'At least, that is what Xylox thought. In fact, I had found two magical rings, one a charm of Perdurable Flesh, the other a ward of Missile Turning, from the pockets of a mage that Xylox had killed and failed to search properly. They were self-powered items, and they were worth a king's ransom, as you can imagine. I have them here, right now.'
Dalquist reached in a pocket and extracted a pair of rings: plain and ordinary to the naked eye, they oozed power when viewed with Grimm's Mage Sight. He raised his eyebrows in appreciation, but he did not speak. It seemed that there was more to come.
Dalquist ran a hand through his dark hair. 'It was my responsibility to declare those rings as spoils of the Quest. Xylox would have handed them over to Lord Thorn, and we might have had shared a reasonable proportion of the rings' worth.
'I… I did not declare them. Xylox could have discovered my deception in a moment, had he turned the Sight on me, but, of course, one does not do that lightly to one's trusted brother mage!
'I burned with guilt when Xylox handed me my single gold piece and apologised that it could not have been more. He had garnered only a gold piece from the Quest, and I had the same, but those valuable magical rings seemed to burn a hole in my pocket. I did what I did out of sheer greed and envy. I have never forgiven myself for that, and I have never mentioned it to a soul, until now.'
Grimm felt highly embarrassed at Dalquist's frank confession, and all he could say was, 'I'm sure you made up for it later, Dalquist.'
Dalquist shook his head. 'If I tell Lord Thorn that you acted in such a foolish manner, you may lose preferment. Such a moment of simple recklessness could blight your career before it has even properly started. I will atone for my earlier… mistake by leaving out some of the details of our defeat of Starmor. As far as Lord Thorn will know, we just entered Starmor's lair and blasted him into a powder. That is, after all, just what we did. There was just that little interlude for you in Starmor's chapel beforehand. I won't mention that part to Lord Thorn.'
Grimm felt relieved, but a little shocked. 'D-Dalquist,' he stammered, 'there's really no need to do this just for me. I'm not made of sugar, you know.'
While Dalquist had been telling the story of the rings, he had been looking past Grimm, looking at the sky or at the ground. Now, he locked Grimm's eyes with a level gaze.
'I'm not just doing it for you, Grimm. I'm doing it for me: for the good of my soul. I just want to say one more thing to you. Being a Questor can be a dangerous business. There are ample opportunities for mistakes, blunders and momentary stupidity. Don't make a habit of it, Grimm. You are intelligent and powerful, and I am sure you'll make a fine Questor if you give yourself the chance. This time, and this time only, you get a clean slate and a good report from your senior mage. Next time, you may be on your own, or under somebody like Xylox. You have to learn to make the right decisions on instinct, to develop a sense of risk and to act accordingly. Nobody can teach you that, Grimm, but the least I can do is to give you a second chance to let your staff live up to its name. From now on, you act as a Questor; always. Is that quite clear?'
Grimm tried to think of something clever to say, but words failed him for once. He nodded, his throat tight.
'Don't say anything, Grimm. We both have a long way to go yet.'
Dalquist shook the reins and trotted off, with Grimm just behind him.
They stopped in Drute for lunch, again at The Broken Bottle. This time, Grimm swore he would act like a true Questor. The landlord greeted them both by name, which Grimm found gratifying, and he complemented the young mage on his new clothes.
Dalquist insisted in sitting right by the flimsy door to the jakes, and Grimm blinked.
'It's a little smelly here, Dalquist,' he protested. 'Most of the bar is empty. Why are we here?'
'Because most of the trouble seems to start on the way to or from the conveniences,' the older man replied. 'This time, I don't want to see you let it bump into you. You've shown me your power several times, and I have no doubt about that. Now, I want to see you work on your presence. A true Questor should be able to quell trouble with a look, a word or a gesture. I am quite willing to stay here until some trouble comes your way, so that I can see that you have learnt something.'
Dalquist smiled, raised his wine glass and raised a toast to the Guild.
'The Guild,' Grimm echoed, wondering just how long they would have to wait for trouble. Some of the regulars seemed to recognise the two mages from their previous visit, whereas the remainder must have been aware of the meaning of the blue-gold Guild rings and brass-shod staves. The various warriors and drinkers acknowledged the mages with polite nods, if at all.
At three o'clock in the afternoon, Grimm found his promised trouble at last. It came in the shape of a broad- shouldered man with a close-cropped bullet head, tattoos on his bare upper arms and a hunting knife at his belt.
The man seemed to be one of those people who believe that a conversation interrupted is a conversation lost. He was backing towards the toilets whilst delivering a long-range monologue to companions on the other side of the bar. Dalquist leaned back in his chair, the cowl of his robe over his eyes. Grimm felt almost bored to tears when the bullet-headed man bumped into him, spilling beer on the floor.
'You clumsy oaf!' the muscular man bellowed. 'You tripped me!'
'I did not,' Grimm said, adding, 'I believe you owe me another glass of ale.'
'I believe you should watch your mouth, boy,' the man grunted, 'I am known to be dangerous when angered.'
Grimm rose to his feet in a moment, feeling his fatigue fade away in an instant. 'Dangerous?' he growled. 'You have no idea of the meaning of the word, my friend! I am dangerous.'
For a brief moment, the bullet-headed man's hand flickered near the haft of his knife, and the ghost of a smile flitted across Grimm's face.
'A very good friend of mine,' he said conversationally, 'once told me that there are ample opportunities for blunders and stupidity. I see he was right. However, there is a line between stupid and bloody stupid, and you may be about to cross it.'
Without taking his eyes off the tattooed unfortunate, Grimm took out his pipe, filled it and spoke a single word, 'K'chaat'.
A small blue flame appeared at the tip of Grimm's right forefinger, which the mage used to light the tobacco within the pipe. The mage inhaled luxuriantly before releasing a blue-grey cloud of smoke.
The bullet-headed man blanched. 'You're a bloody mage!'
'A thirsty bloody mage,' Grimm corrected, smiling again.
Without a word, the man hurried to the bar and brought back a foaming pint of ale, placing it in front of Grimm.
'We have no quarrel, Lord Mage. I'm sorry I spilt your drink.'
'Your apology is accepted. Thank you.'
Grimm sat, picked up his ale, and looked past the stubble-headed warrior. The altercation was at an end, and the man seemed to remember his original errand as he disappeared quickly into the jakes.
Dalquist sat up and brushed the cowl from his head.
'Right, that'll do,' the older mage said, draining his glass. 'Drink up, Grimm. Now we can go.'
Grimm looked at his friend with a quizzical air. 'Would you really have waited here all day for something like that to happen, Dalquist?'
'Not all day, Grimm,' the older man drawled, smiling. 'I just needed somebody suitable to get within range of my left foot.'
'You mean he really was tripped?' Grimm yelped.
'Indeed he was. It seemed to me you'd have to work at it to get someone like that to back down, especially if he knew he was in the right.'
