Weapon of the Guild [The Chronicles of Grimm Dragonblaster, Book 2] (27 page)

"Er, no, Lord Dominie, Questor Grimm is a...” Shael looked deeply concerned, perhaps at the idea that this adolescent string bean was about to be promoted to a rank higher than his own.

"Then that's that,” Horin growled. “Thank you, good Questors. You are a credit to your House and your Guild; that will be all. Go and see Junior Armourer Threll; he will put the tags on. You may go." Having retrieved the worrisome charm, he seemed no longer interested. Shael ushered Grimm and Dalquist out of the chamber, and the audience was at an end. The Facilitator, in his haste, neglected properly to close the door. The last thing Grimm heard as they sped down the corridor was “23D, Lord Dominie; Scholasticate supplies for Jeral House..." As they hurried along the corridor, Grimm knew he should feel elated at his rapid succession; instead of that, he just felt a great sense of anti-climax as the glittering scales fell from his eyes. Dalquist looked little happier even at having gained the ultimate mage rank. The young Questor thought fondly of the spectacle of his Acclamation, in contrast to the farcical comedy that had just been played out in this august institution.

Assistant Sub-Vice-Facilitator-in-Chief Shael hustled the two mages along the corridor at a brisk pace. Grimm had seen the look on Shael's face when Horin had so casually promoted him to a rank higher than the long-serving Facilitator's, but it seemed the corpulent functionary was not one to harbour a grudge. As they careered along the passageway, his vocal tone was friendly enough.

"We'll just be off to see Junior Armourer Threll, get those tags put on your staffs ... er, staves, that is. After that, I'm to be your escort during the rest of your stay here. Would you believe that they're leaving all the important visitors and petitioners to that idiot, Junior Under-Assistant-Facilitator Jorel?" Dalquist shrugged as well as a man might whilst speeding along in floor-length robes and carrying a six-foot staff in one hand.

"I don't know this Jorel, I'm afraid,” he gasped, “Mage ... um, Facilitator Shael, do you think we could possibly slow down a little?"

Shael stopped dead in the middle of the corridor, and Grimm and Dalquist nearly cannoned into him.

“I'm sorry, Questor ... Dalquist, is it? Yes, force of habit, I'm afraid. Always scurrying about the place, I am; I need to be kinder to myself now and again, I think. I'll be happy to take you on a guided tour of our magnificent edifice when we have finished with Threll. I'm sure you'll both be very impressed." The senior Questor nodded slowly. “I'm sure we will be, Facilitator Shael. I just wonder why we were asked to remain here for three days just for the sake of a five-minute ‘thank you, and sod off’ hearing like the one we've just had."

"Oh, Questor Dalquist, that was not all, not by any means. At the end of the week, there is a ceremonial dinner for all newly-promoted mages. Each mage has the opportunity to introduce himself to his peers. You can't miss it."

"I could try,” Dalquist said, dryly. “It sounds about as enjoyable as having a boil lanced."

"Oh, no, it's great fun. When I got my third ring, two years ago, there were over fifty of us at the dinner. We all had a lot to drink, and there were spells flying around the room all night.” The portly man set off again, but at a more sedate pace.

"What did you do before you became a Facilitator?” Grimm asked.

"Oh, I was picked out as a Facilitator very early on, Questor Grimm. In my old House, I had the vocation of Seer, but I must admit I'm a bit rusty on those skills now. Not much cause to use them. Mind the stairs, now."

Grimm thought of Shael as a High Lodge equivalent of the Arnor House Doorkeeper; a harmless incompetent hived off into a largely ceremonial job where he could do no harm, but for which he was supremely qualified. From the length of the man's title, he assumed that there were several other mages with similar posts; Shael might be quite correct in his assessment of his junior. After ten minutes of navigating through the sumptuously panelled catacombs of the Lodge, they reached a door marked ‘T226'. Shael knocked perfunctorily with his three-ringed staff and opened the door. Grimm and Dalquist walked into what appeared to be a moderately-sized warehouse, with grimy racks filled with boxes of rivets, hinges, bolts, metal ingots and other mechanical items. To Grimm's eyes, it was much more reminiscent of the smithy at Lower Frunstock than the abode of a full Guild Mage. A pasty-faced, surly-looking man of maybe fifty years of age shuffled out of the shadows and stopped in front of Shael, leaning one-handed on one of the racks. Unlike most mages, he had a close-cropped skull, and he wore a stained leather apron over simple, grey robes. Nonetheless, Grimm saw the blue-gold Guild ring on the grubby man's ring finger.

"What you got for me this time, Shael?"

"Just a couple of ring jobs, Threll,” Shael trilled, “two on this one and four on this one.” The Facilitator's eyes rolled at this last pronouncement.

"Don't get many fours round here, Shaely. How'd he swing that?” Threll asked, ignoring the two Questors.

"They both brought some jewel back, Threll,” Shael said with a shrug. “Lord Prelate was in a real hurry, and he's been having problems with Drunar's new ‘Desired Light’ charms; he couldn't see a thing. So, he just waved his hand and there you are; four tags."

"Hmm. Makes you wonder why you bother, sometimes."

Grimm felt annoyed by this casual dismissal of the arduous Quest being batted back and forth over his head. That these pampered, bureaucratic caricatures of true mages should regard their own pathetic jobs as of equal worth to a Questor's life of risk and hardship made his ire boil up like bile.

"Questor Dalquist and I abstracted a magical gem from a powerful demon that intended to use it to spy upon the whole Guild,” he snapped. “Both of us risked our lives more than once to resolve a situation that affected everybody, including you.

"Shael, I'm sorry I got promoted over you; you're right. I know Lord Prelate Horin was distracted, and he probably granted me a higher status than I deserved, or than he would have done if he hadn't been in such a hurry. I can't help that, and I'm not about to play the martyr by turning down this bounty. Would you have acted any differently, Shael? If I have it wrong, feel free to enlighten me." He stood with his arms folded. Redeemer floated in mid-air at his side.

"So that's two ring jobs; a two and a four,” Threll intoned in a resigned manner. “If you want them, gentlemen, I'd be grateful if you'd hand the sticks over. I haven't got all day, you know." Feeling harsh words rising in his throat, Grimm kept his lips closed, knowing he would see no more of the odious little man after he had finished.

The Junior Armourer took Dalquist's staff, Shakhmat, and deftly swung it in a circle around the back of his hand. Grimm could almost feel the anger boiling within Dalquist at this affront. Although nothing Threll could do might harm the impervious rod, it was an essential adjunct to a mage's soul, and should be treated with respect.

"I'd be grateful if you treated my staff with a little more consideration, Armourer Threll,” Dalquist snapped.

"Not going to hurt it any, am I, Questor? Some people ... I don't know. Try to do an honest job..." Muttering darkly, Threll placed the staff in a grooved, eight-foot jig with adjustable ends, which he closed snugly against the brass shoes of Shakhmat. He took a scroll from his pocket and adopted a dramatic pose, his legs apart, holding the scroll at arms’ length; the grubby mage looked as if he were about to deliver some royal decree.

The spell consisted of thirty-one syllables, as Grimm counted. At least Threll seemed to know his craft, and a sixth gold circle appeared around the circumference of the staff, perfectly spaced in relation to the five it had already borne. After another repetition, Dalquist's staff bore its full complement of seven rings, indelibly bonded to the wood.

Releasing a pair of catches, the Armourer withdrew the staff from the jig, and held it out to Dalquist without looking at him. Grimm wondered if his brother Questor was about to cave in the sloppy artisan's skull, so dark was his expression, but Dalquist stayed his hand and his mouth. Threll spun around to face Grimm, his right hand outstretched. “Are you waiting for a royal invitation or something, brother?"

Grimm moved closer to the ill-tempered mage. “I wish you had met our Magemaster Faffel, Threll,” he said, smiling. “I'm sure he would have appreciated the way you go about your work." Threll grunted. “What'd he teach? Spellcasting, was it?"

"Protocol, Decorum and Courtly Graces,” Grimm replied with a pleasant smile. The implied rebuke seemed to wash over the Junior Armourer's head.

"Not surprised at that, Questor. I bet he'd have been impressed by a nice, efficient department like this. Stick,
please
?"

To Grimm's regret, not even the imbecilic Threll was stupid enough to try to take a mage's staff without permission. The resultant fulminating that this would have caused might have taught the unpleasant little man some manners...

Grimm handed over Redeemer with a resigned sigh, and Threll managed to complete the spell for the requisite number of repetitions. He miscast once, and clasped his hand to his brow in pain as Grimm fought to suppress a satisfied smile. This surly little man wouldn't have survived five minutes of Crohn's tutelage, he thought.

Even an Adept should have been able to recite such a simple spell at least a dozen times from memory, even without a scroll to aid him, and without a single error. The use of a scroll should have precluded
any
miscast.

"Thank you, Armourer Threll,” Grimm said, as the surly mage handed Redeemer back to him. “I trust you will look me up, should you ever occasion to visit Arnor House.” A few days in the House would do the unpleasant artisan some good, he thought.

"Not likely!” the Armourer snorted. “I'm perfectly happy here, thank you very much."

"I'm glad to hear it, Threll,” Dalquist said. “It seems to me that you belong here.” The Armourer nodded, perhaps harbouring the impression that he had just received a compliment.

"Gentlemen, perhaps we should be moving on now,” Shael said, re-assuming his official role, “if we are to take in as much of the Lodge as possible in the short time available." The three mages left Threll's gloomy little warehouse, with considerable relief on Grimm's part, and the Questor noticed that the hapless man had resumed formal Mage Speech. At least he seemed happier now.

"I suggest our next stop should be your Accommodation Block,” the Assistant Sub-Vice-Facilitator-in-Chief suggested. “Do you have bags with you?"

"We left them in the waiting room where you first met us,” Dalquist replied.

"In that case, I will give instructions for them to be taken to your rooms,” Shael said. He took a small gem from a pocket and muttered into it for a few moments. “It is all taken care of: you will be residing in Rooms 1449 and 1450, Accommodation Block 15, while you are with us." Dalquist laid an avuncular hand on Shael's shoulder.

"Facilitator Shael, we Questors are independent types,” he said, with an ingratiating smile. “Perhaps you might appreciate a little time to yourself, while we plan our own itinerary. After your hard work on our behalf, this seems only fair."

The Facilitator looked uncertain. “That is a generous offer, Questor Dalquist. I have been working very hard for some time. Nonetheless, you will be unable to find your way around here without a constant guide, and I must take my responsibilities seriously. Each of your rooms bears an ivory cartouche; you only need but touch it, and I will be with you within minutes."

Dalquist's spoke in a sweet, almost seductive voice: “Your estimable Senior Doorkeeper mentioned that all the members of staff within High Lodge possess charms to guide you around this magnificent establishment. I feel sure a clever,
resourceful
fellow like you could lay his hands on a brace of these gems in a moment."

Despite the fact that he must be almost old enough to be Dalquist's grandfather, Shael seemed cowed by the tall Questor. “It is most irregular, Questor Dalquist,” he said, with a nervous shake of his head.

"But not forbidden, Facilitator Shael? We feel so guilty at the idea of poaching upon your precious, hard-earned free time. An important mage such as your good self must be in demand all the time. I can tell how onerous your vocation must be; you look so pale and tired, Brother Mage. A short vacation would surely be just the thing to revitalise your zeal and efficiency." The pathetic functionary hesitated, twitching his head while his eyes scanned the ceiling, but then he seemed to reach a firm decision. Fishing in his numerous pockets, which seemed to contain an unending supply of paper, keys, fluff and other detritus, he at last produced a handful of small charms, two of which he pressed upon Dalquist and Grimm.

"No, it is not forbidden, Questor Dalquist,” he responded. “However, should the Senior Doorkeeper, or any other Lodge functionary, ask you of my whereabouts, I would request that you reply to the effect that I am answering a call of nature, or some such innocuous statement. I must, at all costs, maintain the appearance of preserving the formalities at all times."

"We would not dream of compromising your well-earned leisure,” Dalquist assured him. “If you would just be so kind as to explain the working of these baubles, we will be on our way." The operation of the gems seemed to be simplicity itself. The holder merely needed to speak the name of the location that he sought, such as ‘Accommodation Block 15', and a magical green luminescence would appear along the shortest path he needed to take to reach his destination.

"Thank you, Facilitator Shael, your guidance has been much appreciated,” the senior Questor said. “We will be sure to speak well of you, should anybody inquire of you." Shael gave a thankful, relieved nod and rushed off down the corridor at a breakneck pace.

"Well, Grimm,” Dalquist said, “shall we stay together, or would you rather explore on your own?"

"If you don't mind, Dalquist, I'd rather choose my own path,” Grimm replied. “For most of the last ten years, I've been locked up within the bounds of Arnor House. It would be nice to wander around alone for a while, without purpose and without cares. I hope you're not offended by this." Dalquist smiled. “Not in the least, my friend. Mages of our calling are almost expected to show an independent streak. We can compare notes later, perhaps during dinner. There is a splendid Refectory here, as I recall. What do you say to the idea of meeting back at the Refectory in four hours?"