Alastair Archibald: Weapon of the Guild

I can see I'll have to get rid of a lot of preconceptions if I'm to play this game well, Grimm thought as they strode over to the young swordsman.

"I am Questor Dalquist, and this is my fellow mage, Questor Grimm. We are Guild Mages looking for a skilled and experienced swordsman to aid us on an important Quest. You look to be a man familiar with the blade. Would you be interested in joining us for a week or so?" Dalquist asked quietly, holding up his left hand to show his blue and gold Guild Ring.

The blond swordsman looked up for a moment and motioned Grimm and Dalquist into the chairs opposite him.

"I'm Harvel Rusea, Lord Mage," he said in a deep, calm voice. "I'm your man, if you can afford me-but I warn you, I don't come cheap. I'm older than I look, and I've been in many battles at odds that would have been fatal to lesser swordsmen."

Dalquist shrugged. "We might feel happier to meet your stipulated fee if you could give us some evidence of your skill," he said, swiftly adding, "not that we doubt your word."

"Uril!" Harvel shouted, pointing to the sword at his side. "Just how good am I with this thing?"

"Questor Dalquist, if you want a good swordsman, you can't get much better than Harvel, here," the huge landlord rumbled. "We first met when we fought together in the Sugar Wars, under Lord Dravin's flag, and you know of my fighting experience.

"Harvel's one of the five best men with a sword I've ever met, and I served in one man's army or another for over thirty-five years. Whatever he asks for, I advise you to give it to him; he's worth it. And he can keep his mouth shut, too."

"Thanks, Uril. Pity I can't say the same for you," Harvel called back. Instead of taking affront, Uril laughed and turned to serve another customer.

"Well, Harvel, it seems you come highly recommended," Dalquist said.

He made a gesture with one hand and muttered a spell in his personal spell-language. "There; I have cast a spell so no eavesdropper can listen to what we say," the Questor said.

Dalquist then embarked on a detailed explanation of the Quest, without mentioning High Lodge or that the Eye of Myrrn had been stolen from a Guild House.

"It sounds like an enjoyable diversion, mage," Harvel said, smiling, when Dalquist had finished.

"If the expedition is acceptable to you, what are your terms?"

Harvel mentioned the sum of four gold pieces a week. Dalquist politely refused and offered two. Eventually they agreed on two and a half gold pieces, ten percent of any booty taken, and a replacement weapon of equal value to the sword at his side if it should be badly damaged or broken. Both Dalquist and Harvel spat on their palms and shook hands to solemnise the deal, and Dalquist relaxed his spell.

The swordsman called to Uril for another round of drinks. Harvel and Dalquist began to exchange adventure stories the inexperienced Grimm could not hope to match, so the junior mage contented himself with occasional polite nods, interjecting murmurs of appreciation at appropriate intervals.

Although the magic contained in Redeemer countered the intoxicating effects of alcohol, it did not lessen drink's demands on the bladder. After a few glasses of beer, Grimm found himself needing to use the jakes, and he excused himself, threading his way through the mass of bibulous humanity thronging the bar.

On the way back, he bumped into one of the scarred ruffians who seemed to form a large part of the tavern's regular customers. The impact spilled a minute quantity of wine onto the man's grubby, threadbare clothes.

"Watch where you're going, can't you?" the warrior growled. "You clumsy young oaf; I ought to teach you some manners, and I'm just about in the mood to do that," he snarled, with a belligerent jut of his jaw.

"Please excuse my clumsiness," Grimm said. "Let me buy you another drink to make amends."

"Think you can buy me with your blandishments, boy? I'll have no stripling catamite fawning over me!"

Several heads turned towards the argument, and Grimm swallowed, remembering Dalquist's advice to leave no slight unanswered. The tipsy man seemed ready for a fight.

Grimm could not see the fearsome Uril, and nobody else seemed inclined to intervene. He saw Dalquist and the foppish swordsman sitting at ease on the other side of the bar, impassive, although Grimm knew they must both be listening to the exchange with interest.

The young Questor took a deep breath and drew the wispy tendrils of his will into a dense nugget of determination, as he had been taught.

This will be a one-sided battle, he told himself, feeling the power build within him. This muscle-bound bruiser doesn't stand a chance.

"In truth, I have little experience in the ways of love," he said in a low voice, "but I do not desire the bed-company of my own sex. Should I so desire, I would not choose as my partner a bloated, big-mouthed oaf such as you. So you must swallow your disappointment and find yourself another young boy with whom to spend your nights and to soothe your bruised ego."

A low groan arose from some quarters of the bar as the brute stood to tower over the mage. Grimm suppressed a nervous gulp; he stood six feet tall, but this brute overtopped him by inches. In a reflex motion, he brought Redeemer to a ready position.

"Think that toothpick's going t'protect you, boy?" the fighter slurred. "Think you can insult Harman Hammerfist and get away with it?"

The tall man drew a well-worn sword, brandishing it in a threatening manner that implied some skill with the blade.

"Do you think you can insult a Guild Mage and get away with it?" Grimm said in a contemptuous voice. He knew now a fight was inevitable, and he let his training take over, like a cool, refreshing wind that blew all fear and uncertainty from him.

"I was prepared to accept your bluster as the mindless ramblings of a drunkard," Grimm said. "Now, you have gone too far. Apologise at once, or know the wrath of a Mage Questor."

"A wizard? You never said nothing about being no wizard," the man spluttered, suddenly concerned. "You haven't got none of them gold rings on that stick."

"You gave me little chance to mention it before you called me a pederast's toy," Grimm replied in a cold voice that surprised even him. "Put that sword away and apologise humbly for your rash words, or it will be the worse for you."

"How do I know you really are a wizard?" Harman asked, with a suspicious glint in his eyes.

This is a dangerous question to ask a walking weapon like a Questor, Grimm thought. There were several ways in which he could prove what he was, but Harman wouldn't survive many of them.

Pointing at the sword, he muttered "Ch'teerehch'ye!" and the weapon's blade fell into glittering dust like flour, leaving the hapless Harman gaping at the now-useless hilt.

"That could as easily have been your head," Grimm said in a threatening monotone. "One more word of bluster or insult, and it will be. Apologise at once, before my forbearance is exhausted."

All braggadocio and bravado seemed to flee Harman after this demonstration of power, and it seemed the adrenaline of terror had chased the alcoholic befuddlement from the fighter's brain. For a moment, he appeared to be trying to remember the working of his own mouth before he found his voice.

"I humbly beg pardon, Lord Mage, for my hasty words," he said, with crystal clarity. "I was drunk, and I'm ashamed at what I said. I beg you to forgive me." Harman's voice was little more than a whisper, his face ashen, still holding the useless stump of his sword.

All eyes in the bar seemed to be on Grimm and Harman. Uril had returned, and he shook his head, perhaps baffled by the foolishness of a man seeking to tangle with a Guild Questor.

"I believe some here did not hear your apology, yet your insult was audible to all," Grimm snarled. "I request that you repeat your last statement in a voice loud enough for all to hear."