Alastair Archibald - Weapon of the Guild

The driver was a small man, maybe five feet, five inches in height, with slightly bowed legs, a flat cap over greasy grey hair and a berry-brown, wind-chapped face that spoke of many years on the open road. Nonetheless, despite his diminutive stature, the driver handled the bags with almost contemptuous ease, taking the handles of both in one hand as he hauled himself back up onto the carriage.

"Lovely mornin', innit, gennelmen?" he cried in an almost melodic voice. "Welcome on board Ginny; 'least that's what I calls her."

"A lovely morning, indeed," Grimm called, climbing on board, adding politely, "a beautiful conveyance you have here, too, driver."

"Thank'ee, Sir Wizard. I've 'ad 'er nigh on twenny-five year now. Cally, me name is, sir. Cally Furman."

"I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Driver Cally," Dalquist called from the interior of the carriage. "I am Questor Dalquist, and my companion is Questor Grimm. We wish to travel to High Lodge in Zhure. I trust that you know the way?"

Cally snorted. "Been takin' wizards from 'ere to there for long enough now, gents. I should jest about think Ginny could take 'erself there, without me drivin' her."

Dalquist called back, "I would appreciate it if you called us 'mages', Cally, rather than 'wizards'. And I think we would both feel a lot happier if you stayed at the reins, too, if you do not mind."

"Sorry 'bout that, Lord Mage. I'll 'ang on tight then, shall I? 'Ere we go."

Cally made a clicking sound and shook the reins, and the blinkered horses began to trot down the mountain slope.

"You didn't have to be mean to the driver, Dalquist," Grimm objected, "he was just making friendly conversation."

He felt that his friend had been a little unfair to a simple man who was just trying to be pleasant.

"I wasn't doing it to be mean," his companion replied. "I think you'll find that Cally knew well enough that the word was 'mage'. He was just testing me, to see if I'd correct him. One thing you have to be on your guard against is getting too friendly with Seculars. They may seem perfectly amicable and pleasant, or they may be seeing how far they can go with you, how far they can push you. That is what our friend, Cally, was trying to do.

"If you rise to his kind of bait, word soon gets around. Before you know it, you gain a reputation as an amiable, easy-going, timid little mouse.

"Remember: being a Mage Questor isn't about winning a popularity contest, Grimm. It's about projecting the right image. Would you have been able to carry off that little exercise in the Broken Bottle if you'd been laughing and joking with that clumsy drunkard a few moments before? No, either you'd have ended up in another fight, and you'd probably have had to kill him, or you'd have had to back down and sully the image of Questors everywhere. I was pleased about the way you handled the incident, Grimm, but you can't always tell who the troublemakers are at first sight. Some are just feeling their way, seeing how far they can go. You have to assume that all Seculars are a little like that."

Dalquist folded his arms and looked straight at Grimm.

"I only said that there was no need to be mean to Cally," the younger man said mildly, "I don't think a little politeness hurts."

"Politeness, yes," Dalquist said, "but Cally had just issued a challenge; just a little one, but a challenge nonetheless. Trust me on this, Grimm. You don't have to be unfriendly or brusque all the time, but you can't afford to get too close."

"There's shades on the winders if the sunlight's a bit too bright fer ye, Lord Mages," Cally carolled.

"Thank you, Cally. It is a little bright, at that," Dalquist called back, pulling down one of the window blinds.

"You see," the senior mage said. "You can bet that he won't once forget that 'mage' title now. He knew it all the time, of course."

Grimm shrugged and turned to watch the passing scenery. He remained unconvinced by what Dalquist had said, but he could see that any indication of weakness in a Questor might lead to a reputation as a weakling. It might be nice to be popular, Grimm decided, but, given the choice, he would still prefer to be a Mage Questor.

****

Grimm had been overwhelmed by the grandeur and size of Arnor House when he first arrived there as a cold, wet, nervous child of seven. After nine years, even the mighty House seemed commonplace and unremarkable to him. Nonetheless, he felt stunned by his first sight of High Lodge. The entire, massive structure seemed to be made of lambent marble and gold, and it gleamed and glowed in the bright post-noon sun, standing proud, isolated on a hill.

The main structure was surrounded by what appeared to be a low wall, but, as the carriage drew closer, Grimm realised that the wall was around forty feet in height. Four vast white towers thrust proudly into the sky from the corners of the main keep, and an even taller cupola rose from the centre, swelling at the top like the cap of some enormous mushroom. The square protective wall leaned outwards, and an impressive array of castellations, archery-ports and trebuchets showed that this was a fortress and not an exercise in creative architecture; every bizarre feature seemed now to have purpose and meaning.

Around the periphery of the wall, perhaps twenty feet up, Grimm saw what appeared to be the spokes of some giant wheel; perhaps some kind of structure to support a huge sun canopy? On closer inspection, he realised that this was a structure to prevent the use of scaling ladders and the close approach of siege engines.

The spokes seemed too slender to support a man's weight, but the interaction of opposed forces ensured the rigidity of the structure. Grimm could hardly believe that mere mortals could have built such a fantastic, unworldly edifice.

Dalquist leaned over towards Grimm. "Impressive, isn't it? By the way, I'd advise you to close your mouth, unless you want to catch flies."

Grimm's mouth closed with a click; he was not aware that he had been gaping.

The carriage drew up to the main gate. Cally turned round to face the two Questors and knuckled his forehead.

"Here y'are, gen'lemen. If it's all right wi' ye, I'll be going into town for me lunch-me stomach thinks me throat's been cut."

Dalquist nodded. "Thank you, Cally; that will be all for now. We shall need you again at dawn, in three days' time."

He handed the man a silver coin.

"Thank'ee kindly, sir, thass very generous of ye. I allas said you mage types was real gents."

They stepped down from the carriage, and Grimm had to crane his neck to see the top of the central tower. High Lodge was truly immense! Cally handed them their bags and moved off, tossing the silver coin in the air, catching it with ease and whistling merrily.

The gate was a large arch, fifteen feet in height, with two raised portcullises about eight feet apart, with two muscular guards with halberds at each one, to whom Dalquist merely showed his Guild ring, and Grimm did likewise. The guards motioned the mages through to… pandemonium!

The Great Hall at Arnor House was large enough for at least two hundred people, but it was often, indeed usually, deserted. The hall at High Lodge was a hive of activity. Fluted marble pillars supported a gold filigree ceiling, and lines of people wound in and out of them like ants negotiating the tunnels of their underground lair.

A grand-looking old gentleman approached them, weaving his way through the crowd. He stood at least two inches taller than Grimm's six feet, with ebony skin, a dramatic shock of white hair and a long, slender beard of the same colour. He was dressed in immaculate midnight blue robes of crushed velvet, and Grimm noticed that the tall man's staff bore a full complement of seven rings.

"Brother Mages, I bid you welcome to High Lodge," the apparition intoned in a rich, sonorous, bass. "I am the Senior Mage Doorkeeper, and I welcome you to High Lodge."