Weapon of the Guild [The Chronicles of Grimm Dragonblaster, Book 2] (25 page)

"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.

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.

"You see,” the senior mage said. “You can bet that he won't once forget that ‘mage’ title now. He knew it all the time, of course."

Grimm shrugged and turned to watch the passing scenery. He remained unconvinced by what Dalquist had said, but he could see that any indication of weakness in a Questor might lead to a reputation as a weakling. It might be nice to be popular, Grimm decided, but, given the choice, he would still prefer to be a Mage Questor.

* * * *

Grimm had been overwhelmed by the grandeur and size of Arnor House when he first arrived there as a cold, wet, nervous child of seven. After nine years, even the mighty House seemed commonplace and unremarkable to him. Nonetheless, he felt stunned by his first sight of High Lodge. The entire, massive structure seemed to be made of lambent marble and gold, and it gleamed and glowed in the bright post-noon sun, standing proud, isolated on a hill.

The main structure was surrounded by what appeared to be a low wall, but, as the carriage drew closer, Grimm realised that the wall was around forty feet in height. Four vast white towers thrust proudly into the sky from the corners of the main keep, and an even taller cupola rose from the centre, swelling at the top like the cap of some enormous mushroom. The square protective wall leaned outwards, and an impressive array of castellations, archery-ports and trebuchets showed that this was a fortress and not an exercise in creative architecture; every bizarre feature seemed now to have purpose and meaning. Around the periphery of the wall, perhaps twenty feet up, Grimm saw what appeared to be the spokes of some giant wheel; perhaps some kind of structure to support a huge sun canopy? On closer inspection, he realised that this was a structure to prevent the use of scaling ladders and the close approach of siege engines.

The spokes seemed too slender to support a man's weight, but the interaction of opposed forces ensured the rigidity of the structure. Grimm could hardly believe that mere mortals could have built such a fantastic, unworldly edifice.

Dalquist leaned over towards Grimm. “Impressive, isn't it? By the way, I'd advise you to close your mouth, unless you want to catch flies."

Grimm's mouth closed with a click; he was not aware that he had been gaping. The carriage drew up to the main gate. Cally turned round to face the two Questors and knuckled his forehead.

"Here y'are, gen'lemen. If it's all right wi’ ye, I'll be going into town for me lunch—me stomach thinks me throat's been cut."

Dalquist nodded. “Thank you, Cally; that will be all for now. We shall need you again at dawn, in three days’ time."

He handed the man a silver coin.

"Thank'ee kindly, sir, thass very generous of ye. I allas said you mage types was real gents." They stepped down from the carriage, and Grimm had to crane his neck to see the top of the central tower. High Lodge was truly immense! Cally handed them their bags and moved off, tossing the silver coin in the air, catching it with ease and whistling merrily.

The gate was a large arch, fifteen feet in height, with two raised portcullises about eight feet apart, with two muscular guards with halberds at each one, to whom Dalquist merely showed his Guild ring, and Grimm did likewise. The guards motioned the mages through to ...
pandemonium!

The Great Hall at Arnor House was large enough for at least two hundred people, but it was often, indeed usually, deserted. The hall at High Lodge was a hive of activity. Fluted marble pillars supported a gold filigree ceiling, and lines of people wound in and out of them like ants negotiating the tunnels of their underground lair.

A grand-looking old gentleman approached them, weaving his way through the crowd. He stood at least two inches taller than Grimm's six feet, with ebony skin, a dramatic shock of white hair and a long, slender beard of the same colour. He was dressed in immaculate midnight blue robes of crushed velvet, and Grimm noticed that the tall man's staff bore a full complement of seven rings.

"Brother Mages, I bid you welcome to High Lodge,” the apparition intoned in a rich, sonorous, bass. “I am the Senior Mage Doorkeeper, and I welcome you to High Lodge."

Grimm and Dalquist exchanged glances. The difference between this self-possessed, dazzling man and their own bumbling major-domo was astonishing. Grimm had heard that High Lodge always got the best of everything, and what he saw did not contradict that. He could not imagine addressing this confident, impressive example of humanity as ‘Doorkeeper'.

As the High Lodge Doorkeeper led them through the crowd, Grimm noted with surprise that most of them appeared to be Seculars. These people milled around a series of desks, behind each of which sat a uniformed functionary with a red uniform and a dark eyeshade. Each clerk or scribe sat behind a huge ledger, a pot of ink and a quill, and most were bespattered with ink on their tunics and their faces. Grimm felt heat flooding into his face as he saw that many of the petitioners were
women
. Some of these women were very attractive, with expensive garments and alluring, artfully-painted faces, and the young mage felt constrained to look away whenever one of them looked his way. Despite his monastic upbringing, he
had
seen women since he had been declared a mage, in the cities of Crar and Drute. Most had been blowsy, drink-sodden harlots or pale, downtrodden drudges, and he had pitied them rather than felt himself drawn to them.