Massively Multiplayer, page 27
Druin had paid a price, some time ago, when he had decided to concentrate his in-game efforts on the skills of craft, deception, and speed. He would never have the strong sword arm or command of weaponry Ghostmaker clearly possessed. He would never cast spells like Wisefellow. But to his specialized sight, the lines of cracks radiating from the frame of the ‘door’ described by the arch stood out like neon against the dull gray background of stone.
“There’s a mechanism of some kind – magical maybe – between the door and...this line of dancing figures. And here.”
He was a bit smug that despite his lowly status, a point none of his companions seemed to ever forget, he had already contributed to the venture. Of course mages had their own ways of achieving the same ends.
“Hmmm...a moment.” Dinah reached into her pouch and withdrew a small pinch of what looked like white flower petals. These she crushed in her hands, then raised her hands to rub the juice into both eyes with her thumbs. There was a very quiet noise, like the tinkle of fracturing glass, and when she pulled her thumbs away Druin saw that Dinah’s eyes were shining faintly.
“Yes. Mmmm. I see it now.” Her fingers reached out to trace the delicate web of cracks in the stone, carefully avoiding touching the rough surface. “Here is a rune of activation. And this is one of warning. It is rough, but clear. The ward is definitely magical in nature...perhaps the skeletons on the walls come to life, or the entire building simply explodes like a bomb. I suspect that it is intended to make certain we open the tombs in the proper order, with the proper passwords. If not,” she snapped her fingers casually, “boom.”
“You think there’s a similar trap on the other two tombs?”
“Mmm. Yes, almost certainly.”
“Are we sure the other teams will notice?”
Dinah’s attention snapped away from the wall and her mouth opened in horror.
“Quickly! You go that way, I’ll go there!” She was off before Druin could agree.
Luckily, there was no disaster to avert. Ghostmaker, who claimed a long acquaintance with “sneaky damn tricks,” had spotted the trap as easily as Druin. Rajah and Malcolm had not noticed anything untoward in their cursory examination, but since the inscription on their assigned tomb made reference to a “First of Three,” Dinah declared it probably wouldn’t have mattered as much anyway. “First, Second, and Third,” she mused out loud, “from left to right. At least the Mender seems to have been of an orderly mind.”
“Too orderly,” Ghostmaker grumbled quietly, but he was leading the group towards the leftmost structure before Druin could ask him what he meant.
They convened before the squat building, and Butterfly and Dinah had a look over the runic inscriptions carved into its face. Rajah apparently possessed some practical magical abilities but professed he had “no patience” with the more cerebral applications of the art.
The archway facing the center of the plain bore an inscription similar to the others: ““I am the First of Three. Speak but the Maker’s Name, and Enter.”
It took only a moment for them to recognize that this doorway, too, was magically booby-trapped. “It is a cunning device,” Butterfly announced primly. “linking the three tombs in a magical chain. There is some suggestion of a linkage to that central slab, as well. Perhaps it bears further investigation.”
“Druin, Rajah, and, uh, Malcolm, go check it out,” Ghostmaster ordered, clearly intent on solidifying his claim to party leadership.
“Anon, we shall endeavor to make hast!” Malcolm announced chirpily, saluting with his sword before trotting off. Druin fell into step next to Rajah at a somewhat slower pace.
“He’s kind of enthusiastic,” Druin explained, gesturing at Malcolm prancing before them.
“He may drive me to insanity,” Rajah growled, his fingers clenched around the hilt of his scimitar. “I value the contributions of the hopelessly icy, but his manner...” He shuddered.
“It can take some getting used to,” Druin admitted. “But at least he’s friendly. Not that you all aren’t,” he added hastily. “I know Malcolm and I weren’t what you guys were expecting, but you’ve all been pretty nice about it. Or at least not made a big deal out of it. Even the Princess seems okay.”
“Huh!” Rajah snorted. “Don’t turn your back on that one for a moment. Do you know what she is called back at the courts of the Stellar Empire?”
Druin shook his head.
“The Mantis! Because of her predatory nature. She is an expert at remaining quietly in the background until the perfect moment, and then...” his hand raised and dropped like a knife. “Chop! It is suspected that she was behind the multiple assassination of Lord Akimehara last year. His guards were dispatched and he was stabbed repeatedly, over and over, until he was so far diminished in rank that he could no longer fulfill his duties as Minister of Magic. And I am personally certain that she manipulated the trade dealings with the Desert Kingdoms to her own advantage. She is absolutely ruthless.”
Druin raised an eyebrow at these revelations and cast a skeptical eye back at the delicate young woman who was chatting with Dinah near the tomb’s door. “Ruthless? Huh. Imagine that. I’ll keep my eyes open.”
“Do,” said Rajah curtly.
They had reached the long black slab which Dinah and Butterfly had identified as the nexus of the magical snares linking the three tombs. It was almost fifteen feet long and ten feet across, laying flat on the ground, made of the same dense basalt as the cairns around them. Most intriguingly, the slab was engraved with the same deeply-chiseled writing which adorned the doors of the three tombs.
“Herein lies the final Vault of the Mender,
Who would unmake the world and build anew.
Lain here beside his helpers three,
His band of brothers, now a skeletal crew.
Praises to Duster, the raiser of mountains,
Praises to Macro, the bringer of light,
and Praise to Rod Ruin, who awakened the people.
Be peaceful their rest through the eternal night.”
“O-kay,” Druin said after a moment. “Malcolm, when I die, and they’re putting up a stone, remind me to hire a professional poet.”
“Certes, my lord.”
“It is obvious,” Rajah said dismissively. “This central stone covers the vault of the Mender, the three triangular tombs are those of his apprentices. The one you found asked for the name of ‘the illuminator,’ and that would be the one who ‘brings light,’ this ‘Macro’...strange name. The first tomb in the sequence asked for the name of ‘the Maker,’ and that must be ‘Duster,’ who ‘raised mountains.’ I will bet you in the currency of your choosing that the tomb Ghostmaker and Butterfly investigated asks for the name of ‘Rod Ruin’ before it can be opened.”
“No bet,” said Druin. “But isn’t it a little bit pat that they’re even in the same order?”
Rajah shrugged. “As Ghostmaker pointed out, this Mender seems to have been obsessively organized. Wasn’t his whole intent to bring a kind of order even to the chaos of the world at large?”
“You make him sound arrogant.”
“It is arrogant,” Rajah said, bristling. “There is a reason there should remain clear divisions between civilized nations and...others.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Rajah shrugged. “You may take it however you please, little man,” he began, and raised his hand to gesture dismissal of the nattering of these peons entirely, which was fortunate because it meant that the crossbow bolt which had been intended to split Druin’s skull open pierced Rajah’s outstretched arm instead.
“What?!? Who?” Rajah raised his hand, gazing incredulously at the shaft of wood which had neatly punctured him. Six inches of black steel protruded from the middle of his palm and another six from the back of his hand.
“DUCK!” Druin yelled, pushing the still stunned Rajah down. A second bolt ricocheted off the stone slab with a ringing sound. “Malcolm!”
Malcolm reached into his pack and withdrew the small shield he had received from Captain Thunder. He gripped the handle tightly and pulled it close as Druin dragged Rajah behind the barrier.
“Cripes, Rajah, snap out of it!” But Rajah remained immobile, his gaze fixed unwaveringly on the bolt penetrating his hand. “Malcolm, I think it’s poisoned! I can’t get Rajah to move!”
“Drag him!” Malcolm shouted, heaving on the fallen man’s opposite shoulder. Slowly, they began moving back towards the shelter of the tombs. A crossbow bolt caromed off the shield with a ringing chime.
Back by the tomb, the others seemed to have finally noticed that something was wrong. Druin could see Dinah scanning the slope above the burial plane with her magically enhanced eyes. Ghostmaker was crouching behind the building, loading darts into the spring-loaded mechanism attached to his left gauntlet.
Just as they pulled even with the tomb, Dinah gave a cry of triumph and leveled her finger at a point far up the slope. A ray of intense light burst from her finger, illuminating a distant figure which scuttled further back into the shadows of the boulder.
“Damn! He’s out of my range...Princess, can you do anything?”
Princess Enduring Diamond Butterfly reached up into the artfully coiled strands of her elaborate hairdo and withdrew a slender metal rod. Druin had thought it was merely a hairpin, and it might well have been that too, but for the moment the Princess clearly had a different purpose in mind.
She held the rod in a delicate grip, like a symphony conductor, her other hand extended, palm downwards.
She turned her hand over and swept the rod upwards in a graceful arc.
A chunk of the mountain near where the shadowy figure had last been seen sheared off. Boulders the size of houses rained down on the spot, and then the great wedge of stone teetered over them, a hundred tons of solid rock smashing down with a roar that echoed over the burial plain and across the distant peaks.
Clouds of dust arose from the side of what was now a quite differently shaped mountain. Druin blinked. Malcolm’s mouth hung open and he gazed at Princess Butterfly with something like awe. Even the unflappable Dinah seemed a bit flustered.
Princess Butterfly bowed elegantly and reinserted her hairpin. “Perhaps it would be best if we were to make haste inside,” she said. “There might be more assassins lurking in the rocks.”
Ghostmaker recovered his composure enough to ask “any idea who?”
“The list of possibilities is endless,” Dinah announced gravely. “Would-be protectors of the holy site? Grave robbers? Simple mountain bandits? Competitors, even? After all, we have no assurance that we are the only group which was contacted by our shadowy friend.”
“Then we must be the swiftest,” said Butterfly.
“Uh, I think I can rule out simple bandits,” said Druin, kneeling at Rajah’s side. “He’s dead.”
“What?” Ghostmaker bustled over, his eyes still scanning the hills warily.
“Poison,” Druin confirmed. “A really good one. It paralyzed him first. I don’t know how bad things are in this country, but I hope all the bandits aren’t running around with this stuff.”
“They are not,” Dinah assured him. “This is certainly the result of...singular preparation.”
No-one had to ask what she meant. Rajah had not been the victim of any random attack. They were being stalked by another player.
“All the more reason to make haste,” Butterfly urged.
“I agree,” nodded Ghostmaker. “It means Rajah’s out of this adventure, since we haven’t made camp yet...his body will be taken back to the Pass. Tough luck for him, but worse for us if we don’t get off this open ground. We’ll be no good to anybody if we get picked off. Did you three...two...find out anything before Rajah got shot?”
Druin quickly informed them of their findings.
“That’s good enough for me. You and Malcolm hide Rajah’s body as well as you can. Maybe we can preserve it from looting until it gets returned to the Trading Post. Dinah, Butterfly, prep all the defensive spells you’ve got. We’re going in.”
Ghostmaker made his way to the front of the building, still crouching over to present a smaller target to would-be assassins. “Duster!” he intoned.
The skeletal figures incised around the archway writhed, their claw-like hands seeming to dig into the network of cracks which made up the stone facade. Then they yanked, bony limbs stretching back, and with a terrible crackling noise, the stone face split up the middle, revealing a narrow opening which led downwards into darkness.
The words hovered in mid-air, superimposed over a final vision of tons of solid rock:
Kineticus the Thief. Circle: 11. Wealth: 13,021. You have been logged in for 72 minutes. Your character has died. Thank you for playing Crucible v4.0.
Carlo Torrelli whipped off his goggles and gasped. The claustrophobia engendered by his character’s violent death under a ton of rubble was made worse by the stifling heat of his tiny apartment. Normally he gamed in his underwear, but the old lady downstairs had demanded that he pay up with the rent today, and heaven knew she might simply waltz into his rooms uninvited.
What in the name of the saints had that witch hit him with? The brief glimpse he’d gotten of the mountainside peeling away, before his vision was blotted out entirely, had been impressive, but he’d have preferred to see it from a distance. At least this had been active opposition, not the random happenstance which had interfered with his first shot. He’d had the target lined up cleanly, the magically enhanced sights on his crossbow perfectly aligned with the little weasel’s eyes, a specially prepared bolt ready to fly...then the tall fool with the curved sword had swept out his arm and...thwock! Wrong victim. How embarrassing.
And then the piercing searchlight, followed by who knew what kind of terrible magic. He’d known the target was accompanied, but clearly Matteo had no idea how powerful those companions must be. To think, he’d accepted the commission on spec, paid only a nominal fee as a professional courtesy to another assassin...it would take a week for the game’s automatic body-finders to dig his corpse out from beneath the rubble and return it to the Inn down at the Pass. A week in which he wouldn’t be able to play! A week confined to the sweltering heat of his apartment, with no distractions from the Italian summer.
Maybe he should lounge about in his underwear after all. Perhaps he could parlay his landlady’s shock into an extension on the rent. Or air conditioning.
But first, a quick v-mail to Matteo. MadHarp should know that this “Druin Reaver” was proving a harder kill than anyone had thought.
Chapter Sixteen - MasterMind
A brick.
It isn’t much to look at, to the naked eye. This one is hexagonal, formed of reddish clay, compacted with some sort of broad, flat tool, then fired in an oven.
An expert mason, a connoisseur of bricks perhaps, might remark that this one is particularly even, almost inhumanly so, with perfectly smoothed edges only marred slightly where some philistine, unappreciative of the brickmaker’s art, had gouged this particular sample from whatever wall it had once called home.
But there is another view of this brick. It is the view which can see the component elements which define the brick’s structure. It is a sight which sees the brick not as a single unit, but as a collection of definitions. It is vision beyond the visible, down past the microscopic, beyond even the subatomic, to a place where a simple brick is no longer a physical object, to where it is apprehended not as substance but as mathematical abstraction, a unit of compressed time. Even the tiny chips on the brick’s edge are encoded here, available as tiny physical descriptions appended to the original record, testament to the manner in which history inscribes itself on even the humblest creations. This is a vision which peels the brick, layer from layer, searching for hidden truths. It is the eye of God.
Marybeth Langridge worked alone on the most secure terminal she could find – her own private laptop unit, recovered from her car’s trunk and loaded with all the avatar software she could cram into its limited memory. Her work was hidden from prying eyes in two ways, one minor and one major. The minor advantage was that this laptop was not connected to the house intranet in any way, not even through the ubiquitous anonymous guest login which was generated by most wireless-capable devices at all times. Her major security, however, was superior even to the technique described in Poe’s purloined letter: as far as she knew, no-one even knew the computer , or the data on it, existed, nor what she was up to. As long as no-one came looking for her, no-one was likely to find her.
So she hid in plain sight, visible to God and masons and everybody, but totally ignored, perched on the end of a couch in the employee lounge on the thirteenth floor. Every so often she would turn from the display and rest her eyes on the view from the windows, boats plying back and forth over the gray waters of the Puget Sound, and wonder what in the hell she was supposed to figure out from a single brick.
The brick was, make no mistake, a marvel of twenty-first century computing prowess. Like every object in the world of Crucible, and in most netvironments for that matter, the brick was defined as a series of numbers, each assigned to a particular characteristic. Its physical dimensions were listed as such a width by such a height by such a depth, its color represented in angstroms, its hardness defined as so, its other material properties, flammability, flexibility, reflectivity, index of refraction, electrical resistance...every function or characteristic which the game’s physics engine could assign to the object “brick” was available in its record. In addition, there were a number of game-specific variables in the brick’s file: magical resistance, elemental associations, original programmer, revision dates, a unique identifier, and so on. Effectively the “brick” wasn’t really an object so much as a collection of definitions – of data – and it was this collection which she had copied to her laptop.
She’d been going over the file for hours. The problem was that as far as Marybeth could see, the resultant file had already yielded its most precious secret. This brick hadn’t even existed until she – or, rather, Amitra – had chipped it out of the hive wall in her daring raid the night before. Until that point, the wall had been defined, coded with all the characteristics of brick walls of its kind. There, for all the world to see, was the name of Rudi Singh, the physics instructor turned programming guru who had first designed the Crucible world and its rules, listed as the primary source for most of the material data in the brick’s record. A few other names had been appended when new game functions had necessitated new data for all brick walls. Then, when she’d levered out a single stone, the game program had generated this particular object, scratches and all, and at the same time appended the record of the hive-wall to note the small hole she had created.
“There’s a mechanism of some kind – magical maybe – between the door and...this line of dancing figures. And here.”
He was a bit smug that despite his lowly status, a point none of his companions seemed to ever forget, he had already contributed to the venture. Of course mages had their own ways of achieving the same ends.
“Hmmm...a moment.” Dinah reached into her pouch and withdrew a small pinch of what looked like white flower petals. These she crushed in her hands, then raised her hands to rub the juice into both eyes with her thumbs. There was a very quiet noise, like the tinkle of fracturing glass, and when she pulled her thumbs away Druin saw that Dinah’s eyes were shining faintly.
“Yes. Mmmm. I see it now.” Her fingers reached out to trace the delicate web of cracks in the stone, carefully avoiding touching the rough surface. “Here is a rune of activation. And this is one of warning. It is rough, but clear. The ward is definitely magical in nature...perhaps the skeletons on the walls come to life, or the entire building simply explodes like a bomb. I suspect that it is intended to make certain we open the tombs in the proper order, with the proper passwords. If not,” she snapped her fingers casually, “boom.”
“You think there’s a similar trap on the other two tombs?”
“Mmm. Yes, almost certainly.”
“Are we sure the other teams will notice?”
Dinah’s attention snapped away from the wall and her mouth opened in horror.
“Quickly! You go that way, I’ll go there!” She was off before Druin could agree.
Luckily, there was no disaster to avert. Ghostmaker, who claimed a long acquaintance with “sneaky damn tricks,” had spotted the trap as easily as Druin. Rajah and Malcolm had not noticed anything untoward in their cursory examination, but since the inscription on their assigned tomb made reference to a “First of Three,” Dinah declared it probably wouldn’t have mattered as much anyway. “First, Second, and Third,” she mused out loud, “from left to right. At least the Mender seems to have been of an orderly mind.”
“Too orderly,” Ghostmaker grumbled quietly, but he was leading the group towards the leftmost structure before Druin could ask him what he meant.
They convened before the squat building, and Butterfly and Dinah had a look over the runic inscriptions carved into its face. Rajah apparently possessed some practical magical abilities but professed he had “no patience” with the more cerebral applications of the art.
The archway facing the center of the plain bore an inscription similar to the others: ““I am the First of Three. Speak but the Maker’s Name, and Enter.”
It took only a moment for them to recognize that this doorway, too, was magically booby-trapped. “It is a cunning device,” Butterfly announced primly. “linking the three tombs in a magical chain. There is some suggestion of a linkage to that central slab, as well. Perhaps it bears further investigation.”
“Druin, Rajah, and, uh, Malcolm, go check it out,” Ghostmaster ordered, clearly intent on solidifying his claim to party leadership.
“Anon, we shall endeavor to make hast!” Malcolm announced chirpily, saluting with his sword before trotting off. Druin fell into step next to Rajah at a somewhat slower pace.
“He’s kind of enthusiastic,” Druin explained, gesturing at Malcolm prancing before them.
“He may drive me to insanity,” Rajah growled, his fingers clenched around the hilt of his scimitar. “I value the contributions of the hopelessly icy, but his manner...” He shuddered.
“It can take some getting used to,” Druin admitted. “But at least he’s friendly. Not that you all aren’t,” he added hastily. “I know Malcolm and I weren’t what you guys were expecting, but you’ve all been pretty nice about it. Or at least not made a big deal out of it. Even the Princess seems okay.”
“Huh!” Rajah snorted. “Don’t turn your back on that one for a moment. Do you know what she is called back at the courts of the Stellar Empire?”
Druin shook his head.
“The Mantis! Because of her predatory nature. She is an expert at remaining quietly in the background until the perfect moment, and then...” his hand raised and dropped like a knife. “Chop! It is suspected that she was behind the multiple assassination of Lord Akimehara last year. His guards were dispatched and he was stabbed repeatedly, over and over, until he was so far diminished in rank that he could no longer fulfill his duties as Minister of Magic. And I am personally certain that she manipulated the trade dealings with the Desert Kingdoms to her own advantage. She is absolutely ruthless.”
Druin raised an eyebrow at these revelations and cast a skeptical eye back at the delicate young woman who was chatting with Dinah near the tomb’s door. “Ruthless? Huh. Imagine that. I’ll keep my eyes open.”
“Do,” said Rajah curtly.
They had reached the long black slab which Dinah and Butterfly had identified as the nexus of the magical snares linking the three tombs. It was almost fifteen feet long and ten feet across, laying flat on the ground, made of the same dense basalt as the cairns around them. Most intriguingly, the slab was engraved with the same deeply-chiseled writing which adorned the doors of the three tombs.
“Herein lies the final Vault of the Mender,
Who would unmake the world and build anew.
Lain here beside his helpers three,
His band of brothers, now a skeletal crew.
Praises to Duster, the raiser of mountains,
Praises to Macro, the bringer of light,
and Praise to Rod Ruin, who awakened the people.
Be peaceful their rest through the eternal night.”
“O-kay,” Druin said after a moment. “Malcolm, when I die, and they’re putting up a stone, remind me to hire a professional poet.”
“Certes, my lord.”
“It is obvious,” Rajah said dismissively. “This central stone covers the vault of the Mender, the three triangular tombs are those of his apprentices. The one you found asked for the name of ‘the illuminator,’ and that would be the one who ‘brings light,’ this ‘Macro’...strange name. The first tomb in the sequence asked for the name of ‘the Maker,’ and that must be ‘Duster,’ who ‘raised mountains.’ I will bet you in the currency of your choosing that the tomb Ghostmaker and Butterfly investigated asks for the name of ‘Rod Ruin’ before it can be opened.”
“No bet,” said Druin. “But isn’t it a little bit pat that they’re even in the same order?”
Rajah shrugged. “As Ghostmaker pointed out, this Mender seems to have been obsessively organized. Wasn’t his whole intent to bring a kind of order even to the chaos of the world at large?”
“You make him sound arrogant.”
“It is arrogant,” Rajah said, bristling. “There is a reason there should remain clear divisions between civilized nations and...others.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Rajah shrugged. “You may take it however you please, little man,” he began, and raised his hand to gesture dismissal of the nattering of these peons entirely, which was fortunate because it meant that the crossbow bolt which had been intended to split Druin’s skull open pierced Rajah’s outstretched arm instead.
“What?!? Who?” Rajah raised his hand, gazing incredulously at the shaft of wood which had neatly punctured him. Six inches of black steel protruded from the middle of his palm and another six from the back of his hand.
“DUCK!” Druin yelled, pushing the still stunned Rajah down. A second bolt ricocheted off the stone slab with a ringing sound. “Malcolm!”
Malcolm reached into his pack and withdrew the small shield he had received from Captain Thunder. He gripped the handle tightly and pulled it close as Druin dragged Rajah behind the barrier.
“Cripes, Rajah, snap out of it!” But Rajah remained immobile, his gaze fixed unwaveringly on the bolt penetrating his hand. “Malcolm, I think it’s poisoned! I can’t get Rajah to move!”
“Drag him!” Malcolm shouted, heaving on the fallen man’s opposite shoulder. Slowly, they began moving back towards the shelter of the tombs. A crossbow bolt caromed off the shield with a ringing chime.
Back by the tomb, the others seemed to have finally noticed that something was wrong. Druin could see Dinah scanning the slope above the burial plane with her magically enhanced eyes. Ghostmaker was crouching behind the building, loading darts into the spring-loaded mechanism attached to his left gauntlet.
Just as they pulled even with the tomb, Dinah gave a cry of triumph and leveled her finger at a point far up the slope. A ray of intense light burst from her finger, illuminating a distant figure which scuttled further back into the shadows of the boulder.
“Damn! He’s out of my range...Princess, can you do anything?”
Princess Enduring Diamond Butterfly reached up into the artfully coiled strands of her elaborate hairdo and withdrew a slender metal rod. Druin had thought it was merely a hairpin, and it might well have been that too, but for the moment the Princess clearly had a different purpose in mind.
She held the rod in a delicate grip, like a symphony conductor, her other hand extended, palm downwards.
She turned her hand over and swept the rod upwards in a graceful arc.
A chunk of the mountain near where the shadowy figure had last been seen sheared off. Boulders the size of houses rained down on the spot, and then the great wedge of stone teetered over them, a hundred tons of solid rock smashing down with a roar that echoed over the burial plain and across the distant peaks.
Clouds of dust arose from the side of what was now a quite differently shaped mountain. Druin blinked. Malcolm’s mouth hung open and he gazed at Princess Butterfly with something like awe. Even the unflappable Dinah seemed a bit flustered.
Princess Butterfly bowed elegantly and reinserted her hairpin. “Perhaps it would be best if we were to make haste inside,” she said. “There might be more assassins lurking in the rocks.”
Ghostmaker recovered his composure enough to ask “any idea who?”
“The list of possibilities is endless,” Dinah announced gravely. “Would-be protectors of the holy site? Grave robbers? Simple mountain bandits? Competitors, even? After all, we have no assurance that we are the only group which was contacted by our shadowy friend.”
“Then we must be the swiftest,” said Butterfly.
“Uh, I think I can rule out simple bandits,” said Druin, kneeling at Rajah’s side. “He’s dead.”
“What?” Ghostmaker bustled over, his eyes still scanning the hills warily.
“Poison,” Druin confirmed. “A really good one. It paralyzed him first. I don’t know how bad things are in this country, but I hope all the bandits aren’t running around with this stuff.”
“They are not,” Dinah assured him. “This is certainly the result of...singular preparation.”
No-one had to ask what she meant. Rajah had not been the victim of any random attack. They were being stalked by another player.
“All the more reason to make haste,” Butterfly urged.
“I agree,” nodded Ghostmaker. “It means Rajah’s out of this adventure, since we haven’t made camp yet...his body will be taken back to the Pass. Tough luck for him, but worse for us if we don’t get off this open ground. We’ll be no good to anybody if we get picked off. Did you three...two...find out anything before Rajah got shot?”
Druin quickly informed them of their findings.
“That’s good enough for me. You and Malcolm hide Rajah’s body as well as you can. Maybe we can preserve it from looting until it gets returned to the Trading Post. Dinah, Butterfly, prep all the defensive spells you’ve got. We’re going in.”
Ghostmaker made his way to the front of the building, still crouching over to present a smaller target to would-be assassins. “Duster!” he intoned.
The skeletal figures incised around the archway writhed, their claw-like hands seeming to dig into the network of cracks which made up the stone facade. Then they yanked, bony limbs stretching back, and with a terrible crackling noise, the stone face split up the middle, revealing a narrow opening which led downwards into darkness.
The words hovered in mid-air, superimposed over a final vision of tons of solid rock:
Kineticus the Thief. Circle: 11. Wealth: 13,021. You have been logged in for 72 minutes. Your character has died. Thank you for playing Crucible v4.0.
Carlo Torrelli whipped off his goggles and gasped. The claustrophobia engendered by his character’s violent death under a ton of rubble was made worse by the stifling heat of his tiny apartment. Normally he gamed in his underwear, but the old lady downstairs had demanded that he pay up with the rent today, and heaven knew she might simply waltz into his rooms uninvited.
What in the name of the saints had that witch hit him with? The brief glimpse he’d gotten of the mountainside peeling away, before his vision was blotted out entirely, had been impressive, but he’d have preferred to see it from a distance. At least this had been active opposition, not the random happenstance which had interfered with his first shot. He’d had the target lined up cleanly, the magically enhanced sights on his crossbow perfectly aligned with the little weasel’s eyes, a specially prepared bolt ready to fly...then the tall fool with the curved sword had swept out his arm and...thwock! Wrong victim. How embarrassing.
And then the piercing searchlight, followed by who knew what kind of terrible magic. He’d known the target was accompanied, but clearly Matteo had no idea how powerful those companions must be. To think, he’d accepted the commission on spec, paid only a nominal fee as a professional courtesy to another assassin...it would take a week for the game’s automatic body-finders to dig his corpse out from beneath the rubble and return it to the Inn down at the Pass. A week in which he wouldn’t be able to play! A week confined to the sweltering heat of his apartment, with no distractions from the Italian summer.
Maybe he should lounge about in his underwear after all. Perhaps he could parlay his landlady’s shock into an extension on the rent. Or air conditioning.
But first, a quick v-mail to Matteo. MadHarp should know that this “Druin Reaver” was proving a harder kill than anyone had thought.
Chapter Sixteen - MasterMind
A brick.
It isn’t much to look at, to the naked eye. This one is hexagonal, formed of reddish clay, compacted with some sort of broad, flat tool, then fired in an oven.
An expert mason, a connoisseur of bricks perhaps, might remark that this one is particularly even, almost inhumanly so, with perfectly smoothed edges only marred slightly where some philistine, unappreciative of the brickmaker’s art, had gouged this particular sample from whatever wall it had once called home.
But there is another view of this brick. It is the view which can see the component elements which define the brick’s structure. It is a sight which sees the brick not as a single unit, but as a collection of definitions. It is vision beyond the visible, down past the microscopic, beyond even the subatomic, to a place where a simple brick is no longer a physical object, to where it is apprehended not as substance but as mathematical abstraction, a unit of compressed time. Even the tiny chips on the brick’s edge are encoded here, available as tiny physical descriptions appended to the original record, testament to the manner in which history inscribes itself on even the humblest creations. This is a vision which peels the brick, layer from layer, searching for hidden truths. It is the eye of God.
Marybeth Langridge worked alone on the most secure terminal she could find – her own private laptop unit, recovered from her car’s trunk and loaded with all the avatar software she could cram into its limited memory. Her work was hidden from prying eyes in two ways, one minor and one major. The minor advantage was that this laptop was not connected to the house intranet in any way, not even through the ubiquitous anonymous guest login which was generated by most wireless-capable devices at all times. Her major security, however, was superior even to the technique described in Poe’s purloined letter: as far as she knew, no-one even knew the computer , or the data on it, existed, nor what she was up to. As long as no-one came looking for her, no-one was likely to find her.
So she hid in plain sight, visible to God and masons and everybody, but totally ignored, perched on the end of a couch in the employee lounge on the thirteenth floor. Every so often she would turn from the display and rest her eyes on the view from the windows, boats plying back and forth over the gray waters of the Puget Sound, and wonder what in the hell she was supposed to figure out from a single brick.
The brick was, make no mistake, a marvel of twenty-first century computing prowess. Like every object in the world of Crucible, and in most netvironments for that matter, the brick was defined as a series of numbers, each assigned to a particular characteristic. Its physical dimensions were listed as such a width by such a height by such a depth, its color represented in angstroms, its hardness defined as so, its other material properties, flammability, flexibility, reflectivity, index of refraction, electrical resistance...every function or characteristic which the game’s physics engine could assign to the object “brick” was available in its record. In addition, there were a number of game-specific variables in the brick’s file: magical resistance, elemental associations, original programmer, revision dates, a unique identifier, and so on. Effectively the “brick” wasn’t really an object so much as a collection of definitions – of data – and it was this collection which she had copied to her laptop.
She’d been going over the file for hours. The problem was that as far as Marybeth could see, the resultant file had already yielded its most precious secret. This brick hadn’t even existed until she – or, rather, Amitra – had chipped it out of the hive wall in her daring raid the night before. Until that point, the wall had been defined, coded with all the characteristics of brick walls of its kind. There, for all the world to see, was the name of Rudi Singh, the physics instructor turned programming guru who had first designed the Crucible world and its rules, listed as the primary source for most of the material data in the brick’s record. A few other names had been appended when new game functions had necessitated new data for all brick walls. Then, when she’d levered out a single stone, the game program had generated this particular object, scratches and all, and at the same time appended the record of the hive-wall to note the small hole she had created.
