Grimm awoke early, well before sunrise. With time to kill, the young mage washed and groomed himself with care. He then spent some time repairing and cleaning his black mage's robe; his post-Acclamation training sessions had often been destructive in nature, and they had left their marks on his clothing. Once satisfied with his efforts, he took up his staff, Redeemer, and eyed himself in the long mirror in his wardrobe door.
Despite all his efforts, all Grimm saw was a tall, gangling, awkward youth with none of the commanding presence of a true mage, despite the confident stance he tried to assume. He had few belongings to take with him: his patched robes; his Mage Staff; the wax leather satchel containing bags of medicinal powders, seeds and leaves.
Grimm sighed and trudged down to the Great Hall. The blue and gold tiles on the floor and the star-spangled dome above the hall no longer inspired wonder in him, and the gleaming, black Breaking Stone, against which he had proved his mastery, seemed commonplace and unimpressive. He wanted nothing more than to be on the road.
Grimm awoke early on the day of departure. Even after forcing himself to take time on his ablutions and his breakfast, he found himself waiting in the Great Hall well before cockcrow.
After a seeming age of restless pacing around the silent hall, he smiled as Dalquist stepped from the shadows, carrying several large bundles. The young mage greeted him with enthusiasm.
"Good morning, Grimm," his friend said. "I have a few graduating presents for you. You won't last five minutes on the trail, dressed like that."
The bundles disclosed an oiled leather travelling cape with a cowl and fur lining for travelling in unpleasant weather; a sharp knife with a leather sheath; a capacious waterskin; and a large, fur-lined leather bag, which, as Dalquist informed the perplexed Grimm, was for sleeping in the open. Dalquist then handed Grimm a purse containing six gold pieces and a greater quantity of silver and copper.
Such wealth would have been a king's ransom back in his home town of Lower Frunstock, and Grimm's eyes almost popped from his skull.
"A man needs to pay his own way, Grimm, especially a mage," Dalquist said with a smile. "It wouldn't bring much credit to the Guild if its adepts were shabby mendicants. Just spend it wisely."
Grimm stammered enthusiastic thanks until the older mage waved a hand. "It's time to move, Grimm. Have you any experience of riding?"
The young mage raised an eyebrow.
"I practiced often on the leather horse in the Scholasticate," he said, "and I was brought up in a smithy. I was riding horses from the time I could walk until I came here. I don't think I could ever forget how to ride."
Dalquist nodded. "Good. I have procured a pair of nags for us, serviceable horses if not thoroughbreds. Yours answers to the name of Jessie, and my mount is Bella. Unless you have any questions, I suggest we leave now. We have some distance to go."
Grimm made no comment, as the enormity of what he was about to do now weighed heavily upon him as Dalquist opened the Great Portal at the end of the hall. He felt his mouth become dry as he looked out into the wider world, and he had to force his reluctant feet to keep moving as he followed his older friend.
Outside the House, for only the second time in almost a decade, Grimm looked around and stared in wonder at a beautiful sunrise, which shot red and purple shafts across the slumbering land. At that moment, a vigorous and glorious chorus awoke from a horde of birds resting in the trees thronging the hillside.
"Come on, Grimm!"
With some effort, Grimm broke from his trance, and he hustled to catch up with Dalquist, who was waiting by the horses. Despite his brother mage's low opinion of these 'nags', Grimm recognised them at once as good-natured and trustworthy mares capable of bearing them over the roughest terrain without complaint.
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."
Dalquist looked sternly down at the fawning child. "I am Dalquist Rufior, boy, a Mage Questor of the Fifth Rank, a Guild Mage of high status who is not to be trifled with. I will give you two coppers now for tending to our horses, and, if I am very pleased with their condition when we come to collect them, I will give you a further ten."
Dalquist opened his purse to show the boy the gleaming wealth inside, and the boy stammered his thanks. The most he might have expected from this enterprise was seven or eight coppers; twelve must be an unaccustomed bounty. Dalquist waved an imperious hand.
"However, child," he continued, looking straight into the boy's wide eyes, "should our horses be restless or dirty when we return here, it will go ill with you, I assure you. Should you take your eyes from these mares for one minute and allow them to be stolen, it will go very hard indeed with you. Should anyone overpower you and attempt to steal them, you will run at once to the bar and inform me, and I will deal with the miscreants myself. Do not attempt to deceive me for a moment, for we mages have ways of knowing the truth; we also have ways of enforcing our will that you would not find pleasant. Do I make my meaning crystal clear?"
"Quite clear, Lord Wizard," the boy quavered. "I wouldn't try to swindle a mighty magician like you, never! You'll find your horses waiting here groomed, well-fed and watered when you come back, I promise you. You have the word of Dor Hamel on it."
Dalquist smiled. "Thank you, Dor. I am sure you will take good care of our mounts, and if so, you have nothing to fear, either from my companion, Grimm, or me. Just be aware that I have some idea of the price of such horses in this town, and I know the names of the men who deal in them, just as I am sure you do. Let us say no more on the matter."
Dalquist turned to Grimm and said, "The food here is adequate and the drink acceptable. We should also be able to find at least a couple of bold adventurers here to aid us in our Quest."
As the two mages walked away, Grimm stopped at the door of the tavern and whispered, "Weren't you a little hard on the boy, Dalquist?"
"I told you I know this town, Grimm," the older Questor replied in the same low tone of voice. "I told you much about honour here but, even so, it has more than its share of cutpurses and brigands. All too many 'honoured guests' here leave on foot with empty purses and false tales of masked robbers that appear without warning in the night and disappear without trace. Everybody in this town knows everybody else, and they are masters of the barefaced lie, who will just dare you to make an accusation that must be backed up with evidence or force.
"I don't like Drute, but it does house a goodly number of brave swordsmen and professional thieves who hold to a code of honour that might seem strange to us, but it's all that prevents total anarchy. Just follow my lead and we'll be all right."
Dalquist opened the door, which squealed alarmingly-there were no magic portals here, opening silently at the least touch!-and the two Questors walked into a smoke-filled room resonating with loud voices from all corners.
As they entered, the hubbub fell for a moment to a low level, as various villainous-looking types, some with gaudy tattoos, some with livid, grotesque scars and all bearing weapons, cast appraising gazes at the two visitors.
Dalquist stepped up to the bar and made an imperious gesture to the bartender, a man even more muscular and imposing than the most fearsome of the steel-sporting bravos who had scrutinised Grimm and Dalquist on their entry. However, the bulky man's voice was surprisingly high and pleasant, belying his outward appearance.
However, Grimm could see this was not a man to be trifled with. Although his hair might be grey and his brow lined, the corded muscles on his giant arms showed he kept himself in good shape. The Questor imagined this human titan could handle any trouble that might arise in the tavern.
"Questor Dalquist, it is good to see you again," the landlord boomed, his mouth stretched into a broad grin. "I see you have a new companion."
"This is my fellow Questor, Grimm Afelnor, Uril," Dalquist replied, returning a polite nod. "This is his first expedition, but he is a mighty mage, nonetheless. I would take it as a signal favour if you would hold him in the same regard you do me."
"Welcome to The Broken Bottle, Questor Grimm. I am your host, Uril Shamas, and I offer you homage as a Guild wizard. A glass of Callorion Red for you, perhaps, Questor Dalquist? It's very good indeed."
Dalquist nodded.
"And what would you care to sample, Questor Grimm?"
Grimm scanned the various brews on offer, and his eyes lit on a pump legend that piqued his interest. "I think I would like to try a pint of your 'Midnight Ale', Mr. Shamas. It sounds intriguing."
"An excellent choice, Lord Mage," the landlord responded, with a friendly smile. "The brew is full-flavoured, foamy and just right for a thirsty traveller, although not for the dilettante, you understand. Please call me Uril."
Grimm looked at Dalquist and winked as he drew his staff close to him.
"Thank you for the warning, Uril," he said, remembering to keep his tone of voice cool and formal. "Do not fear; we mages have a way with alcohol."
"I meant no slight, Questor Grimm, I assure you," the landlord said and laughed. "I'm sure your capacity for drink is formidable." Uril placed a glass of rich red wine before Dalquist and a foaming, red-brown pint before Grimm. The young mage took a sip of his beer and found it nutty, warming and refreshing, quite at odds with the dubious promise of the tavern. After his riotous, drunken Ceremony of Acclamation, he knew well the effects of alcohol, and he vowed to use the magic in his staff to keep them at bay.
The muscular landlord raised his eyebrows in question, and Grimm responded. "This is an excellent brew, Uril. It seems you keep a fine cellar here."
Dalquist nodded. "And the Red is as good as ever, Uril. Thank you." He handed over three coppers, which the landlord accepted with a friendly smile as he glided with surprising grace towards another thirsty customer.
Dalquist moved over to a small table, and Grimm followed him. "It's early yet, Grimm," he muttered "Let's see who comes in before we make a move. Uril seems to approve of you, and that's a good start. You've made a favourable impression on him, which should help you to be better accepted here."
The two mages sat for a while, reminiscing of earlier times. Grimm allowed the drink to cheer him, although he used Redeemer to keep the merriness at a manageable level whenever the strong beer threatened to overwhelm him.
After an hour or so, a slender young man entered the bar, dressed in fine, loose robes and carrying a polished rapier in a low-slung silk baldric. The man carried himself with a loose-limbed confidence, and he appeared quite at ease in the rough company. He purchased a glass of wine from Uric, for which he paid with a freshly minted silver piece, waving away the handful of copper change, for which the burly landlord thanked him. The swordsman moved to a table on the left side of the bar, and Grimm saw he left his rapier and his sword arm free. With a respectful nod to the others arrayed around the tavern, he sat and sipped his wine.
"He looks a likely type, Grimm," Dalquist whispered. "He may be here plying for trade. Let's go and have a word."
"He looks a little foppish to me, Dalquist," Grimm replied, frowning, "and he hasn't a mark on him. Some of the other men here seem more like dangerous fighters, don't you think?"
"Don't mistake him for a dilettante, Grimm. He's comfortable in this rough place and he looks confident with his steel. Look at those little notches on his blade; this is no pretty toy, and the warrior keeps it clean and well-honed. This is a man who's been in many fights and values his weapon. On the other hand, he bears no visible scars, which implies he has done well in those fights. Some flaunt battle scars as proof of prowess, but I view a whole skin as better evidence."
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."
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.