by Dmitry Bilik
I dialed Julia who replied that she’d only be free in the evening, that she missed me and wanted to see me — and that she needed to have a serious talk with me.
At this point, Arts entered the room.
“Okay, see you later,” I hung up and raised my head quizzically at her.
“He seems to have calmed down a bit. He’s gonna cook now. We’d better leave; it’s about time, anyway.”
She didn’t have to ask me twice. The sight of a weeping girl is bad enough, but a crying goblin is even worse. I hurried to don my trench coat and put my boots on. After a moment’s deliberation, I shouted,
“Bumpkin, I’ll be back this evening!”
“Very well, Master,” his voice rang out meekly from the kitchen.
All’s well and good, then.
“Could you give me the address again,” I asked Arts as I opened the taxi app on my phone.
She unceremoniously grabbed the phone from me and tapped in the street and the house number. Ours seemed to be a strange relationship. We were friends to the point of being almost overly familiar with each other, and still occasionally there was some kind of mistrust between us. It was as if we were afraid of upsetting the fragile harmony of our togetherness.
I took my phone back and checked the map. Her and her secrecy again! We’d still have to walk another block to get to the restaurant.
“It was all a bit of a strange situation, really,” Arts suddenly began to tell me while we headed downstairs. “Bumpkin was cooking something — or he’d just put the kettle on, I can’t remember now. And the gas hob apparently went out. At the time, Mark used to live in a small studio, so both of them got a good lungful of gas. No matter how strong a Player is, you just can’t survive a large dose of methane. Mark tried to get to the kitchen but he only made things worse for himself because the gas concentration was even higher there. He lost consciousness right there and then. It was the stupidest death of a Player in Cesspit over the last hundred years.”
“I never though you could kill a Player with something as trivial as that.”
She shrugged. “Well, if oxygen is so trivial to you, you’d better sign up for that Martian colonization project. You might have a good chance of surviving up there.”
“Okay, okay. But how is it that Bumpkin survived?”
“Firstly, he’s a house goblin. They’re extremely difficult to kill. Secondly, he was further away from the gas hob. He was lucky he wasn’t too attached to Mark, though.”
“Why?” I asked, waving to the cabbie who’d just pulled up in the courtyard.
We climbed into the cab and buckled up. Arts waited for the cabbie to pull away before continuing. This time her voice was so soft I could barely make it out over the noise of the radio.
“Have you ever seen a house goblin who just lost his master?”
“Not a house goblin but I did see a barn hand.”
“Okay. And how did you find him?”
“He was pretty screwed up,” I admitted.
“But Bumpkin, as I gathered, took it pretty well. He kept his sanity, anyway. He suffered, of course, like anyone would. But he was lucky that Mark was such an dickhead.”
“Poor Mark must be turning in his grave now. His asshole is probably on fire.”
“It’s rotting in hell, more likely. In any case, ashes can’t turn in the grave. Why do you think Bumpkin forgot about the gas? He was just too freakin’ busy. His master was a real piece of work. He made sure Bumpkin earned his keep. He'd buy all kinds of ingredients and recipes and force Bumpkin to make potions for him. Some of them were really complex, so he had to watch over them like a hawk. And Mark would just sell them. No idea how he made Bumpkin do that. One day I was there when he brought two big bags of ‘crazy eyes’ — it’s a plant — and ordered Bumpkin to sift through them. There was no love lost between the two.”
“Why didn’t Bumpkin run off?”
“Once a house goblin enters a house, he can’t leave it. If the relationship between the two becomes strained, his master has the right to set him free or pass him on to another master, provided the goblin goes along with it.”
“Why didn’t you take Bumpkin on yourself?”
“What are you talking about? I’m a loner. I wouldn’t even have pot plants in my house, let alone a sentient creature like this.”
“You did live with Mark though.”
“Yeah, because I was stupid. Also, he’s dead now, isn’t he? Speak well of the dead and all that. Unfortunately, I can’t think of any good things to say about him. So we’d better say nothing.”
As we drove, I kept thinking. Some people seemed to have such a calm and nonchalant bearing which could conceal a bottomless chasm beneath. Arts had always had this air of aloofness about her, bordering on bitchiness. But when she’d spoken about this Mark guy, she’d been literally shaking with emotion. This was the opposite of nonchalance.
And one more thing. According to Bumpkin, Arts and Mark had split up about eight years ago. I’d been seventeen at the time. Which meant that Arts, a. k. a. Miss Vasilisa, was definitely older than me. So much for her teenage appearance. Players just don’t seem to age as we understand it, do they?
Time flies when you’re lost in thought. Especially because the ride was very short to begin with. I paid the cabbie off and got out of the car. By then, Arts was already shuffling around on the sidewalk. Only now did I realize that she wasn’t dressed for the weather. She must have been freezing. If my own wardrobe choice could be explained away by my hot Korl blood, it took me some time to realize that Vasilisa (I had to get used to using her real name now) just wanted to look good. All of her in-game clothes were perfectly color-coordinated. And the handbag — which she really didn’t even need because of her inventory — was a perfect match for her shoes. Girls will be girls.
“Let’s go,” I grumbled, pretending I was quite cold too. “Why did they have to set up a meeting here, of all places?”
“No idea. They don’t want to be seen in the Community, I suppose. Also, there aren’t many guards around here. The Syndicate is really crap here, and so are the missions. They only post stuff that’s already been put out everywhere else. The only interesting thing about it is the bookshop. It’s quite pricey though. It’s cheaper to go to Moscow or London even.”
By then, I’d already worked out what she meant. A new marker had lit up on my map: Syndicate. I took out the True Mirror — and it took all of my willpower not to guffaw out loud. This wasn’t even a bar but a pawn shop, and a real tiny one at that. Not the kind of place where you should linger or somewhere where you could hang out for a beer. According to Arts, the bookshop was in the backyard behind the restaurant. Very well. Business first, then I could do a bit of antique book shopping.
Well, well, well. If this wasn’t the restaurant I’d been to on my very first day in the game! Only this time, no one met me at the entrance. Apparently, they could tell a newb by the insecurity in his or her gaze, their stiff bearing and the lack of spring in their gait. Now, however, I walked in with a confident step, fully intending to order some more of the heavenly drink I’d had with my dumplings the last time. Although still not a patch on Czech beer (which now I knew from experience), it was still a decent brew.
Nobody had paid any particular attention to us, apart from a few players who’d nodded to Arts. The rest gave us a fleeting glance and immediately turned away. That wasn’t exactly what I’d expected, was it? But a few did recognize me too: the Sorcerer bartender and the Teleporter guard. The latter sprang from his place as we entered, blocking the way to a young Archalus behind us.
“I’m very sorry but today there’s a special booking in our club.”
“But I only wanted one drink.”
“A couple of blocks further down the road, there’s Mimosa. It’s a great place. The owner is a succubus. You can get a drink and what-have-you there.”
We took a table. The bartender turned up personally and gave Arts a peck on the
cheek. “I did as you asked me to. Today our place is off limits to anyone with feathers. But that’s gonna cost you.”
“I’ll make it worth your while,” Vasilisa said. “Bring me any kind of salad, as long as it’s without mayo.”
“And your new friend?”
“Just some beer and nuts.”
“We’ve just had a delivery of some very reasonable stout.”
I nodded. The atmosphere here was very laidback. Quite pleasant actually, as if it were a lazy day in mid-June outside, not the end of January. An anchor was mumbling the news on television which was zapping automatically between channels. The patrons spoke in low voices between themselves. The owner was busy clinking crockery behind the bar.
And after another couple of minutes, I realized that my life was now complete. Because the black beer he’d brought me was above reproach. It was chilled to perfection, with a light sweet note to it, so that even regular salted pistachios tasted just great with it.
I was just about to raise my hand to order another one when Arts whispered under her breath,
“There they are.”
I turned my head and very nearly choked on a nut. The room had suddenly become darker due to their huge pompous figures.
Every conversation in the room died down. All eyes were on the newcomers: two Kabirids in full combat gear — apparently, bodyguards — flanking a third one, watchfully protecting their charge: an elderly demon who was surveying the place grimly.
His stooping posture was more than compensated by his impressive height. He had a pair of massive rounded horns, a powerful jaw and a heavy glare. When he brushed his cloak aside, I noticed that half of his left hoof was mechanical. What was it now, some kind of fad?
My Insight identified him as Demopath.
His hooded glare checked out the place until it alighted on Arts and myself. He headed for our table. Despite my Katzbalger, moon-steel dagger, a full set of time rewinds and several quite important spells, I still felt very uncomfortable.
“You’re Arts.”
Without waiting for her reply to what probably wasn’t even a question, the Kabirid plonked himself down at our table. The chair was so small for him that the old man had to perch himself on the very edge of it like a constipated pianist. It didn’t seem to faze him in the slightest. His bodyguards were completely ruthless: they simply walked over to the nearest tables and motioned the patrons to go and sit somewhere else. Nobody said a word to them, including the bartender who promptly conjured up a menu. Still, the old man just waved him away.
“Show me the spear.”
Arts pulled it out of her inventory and handed it to the demon. He studied it carefully and shook his head sadly, very nearly brushing me with his horns.
“My last son. He wanted to become a Seeker so badly. He used to dream of leading legions of Kabirids into battle. He wanted to immortalize our name. I did tell him he’d be much better off just buying himself a development branch. But he was so proud and ambitious! He wanted to achieve everything on his own...”
The old man shook his head again, then turned sharply to me, pinning me with his searching glare. I felt I was being turned inside out.
“Was it you who killed him?”
“It just happened,” I said, not knowing how to answer.
“It wasn’t your fault. He chose his own path. It’s just that I never thought that our Little Tin could ever have been defeated by a half-blood human. You must be a very powerful warrior. What’s your name?”
“Sergei... er, Serg. You can call me Serg.”
“I am Ufir von Urt from the Krune clan. I am the last to bear this name until Tin’s children come of age.”
He proffered me his huge hand which I was obliged to shake, feeling highly awkward. I was his son’s murderer, sitting next to his father. I wouldn’t wish this on my worst enemy.
“This spear is very important to me,” he went on. “When my father left on his first foray, his father gave him this spear and told him to use it to immortalize our name. And so he did. Then it was my turn to go to war. Many an Archalus have met their fate on the tip of this spear. When I grew old, it was Riot’s turn who was my eldest son. He was already a Seeker then. He fell in his third battle. After that, it was Sagrat, then Iriot and now Tin. All my boys are dead now...”
Now I felt really like shit. I couldn’t touch my beer. Never mind this was a real demon sitting in front of me. He was a father first and foremost — a father who’d just lost all of his sons.
“Two kilos, as agreed,” the demopath broke the uneasy silence. He threw a couple of bags of dust on the table which Arts promptly spirited away. “And this is for you,” he handed me a folded sheet of yellowed parchment.
“This is the map of the Orders of Mechilos. I’ll go and live on the tenth one. It’s a lousy old place but still better than Firoll which is constantly at war with somebody. I’ll be moving there with my grandchildren until they grow up. After that, we might move a few Orders higher. But that’s not gonna happen for quite a while. If ever you need anything, you can find me there.”
“Why are you doing this?” I asked, not knowing what to say.
“You’ve shown yourself to be a worthy adversary and a warrior who knows the meaning of the word ‘honor’. You didn’t have to bring me this Arichalk spear back. Anyone else would have paid you much more for it. So whenever you need help, don’t hesitate to contact me.”
Your reputation has changed to Rigorist.
He shook my hand again, nodded lightly to Arts and left the building with his bodyguards in tow. The displaced patrons showed no intention of reclaiming their places, whispering and pointing at the door — and occasionally, at us. Arts, however, was on the verge of tears as soon as they’d left.
“Holy Jesus, I’m so stupid! I should have shown it to a master swordsmith. Or a good spell modifier. An Arichalk spear! They put a special spell on it so you couldn’t recognize it! All the money we’ve lost! There’re only a few of them in the whole universe!”
“No, we did the right thing,” I cut her short. “That spear meant an awful lot to him.”
“Yeah, but...”
I was forced to raise my voice. “Don’t argue!”
I unfolded the parchment given to me by Ufir von Urt from the Krune clan. How funny. All it contained was a few concentric circles marked with dots which must have signified houses. The tiniest central circle was denoted as Order One. The smaller the circle, the smaller the percentage it was marked with. Order One had 8% inked in next to it. And the largest — Order Ten with one of the houses ringed in red — was at 100%.
Your Axiology skill has increased to level 2.
“What are these percentages all about? I asked Arts.
“It’s the amount of organic matter allowed in order to be able to stay within a certain Order.”
“Wow,” I said. “Some kind of restrictions they have!”
“Of course. The more steel parts you have in your body, the higher you can rise within the Mechanoid hierarchy.”
I remembered the mechanoid beastman. The only organic part still left in him was his head with his enormous crocodile jaws. And he was what, the Manager of the Fourth Order? He must have been a real high flyer.
“Sergei, look here, quick.”
“What now?” I looked up, but all I saw was the back of her head.
The room fell silent. All eyes, including hers, were glued to the television screen. It had switched to some weird Czech channel — a local one, apparently. An elderly woman was standing in front of a busted front door, recounting something very emotional. I didn’t understand the language but there was a ticker tape running below.
“Františka Koláč heard a noise and looked out the window. By then, the door had already been busted off its hinges and the suspect was already inside. After a while, the alleged criminal reappeared on the doorstep, holding a man who appeared to be unconscious. By all accounts, it must have been the house’s owner Radko Pog
an. The Prague police had compiled an identikit photo of the suspect.”
The Seers’ mansion had disappeared from the screen, replaced by the sketch of a Player whose face was already familiar to me. Sharp cheekbones, a disdainful look in his eyes and snow-white hair, perfectly clear to me even from this black and white picture.
What a bastard! Being a Player, he must have had Camouflage but apparently he hadn’t even bothered with it.
Arts turned around and gave me a long look.
“It’s already started,” she said in a shaking voice.
Chapter 27
“WHEN CHAOS AND PANIC sweep over the world, you should keep your hair on.” Whoever had said this must have been pretty smart. Could have been Plato or Aristotle for all I knew. Or maybe I’d come up with it myself, I can’t remember. One thing was for certain: it was a pretty good thought. You can’t avoid the inevitable. All you can do is face your fate calmly and with dignity, to the extent of your powers and abilities.