'Five rooms for the night please, landlord. I will pay you good money if we are not disturbed.'
'Not him,' the barman snarled. 'Not the demon. I won't have him smashing up my inn and eating the customers because he doesn't like the food.' Dalquist expected trouble from Shakkar, but the huge demon, bent almost double under the tavern's roof-beams, shrugged. 'That is all right by me, landlord,' he boomed. 'I think your human beds would be too small for me. If you do not mind, I will rest in your barn. Fear not: I have no taste for horseflesh.'
'Good,' Harvel said, pointedly. 'Four of those nags are ours.'
Dalquist handed over five gold pieces, a tidy sum. 'If you will accept this for four-' he glanced at the bilious Grimm, '-three meals, the rooms for the night, and four live goats or sheep for our large companion, you'll have no trouble from us.'
The landlord seemed to soften a little at the sight of the large, heavy coins. 'Very well, then.'
'One more thing, landlord,' the Questor said. 'Have you an apothecary, physician or Healer in this town? Crest here has some ugly wounds, and Questor Grimm seems to have developed a strange affliction.'
The landlord nodded. 'I'll call for Threval right away. He used to be a Guild Mage, and he lives a couple of miles outside the city. Upstairs, turn left, rooms eight through eleven. And if the boy pukes on my nice, clean floor, you'll have to clear it up.' He tossed Dalquist four numbered keys.
Dalquist swept into Grimm's room with a solemn-looking man of perhaps ninety years, with a strong, dark- complected face and a no-nonsense attitude about him. He carried a huge trunk with surprising ease, belying his narrow frame and his apparent age.
'I am Threval Shobat, Mage Herbalist of the Third Rank of Rhunin House,' the old man said.
Grimm raised himself from his bed, but the effort seemed beyond him. Instead of speaking, he fell back down to the mattress and allowed a groan to escape his dry, white-flecked lips.
Dalquist introduced himself to the Herbalist.
'It's not magic, Herbalist Threval,' he continued. 'My Sight shows nothing but a severely deranged aura. I've never seen the like.'
'I concur, Questor Dalquist,' Threval said in a soft voice, 'but, as an Herbalist, I have a little more experience in matters of the aura than do you Questors. Does your companion partake of… pharmaceutical supplements? Hallucinogens, perhaps? Stupefactants?'
Dalquist looked puzzled. 'I feel certain he does not. Questor Grimm carries a few medicinal herbs, since he is more knowledgeable about their use than the rest of us. But I have never seen their marks upon him. I would surely have seen considerable changes in his aura if he had taken these substances in my presence. I have seen none.'
'No matter, Questor Dalquist. A little spell of Inner Quietude combined with a touch of Mental Clarity should enable your young friend to answer me himself.
'One moment; I have a suitable scroll somewhere in here.'
Threval began to hunt in his capacious trunk, which was filled with a jumble of bottles, scrolls and librams. Although Dalquist understood a few of the relevant spells, he knew he lacked the finesse and control of a true Specialist in the art of Herbalism.
'Ah, here we are.' Threval drew forth a scroll, an egg and a chipped china cup patterned with lilies. He cracked the egg on the cup and drank off its contents in a single draught, causing a momentary expression of distaste to flit across Dalquist's face.
'That is for my voice,' the Herbalist explained. 'It keeps my throat in trim for spellcasting.'
He held out the scroll towards Dalquist. 'Would you mind? I need both hands for this.'
Dalquist held the scroll open at the level of Threval's eyes. The Herbalist donned a pair of fussy gold-rimmed spectacles and began to cast, his voice and gestures distinct and crisp, with the confidence born of decades of successful practice. Two minutes later, Dalquist recognised the closing cadence and handed the scroll back to Threval. 'That'll do it,' the aged mage said with a satisfied smile. 'Thirty years without a miscast.'
In an instant, an astonishing transformation took place. Grimm sat bolt upright, shook his head and stretched luxuriantly. Dalquist nodded to Threval, impressed beyond words.
'Now, Questor Grimm, answer me truthfully,' said the Healer. 'With which drugs have you been polluting your body? No lies, now.'
'Rule 3.14.1: 'No Student shall partake of hallucinogenic, stimulant or narcotic substances unless specifically prescribed by the Scholasticate Apothecary and at the dosage and frequency so specified,'' Grimm rasped. 'I do not take drugs, ever.' He sat on the bed with a defiant expression, daring Threval to call him a liar.
Threval shook his head. 'You have done so, I feel certain. A stupefiant and a stimulant. Less obfuscation now, and don't quote the Rules at me, young man. I was a Student long before your father was born. You have taken drugs, I'll wager, within the last six hours. Perhaps someone might have slipped such substances into your drink or your food?'
Grimm's face cleared. 'It must have been when I was on the pillar with Shakkar. To defeat Baron Starmor, I needed a calm head and a clear resolve. I did take some substances from my pouch.'
'How were they ingested?'
'I burned them and inhaled the fumes. I used Trina leaves and Virion powder.'
'In what quantities did you take them, Questor Grimm?'
Grimm indicated the amounts with his hands, and the Herbalist whistled.
'A little more than a medicinal dose, don't you think?' he said.
'I was tackling no ordinary mage,' Grimm replied, frowning. 'Starmor would have pounced on the slightest emotion and used it against me. I was using the herbs to deaden my emotions whilst still maintaining clarity of purpose.'
Threval slapped his head. 'That, Questor Grimm, is the cause of your malaise. Your body now cries out with hunger for the herbs. I cannot help you with magic. Only willpower will save you. But then, you Questors are noted for the force of your will, are you not?'
'I feel in excellent health now, Herbalist Threval,' Grimm declared. 'Surely you have already cured me with your magic?'
'I have not. The spell will last for maybe five minutes more, and then the hunger and the weakness will return with a vengeance. Repeated castings would lessen in effectiveness and duration with each further ingestion of the drugs. Your hunger for them would grow ever more insistent, until you died from their effects. The spell of Inner Quietude is a palliative, not a cure for your illness.'
Grimm swallowed. 'I presume there is a cure? Or is willpower alone the key?'
Threval shrugged. 'You are young and strong, and yet the drug hunger laid you low at its first assault. Even with the mightiest will in the world, you would be dead inside a month. Purely and simply, you require more of the herbs. Take only a tiny pinch of each at a time, just enough so you can function normally, but not as much as your body wants. Use your willpower to ration the doses and repeat the dose only when you cannot continue.
'What you must do over the next few weeks is to reduce the dosage until it is at a minimum. When you can resist the call of the herbs for a week, you have beaten the addiction to a stalemate.'
'A stalemate?'
'Should you be tempted to take further doses in the future,' Threval said, looking straight into Grimm's eyes, 'you will soon find yourself back where you were when I came to you. You will never, ever beat the drugs, but you may hold them at bay for as long as you have the will. They will always be there, whispering to you when times are hard, but the only victory is to be able always to ignore the whispers.
'You are, in a way, fortunate to have had such a strong abreaction on your first usage; many who use these kinds of substances in small amounts have few ill effects until they are caught deep in the cycle of dependence, taking ever larger quantities just to reach equilibrium. In these circumstances, even a Questor's willpower might be insufficient to avoid the slide into a living death, followed shortly by a painful demise. Be strong and live,
