountered.

"Harvel, you burnt-out has-been; I see you still carry that sad excuse for a skewer. Do you think people will take you for some sort of blademaster,” the elf sneered, “when all the world knows you're no more than a bibulous, primping popinjay?"

Grimm tensed as the swordsman leapt to his feet. He knew now how insults were handled here, and he waited for blood to flow.

"Better a primping popinjay than a larcenous, light-fingered freak!” Harvel replied, his face reddening. Then, Grimm noticed Uril leaning on his elbows, his head resting in his hands, wearing an amused smile on his face. What was going on here?

After what seemed an age, Harvel laughed, grabbed the slender stranger by the shoulders and embraced him with genuine warmth.

"Crest, it's good to see you again after all this time! How are you, you hot-headed half-breed hellion?" Alliteration seemed to be on the menu, as Crest replied, “All the worse for seeing you, you sad, sorry substitute for a swordsman!” Breaking off from the embrace, the half-elf turned to the senior mage, who wore a cool smile on his face.

"Questor Dalquist, it is good to see you again. “Are you looking to hire my services once more?"

"I am, indeed, Master Crest,” the senior mage replied. “I am looking for a first-class thief, and I was hoping I might find you here. It is good to see that you and Harvel are already well acquainted. Are the usual terms acceptable?"

"No complaints from me on that score, Questor Dalquist. Anything I steal for myself belongs to me, and you give me an additional stipend of one gold piece a week."

Harvel rolled his eyes, and Grimm presumed this was at the elf's lack of acumen.

"Crest, may I introduce my fellow-Questor, Grimm Afelnor? Questor Grimm, allow me to introduce the estimable Crest, a master thief with whom I have Quested on occasion." On reflex, Grimm extended his right hand, and the slender thief took it in a firm grasp. “I am pleased to meet you, Master Crest,” he said.

Crest smiled. “Just, ‘Crest', please, Questor Grimm,” the elf replied. “My name speaks for itself around here, and I need no additional honorific. Well met, Lord Mage."

With the formalities satisfied, Dalquist invoked his spell of silence once more and explained the details of the Quest. Crest nodded from time to time and accepted the challenge with no more animation than he might have done if accepting an invitation to a party.

When Dalquist finished, Crest ordered another round of drinks. After a few minutes’ drinking, he began to introduce hair-raising tales of his various exploits, many of which Grimm felt almost sure had grown just a little in the telling.

Then, as a swarthy, tattooed type with a shaven head passed the table, the words “They let all kinds in here these days—even freaks” floated across the room with shocking clarity. Quick as thought, Crest uncoiled a long, liquorice-like black whip from around his waist. Grimm had not noticed the weapon before against the elf's dark clothing.

With a deft, delicate flick of Crest's wrist, the whip coiled around the man's throat. Giving it a none-too-tender jerk, the thief pulled the man's face down to the level of his own. All this happened at startling speed, and a little impromptu applause arose from some of the tables.

"No killing in here, Crest!” Uril shouted. “You know the rules!"

"Oh, I don't think we need any killing yet, Uril. Just a little lesson in humility should suffice, I think. Don't you agree, my friend?"

The trapped man gasped for breath, eyes bulging as his hands scrabbled with frantic urgency at the whip wound around his throat.

"Now I'm sure some freak of nature caused us all to mishear this silly little man's words, isn't that so?”

Crest cried cheerfully.

The trapped man, his panicked face now suffused with a delicate shade of purple, managed to nod.

"I'm sure if I let him go now he'll tell us what he really said, hmm?" The strangled victim, on the verge of unconsciousness, found enough energy to manage a weak, helpless nod.

As swiftly as it had appeared, the whip was once more cinched around Crest's waist. A small, sharp dagger had taken its place at the hapless man's throat, just pricking the skin over his left carotid artery. Grimm had not even seen Crest's hands move.

"Now, what did you say?” the thief asked, a broad smile on his face. After taking a few gurgling, whooping breaths, the man managed to gasp, “I said they let all sorts in here, and it's good for trade."

"That's what I thought you said,” Crest replied with a smile. The dagger disappeared. “Now, I advise you to tack off and let decent people enjoy a drink in peace and quiet. You can keep your pathetic little prejudices to yourself; I've heard it all before, and I have a short fuse." The half-elf dismissed the man with an impartial boot to the backside. “Now, as I was saying, there I was, running through the streets with half a hundred baying hounds snapping at my heels..." The chastened bigot tottered to a far corner table and sat with some other ruffians, who might be little more enlightened than he, but who seemed wise enough to keep their opinions to themselves. Grimm saw their heads thrown back in obvious hilarity at the man's swift humiliation, but he heard no more insults from that corner.

* * * *

Dalquist ordered food, and in a short while, Grimm was devouring a sizable meal of roast lamb, new potatoes and green beans. The food was excellent, and he had to smother a satisfied belch.

"Well, I think we have a compact now,” Dalquist said, after a small eructation of his own. “May we be ready to move by first light tomorrow morning, gentlemen? Grimm and I will be staying here tonight, so I suggest we meet up in the yard tomorrow, an hour after cockcrow."

"I have a few affairs to settle before we leave,” Harvel replied, “but I should be finished by nightfall. I'll see you outside here in the morning."

Crest said, “Well, I also have one or two loose ends to tie up, but nothing that can't wait. I'll be here, Questor Dalquist."

The two adventurers left the tavern together, still digging into their seemingly endless stores of reminiscences, braggadocio and tall tales.

Dalquist consulted the landlord, Uril, about the availability of rooms for the night. After a little haggling, which seemed to be expected in this town, they settled on a fair price, and the two Questors went upstairs to deposit their bedrolls and travel accoutrements. Grimm's room, on the left at the top of the stairs, was basic but clean, and certainly no worse than the Scholasticate cell in which he had been immured for much of his short life. When he had tidied his belongings into the room's single cupboard, Dalquist knocked and entered.

"Now, Grimm, I know what I told you about being frugal with your money, but we need to get you some better clothes,” the older mage said. “Those robes are serviceable enough, but some sad, benighted fools will always respect good clothes more than a mage's staff. ‘Power and presence complete the mage,’ as the Magemasters drilled into us at the Scholasticate. You have proved your power, but a little more presentation will go some way towards completing the effect. We won't be able to run to silk this time, but good quality sateen will go as well, I think. And some new shoes, definitely." Grimm did not object to his friend's suggestion. He had spent so long in drab, homespun garments, and he had always longed for better clothes.

* * * *

The two mages walked around Drute for some time. As Grimm had noticed before, although few of the townspeople seemed to have much wealth, the wares in some of the shops were positively opulent. The various emporiums attracted several wealthy-looking visitors, many of whom travelled with what he took to be bodyguards. Dalquist took the lead in arguing with the shopkeepers, who seemed to respect him the more because of it. At the end of four hours, Grimm had a set of well-fitting robes in blue sateen so dark it looked almost black except when the light played on it. He also now possessed a good pair of supple leather boots, comfortable and yet sturdy.

Dalquist also insisted that Grimm buy some jewellery to complete his ensemble until he possessed some genuine magical artefacts. Although Grimm protested, the older Questor explained that Seculars often judged a mage's prowess by the amount of ‘hardware’ he carried, and he was not satisfied until Grimm had a fair selection of pinchbeck and diamante rings, and an impressive looking amulet with various cheap but impressive-looking stones surrounding a deep red crystal centre. When Dalquist declared himself happy, Grimm eyed himself in a full-length mirror.

After gazing for many minutes at the unfamiliar, sophisticated-looking young man looking back at him, Grimm agreed his appearance accorded at least with the common Secular conception of a mage. Dalquist explained that austere, monastic apparel suited some, but that one needed a long white beard and saturnine gaze to carry that off in a convincing manner. “Now people will take you at sight for a mage without the need to prove it,” he said with an approving nod.

The two mages returned to
The Broken Bottle
, and spent a little more time sampling the beverages. This time Grimm cautiously allowed a little more of the drink's influence to seep through, although he took care not to become inebriated. Uril declared himself very impressed at Grimm's new apparel, which pleased the young man more than he would have expected. After a good evening meal of beef stew and dumplings, the mages repaired to their separate chambers.