Alastair Archibald - Weapon of the Guild

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."

He scraped a clumsy bow. The gate swung open, and Grimm and his companions stepped into a seething cauldron of activity.

If Drute had been busy, Crar was a roiling mass of activity and noise. Caparisoned stalls thronged a huge town square with eager, strong-voiced stallholders shouting the advantages of their diverse wares and goods. "Gitcha fine linen 'ere! Fifty silver a yard, best quality!" "Hot chestnuts, they're loverly!", "Best sandalwood snuff, penny a pinch!"

"You see what gold will do to ease locks even a master thief cannot open?" shouted Crest to Grimm, his voice barely audible over the chaotic tumult of the marketplace. "If I'd offered less than I did, the gatekeeper might have been moved to search us and confiscate our weapons. As it was, he was only too eager to let us in. I'll wager twice what I offered Quard at ten to one that the guards have no idea I gave him forty golds-they probably think I gave him four or five."

"I reckon I'd have to be pretty stupid to take your bet, Crest," Grimm replied, smiling.

Hustle, bustle and buzz! Even though the four companions were on horseback, high above the milling populace, they were nudged and bumped by seemingly oblivious pedestrians at every step. Grimm noticed their glazed facial expressions and wondered if the people were ensorcelled; they shouted out for exorbitantly-priced goods, their faces eager and their voices loud. Vendors exhorted everyone to buy, buy, buy!

At last, the adventurers won free from the insane throng of baying townsfolk, and they took shelter in an empty back-street yard.

"Something is wrong here, Dalquist," Grimm said with concern. "I don't think all those people wanted to buy. It's as if they're under some magic to do so."

Dalquist nodded. "I checked the crowd with my Sight. They are under a spell, a powerful one. I believe this is intended to create the impression of a normal market crowd. We must all tread carefully here."

"Could Starmor have been alerted to our presence by the Eye?" Grimm asked, worried. Their careful plans could fall apart if the Baron knew their intent.

"I don't think so," Dalquist replied. "I get the feeling this is some form of madness that happens every day, perhaps for Starmor's conceit and amusement-who knows? Nonetheless, we must be on our guard."

Harvel nodded. "I don't like this situation, Lord Mage. If there's strong magic around here, we'd best move as quickly as possible."

Crest nodded and pointed towards a tall, grey tower dominating the landscape. "That's the biggest building around here, and I'll bet it's where Baron Starmor lives. Hold on…"

He collared a man rushing past them to the market place. "Excuse me, sir! Whose dwelling is that imposing edifice? I could not help but be inspired by the magnificence of the structure."

The man struggled for a moment against Crest's strong grip and gave up the fight. He spoke quickly, with what seemed to Grimm a bizarre mixture of desperation and forced cheerfulness.

"Why, that's Great Lord Starmor's tower, good sir," the beaming man crowed. "I'd love to stay and chat, but I have urgent errands to run before nightfall. Please excuse me."

With a wrench, the man tore himself free of Crest's hand and dashed away.

Dalquist sighed. "Then that's our goal. Let's mill around a little until the sun sets, and then scout the tower."

Harvel pointed out a tidy-looking inn calling itself The Jolly Merchant. Giving a few coins to a boy standing outside, Dalquist bade him water, feed and rest the horses for a few hours. The boy's face lit up at the sight of the gleaming money. He knuckled his forehead and led the mounts to the stable.

A few patrons sat in the bar, drinking themselves into stupor with the same fanaticism the market shoppers exhibited when pursuing their purchases. Harvel stepped up to a bar staffed by a vigorous, cheerful, rosy-cheeked barman, a ghastly parody of the stereotypical gentle host.

"The very best wishes of the afternoon to you all, gentlemen," the red-faced man carolled. "How may I serve you? A lovely day, isn't it? What brings you here? Have you come to trade? The market is in full swing, as you can see. Let's hope the weather holds out, eh?"

The landlord gave no time for the bemused group to respond to his stream of empty questions. Indeed, he showed little sign of expecting an answer as he rushed to bring them four ruddy, foaming ales. He accepted the coins offered by a bemused-looking Harvel with a gracious, cheery smile as he scurried away to serve another customer, who seemed just as happy and loquacious as he.

The cheery inn seemed as much a toy as the frantic market. It seemed that all of Crar's citizens were Starmor's playthings, and the whole city a sham intended to give the impression of a thriving, healthy metropolis when it was no more than a hollow automaton.

The adventurers took their beers to a secluded corner table. "This place is scary!" Crest muttered, taking a healthy swig of ale. "It's almost like the people are animated corpses, marionettes manipulated by some crazy puppeteer."

"They aren't zombies," Dalquist replied. "They are as alive as we are, but they're labouring under a hideous, mighty and unremitting spell. I can see it plainly in their auras. We may have our Quest to fulfil and no more, but I for one will not rest until these people are free."