by Eric Nylund
He stepped closer and in a low murmur told us, “Now, make sure you be tipping your personal assistant. Generously. They get a wee touchy if the transactional-social niceties be forgotten.” He paused, frowned, and then added, “You be needing a little gold for that, Hektor?”
Lordren politely looked away, pretending to not be listening.
“I’ve got it covered.”
“Good. I’ll just be a few minutes. Maybe an hour. Or two.”
Without further explanation, Elmac and Lordren marched to a back office I was pretty sure hadn’t been there when we’d entered.
I got a weird feeling watching those two—like they’d fought and drank and mourned lost comrades together.
I imagined them younger in a party of adventurers. Why not? Lordren was about the same age as Elmac. Heck, the gnome might have been one of the fabled seven heroes to have survived the epic Battle of Underhill. I knew one had been Elmac, another Pendric’s father, and sure, I could see Lordren as the party’s thief. Might as well add the immortal solar sorceress supreme, Colonel Delacroix, to round them out.
Or it could have just been me connecting dots that weren’t really there.
At kneecap level, there was a tiny cough and the squeaky clearing of a throat.
Two gnomes stood before Morgana and me.
These had to be our aforementioned “personal assistants.”
The gnome in front of Morgana was a gentleman wearing a hunter-green three-button vest and lime-colored slacks. A banker’s visor shaded his eyes, so the only part of his face I could see was his courteous smile. He held a human-sized silver pocket watch that barely fit in his hand.
My personal assistant was a lady gnome in a black blazer and pinstriped pencil skirt. Her hair was pink and bobbed in some ultra-fashionable asymmetrical cut, and her nails French manicured to perfection. She would have looked at home in any Fantasy Fortune 500 boardroom.
“Begging your pardon, Mister Saint-Savage,” she said with a minute curtsey. “We have a comfortable spot for you over here.”
She motioned at a set of curtains and they parted. Beyond was a tiny parlor with a writing desk, chaise lounge, a tray of cookies, and a steaming cup of what I prayed to all the gods was coffee.
Morgana’s assistant was already showing her the way to her “comfortable spot.”
“You going to be ok?” I asked her.
“Think so.” Her forehead crinkled. “Just a bit turned around by everything happening so bloody fast—but yeah, let’s tool up and do some shopping.”
“Good luck.”
“Luck to you too, mate.”
I let my personal assistant lead me into the parlor behind curtain number one.
She pulled the curtains closed.
I sat on the chaise lounge. Its leather was red and butter soft.
Okay—shopping is an essential part of gaming. You had to upgrade your gear or get crushed as you inevitably encountered higher-level monsters. One way to upgrade was by looting the villains and monsters you defeated. The usefulness of that stuff, however, depended on a random number generator coughing up the goods—that, let’s face it, most of the time didn’t come through. This led to the second way to get good gear: selling the useless stuff and buying what you wanted, usually at an outrageous exchange rate.
I slid onto the floor so I’d be face to face with…
“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”
“My apologies, sir.” She tilted her chin up. “I am Lillian Carat-Bringer, Concierge of the Order of the Silver Spoon, Adept of Fitting, Acolyte of Bargains, and senior apprentice accountant here at Hiltmyer & Co.”
“A pleasure to meet you, Miss Carat-Bringer.”
She pulled out a notepad and gold fountain pen and waited.
“Uh,” I said, lowering my voice, “this is my first time using ‘five-star service.’ What precisely are we supposed to do?”
“Of course, sir. I am here to help find whatever you need, at the best prices, and provide you a level of comfort, luxury, and service that you will find nowhere else in High Hill—only for Mr. Hiltmyer’s most important customers.”
Why did I suddenly have an itch mid-way down my spine, as if someone was about to stick the mercantile equivalent of a dagger there?
“If you could tell me what you wish to see,” she said, “and the parameters of your budget, we can get started.”
Ah. Here was the catch. The old “What a coincidence! Your total today just happens to equal all your money” gambit.
This service, free or not, or paid by Elmac or not, might end up costing me a lot.
I couldn’t blame Miss Carat-Bringer. Sure, she was my personal assistant, but she did work for Lordren.
She poured me a cup of coffee.
I took a sip and exhaled with satisfaction. The brew was strong, smoky, and smooth.
It’d be way too easy to get comfortable. I needed to stay sharp.
Whatever the cost, the correct strategy was still to spend a lot right now. I was drowning in an ocean of danger, so walking out of here with anything less than the best I could afford would be flat-out stupid. How often have you seen a buddy too cheap to buy the magic armor that could have stopped the one point of damage that killed him?
With a wink, I opened my game interface and added five points to my Bargaining skill, bringing it to a total of ten.
I recalled how my father had taught me how to sell our caravan’s goods, make a profit, and always leave the customer happy. This was the usual memory re-wiring to amend my character’s backstory. This time, I hardly noticed it… barely a tickle in my mind. Good. Progress over the ice-pick-through-brain sensation I’d had before.
And, I now knew how to handle my personal assistant.
“Excuse me a sec.” I turned away from Miss Carat-Bringer and summoned my inventory. From it, I pulled out a bag of inferno diamonds that Elmac had liberated from the hellfire demon we’d killed two days ago.
I turned back and poured the diamonds into my open palm.
Each was the size of a cherry pit and they gleamed and glittered as if I held a constellation of tiny orange suns.
Unlike when I’d handled these before (and I think because of my higher Bargaining skill) a large description window popped:
Inferno Diamonds (perfectly matched set of seven)
(Tier-VII non-magical gemstones, very rare)
DESCRIPTION: These flawless Zed-Shift 4 (fancy vivid) colored diamonds are facetted with chaos cuts—that is, each facet on a stone is a different angle and size than others. This is an exclusive technique known only to a select few demon-kind. Inferno gems are imbued with a spark of hellfire, making them appear as if they are burning.
SPECIAL ABILITIES: Cannot be consumed by fire. This set is in pristine condition, and as such is suitable for enchantment.
VALUE: For a single diamond: 15,000-20,000 gold quins.
NOTE: There is a large variance in price depending on fashion trends and if these gems are sold individually or as a complete matched set. For the matched set: 230,000 gold quins would be a fair market price under current conditions.
TIP: Trade for equivalent value items without selling for cash first.
A kingly sum. Then again, it was my share of the loot for defeating a full demonic invasion, so I considered it fair compensation.
Lillian Carat-Bringer’s eyes went wider than I thought possible.
“These are what I’ll be spending today.”
Apparently, gnome eyes could open wider.
“And this” —I set a finger on one diamond— “will be your tip. Uh, kind of.”
Lillian arched an eyebrow and suspicion tightened her features. Her demeanor quickly cooled back to professional courtesy (with just a crinkle of concern remaining about her lips). “And how is that, sir?”
“You must know the matched set is worth much more than if I were to sell the individual gemstones.”
She nodded in such a way that neither confirmed or
denied this key fact.
“So, I will sell the entire lot to Lordren as a set, and your tip will be one-seventh of those proceeds. In other words, the full potential value of one diamond. I’d guess in the neighborhood of 32,000 quins.”
“Most generous…” she whispered trance-like, gazing at the small fortune held in my open hand.
I snapped my hand shut. “With a caveat.”
She blinked and looked once more at me.
I slowly opened my fist and the inferno diamonds cast reflected shards of amber light upon her eyes.
“This is your maximum tip,” I explained. “Overly inflated prices, less than standard quality items… anything that detracts from my shopping experience and your tip will proportionally decrease.”
I hated to act like a jerk, but with my increased Bargaining skill, I knew this was a viable tactic. Greed was a great motivator.
After a moment’s consideration, she said, “I completely understand, sir. And if you don’t mind me saying, a very cunning move.”
I couldn’t tell if she was impressed, irritated, or incentivized. Maybe all three. But I was pretty sure I now had a personal assistant who would walk over flaming broken glass for me.
Lillian snapped to attention, pen poised to take notes. “Where would you like to start?”
In so many words I explained that I was a martial artist looking for excellent quality, mid-level enchanted gear. It was no use window shopping for high-level stuff that I could neither use or afford.
From my previous shopping at this place, I knew the prices for quality gear was high. And for quality magical gear? Those prices could scale exponentially. I might be able to afford only a few choice pieces.
She nodded, scribbling copious notes, flipping pages.
“Oh, I’ll need a few light coins. Or at least something to help me see in total darkness. Maybe throw in a few healing items too? And some anti-toxin potions if you have them.”
“Anything else?” she asked.
Hang on. I still hadn’t leveled up. My choice of how I proceeded could radically change my shopping list.
So, what would it be? Level up my core Spirit Warrior abilities? That path had the least risk. Choose a monk specialization sub-class? Riskier, because while I’d gain new abilities, I’d close off options in the core class. Or—the option with the most unknowns, but maybe the most gains—go the multiclass route.
It seemed like the optimal time to pick another class. I’d be able to augment my new (and comparatively feeble) first-level class abilities with enchanted gear.
All right then, Battle Psychic or Mage of the Line?
(Yes, I’d previously made up my mind on this, but it’d be smart to review my reasons before I committed to such a life-altering choice).
Battle Psychic still felt like a bit of a mismatch for Spirit Warrior. I had a decent EGO stat, but my zero INTELLECT stat might be a handicap. And truth be told, I already felt overwhelmed in the thinking department. Something more “hands-on” sounded better.
So, Mage of the Line it was.
“Also a few simple… beginner wizard-type accessories?” I told Miss Carat-Bringer. “Wands, rings, and the like. Nothing too complicated. Nothing too expensive, either. I just dabble in the arcane arts.”
More scribbling. “Yes, sir. I must, however, temper your expectations. Such novice arcane spell casting items are always in great demand. Our supplies may be limited.”
“Understood.”
I navigated through my interface and re-read the Mage of the Line class description.
Mage of the Line (aka Line Mage, Hand Mage)
Spellcasters who tap into primordial mana ley lines to create magic. Because a Mage of the Line must reach in between dimensions to touch mana ley lines, high PERCEPTION and REFLEX stats are critical. Mana pool is based on their REFLEX stat.
As usual, not many details, but making major decisions based on little to no data was part of the Game (just like real life).
I had a hunch, though, that a Mage of the Line with their high REFLEX requirement might have some stage magician in their DNA. Pick a card, any card! Cool.
“And maybe a few…?” I struggled to find the right words. “Props that, you know, sleight of hand stuff? Trick cards, vanishing coins? Doesn’t even have to be real magic, although that would be nice too.”
She set her notepad down, her complexion paled, then she shook her head as if to clear some unpleasant memory. “I believe we might have a few items like that in stock. Not many customers for such things… these days.” Her gaze darted back to the inferno diamonds.
“Great. Let’s see what you have, and we’ll take it from there.”
“I shall return in a few moments.” Miss Carat-Bringer slipped out through the curtains.
I poured more coffee. Nibbled a lavender-infused chocolate chip cookie. Delicious.
My finger moved over the interface.
Select MAGE OF THE LINE as a second character class? YES / NO
How about a “MAYBE?”
I was just about to tap YES when this popped:
=TUTORIAL (continued)=
Cost of Adding a New Class
You are about to add MAGE OF THE LINE as a second class.
It must, however, be “purchased” for the experience points required to advance from the first to the second level of that class.
The cost to add MAGE OF THE LINE is 3000 experience points.
Do you wish to spend the experience points? YES / NO
I almost spit out my coffee.
Now I understood why this couldn’t be a starting class. The buy-in cost was ridiculous. 3000 points? That was almost the amount for me to advance from third- to fourth-level Spirit Warrior.
Either it was a blatant ripoff or maybe it cost more because it was an elite class. More bang per level, but also more experience to progress. Well, I wasn’t rethinking my decision now. I’d risk it.
I tapped YES.
WARNING:
MAGE OF THE LINE is a RESTRICTED and SECRET class.
Are you sure you want to select this class? YES / NO
I froze.
The Game had never given me a warning like this.
It had to be because of the extra experience cost. Being an immortal elf, however, I wasn’t worried. I’d have plenty of time to rack up the points.
In fact, I felt pretty good about this choice.
I hit YES.
A red-hot bar of adamantine punched through the back of my skull—splintered out my forehead—and sent my useless gray matter splattering onto the floor.
CHAPTER 9
Sorry. Not literally. The theatrical melodrama is a gypsy elf thing… almost as annoying as my human predilection for old movies.
It only felt like my skull had been bashed in and brain pulped.
Here’s what really happened.
Waves of agony came, crescendoed, faded, and I came to.
Cold air brushed my face. Pine boughs rustled. In the distance, eagles screeched. I managed to crack open my eyes and found myself standing on a rock, a forest at my back, and I beheld a vista of glacier-covered mountains.
I laughed, pretending I was an Olympian god surveying his domain. “Fear me, mortals,” I proclaimed to the eagles circling the valley below. “Bow down before Hektor the Mighty!”
This might have impressed someone, if there had been anyone within earshot, and if my thirteen-year-old, about-to-hit-puberty voice hadn’t just cracked.
We gypsy elves are a more practical lot than our snooty high elf cousins, maturing a lot faster than they deemed appropriate. Screw ’em.
I was out of breath from the hike, but the view was worth it. On one side of this pass were the Hillgloom Dales, and on the other stretched the vast Burning Plains… and farther, just a speck of murky green, the lush oasis city-state of Jaljala.
Never a prettier sight had I seen among the seventeen worlds, fifty continents, or the hundred and thirteen cities our caravan had visi
ted in my short life.
We’d toiled for three days up the twisting trails of the accursed Mendrinic Mountains and along the way broke five wheels and seriously annoyed every donkey pulling the wagons. Dad had pushed everyone, wanting to cross over the pass before nightfall.
Jaljala awaited!—filled with acres of shaded bazaars, daydream opal merchants, and if you believed the legends, wizards who could summon genies.
And oh, I believed. I wanted more than anything to see a real genie.
I knew magic too. Not a lot.
But I would one day.
That was the real reason I’d come up here: to practice.
Dad had ordered our troupe to make camp some two hundred feet below. There was a little spring, good shelter, rabbits to hunt. Tomorrow it was going to be a knee-crunching crawl down the mountains. With a wink, he’d ordered me to gather firewood.
I’d understood perfectly.
I chucked a rock.
It sailed over the eagles and vanished into the clouds below my perch.
A twig snapped.
I wheeled and drew my dagger.
It was Dad.
Finally. I was beginning to wonder.
Balaster Saint, even for an elf, looked, well, not old… but weathered. His tanned skin was covered with a map of worry and laugh lines, each hard-earned from miles on the road. I could only hope to be as handsome when I was six hundred and four. His long black hair had a streak of silver down the center. My stepmother called him her “skunk” (although no one else would have ever dared say that to his face).
He’d seen it all. Done it all. And everyone in the Saint-Savage Caravan respected him—if not for his fair and even leadership, then because we always turned a profit.
I loved him and would count myself lucky to one day be half the merchant he was.
“I stepped on that twig on purpose,” he said and flashed his perfect smile.
“I know.”
“Did anyone see you come up here?”
I shook my head.
“Are you sure?”
I rolled my eyes.
