He did not look up at the sound of quiet footsteps, but his muscles tensed. His runesword Lifereaper's oiled length rested lightly in the scabbard, ready to leap forth at an instant's notice to deal death to anyone so foolish as to try a treacherous attack on the scourge of the Middle Country.
"Thargor? Is that you?" It was his sometime companion Pithlit, shrouded in a gray traveling robe to keep out the evening chill—and to hide his identity as well: the little bandit had dabbled too many times in the complicated politics of the Thieves' Guild, and currently was not entirely welcome in the quarter.
"Yes, it's me. Damn! What took you so long?"
"I was detained by other business—a dangerous commission." Pithlit did not sound very convincing. "But now I have come. Pray tell me our destination."
"Another ten minutes and I'd have left without you." Thargor snorted, then rose to his feet. "Let's go. And for God's sake, quit talking like that. This isn't a game any more."
"And we go to the house of the wizard Senbar-Flay?" Fredericks had not quite readjusted to normal speech.
"Damn right. He was the one who sent me into the tomb in the first place, and I want to know why." Orlando fought down his impatience. He would have preferred to jump directly to Ray's fortress, but the Middle Country simworld was rigorous about distances and travel times: unless you had a transportation spell to burn, or a magic steed, you went at RL pace. Just because he no longer wanted to slog through the game's normal complications didn't mean he could change the rules. At least his horse was the Middle Country's top-of-the-line model.
"But how can you be here at all?" Fredericks' voice had a worried edge. "You got killed. I mean, Thargor did."
"Yeah, but I decided to file a request for review after all. But Table of Judgment won't be able to find what I saw—that whole section of the game record is just gone—so the city will stay a secret."
"But if they don't find it, they'll just confirm Thargor's death." Fredericks spurred his horse forward—it had been dropping steadily behind Orlando's swifter Blackwind. "The Table will never overrule on your word alone."
"I know, scanboy. But while they're reviewing, Thargor is alive-until-proven-dead. And I can get around the Middle Country a lot faster and learn a lot more as him than if I had to start over as Wee Willie Winkle the Midget Mercenary or something."
"Oh." Fredericks thought about this for a moment. "Hey, that's major crafty, Gardino. Kind of like getting out on bail so you can prove you're innocent, like that Johnny Icepick flick."
"Kind of."
The city was quiet tonight, or at least the streets were, which was not surprising considering that it was time for end-of-semester exams in most places. Madrikhor, some journalist had once commented, was a bit like a Florida beach town: the population rose and fell with school vacations, peaking during summer, spring break, and Christmas. The New Year's Eve party in Madrikhor's King Gilathiel Square was not a great deal different from any end-of-season drunken orgy in Lauderdale, the writer had pointed out, except that in Florida fewer people had bat wings or carried battle-axes.
They rode out of the Thieves' Quarter and down the cobbled Street of Small Gods. Orlando deliberately made a wide detour around the Palace of Shadows. The PoS people were not real gamers, as far as he was concerned—they never seemed to do anything. They just hung around together and had parties, pretended to be vampires or demons, and did a lot of softsex and other things that they thought were decadent. Orlando thought they were basically pretty embarrassing. But if you wandered into their turf, you had to go through all kinds of bullshit to get out again. They had established ownership of their little piece of Madrikhor early in the history of Middle Country, and inside the Palace of Shadows—as well as in a few other private houses in the city—they made the rules and enforced them.
Fredericks had taken him to a PoS party once. Orlando had spent most of it trying not to stare at what people were doing, mostly because he knew they really wanted to be stared at and he didn't want to give them the satisfaction. He had met a fairly nice girl in a Living Dead sim—tattered shroud, pale rotting skin and deep-sunken eyes—and they had talked for a while. She had an English accent, but she lived on Gibraltar off the coast of Spain and wanted to visit America. She said she thought suicide could be an art form, which he thought was pretty stupid, but otherwise he had enjoyed talking to her, even though she had never heard of Thargor and in fact had never been anywhere in the Middle Country outside the Palace of Shadows. But nothing came of it, of course, although she acted like she would have liked to meet him again. After a couple of hours he had left and gone to The Garrote and Dirk in the Quarter to swap lies with other adventurers.
Lights were burning in the tallest tower of the Palace of Shadows as Orlando and Fredericks turned down Blind Beggar's Lane toward the river. Probably having one of their stupid initiations, he decided. He tried to remember the Living Dead girl's name—Maria? Martina?—but couldn't. He wondered if he might bump into her again sometime. Probably not unless he went back to the Palace, which effectively meant never.
Senbar-Flay's house was built on a jetty that stretched halfway out into the Silverdark River. It crouched above the murky water like a gargoyle, silent but watchful. Fredericks reined up and stared at it. It was hard to see his Pithlit-face on the dark embankment, but he didn't sound happy. "You've been here before, haven't you?"
"Once. Sort of."
"What does that mean?"
"He magicked me directly inside. He was hiring me for a job, remember?"
"So you don't know anything about his defenses? Hey, Gardiner, you may be dead, but I'm not I don't want to get Pithlit killed off for nothing."
Orlando scowled. It was hard to resist drawing Lifereaper and brandishing it, the kind of thing he normally did when someone got fluttery in the middle of a dangerous quest, but Fredericks was coming along as a favor, after all. "Look," he said as calmly as he could, "I've knocked off places that make this look like a coat closet. Just hold your water."
Fredericks scowled back. "Do you even have a plan, or are you just going to pound your way in with your thick head? Gossip around the Quarter says he's got a watch-gryphon. You can't kill one of those things with anything short of nuclear weapons. Monsieur Le Scanmaster."
Orlando grinned, his bad temper washed away by the familiar bickering and the pleasure of doing what he did best "Yeah, they're tough, but they're stupid. C'mon, Fredericks—what kind of thief are you, anyway?"
Things went smoothly enough at first. At Orlando's request Fredericks had brought along a counteragent to the poisonous flowers in the wizard's garden and the four men-at-arms dicing in the gazebo had proved no match for barbarian Thargor's athletic runesword-swinging technique. The stone walls of the wizard's tower were smooth as glass, but Orlando, who had survived the most rigorous schooling in adventure that the Middle Country could offer, always carried plenty of rope. He flung a grappling hook over the fourth floor railing and soon was standing on the balcony's mosaic floor, helping Fredericks climb over.
"Couldn't you just have asked him why he sent you to that tomb?" The thief was wheezing very convincingly. Orlando guessed that Fredericks' parents must have come through with the higher-quality implant he had coveted for his birthday.
"Oh, fenfen, Fredericks, use your brain. If this was some kind of plot to get Thargor killed, I'm sure he'd tell me."
"Why should he be in on some plot? You don't even know who Senbar-Flay is."
"I don't think I know. But even if I don't know him, that still doesn't mean anything. Thargor's pissed off a lot of people."
Fredericks, or rather Pithlit, straightened up from breath-recovering position. "Thargor's pissing me off. . . ." he began, but was interrupted by the abrupt appearance of a very large watch-gryphon.
The great beak glimmered in the moonlight; its tail lashed from side to side as it padded across the balcony, moving with the relaxed but steady tread of a cat heading toward a full supper bo
wl. "Thargor, 'ware the beast!" squeaked Fredericks, reverting to old habits under stress. Then, remembering: "It's a red one. The expensive kind. Not affected by magical weapons."
"It would be a red one," Orlando said sourly. He drew Lifereaper and dropped into a defensive crouch.
The gryphon stopped, its posture still deceptively casual—if anything about a lion-eagle mixture eight feet tall at the shoulder could be termed casual—and regarded them both with glassy, emotionless black eyes before it settled on tall Thargor as the one to be dealt with first. Orlando was disgusted: he had hoped it would at least make an initial move toward Fredericks, which would give him one clean shot at its rib cage. The creature twisted its neck to look at him sideways, since its aquiline head allowed it only very limited binocular vision. Orlando seized the opportunity and moved until he was directly in front of its beak again, then leaped forward, aiming for the throat.
The gryphon had better vision than he'd have wished, or better reflexes. It reared at his attack and swung a massive, taloned paw. Orlando dove, rolling beneath the terrible claws, took a two-handed grip on Lifereaper and jabbed as hard as he could into the beast's vitals. The sword clanked against scales and was turned aside.
"God damn!" He scrambled back under the paws again, just before the vast bulk could drop down and trap him. "The frigging thing might as well be wearing chain mail!"
"The rope!" shouted Fredericks. "Head for the rope!"
Orlando raised his sword again and began circling the gryphon. The creature's deep, rumbling growl sounded almost amused as it pivoted on its hindquarters, watching him. "No. I'm going to get inside this place."
Fredericks was jumping up and down beside the railing. "Damn it, Orlando, if you get killed again while you're on probation, you'll never get back into the game!"
"Then I guess I'd better not get killed. Now shut up and do something useful."
He flung himself to one side as the gryphon snatched at him again. The powerful claws snagged for a moment in his cloak and scored his side. Orlando was as good as anybody in the simworld at making conversation while fighting for his life, but there was a good reason he'd adopted Thargor's laconic barbarian style. Snappy repartee was for court duelists, not monster-fighters. Monsters didn't get distracted by chatter.
The red gryphon was slowly backing him toward the balcony railing, herding him with slashing nails and darting beak. Another few steps and he'd have nowhere to go.
"Orlando! The rope!"
He darted a glance over his shoulder. Escape was indeed only an arm's reach away. But if he gave up, then what? He could live without Thargor, work his way back up with another character, despite the dreadful loss of all the time he'd put in. But if he admitted defeat he might never learn anything more about the golden city. No gaming alter ego, not even one as much a part of him as Thargor, would ever haunt his dreams the way that wild vision had.
"Fredericks," he shouted. "Grab the rope and wrap it tight around the railing. Now!"
"It'll hold the way it is!"
Orlando cursed and danced back. The great red thing lunged forward another step, staying out of reach of Lifereaper. "Just do it!"
Fredericks worked frantically at the railing. Orlando swiped at the thing's eyes to distract it, but instead bounced his blade ringingly off its beak. Its head-darting counterattack almost took off his arm.
"I did it!"
"Now pull up the rest of it and throw it over the thing's neck. Right over, like I was standing on the other side waiting for it—instead of staring right up its nose." He fended off another sweep from a huge scarlet paw.
Fredericks started to protest, but instead hauled up the rope and flung it across the creature's shoulders in a loose coil. Startled, the gryphon raised its head, but the rope just snaked over the top of its mane and tumbled down onto the tiles a few yards from Thargor's left hand.
"Now do something to distract it!"
"Like what?"
"Damn it, Fredericks, tell it some knock-knock jokes! Anything!"
The thief bent and picked up a clay pot that stood near the railing, heaved it up over his head, then flung it at the gryphon. It smashed against the creature's ponderous rib cage; the gryphon hissed and darted its head to the side as though snapping at a flea. In the moment of its inattention Orlando jumped to his left and grabbed the coil of rope, then threw himself at the creature's neck just as it was turning back toward him. The beak scythed down. He sprawled onto the ground, still clutching the rope, and tumbled and crawled beneath the gryphon's neck. As he emerged from the other side the beast growled its displeasure at this irritatingly swift-moving enemy.
Before it could turn far enough to get at him, Orlando dropped Lifereaper to the tiles and sprang onto the gryphon's shoulder, grasping at the mane of blood-red bristles to pull himself up to bareback riding position. He dug his heels into its broad neck and yanked back on the rope as hard as he could, tightening it around the creature's throat.
I hope it doesn't think of rolling over on me. . . . was the last coherent thought he had for some moments.
The great worm of Morsin Keep had been long and strong and slippery, and its death-battle against Thargor had possessed the added attraction of taking place underneath three fathoms of dirty water. Even Orlando, connoisseur of the game-world, had been impressed by the realism of the experience. Given the time to reflect now, he would have been similarly awed by the excellent way the gryphon's designers had managed to foresee his own somewhat dubious strategy, and had managed to program in a quite inspiring simulation of what it must feel like to simultaneously ride and strangle two tons of supernatural fury on the hoof.
Fredericks was a shouting blur. The entire balcony was little more than a vibrating smear. The thing beneath him was both frenetic in its movements and stone-hard: he felt as though he were trying to wrestle an angry cement mixer.
Orlando leaned in as close as he could, hugging the gryphon's neck even as he held the rope tight. He was in the one place its claws and beak could not reach, but the thing was doing its best to see he wouldn't stay there long. Every jerk, every convulsive shake, almost knocked him from his perch. The gryphon's thunderous growl did not sound amused any more, but neither did it sound as though it was suffocating. Orlando wondered briefly if Red Gryphons, besides being immune to supernatural weapons, might not also breathe in some unusual way.
Just my luck. . . .
It bucked again. He realized it was only a matter of moments until its frantic struggling would dislodge him. For consistency's sake, Orlando said the prayer Thargor would have said as he took one hand off the rope and reached down to his boot, searching for his dagger. He tightened his legs around the creature's neck, wrapped his fingers more firmly around the rope, then gauged his moment and drove the knife into the gryphon's eye.
The rumbling snarl ripped upward into a screech. Orlando found himself flying through the air in a most convincing way. As he struck and rolled, the vast scarlet bulk of the gryphon toppled toward him, fountaining black blood.
"Dzang, man. Ho dzang. Utterly chizz. That was one of your best ever."
Orlando sat up. Fredericks stood next to him, his Pithlit-face wide-eyed with excitement. "Thank God I don't use regular tactors," he said, then groaned as Fredericks helped him up. "But I still wish I'd turned off the feedback. That hurt"
"But you wouldn't get credit for the kill if you did that"
Orlando sighed and looked at the gryphon. Dead, it seemed to take up even more room than before, sprawling across the tiles like an upended bus. "Frigging hell, Frederico, I got other things to worry about. I just want to get into that tower. If Thargor's gonna be declared dead, what does another notch mean?"
"Career statistics. You know, like an athlete or something."
"Jesus, you really scan. Come on."
Orlando picked Lifereaper out of the spreading puddle of dark blood, then wiped it on the corpse's hide before heading confidently toward the door at the back of t
he balcony. If there had been any more guards lurking, the commotion would surely have brought them by now.
The balcony opened onto the base of a wide stairway composed of writhing human forms. In the light from the wall sconces he could see a row of mouths opening and shutting along the banister. The murmur of their complaining voices filled the room. He would have been more impressed if he hadn't seen an advertisement for the Tortured Souls overlay in a gaming magazine a few weeks before. He curled his lip. "Typical wizard."
Fredericks nodded.
The stairs led up past several more floors, all full of snap-on wizard gear, much of it familiar and most of it fairly low-rent. Orlando decided that Senbar-Flay, whoever he was, had shot most of his allowance on the gryphon.
Shame about that, he thought. Maybe it was insured.
He didn't bother to search any of the lower rooms. Wizard-types, like cats, always opted for the highest perches, as if they had to look down on everyone else. Other than a squadron of large but somewhat sluggish guard-spiders, which Orlando easily dispersed with a few strokes from Lifereaper, they encountered no further opposition.
In the topmost part of the tower, in a great circular room with windows that overlooked Madrikhor in all directions, they found Senbar-Flay, asleep.
"He's not home," said Fredericks, half-relieved. The body was stretched out on a jet-black bier, and surrounded by something that would have looked like a glass box if it had been a bit more substantial. "Got wards around his body, too."
Orlando examined the wizard's inert sim. Senbar-Flay was as heavily robed as he had been at their first meeting, everything but his lidded eyes wrapped in metallic black fabric. He wore a goblin-skull helmet, although Orlando had real doubts the sorcerer had killed the goblin himself: the markets of Madrikhor's Merchant Row were full of such things, harvested by local adventurers and sold so they could improve their weaponry, their attributes, or buy a little extra online time. Adding a more exotic touch to the ensemble, the wizard's hands were gloved in human flesh—but, from the puckered stitching, it did not appear to be his own.