One only needed to take a good look at the mother to see how Phetissa would look in her more advanced years. The daughter resembled the mother a great deal. The same build, the same face. If my first association with the daughter had been Quasimodo, the mother looked like the archetypal evil witch who’d put on some weight and thrown on some finery. The nose drooped lower than her tightly-pressed lips, with a huge wart on it to make the image complete. Well, at least the suspects fit the bill visually. Had Phelagea turned out to be a well-mannered old dear, I might have had some second thoughts about what the late Jogley had told me. Those brazen attempts of her daughter’s to steal another woman’s lawful wedded husband’s attention right at the wake also left little doubt about the actual state of affairs. They surely were striking while the iron was hot.
I finished my mug and placed it back on the table, but Stevan grabbed it in the nick of time, placing it underneath a stream of foamy beer from the mug. Three seconds later, I had a full one in my hands again.
“This sure is a fine brew,” the trader winked at me as he spoke. “It would be a waste not to give it its due. But it sure packs a punch, so make sure it doesn’t go to your head, right?”
“Right,” I agreed, sipping the beer mechanically. “A fine brew indeed.”
“So, have you been to the graveyard?”
“I have,” I nodded.
“So?” Stevan leaned over, looking curious and eager. “How is it?”
“Still standing,” I shrugged, my eyes on the “main suspect” and my mind still pondering the “to-be-or-not-to-be” issue of whether to speak up or keep silent.
As I was running from the graveyard to rejoin the villagers at the wake, my righteous anger became somewhat dampened, and I was beset by doubts again. A wart on the nose did not constitute evidence, after all. What if Phelagea was innocent, and I asked the gods to judge her? I’d really be in it...
After all, I’d already received all the information I needed from the late Jogley, and the problems of a flyspeck village were of comparatively little importance. Would they find their missing unieye (fat chance of that, given that I’d already put paid to it) or would Phelagea manage to succeed in her parochial game of domination — none of that concerned me much, really. The reward was a pittance, and the risk of getting cursed by a deity was very tangible... Damn.
“Duh, I know it is!” Stevan looked peeved. “I was talking about old man Jogley! Have you seen him? Did you manage to find out anything about his snake of a daughter-in-law?”
“Hic! Jogley?” The clearly inebriated freckled guy next to us looked surprised. “But he’s dead, isn’t he? Isn’t it his wake?”
“Oh, he is, he is,” the irate shopkeeper waved him away. “Keep your nose to your mug and out of other people’s conversations! So, Rosgard, have you managed to find out anything?”
“Yeah,” I sighed heavily as I rose to my feet. “I have indeed.”
I’d already made my decision, which had been far from easy, and was now indulging fully in the ancient sport of self-loathing.
“So, what did you find out, then?”
“I’ll tell you in a second,” I promised, rising to my feet, my arms akimbo. “Hold on. Ahem... Ladies and gentlemen! Uh, a moment of your attention, please!”
My timid coughs weren’t noticed by a single soul.
The only exception was Stevan, who’d been staring at me from below in surprise. The rest were just minding their own business, seemingly quite unaware of my attempt to address them. Oh, all right...
I filled my lungs with air and barked as loudly as I could.
“Ladies and gents! Hello there! Take a look this way!”
It worked this time. The din over the tables died down, and I was suddenly watched by many a puzzled eye.
“People of Mossy Hills! My name is Rosgard. I am a stranger here, but I come bearing important news!”
“Hey! Rosgard!” The mayor jumped up from his bench and inquired anxiously, “So you’ve found our dear unieye mascot, have you? Our darling boy is back, isn’t he?”
“Eh? Oh, no, sorry, sir,” I waved him off. “My news concerns old man Jogley, mourned by all of us tonight. And I come bearing dire news about the circumstances of his death.”
As I was uttering these words, I kept looking at Phelagea, and almost sighed with relief when she tensed visibly for a moment. However, she instantly relaxed again, contorting her face into a genial smile again as she cast a quick eye at Alishana, full of triumphant malice — or was I imagining it?
There was an overall silence. Unsurprisingly, most of the gathered kept throwing glances at the beautiful Alishana and then staring at me again. I nearly gave a whistle, seeing most of them were pretty convinced that the old man’s daughter-in-law had been the architect of his demise.
So who was I supposed to believe? The victim himself could hardly be regarded as a reliable source, and the majority of the villagers seemed positive.
“So, stranger, what did you want to tell us?” The mayor asked, visibly puzzled by the pause in my performance.
I cleared my throat, looked at Phelagea openly, and continued,
“The venerable shopkeeper Stevan had tasked me with finding out whether the old man Jogley, who’d been well-loved by everyone, died of natural causes, and find out the identity of his killer if he had been murdered. I have conversed with Jogley’s spirit at the graveyard tonight, and now the truth is known to me, as it shall be known to you shortly. Jogley’s death wasn’t natural! He was killed!”
Alishana, who’d been sitting next to her husband, tensed, looking at me in fear, her fingers gripping the edge of a clay bowl tightly. Wrong guess, girl...
“I say!” The shopkeeper grunted in satisfaction, downing yet another mug.
I paid no attention to him as I continued,
“And the name of the killer is known to me!”
Everybody who’d been sitting at the tables gasped simultaneously, looking at me in open wonder. Having made sure I’d managed to make an impression, I turned around and pointed my finger at Phelagea, who shuddered as I did so.
“It is you! I accuse you of killing Jogley — an innocent old man! You, Phelagea, have poisoned him!”
“Oh, my...” The shopkeeper choked on his beer. “The last mug must have gone to your head, Rosgard. You shouldn’t have...”
“That’s where you’re wrong!” I waved him off, listening to the crowd getting louder, my eyes on Phelagea, suddenly white as chalk. She’d certainly expected nothing of this sort...
With the villagers’ attention still on me, I banged my head on the table, making the kitchenware rattle, and barked loudly,
“I will waste no time on idle blabber! I repeat, old man Jogley was killed by his neighbor Phelagea! It was a premeditated murder in cold blood! She’d poisoned him with toadstools! So, Phelagea, I summon you to divine judgment at dawn! I will repeat my accusation at the temple, underneath the white effigy of the goddess Helione, and may she pronounce her justice. Should Phelagea turn out to be innocent, and my words turn out to be a lie, she has nothing to fear — the divine wrath will fall upon me! I have said my piece now. Keep on toasting the memory of old Jogley, good people!”
I nodded them all goodbye, grabbed a whole roast chicken from a platter, turned on my heel and started off toward the village inn.
I was already outside the gate and about a dozen steps away when I heard a shriek behind me, so loud it seemed the night sky would break,
“I’m innoce-e-e-e-e-e-e-ent!”
“Sure thing,” I’d thought to myself. “The old man agreed to being poisoned with mushrooms.”
“It’s that foreign Alishana witch who killed him! Her! Not me!”
“We’ll find out tomorrow,” I muttered in a muffled voice listening to Phelagea’s wailing — she appeared to have come to her senses at last.
* * *
Once I got to the inn, I greeted the bored receptionist warmly and even spent a few minutes in
idle chitchat with her to provide what meager entertainment I could — spending day after day watching an empty lobby must get to one. Then I barged into my private room and slumped to the floor. That was that for the time being. I’d need to log out and sleep for a couple of hours at least, and then return to Waldyra for that whole divine justice shtick. But first...
I grabbed my pack and, without further ado, got Squeak’s things out for inspection. Few things relieve stress and put you in a good mood like admiring stuff you’d managed to get for free.
I looked at the clothes first and made a long face. Not that the stuff wasn’t good, but the bonuses were of zero use to me. The jacket, the pants, and even the shoes all boosted Agility. That made me think of Squeak’s stat distribution. He didn’t seem to have invested that much into general resilience, or I wouldn’t have managed to take him out so quickly, so he must have focused on Strength and Agility, the latter booted by equipment — pure damage and evasion. The build was solid enough and well-known, but it works best against players specializing in dealing physical damage, which was why Squeak had been so peeved to find out about my magical persuasion — bad news for him through and through.
It wasn’t hard to reason out his tactics, either — first he’d deal damage with the crossbow, then get closer and finish off his opponent in a few attacks. Incidentally, about that crossbow...
I took the miniature crossbow out of my sack and gave it a good look. It fit in with the rest of the loot — decent damage for the level in question, and a similar bonus to Agility. Most interestingly, though, the crossbow was made by a master craftsman. Squeak clearly wasn’t a novice and knew his stuff. A fighter fencer, easily evading his opponent’s attack and living by Mohammed Ali’s rule of flying like a butterfly and stinging like a bee. The style was fraught with dangers, but effective enough when employed by someone savvy enough. The only thing that made me uneasy was the amount of cash Squeak must have had in his hands. He could have bought the items at an auction, which would have required a substantial amount of real-world money — or, perhaps, he had a generous mentor giving the right kind of advice... You never knew.
After a brief examination of the melee weapons I’d accrued, I nodded ponderously and put the loot away again. My intention was to sell it all, with the exception of the crossbow — I’d decided to hang on to that, as well as a dozen armor-piercing bolts. I could always sell it if I really needed to.
I leaned against a wall, staring at the wall opposite and going over my accusatory speech against Phelagea the poisoner. I appear to have done everything right there by disclosing the name of the alleged miscreant, thus giving myself an opportunity to verify the veracity of my accusation. The statue of the goddess, carved from white marble, had stood right in front of the temple, which, in turn, had been erected on top of a tall hill.
Tomorrow, I’d have to approach that hill and hide in a place that would allow me to see any passing local. If guilty, Phelagea would never dare to turn up anywhere near the temple. All the locals had an excellent self-preservation instinct, coded by top-of-the-line programmers. That took care of quite a few of my worries. Should Phelagea decide to run away or fail to turn up for divine judgment, her guilt would be confirmed, and I’d be able to complete the quest, receive the well-deserved award, and then get the hell away to the sight of the villagers waving their caps at me and the knowledge I’d be treated with a lot more respect in Mossy Hills henceforth.
On the other hand, should I discover Phelagea ascending the hill full of righteous ire, it would be the right time to get the hell out of here, given that I’d already received the information I needed, and was reluctant to risk being cursed by a deity. Allegedly, divine judgment could not be escaped, but I wouldn’t let things get quite as far. I could simply disappear, and that would be that. The villagers would wait for me to appear for about an hour, and then disperse and mind their own business. The most negative sort of relations with the village would be guaranteed — no one would help me anymore, or give me any quests, or buy or sell anything. And other towns and villages would doubtlessly get word, too.
I would feel sorry about Alishana, who’d doubtlessly be in for a lifetime of bullying, but... She wasn’t a person, after all — just a few lines of code... Or so I kept telling myself.
I nodded in acquiescence, reached for the interface menu, and commanded the cocoon to sound the alarm one hour before sunrise. This would leave me enough time to reach the place I needed and find a proper hiding place. There was no point in logging out, since the night was ending, and dawn would come really soon. Anyway the only bed in my apartment had already been taken. I’d still have to sleep in the cocoon, and my body had already been inside, while my spirit soared into the heavens... or, rather, was playing the game. The developers strongly discouraged players against sleeping inside the game, since it wouldn’t be proper sleep, but rather a useless surrogate, but I hadn’t had any choice.
None at all, I thought to myself. I’d just oversleep IRL, being too tired, and no alarm clock would be loud enough, while inside the game I would wake up in any scenario.
I stretched out my legs to get comfy, crossed my arms, placed my chin on my chest, and closed my eyes. It was time to catch some Zs. Too many things had happened for a single day, and sleeping would be my best option...
System message.
Do you really wish to fall asleep?
Yes, I did...
The Waldyra Administration most emphatically recommends players to refrain from abusing this function. We are warning you that sleeping inside the game will not replace proper rest. The Administration strongly suggests ending the immersion into the game’s reality first...
My last thought before falling asleep was, “Why do you keep nagging me?”
I opened my eyes to a melodious tinkling. I’d woken up — without feeling refreshed. Not that I’d had any proper sleep, either — I’d just wasted a couple of hours of my life.
I rose easily and walked down the carpeted corridor toward the exit, checking my equipment as well as the spell placed in my palms as I did so. The cracked staff made a dull thud each time it hit the floor, which made me think sad thoughts about the need to find a new weapon — this one was approaching its durability limit. But all of that could wait. I really needed to hurry. Villagers had a reputation for being early risers.
I moved my feet mechanically, trying to assess where the best hiding place would be, instantly realizing that the corn field I’d used for the very same purpose yesterday as I waited for Squeak would be ideal. Tall corn would provide all the camouflage I needed, and it was close enough to the temple hill.
But the best-made plans of mice and men... The instant I got to the first floor of the inn, I stopped and stood still, looking at the group of people gathered near the entrance. There were four people, two of them already known to me — Stevan the shopkeeper and the local mayor, accompanied by two big guys in plain white shirts, all of them looking serious and somber.
“Top of the mornin’ to you, my good man,” the mayor greeted me first.
“The same to you, kind sirs,” I nodded, studying the reception committee, and, yes, they were definitely waiting for me.
“We’ve been waiting for a while now,” Stevan said with a sigh, confirming my assumptions. “The rest of the night, in fact. We’d like to talk to you, Rosgard. Would you care to sit down? The innkeeper’s laid a fine table in your honor.”
I looked at the corner he’d been pointing at — indeed, there was a huge table there, covered with a tablecloth embroidered in a floral pattern and about a dozen bowls on top of it. A whole roasted suckling pig with a huge red apple in its mouth really took the biscuit. I lost touch with reality for a while.
“Uh, I’m not that hungry, really,” I said vaguely, trying to figure out what was happening. “And aren’t we supposed to hurry? It will be dawn soon...”
“This is just the thing we wanted to discuss,” the mayor said again. “Why don’
t you sit down and let us say our piece.”
“All right,” I nodded cautiously as I approached the table and sat down on the bench.
As soon as my hands were covered by the tabletop, I rearranged my spells, summoning the adder and placing it in my jacket sleeve. It was a mana hog, for sure, but I’d prefer to have a literal ace up my sleeve, although the little snake didn’t rank much higher than a trump six. I wasn’t really expecting an attack, but you can never be too prepared.
All four of them sat down on the opposite bench, looking at me over a full table and taking their sweet time. I wasn’t particularly keen to talk, either, so my interlocutors kept sighing, fiddling with their beards, scratching their heads and sniffing laboriously, clearly at a loss for words.
Stevan’s patience ended first. He thumped the table with his fist and grunted,
“Me and my big mouth, may it be cursed. I shouldn’t have asked you to handle this. But who could have known...”
Clan Dominance - the Sleepless Ones 2 Page 11
