abilities. You're right; I had to kill Harman, I know it in my head, but my body doesn't see it that way. Maybe he had a wife, a family, loved ones. They'll never see him again.'
'And the families of his other victims?' Harvel demanded. 'You can bet this wasn't the first time he sneaked up on someone to kill them. I say this with all respect: maybe you're too wrapped up in your emotions to realise it, but you've done the world a service.
'It's as simple as that: you killed when you had to, and I know what that can feel like. I still remember my first kill. I was no older than you, and my tongue got away from me after a drinking session. I might have inflamed the situation a little, but it wasn't my fault someone else's ego was a bit too sensitive. When my back was turned, he drew a dagger and lunged at my back. If I hadn't dropped to one knee and thrust my own blade between his ribs, I wouldn't be here today. A horde of gorgeous women would never have known the tender touch of Harvel, the best lover in the Northern Lands! Aye, and what a tragedy that would have been!'
Harvel puffed up his chest and smoothed his clothes with such a primping, self-satisfied gesture that even Grimm laughed. He laughed long and loud, out of all proportion to the swordsman's posturing, a few tears breaking unbidden from his eyes. He sniffed, still laughing, but then the hysteria left him and he assessed the situation. Whatever else, he, Grimm Afelnor was still alive. He would survive and the murderous Harman would not. He had had no choice.
'Shouldn't we bury him?' he asked.
Dalquist snorted. 'He does not deserve it. Leave him here. It will be a good warning to any of his friends, should they come by. If, that is, he had any friends.'
Sleep was ruined for all, and brushing the tears from his cheeks, Grimm remembered why he had wandered off in the first place. 'I must get some firewood,' he said. 'This time I'll keep my wits about me.'
'And this time I'll take the watch, as I offered earlier,' Crest insisted. 'You do need some sleep, no matter what you say. You weren't alert enough, letting someone sneak up on you like that.'
Grim acquiesced, and went for the fuel, this time keeping his ears open for the slightest untoward sound. This time, he was not molested.
Dalquist approached the young Questor as he delved for wood in the undergrowth. 'Questor Grimm,' he said, his voice sterner than Grimm had ever heard it. 'You have sworn an oath to the Guild. At times, you may be ordered to kill; I have been so ordered in the past. I will never enjoy the act as long as I live, but I know my duty. I hope you never get used to it, but you will have to be impassive and resolute when you have to kill. Just remember your blood oath to the House, Grimm. You are a Mage Questor; that means sometimes you must put aside your humanity for the sake of necessity. The next time you have to kill, I do not want to see a display like that, is that clear?
'In addition to this loss of control, I asked you to confine yourself to Mage Speech when dealing with Seculars, and you have been lapsing into vulgar contractions and slang. You must keep control at all times; is that clear?'
Dalquist had never talked to Grimm in this manner before, but the young mage saw the concern on his friend's face. Dalquist was responsible not only for the success or failure of the Quest, but also for the reputation of Arnor House. Grimm had revealed weakness and humanity; in less tolerant company, the image of the Guild Mage might have been tarnished.
'I apologise, Questor Dalquist,' Grimm said, bowing his head. 'I know I should be more in control of my emotions by now. I promise you I will be more on my guard next time. It was just so fast that it shocked me. I will not allow myself to lose control again, I promise.'
Dalquist nodded, and his expression softened a little. 'Sit down.'
Grimm lowered himself onto a grassy mound, his friend standing over him.
'To tell you the truth, Grimm, on my first Quest, I killed four armed guards in cold blood. I stood by and watched as a frightened man was flogged and hanged by his brother's men. I maintained a cool pose, but when I was alone, I vomited. I also drank a lot afterwards; too much, in fact. I'm not telling you to be a cool automaton, but sometimes you have to act like one. I'll say no more about it. Let's get that firewood, and I think we can relax the use of Mage Speech with these trusted men.'
When the Questors returned, Harvel and Crest were in the middle of yet another heroic dialogue, glorying in death-defying exploits and tales of past loves and battles they had shared. Grimm immersed himself in the tales of gallantry and daring of which two friends never seemed to tire, and eventually he fell asleep. The words 'murder', 'death' and 'killer' ran around his head for a while longer, but soon departed, to become admixed with 'Quest', 'glory' and 'fame'.
What would Granfer Loras think of me? Grimm thought. He was a Questor, just like me. He must have killed on many occasions. I'm sorry, Granfer…
The young mage drifted into merciful, dreamless sleep.
Chapter 5: Toy Town
When Grimm awoke, he saw Harvel burying the embers of the fire and the remains of the previous night's meal. Crest whistled as he shaved with his dagger, using quick, precise movements. The keen blade never once nicked his olive skin. Dalquist was engaged in a series of stretches and bends to ready his body for the journey ahead. As Grimm stood and stretched, the others acknowledged him with polite nods, but not a word was said.
Grimm still felt solemn after his brush with death. Although no longer racked with guilt, he knew with dread certainty that the innocent, eager child he had once been was no less dead than Harman. However, if there must be regret, there was room for a little pride. He had faced danger and prevailed. He was a Questor; he was a man to be respected and feared.
The party broke fast, still swathed in silence, as the sun rose above the horizon.
Dalquist said, 'We'll be in Crar by midday if we start now. That will give us the chance to scout the lie of the land while there is still light.'
'A sound plan, Questor Dalquist,' Crest replied. 'I visited the city of Crar some years ago, and can tell you a little of their ways. They think themselves master traders, and I can tell you there are few places so full of avarice and folk ready to take the last copper from your purse. We'll have to pay well even to enter the city walls; perhaps we'd best take stock of our joint resources first.'
Dalquist smiled. 'I do have some wealth with me, Crest,' he admitted. 'However, it is not mine to give as I will. Watch this!'
The mage bent and picked up a handful of pebbles, muttering over them for a few moments. Grimm gasped as each stone took on the colour and shape of a gold coin. With Dalquist's permission, he took one of the coins, scrutinised it and weighed them in his hand. All his senses reported to him that the objects were pure gold.
'I can't tell the difference!' he cried. 'That is a marvellous spell!'
'I'm impressed, Questor Dalquist,' Crest said, 'but if you can do this, why bring real money at all?'
'Ah, Crest, if only these were real gold pieces then we should all be rich!' Dalquist said with a smile. 'However, they will revert to stone on my death, or after a delay of a few days. I have no desire to bilk honest traders, but I have fewer scruples when it comes to deceiving a barefaced cheat in mid-swindle. If we are charged fair worth, we'll pay with good gold, but if it seems we're being chiselled, the cheats are welcome to the stones.'
'It's so good to travel with magic-users who aren't too high and mighty to countenance a little financial finesse!' The smiling Harvel seemed to hold gold in his pocket in higher regard than that owned by others.
'Wait a moment!' Grimm said, grabbing Dalquist's sleeve as an urgent thought struck him. 'I feel a little uncomfortable at the idea of walking into Crar with a Mage Staff and a Guild Ring.'
Dalquist smiled. 'You're right, Grimm. I should have thought of that. We need a little magical disguise: a simple Glamour should suffice.'
After several moments' incomprehensible chanting, Grimm saw Dalquist's fine robes change from green silk to brown sackcloth, and his gold-ringed staff, Shakhmat, took on the appearance of a rough-hewn, gnarled walking- stick. Looking down at himself, he saw his own appearance had changed in a similar fashion. Although he could feel the warm, comforting presence of Redeemer, he saw only a simple length of wood. His marriage finger now
