Alastair Archibald - Weapon of the Guild

Your friend,

Kitaur

Grimm was shaken by the note; the letters 'L.A.' were the very initials of his disgraced grandfather. The note spoke of 'vile intrigue' and 'disturbing information'. Grimm still felt embarrassed at how he had been fooled by Starmor, and the demon's mention of Loras' betrayal, and he felt determined not to read too much into the note. Any number of mages might have had the same initials, and Grimm knew from 'The Deeds of the Questors' that there were at least two other mages with the same initials. The House rolls must be full of such names.

Nonetheless, he still could not imagine that the loving man who had raised him was a callous murderer. Leaving the Library, careful not to disturb its two occupants, he went in search of Magemaster Crohn.

The Senior Magemaster sat at a heaped desk in his chamber, leafing through notes that doubtless told of the conduct and progress of his Students. Crohn seemed so deeply engrossed in the papers that Grimm felt constrained to emit a polite cough in order to elicit the Magemaster's attention.

Crohn started and looked up from his work.

"Questor Grimm!" Crohn cried, favouring the Questor with a rare smile. "I am so pleased to see you back here. You seem to have done well from your first Quest; please tell me all about it. I do not escape from this scholastic warren very often these days, and I am keen to hear of my former Student's achievements in the wider world."

Long moments passed as Grimm told Crohn of the Quest for the Eye of Myrrn. The Senior Magemaster sat rapt as Grimm wound through the essential details. At the end of the account, Crohn raised his eyebrows and nodded.

"It would seem that you have done well, young Afelnor. I congratulate you."

"Thank you, Senior Magemaster. I am sorry to interrupt your invaluable work, but I wish to ask a question of you."

Crohn opened his hands to Grimm, as if sweeping away the heaped papers on his desk. "Ask away, Questor Grimm. What is troubling you?"

Grimm had become adept at creative interpretations of facts, and he had a ready response.

"Magemaster Crohn," he said, "I was in the Library, looking up pervulsions of the runic Translocation spell that I used during my Quest, when I noticed what seemed to be a pertinent note in the margin, only I was unable to read it. The note was signed with the name 'Kitaur'. Does the name mean anything to you? I would like to speak with this mage, if he still lives."

Crohn mused for a moment, furrowing his brow.

"Kitaur… the name seems familiar… ah!"

The Magemaster's expression cleared.

"Now I have it," Crohn said, sighing. "Perhaps forty years ago, I knew of an Adept Necromancer named Kitaur Shirrar, a promising candidate for the Ring. I regret that Adept Kitaur fell down the stairs in the West Wing Tower and broke his neck. A great shame; he had completed his staff, and he died the night before his test at the Breaking Stone." The Magemaster shook his head in evident sorrow.

"Indeed, that is a great shame," Grimm replied, lowering his head. "I wonder if my grandfather, Loras, knew him."

Crohn shrugged. "I imagine so, Questor Grimm. Loras Afelnor was then a well-respected mage; many people knew him. I could not say if they were especial friends or not.

"I am sorry, Questor Grimm. I cannot tell you more. Still, since Kitaur was a Necromancer and not a Manipulant, I can only imagine that he wrote the annotation when he was a Student. I doubt that he could provide you with any insight other that that which you already possess."

"Thank you, Magemaster Crohn. I am sorry to have encroached on your valuable time; please excuse me."

****

Grimm lay on his bed and berated himself. He had been fooled once before by Starmor, and he refused to allow this small note to mislead him. Loras had confessed to his acts in front of a Conclave of Mages. Had any mage spell been acting on him, the Mage Sight of the gathered magic-users would have detected it. The initials, 'L.A', meant nothing. The note was undated, and it could have been written at any time within the previous fifty years.

The mage snuffed the candle beside his bed and tried to force himself to ignore the coincidence of the initials 'L.A.'. Nonetheless, he found himself unable to dismiss it.

Grimm was pacing back and forth in the Great Hall long before Dalquist arrived. Despite lying on his bed since mid-afternoon on the previous day, he had only managed a miserable couple of hours' sleep. Inchoate, formless worries provoked by sight of the faded note he had found in the Library buzzed and wheeled like a swarm of angry hornets in the inner recesses of his brain and in his stomach, leading nowhere but refusing to leave him.

He had been sorely tempted to take some a deep draught of the Trina herb that he always carried, but he dulled the urge by smoking a prodigious amount of tobacco.

Focus, Grimm,' he thought, trying, yet again, to exercise rational control over these nameless worries. If it hadn't been for that monster Starmor playing with your mind, you wouldn't have given that damn note a second thought. Remember what Dalquist told you; there are all too many opportunities to fool yourself in this world. Don't rush to grasp them.

All he wanted was to be on his way down the road, to allow new sights and new experiences to wash these amorphous misgivings from his head. Pacing up and down the length of the hall had not helped in the least.

At last, his fellow Questor arrived, also a little bleary-eyed.

"Ah, Grimm, I guess you were too excited to sleep," Dalquist said, yawning. "So was I; a trip to High Lodge is a rare experience. Still, the carriage should be here shortly. Shall we wait outside? It looks like it's going to be a lovely morning."

Grimm nodded. Perhaps a change of scenery and some idle chitchat would be all he needed to clear his thoughts. Picking up an expensive leather travelling-bag, another example of the Crarian artisans' fine craftsmanship, he followed Dalquist to the door, which opened, as usual, to a simple gesture of the older Questor's ring-bearing hand.

Stepping outside, Grimm took a deep breath of the cool, sweet morning air and surveyed the hillside. A green swathe of evergreens slanted down the cool, misty hillside into the village of Arnor, and he could see some early tendrils of smoke rising from a few tiny, far-away domiciles. Perhaps one of these represented a smith like Loras, starting up his furnace, ready for the day's trade…

The familiar image of his dungaree-clad grandfather with his patched clothes and leather apron, stepping into the morning mist to open the smithy, comforted Grimm, easing the roiling worries in his head.

"May I ask what you're thinking about, Grimm?"

Grimm smiled. "I was just thinking about the early morning at the old smithy back home in Lower Frunstock, Dalquist," he said. "I never noticed the little town down there before, you know. It's a pleasant little vista."

Dalquist shrugged. "I came from Shadauk, myself. I'm city born and bred, even if I have spent nearly all my life here. I don't really like the countryside."

Grimm swept his hand to indicate the rolling expanse of greenery. "How can you not appreciate this, Dalquist? Just smell this bracing morning air!"

"It smells the same as it ever did to me, Grimm. I think it's a little late in my life to try to turn me into a poet, or a dreamer. Ah, here's the carriage."

A small, squat vehicle approached, drawn by two chestnut horses. The paintwork was a little faded, but Grimm could see that the carriage had, in better days, been a magnificent conveyance. Chipped, wine-red paint and gold coach-lines adorned the vehicle's sides, and dark-green wheels rolled beneath it. The driver climbed down to open the door, and he took the mages' bags for stowage on the carriage roof.