Alastair Archibald: Weapon of the Guild

On noticing the group's approach, the man drew himself up from his canvas seat and stepped into the road, a serviceable but heavily-notched halberd held at an angle across his chest. Xylox reined in the party.

"Welcome to Griven," the guard wheezed, in a voice that spoke of decades of worship at the shrine of tobacco smoke. "I would like to ask you a few questions as to the purpose of your visit."

"Of course," Xylox replied. "Ask your questions."

The guard cleared his throat with some difficulty and drew a grubby piece of paper and a stubby pencil from a small leather satchel at his side.

"Are you all together?"

"Yes." The guard filled in a box on the sheet with laboured strokes of the pencil, his furrowed brow and silently moving lips indicating that literacy might not be his strong point.

"How long will you be staying?"

"We are just passing through. However, we may stay for a day or two depending on how pleasant we find the town."

The guard ran a finger slowly down the page. "That isn't on the list, I'm afraid, Lord Mage. Can I say 'three days'?"

Xylox waved his hand in a gesture of mild impatience. "As you will, gatekeeper."

"Is the purpose of your visit business or pleasure?"

"Pleasure," the Questor replied firmly. "Have you many more of these questions to ask? Our time is precious."

"Only… forty… forty-three more to go," the guard wheezed with a cheerful grin. "Do you have any externally produced or purchased goods to declare?"

"No," Xylox said. "But I am a swift reader and writer. If you would be good enough as to give me the form, we might be able to get this over with a little sooner."

The guard's face assumed an expression almost of panic. "Oh, no, Lord Mage, I couldn't allow that. Job demarcation, you know." The guard collapsed into an extended paroxysm of violent coughing.

"We could just ride through," Tordun whispered to Grimm. "This old codger couldn't do much to stop us."

"We don't want to draw any attention to ourselves," the Questor muttered in return. "Not all the guards in Griven may be as superannuated as our friend here."

The mighty albino lapsed into dark mumblings about bloody bureaucracy, and how the best cure for red tape was a good, sharp sword.

The gatekeeper flapped his hands and wiped tears from his eyes, as the paper and pencil dropped from his grasp. He seemed unable to continue.

"Gatekeeper," Xylox said, his voice dripping with false concern. "The stress of your responsibilities seems to have laid you low. A glass or two of medicinal brandy would seem to be in order. I appreciate the importance of rigid job demarcation, but if you allow me to complete the form, I will ensure that it reaches the proper authorities. I will be sure to say, if asked, that it was you who filled it in."

Unable to speak, the guard, his face suffused with red, picked up the paper and pencil, thrust them into Xylox's outstretched hand and staggered off, hawking and spluttering. When the gatekeeper was safely out of sight, Xylox crushed the sheet into a ball and casually tossed it over his shoulder.

"Perhaps we can move on now," he said, with an undeniable note of satisfaction in his voice.

"You didn't have anything to do with that little episode, did you, Questor Xylox?" Grimm asked suspiciously.

"As I said, our time is precious," the senior mage replied with an air of sublime unconcern, without answering the question. "Let us move on."

Grimm felt certain that his fellow Questor had somehow provoked the poor man's sudden attack, but he deemed it better to avoid further argument.

****

The adventurers left their horses outside the main market square, in the hands of an ostler plying for trade outside his barn. Xylox seemed pleased that the man took care to give him a detailed receipt, but Grimm felt unsurprised: from what he had seen, this town seemed to run on pieces of paper. On foot, the two mages and their warrior companions strode into the huge, busy market square, and Grimm almost staggered at the overwhelming noise that assaulted his ears.

Vendors lustily extolled the dubious advantages of their various wares from brightly caparisoned stalls, whilst prospective customers seemed determined to broadcast their haggling skills to all and sundry at top volume. The whole market area was covered by a series of vast canvas sunshades, and Tordun doffed his hood, removed his gloves and opened the neck of his costume with a sigh of relief. The warrior's skin regained some of its normal, healthy pallor.

The people of Griven seemed to have little sense of anything but their own business. They would walk erratically, looking nowhere except at the contents of the various stalls, and then lurch to a halt without warning. The lemming-like townsfolk gave Tordun a wide berth, but they barged continually into Xylox, Grimm and the slender Crest. The senior mage lashed out with his staff from time to time, but the oblivious people avoided its avid bite by swerving at the last moment.

Grimm considered erecting a magical ward around himself and his companions, but the spell might place a considerable drain on his store of magical energy. Xylox told him often enough that a prudent mage guarded his strength until it was needed, and the advice seemed sensible.

As a small figure barged past him, Grimm felt a slight tug at his pocket. His right hand shot out and grabbed a small wrist. Looking down, he saw a small, scruffy urchin struggling in vain to get away from him.

As this seemed only to be a small boy of maybe twelve years, he did not want to call down the wrath of whatever passed for the law here in Griven. Nonetheless, he thought that instilling a little fear into the pint-sized would-be pickpocket might dissuade him from persevering with a life of crime that might lead to the gallows when he was older.

"Thief, know that you have attempted to steal the purse of a Guild Mage," he growled. "Do you have any idea of the gravity of your offence? I may well…"

At that moment, another of the city's guards arrived.

"Leave it to me, Lord Mage," the man said, saluting. "We don't like thieves here. I'm sorry that such a thing should happen to you in our town."

He grabbed the child by the arm and began to drag him away.

"Ah yes, we've had trouble with this one before," the guard said, turning the urchin's face into the light with a rough hand. "She'll learn the error of her ways soon enough, and no mistake."

She? As Grimm looked closer, he could see that the pickpocket was no boy of twelve, but a small girl. Her face wore a mask of defiance, but her complexion was pale and blemished, speaking of a life of hardship and malnutrition.

Turning to the guard, Grimm asked, "What is the punishment for thievery in Griven?"

The guard thrust his hand under the girl's chin and turned her face left and right in appraisal. "A girl such as this, Lord Mage, of a suitable age… I guess she'll go to the slave block at the weekend. Five years or so as a bonded concubine ought to make her regret her thieving ways."

"Do you intend to wait there all day, Questor Grimm?" Xylox called impatiently.

"A few moments more, if you please, Questor Xylox," Grimm replied.

Turning back to the guard, Grimm forced onto his face what he hoped was a lecherous look.

"Good watchmen," he whispered, smiling, "we are both men of the world. My visit to Griven will not last until the weekend. How much might a slave girl in this condition be expected to fetch at the block?"

The guard mused. "A young girl like this, washed and dressed in seductive clothes… I'd guess seven gold pieces or so."

Grimm drew a deep breath; he did not know the Grivense penalty for attempting to bribe a city guardian, but he was about to find out. With a forced smile of bonhomie on his face, he draped a friendly and conspiratorial arm around the guard, whilst the girl regarded him with cold, flint-like eyes.