Homebrew

by Xavier P. Hunter

  “Yeah,” Sira said. “It’s either you or Zeeto. You willing to put our good names in that grabby-fingered miscreant’s hands?”

  Gary sighed. It sounded like he was getting stuck as the face of the party even without letting on that he’d just bumped his Charisma score. “All right. I’ll try to scream through the city streets if we have to go on the run.”

  Beldrak chuckled softly. “’Tis a mercantile transaction. A man of Arguile’s station dare not offend the order of the land by chasing coin with blood.”

  It was Gary’s turn to join Sira in an incredulous stare. “You do realize that importers are—by and large—criminally connected. Right?” Sira asked.

  Beldrak shook his head. “Nay. I hath taken my measure of the man, and friend Arguile be no villain. Had I not a more pressing errand, I would act thy sentinel if only for thy mind’s ease. Alas, ’tis not the obligation that rests the heaviest upon mine shoulders.” He shifted his grip on Miriasa to make his point.

  Gary held up both his hands in surrender as he parted from the pair. He’d little doubt that he could wrangle the importer to letting them off the hook. With no one else around, he had plenty of leverage on the crooked merchant.

  But first, Gary had another task of his own, one that the rest of the party had happily put from their minds. Once out of view of his friends, he set a course for the temple of Ysotonir.

  All the way there were signs of minor destruction from Zeeto’s triggering of the Gelzhearth trap. That deadfall had shaken half the region and collapsed more of the mountain than any of the others had probably realized. Gary wouldn’t have been willing to lay odds on any survivors at Previn’s Mine, closer to the epicenter and already of questionable structural ruggedness. Durrotek was old construction, by and large, bones built and rebuilt upon with modern flesh of wood and tin and brass but fitted granite blocks beneath. Wagons bumped over cracks in the cobbled streets, and laborers of every ilk set aside their daily trades to become roofers and masons.

  Overall, the city was fine. It had taken its lumps and would heal with scars, but it would take more than a minor earthquake to ruin it.

  Not that everyone shared that assessment. Plenty of residents were packing up all their belongings to head for firmer—and possibly warmer—lands. Not that Gary could blame them. Climatically, Durrotek could hardly have been less like the Bay Area of California. Palo Alto’s worst weather was still nicer than what Durrotek saw at any point in the year, and the colds that would set in with the coming winter would shame the local skating rinks back home.

  The temple of Ysotonir was undergoing repairs of its own when Gary arrived. Two priests of the frost god caressed its entryway pillars with glowing hands, healing cracked marble much the way they healed torn flesh. Gary exchanged perfunctory greetings and headed inside.

  “Have you come to pay respects to Ysotonir, young man?” an elderly layman of the temple asked. He was wearing a plain brown robe with no adornment or emblem. The cowl was thrown back, and he had his hands tucked inside the voluminous sleeves.

  Gary shook his head. “I come on an errand of spiritual urgency. Might I speak with High Priest Blavess?”

  “I’m afraid that with the recent disaster, the high priest’s time has been occupied excessively,” the layman replied.

  Casting the old man a steely glare, Gary backed toward the temple entrance, dug into his pockets, and deposited 50 gold into the donation box.

  The elderly layman didn’t say a word, just bowed and departed to fetch the high priest.

  “Deplorable state of moral affairs,” the skull of Randal Vintner muttered from inside Gary’s pack. “Isn’t there some other temple whose mercy you could prevail upon?”

  “Not after donating 50 gold,” Gary said without moving his lips. “Now shut up and let me handle this.”

  Moments later, a middle-aged man in a white and gold robe came out to greet Gary. He was of average build, balding, and with the remaining hair a mix of gray and its original dark brown. He had the look of an insurance salesman or a bank teller. The smile on his face was thin-lipped and showed no teeth. “I understand you have a problem, my son?”

  Gary bowed. “High Priest Blavess, it is not me who has the trouble. I come on behalf of this poor soul.” He reached into his back and took out the skull. “I came across this disinterred wretch in my recent travels. His spirit is unable to pass beyond this world. His only request was a consecrated burial to allow him to move on.”

  d20: 3 + (Persuade +8) + (Guilting the Clergy +4) = 15

  Gary was half surprised there had even been a roll for that. It meant that there was a possibility that High Priest Blavess wouldn’t accept the skull into his catacombs for burial.

  “His… request?” the high priest asked dubiously. He shied at first when Gary presented the skull but steeled himself and took the remains in hand.

  “You may speak with him yourself if you like,” Gary replied. “I have discharged my duty. All that remains is for you to discharge yours.”

  Those words carried meaning meant for both the priest and the dead wizard. Before either of them could object, Gary bowed and backed away without making eye contact.

  On the streets outside, Gary breathed fresh, cold air and felt free. He was on his own for the time being without creepy doppelgangers of his friends who didn’t recognize him or undead wizards riding along in his luggage. The only obligation clinging to him before Gary was free at last to explore his world at leisure was to pay a visit to a certain unscrupulous importer.

  A tiny bell tinkled as Gary entered the Durrotek Import Consortium’s storefront. Arguile appeared from out back as if summoned by magic at the sound. “Aha! The lazy sons of bitches have finally returned with my money. I worried that even having the paladin along, I hadn’t gotten enough assurance from you about making that delivery run.”

  “You sent us to our deaths,” Gary said with a voice that dripped blood. “Or tried.”

  d20: 16 + (Persuade +8) + (You’re Not Exactly Mr. Intimidating -2) = 22

  Arguile backed up a pace in the direction of the door that headed out back. “Now, Gary… Let’s not be hasty.”

  “Hasty?” Gary asked. “Do you know who was waiting for us at the mine?”

  “Previn, the buyer. Some slack-jawed bozos who dig for him. Should’ve been it.”

  “The Talis Guild,” Gary said.

  d20: 10 + (Persuade +8) + (Laying It On Thick + 2) = 20

  “I… I… You still owe me for the payment,” Arguile said.

  Gary shook his head, trusting that 20 was enough to keep Arguile on his heels, too intimidated to be a threat. “No chance. We got stiffed and nearly killed. You just get stiffed… unless you really want the full experience of someone trying to kill you.”

  “B-b-but my—”

  “You can thank Beldrak that I came here alone,” Gary said. “It was his call to spare you. Even the damn priestess was fine with putting your head on a spear and delivering it to Club Talis as a peace offering. Instead, you get a clean slate. Count your blessings, and be thankful you still have a roof over your head and breath in your lungs.”

  With that, Gary turned to storm out of the shop.

  On the streets again, he felt jitters. He’d just threatened a man’s life and walked away from it. Gary Burns in the real world would have pissed himself, gotten his ass kicked, or—more likely—both.

  Fever dream, comatose hallucination, or something else, right then, Gary didn’t care. He felt more alive than his grill-cooking, garage-band-playing, game-running self ever had.

  He carried that giddy high along with him as he headed for the Sleepy Inn to catch up with the others.

  26

  Zeeto held court with a chicken leg as a scepter, chewing as he mused aloud to the reunited group. They were gathered in the common room of the Sleepy Inn at a table set for five in a corner more shadowed by the hearth fire than lit by it. “I was thinking… what if we didn’t have to pay for a room
at an inn every night?”

  “Sounds illegal,” Sira said flatly between mouthfuls of stew.

  Zeeto’s face lit in a chubby-cheeked grin. “That’s the best part! It’s not! There are so many warm-weather refugees heading south after the Great Quake that real estate is going for coppers-on-the-gold.”

  Beldrak scowled, a loaf of bread poised halfway to his mouth. “I like it not. Be we vultures to pick the bones of ill-lucked lives left tattered by the thought-free acts of our own companion?”

  “Act of nature,” Zeeto corrected with a wag of his chicken leg. “And we’d be doing these people a favor, whoever we buy from. They want to start a new life somewhere warm and geologically stable. We help them cut ties and supply them with capital to start the next chapter of their lives’ story. We’d literally be funding their hopes and dreams for a better future.”

  Braeleigh finished a chicken wing and dropped the bone to the floor, where Caspian pounced on it. “I like it. We’d be, like, heroes all over again. First we rescue a lost elf princess—”

  “There’s no evidence she’s a princess,” Gary pointed out.

  “Now we’re chipping in to help poor, desperate refugees leave for safer places,” Braeleigh said. “Plus, you know, there’s probably a way to hide our elf princess until we can figure a way to thaw her out.”

  Beldrak shifted uneasily in his seat. Miriasa was still wrapped in a travel blanket, locked up in their rented room for lack of any solution presenting itself for her predicament.

  “Where would we buy?” Sira asked. “I doubt anyone’s compiling a list of properties whose residents are evacuating.”

  Zeeto cleared his throat. “I imagine that if we wait a few days, we could get an even better deal from the city on abandoned properties.”

  Sira snorted. “Whatever happened to funding hopes and dreams?”

  “Well, it’s not like we don’t have hopes and dreams to fund, is it?” Zeeto countered. “If someone wants out of town so bad they can’t stick around to cash out, maybe they’ve got bigger hopes and dreams than mere money can provide.”

  “Wow,” Braeleigh said with a mouthful of her next chicken wing. “I totally can’t believe I just heard those words come out of your mouth.”

  Zeeto held up a greasy-fingered hand. “Don’t get me wrong; all my dreams heavily feature piles of gold and naked halfling women. Most of my hopes are for fulfilling those dreams without getting killed trying.”

  “Doesn’t solve the question of how to pick a place,” Sira said.

  Gary chewed silently. He’d been biding his time, wondering if whoever was running this game was going to steer the party or if he’d have to do it himself.

  “I may know a place.”

  27

  The address was 14 Zephyr Street. The building stood three stories tall, constructed of flat gray granite with minimal embellishments. It was one of a dozen like it lined down the road, and despite having come through the quake undamaged, its owner couldn’t be rid of it fast enough.

  Marliss Wauldertot was a clothier by trade, possessed of ample means to buy his way out of Durrotek and who—to all appearances—had saved the last of his haggling for the cloth he peddled.

  “All yours,” he said, presenting Sira with the key to the front door. He’d already signed over the papers necessary to convince Lord Allard’s bureaucrats that they weren’t merely squatting in an abandoned structure. “May the ground stay quieter beneath your feet than it did mine.”

  With that, the clothier climbed aboard the lead wagon of a convoy containing every scrap of furniture from the building, along with his wife and five children.

  Gary felt his pockets lighter as the wagon trail plodded down Zephyr Street. The haggling had finally come to an end when they’d all turned out their pockets and emptied their packs, scraping together what few coins they’d hidden away along with stray gemstones and knickknacks. Marliss had basically taken them for all they had—not that Gary didn’t suspect Zeeto of managing to hold out.

  The front door opened with a satisfying creak. Inside, a flight of stairs led upward from the foyer, with two rooms to either side. The party split up to explore.

  While the others scouted the layout, Gary took the time to appreciate the old-world quality to the stonework. Leaded glass windows fit snugly into cut stone frames with smooth sills worn by centuries of occupation. The panes were lucky to have survived the quake, but of course that was deus ex Gary at work, having written the place that way. The combination of an intact structure and a skittish owner willing to take what he could get before tucking tail was all pre-planned.

  How much of Gary’s fate was predetermined by those binders and notes back in the real world was anyone’s guess. So long as he kept poking and prodding at appropriate moments, Gary suspected he could follow the plot for months, at least.

  This whole building was an Easter egg, a bonus cooked up just in case someone decided that a soft real estate market was a good excuse to lay down roots in Durrotek as a home base for future adventures. Gary had sketched the whole layout on three separate sheets of graph paper, detailing every room, stairway, and hidden passage.

  The thought had Gary ignoring the upstairs bedrooms where the others were jockeying for position, comparing floor space and views like they were on one of those TV house-hunting shows, and heading for the basement.

  The lowest acknowledged level of 14 Zephyr Street had all the trappings of a wine cellar without a single bottle left over from the previous occupant. By the general lack of dust, it was well stocked and well used prior to the clothier’s departure. Gary hadn’t written it so one way or the other, so he wondered whether Marliss ever knew he had a sub-basement hidden away below.

  Gary’s hand traced along the edges of the wall, searching for a release. The basement level was ever so slightly smaller than the footprint of the house above that a careless resident could easily have overlooked it.

  d20: 10 + (Search +8) + (Gotta Be Here Somewhere +4) = 22

  For some reason, the hidden door eluded him. He kept looking.

  d20: 14 + (Search +8) + (Seriously, You Know It’s There +8) = 30

  Aha!

  Gary’s finger slipped into a gap in the mortar of the foundation and felt the door release.

  Footsteps scuffed on the stone stairs from above, accompanied by panting and the scratching of claws. Gary yanked his hand out of the crevice before anyone saw him pawing around in the walls. “Gary? Oh, there you are, silly,” Braeleigh said from the stairs. “You’ve got last pick of rooms, but this place has more than enough.”

  “I’ll be right up.”

  “Ooh,” Braeleigh said, stepping down the rest of the way into the wine cellar. “Anything left to drink down here? This feels like a day to celebrate, but I don’t think we have enough money between us to buy a decent grape-wine.”

  Gary smirked that she felt the need to specify the type of wine when grape was the Earthly default option. Her own ancestors in-world would have been just as likely to have made their wine from elderberries, rice, or plums as grapes.

  “You’d think so but no,” Gary said. “Fast as Marliss cleared out, he didn’t leave behind so much as a cork to sniff.”

  Braeleigh sighed wistfully. “Too bad. I don’t think a place feels like home until you’ve passed out drunk in it.”

  It was an odd insight into Katie that Braeleigh felt that way. That sentiment certainly hadn’t been included in Gary’s overview of elven culture—or human, for that matter.

  “Well, I’ll pick something out later. I don’t mind having the fifth best room.”

  “Sixth,” Braeleigh said. “Caspian got the room next to mine.”

  Gary blinked. “Caspian got a pick before me?”

  “Zeeto set the rules,” she explained, then cleared her throat. “I believe he called it ‘dibs.’”

  “Lemme guess,” Gary said dryly. “Zeeto ended up with the lord’s chamber.”

  Braeleigh snorted in unla
dylike fashion. “If you want to call it that. It’s barely bigger than the other rooms.”

  It all made sense now. Zeeto had spoken with Marliss on the sly, thinking no one else was noticing. The shifty halfling must have been asking for intel on the best rooms in the house. Zeeto then laid down the guidelines for room selection on a first come, first serve basis and made a beeline for the clothier’s personal bedroom.

  Gary did some quick math. “If five rooms are taken, does that mean the entire third floor is full?” He’d designed the place with five ideal bedrooms for a party of five, never imagining that he’d be one of the five, let alone competing with a pet for a full-sized room.

  Braeleigh smiled and laid a hand on Gary’s shoulder. “It does. But some of the second-floor rooms are pretty great too.”

  Gary could have put up a stink. Calling together the whole party, he could probably have forced a vote, and even Zeeto might have sided with him over the juvenile wolf for getting a room on the top floor. Instead, he threw out one last try at an amicable resolution.

  “I’m surprised Caspian didn’t want to sleep in your room,” Gary said.

  Braeleigh knelt down and ruffled the young wolf’s fur. His steady—and frighteningly quick—growth was a testament to Braeleigh’s rapid advancement in level. “Oh, he wanted to sleep in my room. But what if I have a gentleman caller? If I find my elven prince, I don’t want to have this lovable mop of fur watching us. Girl’s got to have space to herself. But don’t worry, I’m sure one of the second-floor rooms will be fine.”

  Tumbler’s clicked into place. With the top floor filled, he’d have time and space aplenty to access the basement undisturbed. “You know what? I actually think I like that servants’ barracks off the kitchen.”

  “The servants’ quarters?” Braeleigh echoed. “Really? Oh, Gary, you’re not a servant, even if we do appreciate the fact that you can cook. And hope that you make us breakfast tomorrow morning. Eggs… sausage… nothing fancy.”