Alastair Archibald - Weapon of the Guild

A crystal drinks cabinet stood at the far end of the room, and the mage saw small tables arrayed around the wall, heaped with expensive viands and delicacies. Each of these tables bore a crystal vase with a delicate orchid. Grimm realised he was hungry and began to load a plate with food. Dalquist did the same.

"I don't like this place, either," the senior mage growled. "Don't get me wrong: while we have all this good food and drink on offer, I'll take it; but I don't think it's right to live like this. High Lodge is just too soft. I thought it was some sort of paradise on my first visit, but now I think it's little better than a decadent whorehouse. Did you see some of the mages we passed on the way here?"

"I think I know what you mean, Dalquist," Grimm said, after swallowing a mouthful of grilled ortolan. "They were confident, well-dressed, self-possessed to the point of arrogance, but they seemed to have all the presence and none of the power. When I was a Student, I used to think I'd scream if I heard that bloody phrase once more, but I think I know what it means now. None of this lot would last five minutes on a serious Quest; it's no wonder they get the various Houses to do all their dirty work." He sank into one of the deeply-upholstered chairs, which hissed slightly as he sat.

Dalquist followed suit, having helped himself to a generous glass of some noble vintage from the drinks cabinet. He placed a second glass before Grimm.

"I like comfort as much as the next man and I know you do, too, but how can you appreciate luxury if you live in it all the time? There's something sick in this place, a deep canker that saps all the majesty from it."

He took a deep gulp from the lustrous goblet and raised his eyebrows in appreciation. "At least the splendour of the food and drink matches that of the decor."

Grimm suppressed a gently mocking smile: Dalquist seemed in no mood to deny himself the opulence he had decried a moment before.

"We might as well enjoy it while we're here, I suppose," Grimm agreed, raising his glass. He did not really like wine, but he had to admit that this beverage was of exceptional quality.

****

After an hour or so, the Questors had requited their hunger and thirst and were deep in conversation. Grimm heard a polite rap on the door and called, "Enter."

A stout man with greasy grey locks and a sparse beard walked into the room, the rings on his staff marking him as a mage of the Third Rank. He consulted a small pocket-watch, and a grubby sheet of paper that he dragged from a pocket in his robe. Grimm heard him mutter, "Room thirty-four, four hours of the clock."

The portly man's expression brightened into a dazzling smile, revealing almost too many immaculate, pearly teeth.

"Greetings, brother mages," he crowed. "I am Shael, Assistant Sub-Vice-Facilitator-in-Chief of High Lodge. If you would kindly accompany me to the Presidium Chamber, Lord Dominie Horin awaits the pleasure of your company."

The man's words dripped with unction, but Grimm could tell they were empty and ritualistic. Of course, in such a fine establishment, Questors from provincial Houses would not merit any great ceremony. Even so, he felt his heart beating faster at the prospect of meeting the master of the Guild.

"If you would be so kind?" Shael pleaded. "The Lord Dominie has many demands on his time."

Dalquist looked at Grimm and rolled his eyes as the two mages levered themselves from their comfortable chairs and followed Shael out of the room.

It took several minutes, at a brisk pace, to pass along the length of the corridor past many identical doors, and Grimm guessed that each room might hold a party of disgruntled provincial mages patiently awaiting the Dominie's impatient pleasure. They reached a golden double portal decorated with intricate patterns, and waited a few minutes whilst Shael scanned his watch. Finally, the Assistant Sub-Vice-Facilitator-in-Chief rapped twice at the doors with his staff, to be greeted by a tired-sounding "Enter" from within the room.

Far from the opulent, orderly chamber that Grimm had expected, they walked into a chaotic mess. A vast, round table dominated the room, overflowing with scrolls, books and papers overflowing onto the sumptuously carpeted floor. A small man with a green eyeshade sat by the door, apparently deep in slumber. A corpulent, sweaty old man sat on the far side of the table, in front of an impressive bay window with diamond-shaped lights. Grimm realised that the Lord Dominie's portrait in the Great Hall at Arnor must have been painted many years before, and that the artist must have taken a number of liberties with his subject's image.

The two mages had both been well drilled in the protocol required on meeting the Lord Dominie. As one man, they grasped their staves at mid-length and sank onto their right knees, intoning in chorus, "Lord Dominie, a humble mage seeks admittance; kindly look upon me with favour."

"Yes, yes, yes," the Master of the Guild muttered in an irritated fashion. "Where are these mages' documents, Shael?"

Shael began to rifle through the papers on the desk, and the man with the eyeshade drawled, "23C, Lord Dominie; third pile on the right."

The Facilitator shuffled a few more papers and then evidently located the document he sought. He scanned the paper and looked up to face Horin.

"These two mages are from Arnor House, Lord Dominie: Questors Dalquist and Gramm." Grimm forbore from correcting Shael's mistake.

The Dominie showed interest and animation at last. "You have the Eye?"

"Yes, Lord Dominie," Dalquist said. He intoned a few nonsense words, and the gem that had caused so much trouble appeared in his hand with a discreet flash of blue light.

The man with the green eyeshade leapt up and all but snatched the Eye from the Questor's hand, running to take it to Horin. "It feels genuine, Lord Dominie."

The Dominie nodded, brushing heavy drops of sweat from his pink forehead. "If you only knew the sleepless nights this little beauty has cost me."

He uttered a long stream of runic syllables, and the gem disappeared. "Well done, good Questors. Thank you."

Horin looked sharply at the man with the eyeshade, who jabbed Shael in the ribs with a sharp elbow.

Shael yelped, cleared his throat and began to read from the sheet. Grimm saw the pathetic mage's lips moving in silence for a while before he spoke.

"Questor Dalquist! Questor Grimm! Beloved sons of the Guild! In rec-recognition of your meretricious…" Eyeshade jabbed him again, muttering "Meritorious".

"Of your meritorious and noble actions in the heroic revolution…"

Another jab.

"Resolution," Eyeshade growled.

"…resolution of a problem affecting the entire Guild, the Lord Dominie is pleased to confess… Ouch!"

"Confer," came the tired correction.

"Yes, to confer upon Questor Dalquist of Arnor House the degree of the Fifth Rank… er, Lord Dominie?"

"Yes, Shael, what is it?"

"Er, Questor Dalquist seems to be at the Fifth Rank already, Lord Dominie," the hapless mage said, pointing at Dalquist's Mage Staff.

"Oh, very well then, Shael," Horin snapped. "These idiotic lights make it impossible to see anything. Let's just give him the Seventh Rank and an entry in the next edition of Deeds of the Questors.

"Get on with it, fool!"

"Um, yes, Lord Dominie," Shael stammered. "The Lord Dominie confers upon Questor Dalquist of Arnor House the degree of the Seventh Rank. He also wishes to coffer-that is, confer-upon Questor Grimm of Arnor House the dangle-ow! — the degree of… it doesn't say anything here, Lord Dominie."

Horin waved his hand in exasperation. "Oh, let's say Fifth Rank, shall we? I presume you're not going to tell me that this skinny one is already a Fifth? He doesn't look old enough to be out of leading-strings, from what I can see."