A Thousand Drunken Monkeys: Book 2 in the Hero of Thera series

by Eric Nylund

  So, who had the clout to order a Duke’s death? Another royal? Could this be the opening move of a coup to seize the Duchy?

  This was much bigger than we’d thought.

  Leaving High Hill, for that matter Thera, had been a stroke of amazing fortune. We had stumbled onto something way over our heads. Odd, though, that this note had been on a second-level assassin.

  That curiosity I immediately forgot, though, because my gaze landed on the last six names on the hit list. I knew them. Unfortunately, very well.

  Sister Rada Borovkova

  Colonel Sabella Delacroix

  General (retired) Elmac Arguson

  Captain (?) Pendric Ragnivald

  Hektor Saint-Savage

  Morgana Nox

  I re-read the names. My heart beat faster.

  Of course, I’d been almost certain me, Morgana, and/or Elmac would be on the list. After all, the Syndicate had already tried to kill us a few times.

  Still, seeing our names made it seem somehow more “official”…and final.

  What about the others?

  Sister Rada was the blind old priestess who’d given me a little prophecy to chew over before we’d gone off to stop Bill’s invasion (that before I saw her again, I’d lose someone I loved). She was likely a powerful ally of the Duke, so that would make her a target as well.

  Colonel Delacroix, of course, taking her out made sense. If you were after Duke Opinicus, perhaps the biggest obstacle would be the Chief of the Duchy’s secret police.

  But Pendric? Why him? Yes, he’d been a Captain Knight in service to the Duke, but he’d abandoned his post to go wandering after our last adventure. He shouldn’t be a threat to anything but a well-stocked bar. He was also half Valkyrie, trained by the most fearsome fighters in Valhalla, which made him possibly the best swordsman in Thera. Why mess with that if you could at all avoid it?

  The headband’s magic faded.

  I blinked, opened a blank window, and jotted down the names and instructions just in the nick of time… as the information faded from my mind.

  The assassin’s note was once more indecipherable.

  My eyes and optic nerves felt like they’d been flayed.

  I staggered.

  Morgana shot me a quizzical look. “What?”

  “Just used some magic to decipher the assassin’s note,” I whispered.

  I copied and pasted what I’d written down and messaged it to her.

  Oswald awoke. “What did I miss?” He yawned. “Is the gypsy elf buried yet?”

  He took in Morgana, smiled, then spotted me, and his expression soured. “Oh, a thousand pardons, master, but I had a terrible nightmare. You were torn apart by venomous centipedes and eaten alive.” He sounded wistful.

  Maybe I should cancel his one-year servitude. Petty revenge was a fine thing, but not if I was going to get my throat slit one night.

  Morgana finished reading. Her face went slack, and she breathed, “Wow…”

  “Delacroix,” I said. “We didn’t see her outside the Bloody Rooster. You think they got her?”

  Morgana shook her head. “Not likely. When that one goes, I expect there’ll be a crater left behind.”

  Maybe, but suddenly I was more worried than I ought to be for someone who was as likely to throw me in a dungeon as buy me a beer.

  “So they were after us,” Morgana murmured. “Blimey—the Duke too. Who’s this Sister Rada bird?”

  “Priestess of the Three Sisters. Practically a saint, as far as I’m concerned.”

  Morgana’s gaze darted to the left. She nodded that way. “Only one thing to do now.”

  I turned and saw, silhouetted in the afternoon haze, a distant fortress. This was the “wee trading outpost” Elmac had mentioned?

  “I’m sorry? What one thing?”

  She patted her abdomen. “Can’t think on an empty stomach, mate. Come on. Let’s grab dinner and a few pints.”

  My stomach rumbled its opinion on the matter. “Best idea of the week,” I replied (especially as those pints of ale now danced in my vision).

  We double timed it and when we got within a hundred yards of the structure, I saw more details: a wall, a guard tower, and a central three-story inn roofed with slate tile.

  ALERT!

  The Wayfar Waypoint Inn is NEUTRAL GROUND.

  All non-consensual PvP combat is suspended inside the property’s walls.

  Morgana grinned. “Make that dinner, a few ales, and a good night’s rest, yeah?”

  I smiled back and nodded… but got the sinking feeling that none of those things were in our immediate future.

  CHAPTER 21

  I’d pictured the Far Field trading outpost as a few tents, campfires, and friendly aboriginals. This thing, however, could have been lifted from the 1948 John Wayne flick, Fort Apache. Three acres were surrounded by a twelve-foot tall adobe and pine-log wall. Past the open gate squatted a three-story tower with iron shutters over the windows.

  I hadn’t seen any particular dangers on our hike. Maybe just being close to Thera warranted such defensive measures?

  Guards atop the tower waved and welcomed us in a variety of languages and Tradespeak.

  “Bonsoir,” I called back.

  “Bienvenue bon monsieur,” replied a woman with a crossbow slung over her shoulder.

  This place might not be so bad after all.

  I then spotted two dozen severed hands nailed to the open gate. I’d seen such displays before in Lordren’s shop. Warnings to would-be thieves.

  “What is it with this medieval justice?” I muttered to Morgana. “Haven’t these people ever heard of misdemeanors?”

  “Barking effective, though,” she said.

  “You’d think people would get the idea and not risk it.”

  “You ever starve, Hektor?” she asked.

  “Yeah. I have. And I get your point.”

  A few days without food and you’d risk anything to feed yourself or the ones you love.

  Overlaying this grisly, but otherwise warm, welcome, appeared:

  ALERT!

  The wall opposite the gate of the Wayfar Waypoint Inn compound marks the effective boundary of the Game.

  =TUTORIAL (continued)=

  Game Boundary

  Past the Game’s boundary, many interface functions, game rules, alert systems, and other features cease to work.

  Experience points and achievements earned beyond the boundary will be awarded upon reentry.

  “There has to be more to that,” I whispered and had that disturbing feeling you got when you stood near a cliff and peered over the edge—like you were about to fall off; like you perversely wanted to fall off.

  Morgana frowned. “Best be careful while we wait for Elmac to catch up, yeah?”

  Past the tower sat a three-story house in the center of the compound with two large flagstone chimneys, split-log walls, a few windows (but only on the upper levels), and a slate tiled roof. Around back I noted a stable.

  I caught the scent of flame-broiled meat… and could that be the aroma of caramelized sugar and apple strudel?

  I wiped the drool from the corner of my mouth. “I completely agree.”

  One good thing about the Game: true, every step might be your last—but I’d never been so well-fed or had such a dazzling array of drink options in my life. It made the extreme and constant danger almost worth it.

  Two guards in full plate mail stood on either side of the inn’s front door. They nodded at us. One opened the door, gesturing us inside. The other pointed to a sign over the entrance that, in a variety of languages and pictograms, basically said:

  NO FIGHTING OR WE KILL YOU

  Fine by me.

  We entered a mudroom, carefully wiped the grime off our boots, then rounded a corner—and ran smack into a wall of sound.

  So many voices: All yelling—arguing—shouts—laughs—cries of outrage and grunts in a babble of multiple languages; I caught Tradespeak, a smattering of French, Fa
rsi, Elvish, Mandarin, and clickings and clackings, trills and whistles.

  After my ears adjusted (or rather, were deafened enough so the rest of my senses could catch up), I took in the place.

  The ground floor was split in half. On one side were rows of long tables with people on either side haggling over goods. The other side was crowded with tables and booths where people feasted upon platefuls of food and quaffed tankards of ale.

  The folks at the trading tables shook fists at one another, shoved piles of coins and jewels and treasure maps back and forth; there were moldering books, swords, shields, crystal balls, racks of potion bottles, and I swear—even a pile of live snakes!

  All these people couldn’t be just from the Ojawbi Far Fields. Some were indeed barbarians similar to Karkanal’s tribe—Viking types—minus, however, the distinctive threads of pure gold artfully woven into their braids and beards like Karkanal’s people had sported. There were also muscular gladiators wearing armor bits and at least thirty pounds of gold bracelets apiece; tall green women crisscrossed in ropes of jade beads; two towering cyclopes, brandishing furs by the fistful; anthropomorphized bears in top hats selling animals that squeaked and squealed within cages; there were even a few elven types (but to my disappointment, not one gypsy). There were more, but they all jostled and blurred before my eyes in flashes of silk, leather bondage gear, and priestly robes.

  I also spotted what had to be standard issue for every fantasy inn, a bulletin board with calls to adventure and help needed notices… along with the same RED KNIGHT WANTED poster I’d seen yesterday in Low District and the Bloody Rooster.

  The best part, though? The smells!

  The air was luxuriant with a metallic tang, sandalwood smoke, musk, perfumes—and cinnamon and cayenne and cardamom and saffron and a thousand other spices that I have never inhaled before or since.

  Add to that the cornucopia of scents wafting from the kitchen: cornbread, butter, vanilla, toffee, chocolate, seared salmon, lemon… and so much, so concentrated, I could have been nourished just breathing.

  A tap on my shoulder.

  I turned and was pleasantly surprised to see a lovely young lady, who under ordinary circumstances, I would’ve never missed even in a crowded room.

  She was my height, caramel skin with hair to match, and eyes the color of luminescent tropical waters. Her long-sleeved peasant dress was clean white linen. She was half elf, half… hmm, something that highlighted her cheeks and brow with tiny golden scales. Mermaid? Or perhaps sea elf?

  She looked us over. “Table for two?” she yelled in Tradespeak over the noise. “Or do you need to register a merchant license?”

  “Table for three!” Oswald piped up.

  She flashed the fairy a heart-melting smile. “Oh pardon me, sir.” She stepped to the hostess station and asked, “Booth or table? And you will be paying in…?”

  “Booth,” Morgana answered. “We’ll pay in golden quins.”

  “Very good, ma’am.”

  She led us to a booth in the corner (even found a booster seat along the way for Oswald).

  As soon as we sat, the noise fell away. It was either some magic or some very well-planned acoustical engineering. I couldn’t tell.

  Our hostess handed Morgana and me menus, rummaged about in her apron pocket and found one the size of a pack of playing cards for Oswald.

  The menu was more of a book, fifty pages of fish, fowl, vegan, and meat entrees, pastries and pasta, even sushi and insect dishes. The last twenty pages were devoted to specialty cocktails and this little tidbit at the end: Ask about our fine selection of fermented drinks!

  “My name is Sadie,” she told us.

  I found her voice alluring without being flirty, smart without coming off as aloof.

  “If it’s your first time here,” she went on, “it’s payment up front, but with a money back guarantee.” Again that smile. “Unless you have any questions, I’ll just give you a moment then.”

  She flounced off.

  Morgana cleared her throat. “Let’s eat, yeah? Then we can talk strategy.”

  I nodded and buried my nose in the menu.

  You could drop some serious cash in this place. Here was one of the offerings:

  Emperor Sushi Platter

  Fresh seasonal varieties from the Highland Lakes of the Ojawbi Highlands and (as available) from adjacent realities. Today’s selection is Saizen-grade Otoro (fat belly tuna); Kraken roe (three); Sea Hydra goujonettes, Cambrian Protozoa compote, Jörmungandr filet, giant squid (abyssal variety) tentacles with noir ink au jus, and pickled Perleidus—served with wild imperial ginger shavings and fresh nara-do wasabi combined with sky herring blue-green photophores. Presented on minced butter lettuce and chopped three-fin seaweed.

  Serves 6.

  Please allow two hours preparation time.

  40,000 golden quins.

  This is what game designers called a “money sink,” made to separate players from any hard-earned coin they may have so foolishly accumulated. Then again, the Game was not just a game. This food was real. The experience of tasting such delicacies might just be worth it.

  If I had liked raw fish.

  Then there was:

  Wayfar Hamburger

  One pound of ground Kobe sirloin (weighed after broiling), covered with thick slices of aged Heartland extra-sharp cheddar, applewood-smoked slabs of honeyed bacon, and served on a freshly baked poppy seed bun. All extras included. Try our special secret sauce!

  Comes with a heaping portion of triple-spiced wedge-cut fries and a small salad.

  No need to look further. It had been decades since I’d had a non-soy protein hamburger.

  I guess I’m just a simple guy with simple tastes.

  Oh and lest we forget, of course, a tankard of Silvercrest Ale. Maybe two.

  The ale, however, made me think of Elmac, the burnt Bloody Rooster, and I felt like a slimeball that I was about to enjoy a fine meal while he was risking his body and soul in the Free Trial.

  “He’ll be okay,” Morgana said as if she had read my thoughts. “He’s tougher than dragon gristle, that one.”

  I grunted an acknowledgment as I noted that despite Morgana’s words, there were also glimmers of worry and doubt in her eyes.

  Elmac was indeed tough, but there were still any number of game mechanics, tests, and tricks he could trip over.

  And there was nothing I could do about it now. Except stew.

  Sadie returned and took our orders. She nodded as if she approved of my pick of the comparatively simple hamburger.

  Morgana asked for a lasagne di carnevale and a glass of the house Chianti.

  Oswald ordered a slice of New York cheesecake (human-sized portion) and a root beer float.

  Sadie tallied it all up and presented the bill: 500 quins (with a 20% gratuity already added).

  Whoa. Outrageously expensive. I could live for a month in High Hill, and live well, on such a princely sum. If the normal patrons of this place, however, were rich merchants and adventurers (perhaps even traveling from other worlds) then maybe the price is what the traffic bore.

  What the heck. I was curious if the menu’s description would live up to my expectations of “best hamburger ever.”

  I was happy to pay for Morgana, too. I owed her, well, for a lot of things—chiefly her putting up with me.

  I opened my inventory and scraped out most of my remaining coin. I paused, however, seeing the old wheat penny still in the corner.

  If you could see me now, Dad, I wonder, would you be proud?

  I let the moment of maudlin reminiscence go, and paid.

  “If there’s anything else you need,” Sadie told us, “just flag me down.”

  A customer at another table waved at Sadie and she left.

  The fairy looked at me, narrowed his eyes, and sneered, “Thanks for the lunch, Master.”

  “Let’s drop the ‘master’ stuff,” I said. “It was funny once, but the whole slave thing is not my style. I�
�m your employer, and if you help me out now and then, I’ll take time off for good behavior. Deal?”

  The sarcasm melted from Oswald’s features. “That’s… actually decent of you. For a gypsy elf.”

  “Just call me Hektor, okay?”

  An elderly human in a white chef’s coat then wheeled a cart to our booth. He pulled the silver covers off the plates with grand flourishes. The portions were ogre-sized. Our food was piping hot and a cloud of steamy scents curled about the table. We unthinkingly leaned closer.

  Don’t ask me how they’d slapped this all together in a matter of minutes. Gastromancy?

  The three of us did our best imitation of a wolf pack devouring their kill for the next half hour.

  The meat in my Wayfar Hamburger was charred just right on the outside, juicy medium rare inside; the bacon was smokey and thick and crisp; the cheese molten, extra sharp; the poppy seed bun still steaming and toasted to perfection; and the secret sauce had a touch of jalapeño that somehow brought all the tastes together in what I can only describe as “divine.” So yeah, for the record, that was the best hamburger I’d ever had—before or since. Oh, and it paired well with my Silvercrest Ale.

  We leaned back, stuffed.

  Sadie returned. “Anyone for dessert?” she asked.

  Ah, I’d been hoping for this.

  Among my many failings, I must admit to one more: a sweet tooth. I was about to ask Sadie if there was a dessert menu (a slice of apple pie and a cup of coffee would hit the spot), but the words never got past my lips.

  Instead, I fixed upon the three people tromping down the stairs from the second floor. Actually, it wasn’t the people so much that gripped my attention… as it was the placards floating over their heads:

  Cassie Longstrider

  Ranger (Swashbuckler) / LEVEL 12

  Wonder Women

  Harlix Hadri

  Wizard (Researcher) / LEVEL 12

  Sapientia Aeterna

  and

  Grimhalt

  Cleric (Zealot) / LEVEL 9