Avatar of Light

by Dmitry Bilik

  “Sure. Don’t mention the number of times I’ve saved your butt. Was it three or four? — I can’t even remember. Never mind. Where do we need to meet them? Mind you, I’m not going to any places of ill repute.”

  “I’m not as stupid as you might think. I’ve set up a meeting in the Inn.”

  “The restaurant in the center, you mean? “

  “That’s the one. This afternoon after 3 p.m.”

  I glanced at my watch. I still had loads of time. I could still do some shopping, if only to humor Bumpkin. So I nodded quite happily.

  “One problem, though,” I said. “We need to go and check on Traug.”

  “I’ve been there already. He doesn’t answer the door.”

  “You should try it again, then. Let’s go there together and see what he’s up to.”

  We left the place and headed for the Gatehouse. As I walked past a tiny crossroads leading to the shopping street, I once again noticed the funny group of mechanoids hanging about next to Rumis’ shop. What a strange choice. Then I remembered that Rumis wasn’t exactly a 100% Purg, either. Could it be some sort of school reunion?

  Traug’s door, which normally stood wide open to all the pretty ladies and booze, was now locked. I studied the lock with the air of an expert burglar (me, for crying out loud!) and scratched the back of my head. This kind of lock required a professional, not a half-blood Korl. Still, even I had a couple of ideas already.

  I eased Arts aside to a safe distance, took a few steps back and barged at the door with my best imitation of Cristiano Ronaldo.

  Although I didn’t see the actual impact, I heard the cracking of the splintered wood which meant I was on the right track. After my second more enthusiastic attempt, part of the door frame broke out together with one of the boards.

  Arts covered her nose. “Gosh it stinks!”

  She could say that again. The only thing missing was the train station-style notice, “Our public toilets are out of order. We apologize for the inconvenience”. It was the heady mixture of week-old socks, stale booze and unwashed male bodies.

  I opened the door wide, not at all in a hurry to get in. Only after my nose had adapted to the stench a little, I finally realized I couldn’t delay the inevitable and stepped inside.

  “Jesus Christ almighty,” Arts said behind me. “Had Traug been a fish, I’d have said he was dead. What a stinker!”

  “Not a truer word said in jest. They say that you can’t make mulled wine with vodka and rotten onions — but it looks like he at least had tried.”

  I studied the heaps of empty bottles, jugs and plastic cans (by the looks of it, he’d even ventured out into town to buy some more booze). This was unbelievable. How strong did one need to be just to be able to drink so much? I had no one to ask, though, because both participants in this drunken symposium lay in each others’ arms on the bed, dead to the world.

  Please don’t get me wrong: both were fully dressed, Litius sprawled on the bed with his four legs spread wide, Traug huddling on his side clutching his buddy’s tail. The picture was so peaceful it was a shame to ruin it.

  I kicked Traug lightly. No reaction. What a state to get in! I slapped Litius on the cheek, with the same result. I brought my face closer and listened. Both were breathing.

  “No good you try,” Arts said, walking over to me with a small bottle made of dark glass, the kind they sell medications in. “They’re high on stok.”

  “What’s that, some kind of drug?”

  “Sort of. It’s an upper that gives you a boost to all your stats while also improving all your mental and physical abilities. “They produce it in Qird.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “It’s three worlds down from here.”

  “Okay. And what are the side effects?”

  “You’re looking at them right now. The drug’s effects only last for a short while, followed by a period of complete catatonia. A lot of it depends on the quantity... but if they took the whole vial and washed it down with alcohol, you can safely forget them for a couple of days.”

  I breathed a sigh of relief. “That’s excellent!”

  “What do you mean?”

  “This is exactly why they won’t be around when Morbian comes. They won’t be dead: they’ll be asleep! This is the best possible scenario. Knowing Traug, he wouldn’t have been able to keep out of it. Let’s go. Let them sleep it off. Having said that...”

  I grinned at my rather politically incorrect idea, then started peeling off their clothes: Traug’s first, then Litius’. Given their weight, it wasn’t that easy. I let their undies on, though, then covered them with a bed throw lying on the floor.

  “Why did you have to do that?”

  “Serves them right. Next time they might think twice before drinking themselves into a stupor. Come on, let’s go.”

  I gingerly put the door frame back in and pulled hard. The wood creaked and broke. I reset it again and gave a light knock. It seemed to be holding.

  “Listen, Arts, I’ll see you in the Inn. I still have a couple of errands to run. I need to do some shopping...”

  “Can I come with you?”

  Her question caught me off balance. I froze, rummaging through my brain for the right answer, but couldn’t. In the end, I just shrugged, then gave it some more thought and nodded.

  I exchanged thirty grams of dust for rubles, and we left the Community. I felt pretty ill at ease. Arts and I had this friendly relationship while keeping each other at arm’s distance. We could hang out and help each other without encroaching on each other’s privacy. And here I was, out to do some shopping with a Player girl — and how was I supposed to take the groceries home? What if she saw Bumpkin? He didn’t like that sort of thing. Forget Bumpkin: what if Julia saw us together?

  “You aren’t gonna dial a cab here, are you?”

  “Actually, yes,” I said. “We’re not within the Community limits, are we?”

  “Sergei, Sergei. Look around you. How many houses can you see? The cab’s GPS will mark your location as that two-story hovel over here. How many people do you think live there? Eight apartments, if you’re lucky. And now think of all the newbie Seekers who dial a cab the moment they exit the Community.”

  “Oh,” I said, realizing my gaffe.

  “If you continue like this, you’ll get your first warning regarding the Third Rule of Cesspit. Which will put you on the guards’ watch list. You really need that?”

  I shook my head. Indeed, when I’d come here with Hunter, he’d only stopped the cab when we’d already passed the Community grounds. And when we went back, we took a bus. So that’s what it was, then. Another case of live and learn.

  So we had to walk another block and call a cab from a totally different street just to get to the farmers’ market.

  Arts didn’t say a word during the whole ride, making me feel even more uncomfortable. I’d thought she must have had a reason to tag along, like she needed to talk to me about something. But it didn’t seem to be the case which made it even stranger.

  Once we got to the market however, she brightened up. Twice she talked me out of buying things, pointing out another stall where the same product was cheaper. I tried to tell her that money wasn’t an issue — only to receive a look of such contempt as if I were a cruel fat bastard gobbling down a double cheeseburger in front of an emaciated African kid.

  Although I’d failed to locate some of the items on Bumpkin’s list, by the time I left the market my wallet felt considerably lighter — even though I left it empty-handed. Why empty-handed? — because I’d stuffed all five enormous shopping bags into my inventory! True, my legs felt a little heavier and my back strained somewhat as if I were carrying a 12-pound backpack — while in fact I had enough groceries on me to feed a squadron of hungry rookies for a week.

  “That house over there?” Arts asked when the cab pulled up.

  “Yeah,” I murmured as I paid.

  I had no idea whether I should open the car
door for her. On one hand, she was a lady; on the other, she was a buddy. What did etiquette say about cute tomboys you weren’t romantically involved with? I couldn’t remember, either. Thankfully, she put me out of this predicament by climbing out of the car herself.

  Just to please, Professor was in his usual place on the bench. He looked Arts over with a look of apparent interest, then smiled softly and even tipped the pompom of his knitted cap. “Greetings and salutations!”

  “Hi, Mr. Sergeev,” I hurried to tap the number into the entry system.

  The door opened. I slid inside, cursing my immaturity and lack of willpower. Why had I had to bring Arts along? Why, if her presence made me so uncomfortable? Never mind. All I had to do was drop off the shopping, then I’d be back on my way to see our demonic buyers.

  I opened the door and promptly spoke in a loud voice to send Bumpkin a message that I wasn’t alone.

  “Puss, puss, puss... Bump... er, Buddy, I’m home. Daddy’s home! Puss, puss, puss...”

  “You have a cat?”

  “Sure... a shy little thing. He must be cowering in a corner somewhere. Never mind. It won’t take me a mome-”

  I stopped half-word because my eyes opened wide. Bumpkin popped out of thin air in the middle of the hall and eyed Arts with curiosity — no, with unbridled joy.

  “Hi Bumpkin,” the girl finally said.

  “Hi, Miss Vasilisa.”

  I froze like a pillar of salt, unable to wrap my head around it. It took me some time to finally ask the pretty obvious question:

  “Do you two know each other?”

  Chapter 26

  THERE ARE THREE TYPES of surprises: pleasant ones, unpleasant ones and those that knock you off balance. The first ones are pretty self-explanatory. It’s like when you've dragged yourself home in the evening feeling absolutely exhausted and discover a big bag of cherries sitting in the kitchen with a note from your Mom: “decided to pop by but you were out, thought you might like these”.

  The second type is also pretty obvious. Normally, it’s your boss who comes up with things like an extra work assignment or a business trip to some God-forsaken hole in the ground at a moment’s notice. And yes, they do like to dress it up as something you might really like, saying in a sickly sweet voice, “Boris (or Vladimir, or Sergei), we’ve got a surprise for you!”

  Now the third type can be a bit tricky. It’s the Mexican-soap-opera kind where you suddenly discover that some stinking-rich Don Esteban San Jose Maurito is in fact your biological father. You can’t really tell whether it’s good news or bad because in the long run it could be either. And at the moment, it just knocks you off balance, so you just stand there flabbergasted, trying to take it all in.

  Which was the kind of feeling I had when I sipped tea in my kitchen feeling I was the odd man out in my own home. Bumpkin was putting the shopping away, nodding his approval at some of the groceries while shaking his head at others. Arts was showering him with questions about his life after the death of a certain Mark. The goblin replied reluctantly in monosyllables, casting occasional glances at me.

  “Miss Vasilisa,” I set my tea mug down on the table.

  Arts startled — either from the sudden noise or from the sound of her own name.

  “How about someone tells me what the hell’s going on between you two?”

  “Nothing really,” she gave a curt shrug which was a bit too theatrical really, as if she was trying hard to pretend this was just business as usual. “We used to have a mutual friend, that’s all.”

  “Who, Mark? That I gathered. How about clueing me in?”

  “There’s nothing to clue you in about,” she said in a raised voice.

  Oh wow. She seemed to be really defensive about this. “Okay, okay,” I raised a conciliatory hand. “Don’t tell me if you don’t want to. I’m sure Bumpkin will be happy to oblige.”

  The goblin, who until now had been listening intently to our diatribe, made a weird hiccupping sound and disappeared. Yeah right.

  “Bumpkin? Come here, please!”

  He reappeared momentarily, then vanished yet again. This happened several times until he finally materialized definitively next to a kitchen unit, looking very guilty. His face betrayed such a measure of anguish that even a seasoned SS officer would have been touched to the quick. Still, I absolutely needed to sort out this plot twist right out of an episode of Santa Barbara.

  “Bumpkin, are you my house goblin or not?”

  “I am,” he said fatalistically.

  “So you should obey me, right? Do I understand correctly?”

  “Yes,” he said meekly.

  “If I ask you to do something, will you do it for me?”

  “I will,” his voice was so quiet it resembled the squeak of a mouse.

  “Stop pestering Buddy!” Arts interjected. “I used to date his old master. Happy now?”

  I shook my head. “Not really. You had your chance to speak. I’m speaking to Bumpkin now. Now, sir, how do you know Arts... or rather, Miss Vasilisa?”

  He didn’t reply straight away. It took him a while to pluck up the courage. A couple of times, he opened his mouth to speak but reconsidered. After a long pause, he finally said,

  “She used to be my old master’s fiancée.”

  “Whose, Mark’s?”

  He nodded. “Yes. But it’s been almost eight years since they split up.”

  “Why was that?”

  “Just one of those things,” Bumpkin replied evasively.

  “It’s just that Mark turned out to be a real scumbag, which I didn’t realize straight away,” Arts butted in. “He’d rob the pennies off a blind man’s eyes and sell his own mother for a handful of dust.”

  I gestured her to stop. “Bumpkin, my dear, mind telling me about your old master?”

  “There’s nothing to tell,” he grumbled. “Just a human like any other. Two arms and two legs.”

  “Buddy’s not gonna tell you anything,” she interrupted me again, “because Mark was an asshole. ‘Was’ being the operative word. At least when I was with him. House goblins will never badmouth their old masters in front of strangers. And I’m technically a stranger here.”

  “Are you?” I asked in surprise.

  The goblin nodded. “Miss Vasilisa is a fine upstanding girl. If one day you decide to get married and have a bunch of kids, I’ll be only too happy. You wouldn’t have made a better choice.”

  I was a bit taken aback, I have to admit. Not because Bumpkin had all but married us off without even asking our permission, but because he’d called her a ‘fine upstanding girl’. He hadn’t said anything of the kind about Julia although he’d seen her too — and I had actually asked him what he’d thought about her. He’d just found some lame excuse not to answer, the bastard.

  “Wait a sec, Bumpkin,” it suddenly dawned on me, “didn’t you tell me that your last master kicked you out? And now it turns out he’s dead? Your statements don’t seem to add up.”

  “I wouldn’t say he kicked me out,” Bumpkin said, utterly embarrassed. “More like, he abandoned me.”

  Arts laughed, unable to restrain herself. “Bumpkin, please. He’s gonna find out anyway. Basically, Sergei, your house goblin rendered this city an invaluable service. And not just this city but possibly also a couple of neighboring worlds too. Bumpkin killed his old master.”

  This bit of news completely bowled me over. To give you an example, when you start dating a girl, you naturally presume she must have had her share of previous affairs. We’re not talking about the cases when you discover that she’s been widowed already three times and you’re the fourth on the list. Probably not the right metaphor to describe my present relationship with Bumpkin but in a way, he too was my.. well, not exactly my servant but my... assistant? That wasn’t the right word, either. Basically, when I’d taken him on, I’d sincerely presumed that he couldn’t possibly harm me. And now this.

  In the meantime, Bumpkin looked utterly distraught. He stood
with his head hung low, huge tears rolling down his face onto the lino. And judging by his ever-deepening sobs, he’d only just started.

  Arts rose from her chair and took him in her arms to console him. “Bumpkin, it’ wasn’t your fault. It was just an unfortunate coincidence.”

  “But I... but that makes me a...”

  “It doesn’t make you anything of the sort.”

  I got up and went back into the room. What was there to say? You can meet nutcases everywhere but it’s only in a loony bin that they really stand out. And my house looked more like a funny farm with every passing day.