The Adventurers Guild

by Zack Loran Clark

  “I remember,” Quilby said coldly.

  “I was really impressed with the perfumer, you know. You think you’ve seen it all, and then somebody comes along with a whole new use for familiar ingredients. It’s good for you, too, right? The Merchants Guild gets a cut of everything he sells.”

  “Get to the point, please. Time is money, young Dunderfel.”

  “Everything’s money to some people. Which is why I didn’t understand why you’d want a man inside the Adventurers Guild. By all accounts, they’re broke. No money coming in. No money going out.” Brock tapped his nose again. “But that doesn’t mean they don’t have anything of value. After all, where does a perfumer get his chemicals? Where did Makiva get all that extra wood? I’ve seen a balm made of Danger gristle that can protect skin from burning. I’ve seen armed men on a mission of crucial importance stop to pick flowers—flowers that could be used to create the dyes for a lady’s scarf.” Brock looked down meaningfully. “And your shoes are very shiny, my lord. Just where did the wax come from? The Adventurers Guild supplies it all, don’t they?”

  Quilby continued to scowl for one beat, two beats. Then his face broke out into a wide smile. “You are a smart one, Brock. My faith in you wasn’t misplaced, was it?”

  “But you knew all this already,” Brock said. “So why do you really want me there?”

  “I suppose I’ve had enough of Frond’s nonsense,” Quilby answered. “Her people are the only ones allowed outside the walls for any reason. They have access to all the wonderful resources the world has to offer. And Frond refuses to take money for any of it!” He wiped spittle from his chin. “She insists on a barter system. On fair trade. It’s positively primitive.”

  “And it makes it impossible for you to take a cut,” Brock added.

  The man shrugged. “There is that.”

  “It sounds like you think Frond is the problem. Not the guild.”

  “Of course. The guild itself provides an invaluable service. And I have reason to believe Frond’s replacement would be much more agreeable. Her second-in-command was once a noble, from what I understand. And those of noble backgrounds do tend to speak my language.” He made a gesture with his fingers as if jiggling coins.

  Brock leveled a serious look at the man. “How far would you go to get rid of her? Would you send her into harm’s way?”

  Quilby’s look of incredulity made his innocence in the matter easier to believe than any words he could say.

  “Did you have anything to do with Makiva’s tent burning down?”

  “Come now. Nothing could be worse for business than that.”

  “Is Makiva dead?”

  “We don’t believe so.” Quilby shrugged again. “No body was found. Ser Brent’s men are looking for her now.”

  “The woman with you in the perfumer’s tent. Who is she?”

  “Ah, our dear Lady Gray. Don’t mind her—she’s a trusted associate. Goes where I can’t and watches my back when I need her.” He looked over his shoulder absently, licked his lips. “Think of her as my shadow.”

  Brock stood in silence for a moment, mulling everything over. He knew that Quilby was neither honorable nor trustworthy. But neither did the man seem especially complicated. It was easy to see what motivated him, and thus easy to believe he had nothing to do with magical focuses or failing wards or whatever Makiva might or might not be up to.

  “I’d like to revise the terms of our deal,” he said.

  Quilby laughed once, a short, sharp bark. “You do amuse me, Messere Dunderfel. I suppose you see the opportunity to make some money here.”

  “No,” Brock answered. “Don’t presume we have the same motivations, Lord Quilby, even if we want the same thing.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning I’ll help you take down the Basilisk. But then I want a way out. For me and my friend.”

  “The young sorcerer?”

  “His name is Zed,” Brock answered. “And he’s earned a place in the Mages Guild.”

  Quilby sighed. “Would that you only asked for riches. What you want is nearly impossible.” He licked his lips. “You, of course, have a place here. We laid the groundwork for that before the Guildculling. But your friend…The rules of selection are quite inviolate.”

  “I’ll bet the rules about targeting other guild leaders are pretty strict, too,” Brock said. He flashed a smile. “Lord Quilby doesn’t let rules get in the way. Does he?”

  It was half praise and half threat. Quilby narrowed his eyes, wondering which half to respond to. In the end, he threw up his arms. “Very well. You and your friend will be reassigned to the guilds of your liking. After Frond is taken down.” He fixed Brock with a stare. “There will be another council tomorrow. I will need you to speak up against her then. Anything you can say to make her look incompetent or untrustworthy. To convince the king that she is a danger to the people of Freestone.”

  Brock took a moment to consider it. Was she endangering the town? That wasn’t really why Quilby was after her, of course. But wasn’t it true?

  He remembered the welts on her arms when she’d carried Zed from that ruin.

  And he remembered she’d sent Zed there in the first place.

  In the end, it didn’t matter what Brock thought about Frond. The only thing he knew for certain was that if things remained as they were—if he and Zed didn’t get out of there any way they could—it was only a matter of time before they found trouble they couldn’t walk, run, or elf-step away from.

  “You have a deal,” Brock said, and he shook Quilby’s clammy hand.

  Frond had told him to take his best shot, after all.

  Zed opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling. It was early—too early, he could tell by the lack of light peeking from under his door—but his churning thoughts wouldn’t let him return to sleep.

  Every time he closed his eyes he saw…terrible things. Ghastly blobs and grinning faces splitting in two. Fanged Dangers striking out at his friends, and the inhuman eyes of the very human-looking monster that Frond had crushed against the wards.

  And Old Makiva’s tent, still smoldering in the market.

  What had happened to the charm seller? Why had the monster who destroyed the focus been carrying one of her charms? None of it made any sense.

  Zed gently pushed himself up into a seated position. Every part of his body ached, a dull but constant grumbling from muscles unused to the strains of these past few days.

  He glanced at the book lying closed at his bedside. Bonds of Blood and Fire…Whatever Hexam had hoped Zed would learn from it, the truth was he could barely understand the rambling text. The rites within didn’t make any kind of sense.

  Walk a path to its third crossroads, turn left and greet the stranger you meet there.

  Watch the first star of evening from a north-facing window until you hear a dog’s howl, then open the door.

  And so on.

  A month ago if Zed had found this book on the street, he’d have tossed it right back. It seemed full of nonsense.

  And yet…

  As he lay alone in his bedroom the previous evening, there had been…something. A moment. He was reading an explanation of covens: gatherings where warlocks and witches discussed assorted fiendish topics. The book described a shadowed trail that carved itself slowly through the woods, guiding the witch to her coven like a knife slicing through leather.

  Zed hadn’t felt himself falling asleep. He hadn’t even been particularly tired. But he dreamed that he himself was walking down that trail. He smelled the scent of the trees, and saw winking lights flitting between their trunks. Zed heard the creaks of the branches and the unnerving gekker of what he instinctively understood was a fox in the distance. He watched as the carpet of leaves parted before him, a trail drawing itself with every step he took.

  Zed had felt a presence in the dream—like eyes watching him—and he knew that this presence was what waited at the end of the trail. With it came a new smell, spoil
ing the pristine scent of the woods.

  Sulfur.

  He woke a moment later, with Hexam’s book splayed over his chest, his hand clasped around the elven chain.

  The strange dream had unnerved Zed, but somewhere deep down it also excited him. And that unnerved him even more.

  Zed now tore his eyes away from the dark leather-bound cover. Enough of dreams. It was time to greet the morning.

  He slipped out from his room and found the barracks hallway was still dim with predawn light. There was time, then, before they had to appear before king and council and admit that they had failed. That Zed had failed.

  Zed crept to Brock’s door and opened it carefully, peering inside. His friend was fast asleep, splayed out on his bed still fully dressed.

  Zed wished he could just unload his worries on Brock, like he had before they’d joined the Sea of Stars. Tell him about the nightmares, and the strange book, and his nagging worry that something was wrong in Freestone. Perhaps terribly wrong.

  But Zed wasn’t the only one suffering. Brock had been through just as much these past few days, including the wrath of Frond herself.

  Zed closed the door. He would let Brock sleep a while longer.

  He padded silently down the corridor, exiting into the guildhall’s common room. He saw a figure standing rigid in the center of the hall, arm raised, and gasped aloud before he realized it was the petrified apprentice.

  Zed shook his head and exhaled. The stone boy watched him with a frozen look of horror.

  BOOM!

  A loud thud sent Zed scrambling backward with a yelp. He scanned the dark room for its source.

  After a moment a second BOOM! sounded, this time accompanied by a girl’s shout. Zed realized it was coming from the training yard.

  He found Liza alone, her shield gleaming blue and pink in the early dawn. Her dark hair was matted against her olive skin.

  “Do nobles not sleep?” Zed called out with a smile. “Is that what makes them so noble?”

  Liza glanced at Zed and wiped the sweat from her forehead. “Oh, Micah sleeps plenty.”

  “What about you?”

  Liza shrugged, letting the shield fall to her side. “Mother filled my days with etiquette lessons, but early mornings were always mine. Plus, I like the quiet. Practice dummies don’t make wisecracks.”

  Zed glanced at the beleaguered dummy beside Liza. It was painted with a red target on its chest and a dripping frown on its face. Better him than Brock, Zed thought.

  “Am I bothering you?” he asked.

  Liza shook her head. She stuck her sword into the ground and rested a hand on her hip, looking for all the world like a younger version of Frond herself—not that Zed could truly imagine such a thing. “What about you?” she asked. “Couldn’t sleep?”

  “Everything hurts,” Zed admitted with a whine.

  Liza smirked. “You’re out of shape. The ache goes away as you exercise more.”

  “And what about the nightmares?” Zed had asked the question before he could stop himself. Liza’s smirk fell, and his ears began to burn.

  “I don’t know,” Liza said gently. “But I hope so. Was it bad…in the shrine?”

  “No worse than what came after. Or before.” Zed glanced up. The sun hadn’t yet scaled Freestone’s walls, but its light leaked over—the trickle before the flood. “If I hadn’t cast that spell, I’d be dead.”

  Liza tilted her head thoughtfully. “Could you do it again, do you think?”

  Zed shrugged. “Not sure.”

  Liza’s face split into a grin. “Let’s make sure.” She lifted her shield arm, positioning the already scratched and dented emblem so it pointed right at Zed. “I’ll run at you. See if you can…what did Hexam call it?”

  “Elf-step,” Zed said nervously.

  “Right. See if you can elf-step out of the way.”

  “Liza, I don’t know. What if I can’t do it?”

  The girl’s eyes gleamed with a wild light. “Then you get hit,” she said cheerily.

  “You and your brother are more alike than I realized,” Zed mumbled.

  Liza didn’t answer. Instead, she dug her foot back, preparing to charge. Zed searched the yard, trying to remember how the magic had felt.

  But suddenly Liza’s shape filled his line of sight. Shield held high, she rushed at him with a warrior’s scream.

  Zed screamed, too, but less warlike. He cast his eyes to the practice dummy and wished desperately to be anywhere but in front of the girl barreling in his direction.

  A puff, a pop, a twist of air.

  Zed landed heavily against the dummy, then spun on one leg and went sprawling to the ground on his rump. The yard swiveled dizzily. All around him, silvery mist was already dissipating like morning fog. Zed looked up to find Liza watching him from a dozen feet away, grinning madly, as a cloud of the same mist evaporated from where he’d been standing a moment before.

  “You did it,” she said with a laugh. “Zed, you’re a mage!”

  The two sat together in the yard, enjoying what was left of the morning. After the first bell struck, Zed heard the sounds of people rousing from within the guildhall. His stomach growled. He hoped there would be time for breakfast before they visited the king.

  Beside him, Liza was unbuckling the shield from her arm. “Are you angry with Frond?” she asked almost absently. Almost. “For sending you into the shrine? Or for drafting you in the first place?”

  Zed thought about it a moment, staring up into the blooming dawn. The sky was the color of the timber lots in spring, when Freestone’s tracts of lumber and fruit trees blossomed into soft clouds of pink and white.

  Was he mad? He certainly had been when this all started. His eyes left the lightening sky, falling back into the shadowed courtyard. “You know, the funny thing is, I’m not. Even after everything that’s happened to us…to Jett.” He swallowed. “Do you remember when Frond told the king she thought something was going on?”

  Liza’s face became serious. “You believe her.” She spoke softly.

  “The things that attacked us looked human. And the one in the shrine had Makiva’s charm,” Zed said.

  “It could have found it somewhere,” Liza countered. “No doubt other adventurers have bought charms from Old Makiva. Maybe someone lost it, or died with it outside the wall.”

  Zed shook his head. “But then her tent mysteriously burns down on the same day? It’s too much of a coincidence.”

  Liza nodded, standing with a grunt. “I agree. I’ve been thinking about it all morning. You said this…Creeper had been sent to sabotage us, right? Why now? The focus has been there for hundreds of years.”

  Zed remembered the creature’s taunting voice as it called down from the ruined temple. It said it had been ordered to kill anyone who came for the stone. “It knew we were coming for it,” Zed said with a frown. “So whoever commanded it must have known that our focus was failing.”

  “Exactly,” Liza said, pacing back and forth. “So unless there’s someone living outside the walls—sewing leather pants and sniffing the wards for weaknesses—the saboteur is working from inside Freestone.” She paused and turned to Zed. “Actually, is that possible?”

  He sighed. “I’d be willing to believe anything at this point, unless Fife said it. But it just seems unlikely that someone beyond the city would know exactly where to find the replacement crystal, so they could destroy it right when we needed it.” Zed frowned. “Makiva’s the most likely suspect. But why would she want the wards to fail?” he asked. “Why would anyone? It doesn’t make sense.”

  Liza paused and shook her head. “I don’t know,” she said, looking down at him. “If the wards fall, then all of Freestone falls. The walls wouldn’t protect us forever on their own. Fie, a single dragon could probably take down this whole city. I can’t think of why anyone would want that. But there’s one thing I do know…Frond was right. Something weird is going on.”

  Zed nodded slowly. “Frond w
as right,” he repeated.

  “Tell me I’m still asleep and this is just a nightmare.” Brock’s voice cut through the yard. Zed turned and saw his friend padding through the open doorway, his short hair a disheveled mess. “Those are not the words I wanted to hear first thing in the morning.”

  “Is it still morning?” Liza said breezily, tossing her shield to the side.

  Brock opened his mouth to respond, but bit it back. He glanced at his feet. “Uh, listen, you guys might want to come inside. Especially you, Liza. Someone’s just arrived.”

  “Someone?” Zed asked.

  Brock let out a long, slow exhale. “It’s probably better that you see for yourselves,” he said. “Don’t want anyone pummeling the messenger.” His eyes flicked up nervously to Liza, then back down to his feet.

  “Why do I have a bad feeling about this?” Liza grumbled, striding forward.

  The guildhall was still quiet when they entered, but Zed was surprised to find it was actually full of people. Pockets of guild members stood together, gawking at the entrance door and snickering among themselves. Zed couldn’t see much over their heads.

  They found Jett near the back, carefully laid out on what must have been the guildhall’s most undamaged chair. The sight of the dwarf out of bed nearly took the breath from Zed. His bitten leg was carefully wrapped in rolls of linen, and the boy looked thinner than Zed had ever seen him, but he was smiling with the rest of the guild, shaking his head at whatever was going on.

  When Jett caught sight of the three, though, his smile dropped fast.

  “I can’t believe you’re up already!” Zed gushed, springing to Jett’s side. It was all he could do to restrain himself from grabbing him up out of the chair for a gigantic hug.

  “Dwarven constitution,” said Jett, puffing his chest a little. “Also, dwarven boredom. Hank set me up here, but don’t tell Frond. I’m not technically supposed to be out of bed until…well, not yet.”

  “What’s happening?” Liza whispered, tilting her head toward the front of the room.