Weapon of the Guild [The Chronicles of Grimm Dragonblaster, Book 2] (36 page)

Grimm nodded, mute with emotion, tears glittering in his eyes at what he had just read.

"What affects you so, Questor Grimm?” the older man demanded. “Is it that book you were reading?"

"The book is about Technology,” Grimm said, a heavy lump in his throat.

"Technology?” Xylox seemed to grow six inches in height in his indignation. “You are a lover of Technology?” His voice scorched the word with an avid flame of anger and contempt. Grimm shook his head, fighting his turbulent and conflicting emotions. Then he collected himself and looked the senior mage straight in the eye. “Questor Xylox, why do you hate it so?" Xylox almost recoiled at the question, but he had been forced to consider his motivations. “To be blunt, Questor Grimm, I detest Technology because the art is hated throughout the Guild, and because I have been taught to share that view. However, that is sufficient reason for me, and it should be sufficient reason for you."

"Questor Xylox, words cannot express the loathing I now feel for the art.” Grimm's words were hot and venomous. “Those arrogant bastards, the scions of Technology, nearly destroyed the world. You and I were born from that awful conflagration, but only at the cost of untold suffering, death and misery. I will fight Technology to my last breath, but to fight it, one must understand it. We may meet it on this Quest, and I wish to be able to recognise it when I see it. I am ready, and a new fire burns in my heart. Believe me, I was once interested in Technology, but I hate it now."

Grimm's words were fervid, intense and quavering with suppressed anger, but his gaze did not waver in the slightest. At last, Xylox nodded. “That is as it should be, Questor Grimm. If you are ready, we will leave in the morning."

Grimm nodded. “I'll be ready, Questor Xylox. I wouldn't miss it for anything."

It seemed to Grimm that the disreputable-looking tavern in Drute, the Broken Bottle, must be a popular one with Questors. The landlord, Urel, had recognised Dalquist on Grimm's first Quest, and he now recognised Xylox.

"Questor Xylox, Questor Grimm, it is good to see you again; welcome back to the Broken Bottle. What may I offer you to wash the dust of the trail from your parched throats?"

"Do you keep any ten-year Turaz Red in your wine-cellar, landlord?” Xylox asked. “I find it a particularly fine vintage, and it suits my palate well. I allow myself few pleasures in life, but I confess to a fondness for this noble blood of the grape. I seem to remember that I first sampled it in this very hostelry, many years ago."

"I keep a few bottles of it especially for your consumption, Questor Xylox,” Urel said, with a respectful bow; he seemed familiar with the older mage's rather pompous wiles.

The landlord placed an ornate goblet in front of the older mage and brought out a green bottle, making great show of displaying the label to Xylox. Either by chance or artifice, the portion of the label with the year of vintage was scuffed and illegible. The hosteller poured a small quantity of the clear, ruby liquid into the goblet and offered it to the senior mage.

Xylox held the cup to his nose, closed his eyes and swirled the wine in the goblet, wafting possibly imaginary waves of aroma towards his nostrils with his free hand. Tipping the goblet towards his lips, he allowed a small quantity of the liquid to enter his mouth. Fascinated and repulsed in equal measure, Grimm watched as Xylox swilled the wine around in his half-open mouth, taking a series of brief, staccato breaths. Then he seemed to chew the wine as if it were a piece of meat, his eyes still closed as if seeking some arcane augury or prophecy from the depths of the goblet. The extraordinary performance concluded with the mage's delicate ejection of the masticated mouthful into one of the battered iron spittoons scattered around the stone floor.

"Adequate,” the mage intoned, finishing the contents of goblet in a single gulp and handing the goblet to the landlord for a refill.

"And you, Questor Grimm?” A brief smile flitted across the landlord's face, and Grimm felt almost certain that his fellow mage had been gulled into accepting a lesser vintage than that for which he had asked.

Suppressing a grin, the young man ordered a flagon of ale bearing the intriguing name of ‘Old Head-cracker'. It was a deep, red-brown beverage with a creamy, foaming head. He took a sip and found the brew very refreshing and palatable, but he knew that he would need the aid of Redeemer's spells to remain sober if he were to consume more than a couple of pints of the ale. Thanking the landlord, Grimm moved to a table in the middle of the bar, at which Xylox had already installed himself. The older man seemed lost in thought, staring into his goblet of wine as if in deep meditation. Grimm looked around the bar in search of likely warriors, but there were only four other patrons present. Three of these were old and white-bearded, and the other was a younger man in the final stages of a titanic battle against the massed forces of incipient inebriation.

As the sun began to fall from its zenith, the bar began to fill, but none of the customers looked promising. Xylox interrupted his impassive reverie from time to time, scanning each new patron with a stern and critical eye for a brief moment, but he seemed no more impressed than his companion. The landlord kept the two mages well supplied with drink, for which the young mage expressed fulsome gratitude. His older companion acknowledged the hosteller with no more than a curt nod.

After the landlord brought the mages their fourth round of drinks, another group of customers entered, and Grimm felt a hand on his shoulder. Whirling around, with a firm grip on Redeemer, he felt his face break into a broad grin.

"Crest, it is good to see you! The easy life seems to agree with you,” he observed, noting the half-elf's healthy complexion, and his immaculate black velvet suit of clothes. Crest was no less enthusiastic in his greeting.

"Questor Grimm, you old demon-masher! You look well. Life's been pretty boring since we last met; perhaps you're here to change that?"

Xylox seemed to snap out of his daydream, and he stared at the slender, olive-skinned, black-garbed figure with an expression of deep disapproval, perhaps because of Crest's familiar manner with a Guild Mage.

Remembering his manners, Grimm made the introductions. “Questor Xylox, it looks as if we may be in luck. Crest, here, is an expert with either whip or dagger, and a master of locks beside. He was with Dalquist and me during our last Quest, and he proved a valuable member of the team.

"Crest, my esteemed colleague is Xylox the Mighty, one of the most senior Questors in our House."

"Master Crest, please excuse us for a moment."

Xylox almost yanked Grimm from his seat and into a vacant corner of the bar.

"Have you forgotten all that you were taught about deportment and protocol?” the senior Questor snapped. “You seem to me far too easy-going with this Crest, and I regard this as deleterious to Quest discipline. Allowing a mere Secular to address you in such a manner cannot be decorous; I think Crest's manner is totally unfitting for a hired warrior. From now on, I would appreciate it if you were to restrict yourself to Mage Speech when dealing with underlings. I suggest that we wait for a more suitable and more respectful fighter to come along."

"Crest is not an underling,” Grimm whispered, hotly, folding his arms across his chest. “We faced a mighty demon-sorcerer together and almost died. I have no intention of treating him like common hired help. I urge you to accept him as he is; Crest is a good, fearless fighter. He can open locks in silence and with ease, whereas you or I would have to destroy the door. I would add that no other likely warriors have come our way today. I think it would be pretty imprudent to reject one just because his attitude didn't come up to your concept of Guild expectations.

"As a last comment, I have a favour to ask: we may be Questing together for some time, and we seem to have started off on the wrong foot. I am sorry if this is due to me, and I promise to do my best not to embarrass you. But I do wish you would at least try to meet me halfway. I do not want to freeze out a good friend because it makes me look more dangerous and unapproachable. Can you not live with that?

You may think that it's bad for discipline to be easy-going, but I think that it's a better way to inspire loyalty.

"You are in charge of this Quest. I will not forget that; you are the senior mage, and I will accord you all due respect. But it seems as if every time we talk, there is an argument. I think that is bad for discipline, and I do not think that it is all due to me. There must be a little give and take on both sides." Xylox looked taken back by the young Questor's forthrightness, as if he might excoriate his young companion for impertinence. However, Grimm knew that, along with an overbearing and pompous nature, Xylox the Mighty was known for a basic sense of fairness. The young magic-user also knew that he had not, in truth, asked for anything unreasonable, just for a little accommodation. He saw Crest eyeing the pair of mages with an expression of cool amusement. The older man stood silent for some time, rubbing his nose with his forefinger, but he ended up taking a deep breath and nodding. “Very well, Questor Grimm, I will accept your recommendation of Crest as a companion, and I will agree to overlook your familiar way with him, so long as he does not expect me to act in the same manner. Let us return to your elven friend."

"Well, gentlemen? Am I in or out?” Crest asked.

"I have been advised by my brother mage, Questor Grimm, that you are a talented fighter and thief,”

Xylox declared, resuming his imperious mask. “The offer is standard Guild rates of pay, with which you are no doubt familiar, and equal shares of any booty with the exception of magical items. Is this acceptable to you?"

Crest shrugged. “As I told Baron Grimm, it's been pretty boring since we parted company. Money, I can always find. Action's not so easy.

"Very well, Questor Xylox, I'm your man."

Crest spat on the palm of his hand and held it towards the senior mage. Xylox indicated his younger companion. “Since it was Questor Grimm who recommended you, your compact will be with him." Crest shrugged again and shook hands with Grimm, who suspected that Xylox had merely been keen to avoid a distasteful, saliva-damp handshake.

"What now, Questor Xylox?” the junior mage asked. “Do we have a full team?" Xylox considered for a moment, but shook his head. “It is better to employ one warrior for each mage, someone who can fight on when the magic-user has exhausted his power.” Turning to the half-elf, he asked, “Master Crest, do you know of any other experienced warriors currently in residence in Drute?"

"What about Harvel?” Grimm asked. “Is he available?"

The slender thief shook his head. “He managed to get a job as bodyguard to some fat, wealthy nobleman or other. I'm pretty sure he wouldn't be tempted. On the other hand, do you see that man in the corner there: the one in the red jerkin? I've heard Harvel talk of him before as a good friend and an indomitable warrior. His name's Tordun."

Xylox regarded the large warrior with a dubious expression. “I had already dismissed him as a possible candidate. Look at his white hair and beard. He is too old."

Crest laughed. “Haven't you ever seen an albino before, Questor Xylox? Look at his pink eyes." Both Xylox and Grimm blinked in incomprehension.

"Albinos have no skin, eye or hair pigment,” explained Crest. “It's a hereditary thing. Don't worry; it's not catching. If you'll hang on for a moment, I'll see if I can persuade him to come on over." Grimm saw Crest stride over to the pale-skinned man, and an animated conversation took place. At the end of this, the albino nodded and stood, and the mage gaped as he unfolded himself like a pocket ruler. The albino stood at least eight inches taller than Grimm's six feet, and he dwarfed the shorter Crest. Tordun's sleeves and leggings seemed stretched tight over strings of large cannonballs. His shoulders and neck were massive, and he carried a fine broadsword in a scabbard at his back. Grimm was not sure if it was his imagination or not, but it seemed almost as if the floor shook as the giant albino approached. Tordun carefully lowered himself into a chair at the mage's table. The chair protested, but it held.

"My name is Tordun,” the giant rumbled in an impressive bass. “I understand that Crest and one of you mages travelled with Harvel the Blademaster. Which of you was that mage?"

"I Quested with Harvel,” Grimm replied. “He was a good man."

"He still is,” the enormous warrior boomed. “You must be Questor Grimm. Harvel spoke quite well of you, although he says you ruined a perfectly good jacket when you vomited over him."

"I was very sick at the time,” Grimm admitted. He saw no need to mention that his nausea had been caused by a massive dose of the drugs he still carried at his side.

"Harvel and I trained together,” Tordun said. “We were like brothers once, and each of us has saved the other's life more times than I can recall. He has told me a lot about Crest, although I never met him before today, and he speaks well of you, Questor. Very well, I am your man. How does this work? I've never worked for mages before."

Xylox explained the basic Guild pay scale for hired warriors, but Tordun haggled for a flat fee. In the end, Grimm said he would make up any shortfall from the albino's proposed fee out of his own pocket. The huge swordsman shook Xylox's hand, and he was in. With the group complete, Xylox explained the details of the Quest to the warriors.

"So what you're saying, Questor Xylox,” Crest said, “is that these mages are either under their own control, in which case they need to be dissuaded, or prisoners, in which case they need to be rescued?"

"Essentially true,” Xylox replied. “We leave for Griven at cockcrow tomorrow. By my reckoning, we should be there by mid-afternoon, if all goes well."

If all goes well, Grimm thought. That would be nice, for a change.

The party rode in a diamond formation: Xylox at the front, Grimm at the rear, Crest to the left and Tordun to the right. The young mage saw that, despite the hot weather, the giant swordsman was swathed from head to foot in dark, heavy clothes. He had pulled the hood of his travelling-cape down almost over his eyes, and he wore heavy leather gloves. Sweat beaded Tordun's pale forehead, and he panted as he rode along on his placid pack horse, his head bowed.