Ms. Bobrikov, who’d already been at the door of my flat and not halfway across the landing — the old battle-ax sure could sneak up on you — puckered her lips in disappointment and appeared to have grown smaller, pulling her head into her shoulders. It was easy to understand her — giving the cops a false alarm is never fun, especially when you promise them dozens of bloodied corpses.
“I see,” the cop with the mustache sighed, taking a look at his watch. “My apologies.”
“No worries, I get it. All in a day’s work,” I shrugged, pulling Kyre closer with both my arms.
“That sure is true,” the cop sighed in response, looking completely human for a moment as he nodded toward the wall adorned with two photographs in plain plastic frames. “I see you’re a navy buff, eh?”
“Say what?”
“Well, you must be, if you have a portrait of Rear Admiral Gorokhov on your wall,” the mustached cop squinted at the photograph with a naval officer in full uniform looking at the camera sternly. “He was in the news just recently. Sure gave them Somalian pirates the shivers at the very sound of his name. He was commanding some part of a fleet there.”
“Oh,” I said, in a completely different tone. “Nope, I’m the furthest thing from being a navy buff, in fact. Those are my parents. Mom and dad. Mom’s an economist, and dad is in the navy.”
The flat grew silent, and I got caught in a scrutiny of several pairs of eyes, including Kyre’s — she’d returned to the real world from her dreamland for a moment.
“I see,” the policeman coughed. “So you must be...”
“Rostislav Grokhotov. My father’s name’s Alexei,” I shrugged, pulling up my old tracksuit bottoms, about to slip off. “My passport’s on the fridge.”
“And you would be?”
“Kyra Krapivina. Dad’s name’s Konstantin,” the girl answered in a slightly husky voice. “My passport’s at home. But I can call my father, if you really need to see it.”
“Uh... Would the First Deputy Mayor be any relation? Konstantin Krapivin?”
“Yeah, that’s dad,” Kyre sighed, and poked me in the side with her finger. “Ros, I’d really prefer to be horizontal right now.”
“We apologize for any inconvenience we may have caused,” the mustached cop said curtly, and all three of them set off toward the exit.
“He had blood on his face! And on his hands!” the old woman bleated uncertainly, hurrying to give the cops gangway. “That’s what had gotten me worried!”
The cop with the mustache exhaled loudly and gave me a tired look.
“I did,” I confirmed calmly. “I’d just taken out the garbage and stood there waiting for my girlfriend’s taxi when I saw a traffic accident right next to our block. I didn’t see the accident itself — I only got there by the time the second car had driven off. I tried to help the wounded driver of the silver-colored sports car. He lives right across the street, in the twenty-story block. That was when my girlfriend came. She’s had a serious cold, so I got her home and called the ambulance. Then I reported the accident to the gated community guards and got right back. That was when you made your entrance.”
“I see, Rostislav... Mr. Grokhotov. Thanks again for your cooperation and for doing your civil duty.” The cop saluted and stepped outside, hissing in a barely audible but very promising whisper, “Oh, you old hag...”
I saw the policemen out, saying my goodbyes politely, and closed the door softly behind them. The lock clicked, and that was when I could finally exhale with relief. I was surprised to hear no further commentary from Ms. Bobrikov — she’d just stood there, looking lost.
Kyre, who had her face pressed into my chest, said something in a barely audible voice, and I asked her, feeling concerned,
“Is it that bad? Look, maybe it would make sense to call you an ambulance?”
Kyre shook her head negatively. I sighed in dejection, picked her up, and placed her on the bed. The small of my back strained and popped, but ended up managing the load.
“Make sure you stay awake!” I told her, heading toward the kitchen. I didn’t keep my larder stocked well, but I’ve always had an ample supply of water. I finally got my fill — my throat had been parched with all the worry — and brought a full bottle to the girl.
“Drink this.”
“What is it?”
“Water, what else would it be?” I grunted. “Come on, drink it! Two pints at least. You need all the crap you’d been given out of your body ASAP. Come on! Drink!”
Kyre tried to protest, but I wouldn’t abate until she downed about half the bottle. I placed the rest next to the bed, within her reach, and placed a blanket right over the checkered quilt.
“Thanks, Ros,” Kyre whispered, nodding off. “I’ll sleep for a while.”
“Are you sure you don’t have to call your parents?” I inquired. “It’s late, after all... By the way, where’s your cellphone?”
“Gosha has it,” the girl replied. “No need to call. They think I’m staying with this friend of mine...”
“R-right,” I said, looking at the sleeping girl. “Out cold” would actually be a better term.
If her bigwig dad raised a hue and cry, trying to find his precious daughter all across the city, especially seeing as how her cellphone was in the hands of the injured Gosha or the police... Something foul-smelling would hit the fan for sure, and I’d be standing right in front of it.
I scratched the back of my head pensively, shrugged, and shuffled my feet toward the kitchen, where I made me a huge sandwich and devoured it ravenously, washing it down with sweet tea. I could have eaten more, since I’d spent the whole day hungry, but time was at a premium, and I was already running late.
I stretched out on the elastic surface of the cocoon’s bed, throwing my last glance at the sleeping girl, and pulled on my helmet. The cover snapped shut with a soft click.
Logging in.
Hello there, Waldyra. Guess who’s back.
A flash.
* * *
I heard the din of drunken voices a lot before I made it to the house I needed. That was all for the better — this way, I wouldn’t have to ramble in the dark in search of the right address.
The old fisherman’s wake ceremony was held right in the yard, with well-laden tables standing right under the boughs of fruit trees. There was nothing fancy — it was a village, after all — but the food was fresh and plentiful, and the tables could barely hold all the wooden plates and clay jugs. The wake was well-attended, too. Women in mourning were singing a sad air, the men, who’d already had a few, kept on loading themselves even further, and the village patriarchs sat in a separate group — more somber and solemn, looking like crows in their dark garments.
I stood behind a wicker fence, observing the gathering for a while. I couldn’t get rid of the thought that everything looked just a little bit too real. I realized I was looking at nothing but an array of digits driven by ingenious software. It was just that they looked more alive than a lot of people I knew IRL. My former colleague Igor, for example, looked more like a cyborg, and I wouldn’t be surprised to learn he’d been animated by an AI all along, with his taciturn manner, his immobile face, and his ever-present thousand-yard stare. What I was seeing in front of me, on the other hand, was the very epitome of good and wholesome human fun.
I barely managed to make out the wide back of Stevan the shopkeeper on one of the benches, and headed right toward him. I took a few steps and got stopped by a guy who’d been swaying from side to side like a reed in the wind. He gave me a formidable tankard, and said, without any preamble,
“Let’s drink!”
“Let’s,” I agreed amiably, downing the tankard in a few gulps. It contained beer, and it was an excellent brew, if I was any judge.
The man nodded approvingly, took away the empty vessel, and headed off on unsure feet toward a fat keg that stood in the distance. I hastened to get to Stevan. A few more villagers stopping me like that would render me in
capable of communicating with the trader with any coherence.
Stevan had already been rather merry when he noticed me. He slapped me on the shoulder and all but made me sit right next to him, making his neighbor move aside. Someone pushed a plate of roast pork in my direction as the shop-owner elbowed me in the side, rumbling contentedly,
“So, you came at last! Well met! I’d been starting to think you’d forgotten about our bargain. Who’d want to meddle with that poisoned apple of a beauty who’d sent old Jogley right to his maker... Urgh!”
The good trader grunted for a good reason — I elbowed him back, right in the ribs, and with some force, hissing angrily,
“Sh-h-h-h-h-h! My dear Stevan! If you mention our bargain in front of everyone, I’ll never get to the bottom of things!”
“Say, you’re right,” the trader nodded in acquiescence, rubbing his ribs in embarrassment. “In that case, let’s drink!”
“Oh, damn,” I grunted, receiving a Gargantuan mug that must have been the size of my head.
“It would be a terrible sin not to drink deep in memory of the deceased!” Stevan said weightily as he slurped his fill from his own mug.
I just sipped, and instantly inquired,
“Stevan, can you tell me which one’s the alleged miscreant? Old Jogley’s daughter-in-law, I mean?”
“There she is,” Stevan nodded somberly, and I looked in the same direction.
There were two people at the head of the table. An incredibly somber and glum-looking man of about forty-five, with straw-colored hair in a bowl cut and a bulbous nose. And to his right... I lost my breath for a moment. All I could see before my eyes rolled all the way up and my jaw hit the floor was a thick mane of jet black hair, olive skin, and sensuous lips parted just a little. I must have gone blind shortly afterward. The woman’s beauty made me think of an old classic:
“I saw her standing there,
Her with her jet black hair...”
No, that wasn’t quite how it went. Was it “pretty woman, sweep me off my feet?” What the hell?! I was beginning to ramble. I’d start speaking in mutilated song verses like this, which would entertain the general public no end. I’d need to stop stuttering first, though.
“Oh, I see! First exposure,” Stevan grunted understandingly, attacking a chicken leg with gusto. “We’ve gotten used to it by now! But when she first came here, every single male got wobbly legs at the sight of her.”
“Uh-h, right,” I barely managed to utter, looking at the girl again and trying to be more objective in my assessment.
My initial impression wasn’t the result of any illusion — the woman was beautiful to the extent one couldn’t keep wondering how she’d ended up with a simple village guy like that. The contrast was amazing. A peasant and... a queen of grace and charm. A true love goddess. Someone like her would have swarms of men losing sleep over the thought of the look on her face.
I was sure that the character designer got paid handsomely for his job. This was a true masterpiece.
The woman’s supple figure was shrouded in a mourning attire reaching up to her very neck, but even that couldn’t hide her perfect proportions. She just sat there modestly, staying perfectly silent, unlike her husband, but making sure the best food ended up in his quickly-emptying place, and that his goblet of wine stays full.
“I advise you to keep on drinking,” Stevan said. “You’ll never come back to your senses otherwise. And a good brew is the best cure for everything.”
“Uh, right,” I replied, taking another small sip and looking at the woman over my mug.
She was surreal.
The face, the figure, and the rest of her looked perfect. They had nothing in common with the run-of-the-mill templates used by game designers for locations as parochial as faraway villages. Her type belonged in the capital, where thousands of players thronged daily, eager for sights and impressions. Some silk and some velvet, a diamond necklace, and a shiny diadem would make her look like a bona fide princess. Apart from that, all the locals were fair-haired and round-cheeked, while the woman had a distinctly Oriental look.
“Say, Stevan, what’s her name?”
“Hers?”
“That’s right.”
“Alishana,” Stevan snorted. “Some name! Sounds foreign for sure. How about some roe?
“Versus Wade?” I asked automatically, my mind miles away.
“Sure, you have to wade when you catch’em, but you don’t need any verses! Just salt it, and there you go! It’s a local specialty — the fish is called eardraw!”
“Say what? Ear-what? Oh, never mind!” I wasn’t a fussy eater, and the well-inebriated trader started to pile the fish eggs onto my plate, heedless of the fact he was placing those transparent savory black pearls right on top of roast pork. Not that I’d paid it much attention myself. I was thinking of something else.
Alishana certainly wasn’t a local name, and there must have been a reason for the woman to have ended up in this village. There should be an associated quest, or at least a bit of in-game narrative. For instance, she was accompanying her trader father as a young girl when brigands attacked their caravan and killed everyone, yet she managed to survive, by chance or by the will of providence. So the poor orphan made it to the nearest village... There was definitely a story behind this, but I was interested in the late Jogley first and foremost.
“Stevan, where exactly is the village graveyard?”
“Right on the slope of that hill,” the shopkeeper waved his hand, pointing somewhere in the dark. “It’s all covered in graves. You’ll see a temple first, and the graveyard is right behind it.”
“So where’s old Jogley’s grave? How do I find it?”
“Find it? You won’t have to search for too long. It’s all covered in fresh flowers. Oh, and there are five oil lamps burning on it, of course.”
“I see,” I nodded. “Thanks.”
“Hey, do you mean you intend to go there right now? Are you in your right mind at all? What kind of idiot wanders around graveyards at night? That would be looking for trouble, I’m telling you.”
“We’ll see,” I said, rising from the table.
I’d kept my promise to come to the wake, and I’d taken a good look at Jogley’s son and daughter-in-law. I wouldn’t be able to talk to them there and then, so I’d need to get to something that would prove more rewarding.
I said my goodbyes to the shopkeeper and started off, checking the spells set into my palms. Once I reached the gate, I bumped into a burly man with a dignified face.
“Good evening, sir,” I said politely, looking at the human obstacle in my way inquisitively.
“And a very good one to you, too, stranger,” I got a nod of the beard. “I am the mayor here. Name of Gregor.”
“Rosgard,” I introduced myself at once.
“I have a proposition for you, Rosgard. Pray hear me out,” the mayor pronounced the standard formula for a quest.
“Why wouldn’t I?” I nodded in response. “It’s just that... Could our conversation wait until tomorrow? The hour is late, and I’m in a bit of a hurry. How about it, Mayor, sir?”
“Duh, but it’ll only take a minute!” the man wouldn’t take any nonsense, and I had to acquiesce in the face of the inevitable. I could have declined the quest, but it made no sense to be on bad terms with the mayor, so why not hear him out, after all?
“Something dire has befallen our village, my good man,” Gregor sighed as he stroked his beard. “If you help me out, you won’t regret it! I’ll give you five silver pieces and a barrel of ale at least!”
“What exactly happened?”
“Oh, nothing major! You’ll take care of it in the blink of an eye, I’m sure!” The mayor was laying it on. “It’s just that our mascot has gone missing!”
“Who has gone missing, sir?”
“Our mascot. Well, that’s what we call him. These beasts are called unieyes in the city where I’d bought him a while ago. Heard of them?”
<
br /> “Uh-h-h... I might have,” I became wary, glancing back at the pack behind my shoulder with the remains of the scary-looking unieye. “Would you like me to find the runaway beast and to finish it off?”
“Perish the thought! Never!” The mayor started waving his hands. “By no means! Our mascot protects the village from evil spirits and other misfortunes! You never know what could be roaming in the woods! But this little critter has a gift — its eye sees that which ours cannot. And it begins to squeak and grunt instantly, giving us a sign. Moreover, every evil spirit flees from his squeaking! They cannot stand it! So he’s very important. Would you, perchance, agree to find him and bring him back? He’s a peaceful beast — show him a carrot, or some other tuber, and he’ll follow you, meek as any pooch. So, what say ye, my good man?”
Clan Dominance - the Sleepless Ones 2 Page 7
