Alastair Archibald - Weapon of the Guild

"Er, no, Lord Dominie, Questor Grimm is a…" Shael looked deeply concerned, perhaps at the idea that this adolescent string bean was about to be promoted to a rank higher than his own.

"Then that's that," Horin growled. "Thank you, good Questors. You are a credit to your House and your Guild; that will be all. Go and see Junior Armourer Threll; he will put the tags on. You may go."

Having retrieved the worrisome charm, he seemed no longer interested.

Shael ushered Grimm and Dalquist out of the chamber, and the audience was at an end. The Facilitator, in his haste, neglected properly to close the door. The last thing Grimm heard as they sped down the corridor was "23D, Lord Dominie; Scholasticate supplies for Jeral House…"

As they hurried along the corridor, Grimm knew he should feel elated at his rapid succession; instead of that, he just felt a great sense of anti-climax as the glittering scales fell from his eyes. Dalquist looked little happier even at having gained the ultimate mage rank. The young Questor thought fondly of the spectacle of his Acclamation, in contrast to the farcical comedy that had just been played out in this august institution.

Assistant Sub-Vice-Facilitator-in-Chief Shael hustled the two mages along the corridor at a brisk pace. Grimm had seen the look on Shael's face when Horin had so casually promoted him to a rank higher than the long-serving Facilitator's, but it seemed the corpulent functionary was not one to harbour a grudge. As they careered along the passageway, his vocal tone was friendly enough.

"We'll just be off to see Junior Armourer Threll, get those tags put on your staffs… er, staves, that is. After that, I'm to be your escort during the rest of your stay here. Would you believe that they're leaving all the important visitors and petitioners to that idiot, Junior Under-Assistant-Facilitator Jorel?"

Dalquist shrugged as well as a man might whilst speeding along in floor-length robes and carrying a six-foot staff in one hand.

"I don't know this Jorel, I'm afraid," he gasped, "Mage… um, Facilitator Shael, do you think we could possibly slow down a little?"

Shael stopped dead in the middle of the corridor, and Grimm and Dalquist nearly cannoned into him. "I'm sorry, Questor… Dalquist, is it? Yes, force of habit, I'm afraid. Always scurrying about the place, I am; I need to be kinder to myself now and again, I think. I'll be happy to take you on a guided tour of our magnificent edifice when we have finished with Threll. I'm sure you'll both be very impressed."

The senior Questor nodded slowly. "I'm sure we will be, Facilitator Shael. I just wonder why we were asked to remain here for three days just for the sake of a five-minute 'thank you, and sod off' hearing like the one we've just had."

"Oh, Questor Dalquist, that was not all, not by any means. At the end of the week, there is a ceremonial dinner for all newly-promoted mages. Each mage has the opportunity to introduce himself to his peers. You can't miss it."

"I could try," Dalquist said, dryly. "It sounds about as enjoyable as having a boil lanced."

"Oh, no, it's great fun. When I got my third ring, two years ago, there were over fifty of us at the dinner. We all had a lot to drink, and there were spells flying around the room all night." The portly man set off again, but at a more sedate pace.

"What did you do before you became a Facilitator?" Grimm asked.

"Oh, I was picked out as a Facilitator very early on, Questor Grimm. In my old House, I had the vocation of Seer, but I must admit I'm a bit rusty on those skills now. Not much cause to use them. Mind the stairs, now."

Grimm thought of Shael as a High Lodge equivalent of the Arnor House Doorkeeper; a harmless incompetent hived off into a largely ceremonial job where he could do no harm, but for which he was supremely qualified. From the length of the man's title, he assumed that there were several other mages with similar posts; Shael might be quite correct in his assessment of his junior.

After ten minutes of navigating through the sumptuously panelled catacombs of the Lodge, they reached a door marked 'T226'. Shael knocked perfunctorily with his three-ringed staff and opened the door.

Grimm and Dalquist walked into what appeared to be a moderately-sized warehouse, with grimy racks filled with boxes of rivets, hinges, bolts, metal ingots and other mechanical items. To Grimm's eyes, it was much more reminiscent of the smithy at Lower Frunstock than the abode of a full Guild Mage. A pasty-faced, surly-looking man of maybe fifty years of age shuffled out of the shadows and stopped in front of Shael, leaning one-handed on one of the racks. Unlike most mages, he had a close-cropped skull, and he wore a stained leather apron over simple, grey robes. Nonetheless, Grimm saw the blue-gold Guild ring on the grubby man's ring finger.

"What you got for me this time, Shael?"

"Just a couple of ring jobs, Threll," Shael trilled, "two on this one and four on this one." The Facilitator's eyes rolled at this last pronouncement.

"Don't get many fours round here, Shaely. How'd he swing that?" Threll asked, ignoring the two Questors.

"They both brought some jewel back, Threll," Shael said with a shrug. "Lord Prelate was in a real hurry, and he's been having problems with Drunar's new 'Desired Light' charms; he couldn't see a thing. So, he just waved his hand and there you are; four tags."

"Hmm. Makes you wonder why you bother, sometimes."

Grimm felt annoyed by this casual dismissal of the arduous Quest being batted back and forth over his head. That these pampered, bureaucratic caricatures of true mages should regard their own pathetic jobs as of equal worth to a Questor's life of risk and hardship made his ire boil up like bile.

"Questor Dalquist and I abstracted a magical gem from a powerful demon that intended to use it to spy upon the whole Guild," he snapped. "Both of us risked our lives more than once to resolve a situation that affected everybody, including you.

"Shael, I'm sorry I got promoted over you; you're right. I know Lord Prelate Horin was distracted, and he probably granted me a higher status than I deserved, or than he would have done if he hadn't been in such a hurry. I can't help that, and I'm not about to play the martyr by turning down this bounty. Would you have acted any differently, Shael? If I have it wrong, feel free to enlighten me."

He stood with his arms folded. Redeemer floated in mid-air at his side.

"So that's two ring jobs; a two and a four," Threll intoned in a resigned manner. "If you want them, gentlemen, I'd be grateful if you'd hand the sticks over. I haven't got all day, you know."

Feeling harsh words rising in his throat, Grimm kept his lips closed, knowing he would see no more of the odious little man after he had finished.

The Junior Armourer took Dalquist's staff, Shakhmat, and deftly swung it in a circle around the back of his hand. Grimm could almost feel the anger boiling within Dalquist at this affront. Although nothing Threll could do might harm the impervious rod, it was an essential adjunct to a mage's soul, and should be treated with respect.

"I'd be grateful if you treated my staff with a little more consideration, Armourer Threll," Dalquist snapped.

"Not going to hurt it any, am I, Questor? Some people… I don't know. Try to do an honest job…"

Muttering darkly, Threll placed the staff in a grooved, eight-foot jig with adjustable ends, which he closed snugly against the brass shoes of Shakhmat. He took a scroll from his pocket and adopted a dramatic pose, his legs apart, holding the scroll at arms' length; the grubby mage looked as if he were about to deliver some royal decree.

The spell consisted of thirty-one syllables, as Grimm counted. At least Threll seemed to know his craft, and a sixth gold circle appeared around the circumference of the staff, perfectly spaced in relation to the five it had already borne. After another repetition, Dalquist's staff bore its full complement of seven rings, indelibly bonded to the wood.