The Guild

by Jean Johnson

  “Thank you,” she stated as calmly as she could. The wool jacket, she draped over her left arm; the cap, she shoved into one of its pockets. A subtle glance to the side showed that the apprentice Gearman who had been mopping melted snow off the stone floor was trying not to move, so as not to draw attention to his brown-clad self. She couldn’t blame him for not wanting to draw the ex-priest’s attention.

  She wasn’t sure what to make of the archbishop personally coming along to deliver her and the other Servers’ belongings. For all I know, he’s placed some sort of tracing spell on this coat. He was quite upset with me last night. As much as she wanted to curse him and kick him out of the land, Rexei’s rather lengthy chat with Marta had included a few questions about how she, the head of the new Holy Guild, should behave. Which means I need to be gracious and forgiving . . . ugh.

  Taking a deep breath, she pictured her anger and her fear, imagining them as heavy bucket handles. In her mind, she opened her hands—though she kept humming to disguise her magic and hide herself from any magical traps or tracking spells—and let go of her burdens. Unbidden, words rose up within her, gracious words. She hoped Guildra would be proud of her for speaking them.

  “May Guildra guide you onto a path of remorse and reparation in the days to come, Mister Tuddlehead,” she told the ex-priest. “Returning our things is an encouraging first step. One, I hope, of many that will lead you to a much more worthy and well-deserved life.”

  “May who, what?” Elcarei asked, frowning in confusion.

  The same quirk of courage from before made her flash him a brief smile. “Guildra. Goddess of Guilds, Protector of Heiastowne . . . and soon to be our new Patron Deity, the Goddess of Guildara. The kingdom that is about to rise from the ashes of Mekha’s many mistakes.”

  Elcarei reddened at her claim. “Listen, boy—”

  “Master,” she countered flatly. “It’s Master Longshanks.” Another tight smile, and she dipped her head. “I have you to thank for my elevation to the rank of Master Actor last night. Which also elevated me to the rank of Master Gearman. So I thank you.”

  “Thank me, for fooling me?” he asked, his own mouth twisting into an equally tight but far less pleasant smile.

  She softened hers. “Yes. You must remember that everyone here had regarded you, the Archbishop of Heiastowne, as a very astute, keen-eyed, sharp-witted man. You served a cruel, hated, and utterly unwanted master in the False God . . . but aside from that one particular flaw, no one in this town ever considered you a fool. And again, I remind you I went into the temple to investigate allegations of abuse against the members of the Servers Guild . . . and in two months found none. Not unless you count verbal abuse.”

  Elcarei folded his arms across his chest. “Every master has the right to castigate an apprentice. Regardless of guild affiliation.”

  “It can be carried to an irresponsible extreme,” Rexei admitted, thinking of the foulmouthed, foul-minded bastard in the Roofers Guild she had fled from after only two months of his version of verbal abuse. “But in your case, it was more a matter of dismissive arrogance than destructive vitriol. I saw no reason to mention it as a flaw in my report to the Consulate.”

  Elcarei stepped forward, brows drawing together. “You dare judge me? You? A boy too young to grow a beard?”

  Instinct warred with experience. Instinct said she needed to avert his wrath and avoid his attention. Years of ducking and hiding said she should apologize, grovel, and extract herself as quickly as possible from his attention. The Consulate apprentice did just that, quickly taking himself out through a side door so that he could escape further notice. She hoped he had also fled to report to one of his superiors, but she wasn’t going to hold her breath.

  Experience, however, told instinct to shove off. Similar moments in her past had taught her that one should never back down from a bully. Particularly when one was in the right, and definitely when in a place with plenty of witnesses. Even if the apprentice had fled, off to one side, she spotted a familiar long-nosed, scarf-wrapped face coming down the hall, hair re-illusioned to look nut brown instead of ginger red.

  Encouraged, she lifted her chin slightly, not budging an inch. “Physical age is no obstacle to maturity, Mister Tuddlehead. And yes, I dared to judge you. I was doing my job. By the laws under which Mekha oppressed us . . . you did an excellent job as archbishop. Do keep in mind, however, that some of those laws have now changed . . . and were changed last night by a full quorum of Guild Masters.”

  He frowned, looking somewhere past her shoulder as he silently counted in his head. “I know all the Gearmen, save yourself, that were at that table. Subtracting them, the count should have been short of a full quorum.”

  “That’s because we appointed a new Guild Master last night, of a new guild,” Alonnen stated, joining Rexei. He looked remarkably relaxed, for the one mage the priesthood would have cheerfully killed to get their hands on just three days before, had they known of his strength and his existence.

  “What new guild?” Elcarei asked, glancing between the two of them.

  “The Holy Guild. The new priesthood,” Rexei answered. It was her place to do so, though she certainly wasn’t going to tell this velvet-clad bastard who the new Guild Master was. “Those who serve Guildra, Goddess of Guilds, shall also serve the people of this land. Rather than try to bully and abuse them.”

  He sucked in a sharp breath . . . but said nothing to her for her impertinence. Turning instead to his novice, he pointed at the reception desk. “Leave the rest for the ingrates to pick up. We have better things to do with our time.”

  Nodding, the young man fished out the various coats, hats, and scarves from his bag and dropped them on the currently unoccupied desk. Flattening the bags, he rolled them up and stuffed them into the pockets of his long velvet overcoat, not quite as luxurious as the ex-archbishop’s but still clearly a cut above the average Mekhanan’s woolens.

  “Hey, Elcarei,” Alonnen called out as the two headed for the front door. “Don’t do it.”

  One hand on the door, pushing it just open enough to let in a spill of bright sunlight and cold air, the ex-priest frowned back at the long-nosed redhead. “Don’t do what?”

  “Don’t summon what you’re planning to summon. Don’t betray humanity,” Alonnen warned him.

  Rexei flinched under the swift, sharp look the ex-archbishop flicked her way. She frowned at Alonnen, but he kept his gaze on the middle-aged priest. Not wanting to make any movement that would draw more attention to herself, Rexei bit her tongue to keep silent.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Elcarei finally stated, lifting his chin just enough to look down his nose at the shorter man.

  “Don’t do it. Or I swear, in Guildra’s name,” Alonnen promised, “you will be thrown out of this land and hunted through every other nation across the face of this world until you come to your end.”

  Elcarei raked his gaze down over Alonnen’s plain, somewhat worn gray woolens, his slim frame, and unintimidating height. “What, should I be afraid of you? Your threats are meaningless.”

  “Not mine,” Alonnen warned him. “Prophecy will be your downfall.”

  “Prophecy is a bunch of Gods-spewed shit, boy, designed to herd us onto a path of Their choosing,” he told Alonnen, who was clearly old enough to grow a beard, given the hint of ginger stubble along his jaw. Elcarei pushed the door wide. “But They also gave us free will . . . or haven’t you heard?”

  “Then don’t summon the demons They predicted you would,” Alonnen said, his tone calm and matter-of-fact.

  For a few seconds, the ex-archbishop lingered in the doorway, backlit by the white of the sun on snow and framed by a gust of icy wind that ruffled his robes. Then his mouth twisted in a sneer, and he turned away, striding down the clean-swept steps. The door swung shut in the wake of the novice, extinguishing the excess light an
d leaving Rexei and Alonnen for a moment in what felt like darkness, despite the glow pouring in from the narrow windows to either side of the double-wide entrance.

  “I really wish you hadn’t done that,” Rexei finally muttered.

  Alonnen looked at her. “Hadn’t done what? Given him a warning? Hoped against hope that he might change his mind? I have an obligation to stop him, you know.”

  She sighed and rubbed at the tension in her forehead. “Not that. I meant, told him in the first place that you know about the demon-summoning thing. Because that put his attention on me. I may not be Gabria, shrinking from even the thought of a God or Goddess getting anywhere near me, but I am not comfortable catching the scrutiny of a bunch of men whose sole job in life—for generations!—was to capture and torture and suck the life-energy out of our people.”

  She said the last in a hiss, because she wasn’t comfortable with the thought of anyone else overhearing even that much. The look he gave her was rueful and apologetic, enough to mollify some of her stress. Not all of it, but some of it.

  “Sorry, Rexei,” Alonnen muttered. “I guess . . . I guess I’m so energized by the thought of finally being rid of the threat of Mekha over our heads, I forgot the men who followed Him are still quite dangerous, even if they don’t have His foul power to back their efforts anymore.”

  “Just . . . try to remember that,” she sighed, for a moment letting go of her humming as she rubbed again at her forehead.

  “Well, if it’s any consolation,” he told her, “you do have the top dozen most dangerous men and women in the whole world at your back. I told them you’re the Gearman of the prophecy, and they’ll do whatever it takes to help keep your strength up.”

  “Oh, that makes me feel better,” she muttered. “I just wanted to avoid the priesthood, live my life, and . . . and maybe find what’s left of my lost family. I miss my brothers and father, especially now that we’re almost completely free.”

  “We’ll look for them, too.” He rubbed her arms through the oversized coat he had scrounged for her, urging her toward the back of the Consulate. “Come on, put on your coat. The roads are clear all the way home, so we’re headed back there now. I need to consult with my colleagues on a safe way to spy on the idiots from a distance, like you suggested. Since I’m certain they’ll decide to continue being complete and utter imbeciles, in spite of my warning.”

  Debating, Rexei decided not to put on her returned clothes. Not until the others in the Mages Guild had checked them for tracking spells. And for binding spells; she didn’t want to be found or rendered helpless simply from being careless. When they returned to the formidable protections of the Vortex, she would find someone who could examine her coat and hat for spells, and then break any if need be.

  For the time being, all she could do was hum her anti-magic songs and push the field outward, enveloping not only herself but Alonnen, and when they reached it, the motorcart. The others were already bundled in the back and waiting, while the driver kept one foot on the galloper to warm up the engine and the other foot on the stopper pedal to hold the vehicle in place until they were ready to go.

  • • •

  “. . . Live my life, and . . . and maybe find what’s left of my lost family. I miss my brothers and father, especially now that we’re almost completely free.”

  Elcarei nodded to himself, seizing on that piece of information. If that Aian mage was right, they might want several sacrifices, mage and non-mage, to bind a truly powerful demon to their cause—and to a Netherhell with that long-nosed fellow’s warnings. Elcarei didn’t even believe in Seers; there hadn’t been a single one born within Mekhana’s borders for over four hundred years, and all the fancy predictions of that freak of a Seer-King to the east hadn’t lost them an inch of Mekhanan soil in hundreds of years.

  The enchantments on the cap and coat were doing their job. He listened as the other man spoke. “We’ll look for them, too,” the deeper voice stated. “Come, put on your coat. The roads are clear all the way home, so we’re headed back there now.”

  Elcarei wished he knew the man’s name; he knew the fellow was a visiting Guild Master simply because he’d been one of the unfamiliar faces at the head table last night. Then again, the ex-priest wished he knew who the head of the so-called Mages Guild was. Or the head of that so-called Holy Guild . . . what a piece of effrontery!

  “I need to consult with my colleagues on a safe way to spy on the idiots from a distance, like you suggested. Since I’m certain they’ll decide to continue being complete and utter imbeciles, in spite of my warning.”

  The cheek of the man! Elcarei took special care in cracking and grinding the ice of a puddle under his boot heel as he strode back toward the temple. I’ll show him who the imbecile is. But not hastily, no, he reminded himself, recalling Torven’s warnings on the matter. No. Slowly, carefully, and with such subtlety that they will never realize my vengeance is cold but fully matured, until it is too late to stop their prolonged suffering.

  He kept the seeker amulet pressed to his ear, enchanted not only to track down the boy, Longshanks, but to listen in on the youth’s conversations via the metaphysical link between discarded hair and head . . . but didn’t hear anything more. Which was odd. He knew the amulet was enchanted correctly. It had taken him quite a bit of his own personal energy to craft the spell and imbue it with enough power to work over a distance of fifty full miles, all of it linked to the precious, short, dark hairs liberated from the boy’s winter coat and knitted cap. But Elcarei wasn’t hearing a peep now. Not a word, not a footstep, not even a hint of the boy breathing.

  Did he . . . ? No, he couldn’t have been a mage. Not inside the temple itself! Definitely not under Mekha’s watchful, ever-hungering eye. Even when we had over half the cells full, Mekha was always subtly probing everyone, even us, trying to sup a little bit of magic from His own priesthood. He would have noticed if the boy was a mage! No . . . oh, no, no, no, Elcarei realized, eyes widening. He stepped into the relative dimness of the temple. Not the boy! That man, the one with the sharp nose. That one spoke of a Mages Guild with the kind of assurance that spoke of personal experience with it, and he was seated as an equal among Guild Masters. That was the head of the Mages’ Guild!

  Mekha! If only I’d known!

  Ignoring the novice who had accompanied him, Elcarei strode for the stairs and his office. The apprentice could wander off and hide somewhere if he wanted, to avoid the extra chores invoked by the dismissal of the Servers guildmembers. Elcarei had a lot of far more important thinking and planning to do.

  Somehow they’ve found a way to block our best scrying spells . . . impudent bastards. But I heard enough to lure that boy into a trap. And given how thick-as-thieves the pair looked to be, if I lure the youth into a cage, the elder will no doubt come along in an attempt to set him free. Then I’ll have both a sacrifice for a demonic proto-God, and a mage to personally feed me.

  And there’s nothing that says we cannot still drain mages for their energies . . . for surely any mage appointed to be Guild Master of the lot will be quite powerful, with plenty to share with us as well as whatever demon that Aian fellow might conjure.

  It seemed this week was not going to be a complete disaster.

  ELEVEN

  “Come on . . . come on! Open the door, you stupid, lazy beasts,” Alonnen muttered.

  Seated at the table brought into his office to serve as her temporary desk, Rexei glanced up only briefly. Her work drafting the Holy Guild Charter, outlining all the various tasks, levels of responsibility and so forth, was something he had insisted he should oversee. Yet the moment Pelai of Mendhi had sent him sheets of paper enchanted with scrying spells and instructions on how to fold them into useful, mobile shapes, he had abandoned that task for this new one.

  Not that she could blame him. Spying on demon summoners was more important than figuring out how to worship a bra
nd-new Goddess, particularly one Rexei hadn’t envisioned as impatient in any way. “They’re not going to open the service door to the temple just because you’re willing it from five-odd miles away.”

  “Every day they take out the trash at this hour for the Recyclers Guild to collect,” he told her. “Rags and scraps of paper go to the Binders for adding into the paper pulp, metal scraps go to the Blacksmiths for sorting and re-smelting, and even scraps of food and paper rubbish gets handed over to the Tillers for compos—Ah! Aha!” Alonnen exclaimed as the gray-weathered door in question did indeed swing open.

  Two novices lumbered out, laden with baskets. Looking around to make sure there weren’t any glaring, angry citizens nearby, the novices headed for the collection bins designated for compostables and non-compostables. Taking advantage of the open door, little paper bugs scuttled inside. The paper had been painted and enchanted with the lightest and least-detectable of illusion spells to look like the real thing. All but one got inside before the door could swing shut; the last one got a corner stuck in a crevice and was crumpled to death when the closing panel squished it flat.

  That left nine instead of ten to do the spying work which Rexei was no longer able to perform for anyone. Not with the archbishop fully aware the “lad” was quite intelligent, and aware of what was happening inside the ex-temple. Thankfully, with the loss of Mekha, the shields and wardings on the temple had weakened. That meant Alonnen could now scry inside directly, albeit with a fuzzy view and no real hope of clear sound. On hearing that, Guardian-apprentice Pelai had suggested he could send in a whole series of clever, Mendhite-style scrying nodes.

  Muttering under his breath at the loss of one of his paper spies, Alonnen focused on guiding the rest deeper into the temple. It required sliding the fingers of one hand over the crystalline tablet held in the other; each finger controlling a couple of bugs. They had a rudimentary sense of awareness built into their spell; all Alonnen had to do was guide them in a suggested direction. The rest they did for themselves as they climbed up walls, scurried along corners, and hid in the nearest cracks whenever someone came near, acting very much like the roaches they resembled.