Grimm slept well; his dreams were filled with images of triumphal parades, through which he rode astride a splendid, gleaming, black steed.
He moved through streets thronged with cheering bystanders, who threw handfuls of rose petals at him and cried out, "Hail, Grimm Dragonblaster!"
Drexelica rode at his side, clad in a sheer gown of white silk, her hair garlanded with flowers and her face enraptured. She held out her slender hand and he took it, returning her warm, loving smile as the beat of a ceremonial drum began to mark their progress through the nameless city.
The drum grew ever louder, beginning to cloud his thoughts. I wish whoever was banging that bloody drum would shut up, he thought, as his head began to ache. "SHUT UP!"
With that shout, the young mage awoke, realising that the sound of the drum in his dream was, in truth, the sound of someone knocking impatiently at his door. The room was still dark, so Grimm evoked a standard runic spell of Illumination to dispel the gloom. Collecting his thoughts, he raised himself from his bed and called out, "Come in."
The door swung open to reveal Guy Great Flame standing in the doorway. In marked contrast to his usual immaculate finery, the Questor's clothes hung in disarray, and his hair dangled in a matted mess. His face was suffused with scarlet, and his eyes bulged. Grimm noted how the mighty mage needed to hang onto the door-frame just to remain upright. In the quaint vernacular of Grimm's home town of Lower Frunstock, Great Flame might have been described as 'grape-eyed', 'hop-headed' or even the less polite 'piss-foundered'.
Whichever phrase one chose to employ, the man was, to say the least, somewhat the worse for wear.
"You!" shouted Guy, weaving from side to side and waving his free hand at Grimm. "You… you total bashtard!"
Making a particularly violent evolution, he lost his hold on the door-frame and slipped to the floor, loud and inarticulate curses spilling from his lips in a jumbled stream of venom.
Grimm heard the sound of the connecting door, between his room and Numal's, opening and turned around to see the Necromancer, standing, bleary-eyed in a ridiculous, baggy night-shirt.
"Would you please keep the noise down in here, Grimm? I'm trying to sleep! What the…"
The Necromancer's voice tailed off as his gaze switched to the prostrate figure of Guy, and then to the younger Questor.
"Our friend here is a little pickled," Grimm said, returning Numal's puzzled gaze. "There's only one thing for it, I guess. Redeemer!"
The staff flew to his outstretched hand, and Grimm accessed the spells within. The only magic resident within Redeemer concerned the resolution of drunkenness, and the young mage assessed its effect, which would be simple enough for a Questor to cast even without recourse to his personal spell-language. He pointed his left index finger at the sprawling Guy and squeezed.
The Great Flame ceased his scrabbling attempts to rise to his feet, and raised his head, his eyes red but sober. Despite the removal of the alcoholic toxins from his body, his face had lost none of its anger.
"You look a complete mess, Questor Guy," Grimm observed in a cool voice. "Would you care to tell me why you considered it necessary to disturb Numal's rest and mine, at this hour?"
Guy rose to his feet. "You know full well what the matter is," he fumed, although in a more moderate tone than he had used for his earlier outburst. "You took all the bloody credit for that little operation and left me with nothing! I was lucky to get away without a damned official censure from Horin, thanks only to some very quick thinking on my behalf, I might add!
"You two fumbled around like a pair of bloody debutantes trying to find out who farted, until I had the idea of searching in the throne. You got the seventh ring, a cognomen and the thanks of Dominie Horin, Useless Granddad here got two rings, and what do I, the senior mage, get? A boot up the arse, that's what!"
"You got what you deserved," Grimm snarled. "Would you rather I'd told Horin about your relationship with his would-be lover? Do you think he'd have kept back his censure then?"
"He's right, Questor Guy," Numal said. "You were only looking for treasure, but Questor Grimm's insight provided the means to Lord Horin's deliverance from an evil enchantment, and his magic achieved it."
Guy snorted.
"Oh, listen to the mighty Necromancer! Butt out, old man: those promised rings must have gone to your head. This is between me and wonder-boy, here."
He drew back his right fist and spat out the word "Goo-elliya!" At once, his hand was awash with green flames.
Grimm shouted, "Sh'k'kat!" In an instant, his own right hand blazed with blue fire.
"Duelling between Guild Mages is forbidden," Numal declared in a tremulous voice.
Grimm felt himself seized by a violent rage, a strong desire to teach this presumptuous, self-possessed, sarcastic mage a lesson he would never forget, but the truth of the Necromancer's fearful words poured cold water over the hot fires of his anger.
"He's right, Guy. We could face the Presidium for fighting within High Lodge."
"Then let's take it outside!" the older mage snarled. "Just you and me, sonny boy; Grandpa here can stay behind, where he can't bother us with his windy twittering."
The young mage opened his mouth to try to reason with the angry thaumaturge, but he found the anger rising within him anew.
The arrogance of this man! Wouldn't Guy just love it if I backed out now? He may think he's the stronger Questor, but I'll lay any odds he likes that I've got him licked on control! He can't even control his mood from one moment to the next. I can take him! I can…
Control: that was the word.
Grimm had no real desire to fight, so why should he? Just because this self-important oaf felt annoyed because he hadn't been given the lion's share of the credit in thwarting Lizaveta? No.
He turned his anger; directed it, controlled it.
"Bugger you, Guy Great Flame; no, I won't fight you! You had your chance, and you threw it away. You can always take it out on the servants, or the beggars in the village, or any of the thousands of other people you see as inferior in your twisted little mind.
"That's just about your style, isn't it, Mister Mighty Mage? I've met your sort before, only happy when everyone bows to you as top dog. Well, just sod off and lord it over someone else; there seem to be plenty to choose from. I may not be as powerful as you, although I doubt it, but at least. have friends who care for me. It seems to me that your only friend is a bottle; go back to him if you want, but leave me in peace! Go on, just piss off and bother someone else!"
He stuck his tongue out at Guy. A juvenile gesture, perhaps, but it summed up his feelings for the older man, and it satisfied him. The blue flames on his left hand disappeared as if a candle had been snuffed, and he turned his eyes towards the ceiling. A few moments later, he faced the Great Flame again.
"What? Are you still here? Go on, tell me how I've made a dangerous enemy; I'd really like to hear that. Or will it be 'You haven't heard the last of me, Grimm Afelnor!'? Maybe 'you've just made the biggest mistake in your life!'?
"I don't like you, Questor Guy, and you don't like me. Let's just leave it at that, shall we?"
Guy's eyes bulged anew, and he appeared to be preparing to launch another verbal onslaught. Instead of that, he burst into rich, fulsome guffaws until tears fell from his eyes; to Grimm, the mercurial shift of emotion indicated that perhaps his detoxification spell had not been as effective as he had thought.
"All right, you get away with it this time; your cheek is refreshing. As far as I'm concerned, you're still just a jumped-up Neophyte, but you do have a trace of style. You win this round.
"I'll see you around, youngster. You, too, Granddad."
With that, he slammed the door, and Grimm could hear him chuckling as he walked away.
As the last sounds of Guy's alcoholic amusement died away, Grimm's cheeks blew out with a deep sigh of relief; despite his assertive confrontation with the volatile Questor, Grimm was not confident of what the ultimate outcome of a magical battle with him might have been. Guy was just too unreliable and unpredictable. Xylox might be just as objectionable, but at least he was constant and reliable in his obnoxiousness.
Numal clapped the Questor on his left shoulder. "Well done, Questor Grimm! I thought there'd be some bad trouble between you there!"
"Thank you, Numal."
As the Necromancer's hand settled on Grimm's shoulder-blade, and began to stroke it in a more than friendly manner, moving ever lower, the Questor spun around, feeling his face growing hot.
"Numal," he said, "when I told you I didn't crave an intimate association with another man, I meant it. I wondered why you kept harping on about that subject with me! Feel free to be my friend, but don't feel me in any other way, or you and I may fall out." His tone was low and threatening, and the Necromancer snatched back his hand as if it had been scalded.
"I'm sorry, Grimm, I just thought…"
"I know what you just thought, my friend. You were wrong. I won't say any more about it, and I won't tell anybody else as long as you keep your hands to yourself in future. Just go to bed, Numal-your own bed-and I'll see you tomorrow. Goodnight."
"Perhaps we could just have a friendly goodnight drink?" Numal suggested.
"No, Numal. I've just had a very pleasant dream interrupted by that lunatic hooligan, and I'd like to try to get it back. Goodnight."
"Goodnight, Questor Grimm."
The older man's response was a little bleak, but, remembering Numal's earlier disparagement of his amatory preferences, Grimm did not feel in a charitable mood. He turned away from the Necromancer, got back into bed and hunched his blanket around him.
"I think that's quite enough excitement for one day; don't you?" The young mage remembered the Illumination spell he had cast and quashed it, as if a candle had been snuffed, leaving the room in darkness.
"Kindly shut the door behind you, Numal." With that, he was asleep again; this time, he did not dream.
Grimm awoke to birdsong outside his window, and realised he had overslept. Nonetheless, he could not bring himself to care about the lapse in his usual daily schedule; he was now a Questor of the Seventh Rank, with a full Guild cognomen that would be published in the Deeds of the Questors. He was at peace, and he snuggled down again.
This did not last long; a soft rap deterred him from sleep. Sighing, he pulled himself from his bed and opened the door. His visitor was Senior Vice-Assistant Under-Facilitator Shael, as he had suspected.
"What? Not dressed yet, Questor Grimm? I understood that you preferred to rise almost as early as I do!"
"I apologise… Brother Mage." The Questor knew how important Shael's wordy title was to the fussy little man, but Grimm could not remember it: and faulty recall seemed to hurt the flighty man. "My sleep was disturbed by an altercation between some nocturnal creatures."
Shael nodded. "I am sorry to hear that." He cleared his throat. "I am instructed to inform you that Lord Dominie Horin requests your presence in his chamber for breakfast!"
This last was delivered with deep reverence and enthusiasm, and the newly-named Dragonblaster guessed that this was an honour beyond ordinary courtesy.
Launching himself from the bed, he asked "How long do I have? I still need to bathe and to prepare myself."
"An hour or so, Lord Grimm; I will escort you when you are prepared."
Things move so fast these days, the young mage thought. One day, a simple blacksmith's boy; the next, a Saviour of the Guild.
"My heartiest compliments to Lord Horin, for the honour he does me," he said. "I will be ready and waiting for your call… Senior… Vice-Assistant… Under-Facilitator Shael." The broad smile on Shael's face told Grimm that he had remembered the labyrinthine title correctly.
As if to reward Grimm's correct recall of Shael's new, coveted rank, the small mage clapped his hands twice, a broad beam lighting up his face. "An hour it is, Questor Grimm. I will inform Lord Horin that you are happy to accept his invitation."
The Under-Facilitator bowed and left.
As the door shut, Grimm sat on his bed and shook his head in amazement.
To be in Lord Thorn's good books is one thing, he thought, but even to be noticed by the Dominie is supposed to be an honour. I've never even heard of a mage being asked to take breakfast with him!
He wished Thribble were here with him now; what new tales the tiny demon would have concocted, with which to regale his underworld kin on his return! As it was, the imp would have to rely on the fragile, imperfect memory of a mortal from which to construct his stories.
Still, Grimm knew he could not afford to lollygag around; he wanted to look his best for his meeting with Lord Horin. He had the distinct feeling that the Dominie might have something more than a convivial meal in mind.
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