by Rachel Ford
Chapter Twenty-Nine
It was touch and go for a bit after that. Jack half expected to be thrown out on his ear a few times. But finally, Delling asserted that he’d always had every intention of helping his wayward offspring. He didn’t, he said, need lectures from ignorant humans on how to tend to his own family.
Jack felt it right to kiss a little more ass at that juncture. He apologized for his presumption, and generally humiliated himself. But it did the trick: allowing the king to save face, writing the whole thing off as a big misunderstanding, returned them to a productive footing. His objectives updated accordingly.
But they weren’t entirely out of the woods. Not yet. “How am I supposed to help Migli, though?”
Jack explained the curse again, and how it had frozen heroes all over the world. “But not here.”
“Of course. Ivaldi’s magic is woven into these walls. No demonic curse can touch us here.”
“Exactly. So all we have to do is figure out how to replicate that magic and use it on the frozen heroes. And, voila: Migli is free.”
The king hemmed and hawed about the effort and expenditure. The magic was ancient and would take a good many smiths a good many days to reproduce. “And the royal purse is already taxed.”
Jack didn’t mention the upcoming divorce, and how the king would be better served saving the entire world than moving on to wife number ten. Instead, he commiserated. “The price of blood bonds is sometimes very high.”
Delling sighed and nodded. “I suppose you’re right. There’s nothing for it but to free the boy, blast him.”
“I do have one question,” Moinn said, “before we engage the wizards and smiths, my lord.”
“Oh?”
The vizier fixed the visitors with a shrewd glance. “This spell that Iaxiabor unleashed…you said it froze all the heroes in all the world, except here, where Ivaldi’s magic shields us. Yes?”
Jack nodded. “That’s right.”
Moinn smiled a grin so satisfied it was almost predatory. “And yet, here you all are: alive and well.”
Jack grimaced. This again. Aloud, though, he said, “I have an amulet, from the realm of Miradorn. It protects me against such sorcery.”
“Me too,” Arath said, a little hastily. “All of us: we have amulets.”
Karag rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. Neither did Jack. There’d be no point now, not after the ranger’s lies. Either he believed them all, or he believed none of them.
“You expect me to believe you lot knew enough to protect yourself against Iaxiabor’s machinations, but the prince didn’t?”
Here, Delling came to their rescue. He leaned in, tone low, and said, “It is Migli we’re talking about, Moinn.”
The vizier considered, then nodded. “A valid point, my lord.”
The king nodded too. “Alright, we’ll assemble the wizards and the smiths. And you, Jack – well, I suppose you’ll want to stay around, until we have something for you?” He nodded, and Delling sighed. “I suppose that’s better than having you prowling about our gates. Very well: Varr, see to it. Make sure they have a room.”
“In the south wing,” Moinn added, far too quickly for Jack’s comfort.
“Yes,” the king agreed. “Definitely.”
“Thanks,” Jack said. “I think.”
“Very good, my lord.”
“And someone should tell the Lady Milia, my lord,” Moinn said.
Delling winced at the name. “Oh. You sure that’s necessary?”
The other man shrugged. “Migli is her son.”
“Oh, I suppose you’re right. Who do you think we should send?”
“Not me, my lord: she threatened to kill me if she ever laid eyes on me again, last time I was there.”
Delling shivered. “Me too. Still, someone has to do it.”
They remained silent, thoughtful – and fearful – expressions spread across their faces for a long moment. Then Moinn offered, “It would probably be best if it came from a close friend of the lad’s.”
Delling’s glanced up. “This is Migli,” he said again.
“Yes sir. And though the boy did keep unusual friends, he nonetheless had friends.”
The king’s expression brightened. “Oh. I see. Yes, yes, I think you’re right, Moinn. Better that it comes from someone who knew him well.”
“Who spent a lot of time in his company recently, and so could answer questions about what kind of man he’s become.”
“Yes. Exactly right, exactly right.”
“And he should be a firsthand witness to what befell him, naturally.”
“Naturally,” the king agreed. “That would only be proper.”
Jack had only been half listening. He didn’t care who they sent. That was an internal and familial matter. But he glanced up sharply when he heard his name.
“Yes,” the king had said, “you’re definitely the right choice to go, Jack.”
“Wait, what?”
“You are, by your own account, the companion Migli chose after he abandoned his own kin,” Moinn said, and it sounded more like an accusation than anything else. “He let you into his band. He allowed you to join his adventures.”
“That’s not how it –”
“You were there in his last moments.”
“Would you deprive a mother of knowing her son’s last moments?” Delling asked.
“Would you refuse the order of a king?” Moinn added.
“Well, no, of course not, but –”
Delling nodded briskly. “Good. Then it is settled: you will visit Lady Milia, and relay what you know of Migli’s fate.
“Oh, and if she should threaten to kill you, don’t worry about that.”
Moinn smiled. “Indeed. She says that to everyone the king sends.”
“And rarely does it. I’m sure you’ll be fine.”
The pair smiled and nodded and took their leave. At the same time, the game informed Jack:
Objective added: inform the Lady Milia of her son’s unhappy plight
Varr scratched his head, shuffled his feet, and said, “Well, uh, I guess I should show you to your quarters.”
Jack nodded, but his focus remained on the Lady Milia. “So, uh, Migli’s mother…”
The captain of the guard nodded too as he led them to the door. “Formidable lady, and that’s no lie.”
“So I gathered. But does she really – you know, kill people?”
Varr didn’t answer. Not directly, and not all at once. First, he opened the door, and ushered them out. Then he set out down the hall, beckoning the party to follow him. Only then did he start to speak. “The thing to remember about fine ladies and lords…well, it’s simple really. They’re so very fine, and their time so valuable, that they don’t take kindly to it being wasted. And because their time is so valuable, sometimes they guard it so jealously that – well, you can’t get out what it is you need to tell them. So sometimes, they think you’re wasting their time, when in fact you’re not.
“And sometimes they don’t care to hear what it is you’re saying, whether it’s relevant to them or not. And that can go every bit as badly as wasted time.”
All of which Jack took to mean that yes, it was not unheard of for Milia – and presumably other noble persons – to lash out in violent and possibly lethal fashion when provoked. And provocation could be as simple as speaking out of turn, or being perceived to speak out of turn. “You guys really need to look into guillotines, dude.”
“I don’t follow?”
Jack didn’t answer, and Arath filled the silence with, “So where are these rooms of ours?”
Varr glanced over his shoulder, a little abashedly. “Room,” he said, emphasizing the last sound, apparently to highlight the singular nature of the word. “His Highness told me to set you up with a room, so I’m afraid you’ll be sharing a room. I’m sorry.”
“You’ve got to be kidding,” Jack said.
“Odin’s beard, you expect me to sha
re space with these vermin?” the ranger scowled. Jack assumed by that he meant the goblins, because his own immediate concern was losing his purse – or his eyeballs – sometime during the night. But Arath notably didn’t specify which “vermin” he had in mind.
“I am sorry,” Varr said again. “But the king said room – singular. I could lose my hand if I disobey him.”
“Your king would be at home in the Obsidian Isles, I think,” Karag observed mildly.
Varr seemed to miss the point, or the point as Jack took it to be anyway: a comparison of the brutality of this dwarven ruler with the notoriously brutal regime managing the giantfolk. The dwarf shook his head. “I don’t believe so, Lord Karag: King Delling does not care for the sea.
“But you know who does like water? Queen Helga. Which, I suppose, is why she’s scoping out so many waterfront properties in the south.”
And just like that, they were onto the matter of divorce again; and from divorce, they moved to speculation as to who lucky number ten might be, and how long that might last. Varr had opinions on the topic. He’d heard rumors about a certain blacksmith’s daughter – a profound beauty named Karina. “It won’t last long. Not with a commoner. I’d give them two, maybe three months.”
Varr had ideas on who might be number eleven, too. “Lord Kilgore has his eye on a royal alliance.”
“Lord?” Jack repeated. “That’s…surprisingly progressive, actually.”
Varr laughed as he took his meaning. “Oh, not the lord himself. No. He’s got two sisters and four daughters. It’ll be one of them. They’re all married at the moment, but that won’t matter of course.”
“Ah.”
“Kilgore’s loans have kept the treasury afloat more than once. I reckon he figures he’s owed a little something in return. Ah, here’s our turn. Not much longer now.”
They rounded a hall – and all at once, they left the beautiful carved stone, and the exquisite workmanship. They stepped through what looked like it had once been a back door, into a squat, wattle and daub hall. Jack stopped short. “What is this place?”
“It’s the southern wing. An add-on, put up…oh, a few hundred years ago. At the beginning of King Delling’s reign.”
“An add-on?” Jack didn’t want to offend his guide, but he couldn’t keep the incredulity out of his tone. He’d stepped out of a grand palace into what looked like a shabby, poorly maintained cottage.
“Yes. It’s…well, it’s reserved for – for servants, I’m afraid.”
“A guest might take offense at being shown to the servants’ quarters,” Karag said.
“Yes. I’m sorry. I’m sure he means no offense, only – well, I suppose it’s on account of the goblins.”
Grimlik – or Grem’tha, maybe; Jack couldn’t be certain whose hiss was whose – hissed out from behind him at that.
Jack shook his head. Varr looked quite miserable, and none of this had been his idea. So he said, “It’s fine.”
“It’s bloody not,” the ranger countered.
“Lead on, Varr.”
So the captain of the guard did. Karag hunched his shoulders and walked with his head bowed as he navigated the low ceilings and tight spaces. They passed walls that looked like they hadn’t seen paint since their construction, and bare rooms furnished with nothing but cots and washbasins – and sometimes, not even that. Some rooms had no more than bedrolls stretched out on rough floorboards.
They wove their way through dark halls and past windowless rooms until at length they reached a mid-sized chamber. “This is the largest room here,” Varr said, glancing at the giant. “I believe you should be reasonably comfortable here, Lord Karag.”
Karag didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t argue either. He just stepped into the room and glanced around. His companions followed, and Varr hovered awkwardly in the entry.
The room had no furniture at all – no cots, no dressers, and no washstands. The walls had turned gray and off white with age and dirt. A thin layer of dust coated the rough floor. Jack figured he was going to have to be careful sleeping here, or else he’d wind up with splinters.
“Well,” Varr said, “I guess that’s that. Oh. One more thing. The loo’s just outside: down the hall, turn right, you’ll see a door to the great outdoors. There’s an outhouse fifty meters down the back walk.”
Jack mustered a wan thanks. He had half a mind to scope out the town and see if he could find an inn that offered better accommodations than these. The rest of his party didn’t bother with faux gratitude. They just scowled and snorted and stared dubiously at their surroundings.
Varr remained at the doorway. He was clearly embarrassed by his king’s treatment of the strangers. But aside from explaining what a guillotine was, Jack didn’t really know how to help the man. “Well…”
“Right.”
“I suppose you’ll want to head to Lady Milia’s palace soon?”
Jack nodded unenthusiastically. “I guess I have no choice. Not that I have any idea where I’m actually going.”
“Because you’re a stranger here?”
He wanted to snap, Obviously. But he contained his annoyance, repeating, “Right.”
“Well, my shift ended half an hour ago. If you need a guide, I’d be happy to take you. Of course, I can’t actually step foot on her property – her guards have orders to shoot on sight.”
Jack blinked at him. “They do?”
The other man nodded briskly. “Indeed. I offended her ladyship by ‘going on at the mouth’ too much last time I was there. Not that I blame her, mind. It’s a bad habit, and no doubt about it.”
“But you know the way?”
“I do. I can take you there, if you like?”
Here, the game gave Jack two potential responses:
That would be great. Thank you, Sir Varr.
And,
I’ll find my own way, dwarf.
Jack chose the first. As annoying as Varr’s prattle could be, he didn’t want to waste time wandering the city. Better to have a guide.
The dwarf beamed and nodded so briskly that his beard snapped up and then down. “Very good. I will let you get settled, then. When you’re ready to depart, meet me on the steps of the hall.”
Chapter Thirty
Getting settled didn’t take much. There was nothing to settle into, and no real preparations to make. Jack could have laid out his bedroll in preparation for his return, but he didn’t know how far Lady Milia’s palace might be. So he didn’t want to abandon it if he’d need it on route.
Of course, there was the matter of sleep. He hadn’t got any in quite a while. And though Varr had indicated he was off shift at the moment, this was a videogame: Jack could waste a week, and the dwarf would still be waiting on the front steps when he arrived.
So he decided to lay out his bedroll after all – temporarily, for immediate use. He’d take a nap, and then go look for this mad, former queen.
His companions, though, had other ideas. The goblins protested that they couldn’t sleep. “Not here, Jack. Not in house of dwarves. No, no sleep.”
Arath suggested they should just leave and let Delling take care of his own problems. “We’re here to save his son, and he wants to throw us into servant’s quarters? Well, to the devil with him. We don’t need to be treated like this, Jack.”
Karag tried to sleep, but he couldn’t lay end to end without bending his knees: he was longer from head to toe than the room was wide. So even he grumbled and snorted and made a racket.
Jack had been trying to sleep for a good forty-five minutes when all at once, everyone fell silent. He breathed out a sigh of relief, thinking for a blissful moment that they finally slept.
Then a voice asked, “Jack?”
And he jumped to his feet. He recognized the voice as belonging to William Xi. The enemy of his enemy. And he understood the sudden silence: William had paused the game.
He threw a hasty glance around and located the other man’s avatar at the far end
of the cramped room, standing in between the goblin siblings and Arath. “Jesus, man: you alright? Your heart rate is spiking.”
“Yeah, fine. You just…startled me, is all.”
“Ah.”
“So, uh, what can I do for you?”
William studied him for a moment, a quizzical expression on his face. Then he shrugged. “I wanted to talk to you about my theory, to reset your neural pathways.”
Shit. Jack laughed nervously. “Oh. That.”
“Yeah. You keep blowing Richard off. What’s up, Jack? You afraid it’s going to hurt?”
“I mean…a little, I guess.”
William nodded. “Well, I’ll make no bones about it: it will. But it’s the only way I can think of.
“Actually, that’s not true. There’s one other possibility, but it’s dangerous.”
“More dangerous than battering my unconscious body?”
“You’re technically not unconscious. Your consciousness is active in the avatar body. But, to answer your question, yes. Much more dangerous. Because there’s a very good possibility it could kill you.”
“Cheese whiz,” Jack snapped. At least, that’s how it came out. “Are there any solutions to this crap that don’t involve torturing or killing me?”
“No. I’m sorry. I wish I had a better answer than that. But there’s two ways to reset your brain: the obvious one is to kill your avatar. Something quick and instant, like jumping off the mountainside. If we’re lucky, your brain realizes you’re still alive, and disassociates your avatar from you.”
“And if we’re not lucky?”
“You die. The obvious one is the most dangerous, because your brain has formed an ironclad link to your avatar. Killing the avatar may reset the brain. Or your mind may register your in-game death as a real death, and shut you down accordingly.”
“Even though my body is alive.”
“Exactly. So the safer – but more painful – option is…well, basically to hurt your real body until your brain figures out that it’s the genuine article.”
