Weapon of the Guild [The Chronicles of Grimm Dragonblaster, Book 2] (7 page)

Harvel puffed up his chest and smoothed his clothes with such a primping, self-satisfied gesture that even Grimm laughed. He laughed long and loud, out of all proportion to the swordsman's posturing, a few tears breaking unbidden from his eyes. He sniffed, still laughing, but then the hysteria left him and he assessed the situation. Whatever else, he, Grimm Afelnor was still alive. He would survive and the murderous Harman would not. He had had no choice.

"Shouldn't we bury him?” he asked.

Dalquist snorted. “He does not deserve it. Leave him here. It will be a good warning to any of his friends, should they come by. If, that is, he had any friends."

Sleep was ruined for all, and brushing the tears from his cheeks, Grimm remembered why he had wandered off in the first place. “I must get some firewood,” he said. “This time I'll keep my wits about me."

"And this time I'll take the watch, as I offered earlier,” Crest insisted. “You do need some sleep, no matter what you say. You weren't alert enough, letting someone sneak up on you like that." Grim acquiesced, and went for the fuel, this time keeping his ears open for the slightest untoward sound. This time, he was not molested.

Dalquist approached the young Questor as he delved for wood in the undergrowth. “Questor Grimm,”

he said, his voice sterner than Grimm had ever heard it. “You have sworn an oath to the Guild. At times, you may be ordered to kill; I have been so ordered in the past. I will never enjoy the act as long as I live, but I know my duty. I hope you never get used to it, but you will have to be impassive and resolute when you have to kill. Just remember your blood oath to the House, Grimm. You are a Mage Questor; that means sometimes you must put aside your humanity for the sake of necessity. The next time you have to kill, I do
not
want to see a display like that, is that clear?

"In addition to this loss of control, I asked you to confine yourself to Mage Speech when dealing with Seculars, and you have been lapsing into vulgar contractions and slang. You must keep control at
all
times; is that clear?"

Dalquist had never talked to Grimm in this manner before, but the young mage saw the concern on his friend's face. Dalquist was responsible not only for the success or failure of the Quest, but also for the reputation of Arnor House. Grimm had revealed weakness and humanity; in less tolerant company, the image of the Guild Mage might have been tarnished.

"I apologise, Questor Dalquist,” Grimm said, bowing his head. “I know I should be more in control of my emotions by now. I promise you I will be more on my guard next time. It was just so fast that it shocked me. I will not allow myself to lose control again, I promise." Dalquist nodded, and his expression softened a little. “Sit down." Grimm lowered himself onto a grassy mound, his friend standing over him.

"To tell you the truth, Grimm, on my first Quest, I killed four armed guards in cold blood. I stood by and watched as a frightened man was flogged and hanged by his brother's men. I maintained a cool pose, but when I was alone, I vomited. I also drank a lot afterwards; too much, in fact. I'm not telling you to be a cool automaton, but sometimes you have to act like one. I'll say no more about it. Let's get that firewood, and I think we can relax the use of Mage Speech with these trusted men." When the Questors returned, Harvel and Crest were in the middle of yet another heroic dialogue, glorying in death-defying exploits and tales of past loves and battles they had shared. Grimm immersed himself in the tales of gallantry and daring of which two friends never seemed to tire, and eventually he fell asleep. The words “murder", “death” and “killer” ran around his head for a while longer, but soon departed, to become admixed with “Quest", “glory” and “fame".
What would Granfer Loras think of me?
Grimm thought.
He was a Questor, just like me. He must
have killed on many occasions. I'm sorry, Granfer...

The young mage drifted into merciful, dreamless sleep.

When Grimm awoke, he saw Harvel burying the embers of the fire and the remains of the previous night's meal. Crest whistled as he shaved with his dagger, using quick, precise movements. The keen blade never once nicked his olive skin. Dalquist was engaged in a series of stretches and bends to ready his body for the journey ahead. As Grimm stood and stretched, the others acknowledged him with polite nods, but not a word was said.

Grimm still felt solemn after his brush with death. Although no longer racked with guilt, he knew with dread certainty that the innocent, eager child he had once been was no less dead than Harman. However, if there must be regret, there was room for a little pride. He had faced danger and prevailed. He was a Questor; he was a man to be respected and feared.

The party broke fast, still swathed in silence, as the sun rose above the horizon. Dalquist said, “We'll be in Crar by midday if we start now. That will give us the chance to scout the lie of the land while there is still light."

"A sound plan, Questor Dalquist,” Crest replied. “I visited the city of Crar some years ago, and can tell you a little of their ways. They think themselves master traders, and I can tell you there are few places so full of avarice and folk ready to take the last copper from your purse. We'll have to pay well even to enter the city walls; perhaps we'd best take stock of our joint resources first." Dalquist smiled. “I do have some wealth with me, Crest,” he admitted. “However, it is not mine to give as I will. Watch this!"

The mage bent and picked up a handful of pebbles, muttering over them for a few moments. Grimm gasped as each stone took on the colour and shape of a gold coin. With Dalquist's permission, he took one of the coins, scrutinised it and weighed them in his hand. All his senses reported to him that the objects were pure gold.

"I can't tell the difference!” he cried. “That is a marvellous spell!"

"I'm impressed, Questor Dalquist,” Crest said, “but if you can do this, why bring real money at all?"

"Ah, Crest, if only these were real gold pieces then we should all be rich!” Dalquist said with a smile.

“However, they will revert to stone on my death, or after a delay of a few days. I have no desire to bilk honest traders, but I have fewer scruples when it comes to deceiving a barefaced cheat in mid-swindle. If we are charged fair worth, we'll pay with good gold, but if it seems we're being chiselled, the cheats are welcome to the stones."

"It's so good to travel with magic-users who aren't too high and mighty to countenance a little financial finesse!” The smiling Harvel seemed to hold gold in his pocket in higher regard than that owned by others.

"Wait a moment!” Grimm said, grabbing Dalquist's sleeve as an urgent thought struck him. “I feel a little uncomfortable at the idea of walking into Crar with a Mage Staff and a Guild Ring." Dalquist smiled. “You're right, Grimm. I should have thought of that. We need a little magical disguise: a simple Glamour should suffice."

After several moments’ incomprehensible chanting, Grimm saw Dalquist's fine robes change from green silk to brown sackcloth, and his gold-ringed staff, Shakhmat, took on the appearance of a rough-hewn, gnarled walking-stick. Looking down at himself, he saw his own appearance had changed in a similar fashion. Although he could feel the warm, comforting presence of Redeemer, he saw only a simple length of wood. His marriage finger now appeared to bear a simple, tarnished brass ring.

"Well, I'm convinced,” Crest said, blowing out his cheeks and whistling. “You look like simple travellers to me."

"A simple enough spell,” Dalquist replied, puffing out his chest a little with evident pride. “However, it should suffice against casual eyes. Let us continue."

The companions mounted their patient steeds and continued west. Grimm, allowing a little more of his weight to rest on Jessie's back, felt pleased that his muscles seemed far stronger today, strong enough to allow a few hours’ ride.

Crar appeared as a small jewel on the horizon, gleaming white and polished. Around it were smaller black dots, evidently the homesteads and farms of the barony. After another hour, towers and turrets became evident, the tallest being a twisting black spire. After another hour, the true magnitude of the city became apparent: a fifty-foot stone wall ran around the city, with strategically placed firing-stations at thirty-yard intervals along the perimeter. Access to the main gate was through a long curving tunnel with thick walls, which would admit individuals but would exclude war machines and battering rams. How was this vast place to be supplied with raw materials, food and other supplies?

Then, Grimm noticed a series of derricks arrayed around the wall, some occupied in swaying supplies into the city from the outside. The people of Crar seemed both secretive and cautious. Crest waved the group to a halt fifty yards from the entrance tunnel. “I suggest you let me do the talking here, gentlemen,” he said. “As I told you, I've been here before and I think I know how to wheedle our way in. I ask you to follow my lead, and not to contradict me."

Dalquist nodded. “That makes sense, thief. Very well, then, you are our spokesman. I am sure your silver tongue and ready wits will not let us down."

He frowned when Crest demanded the bag of magic gold, but the elf swore he would only use it when faced with extortion. Dalquist shrugged and handed over the heavy purse. The party moved in single file into the long tunnel. The horses’ gentle hoof-beats were amplified into a cacophony of clatter by the stone walls, and Grimm guessed this to be a cunningly wrought acoustic trap, ensuring no one could sneak up on the city unannounced. After a number of twists and turns, the tunnel opened up like a bottle in front of an imposing steel portal. Above the fifteen-foot door, Grimm saw a viewing-port with an arrow-slit at either side. In the ceiling, he saw a number of gutters for the discharge of burning oil or some other assault.

If we need to get out of here in a hurry, it could be difficult
, Grimm thought, feeling a sudden shiver run through his body.

With a swift
snick
, the viewing-port in the metal door slipped open, and a suspicious, bearded face appeared, looking down at the group.

"What do you want here?” the disembodied head boomed. “We have no time for beggars and wastrels here. If you come looking for charity, you're wasting your time." Crest spread his arms in disavowal. “We are adherents of the order of Blessed Kuhul, good brother, and we come here to purchase certain items with which to fulfil our pilgrimage to the shrine of our saint." Grimm heard such a plangent note of piety and deep humility in Crest's voice that he almost felt like dropping to his knees in fervent prayer. However, the gatekeeper seemed made of sterner stuff. The guard stifled a yawn and drawled, “We don't need priests here, traveller, and we don't want penniless pilgrims traipsing the streets, shouting their mindless creed to all comers and window-shopping for items they can't afford. Be off with you"

Crest spread his hands in apparent supplication “Ours is not a poor order,” he protested. “We seek to magnify our saint by the magnificence of the items we can bring to his tomb. The rarer and more costly the gift, the greater the indulgence we gain. We came here in order to buy a gem-encrusted solid gold chalice with which to show our devotion, and we have brought good gold with which to purchase it." Crest opened his purse to show the glint of precious metal, and as quickly closed it. “However, if you have no need of our coin, we will bother you no more. May the blessed Kuhul smile on you and yours, gatekeeper. Farewell."

Crest turned to leave, and the others nodded respectfully and did the same. However, it seemed the talk of gold had roused the gatekeeper from his torpor. “A moment, friends!” he cried. “Perhaps I spoke a little hastily. I would not wish you to think the people of Crar uncharitable!

"My brother-in-law, Sham, is a master goldsmith. He might be persuaded to give you a good price if you were to mention the name of Quard. I am sure the necessary permits and passes could be arranged for an appropriate fee."

Crest bowed. “Would the sum forty gold pieces suffice for our entry to your great city?” he asked. “I could offer more, but the bulk of our money must be retained in requital of our pilgrimage." Grimm hid his head in the folds of his robes, smiling. Forty gold pieces were as easy to promise as four hundred when one held a fortune in ensorcelled pebbles!

"Ah ... I am sure that will suffice,” the guard stuttered. “I'll write out the necessary permit at once!"

"Thank you for your good charity, brother. If the workmanship of your brother-in-law is as fine as you say, then the price is almost irrelevant,” Crest said, opening his bulging purse once more to let the unmistakeable gleam of gold illuminate the bottle-like chamber.

The huge portal swung open silently to reveal an inner chamber with doorways on either side, a steel portcullis in front. Three uniformed guards stood before them, each bearing a wicked-looking halberd. The entry portal swung shut behind the group with a decisive thud.

From the left doorway, stepped the gatekeeper, a tall, well-built man with greying hair and an expression of unalloyed greed on his face. When he spoke, his voice was a full octave higher than Grimm had expected, without doubt due to the clever acoustic design of the outer chamber. The young man found the high-pitched voice amusing, coming as it did from such an imposing figure, and he covered his amusement behind a forced expression of lofty piety.

A little out of breath, the gatekeeper handed Crest a note with “PERMISSION TO ENTER” scribbled upon it. Grimm saw no mention of a fee on the shabby document, and he imagined the gatekeeper intended to keep the promised wealth for himself, perhaps after giving a share to the guards in order to buy their discretion.

Crest proffered a deep, respectful bow, reaching into his pouch and counting out forty ensorcelled pebbles into Quard's waiting hand.

Grimm smiled, noticing that the gatekeeper kept his back to the guards as Crest counted out the fake money.

Quard scooped the coins into his robe and said, “Thank you, brother pilgrim. That is just the amount we agreed on. Pray enter our fair city."