Alastair Archibald: Weapon of the Guild

Harman, red-faced, stared fixedly at the floor as he repeated his apology in a louder voice.

"Think yourself fortunate indeed you still live, only because a Guild Mage stayed his hand from righteous vengeance," Grimm hissed. "I advise you to measure your words better before you speak them in future. As a last piece of advice, should any nameless ruffians happen to surprise me in some dark alley while I am here, I may well assume they have been sent by you. After I have dealt with them, I shall seek you out and you will find out to your cost that I can perform much more powerful, painful and destructive magic than the simple spell I have just demonstrated."

Grimm raised a hand and Harman flinched. The mage contented himself by allowing a single blue flame to issue from each of his fingers for an instant before letting them die.

"Do I make myself quite plain, Harman? For your own sake, you should hope nobody else is foolish enough to trifle with me. If you have any friends, which I would find hard to credit, it would be in your best interest to counsel them to steer well clear of me. Now get out of my sight."

The hapless Harman Hammerfist muttered a disavowal of any intended treachery and he shuffled out of the silent bar. Grimm followed him with deliberately contemptuous eyes. Then he returned to Dalquist and Harvel. The former hubbub resumed as if a signal had been given, and several people gave Grimm respectful nods as he passed, which he acknowledged politely.

"You should have left that oaf Harman as a smoking spot of grease on the floor, mage," the swordsman grumbled as Grimm returned to his seat. "He's been a thorn in the side of many here, but he's never been stupid enough before to pick on a ring-bearing mage."

"What was that spell, Grimm? I can shatter substances, but I can't do what you did just then," Dalquist muttered, keeping his voice low.

Grimm noted his friend's wide eyes, and he knew Dalquist was impressed by his impromptu spell-the first he had ever cast to resolve a real-world problem.

"Oh, just for a moment, I saw the forces holding the metal together," Grimm muttered, feeling as if he might burst from sheer pride. "I told them to let go. The effect was quite nice, I think, even if it took a lot of energy." He smiled. "I think I'll call it the Spell of Enhanced Disintegration."

Grimm drained his beer-mug and used Redeemer to reduce the intoxicating effect of the ale down to a pleasant, warm glow. He then ordered another round, addressing the landlord with politeness but with a definite ring of confidence in his voice. Uril's response, although amicable, carried an unmistakable note of respect and even deference.

"You see, Grimm?" Dalquist whispered. "Being even a tyro Questor of the First Rank can raise a man above the commonplace. Now you have proven yourself here, you have gained more respect than the mere label 'mage' would grant you. You handled the situation in exactly the right manner: without unnecessary bloodshed, yet sending an unequivocal warning to others without employing hollow threats or bluster. I don't think you'll have any more trouble here."

They drank a little more, and now even the self-possessed swordsman seemed to take interest in Grimm, asking of his background and eagerly devouring what little Grimm felt Guild protocol allowed him to tell of his magical training. Harvel listened to Grimm's account of his violent Outbreak and the destruction of a classroom with no trace of disbelief, nodding and smiling appreciatively.

Dalquist had just begun to launch into a tale of the aftermath of one of his Quests when a shadow fell across the table. Grimm had particularly acute hearing, but he felt stunned that he had heard nothing to warn him of any approach. He looked up, startled, to see a slender man with shoulder-length dark hair, olive skin, catlike eyes and markedly pointed ears. From his studies, the young mage knew the interloper must be a member of the Elven race: the first sentient non-human he had ever encountered.

"Harvel, you burnt-out has-been; I see you still carry that sad excuse for a skewer. Do you think people will take you for some sort of blademaster," the elf sneered, "when all the world knows you're no more than a bibulous, primping popinjay?"

Grimm tensed as the swordsman leapt to his feet. He knew now how insults were handled here, and he waited for blood to flow.

"Better a primping popinjay than a larcenous, light-fingered freak!" Harvel replied, his face reddening.

Then, Grimm noticed Uril leaning on his elbows, his head resting in his hands, wearing an amused smile on his face. What was going on here?

After what seemed an age, Harvel laughed, grabbed the slender stranger by the shoulders and embraced him with genuine warmth.

"Crest, it's good to see you again after all this time! How are you, you hot-headed half-breed hellion?"

Alliteration seemed to be on the menu, as Crest replied, "All the worse for seeing you, you sad, sorry substitute for a swordsman!" Breaking off from the embrace, the half-elf turned to the senior mage, who wore a cool smile on his face.

"Questor Dalquist, it is good to see you again. "Are you looking to hire my services once more?"

"I am, indeed, Master Crest," the senior mage replied. "I am looking for a first-class thief, and I was hoping I might find you here. It is good to see that you and Harvel are already well acquainted. Are the usual terms acceptable?"

"No complaints from me on that score, Questor Dalquist. Anything I steal for myself belongs to me, and you give me an additional stipend of one gold piece a week."

Harvel rolled his eyes, and Grimm presumed this was at the elf's lack of acumen.

"Crest, may I introduce my fellow-Questor, Grimm Afelnor? Questor Grimm, allow me to introduce the estimable Crest, a master thief with whom I have Quested on occasion."

On reflex, Grimm extended his right hand, and the slender thief took it in a firm grasp. "I am pleased to meet you, Master Crest," he said.

Crest smiled. "Just, 'Crest', please, Questor Grimm," the elf replied. "My name speaks for itself around here, and I need no additional honorific. Well met, Lord Mage."

With the formalities satisfied, Dalquist invoked his spell of silence once more and explained the details of the Quest. Crest nodded from time to time and accepted the challenge with no more animation than he might have done if accepting an invitation to a party.

When Dalquist finished, Crest ordered another round of drinks. After a few minutes' drinking, he began to introduce hair-raising tales of his various exploits, many of which Grimm felt almost sure had grown just a little in the telling.

Then, as a swarthy, tattooed type with a shaven head passed the table, the words "They let all kinds in here these days-even freaks" floated across the room with shocking clarity.

Quick as thought, Crest uncoiled a long, liquorice-like black whip from around his waist. Grimm had not noticed the weapon before against the elf's dark clothing.

With a deft, delicate flick of Crest's wrist, the whip coiled around the man's throat. Giving it a none-too-tender jerk, the thief pulled the man's face down to the level of his own. All this happened at startling speed, and a little impromptu applause arose from some of the tables.

"No killing in here, Crest!" Uril shouted. "You know the rules!"

"Oh, I don't think we need any killing yet, Uril. Just a little lesson in humility should suffice, I think. Don't you agree, my friend?"

The trapped man gasped for breath, eyes bulging as his hands scrabbled with frantic urgency at the whip wound around his throat.

"Now I'm sure some freak of nature caused us all to mishear this silly little man's words, isn't that so?" Crest cried cheerfully.