Alastair Archibald - Weapon of the Guild

"Since you have me under your control, what can you tell of my grandfather's fall from grace? You may as well tell me now. It may have cost me my life, but it will be some comfort to know that he was acting under duress."

Starmor laughed so hard that tears began to run down his cheeks. "This is the best part of it, Questor; as you suspected, I know nothing that I did not glean from the dusty little recesses of that which you are pleased to call a brain. I told you what you wanted to hear, and you allowed your ape curiosity to subsume your feeble mortal powers of reason."

Grimm yearned to blast Starmor into a million motes as he had threatened before, but he knew now that he could never do so. He clenched his teeth and his fists in impotent rage, hating himself for his impetuous stupidity.

Starmor yawned. "You really are quite dull, though, my imbecilic friend. From what I have gleaned from your simian brain, it seems plain that your grandfather's actions were quite out of character for such a man. There must have been some sort of Geas or Compulsion acting upon him. I would have thought even you would have guessed that."

"Shut up, Starmor. I never want to hear my grandfather's name sullied by your foul lips again. I refuse to believe anything you say."

Grimm turned his back on the demon. He knew what he must do; he must use his last reserves of powers to destroy himself before his emotional ward fell. Starmor must remain trapped at all costs, and Grimm would not allow himself to relax his vigilance.

"And now, my dear brethren, let us pray." From some unseen corner of the chapel rose discordant, dissonant organ music to which Starmor swung and swayed with a look of pure ecstasy on his face. Grimm gritted his teeth and sat cross-legged on the flagstone floor. His strength was beginning to fade, and he knew it would only be a matter of time before his shield failed. He swore again he would kill himself before that happened.

Harvel and Crest expressed the greatest appreciation at Mayor Chod's generous offer of fine new clothes, and they spent the afternoon at a large Crarian tailors' establishment, trying on various outfits. The swordsman now wore a short-sleeved bottle-green leather jerkin, black, metal-studded wristbands, loose-fitting yellow trousers and long, thin leather shoes. His gleaming rapier, carefully dressed and polished, was ready for action in a green leather scabbard on a blue silk hanger. This garish outfit might appear quite impracticable for combat, but Harvel assured Crest it was the absolute acme of fashion.

The thief adopted a more sober outfit, befitting his more restrained dress sense, but his simple, black outfit was made of crushed velvet; the brown slippers of finest kidskin. His deadly throwing-knives lay in a slanted row across his chest on a leather baldric, ready for instant use.

"Well, well, well; look at the twin birds of paradise!" Dalquist said, with an appreciative whistle.

"Will you listen to the man there, Crest?" Harvel drawled, adjusting his scabbard. "He must be under the impression that those silk robes he's wearing are some sort of monastic habit. Perhaps the poor fellow is colour-blind."

Dalquist wore scarlet silk, with a gold cowl; no shrinking violet, he!

"Colour-blind I may be," laughed the mage, "but I am blessed with a good sense of the passage of time. Has either of you seen Questor Grimm anywhere? We ought to be thinking of leaving for the Council chambers."

"He had his outfit made first," declared Harvel. "He took the whole lot back up to the tower. He's probably been staring at himself in the mirror for the last ten minutes, so do you want me to go and fetch him?"

Dalquist shook his head. "I need to talk to him about a few things myself. I'll see you in the Town Square in ten minutes." With that, he was off to the Baronial tower.

****

"Grimm, come on! It's high time we were moving. Stop preening yourself! Remember, there's a Council meeting, and you're supposed to be the guest of honour."

No answer came from the bedchamber. Stepping inside, Dalquist noted the unopened pouch of drugs on the carpet, and wondered if Grimm had gone for a walk in an attempt to clear his head after being tempted by the herbs.

Twenty minutes later, he had searched the tower from top to bottom with no sign of the young Questor, and he was beginning to worry that something was amiss. Harvel and Crest joined in the search, having come to the tower when Dalquist had not returned. When it was plain that Grimm was not secreted anywhere in the tower, the group split up and scouted Crar separately, trying every shop, hostelry and alleyway to no avail.

After an hour, they met back at the bedchamber of Starmor's former domicile. Dalquist had to admit that it appeared that Grimm could not be hiding, and that he must have absconded. It all seemed so unlikely, since Grimm would know that he would be hunted down by the Guild; the organisation did not like the idea of unlicensed renegade Questors on the loose; he surely could not expect to evade the combined resources of the Guild forever. Nonetheless, Dalquist had to consider a distasteful possibility: that Grimm had flouted his duty to the House.

"He's a game lad, but he's been through an awful lot in the last few days," Crest said, frowning. "I wonder if his nerve deserted him; who could blame him, after all that? Perhaps the prospect of all that responsibility was too much for him, and he just ran off."

"It doesn't make sense, Crest," Harvel declared shaking his head. "He seemed so keen at the prospect of his new clothes, and he told me he wanted to look his very best tonight. He looked a little flustered, but he didn't seem scared at all."

"I don't think for a moment Grimm has forgotten his Guild vows," Dalquist growled, "but it's not up to me. We were intending to return to the House tomorrow to complete the Quest. If he's not there by the time I arrive, Lord Thorn will have to assume that he is in breach of his oath of fealty. That is a far more serious consideration. We've got to find him."

He sighed and sat down on the bed in despair. Grimm would surely have notified him if his absence was unavoidable. The young mage had seemed so excited about the whole thing, and such an unexplained absence was out of character for him.

But where was he?

"He's left his new clothes behind," Harvel pointed out. "He was so eager to wear them; he must be around here somewhere! He'd never have left them behind. Perhaps he had a celebratory drink or two and got a little tipsy."

"We searched the bar and the jakes," Dalquist sighed, "and he'd just take hold of Redeemer whenever…"

A metallic glint caught his eye from within the rumpled bedclothes. Dalquist leapt to his feet and threw back the sheets to uncover a polished black wood and brass staff.

"He's left Redeemer behind!" Dalquist cried. "He would never have done that by choice!"

"It's just a piece of wood and metal," Harvel said mildly. "Perhaps he just forgot it. It doesn't tell us anything, Lord Mage."

Dalquist rounded on the swordsman. "You have no idea what the staff means to a mage, Harvel! None! It is a part of him, as my staff, Shakhmat, is a part of me. Even if he forgot the staff, he could call it to hand with a mere word from anywhere in the world. No man who has been through a Questor's Ordeal, as we both have, would ever leave his Mage Staff! Questor Grimm is not in this world."

Crest looked alarmed. "Do you mean he is dead?"

Dalquist dismissed the suggestion. "A true Mage Staff reverts to simple wood and metal on its owner's death unless he has, of his own volition, passed it to another mage. Grimm is not dead, but he is on another plane."

The Questor composed himself for a potent spell, a search for the life-essence of his young friend. He found nothing, and declared solemnly, "Grimm Afelnor is nowhere on this world: I am sure of that."