But as it is, now I’m barreling up Lexington Avenue, across Summit and past the high school and across University Avenue, past where Lesh and I collided, over the train tracks and around the zoo, to Roan’s house we go, and the monstrosity’s engine is chugging and puffing like a steam locomotive, only louder. I forgot to mention the cassette player doesn’t work, and I don’t have any cassettes anyway besides Phil Collins’s Hits, which has been in the glove compartment probably since my dad bought it the day it came out when I was four, when we lived in Como and my grandfather was still alive and owned the house in Crocus Hill.
“Finally,” says Abraham when I reach the basement. “Where the fun have you been?”
I ignore him. It’s easy, because I’ve just pushed through a gauntlet of Garnet hugs and grabs and a cheek kiss from Ginger and can now choose to acknowledge the smiling faces of Reggie and Roan. Reggie puts on his glasses and dumps his pouch of dice. Roan hops into her chair, tucks up her foot, and bounces.
“Yes,” she says with the tiniest fist pump. “I can’t believe we pulled this off. I never thought we’d all show up.”
“Whose idea was it, anyway?” I say, and Roan thumbs at Reggie.
“What can I say?” says Reggie. “I need to see my people.” Roan reaches over and gives him a one-armed shoulder squeeze, so I know he’s been here awhile, probably crying over Cole. I am not in the breakup condolences loop. I make a mental note to reach out more, lest my already dwindling social circle dwindle even more, and then the lights pop and go black. Not just a bulb, mind you, but all the lights.
“What the truck?” says Abraham, and I really wish he’d cut it out, because I’m running out of words to use to replace the Queen Mum of swears here.
“Mom!” Roan shouts. Her chair legs vibrate on the indoor-outdoor, and in a minute her bare feet hit the steps and the door to the kitchen is open. A little flickering light gets in, and Abraham is looking at me. He quickly looks away, and turns in his chair and cranes his neck to watch Roan.
“What happened?” he asks.
I’m almost surprised he’s surprised, but I guess he hasn’t been to Roan’s house as often as I have, or as often as Reggie has, because we both know.
“I’m sending Dad down!” Roan’s mom calls back.
“It happens a lot,” I tell Abraham. He keeps his eyes on the basement door.
The Garnets’ house is a hundred years old, and the electrical system hasn’t been updated since World War II or so. That means if someone’s using the toaster, and someone is using a blow dryer, and then someone turns on the kitchen light: zap! A fuse blows. And since the box is older than your grandma, you can’t just flip a switch. You have to remove a fuse and put in a new one. It’s not complicated, but it is a pain in the butt. So Gary creaks down the steps, flashlight in hand. He’s a tired man. He’s always tired. His gray hair is extra bushy tonight and matted on one side. It was a big red bush when we were little. I hardly noticed it going gray, but there it is.
“Hello,” he says, in this thick-voiced way he has, like he’s always just eaten peanut butter. He goes right to the box, scans the fuses with his flashlight, and starts unscrewing one. “This old thing,” he mutters for something to mutter, since we’re all watching him, waiting for him to finish. “And there,” he says, screwing in the new fuse, “we”—he’s still screwing—“go!”
He turns and smiles at us, then calls up the steps, “Try it now!”
Two shoe thumps sound on the floor over our heads—a clear signal from Ginger that the lights and toaster and hair dryer are back on—and Roan hurries to the top of the steps and clicks on the basement lights.
“Thanks, Dad,” she says, and she’s back in her seat in a flash, before her dad even gets the box door closed.
“I swear,” says Abraham.
Yes, you do.
“I don’t know why I even bother with this,” he finishes.
“What’s that mean?” asks Reggie, because he feels like feeding the troll, I guess.
Abraham sighs. “Let’s just start, okay?”
“Does everyone have character sheets?” I ask, and they say yes in their silent and variant ways: Roan’s is a nod, but one of such speed that most of us would snap our necks. Reggie’s is a quick succession of pats of his gaming folder, which for this campaign seems to be violently lime green. Abraham’s is a nasty smirk and a wave of his stapled stats. They’re the same characters they rolled at our unofficial meeting before school started—minus one party member.
And so we can begin, finally. I reach into my tote and produce the screen, and the maps, the monster manual of my own making, and a pair of big pedestal candles. “Now, I’ve had to make some last-minute adjustments,” I say, “I mean, because Cole …” No one needs to finish that sentence. “Okay so, here, Reggie.” I pull out a sealed envelope, which I antiqued by staining it with tea, burying it in the garden for a night, and then burning the edges just the tiniest bit, and hand it across the table to Reggie. “Don’t open it yet.”
Reggie’s smile, full of sinister joy, makes my heart positively swell. “Roan, can you hit the lights?” I say.
“Hit the lights?” Abraham says. “We just got them working and now you want them off?”
He’s getting on my nerves. I suspect he’s getting on all our nerves, but Roan admirably ignores him and hurries to flick the switch just as I get the second candle lit. It’s a big table—a folding buffet-type thing, over which Roan has laid a forest-green tablecloth—so their light is spread pretty thin, but the way it casts over each of our faces is perfect and séancelike. I unfold my screen and behind it set my notes and a portable iPod player. The playlist is already loaded, so I click play and begin their tale:
THUG, you are a half-giant. Though your people have been enslaved in the wild jungle kingdoms to the far south, you escaped with your life—barely—and have been traveling alone for a month. You carry a broadsword and wear simple leather armor and boots. You were lucky to escape with that much. For the last two nights, you’ve noticed the road has been climbing steadily, and the temperature dropping quickly. Tonight, as the moon appears, you haven’t eaten in two days and your leather armor isn’t keeping you warm. When you spot the lights from a lamp and the glowing windows of an inn, you say a prayer of thanks and pick up your pace. A village isn’t far.
It’s a small village, you discover before long, and the inn—the Sword and the Moth, according to the sign hanging over the door, written in the human tongue—is the first building you reach. From inside, you hear the voices and songs and laughter of cheer and strong drink, and you go in. All noises stop, and all heads turn to face you. Can the reputation of the half-giants have spread this far north, this far off the beaten path?
“He’s a big one.” It’s a woman—maybe just a girl. She’s at a table far from the door, near a fireplace along the north wall of the inn. And she’s not alone. The table is crowded with men—dwarven men, elf men, and plenty of humans, too. They’re rough-looking and rowdy. And when she makes her crack about your size, they explode with laughter. The noise comes back, and the laughter and songs. You make your way to the bar and look for a drink.
MERIDEL, that girl—the one with the smart mouth and collection of male fans—is you, of course, and this time your lip might earn you a little trouble. As the half-giant passes your table, he sneers—growls, even. He’s not much for words, but from his size and the girth of his arms—not to mention the sword strapped to his back—you know he’s not someone even you want to mess with. You watch him at the bar a moment while your tablemates carry on, and then take a long drink from your mead, mainly for an excuse to head to the bar. You clank your empty onto the heavy table in front of you.
“Another, Meri?” says the dwarf at your right hand, and he’s on his feet. He’s an ugly one, poor thing, with a beard so thick and gnarly that it’s nearly impossible to tell where it ends and the knot of hair on his head and the bush growing up out of the front of his
shirt begin.
You grab his arm. “I’ll get it myself,” you say, to the protests of the other burly ruffians at the table. “I’ll get it,” you repeat, pulling your blade from its place, stuck in the table before you, “myself.”
Hands go up, apologies are made, and the men sit if they were standing and stand up if they were sitting, like gentlemen getting up for a lady on her way to the powder room. You roll your eyes and slip your way along the sawdust-covered floor, between the sweaty, smelly bodies of warriors and rogues and hunters and thieves, and the perfume-and-powder stench of women hoping to sell their sordid wares. They sicken you—the fighters and the whores—but you don’t mind, as you weave through them, helping yourself to a coin or two from their sacks, pockets, or bags. By the time you reach the bar, you’ve enough for a round.
“Another round for my table,” you say, and you drop a pile of coins. The half-giant is next to you, and he grunts, so you say hi. “And one for the pituitary case.”
He snarls.
“Kidding, kidding,” you say, and quieting your voice and leaning toward him, you add, “What are you doing this far north, anyway?”
He looks at you sideways. The glance is easy to interpret: What do you know of my people?
You shrug. “I don’t stay in one place for long,” you say. “Whenever I’ve tried, they tend to want to arrest me, or beat me up, or cut off my head. It gets awkward. Suffice it to say, I’ve been everywhere, and you should be in shackles someplace, am I right?”
Despite your obvious charm and rough beauty, the half-giant isn’t impressed with you, and since he now knows that you know he is an escaped slave, he grows defensive. In fact, you can feel his rage growing, and he balls his fists. When he turns, you’re ready.
The two of you face off: Meridel wields a single dagger in her main hand, and has a length of strong leather wrapped around her off hand and wrist for blocking and punching. Thug hasn’t drawn his sword, but his armor is stronger and his fists are weapons even bare. He is twice Meridel’s height, but half as fast.
“Wait, whoa, whoa, whoa,” says Abraham. “What the frog is this? I’m going to fight Meri?”
“No,” says Reggie. “Thug is.”
“Shut up,” says Abraham, looking at me. “Seriously, Lana. She has a knife and I’m practically naked, and I haven’t eaten in two days.”
“Ooh,” says Roan, jumping in her chair a little. “He totally has a penalty to health or strength, right?”
I don’t answer. I just give them each a look, and then settle on Reggie. His avatar hasn’t appeared yet, so I’m hoping he’ll get my drift. He does.
“Guys,” he says. “Just shut up. You’re ruining the mood.”
“We don’t need to fight,” says Meridel. She’s bouncing lightly on her toes, ready to dodge, jump—she’ll even use her daily ability shadowshift if she has to.
“True,” says Thug, “but you have to die.” And he raises his right fist. Meridel is far too quick for a simple attack, though, and she—in the blink of his eyes—is on top of the bar, just out of his range.
“Come on,” she says. “Let’s just go our separate ways. I’ll still pay for your drink.”
He bellows with rage and swings both arms at her. This time the follow-through connects with her leg, and she falls behind the bar, landing against a stack of small ale barrels. A few of them collapse under her, pouring the frothy amber liquid across the floor. The bartender—and the other patrons—are not pleased, including the men at Meridel’s own table. They jump to their feet and draw their weapons. Among them are swords, maces, axes, and flails.
And Thug, they’re looking at you.
You’ve fought large groups before, but never so tired and hungry, and never so large a group at once. But you’ve busted their ale stores, and may have injured the obvious target of their affections at the same time. A quick retreat might be a good idea.
Meridel, you climb to your feet, shaking your head and stinking of beer, but you regain composure quickly, hurdle the bar, and stand in front of the half-giant with your back to him. “Lads,” you say to your hirsute gang, “are you going to let this escaped slave get away with that?”
They grunt and sneer in reply. An escaped slave, after all, means a large bounty. After a brief pause, in which you can practically hear the gears slipping into place in their tiny little minds, one of them shouts, “Get him!” They charge.
Meridel, you drop to the floor on one knee, roll across the bar, and slip along the shadows against the wall back your table. There, the bounty hunters, in their wild abandon in the face of battle and potential reward, have left their bags. As they encircle the poor half-giant, you quickly and deftly sack their sacks, coming away with a small fortune in gold, a necklace, and a skin of wine. Then, just as deftly, you make your way to the front door and slip outside. All in all, you decide it’s been a good night’s work.
Inside, Thug, you have been in better situations. These swarthy slavers—as far as you’re concerned, that’s all they are—have you in quite a spot. They’re hesitant to make the first move, though, as they’re drunk, disorganized, and badly outweighed. But with so many around you, you’re not anxious to start this fight either. You take a challenging stomp toward one, and he flinches. You try again on another. He flinches too. All you’re doing, it seems, is putting off the inevitable. So you take a deep breath, let loose a terrifying bellow, choose one, and charge him.
Your sizable head connects with his armored chest. To you, the armor is like balsa, and you hear the last breath he ever takes as it is forced from his lungs. He collapses against a table, probably breaking his back on the thick wood top, and then slumps to the floor. The rest of the men have been spurred to action, but you’ve made for yourself a nice gap in the circle, and rather than turn to face these men, you continue through it, toward the door.
“The girl,” you mutter to yourself. “I will kill the girl.”
The door, though, is not an option, because another figure in the bar has gotten to his feet. You didn’t notice him before—no one did, truthfully, and that’s how he wanted it. But like a veil has been lifted from the eyes of the world, he is very noticeable now. He is gleaming white, as though he produces his own light. His robe must be silk or something rarer, and the hood, which is up, completely prevents anyone from seeing his face—which is also what he wants.
AMBIENT, that figure is you, of course, and you say—no, you intone, “Be at peace,” and you raise your hands, palms out, toward the half-giant. He stops. The men behind him stop, and they lower their weapons. The half-giant is of nimbler mind than you thought, though, Ambient, because after glancing over his shoulder at the pacified bounty hunters, he continues. He shoves you aside, opens the door, and goes out.
“Where did you go, girlie?” he bellows.
The peace has most definitely not been restored, so you follow. It’s cold. You hadn’t planned to go out again tonight, but this half-giant—and maybe even the thief he’s pursuing—can help you. You’ll have to save them from themselves first, though, and hopefully give them a reason to help you in the process.
Meridel, you didn’t get far. You’re a little impetuous, after all, and around the first corner under the light of a streetlamp, you’ve stopped to count your gold. Thug steps around a corner and spots you.
“Whoops,” you say, cinching your sack and drawing your dagger. “Didn’t my friends finish you off?”
The half-giant smirks and charges. You shadowshift and watch him collide with the lamppost. It’s worse off than he.
“You are a strong one, aren’t you?” you say, Meridel. “Look,” you plead, backing away as he approaches slowly, “I wasn’t going to turn you in. I knew you’d beat those morons. I just wanted a diversion. You can split everything I stole.” You hold out the sack of coins. “See?”
He knocks it from your hand, sending gold and silver coins spilling into the cobblestone street.
“Oh, come on,” you say. �
�Animosity is one thing, but can we have a little respect for the local currency?”
He raises his fist, and you’re too worn out to shadowshift again tonight. You close your eyes and lift your arm to block the attack—it never comes.
Instead you open your eyes and find yourself floating above the street, encircled in a giant halo of light and warmth. The half-giant, too, is floating, only ten feet away. And below you both, down on the street, is an elf wizard in silk robes.
The wizard is you, Ambient, and you say, “Greetings,” with both your arms out, and the holy power of light holding your captives aloft. “If you will both agree to cease and desist, I will let you down so we can talk.”
The half-giant and the thief exchange a glare, but agree with a nod toward you on the cobblestones.
“Now let us down,” says the half-giant, and you, with a flourish, oblige. The combatants slowly descend and land safely on their feet.
“You planning to tell us what that was all about?” the thief asks as she sheathes her dagger. “Or do I need to wrap your cloak around your throat and stick your staff of power where the sun don’t shine?”
“My name is Ambient,” you say. “You, Meridel, and you, Thug, have the skills and attributes I need to complete a mission of great importance.”
The half-giant squints at the thief, and then glares at you, and says, “How do you know who we are?”
“There is much I can see,” you say, “but much remains cloudy. Will you join me?”
“So?” I say, grinning like a moron and looking at each player in turn.
Guy in Real Life Page 13
