Alastair Archibald: Weapon of the Guild

Jessie bore a warm, chestnut-brown coat, with a white flash like lightning over her eyes and socks to match, and Grimm knew the fierce love of a boy for his first horse. Despite the years since he had last ridden a live animal, Grimm levered himself onto the saddle while Dalquist was still stepping into the stirrups of his grey mare, Bella. Jessie did not so much as twitch as the young wizard settled into place.

Dalquist smiled and flicked his reins to move off down the path. Grimm clicked his tongue against his hard palate as he had often seen Loras do, and he felt a surge of pleasure as Jessie started at once down the mountain trail in a fluid trot.

Grimm eagerly drank in the rich sounds, sights and smells of the region as the two mages wound down the twisting causeway. At the bottom, as the path merged into the main thoroughfare, Dalquist reined in beside Grimm.

"How do you like this morning, after ten years cooped up in the Scholasticate?" the older mage asked, wearing a broad smile.

Grimm laughed. "It's a lovely morning: a good day to be out riding, Dalquist!" he cried, pressing his knees against the mare's sides to bring her to a brisk canter.

He smiled as he saw Dalquist struggling to persuade his own mount to overtake Jessie.

****

An hour later, Grimm began to regret his earlier confidence. Although he exercised with diligence each morning, he felt his legs becoming sore, his back beginning to ache and his joints groaning with every hoofbeat. His backside bloomed into an inferno of agony. After two hours, he writhed in the saddle, subsumed with torment.

He guessed Dalquist had noticed his distress, as the older mage called back, "Not much further, Grimm. Another hour or two should see us in Drute."

"I don't think I can go another minute, Dalquist," Grimm admitted. "I feel like this horse has kicked me all over."

Dalquist reined in and dismounted, and Grimm gratefully followed his example. The young Questor stretched, grimacing in discomfort as each muscle sang out a song of discontent to his aching body.

After a few deep knee-bends, Grimm sighed. "I'm ready to try again," he said, with more confidence than he felt.

"You wouldn't last another mile, Grimm," Dalquist replied, with a shake of his head. "Hmm… I'm not much of a Healer, but I think I could do something to help those distended muscles. Do I have your permission?"

"Anything you could do will be more than welcome, Dalquist. I guess I'm not the experienced horseman I thought I was."

"It's lack of practice, Grimm, just lack of practice. Here we go…"

Dalquist laid his hands on Grimm's shoulders and began a low, muttering chant. Grimm felt warmth beginning to spread slowly from his shoulders into the rest of his distressed body. At first pleasant, the warmth soon turned into heat that built with every second until he almost cried out.

After a sharp, stabbing pain forced a gasp from him, Grimm began to feel better and, after ten minutes, he pronounced himself fit to continue the journey. This time, he marshalled his physical strength with more care, moving with the horse whenever possible and gently guiding her otherwise.

On straight roads he applied a little Levitation, a spell he remembered well from Magemaster Crohn, just enough to lower the load on his lower back and his legs. By the time a few houses began to come into view, Grimm felt confident he would last the course.

The two mages rode into the outskirts of a small town consisting of a few well-appointed shops and taverns within a mass of ramshackle cottages and tenements. Drute seemed to be run more for the benefit of wealthy visitors than for that of its inhabitants. Dalquist came to a halt and dismounted, and Grimm followed suit with some gratitude.

"A little advice, Grimm. Drute is a strange town where the folk have little money, but much pride. Honour is paramount here, and you must be careful in what you do, and especially in what you say. Here, a man's word is more than his bond; it is his very life. Everything you say will be taken completely literally, unless the person to whom you are talking is a friend and laughs to accept it as a jest.

"If you say you could eat a horse, the folk will serve you with a dish of whole stewed nag, and watch you eat every morsel. If you don't finish it, you will lose face. The people here aren't stupid, just constrained by some rules that seem strange to outsiders like us. You must never let an insult from a stranger go unanswered, for example, and you must never make a threat you are not ready to fulfil. If you make a threat, even in jest, and the recipient does not acknowledge it as a joke, you must carry it out to the letter-to the very letter, Grimm.

"If a man threatens you and you tell him you could tear off his head, you may have to do just that. A foreigner is at the best of times poorly tolerated, especially so when his word is not good. I suggest you follow my lead and say as little as possible. However, if you are insulted, you will have to respond to the insult. Do not deny that you are a true mage under any circumstances, and do not efface yourself; the Guild has some respect here, but it needs to be backed up by authority. Just be careful, Grimm. This is a wild region."

"I'll try to say as little as possible, Dalquist," Grimm said with a fervent nod. "My least assault could start a war from what you say."

He liked the sound of Drute less with every word he heard.

"No, Grimm. If you answer an insult with violence, it will be respected without repercussions, even from the victim's family. I know senseless aggression is as inimical to you as it is to me, but I know only too well that a mage such as you or I can handle any threat from a mere Secular. Whatever you do, don't start anything: it's all too easy to do that here, I can assure you."

Dalquist wagged his right index finger in admonition. "We will use Mage Speech from now on when talking to the townspeople; is that clear?"

Grimm nodded. He disliked the starchy, verbose Mage Speech as much as anyone, but Magemaster Crohn had drilled him in the necessity of using it whenever addressing Seculars. A mage must at all times keep his distance from those outside the Guild, so as to maintain fear and respect.

The two mages remounted and rode through a street that became ever more crowded as they moved towards the centre of the town. Grimm took care to pick his way through the growing throngs of townspeople without barging or inconveniencing them in any way. Hawkers stood at street corners, yelling to all and sundry of the miraculous efficacy of various dubious-looking charms and potions. Moneylenders screamed of rates of interest that sounded reasonable until Grimm realised these rates were compounded year on year and threatened bankruptcy to a desperate borrower. Grimm felt sure the recovery of debts in this barbarous region would be carried out in a harsher manner than would be employed in more civilised districts.

Mangy dogs ran freely through the thoroughfares, snatching morsels from the market stalls, earning kicks and curses from the enraged stallholders. Streams of noisome fluids and matter ran through open sewers, adding to the general aroma, which was none too pleasant in any case.

Dalquist motioned Grimm into a courtyard next to a disreputable-looking establishment bearing the name The Broken Bottle on a dull, faded sign.

A grubby boy of about ten summers ran up to Dalquist, a wide, gap-toothed grin painted on his face. Bowing and scraping with obsequy, the boy began a fluent speech he had no doubt learned by rote. "Great lords, welcome to The Broken Bottle, the finest hostelry in these lands. We have the best food and drink at reasonable prices. Stabling is available at nominal rates. Thr… five coppers apiece to look after your fine horses, lords. Only five coppers."