Questor Grimm.'
The Herbalist rummaged in his voluminous bag and brought out two small bags and a clay pipe with a tiny bowl. Grimm felt his heart leap.
'Trina and Virion. At first, I advise you to take equal quantities of each, just enough to fill the bowl, and no more than six times per day. When you can function with this dosage, start to reduce the quantities and increase the intervals a little each day, until you have stopped using them. It will not be easy, but a Questor should be equal to the task. You have survived worse than this trial already.'
A shudder overtook Grimm and his head began to swim once more. He took the pipe and the herbs and filled the bowl of the pipe, his hands trembling.
'K'tapt'acht.'
The herbs glowed, and Grimm took a deep draught, then another. His eyes watered, and he barely stifled a cough, but then the powers of the herbs began to take hold. Two more pulls on the clay pipe, and the bowl was empty. Nonetheless, he had regained his equanimity without becoming an emotionless zombie, and he grinned at Dalquist and Threval.
'Thank you, Herbalist Threval. I feel so much better now. I will take your advice and abstain for as long as I am able. I do not wish to become a slave, least of all to these substances. Now I am familiar with the onset of the symptoms, I should be able to forestall them for longer. They will not creep up on me unawares next time.'
Grimm brought forth his money pouch. He knew how little cash he owned, but he was willing to give the Herbalist whatever he could.
'I am indebted to you, Brother Mage. What may I pay you in recompense for your skill and your valuable time?'
Threval snorted. 'I earn more than enough money through treating rich widows, hypochondriac merchants and their spoilt brats for minor or imaginary ills. Our Houses are allies, and I am only too happy to help out a brother mage in his time of extremity. I need no pecuniary reward for ministering to the needs of my Guild Brothers.'
Grimm argued a little, insisting at least that Threval accept repayment for the herbs and the pipe. In the end, the old mage accepted three silver pieces and made his leave.
With a shock, Grimm realised he had not spared a thought for the injured Crest.
In panic, he cried out, 'Herbalist! Wait, please! Our companion Crest needs your help!'
Dalquist laid a fatherly hand on Grimm's shoulder. 'It's all right, Grimm. Threval has already treated Crest, and our friend is resting and in no danger. Harvel paid the Healer a handsome sum and begged that we never tell Crest about it. Our braggart swordsman cares more about his elven friend than he will admit. They have fought often together often, and I suspect they're more like brothers than companions. Of course, brothers do argue a lot.
'Sleep now, we have a long ride back to the House in the morning. We have the Eye of Myrrn, and Starmor is defeated. When the people of Crar begin to realise their deliverance and take control of their lives again, we may have a new Baron who will be a staunch ally of our House. We have done well, and I don't think you will remain at the First Rank for long. Sleep and dream peacefully, if you can. We will move an hour after cockcrow.'
Grimm awoke well before that time, as the want for Virion and Trina once more began to gnaw at his vitals. A single word lighted the oil lamp beside his bed. The Questor reached for the pipe, filled it, and lit it with another burst of thought-language. Although he wanted more, he settled for three puffs of the acrid smoke; his head and stomach settled, leaving only a vague unease.
The room held a basic washbasin, a large ewer of cold water and a gritty bar of soap, which, to some travellers, might have seemed intolerable, especially since the room was frigid in the early morning air, and the water in the ewer was covered in a thin layer of ice. However, to a former charity Student, habituated to the rigours of a pauper's cell in the Arnor House Scholasticate, this was a normal beginning to the day. Grimm's Scholasticate morning ritual, familiar and comforting, took hold of him as if he were in the grip of a spell.
The first matter at hand was the condition of his clothes. He took an old brush from his pack, branded with his Student number, 17, and he brushed all traces of the trail from his garments. He inspected the robes with minute scrutiny, finding a number of small rents and tears, but a little deft needlework rendered these all but invisible and acceptable even to the critical eye of an inspecting Magemaster.
Although Grimm had, on occasion, been allowed to luxuriate in hot baths once he had reached the status of Adept, he had had many years in which to learn to enjoy the invigorating sting of icy water in the morning. Cracking the ice on the ewer, he took forth the rough soap and scrubbed himself thoroughly, then rubbing his body vigorously with the large towel provided until his skin shone a glowing pink.
Grimm dressed himself and began the business of attending to his hair and beard with scissors, brush and comb. Since he saw no mirror in the room, he had to assess the results by touch, but he felt satisfied with the result at last. He tied back his long queue with a strip of rawhide and sat cross-legged on the bed, breaking his fast with dry biscuits and pemmican from his pack and water from his goatskin. He brushed the crumbs from his beard and robes and smiled at the first cockcrow of the new day. Despite a slight nagging in his entrails he felt in good spirits, ready to face the world. He secured his belongings and shouldered his pack, took a deep breath and made his way down to the bar to wait for his companions.
Harvel was already in the bar, which looked pleasant with the early rays of the sun highlighting the walls in cheerful, ruddy hues.
'Good morning, Harvel, he said. 'Did you sleep well?'
'Like a babe, Questor. I sank enough liquor last night to founder a galleon. Most men would be comatose on the morning after ingesting such prodigious amounts of strong drink, but I am here, hale and hearty as ever, with no ill effects save a slight headache.'
'I'm glad you're feeling well, Harvel. I can relieve you of the headache, if you wish.'
Harvel would have none of it. 'It tells me I'm alive, mage. Thank you for the offer, but I think I'll keep the headache for now, if you don't mind. Besides, I don't like the idea of having somebody walk through my brain.'
His tone might be a little brusque, but maybe the alcohol Harvel had consumed the night before had had more effect on him than he was willing to admit.
'Where's the landlord, Harvel?' Grimm asked, trying to make conversation.
'I'm sure I don't know, Questor. Perhaps he's bemoaning the loss of his trade, now his customers are no longer forced to stay here. Perhaps he tried to match me drink for drink last night. How would I know where he is?'
'Are you all right, swordsman? Are you sure you won't accept my spell after all? Or are you just annoyed that I threw up over you yesterday?'
Harvel sighed. 'Oh, it's nothing you've done, Questor Grimm. I've frequented bars all my life, and you're not the first man to spill his lunch over me. I'm a little worried about Crest. I was brought up by hateful foster parents who were only too eager to throw me out when I reached the age of fourteen. On my fourteenth birthday, I turned up at the doorstep to find my belongings in a sack outside the door.
'I've never settled down, and I never could find the right woman. One-night stands are about my limit. But Crest is like the brother I never had. We've fought at each other's side many times now, and there's no man I'd rather have by me in a fight. If he dies, I'll have nobody.'
Harvel's tone was faraway, almost a whisper, and his gaze glassy, but then his brow furrowed, as if he had remembered his role. 'Mind you, if you repeat as much as a word of what I've told you, Questor, I'll skin you alive, and throttle you with your own sinews, mage or no.'
'Don't worry, Harvel,' Grimm said, smiling. 'If you want, I'll tell Crest you spent the night celebrating his pending demise and waiting for the chance to dance on his grave. I'm no blabbermouth; the Magemasters in my House frown on idle tittle-tattle. I've been in a hard school, and your secret's safe with me. Herbalist Threval seemed quite satisfied with Crest's condition yesterday. I'm sure he'll be all right.'
At that moment, Crest walked down the stairs, a little weary-looking but wearing a facial expression threatening murder to anyone who mentioned the fact.
Harvel's expression brightened in a moment.
