He might have felt even more disconcerted if he had known that this was just what Lord Thorn had intended for him from the start. The term 'Weapon of the Guild' was not just a quaint, old-fashioned conceit. A good Questor was nothing more than a tool of his masters; a tool to be used to strike at their enemies.
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Chapter 7: Friendly Discourse
Grimm Afelnor stood in the doorway of the Scholasticate Library and smiled at the young man sitting at a small table and grimacing as he shuffled through a jumbled mass of books and papers.
"Grimm! It's good to see you again!" Questor Dalquist rose from his seat and clapped his young friend on the shoulder with his customary warmth. "I understand further congratulations are in order."
Grimm shrugged. "I'm just lucky, I suppose."
"Don't belittle yourself, Grimm. Luck is an important factor for a successful Questor; some would say an essential one. Our Quest together was no cakewalk, and from what I've read, it seems your second was even harder. You're a rising star within the House, Grimm Afelnor. Having gained the Sixth Rank after two difficult trials, you can be sure Lord Thorn will soon entrust you with your own Quests, and the responsibility and credit for the success of these will be all yours."
The overriding principle within Arnor House and, to an even greater extent, within the Guild was 'rank hath its privileges'. An expedition's senior Questor was expected to garner the lion's share of the honours and plaudits, since he would bear the brunt of any failure. The life of a Mage Questor might often be dangerous and challenging, but it was at least exciting, offering the potential for great rewards commensurate with the risks taken for those daring or lucky enough to gain promotion to higher rank. The desire of all young, hungry Questors was to strive and succeed against mighty odds and, with luck, to become 'noticed' by their superiors.
Even beyond the coveted Seventh Rank, the potential prizes of a position on the Conclave, the individual Houses' ruling bodies, or even election to the post of Prelate beckoned. Beyond Prelateship, the opulence and prestige of High Lodge awaited the most ambitious, the most talented, the most daring and above all the most fortunate mages.
"And you, Dalquist?" Grimm asked, as the two mages sat down at the table. "I never had you marked as a bibliophile. Are you studying in preparation for another Quest?"
Dalquist shook his head. "No such luck, I'm afraid, Grimm. However, it's not too bad. Senior Magemaster Crohn's asked me to help out in the Scholasticate on occasions. It seems our recent successes-namely yours and mine-have led to an increase in Student uptake, and Crohn desperately needs more Magemasters. I'm just boning up on rune signatures, and I should start as probationary Magemaster in the next few weeks."
"Congratulations, Dalquist." Grimm tried to keep his tone bright, but did not fool his friend.
"I know, Grimm, I know." Dalquist smiled and raised his hands in mock-surrender. "A Mage Questor teaching runes to a bunch of snotty Students seems a sheer waste of talent, like shackling a racehorse to a farm cart. But I'll only be doing this in between Quests and, if I'm good at it, it'll get me noticed by the Conclave. I'll still be a Questor, first and foremost, I promise you.
"It's easy duty, if you ask me. It's a lot better than sitting around in my room, waiting for the call to risk my life on some soon-forgotten Quest. I thought of hiring myself out to some insecure prince or Duke as a magical advisor once I've paid off the House for my tuition, but politics bores me stupid."
"Me, too," Grimm said with fervour. He had found his brief sessions presiding over the city council meetings of his barony of Crar mind-numbingly tedious.
Nonetheless, at least he had the companionship of his lover Drexelica to sustain him, although he dare not admit this, even to his closest friend; the misogynistic Guild regarded even the most innocent flirtation with a woman as a serious crime. Sexual congress was regarded as the ultimate transgression, since it was believed to erase a mage's powers. Grimm now knew this to be no more than a myth, whose reason he could not fathom. Nevertheless, it would be impolitic in the extreme for him to say so; even to Dalquist.
"I'm really happy for you, Dalquist," he said. "As a Magemaster, perhaps you'll get the call to raise another Questor. Who could be a better choice than a man who's actually faced the Ordeal and won?"
The senior mage shuddered. "No thanks, Grimm! I'd rather eat broken glass. Two years of chiding, nagging, and shouting at some hapless kid doesn't appeal to me. You had it much easier, getting through in seven months. I guess you were lucky there, too."
"Lucky?" Grimm exploded, unable to believe his friend's insouciance. "Are you serious?"
Dalquist laughed. "Well, of course I know how tough it is, Grimm. I often found myself wanting to kill Magemaster Urel. I broke out when he whacked me with his staff for dropping a plate in the Refectory, and you know the result of that. I really lost it, but that impromptu display of amateur demolition did make a Questor of me, after all."
The young Questor gaped in sheer astonishment. Dalquist must be some superman to have withstood two whole years of the daily torment Grimm had faced.
"I think another day of what I faced would have seen me mad or dead," he declared, shivering a little. "I guess you're made of stronger stuff than me, and I respect you even more for it. I scarcely knew my name by the time Magemaster Crohn had finished with me. How did you stand it for two whole years?"
Dalquist frowned. "I know you're no weakling, Grimm. You're more powerful than I was at your age, and your willpower and drive are second to none. The Questor Ordeal's designed to drive a man, or boy, to his limits. I reached mine after two years, and you're at least as strong as me in that regard; perhaps stronger. Power like yours doesn't come from nothing." He leaned back, his brow still furrowed. "Could you give me an account of a typical day you spent as a Neophyte Questor? Assume you're telling someone who knows nothing of it."
Mercifully, Grimm now found memories of much of his Ordeal to be little more than a blur, but he applied himself to his friend's request, rubbing his bearded chin as if it could stimulate recall.
"Well, if I'd displeased Crohn the night before, I might have to do without breakfast. We'd start the morning with three hours' repetition of a long runic spell, often one I didn't know. If my repetition rate was too slow, Crohn slapped me; or worse if he was in a bad mood. He could scream at me for as much as twenty minutes because I'd made even a small mistake on one of the repetitions, and then we'd start over. That'd lead to another three hours' practice, with a slap or a kick for each mistake. More screaming by Crohn, and, of course, a proper beating if I hadn't already had one. If I hadn't made a mistake, he'd beat me for my tone of voice or my facial expression, or the condition of my shoes, or because his arm ached from beating me the last time… any little thing he could think of, you know. That might mean bread and water for lunch, or perhaps no lunch, and then we'd start again in the afternoon.
"The evening session could go on into early morning until I could hardly speak. I'd be given exercises to complete for the next session, but I'd be so hungry and tired I could never finish them in time. Sometimes you just have to eat and sleep. If I did manage to finish them, get some scraps to eat and grab a couple of hours' sleep, it was a good day, but it became almost impossible by the end. You could have closed your thumb and forefinger around my bicep, and my clothes just seemed to hang off me-so I often got beaten for looking untidy, even if my clothes were clean and in good repair.