The Sleeping Dragon

by Joel Rosenberg

  "Ooo." She grimaced. "Sorry I was late last time." She tossed her head, brightening. "But don't worry. Soon as Doc works me back into the campaign, I'll heal both of you up."

  James Michael smiled. "Make that 'heal Barak up.' Ahira's just fine."

  She wrinkled her forehead. "How? I know Barak had some healing draughts in his bag—but Ahira—"

  "—persuaded him to fork them over."

  She toyed with the ruffles of her blouse. "What did you offer him? As though I didn't know." She raised a finger in mock accusation.

  "Not bashing him with my axe."

  "Sounds fair." She reached up and scratched the tip of her stubby nose. Slovotsky claimed it was artificial; James Michael had a standing bet that it was natural. Unfortunately, there was no way to find out; Doria ignored all questions on the subject. "But one of these times he's not going to stand for it, if you keep it up. Bully. He might—" She caught herself. "Never mind."

  James Michael sighed. It was obvious why Cullinane didn't want to fight him, despite the way he'd been provoking the confrontation. If Ahira killed Barak, Cullinane would lose—and if Barak managed to win, James Michael would be, at least temporarily, out of the game. Cullinane wouldn't want to kick a cripple out of the game, would he? "I guess he recognized that it was more useful to the whole team to have Ahira up and healthy, what with us being underground, and all." A dwarf's natural habitat was in underground warrens, where his ability to see in the infrared gave him a clear advantage.

  "That sounds like a bit too . . . sound reasoning for Barak. His IQ's not that high, is it?"

  "Wisdom, Doria, wisdom. Barak is the wisest fighter around. Not a berserker, like Ahira." He formed his hands into clumsy fists, and pounded himself lightly on the chest. "Arg."

  A new voice bellowed from the doorway. "You going berserk, again?" Walter Slovotsky swaggered into the room, smelling vaguely of Ivory, his hair damp. "Doria, James." He nodded, dropped his books to the floor, kicked his shoes off and in the general direction of a far corner, and perched himself tailor-fashion on the table. "How goes it?"

  Of all the people on campus that he knew—hell, of all the people he knew, specifically including his parents—James Michael was most comfortable around Walter Slovotsky. Jealous, sure—but not unusually so; James didn't particularly want to Be a Football Hero. The thing was that the big man was so sure of himself, without being offensive about it. Whether he was stomping quarterbacks out on the field or spending extra time in the Ag Library, cramming for a final in Meat Science (a course that Slovotsky couldn't mention without chuckling), Slovotsky seemed certain that the universe centered on him, and that all was well with the universe.

  A massive hand reached out and chucked Doria under the chin. "And where the hell were you last Friday, m'love?"

  "Thursday." She shoved his hand away. "And you know damn well where I wasn't; you were the one yelling 'Come on time if you want to play,' weren't you?"

  "No, I meant Friday. I thought you were going to come over, spend the night."

  "Shh." She started to jerk a thumb toward James Michael, stopped herself. "I don't think—"

  "Precisely. You don't think." He turned to James, running blunt fingers through his damp black hair. "Jimmy me boy, would it be any surprise to you to learn that Doria and I sleep together, every now and then?"

  "Walter!"

  "No, not really," James Michael said. Doria's pale skin went from light pink through various shades of red before settling on a nice hot crimson. He looked her in the eye, suppressing an urge to reach out and pat her arm. "Not that he ever said anything about it. I'm pretty good at reading people for a . . ."—an impish impulse made him pause—"computer sciences major."

  Walter's broad face went somber. "Exactly. Beautiful, I don't tell on ladies. Wouldn't mention it in front of Cullinane, say—he's an explosion, looking for a place to happen. Trouble with you Jewish girls is that your desire to do it is in inverse proportion to your willingness to talk about it."

  Doria's skin had gone back to its normal shade, which made her glare at Slovotsky a trifle less comical. "Another one of Slovotsky's Laws?"

  "Actually"—he cocked his head to one side—"I think that I got that from one of my many roommates—Bernstein-the-rabbi, I think."

  Many roommates was a fair statement of fact, James Michael thought. Not a whole lot of people liked spending their nights mainly on the couch in the lounge.

  Slovotsky brightened. "But I don't mind stealing it. Make it Slovotsky's Law Number Twenty-three, right after 'Never date a woman with a brother named Nunzio.' " He bounced to his feet. "I'm going for coffee. Either of you need anything from the snack bar?"

  "Shoes," James Michael supplied.

  "Sorry, they don't serve them there. A burger close enough?" He patted the hip pocket of his jeans. "On me. Had a nice bet we wouldn't beat the spread against Yale."

  "No, you've got to wear shoes."

  Slovotsky looked down at his blue-sock-clad feet, then blanked his face. "James, when you're six-foot-one-and-a-fraction, weighing in at two-twenty-three, nobody tells you you've got to wear shoes." His eyes glazed over. "Walter not un-der-stand. Per-son half his size telling him he not come in? Walter must have mis-un-der-stood." He shrugged, a bit sadly. "You wouldn't believe how easily people believe that if you're big, you've gotta be dumb. And violent. Now, do you want anything?"

  Doria shrugged. "Coffee sounds fine."

  "James?"

  "Herb tea. Red Zinger, if they've got it. With plenty of sugar." He mimicked Slovotsky's big-and-dumb voice. "Ahira need to keep strength up."

  "That's the ticket." Walter paused in the doorway. "But if it takes me more than a couple of minutes, don't let them start without me. Assuming that the rest get here on time."

  "I wouldn't dream of it." Doria's voice held a definite chill.

  * * *

  "Hey, Dr. Deighton, wait up." Jason Parker broke into a lope, letting Riccetti fall behind.

  The thin, stoop-shouldered man stopped under a streetlight and turned, the harsh green casting his face into shadow. He wore a tan wool suit, amply decorated with burn marks from his ever-present bulldog briar pipe; the suit, like the pipe, the battered briefcase, and the man, had come a long way since new, the wrinkles having developed a life of their own, as though they would be resistant to even the stubbornest, most persistent dry cleaning.

  "Good evening, Mr. Parker." The voice was out of place; it was a strong young tenor, the voice of a prepubescent boy, not a sixtyish philosophy professor. "And good evening to you, Mr. Riccetti," he added, as Lou Riccetti panted up to join them under the streetlight. "I trust you're ready for the test tomorrow?"

  Lou Riccetti shrugged, his round face covered with a light sheen of sweat. "I hope so, Doc. I've got the Apologia practically memorized, and this is my second go-round with the Republic."

  Jason chuckled. It was a good bet that Lou would flunk again; he never seemed to be able to understand anything that didn't have a number attached. Engineering students— "Hey, no teaching tonight, Doc. You're gamemastering tonight, not using your conclusions to prove your postulates." He took an impatient step toward the Student Union building.

  Deighton took a few puffs on his pipe, then followed. "You have that reversed, Mr. Parker." He blew a smoke ring; it shattered and drifted away in the light, cool breeze. "One uses one's postulates to prove one's conclusions, not the other way around."

  Jason shrugged his bony shoulders and tucked his hands into the pockets of his fraying army jacket. "That's what you say. Seems to me you philosophers do both. Sort of bootstrap levitation."

  "A nice phrase, that. Not true, mind you, but a nice phrase." Deighton sighed deeply. "But your major premise was correct: We are gaming tonight. Mr. Riccetti, I apologize if I seemed to be pressuring you about the test tomorrow."

  "No problem, Doc." Riccetti cocked his head to one side. "Any clues about what we're going to run into after we get through the treasure room?"


  "Ricky, don't ask." Jason tried to keep irritation out of his voice; he failed. "Either he won't tell us, in which case you're just wasting your breath, or he will—and that'd ruin the game. Let it flow, don't—"

  "—force it. Okay, okay. I was just asking."

  "Actually, I can tell you something without spoiling anything." Deighton smiled crookedly around his pipestem. "But if you'd prefer to wait . . ."

  "Go ahead." Jason was curious. Doc never gave anything away, except at the start of a campaign, of course, where the gamemaster would have to set the scene, give out a clue or two.

  "We are beginning a new campaign tonight. From scratch."

  "Wait one minute." Riccetti slapped his bookbag. "I've spent one hell of a lot of time turning Aristobulus into a K-Class wizard—I don't want to have to start again back in A-Class, with just one spell. Sleep, probably."

  At least Ricky was keeping his wits. Of all the spells available to an A-Class wizard, the Sleep spell—technically, Herstell's Spell of Induced Somnolence—was the most useful. Once you had an enemy sleeping, he, she, it, or they were as good as dead if you wanted them to be.

  "That was not what I meant, Mr. Riccetti. We will be starting a new campaign, yes, but not with A-Class characters. They wouldn't be likely to survive. You can run Aristobulus, if you like. The balance should be about right that way, as a matter of fact."

  Jason ticked players and characters off on his fingers. "Let's see . . . Cullinane and James are going to run their warriors—I'm sure about that: I talked to Karl about it earlier. And James always runs Ahira, of course."

  "Jase, I don't think he always does. Didn't he—"

  "Nope. You should pay attention." It was obvious why the poor little guy always wanted to be a warrior; the game was the closest he was ever going to get to being like Slovotsky. It was kind of pitiful, the way James Michael tried to pretend he wasn't jealous of Walter—or, possibly more accurately, Walter and Doria. "Let's see . . . Doria's the only one who likes being a cleric—God knows why—cleaning up after everybody else's fights. Slovotsky could play either as a wizard or a thief."

  "Or a monk. I like Master Kwan."

  "Too limited. Depending on the situation, we might need a thief, but a monk is a waste. He can't advance fast enough, can't carry enough—most of the time, everybody else has to carry him."

  Deighton's slate-gray eyes went vague. "Actually, I think you might well need a thief. Or two. For this campaign, a balanced team would be best. I think you'll find all of the archetypical situations in this one."

  "Fine," Jason said, "we'll have him run Hakim. That gives us two warriors, one cleric, one wizard—take a bow, Ricky; looks like Aristobulus is going to be on his own—and one thief."

  "Plus you, Jase."

  "Right. Any suggestions, Doc? I really don't care what sort of character I get. Long as I get to do something."

  "Hmmm . . . quite possibly a thief would be best."

  "Or a thief/assassin? I've got Lendwyl ready to run."

  "No, I doubt that you'll need to have anyone poisoned. You might want to choose someone more dexterous than Lendwyl."

  "Jase, how about running Einar Lightfingers? You haven't run him for a while."

  "He is kind of fun."

  They walked up the stone steps of the Student Union, Riccetti bustling ahead to hold the door. "Give it a try, Jase. Not that I'd turn my back on him, but Lightfingers is awful good at what he does, all things considered."

  "You first, Doc—age before beauty. On the other hand, if he hurts his other arm, he'd be pretty much out of the picture." Jason shrugged. "But what the hell; I'll run him." As they crossed the yellowed marble floor to the stairwell, Jason stopped. "But I don't like having just one wizard. What if Ari gets killed?"

  Deighton shrugged. "You could find an R-Class cleric, and have him resurrected. Or, conceivably, help Doria of the Healing Hand rise to that height."

  "Fat chance—I don't think I've ever run into a cleric past N-Class. And what is she now, J?"

  "K, Ricky. As a cleric, she's one step farther along than Aristobulus is as a magic usurer."

  "That's magic user."

  Jason returned Riccetti's glare. "I meant exactly what I said. I didn't like the way you charged everybody a thousand gold—each—to charm the Eater,"

  Riccetti shrugged. "Wizard's got to make a living, just like anybody else. You'd rather I let him eat Doria?" He took the lead in the hall, their footsteps echoing hollowly on the tiles.

  "No, but—"

  "But nothing. Value is relative; first law of economics. At that point, Aristobulus' value was pretty huge. I think you should have been happy to pay."

  Deighton stroked his chin. "I think you are asking a bit too much of Mr. Parker. Perhaps the . . . fee for your services was proper; certainly, adding gratitude to it does seem excessive."

  "That the gamemaster talking, or you?"

  "Just me. Just me—and here we are. If you would get the door, please?"

  Riccetti swung the door open; Jason ushered him and Deighton in before following.

  "Seven-thirty on the nose. Nice timing, Doc, Ricky, Jason," Walter Slovotsky said, from his usual spot on the table, where he sat like an improbably massive sprite.

  "Hi, Hakim." Jason dropped his jacket in a corner, setting his books on top. He took a moment to check out the other players as he took his own seat across the table from Deighton, next to Doria. As usual, to Doria's left was James Michael, huddling in his wheelchair like a vulture waiting to pounce.

  Next was Karl Cullinane. Jason shook his head; Karl was still trying to persuade his sparse growth of facial hair to become a beard. Actually, he might have been able to make it, if he wouldn't give up and shave after a few weeks—but that was the trouble with Karl: He never followed through with anything.

  On the other hand, he thought, that might be a bit of a hasty judgment. From the way Karl was perched protectively close to the woman sitting next to him, it seemed that perhaps here was something he'd follow through with. She was a bit too, well, Mediterranean for Jason's taste, but Karl seemed to go for that type.

  And another mystery solved. Now we know why Karl's been ignoring Doria's come-on. His mind, such as it is, is elsewhere.

  "Hakim?" Slovotsky interrupted his thoughts with a friendly bellow. "Something going on that I don't know about?" There was just a hint of threat in the question.

  "Ask Doc. Ricky, toss me a cigarette."

  Riccetti obediently pulled a box of Marlboros out of his faded blue workshirt and rolled one across the table.

  "And a match?"

  Without pausing in his hushed conversation with the woman next to him, Karl Cullinane pulled out a shiny new Zippo and slid it across the table to him.

  "Thanks, Karl. You going to introduce us all to your friend, or do we have to wait until Doc issues us psi ratings?"

  "Cute." Karl's face made the word a lie. "Andrea Andropolous, Jason Parker."

  Jason nodded. As Andrea smiled in response, he decided to reconsider his original appraisal. Nice.

  "The one with the maps, charts, and calculator"—Karl jerked a thumb toward Riccetti—"is Luigi Riccetti."

  "Lou." Riccetti didn't bother to look up.

  "Doesn't matter; call him Ricky, just like everybody else. You've met the rest, except for Dr. Deighton, and—"

  "By the process of elimination, she should be able to infer that I'm he, no?" Deighton set his briefcase on the table and opened it, careful as always to keep the open back toward the table, the contents hidden from view. "And, as everyone is here, shall we begin?"

  "Hold it, Doc," Karl objected. "We haven't rolled up a character for Andy yet."

  Deighton smiled indulgently. "That was what I meant by beginning, at least in part. Do you think you can help her with that—honestly, mind you—while paying attention to my briefing?"

  "What briefing? We're still stuck in the treasure room, a whole bunch of dead critters and jewels lying around, Ba
rak cut up pretty bad, and—"

  "Actually, I am terminating this campaign. We start a new one tonight. From scratch." Deighton raised a palm. "All I ask is that you give it a try. If, say, after half the evening—even just an hour, perhaps?—the consensus is that the old one is more entertaining, we will resume where we left off." He tapped his briefcase with a gnarled forefinger. "But I've spent quite a bit of time on this new campaign. I expect—I am certain that it will appeal to you." Deighton smiled, momentarily appearing much younger than his sixty-odd years. "Quite certain."

  Slovotsky shrugged. "Let's give it a try, then. James, that okay with you?"

  "Fine."

  The big man gave Jason a meaningful glance. "And now I understand what you were up to before. I'm supposed to run a thief this time. Hakim Singh, just as a guess?"

  "It would help balance the team." Jason puffed on his cigarette. "But it's up to you."

  "What do you know that I don't know?"

  "Quite a—"

  "Gentlemen." Deighton rapped the stem of his pipe on the table. "In answer to your question, Mr. Slovotsky, Mr. Parker knows nothing that a few minutes of listening to me won't teach you." He raised a bushy eyebrow. "If that's acceptable. Mr. Riccetti, if you will be kind enough to close the door and spin the dimmer switch down to low, we will begin." Deighton took a deep breath.

  "Now."

  Chapter Two

  The Game

  The chess board is the world, the pieces are the phenomena of the universe, the rules of the game are what we call the laws of Nature. The player on the other side is hidden from us. We know that his play is always fair, just and patient. But we also know, to our cost, that he never overlooks a mistake, or makes the smallest allowance for ignorance.

  —Thomas Henry Huxley

  While Deighton began to speak in low, mysterious tones, Karl Cullinane borrowed five four-sided dice from James Michael, then slid a well-chewed pencil and a sheet of paper in front of Andy-Andy.

  She picked up one of the dice. "Funny-looking little pyramid. But how do you get the numbers to come up on top?"