Weapon of the Guild [The Chronicles of Grimm Dragonblaster, Book 2] (38 page)

"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.

"If I were to offer a bid of ten gold pieces,” the mage said, “I feel sure I could rely on a loyal public servant like you to ensure the relevant forms and bills of sales were completed." The guard cast a few furtive glances around him. “Fifteen,” he muttered.

"Thirteen,” Grimm countered.

"Done,” the guard whispered. “Thirteen golds, six to be paid in advance."

"Done,” Grimm agreed, holding out the requisite six gold pieces.

"Meet me at the town guardhouse in three hours,” the guard whispered. “I'll bring the signed and stamped ownership papers, and you bring my ...
our
seven pieces."

"I'll be there,” Grimm said. “Just remember one thing, my friend. Attempting to cheat a Guild Questor could cost you a lot more than thirteen pieces of gold. This is just a friendly warning. I trust you will regard it in that light. I also want your assurance that I will receive untouched goods for my money." The guard nodded earnestly. “I know better than to mess with men like you, Lord Mage. She'll be waiting for you, just as she is.

"Come along, girl,” he said, yanking the girl's wrist. She went along with him, but she cast a look of purest hatred over her shoulder at Grimm.

"What are you doing?” Xylox demanded. “A Guild Questor buying a street urchin as a concubine—the concept is outrageous!"

The Senior Questor's knuckles were white as he gripped his staff. Tordun and Crest seemed no happier than Xylox, their expressions dark.

"Oh, come on, fellows!” Grimm protested as soon as the guard had left. “What sort of person do you take me for? The moment the papers are handed over, I will give them to the girl. She will be free to go; perhaps she will choose a more lucrative and licit career from now on." The two warriors looked relieved. “I never really doubted you, Questor,” Crest said, embarrassed. “But you were a very convincing actor."

A sudden thought seemed to flit across his brow. “It looks like I'd better keep my more larcenous talents well hidden round here. The thought of being sold off as a pet stud to some bloated noblewoman doesn't appeal to me!"

Xylox snarled, “So, are you going to spend your money on every thieving little waif or stray who comes your way? Thirteen gold pieces to buy freedom for a reprobate girl who will doubtless end up in the same predicament a week from now;
hah!
I take no pleasure in saying this, Questor Grimm, but you have been spendthrift and reckless."

"With respect, Questor Xylox,” Grimm retorted, “it is my money to spend as I see fit. Call it a moment of madness, if you wish, but I will not have you as my conscience. The girl was caught because I was intent on teaching her a lesson; my mistake, my expense."

"I will not have a female vagabond discommoding our mission,” Xylox grumbled. “We have a Quest to complete."

"Do not worry,” Grimm assured him. “After this evening, we will never see her again. I suggest we scout the area and see if we can learn anything about the whereabouts of this General Q."

At Xylox's suggestion, the members of the group had separated, so as to maximise the chance of gleaning relevant information about General Quelgrum; they were to meet at a stone obelisk in the town centre in five hours’ time. Each member of the team was expected to garner at least one relevant fact concerning the mysterious General.

For a while, Grimm wondered just how to pose appropriate and useful questions without arousing suspicion. He decided to engage some of the Grivense townspeople in casual discourse, including the apparently innocuous word ‘general’ in his speech, while using his Mage Sight to study the aura of each person to whom he was talking. It made him uneasy to do so, but he guessed this was the only way to elicit the information he required without giving away his true purpose. It took some effort to approach each stranger whilst maintaining a spontaneous, innocent, carefree air, but Grimm managed to do so.

"Greetings, friend; a lovely day, is it not?” he carolled cheerfully to the thirtieth person or so, a surly-looking, one-armed individual sitting at an isolated knife and sword stall. The knife-seller shrugged. “It's all right, I suppose. Have you come to buy, or just to pass the time of day?"

Grimm smiled. “That depends on the quality of your wares, good stallholder. I find myself in need of a decent hunting knife, like that one."

He indicated a blade near the front of the display. It was a fine piece of workmanship, with an ebony haft and a blade of fine-grained blue steel with a gold inlay in the shape of a fire-breathing dragon. It looked very expensive.

At once, pale-green tendrils of avarice flickered through the stallholder's aura, and the man's smile showed that he sensed the prospect of a lucrative sale.

"Ah, yes, that's a lovely piece of work, Lord Mage; you have a keen eye for quality. It was one of the last pieces forged by the great Amar Strufel before he died. Blades like this are rarely seen since the death of Amar, I assure you. Please, pick it up and feel the fine balance in the knife. Note the keen edge. Such a blade will stay sharp when inferior examples would become dull and notched." Grimm did as the stallholder suggested. The man had not lied; the workmanship was superb. He hefted the blade, turned it this way and that and rubbed his forefinger along the wide blade. The steel bore the texture of the finest silk, a texture he knew well from his youth in the smithy.

"It is indeed splendid,” he said, “a marvellous piece of work. I have an idea of the prices of blades for
general
use, but I imagine this would cost a little more." Grimm noted a definite surge in the knife-seller's emotion at the use of the word ‘general'.
Interesting,
he thought.
Perhaps I'm getting somewhere here.

"Of course, the knife is a little more expensive than your ordinary blade,” the stallholder said, with the confident patter of a salesman who senses a big sale. “Nonetheless, it is a bargain at three gold pieces; you will never have need of another. Three golds; say it quickly. Not too much for a piece of this quality, is it?"

"Indeed, the offer does seem tempting,” Grimm said, rubbing his bearded chin. “I had not expected to come upon such a fine blade so easily, without having to fight through a crowd of eager buyers. It makes a pleasant change to be able to do so, rather than to have to wait in a
general
line." Grimm saw a massive, unmistakable spike of naked fear flower in the stallholder's aura before it was subsumed by the swarming tentacles of avarice. As the knife-seller opened his mouth to close the sale, Grimm looked around himself to verify that nobody was close, gathered his will into a tight knot in his sensorium and projected it at the vendor with the force of a cannonball. No magical word or gesture was necessary; this was a naked contest of wills, and the mage felt confident of success. He needed a fair amount of energy in order to crush the hapless man's will, but he did not begrudge it. After a few moments, the knife-seller's eyes became blank, staring orbs and his body relaxed.

"Your will is mine,” Grimm droned. “You will do as I command."

"I'll do as you command,” was the lifeless response, devoid of personality.

"What do you know of General Sleafel Quelgrum?” Grimm asked, in a pleasant, conversational tone.

"I sell weapons to his army,” the one-armed man replied. “I make little, if any, profit from the sales, but he isn't a man to be trifled with. He frightens me. I'm not supposed to tell anybody about him."

"Do you know what his interest might be in controlling a group of Guild Mages?"

"No. He has an army, but I don't know anything about any mages." Grimm paused a moment as a man-at-arms strode towards the stall, but the guard seemed uninterested in purchasing weapons, and he passed on by.

"Does the General, or one of his acolytes, buy the weapons in person, or do you ship them to him?"

"He made the first few purchases in person. I think that was just so he could scare me; it worked. Since then, I have had the blades and other weapons shipped directly to him at Glabra."

"Glabra? Where is that?” Grimm asked.

"It's thirty miles to the northwest of here, as the crow flies but, of course, I have to send the wagons around the Shest Mountains, through the Grunet Badlands. That adds another forty miles to the trip. I lost several good men there; they got sick and died."