The Renegades

by Vasily Mahanenko

  “The quest must be completed,” the pirc flourished a claw. “Only we’ll make it more logical, quicker and funner. Do you have a knife?” With these words, Chip drew his handaxe and began to quickly whittle the piece of wax, scattering the shreds around the square.

  “No, my only weapon’s this lute,” I said, watching my partner work with wonder. I didn’t even want to imagine what he had in mind.

  When he finished crumbling the wax, he threw the rag onto the floor, spread it out and ordered:

  “Squat down like a street bum and give me your hands.”

  “I’m a little scared,” I confessed, sensing something bad coming, but I did as he asked. ‘Yolo, so whatev’ as the ancients used to say.

  Chip turned his back to me, grabbed my hands and began to drag me like one of those rickshaws that carry tourists around the historical parts of Ho Chi Minh City. I couldn’t gauge the speed exactly, but I’d estimate the pirc was about as fast as a sleigh dog.

  “Buy the ticket ride the ride!” he hollered happily. “Don’t I make a good pony?”

  I have no idea where Chip learned this method of polishing floors but it worked. In a mere five minutes, a notification appeared announcing that we had completed the quest and we had a good laugh.

  “That’s it…Whoa there, pony!”

  “Whee-eee,” Chip whinnied obediently and stopped in place.

  “We can go complete the quest,” I got to my feet. One nice thing about VR is your limbs don’t fall asleep from squatting in an awkward pose. “At this pace, you and I will scour the entire tree, receive exalted status and become council members in one day. I suppose they’ll put of us in charge of cleaning. I wonder, do they have a ministry of health here?”

  “If they don’t, we’ll make sure to introduce one,” Chip nodded decisively. “We’re already responsible for at least two innovations in these parts, so why not arrange a third? Healthcare, housing administration, public transport…” Just then, a leafevator full of passengers drifted across the pirc’s ken causing him to sigh bitterly: “Never mind. I think they’ve figured out the last bit.”

  “I propose we make use of it. By the way, how did you end up in Barliona?” I inquired when our leaf began to carry us from branch to branch. “You’re unfamiliar with gaming slang, so you’re not a gamer.”

  As if distracted, the pirc hesitated a few moments, examining the landscape rushing past us.

  “Just kind of…” Chip pulled off one glove and snatched a flower off a branch with his paw whose finger pads resembled little pillows.

  “I’m experiencing a long spell of R&R at the moment.” The pirc crushed his catch in his claws and inhaled the aroma. “Rest and relaxation, that is. I’ll be spending the majority of my time between four walls for the next three months. So a friend of mine suggested I try this out. He started himself recently—to make his furlough go by faster. He told me that, unless I get too involved, I could knock back and relax here.”

  It was clear that Chip didn’t wish to elaborate on this issue, so I didn’t bother inquiring further. Who knows what happened to him? Maybe he’d been suspended or something and now he’s rotting from boredom in some FSM-forsaken place. Maybe he has health issues or maybe there’s something else. People enter Barliona to get away from reality too. It wouldn’t do to pry into someone’s personal life.

  “Why’d you choose the name you did?” I asked another question that had occupied me.

  “That’s the name of the cat in my wing,” the pirc grinned. “A massive furry ruffian. He’s as shameless as a warrant officer weeks from retirement. We got his name from a movie character. There’s this ancient movie about a toy soldier with an embedded AI that comes off the assembly line and starts to wipe out everyone who gets in his way. Our kitty’s the same—from the moment he got there, he’s been shredding the rats and other critters into fur and feathers. He’s dug up gophers, pulled agoutis out of tree trunks and rassled snakes. The bastard even put away our logistics officer’s pet chinchilla.”

  This became the first of a series of war stories. The time flew by unnoticed. I found another sigil of the Tenth and after two further cleaning and polishing quests, I received my long-desired second level—as well as a simple cape with a leaf-shaped buckle.

  “Cool,” I said once the glow around me faded and the wave of pleasure receded. “Do you think that if you reach a new level somewhere in enemy territory at night—the enemy will be able to see the glow?”

  “Well if they do, at least you’ll have announced your arrival to everyone present,” the pirc replied and laughed happily. “You’ll lead the hit parade!”

  “You have a point. A bard sneaking around in stealth when I have to play music to cast spells—is a bunch of nonsense.”

  The thought of stealth jogged a lever in my head.

  “Listen, there’s an idea!”

  “For a fancy, vanity suicide?” the pirc asked puzzled. “You haven’t been reading Hagakure too much have you?”

  “I’m not talking about that,” I waved him away, delicately omitting the fact that I’d never read that book (or author?). “I came down from the tree yesterday and one of the local critters ate me instantly. I kept thinking about how to level up around here. I mean, even if I fight alongside a tank, I’ll get slain before he can step over to help me. Just now I remembered that biota can hide in the forest. This means that if we go together and I’ll start out camouflaged, the predator will attack you first and then I’ll pop out of hiding and pile the spells on him.”

  It wasn’t a bad idea, but…Well, there were several buts. Like for instance that there could be more than one predator. And that my singing could draw more aggro. The local fauna could detect biota despite our racial trait.

  “But if that doesn’t work, we’ll have twelve hours until our next respawn ahead of us,” I admitted openly.

  “Let’s do it.” My companion nodded without any further thought.

  “For safety’s sake we should invite someone else to our party. I can heal or I can do damage, but I can’t do both at once.”

  Chip grew pensive and began scratching his head.

  “I don’t have any candidates,” he finally admitted. “But I’m only for it.”

  “With a pirc in our party, we shouldn’t have trouble finding someone,” I reassured him. “But while we’re still in town, we should resolve the question of our professions. Have you committed to anything?”

  “Uh-huh,” he nodded. “Back when I was joining the academy. I’ve remained true ever since then,” Chip made a grim face and saluted with his paw.

  “I’m talking about your gaming specialty, you old jarhead!” I snorted. “A sculptor, an artist, a smith, some kind of herbalist…I’ve counted about fifty various professions so far on the fora.”

  “Why I’m a man—uh, cat—uh, pirc of many talents,” the furball quipped. “I can paint so well that the final result will end up among the sculptures of Michelangelo in the Louvre or Hopper’s paintings in the Art Institute. You just point me at my model and don’t think too hard.” Chip crossed his eyes and licked a bit of straw from his nose. “But speaking seriously…I actually haven’t thought about this.”

  “Strictly speaking, you can study whatever you like. The only limitation is that your first chosen profession becomes your main one. Any other one can’t be developed further than ten points above base. It’s therefore better to think a little before choosing the first one. I’ve decided to become a Cartographer.”

  “Topography?” The pirc thought for a bit and then swatted the air with resolve. “Let’s double down! I’m not bad at sketching plats and I know how to read a map.”

  “Plats? What’s that?”

  “Roughly speaking, a sketch of an area,” the pirc explained. “You draw the most conspicuous landmarks like a river bend or a tall hill or something like that.”

  “Thank Pasta, it’s not that complicated here. All you have to do is recall what you’ve seen and yo
ur hand automatically draws the map. You don’t need a lot of brains to do it and even an inept topographer like me can become a cartographer.”

  The pirc scowled happily and rubbed his paws.

  “We’ll start a cartography company!” he announced. “We’ll rake in the money with shovels. The only thing we have to do is find some aircraft with a nice combat radius. Any ideas?”

  “There are flying creatures that you can ride, like griffins,” I recalled my earlier research. “But something tells me it’s not that simple. Otherwise anyone who felt like it would make maps and they wouldn’t be worth a thing. I read that some of the rarer ones get sold for hundreds of thousands of gold. They’re not world maps—rather maps of localities.”

  “How much?” the pirc wheezed, his eyes popping. “Right, we’ll need a blimp or something like that as soon as possible. We’re going to be billionaires, you and I!”

  “Uh-huh. Just remember that the cheapest griffin costs a million gold.”

  “Why my Mayhap costs less!” Chip objected. “Have they lost their minds, charging such prices?!”

  “I mean, that’s the entire idea underpinning the game—they’re trying to squeeze as much money as they can out of us,” I decided to let the pirc in on the worst-kept secret of Barliona. “What’s a Mayhap?”

  “Not ‘what,’ but ‘who,’” Chip corrected me. “She’s my chopper. My beauty…” he said with sincere gentleness and some odd, sorrow in his voice.

  “Well I’m not sure that a griffin is harder to get than a chopper, but either way they aren’t cheap. To be honest, I have trouble imagining why someone would sink so much money into the game. But whatever—let’s go see the Cartographer. Scrooge’s heaps of gold didn’t earn themselves.”

  Chapter Seven

  The chief criterion for choosing cartography as my main profession wasn’t some virtual mountain of gold on the horizon but rather the hole in my pocket out in grim reality. Mining was out of the question since it required leaving the secure area and spending hours among the angry mobs looking for resources and extracting them. And a crafting profession like blacksmithing didn’t fit owing to the lack of resources and money for acquiring them. As a result, cartography was the simplest option. Leveling up in this profession didn’t require a lot of investment and according to the fora, drawing maps was pretty easy. Additionally, the profession’s bonus to Intellect was worth keeping in mind as well as the opportunity it afforded to solve Cypro’s riddle. One way or another, I’ll have to scour my immediate surroundings to level up and that means I’ll find and mark all the sigils on my map. Then I’ll be able to find patterns in them and solve Cypro’s riddle. And I had no doubt that this was a riddle. Otherwise, why make this a class-based quest and link it with the top bard of the race?

  As I assumed, the cartography instructor was on the Branch of the Craftsmen. I had to admit that the Tree was conveniently designed—everything was simple and intuitive.

  “Have you decided to learn how to make maps?” asked the old Cartographer with a wrinkled face of bark. More than anything, he reminded me of a short ent from Tolkien’s classic. “An admirable choice, young lady! Bards wander the world like tumbleweeds. You will find cartography invaluable in your travels.”

  I nodded enthusiastically, demonstrating that this was precisely the logic that had led me to cartography and therefore to this instructor. Chip sighed and scratched noisily behind my back. We paid 20 silver each to study the profession and received a cartography set in return. The little case contained parchment and ink for drawing maps.

  “Oh, I see that you’ve chosen cartography as your main profession!” the cartographer exclaimed happily when the blue glow of education had faded around us. “I am flattered! Most of our people prefer to live closed, quiet lives, never straying beyond the Arras. As a result, cartography is not in demand. The biota and pircs know the hidden lands without any maps and do not leave their boundaries. I’m ashamed to admit it but I hardly have anything to offer for sale…”

  The old man sighed and indicated his paltry wares: a map of the Hidden Forest, maps of the Tree and the Lair, the pirc city, and several maps of the territories abutting the Arras, which by his own admission featured more whitespace than corroborated information. On top of all this, due to recent events, parts of the Forest had changed and some of the maps were out of date. And yet, despite all this, the maps cost quite a penny: from one hundred to three thousand gold. Considering that my budget—which had grown after I completed my quest—barely withstood the expenditure of 20 silver on studying my new profession, I could forget acquiring one of these maps for a long time. I’m better off wandering around the Tree and drawing my own.

  Hmm…drawing my own map…

  “And what if my companion and I create our own maps during our travels, ones you don’t have, and bring them to you to add to your stock?”

  “Oh that would be wonderful indeed! If you, young lady, and your fellow traveler manage to bring me proper maps of the lands beyond the Arras, I shall reward you handsomely! I will pay gold for general maps; for rare exemplars with details, I shall allow you to make a copy of my prize jewel—an entirely unique map which contains an encrypted guide to an ancient treasure.”

  Quest available: Maps for the Cartographer. Description: The old cartographer is sad because…

  Quest type: Rare. Reward: Variable. Penalty for failing/refusing the quest: None.

  I just about began to drool. When I leave my starting location, I’ll be sure to chart every step I take. Then when I come back, I’ll make bank. All that was left was to chart some unexplored territory and get my hands on that treasure map!

  “I will be happy to help you!” I promised, accepting the quest.

  “Why lose time?” the pirc suddenly spoke up. “We were about to descend from the Tree anyway. We can make corrections to the maps as we journey. The only problem is that we don’t have a map to correct. If you gave us one, we would have something to work with.”

  The cartographer grew pensive: On the one hand the offer was reasonable and arguing with a terrible beast didn’t seem appealing, yet on the other hand, giving up a map for free was out of the question. I had to give Chip his due—he’d really put the issue in its proper terms.

  “If I start handing out maps to anyone who shows up, I’ll be left penniless,” the cartographer’s response suggested that greed had won out. I had to intervene urgently.

  “You don’t have to hand them out for nothing,” I began to prod the vendor. “You can simply lend us a map temporarily and you’ll get it back with more details.”

  “And what if you use the map but don’t do the work?” The cartographer objected for appearance sake, though I could see that he was ready to give in.

  “Then you can charge us for renting the map,” Chip offered.

  The old man hesitated, calculating something.

  “If you don’t return the map in one month—improved by at least five percent—you shall pay me half its value: 150 gold. I will pay you twenty gold for each percent of accuracy above the nominal 5%. And if you improve the map by more than 20%, you will receive a special reward.”

  “Thirty-five gold, not twenty,” Chip began to haggle. “We have to take into account transportation costs, food, as well as a surcharge for complexity and pressure. Additionally, charting in dangerous territory will incur a threefold charge. And note that I’m omitting rations and daily allowances here.”

  “I don’t quite understand what it is you’re talking about, my clawed friend, but my conditions stand—twenty gold and no more. I am taking a risk as it is—you could simply copy the map and pay me half its price without doing any of the work. But, considering that you’ve decided to become cartographers, I’ll trust you as my colleagues.”

  “And we’re taking a risk with our skulls, trusting this map,” the furball dug in. “If something happens to us, we won’t even be able to ask anyone for help. Where’s the Vespucci who drew this map
, eh? He’s not around! So let’s just settle on 25 gold each and call it a deal. And keep in mind that we’ll be marking the elevations as we chart the areas we travel through. Heck, if you give us the equipment, we’ll even sound the depths of the bodies of water we come across!”

  The cartographer scratched the bridge of his nose with a little doubt, weighing the pros and cons, then sighed and waved his hand.

  “All right—twenty-five gold and not a copper more!”

  “Agreed.” Chip bared his fangs with satisfaction.

  Quest available: Update the Map of the Hidden Forest. Description: The old cartographer hasn’t left the Tree in a long time and his maps are out of date. Make at least 5% worth of improvements to the map and receive a reward from the cartographer. Quest type: Common. Limitation: Only for cartographers. Reward: Variable, depending on the degree of success. Penalty for failing/refusing the quest: None. Penalty for failing the quest: Pay 150 gold to the cartographer.

  “We agree,” I announced, prodding the pirc with my elbow and accepting the quest.

  “Eh?” the pirc started. “Sorry, I got caught up—the game has offered me the bartering skill. Guess I’ll take it. Should come in handy.”

  “Excellent!” Ignoring the pirc’s remark about his new skills, the cartographer smiled and handed Chip the map of the Hidden Forest. “Come back to me when you reach Level 10 in your new profession!”

  “Done and done,” Chip accepted the scroll gingerly.

  Despite his noticeable disdain for the local topographers, I noticed that he was pretty respectful towards the maps themselves. No doubt it was due to his profession, though who in our age looks at paper when there’s a digital map on hand?

  “Did they teach you to haggle in the army as well?” I inquired when we had left the cartographer’s stall.

  “Uh-huh,” Chip nodded seriously. “Whether you’re posted in the East or in Africa—if you go to the market, you better know how to haggle. Otherwise they won’t understand you and decide that you’re an uneducated oaf and won’t take you seriously. They have a different mentality out there—it’s like a pastime for them. You’ll spend fifteen minutes haggling over some smoked piece of meat for fifteen minutes. The seller will provide all sorts of excuses—everything from his personal recipe for smoking it, to the illness that has recently afflicted his mother-in-law—yet when you mention that you’re trying this snack for the first time, he’ll give you three extra just so you can have a taste. The skill of haggling is part of the culture there and a pretty important one at that. But here, I sense that we’ve been conned, oh my sylvan bouquet. That soggy lettuce seemed only too happy to accept our deal.”