Massively Multiplayer, page 5
"No way! He was just tenth during the Swamp Trek. Nobody rises that fast!"
"Gil did," Mad-Harp corrected him, "and he hasn't even been out much on the quest circuit. Once you break tenth level, it becomes self-defeating. He's very slick. He's something of a broker these days. He fronts a lot of quests with equipment in return for a percentage of the gold. It's all training for the Heptarchy after tenth circle." He gave Druin another of his appraising looks, which Druin was getting tired of. "You should start thinking about this stuff, you know, sixth circle and all. He could teach you how the system works."
"Thanks, but no. In the first place I play straight." Druin held up a hand to forestall the minstrel's objection. "I'm not saying Gil's hacking the system, and it doesn't matter to me if he is. I just like the questing, straight up. If and when I break into the tenth circle, I don't want to get caught up in all the politics of the noble houses. And in the second place, even if he gets a slice of all the gold from these adventurers he finances, he'll never get the stats to become a Blade unless he goes out and gets muddy with the rest of us."
MadHarp looked honestly surprised. "Dru', I didn't think you cared! Not that Gil does. Why would he want to become some pumped-up gladiator when he could get some real power as a Heptarch, ruling one of the continents? Or even a Catalyst. That's the point of the game, you know, get noticed by the designers and get a job in RL, playing games all day."
Druin shook his head. "I don't think so. Besides, why would you want a job working on a game you didn't like enough to keep playing once you could afford not to?"
MadHarp shut his mouth and looked perplexed. The thought obviously hadn't occurred to him before.
"Besides," Druin continued, "I notice you haven't given up questing for politics...even if all your quests are dirty work for Gil."
MadHarp smirked, back on familiar territory. "Ah, but that's where we're alike. I like getting my hands dirty. And besides, unlike most of the under-age llamas who play this game, I already have a job."
They had reached a tall doorway of wood with enormous bronze hinges, which MadHarp opened.
"It's a null statement anyway,” Druin muttered. “Gil hates my guts."
Before MadHarp cuold answer that, a new voice interrupted: "If that were true, Druin, then you'd be dead."
The speaker was seated behind a massive desk, in a chair so covered with gilt scrollwork that it might just as well have been called a throne. He was a massive man, made more imposing by thick blonde hair and honest-to-goodness muttonchops. His prominent belly was covered by a cuirass of the same blood-red color as the guards' tabards. He had been wearing it the last time Druin had seen him, during the Great Swamp Trek, and had joked that the color made it harder for bloodstains to ruin his clothing. As they entered what looked like a study, Gil shut a wooden box which he had been perusing, and pushed back his chair. As he came around the desk, Druin noticed that he was wearing a broadsword. The sword was currently sheathed. A good sign.
"Thanks for coming," Gil said, sticking out a hand.
Druin contemplated it, then shook reluctantly. "It wasn't like I had a lot of choice."
Gil grinned. "Yeah, Harp's persuasive that way. But I was afraid if I didn't send someone persuasive, you wouldn't come."
"You were right. And as a matter of fact, I've still got an appointment to keep...so what is it you wanted?"
Gil's eyes narrowed under bushy blonde brows. "Don't get snotty with me, lamer. I'm doing you a favor."
"And what's that?"
"Straight to the point. Refreshing. Particularly from you." Gil's smile was confident again. "I'm offering you a job. I need someone to check out a new quest area for me. Harp probably told you that I've been backing little squidges like you. A lot of people who make it to tenth circle and move Up-Hill do it. We help first-circle newbies, find quests, outfit them, give them some guidance on their first few adventures, and get a cut of gold and experience. It’s easy work -- mostly you can just send them into the North Wood, the Gobling Mines, you know, nearby places. The problem is that the area around town is already too crowded. I sent a bunch of newbies, fresh blood, to clean out an abandoned fortress. Supposed to be haunted. They didn’t find any ghosts though. They found Mim had already sent a party to the same place. There was some...disagreement about who had salvage rights.”
“Any survivors?”
“Ha ha. There's been almost as much fighting over who gets to fight the monsters as there has been of fighting the monsters themselves."
"Sounds like the type of thing you'd approve of. Competition and all that."
Gil scowled. "Stuff it, llama. It's bad business, and I can't afford it. But worse than that, it hurts the game. Yeah, I know you don't think I give a damn about that, but you're wrong. When a bunch of newbies spend their first few quests getting knifed by other adventurers, they quit, and no new players means the game dies. Or else they go player-killing themselves. And then nobody’s happy.”
MadHarp raised his hand like an eager student.
“Yeah, alright, so people like MadHarp here are happy -- but nobody else is. So think about that when I make my offer. I don't want to see the game turn into a PK free-for-all any more than you do."
Druin nodded, a touch guilty. He had been thinking that Gil valued money and power over everything else. Of course, just because Gil could read that thought in Druin's eyes didn’t necessarily mean it wasn't true.
Gil gestured at the carved wooden box on the desk, the one whose contents he had been studying so intently when Druin entered the room. "I've been using a seerstone to check out the area around here for new quest locations, but all it can tell me is general activity. So I've been sending out experienced adventurers to check them out."
"And that's where I come in?"
"Precisely." Gil smiled broadly. "You just have to sneak up to the place, check it out, assess the threat level, what type of monsters, traps, and treasures there are. You don't actually have to fight any of the monsters yourself, or go too deeply into the area, just scope it out and report the general conditions. That will tell me what type of adventurers I should send in there, warriors, thieves, mages, whatever, and what circle they need to be to survive. I get a new quest to send people on, newbie adventurers get some guidance and experience, and you get paid, gold on delivery, for minimal risk. Everybody wins."
He rocked back on his heels, obviously pleased with himself. But Druin had Wisefellow's cautions in mind, and some unanswered questions were nagging at him.
"Where is this new quest you've been investigating?"
Gil shook his had. "I can't tell you until you agree to the job. You might sell it to Mim or one of the other patrons, or try to take it for yourself."
"Why can't the stone tell you what you need to know?"
Gil shared an uneasy glance with MadHarp. "Normally it should. But this quest area is shielded against scrying for some reason. I can see people going in and out of it, and there's no settlement there, so I know its some sort of quest, but I can't view the area directly. Some areas or people with anti-magic protections are like that: if you try to look at them with a seerstone, it clouds up. If you push it, they eventually explode."
"And yet you're willing to send me in there." Druin was beginning to get a nasty sensation up and down his spine. "Why me? Why not Desparin? She's eighth circle, declared thief, and she's your friend."
"Desparin's out of town, and I need to move on this quickly, before Mim or one of the others gets hold of this."
"What about MadHarp?" Druin jerked his thumb at the minstel, who was leaning against a bookcase, grinning.
Gil was no longer meeting Druin's eyes. "I need MadHarp here."
"Why?"
"To keep an eye on llamas like you!" Gill roared, his patience snapping. "Damn! Druin, what is your problem? I'm offering you a thousand gold to do a simple scouting job! Don't you want to get anywhere? Or are you going to piss this away like you pissed away our chances in the Swamp?" He was red-faced, and his left hand was clutching the hilt of his broadsword convulsively.
Druin backed away, but found that MadHarp was blocking the exit, casually, but firmly. He swallowed. "As I recall, the gold and experience from the Great Swamp Trek got you to eleventh circle. And you're fourteenth now. Doesn't seem like you made out too badly."
Gil visibly brought himself under control. His smile was patently artificial. "No. That's true, I've done fine. But this is about you, Druin, about you doing well. Are you going to take the job or not?"
Druin studied him, considering. Gil didn't stifle his anger, he indulged it. He held grudges, and he had no qualms about using people. And he had plenty of people all too willing to let him use them, people like MadHarp. But he was offering the job to Druin.
"You think I'm going to get killed, don't you? You think the area's too dangerous to send your friends, so you're sending me. How many of the people who go into these new areas have come out again, Gil?"
Gil's smile deepened, and it was sincere now, and evil. A shark's smile. "Most of them. Almost all. And no, it wouldn't break my heart if it turned out to be the lair of something nasty and you got crisped. In fact, I'd laugh my ass off. But it's still an honest job offer. I'll register the contract with Justice. No backing out, and no cheating."
Druin spared MadHarp one more glance. The minstrel was smiling broadly, and picking his nails with a long, thin knife which he had not been holding a moment ago.
"Do I have any choice?"
It was Mad-Harp who answered. "Not really, no."
After Druin departed, MadHarp returned to the study. Gil was no longer at the desk, and the box containing the ridiculously precious seerstone had been tucked away somewhere out of sight. MadHarp shrugged indifferently. What did he care that Gil didn’t trust him? He wasn’t in this game to develop trust. He was here to...indulge.
He found Gil on the balcony, overlooking the town. Below them, the lamplighters were shuffling through the streets, but the shops still bustled with the activities of hundreds of Adventurers. Some were purely here for enjoyment, and some, like Gil, saw the game as a way to advance other plans. Bitter Edge was housed on the Western server, and thus followed the Pacific time zone, but the town never quite shut down at night. There were too many insomniacs in the world for that.
MadHarp pulled out one of his many daggers. Although he’d oiled the sheath, he carefully scraped the blade along its edge, ensuring that it made a slight rasping noise. Gil didn’t even turn at the sound. Interesting.
“Do you think he’ll do it?” Gil asked quietly, his back still turned.
MadHarp joined him at the railing, flipping the dagger casually end over end. “Of course he will. You touched some nerves.”
Gil looked slightly ashamed. “I know. It’s true, though, too. The update is coming tomorrow, and a lot of players will ditch. Some people don’t like change. We’ve got to get more players.”
“Noble of you,” MadHarp smirked. He caught the dagger by its tip, then flipped it to his other hand without looking. “And your own plans for getting a job at Archimago have nothing to do with that?”
“Shut up, Harp.” Gil scowled and ground a fist into the balcony railing. “You know how weird this is. Quest zones are supposed to show up off the edges of the map. Not inside known areas. I bet it has something to do with the rollout of version four tomorrow and-“
“And if you figure it out first, that’s an in with the company,” MadHarp interrupted. “Show’s you pay attention to design and such.”
“Just make sure he keeps the newbies out of it,” Gil said quietly. “I’ve lost too many clients recently. Bad for business.”
“Such concern.”
“I said shut up. Register the contract with Justice. See that he gets the newbies – most of them, anyway – to Heron Rock. And then make sure he follows through on the scouting mission. Maybe we’ll get lucky and they won’t ever find the corpse.” He rounded on the assassin, scowling fiercely. “He pays off his debt, and maybe we get a new quest zone for clients. You’ve already told me what you think of Dru. So what if he doesn’t make it? What do you care anyway?” Gil asked fiercely.
“Nothing.” MadHarp shrugged, giving the dagger a final twirl. “You’ve got your game.” He sheathed the knife. “I’ve got mine.”
Druin found Wisefellow waiting for him by the time he got back to the Grinning Pumpkin tavern.
"Druin, there you are. Did you go shopping without me?"
"I wish." He quickly outlined his experiences since logging in, and the task which Gil had set for him.
When he had finished, Wisefellow was shaking his head sadly. "You have a knack for making enemies, my friend. So, Gil has not yet forgiven you for our failure in the Great Swamp Trek."
"Why does everyone keep calling it a failure? Gil went up a circle, so did you and so did Evil Albert. Where's the failure? Nobody thought we were going to clear the bloodsuckers out of the Swamp in one trip anyway!"
"That is true, but Gil still blames you. Perhaps he would have blamed you for something even if we had succeeded. But even that is not the extent of your troubles."
Druin's stomach sank. "What now?"
"I'm afraid Uriah did not survive our encounter with the sea-trolls. NPC undertakers carried his body back to the Inn where he lives, but the trolls had looted his corpse of his armor, his weapons, everything he carried. And, I am further sorry to say, he has dropped a full level, back down to the seventh circle..."
Druin groaned and buried his face in his hands.
"...And he blames you."
Druin began banging his head repeatedly against the table. "Why, why, why, why, why..." he chanted.
Wisefellow placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Look on the bright side. As he has dropped a full circle in rank, he'll have a harder time killing you."
Somehow this failed to improve Druin's mood. Wisefellow tried another tack.
"Perhaps your leaving town right away is not such a bad thing after all? You can avoid Uriah while he gets over his anger, and mollify Gil at the same time." He raised his finger as an other thought occurred to him. "In fact, the reward which Gil is offering could help you pay for new armor and weapons for Uriah! Yes, you could pledge some portion of the gold -- say, a third of it -- to Uriah upon completion of your task."
Druin peeked up through slotted fingers. "Do you really think that would work?"
"I am certain it would help. You could leave town at once, and I can tell him about your bargain. By the time you return, he'll be ready to forgive you, I'm sure of it."
Druin's face brightened. "Hey, that should work. Great thinking, Wise'."
"And besides," Wisefellow continued eagerly, "if you fail, Uriah will still be pleased that, at the very least, you are dead!"
Druin's face fell. He resumed banging his head upon the table.
Chapter Four – Dress-up
The napkins were spotless linen. The silverware was gleaming sterling. There were actual candles in the ornate candlesticks, not simply holograms. Wolfgang Wallace was vaguely apprehensive about this last item. Wasn’t there some sort of regulation against open flames or something? If there weren’t there ought to be. In his opinion it was an effort wasted on the majority of tonight’s guests anyway, who were mostly programmers who might have admired a particularly well designed holographic candle, but who would be just as indifferent to the real thing as they would be to the elegance implied by authentic silver, or authentic linen.
Still, Mr. Calloway’s instructions had been quite specific. Whether the ostentatious display was meant to cow his subjects, to impress his guests, or merely as another archaic gesture, was not Wolfgang’s concern. His concern was to make certain that the programming division arrived on time and cleanly dressed, no mean feat when it came to the notoriously sloppy habits of most of his subordinates. He’d be lucky if one of them didn’t knock over the candles and burn the place down around their ears.
And here came his motley crew now: a small band of men and women were shuffling out of the elevators, blinking owlishly in the candlelight. Most had remembered and obeyed Wallace’ instructions regarding semi-formal attire, although he noticed that Yeardley, from interface development, was clad in tan shorts and a T-shirt advertising a sci-fi convention.
The regular cooking staff had been dismissed for the evening and replaced by a chef and his entourage from one of Seattle’s better hotels, and the smell of strange French things simmering in herbs and wine wafted from the kitchen. It was this which drew Wolfgang Wallace’s troops forward from their shy huddle near the elevator -- trust programmers to be lured by the prospect of a free meal. They edged forward to join the throng of artists, actors, clerical staff, and guests who were already lined up for the buffet. Even Yeardley in his ratty T-shirt, its ever-shifting fractal patterns scrolling slightly, probably from a short caused by the man’s perennially sweaty armpits. Maybe someone could lend him an extra jacket.
A commotion from the front of the hall told Wolfgang that there wouldn’t be time for such last-minute measures. Their guest of honor had arrived.
At the front doors, Vitus and Bernardo Calloway were fending off the inquiries of a knot of local computer industry journalists. Calloway had invited several more from California and New York newscasts. Wolfgang counted almost twenty thronging the white-maned executive, and another dozen scattered throughout the buffet line, some of them impotently pressing the Archimago staff for previews of tonight’s release.
But Calloway, always the showman, was in command of his audience. “All in good time, my dear fellows, all in good time. Enjoy the buffet, and all will be revealed over desert, eh? Ah, here’s Mr. Wallace. Wolfgang, my dear lad, do come and save Bernie and myself from the sharks, will you?”
Wolfgang escorted Calloway through the hall to the head table. There, Calloway made a point of discussing the menu, the guest list, the weather in Britain, anything and everything other than business. Wolfgang allowed Calloway to make light conversation throughout most of the buffet, but as the dessert was served he couldn’t help needling his employer for a preview of coming attractions.
