Massively Multiplayer (26 page)

He clapped Druin on the back. “Has been a pleasure though it has, to have you aboard son. You go to that Tavern I told you of, the Fouled Anchor, and ask for the carriage schedule. You’ll make the Whetstone Pass in no time, lad.” Thunder waved cheerfully, and stumped back up the impromptu bridge to his ship.

“What about you?” Druin asked, turning to Jenna.

“Thanks for the offer, Dru’,” Jenna said. “But for an experience that was supposed to be relaxing me, hanging out with you has proven, well, not relaxing. Don’t take it wrong.”

“I don’t,” he assured her. “Dodging forest sprites and almost being eaten by zombies isn’t my idea of a relaxing time either. But what are you going to do for the remainder of your time?”

Jenna gazed back up the gangplank to where Captain Thunder was supervising the arrangement of the rigging. “I thought I might go sailing for a while.”

Druin followed her glance. “Of course you will.”

“Fear not, I shall accompany thee, good Sir Druin” Malcolm proclaimed in ringing tones.

“Of course you will,” Druin said, carefully keeping the regret out of his voice.

Jenna had found a hanky somewhere and was waving it madly from the taffrail of the August Rose. Malcolm and Druin saluted the departing vessel solemnly, then turned back to the fog-shrouded streets of the city. The streetlights, far from creating a sense of security, created jagged wedges of shadow in every alley, in which furtive shapes could be only dimly seen. Despite Captain Thunder’s assurances of the area’s basically civilized nature, Druin reasoned that their best course was to get off the streets as soon as possible. Preferably into somewhere well lit.

The Fouled Anchor tavern fit the bill nicely, and would have been Druin’s natural objective even without the Captain’s recommendation. It was the largest public house in sight, dwarfing even some of the smaller warehouses, and hearty yellow light blazed from its many windows. A steady stream of dockhands, sailors, beggars, and likely criminals issued back and forth through its double doors, a stream of drab gray and brown punctuated by the frequent flash of more brightly clothed adventurers. Druin made for the welcoming glow and the sound of music, Malcolm trotting dutifully at his heels.

All the anxieties Druin had experienced when confronted with the dark city of Hasport vanished the moment he entered the Fouled Anchor. If the exterior was sinister and foreign, the inside was sinister and utterly familiar.

The doors opened upon a large central chamber, flanked by a bar on one side and a short stage on the other, upon which several musicians were scratching out cheerfully shrill music on a collection of battered instruments. Three drunken sailors bawled off-key accompaniment, while beating their wooden mugs against the table, the walls, and each other. Directly opposite them a cavernous fireplace beat back the fog and chill of the outside world. Rickety steps near the bar led down to a cellar and upwards to the tavern’s rooms. A vomit-crusted wino lay at the foot of the stairs in a pool of beer.

In short, the establishment was so homely that Druin nearly wept tears of relief. Grim the Antiquans might be, and beset by the strange perils of their country, but apparently a taproom was a taproom everywhere in the world.

Druin angled his way confidently across the crowded room towards the bar. In the darker corners, strangers conducted covert business, as had been done in various seedy bars since the beginning of time. Druin didn’t notice the two of them, sitting at different tables, who marked his entrance and followed him with their eyes.

“What’ll it be?” grunted the barman, an enormous specimen of his particular beer-stained species.

“The carriage schedule,” Druin replied.

“End o’ the bar, on the board.” The barman gestured his rag-filled hand toward the fireplace. Sidling that way, Druin and Malcolm found a tall rectangular slate, on which were scrawled destinations, departure and arrival times, and fare information. A bored looking clerk snored underneath.

Running his finger down the board, Druin found the information he needed. “We’re in luck,” he confided to Malcolm. “There’s a carriage to the Whetstone Pass leaving tomorrow morning.”

“I shall be honored to accompany you,” the gangly youth replied.

“Keep in mind that these times are local,” Druin cautioned him. “The whole country of Antiqua is housed on a server out of Europe. Paris I think, so you need to account for that. You’re not experiencing any lag, are you?”

“Indeed, the morning is an auspicious time to embark.”

“I could send you a reminder at your net account. What time zone are you in?”

Malcolm had lost his usual confident grin. “Never fear, I shall not delay thee.”

“No, look, I mean it. Really, what time zone?”

“I assure you I shall not—“

“Don’t you know your zone? Where do you live in RL?”

“Stop it!” Malcolm hissed, angry now as Druin had never seen him. “Just keep your...I mean, ‘thy concerns are unwarranted. I. Shall. Be. Ready!” He glared fiercely at Druin, as though daring him to utter one more word about time zones, net addresses, or pretty much anything other than a hearty confirmation.

Druin stepped backwards, hands raised in a placating gesture. “Okay, sure, whatever. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Malcolm acknowledged his capitulation with a curt bow, then stalked off to arrange a room with the barman. Druin watched him go, nursing a sinking sensation in his gut. In his careful attempts to get along with the brittle Jenna, it hadn’t occurred to him to really worry about the heretofore cheerful Malcolm. Now, realizing that he was committed to sharing a long journey, and what promised to be a deadly challenging venture, with a possible nutcase, he was troubled.

Committed: that might be a crucial word in this situation. Was Malcolm actually a case of Computer Induced Schizophrenia? Or was he just a very dedicated role-player? And was there a difference? Was it dangerous to be around him? And, perhaps more essentially, what disappointment or desire had driven Malcolm to such extreme behavior in the first place?

So intent was he on the problem of his traveling companion that he didn’t even notice the thin, hooded figure which had crept up next to him until he felt the prick of a knife gliding across his ribcage.

“Good evening, m’lord,” the little man hissed. “Let us step outside.”

Given the circumstances, there wasn’t much else Druin could do. If he resisted, the hooded man might well jab his knife home. Druin hadn’t yet signed up for a room, and thus hadn’t transferred his account to this establishment. If he were slain here, where would he wake up? In an alleyway, with no possessions? Outside the city walls? Back on the
August Rose
, or all the way back in Westerly? He frankly had no idea how the European Crucible server handled indigent accounts, and he couldn’t quite afford to find out.

Nodding in what he hoped was a compliant manner, he preceded the little man back towards the main doors.

On their forced march across the room, they passed right by Malcolm, who was making arrangements for a room with the enormous barkeep. Druin rolled his eyes, urgently trying to attract his companion’s attention, but Malcolm had his back turned resolutely to the room. What a time to alienate his only backup.

The streets appeared even darker after the gritty hospitality of the Fouled Anchor. Druin hesitated under the tavern’s sign, reluctant to abandon the pool of light which spilled from the doors.

“This way,” the little man gestured, his face now completely hidden by his hood. Sighing, Druin obediently turned into the alley between the tavern and the tenement next door.

Once they were well within the dim passage, he stepped a few paces away from the man, who didn’t protest, and turned around.

“Alright,” he sighed. “I have about five-hundred in cash on me. I also have what are supposed to be some silver bracers, but I haven’t had them identified yet. Can I keep the armor and my weapons? I promise they’re not worth much.”

To his surprise, the man laughed. “I’m not after your money, lama, although I do get to loot your corpse. One of my perks. I’m going to kill you.”

Druin blanched. “But why? I swear, that’s all the money I’ve got. What is this, some thrill-PKing thing? I thought Antiquans were supposed to be the civilized ones.”

“Reports of our courtesy have been greatly exaggerated,” the man sneered. “There’s law a-plenty in the better parts of any city, but you’re on your own in the slums. But as it happens, no, I’m not just killing you for the thrills. I’m repaying a debt to an army buddy from your side of the pond.”

“I don’t know anybody in the army.”

“That’s what you think. MadHarp sends his regards.”

A quiver shot through Druin, chilling his blood, but it didn’t prevent him from snapping his hands down to his sides, releasing the throwing knives hidden up each sleeve.

He flung his wrists up and forwards, not even hoping that a knife might hit his target, merely that the distraction would provide him enough time to clear his broad-bladed fighting knives from his leg-sheathes. He dropped into a crouch, preparing to spring forward, but was disconcerted by the snickering of the hooded figure.

The little man had dropped back a step, with one hand stretched out in front of him, bathed in a sickly blue glow. Druin’s throwing knives hung, suspended, above his open palm.

As Druin watched, the knives rotated lazily in the air, then arced back towards him, to hang menacingly in front of his eyes, spitting indigo sparks.

“MadHarp told me you were quick,” the hooded man said mockingly. “He also said you were stubborn. I think he might have said stupid, too. I’m sure he used the phrase ‘prissy punk.’ Now drop your weapons and take your medicine.”

“How did MadHarp even know I was here?” Druin demanded.

“Captain Thunder’s crew aren’t all as idealistic as he is,” the other replied. “’Harp knew which Inn you’d be sent to before you did. He got a message to me and I’ve just been waiting to help him settle up with you. And I’m just the first round – apparently he’s got a whole string of folks lined up. You
really
must have ticked him off. I bet you embarrassed him in front of somebody. Upset his little chain of command. He hates that. I could have told you. Now drop the blades.”

Druin desperately estimated the distance between himself and the other man, while another part of his brain tried to coldly calculate whether the floating knives would blind him entirely or just on one side. Could he fight blind? The little man was quick, and clearly prepared for anything Druin could throw at him. MadHarp must have briefed him thoroughly.

“Look, whatever he’s paying you...”

“He’s not paying me,” the little man said, shaking his head. “We billeted together during an international training exercise and found we have a mutual dislike of uppity pukes like you. Besides, I get all your money anyway, stupid.”

“You don’t have to do this.”

“I want to. Nothing personal. Wait, I take that back; yes it is.” He gestured, and the floating knives drove forward...

...and clattered to the cobblestones, lifeless once more.

“You talk too much,” said a new voice. “Bad habit for an assassin.”

“What the...?” The hooded man spun towards the mouth of the alleyway. A wide silhouette nearly filled the gap between the buildings, outlined by the dim light from the tavern and the street beyond. “Who are you?”

“Depends on how you mean the question,” the new figure answered, stepping forward into the blue glow still emanating from the hooded assassin’s hand.

The newcomer was a large man, heavyset but tall enough to wear it well, dressed in a simple blue surcoat and tunic under a wide belt with a massive silver buckle. He had a neatly trimmed beard, but the rest of his features were hidden under a broad-brimmed leather hat with an amethyst-studded hatband. He leaned on a polished black staff.

“For instance,” he continued in a mellow baritone, “you might mean that you want to know my name. Or my work, here or RL. You might be asking about my interests or hobbies. Of course, none of those is really important to you, since your only real concern is my interference in your little execution here. But no, you’ve got to go asking vague questions about ‘who I am,’ paying attention to my words when you should have been spending this time killing me...”

Druin was, as his companions had reason to know, very quick, but the hooded man was even quicker. His fingers twitched in a complex pattern, and fire bloomed from his fingertips, bathing the bearded man.

“...of course it’s too late now,” the large man continued as though the flames roaring over his body weren’t even there, “because by now I’ve already set up a counterspell while you were standing there with your mouth hanging open.” He shook his head disparagingly. “Fire. It’s always the fire first with guys like you.”

He stepped forward again, implacably closing the distance to the little man. “I understand the appeal, you know. Fire is flashy, fire is direct, it’s got great graphics...”

The hooded man’s fingers twitched again, and a beam of blue-white light sprang from his palm. The air around the beam crackled with frost crystals, and dense fog coiled around it as the air was flash-frozen.

“...and then you jump right to the ice,” the big man droned on, the staff raised sideways now, clearly absorbing the pale beam. “It’s so logical, I know. The enemy is impervious to fire, he must be vulnerable to cold. But that’s the type of binary logic which gets you killed. In the little games we were designing ten years ago, that kind of simplistic dualism worked, but you need to break out of those bad habits.”

He continued to pace resolutely towards the little assassin. “Now if I were you, I’d be a little flustered, I’d be wanting to buy some time, so I’d be thinking seriously about summoning something awful...”

The hooded man’s fingers halted, mid-twitch.

“...or maybe something direct. A cloud of poison, maybe, or a nice, direct death spell...”

The newcomer was looming over the hooded man now, who looked even smaller in the shadow of his bulk. The black staff gleamed. “No? No death spells handy?” The little man shook his head, and Druin was almost sure that he heard him whimper.