Istoria Online: Square One: A LitRPG Adventure

by Vic Connor

  “It’s mind-boggling, the amount of bespoke content Maneesh and his friends can generate…”

  “Well, as I said. A lot of this is because of your role as co-author and co-creator. As far as they explained it, that’s how they can pump out so much stuff.”

  “Player Created Content, indeed.” I thought for a moment. “That’s why some things feel so close to home.”

  “Maybe. Or maybe not, maybe it’s just our algorithms being so good at storytelling, which, admittedly, is the whole point here. Fatherly figures are quite an old trick to spice up a story, and I’m sure our friends from Engineering consider something like ‘teaching our story-tailoring algorithms every last trick in the Storyteller’s Playbook’ to be a core part of their job.

  “Still … for whatever reason, except for the third guy that went AWOL on me, all my players in the previous Alpha and Beta rounds found at least some stuff that was oddly familiar to them.” She looked at me over her black-rimmed glasses. “Unsettlingly so.”

  “Maybe that’s why your third guy quit?”

  She bobbed her head from side to side. “Who knows—maybe Istoria wasn’t his thing? It’s not like you can throw cash at the game and buy your wins, right?”

  “Did they all make it?” I asked, turning around to look at the vault door behind me. “Your other three players, I mean. Did they all finish the single-player campaign?”

  She glanced at the huge, round slab of stainless steel. “Yes, they did, Jake.” When I faced her again, she offered me a wide smile. “They all did.”

  I checked the flashing percentage below the timer on the right wall: 29.6% of my opponents were already in Multiplayer.

  I tightened my silk tie’s knot. “A man of my position—” I straightened my power suit’s lapel “—can’t afford to look shabby. It signals lack of discipline, which signals lack of fortitude and willpower…” I fastened the suit’s middle button. “…which signals a mind that will crumble and wail at the mere sight of obstacles, rather than welcoming them as a chance to grow stronger.” I raised my eyes to meet hers. “Don’t you agree, Svetty dear?”

  “I do, sir. Emphatically so.”

  “Then let’s get over this acquisition, shall we?”

  “I welcome tough haggling, Mister Russel,” Van der Kaart says. The glint is gone from her eyes, replaced with sharp coldness. “It spices up what could otherwise be a rather dull, straightforward transaction. But I will suffer neither cursing nor foul language in my establishment.”

  I straighten up atop my crutches and produce a courteous nod. “There’s no excuse for my outburst, milady. Yet I somehow hope you’ll give me the chance to start our conversation again, with my right foot forward this time.” I smile amicably. “In a manner of speaking.”

  Amusement flickers as her coldness melts. “I shall remember no rudeness.”

  “You have my gratitude,” I reply.

  The mischievous glint returns. “And I have a map that you may be interested in. Is that letter enough proof of provenance, Mister Russel?”

  Indeed. Shall we discuss the price, then?

  I’d still need to see the map, though, before we conduct further business.

  I’ve lost interest in the map, at least for the moment.

  Let’s cut to the chase. “Indeed,” I tell her. The long and safe route is probably to tell her we’ll return later, then run around town to complete a few jobs and level up before tackling this quest again, but time to take the long route is a luxury we don’t have. “Shall we discuss the price, then?”

  “If you insist…” she says. “Fifty Dutch daalders.” She glances at my ostrich-plumed hat, still clutched in Juanita’s hands. “Or the same number of pieces of eight, if you would rather deal in Spanish currency.”

  “My child—” Juanita whispers.

  “I know,” I admit. “We don’t have even a fifth of that.”

  And that’s why the long, safe route is probably to quest around the town a little and earn some coins…

  [Haggle] Surely thirty daalders would be enough?

  [Hard Bargain] (Cost: 2VPs) You seem to forget that we know what the map contains…

  We don’t have that much, I’m afraid. Is there any service we could provide in exchange?

  We’ll need time to consider your offer.

  …and, there you go: the risky shortcut. “I’m afraid we don’t have that much, milady,” I say. “Is there any other service we could provide in exchange?”

  Her eyes narrow. “That would depend on what sort of services your crew is capable of providing, Mister Russel.”

  If something needs to be acquired discreetly, so discreetly that not even its former owner realizes it has been subtracted from their care…

  We’re weathered, battle-hardened travelers. Perhaps you need something sent, or something brought to you, across these dangerous lands?

  We’re experienced fighters, milady. Should you need a fight started, ended, or perhaps avoided by a show of strength, we could be of service.

  Hmm. Stealing something could be fun, but except perhaps Juanita, none of us is the stealthy type. And I’d rather avoid combat as much as I can, until our builds are better rounded-up.

  “We’re weathered, battle-hardened travelers,” I reply. “Perhaps—”

  The little bald man coughs politely. “Stuur deze vier,” he tells Van der Kaart. He softly taps his index finger upon something on the table that I can’t see, hidden behind the mountains and forests of papers.

  “Naar Aztekenstad?” she asks, not turning to him.

  The gnome studies me over his rimless round glasses. “Ja.” He nods.

  Van der Kaart rubs her hands and grins. “Ja.”

  20

  Boodschap

  “I would not normally part ways with a rare antique for such a low price, but you seem to have fallen with your nose right into the butter, Mister Russel,” Van der Kaart explains. “My partner and I could use the help of travelers that, how shall we put it—” She looks at my pistols, Miyu’s naginata, and Abe’s cutlass “—travelers that, if confronted with the dangers of the road, would be eager to deal with them with steel and lead rather than ink and pens, so to speak.

  “So, we have a little … a little boodschap. What’s the English word for it…? Commission! That’s it. A little errand. A little something, a small package that needs to be delivered, and the answer brought back here to us. Before the sun sets the day after tomorrow, if at all possible.”

  Heh. You don’t say…

  “Delivered to somewhere closer than Amsterdam, I hope?” I smile.

  “Oh, certainly!” She smiles back. “On this same island. To Aztekenstad… What’s its name…”

  “Tepetlacotli,” Juanita answers dryly.

  Van der Kaart snaps her fingers. “There you go. There you will go, I mean, should you accept this little boodschap of ours: the Aztec city.”

  “I would have assumed a mapmaker would have a better memory for city names,” says Juanita in a slightly sarcastic tone.

  “Quite the contrary, Madame Russel, quite the contrary!” replies Van der Kaart. “This is why we obsess so much with writing everything down!”

  Abe and I can’t help laughing. Juanita’s brooding glance premonitions nothing good, but she speaks no more.

  And I wouldn’t mind taking a second, closer look at those massive pyramids behind Tepetlacotli’s defensive walls, not at all…

  You said you need it before the sun sets the day after tomorrow, correct?

  When will this package be ready for us?

  Who do we need to deliver it to?

  What sort of answer do you need us to bring back?

  And as soon as we bring you the answer, you’ll give us our map?

  I think I have a clear picture…

  Standard infodump stuff, let’s sweep through it all.

  “Yes,” she confirms to the first question. “If at all possible.”

  “And if we take long
er?”

  “I will not hold it against you. But I may have something else for you, a little bonus, besides your map, if you return sooner.”

  Aha.

  “Around noon,” she answers as to when the letter will be ready. She points to a beautiful weight-driven clock fixed on the wall, which shows it’s about 10:20 right now.

  “You will know the receiver’s name when you accept my commission,” she says about who the addressee is. “If you accept it,” she stresses, her body rigid and her smile slightly condescending.

  She smiles when I ask what sort of answer she expects, and only says, “It will not weigh more than five pounds, maybe six at the most.”

  “I’d feel more comfortable if we knew what, exactly, you’ll have us carry,” I insist.

  “And I feel confident that a lack of comfort will not hinder such experienced, battle-hardened travelers as yourselves,” she states plainly.

  Heh. This mapmaker knows how to riposte.

  “The same instant you return,” she says, when questioned about when she would give us our map, “as long as you come back with the answer. And, if this happens before sunset, two days from now…” She walks to the wall with the lantern clock, rummages through a shelf until she finds three folded sheets of paper, and takes them to the huge table. “Come, come!” she beckons.

  My crutches bang against the wooden floor as I approach, while she unfolds each of the paper.

  Schematics.

  For pistols.

  New Message!

  Oh-ho-ho, yeah…

  FROM: System Message

  Re: Weapon Crafting—schematics

  To craft firearms, you need:

  (a)The Schematics of your weapon of choice,

  (b)Access to a Workshop, and

  (c)The Parts required by the Schematics.

  After you study a schematic, it will be added to your Library, and will always be available for you to use whenever the other two conditions are met.

  “Take a look,” she says.

  “Please don’t mind if I do,” I reply, leaning over.

  The Langesnuit looks like the love child of a sniper rifle and a flintlock pistol; the barrel seems way too long for the weapon to be held with a single hand, but with the modifications to the grip and counterweights detailed in the schematics, I guess it may work…

  The Schreeuwer is the exact opposite: It’s as if my pistolón got sawed in half, then went crazy on the crossfit training and grew bulging metal muscles everywhere. Capable of stopping a charging berserk elephant in its tracks, if I’m reading the schematics right. Then again, that could be an issue, given I’m just an Apprentice in Weapon Crafting.

  The Geest is not actually a weapon, but an add-on. “A … noise-killer?” I ask.

  “A most peculiar contraption,” Van der Kaart explains. “Would turn your firearm’s bang into barely a whisper, I believe. A silencing apparatus, so to speak.”

  “I must say, Madame Van der Kaart, you seem to deal in the most peculiar set of maps.”

  She smirks. “One does what one can, in these savage lands. Which reminds me: Inktmeester and Van der Kaart cannot be held responsible for the performance of these machines and mechanisms. Buyers should know it will be their own expertise at fault if they fail to properly construct what these schematics describe.”

  “The usual caveat. The map isn’t the territory, right?” I grin.

  Both Inktmeester and Van der Kaart perk their ears at my remark.

  “Inderdaad!” says the little man, nodding in appreciation.

  “That was well put, Mister Russel,” she agrees. “The map is not the territory, indeed.”

  “And we get these schematics as a reward for returning quickly enough?”

  “Nee,” she says. “You only get to choose one.”

  “And if we return by tomorrow, rather than the day after?”

  She pressed her lips into a fine line. “I’d be very surprised, and highly impressed. Highly enough to let you choose two.”

  “All right,” I say. “I think I have a clear picture…”

  We’ll take the job, Madame Van der Kaart. We’ll be back at noon.

  We don’t have the time to go to Tepetlacotli, I’m afraid. We must decline your offer.

  Would you give us a moment, to consider your offer?

  Let’s make this a team effort.

  “Would you give us a moment,” I ask, “to consider your offer?”

  “Take as long as you need.” She nods toward the clock. “As long as I have your answer before noon.”

  I limp outside. After the cool semi-darkness inside the workshop, the radiant sun blinds me for a moment. Juanita hands me my hat; the wide brim is a welcome relief.

  The sunrays don’t seem to affect Miyu much. She drills me with her onyx eyes as she asks, “Uitzli?”

  “Thems folks at t’ tavern, maybe thems knows?” Abe suggests.

  “If I didn’t know any better,” I tease him, “I’d say ye be worried more ‘bout beer than ‘bout our dear healer, Abe me old mate.”

  “Oi.” He frowns. “T’ witch said so herself: Folks be talkin’ lots more when thems be drunk.”

  “The mapmaking woman gave us time until noon,” Juanita points out. “There is safety in numbers. Yet, as bees do, we would cover more ground if we spread out. So, what shall we do, young Jake?”

  Let’s split up, gang: each of us should search for clues about Uitzli’s whereabouts in a different part of town.

  I’d rather play it safe than fast; we’ll stick together, and go to…

  Let’s go in pairs; safer than each of us alone, but we’ll cover twice the ground than if we don’t split up.

  It’s an interesting bet. Is it wiser to assume realism, or genre conventions?

  The sun, the heat, the whole town around us…

  …my companions, looking every bit as real as people in my real life, are waiting for my decision.

  “Let’s be real, gang.” I say. Abe and Juanita seem somewhat puzzled; Miyu’s onyx beads remain unchanged. “I mean, let’s go in pairs, like I think I’d do if this were happening for real…”

  …I’ll go with Abe to…

  …Miyu and I will go to…

  …I’ll go with Juanita to…

  Juanita has shown the most sense and restraint by far, no doubt about that, and single-handedly took care of Villarica. She and Abe both wanted to check that tavern, so: “Miyu and I will go to…”

  …the Docks…

  …the Marketplace…

  …the Lachende Dame…

  …the Barracks…

  …the Church…

  “…the Marketplace. Whoever bought Uitzli paid a small fortune, that much we know, so let’s see what we can find among rich merchants.”

  The Noh mask nods.

  I turn to Abe and Juanita. “I keeps me promises, Abe me ol’ mate,” I tell him. “It be beer o’clock, don’t ye thinks?”

  The pirate rewards me with a wide grin. “Bible oath, lad!” He pulls his head back and takes a long sniff of air. “Lemme see what me nose can finds among ‘em drunkards, bless me guts!”

  “I do believe the tavern is our best bet,” Juanita agrees.

  “Ol’ Abe be happily joinin’ yarr wager, witch.” Abe guffaws. “Set sail, before noon catches us ‘ere!”

  “Off we go our separate ways,” I tell Juanita. “Keep an eye on him at all times, will you?”

  “I shall,” she confirms. “In fact, I shall keep both of my eyes on him.”

  The tropical sun hangs almost directly above our heads when our party rejoins.

  The stench of booze clings around Abe like a swamp’s miasma, and wisps of beer foam still hang from his bushy beard. To his credit, though, he walks as steadily as if he had drunk clear water.

  “Ol’ Abe knows what ya thinkin’, lad.” His words slur a little. “But when yarr ship been through t’ worst storms t’ sea can throw yarr way, ya bain’t losin’ yarr footin’ fer a few
pints o’ beer, ya bain’t.”

  “What I be thinkin’, Abe me old mate, is this. Have you two found anything?”

  The pirate emits the loudest, coarsest belch known to mankind, a monstrous croak that would put an enraged Kraken’s roar to shame. There better not be anybody smoking nearby; the air fills with enough alcohol vapor that a single match could set the entire town on fire.

  Miyu’s glassy giggle follows the monstrous belch like remora after a whale.

  Juanita rubs her forehead, looking down. “It was a dead end, my child.” She glances at Abe. “Our pirate—”

  “We pretends to bein’ privateers now, witch. Have ya forgotten?”

  “—struck a conversation with some fellow sailors from a merchant ship—”

  “That be all ‘em Dutch be havin’: merchants, merchants, merchants.” He lets out a human-sized burp this time. “Not one of ‘em would knowed from which end should thems cannons be a-shootin’, as sure as I stands before ya!”

  “—and war is brewing in the sunrise lands where white folks live. Whether or not it will arrive here—”

  “But ‘em Dutch, thems be knowin’ much ‘bout beer, thems does. Ya hafta give ‘em that!”

  “—is a matter of much discussion and much anxiety, though nobody knows for certain.”

  Abe’s new belch puts the full stop to their Lachende Dame’s report.

  “If you have to ask about our results, though,” Juanita adds, “I fear you have also come empty-handed.”

  “Well,” I say, “for a trading town—”

  “A Dutch ditch, me lad, an’ nothin’ more.”

  “—there doesn’t seem to be that many wealthy traders around here,” I continue. “The marketplace is a bunch of humble grocers, bakers, and butchers selling food, and a handful of carpenters, potters, and blacksmiths peddling their wares. None of them the kind of folks who could afford slaves, let alone expensive slaves. From what they would tell us, the fat fishes getting rich from Duurstad’s trading are all back in Amsterdam, not here.