9th Day of Fireseek, 565 CY
Wizard's Guild, Willip, Furyondy
Zantac glanced around at as he entered the Meeting Room. It was empty; he had been the first to arrive. Four chairs were arranged around the round end of the hemisphere-shaped, dark wooden table. Two larger chairs were set along the flat end. Zantac grimaced and sat down on the rightmost of the four. He rubbed his chest and winced at the dull ache there. The wizard had eaten lunch less than an hour ago at the Willow Tree in an attempt to soothe his nerves, but now he felt even worse.
One of these days, he thought, I've really got to look into creating an affordable elixir to cure a heartburn.
Zantac had no idea why Guildmaster Zelhile had called this meeting. He wondered who the other three attendees would be. Had they all done something wrong? The mage wracked his brain, trying to think of what it might be. The Guildmaster was very good at finding faults in the people under him, but he didn't usually call them out on the carpet like this, unless it was something serious.
The carpet. Zantac glanced down at the thick, bright red carpet. It covered the entire circular room, making it at least thirty feet in diameter. The joke of course, was that it was actually a carpet of smothering, used for taking care of the worst failures, as defined by Zelhile, of course. Martan swore it was true, but Zantac doubted it. It didn't radiate magic for one, and more importantly Zelhile, for all his stern demeanor, just didn't strike Zantac as the murderous type.
Then again, who knew? Once the damn thing engulfed you, it would be a little too late to tell other people you had been wrong about the man.
The door opened again, and Martan came in. He spotted Zantac instantly, smiled and came over to the chair next to him.
Zantac gave him a half-fake smile. He wasn't sure when or where it had started, but there was no doubt his best friend Martan had slowly but surely getting on Zantac's nerves, and he wanted less and less to be around him.
It had been fine in the beginning. They seemed like two peas in a pod that disliked both of them. Zantac and Martan were the two renegades in the small but fairly strict Guild. But somewhere along the line, it seemed to Zantac that Martan had been latching onto him more and more. Zantac may not have been popular inside the Guild, but he led a very active social life outside of it. Martan didn't. He had even started dressing like Zantac, trading in his brown robes for a brick red set, closer to Zantac's fire-red robes. They were colorful and drew attention to him, but that's how Zantac liked it. He hated people who slunk around in the shadows, watching him. He preferred things straightforward, out in the open.
There were other things. Zantac had a bit of a belly, but Martan had, in the past two years, swelled by at least sixty pounds, and was now well over two hundred fifty. He constantly had crumbs from his last meal on his face and clothes.
As he did now. Zantac had in fact seen Martan enter the Willow Tree as he was getting ready to leave today and had actually hidden until he could slip out unobserved by his fellow wizard. This was not typical behavior for Zantac, and it irritated him that Martan was driving him to this kind of thing.
Martan, for his part, seemed oblivious to his friend's discomfiture, or if he was aware of it, attributed it to nerves over the upcoming meeting. As he sat down next to Zantac, he brushed the crumbs off his robe onto the carpet. "Feeding the beast," he said to him with a smile, "just in case."
Zantac nodded and fixed his gaze on the two chairs opposite them. "Any idea why we're here?" he asked Martan out of the side of his mouth, just to make conversation.
His fellow wizard shrugged. "Me, any one of a hundred reasons. You, haven't a clue. It's been a while since you've gotten on 'ol Zel's bad side. You're not going all establishment on me, are you, old friend?"
That thought made Zantac smile again, for real this time. "Not to worry, Martan," he replied. "It'll never happen." His friend, having gotten the response he'd hoped for, smiled back and was silent for a bit.
The door opened again, and Aimee sidled in.
Aimee always sidled, or sashayed, or glided or even (on occasion) flew. She never just walked. The Succubus, as almost everyone called her, quickly fixed her large, dark brown eyes upon her two fellow wizards. Martan registered a quick repulsion, as he always did, and Zantac a calculated appraisal. She had an astonishingly large wardrobe and had picked for this meeting a black short-sleeved dress with a deep but narrow V-neck hemline, and slits up both legs right to the hip. The Guild's dress code had formerly prohibited that kind of thing, but Aimee had, as usual, gotten her way.
Aimee puzzled Zantac. The research and hard work, the long hours of studying needed to become a wizard made it, in his view, one of the hardest professions one could ever hope to aspire to. Yet Aimee was, as she herself was free to admit, as lazy as a sloth. She looked for every possible shortcut, every angle, every cheat, to get a leg up (as it were) on her companion magic-users. And with the exception of Martan and maybe one or two others, every male wizard in the Guild, including the Guildmaster, had been subjected to her "persuasion".
Even Zantac. It had been about two years ago, shortly after he had joined the Guild. Aimee, who had joined up only a few weeks earlier, asked him to come to her chamber about a spell she was having difficulty transcribing into her spellbook. He still wasn't sure how it had happened. One moment, they had been talking and joking around, and then suddenly Zantac had been very- aware of her. The next minute, they were rolling around on the floor, knocking over chairs and frightening the cat. Twenty minutes later, the Succubus had left her room with his entire portfolio of notes under her arm, and Zantac with a slightly stupid smile on his face, sitting on the floor.
Even if he had wanted to, he couldn't have gotten up and walked fast enough to catch her.
She returned his materials later of course, although he knew that she had copied everything. About three weeks later, she'd asked to see him again. A bit more direct this time, Aimee had suggested that they steal the formula of an alchemical project that another Guild mage was working on. Even before her tongue found his mouth, he had already been thinking of ways to bypass the lab's magic wards.
Something had happened, though. Even years later, he still wasn't sure what, but something had made him stop, peel Aimee off of him like a grape, and refuse her. He apologized the whole time of course, but she'd kicked him out with a scowl on her face and several rather explicit comments hanging in the air. For weeks afterwards, Zantac felt just like the bat dung that he cultivated for his fireball spells. He made it a point not to grovel before Aimee when he saw her again, but still to act in a friendly manner, as if the last incident had not happened at all. It wasn't easy, but he persevered. At first Aimee refused to acknowledge his existence, but as the weeks went by, she gradually began to resume her former demeanor around him, even if she never came to him again. In all probability, he had nothing left to offer her that she could not find elsewhere.
The funny (or tragic, depending on how you looked at it) thing, from Zantac's point of view, was that for all her machinations, Aimee was no more powerful a wizard than he was. The gain from her seductions was always balanced out by the loss of study time, most of which could not be avoided. In a way, Zantac almost felt sorry for the Succubus.
Almost.
Now, as Aimee approached the pair, Martan turned to Zantac and smirked. Shortly after Zantac had confided to his friend about his last incident with the Succubus, Martan had told Zantac a similar story of how he had been forced to reject Aimee as well. Zantac didn't believe it for a moment, but he smiled and went along with it. Martan he did feel sorry for. He was almost as good a wizard as Zantac, yet his main contribution to the Guild consisted of laboratory explosions. Martan had nothing at all to offer Aimee on any level, and they both knew it.
Despite himself, Zantac couldn't keep his eyes off her. He was now sorry he had taken the end chair. Aimee solved that problem for him however, by simply picking up the chair next to Martan, without so much as a glance in his direction. and walking over to Zantac's right, where she put it down and then languidly sat down upon it. A hint of something very alluring wafted over to Zantac. Aimee's brown hair swiftly turned to auburn, and then bright red as she smiled at him. "Hello, Zantac."
"Hello, Aimee," replied Zantac, trying and completely failing to keep the nervousness out of his voice. "Do you have any idea what this is all about?"
The Succubus shrugged, white streaks now shooting in a spiderweb fashion through her red hair. "Haven't a clue. Zel is playing his cards close to his chest. I'm guessing it's an assignment."
Zantac frowned. "You don't think we're being dressed down for something?"
Aimee cocked an eyebrow at him, her hair turning a pure white. "For what? I'm as innocent as the new fallen snow," she purred, running a hand through her now-ivory hair. Her grin turned just a touch malicious. "You been getting into trouble again, Zantac? Afraid of being called out- on the carpet?" she added, her eyes flickering playfully downwards.
"No, not really. I just..." Zantac was seriously beginning to doubt he was going to get through this meeting without having to cross his legs, but at that point the door opened and saved him. The Guildmaster Zelhile and the Scribe Thormord walked in and swiftly went to the two chairs facing the others. Thormord (Martan called him "Egghead," but only behind his back) opened up his logbook on the table, took a quill from his reddish-brown robes and placed it upright upon the book, where it stayed.
The Guildmaster wore glossy, deep blue robes, with small white star-like patterns upon them. He was probably in his late forties, relatively young for such a position. He had closely-cropped long black hair, except where it extended in bangs over his forehead. He was very lithe in build, and his features looked very sharp, almost chiseled. He might have been considered more handsome if not for an ever-present scowl on his face (Zantac had seen that wizards seemed to be more depressed than the population in general. He honestly couldn't figure out why this might be so. It certainly didn't affect him). Zelhile took in the three of them with a glance, then frowned at the fourth empty chair. He placed what looked like a spellbook on the table and then leaned in close to Thormord, and the two of them whispered for a few seconds.
The door opened up again, and Naury came in.
Whereas Aimee sidled, Naury slunk. He always gave the impression of being ready to bolt at a moment's notice. He was wearing his usual dirty blue robes, which showed off well the dandruff falling from his curly gray hair. Hygiene was not Naury's strong point. Martan could be the same way sometimes, but at least he would cover that up with a cantrip. Naury never did. He gave everyone his usual expression- a mild sneer- before taking the last chair. He didn't push it closer to Martan.
Something clicked inside of Zantac. Second tier. We're all second tier wizards! Aimee is right, this must be an assignment. Of course, considering what the assignment might be, it might turn out to be worse than the carpet after all.
The Guildmaster eyed the newest arrival dryly. "So glad you decided to join us, Naury." As he spoke, Thormord's quill began writing.
Naury crossed his arms and didn't flinch. "I had business to attend to. This was my day off, you know."
"Making lots of money?" the Guildmaster queried, a hard smile crossing his lips.
Naury gave an indifferent shrug. "As long as I'm not breaking any Guild laws- and I'm not- what's it anyone's concern?"
Zelhile stared at him for a moment. "Let's hope that's the case, Naury." He then turned his attention upon everyone, crossing his hands in front of him on the table. Zantac knew Martan's face mirrored his own nervousness. Aimee's hair had turned to match Zelhile's black, but a flicker from the Guildmaster's eyes and it turned back to it's regular brown. She was clearly uncomfortable at not knowing what was going on, but still managed to hold her poise.
The Guildmaster waited a few moments, then spoke conversationally.
"What can any of you tell me about the Brass Dragon Inn?"
Martan raised his hand. "I hear they have the best roast goose around," he said with a smile.
Zantac winced, while Naury and the Succubus smirked. Martan had meant it as a joke, but he had a total inability to tell when humor was called for, and when it wasn't.
Zelhile shook his head in wonder. "You'd think that somewhere in that enormous body there would be room for a brain, however small." Martan flinched and looked almost ready to cry. Zantac thought the Guildmaster was being needlessly cruel himself, but he wasn't about to say so. He himself knew where the inn was but had never been there himself. He had heard rumors about the owners but didn't want to risk himself in front of the Guildmaster right now with a wrong answer, so he kept silent. Naury did likewise, although he looked unusually thoughtful, stroking his mutton-chop beard.
Aimee coyly raised her hand.
"The Brass Dragon is the first inn on the main road leading northwest out of Willip, located about ten leagues from the city. It's fairly small, with only three private rooms for rent. The food and the service are far above average, rivaling many of the best establishments here, yet their prices are competitive. The owners are retired adventurers, so it's assumed that they're loaded." She recited this with a small, self-satisfied smile on her face.
Zelhile grunted. "Correct, so far as it goes. One of the owners is a wizard. Know anything about him?"
Aimee had to shrug. "Only that he's not a member."
The Guildmaster nodded slowly and pointed at Aimee, and then his hand to encompass all four mages. "That's right. He's not." Zelhile spoke several arcane phrases while motioning with his hands, and an image appeared above the table. Constantly moving, it seemed to show an aerial view of the road leading to Willip. On the road was a group of people walking. They numbered ten, along with four horses, heavily laden. At least three of the ten were clearly wizards. The image swooped closer and then further away. A flash of white wingtip could be seen. Zantac nodded to himself. This was being seen by Zelhile's familiar, so this group must be en route to the city now.
Aimee leaned forward. Her ends turned blonde, in spite of herself. "Which one is him?" she inquired eagerly.
Zelhile gestured, and the gull drew lower in a lazy circle. A rather handsome man of about thirty, quite tall, was the target. He wore brown robes in the older style (cinched in front, with trousers underneath) and carried the ubiquitous quarterstaff.
Zelhile eyed his underlings. "His name is Cygnus." He paused, and then added, "Did you know he's from another world?"
Four pairs of eyes turned away from the image to meet his face. A bitter smile appeared on that rock-hard face. "As are several of his companions." He leaned back in his chair, crossing his hands behind his head. "Think of it, people. A wizard from another world. What spells he must know. Spells completely unknown to us." Zelhile waved his hand, and the image disappeared. He opened the spellbook he had carried in out on the table. Its pages were blank. "Do you see any of these unique incantations in this book, people?" he asked quietly.
Zantac, Naury and Aimee were quiet. Poor Martan took the bait.
"No" he said.
"Why not?" the Guildmaster roared. Even expecting this outburst, the other three wizards flinched in their chairs, Aimee's hair flashing a platinum blonde. Poor Martan toppled backwards in his chair, hitting the floor with a thud and a crunch of splintering wood.
"He's been here for at least four years, people!" Zelhile continued, ignoring Martan's attempts to get up and fix his chair. "Are you all that seriously dense?" He stood up now, too agitated to remain seated. "Since none of you have showed any initiative in this matter, I thought my Scribe would handle this," the chief magic-user spat out. "But apparently, something has gone wrong there, as well!"
Now it was Thormord's turn to look disquieted. "Cygnus is acquainted with my son Thorimund," he began. "Knowing that his friend's father is in the Guild, I had assumed he would seek us out earlier. I ran into him four days ago in the Prison and suggested he stop by. I was sure that would jog his memory."
Naury frowned. "How does your son know them?"
"They've allied themselves in the past with the druid Wainold. My son is one of his followers," replied Thormord.
"So what went wrong?" The Guildmaster glared at his Scribe.
Thormord shrugged. "It now occurs to me that my son might not have mentioned me to Cygnus. He may have no idea who I am."
"Or he does, and he's just not as chummy with your son as you think he is," smirked Naury. The Scribe glared at him with cold green eyes under bushy eyebrows but said nothing.
"So, then," the Guildmaster continued, sitting down again. "What do we do now?" The four underlings (Martan having cast a mending spell on his chair and rejoined them) looked at each other, and then back at the Guildmaster. Zelhile again pointed at each of them.
"By my estimate, Cygnus is a second-tier wizard, so someone of his approximate abilities would make the best recruiter. But who? Do I send a disreputable criminal, a bloated, incompetent oaf, a rebel who thinks oh-so-highly of himself, or a brazen seductress? What options I have!" he finished snidely.
Looking to his left and right, Zantac saw that Naury looked less insulted than he would have supposed, Martan was busy studying his stomach, and Aimee was allowing herself a look of wounded pride. "I don't have to be brazen, you know," she said softly with a slight smile to Zelhile. To Zantac's surprise, the Guildmaster returned the smile, somewhat.
"Cygnus is a widower, Aimee. About two years ago, his wife, who was also a wizard, was murdered. Your approach might backfire." Zelhile stated thoughtfully, and then turned to stare directly at Zantac.
"Congratulations, Zantac. You're the winner by default." The Guildmaster stood up, closing his book. The meeting was clearly over. "Do whatever you have to, Zantac. Give him some free trinkets if you have to, but I want Cygnus as a member."
"What if he says no?" Zantac asked nervously.
The Guildmaster leaned in close. "Well then, we'll just have to roll out the red carpet for him, won't we?"