She nodded. "I think you might be right about joining a clan. And you, Max—are you with the Veterans?"
"Not really. I have a mini clan of my own. Just a pocket version, so to say. More of a family than anything else."
She stopped in her tracks, looking at me with interest. "Would it be possible for us to join it somehow? I assure you we're serious and hardworking people. We can be useful. And we aren't going to arrive empty-handed."
"You don't understand me," I shook my head. "Joining a clan isn't a formality. You will need it as protection, to help you and to speed you up. Besides, they're only two of us: Taali and myself."
A hand lay on my shoulder. "There're three of us."
I swung round, facing a serious Cryl. "There're three of us," he repeated. "I owe you. You're my only friend. Besides, I've already told the Fallen One I'd love to be present at the birth of a new era. I have no doubt whatsoever you'll make it big, man. You'll need a security force then, won't you? I'm not setting my sights on the post of its chief but I think I could make a decent operative."
"You see?" Tamara Mikhailovna smiled at me. "You're three already! With us, you'll be six. A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step. In another hundred years we'll be laughing remembering this conversation!"
I looked at them all, willing myself to say no. The poet was right: we're responsible forever for what we have tamed. "Don't you understand? Running a clan is a pain I wouldn't wish on anyone, myself included!"
The woman's wise eyes smiled. "It's the retinue that makes the king... or the general. Once you pick the right people, your problems will be limited to setting objectives for them, then controlling the results."
"Send me an invitation," the rogue demanded.
I glanced at Taali. She winked at me and shrugged.
I raised my hand, motioning everyone to calm down. I had to do some quality thinking. Actually, it was probably for the better. My being part of the tobacco alliance tied me to my nanoclan for the next five years. At the same time, I realized full well that my clan had to be strong enough to guarantee both safety and lots of other things, as I had already said many times on different occasions. As always, if you wanted something done well, you had to do it yourself.
"Very well, then," I said. "It's not as if I'm dragging you in at gun point. You can always leave the clan, and not necessarily feet first. Here're your invites."
The next moment, my clan grew twice its original size. Tamara Mikhailovna declined my invitation.
"I'd like to change my avatar first," she said, answering my surprised stare. "I want to be a Higher Elf like my girl. Make a few alterations to my age and appearance... not much, just a little," she explained, embarrassed.
I nodded my understanding. Everybody wanted to be forever young and beautiful. She didn't need to explain it to me.
As we were walking through the castle, Dan collared us, wishing to report on Taali's situation. They had been busy collecting a wealth of information. A couple more weeks, and the lowlifes would be brought to justice. They already had the gun: a semi-automatic Tiger carbine with all options and high-end sights, virtually a clone of the good old Dragunov sniper rifle. Dan insisted Taali spent the next week at the shooting range and loosed off at least a couple hundred rounds to get used to it. So starting the next day, she was to go to some gun club not far from St Petersburg and remain AFK for a while.
Everyone got busy, leaving me alone to think about my own situation. My Mom, rather. Trevor's frantic threats had left me with a bad chill in my spine. I had to do something about them. Mom had better move somewhere else—ideally, to stay under surveillance for a while. I really didn't want to go cap in hand back to the Vets. Begging never pays; besides, I didn't want to supply them with all the trump cards they might need. A potential leak couldn't be disregarded, either.
Once upstairs in my room, I dragged the armchair to a narrow window with a forest view, made myself comfortable and opened the chat menu. The saved contact of the RealService representative glowed green, indicating his online status. The spirited exchange that followed secured me an excellent apartment in a secure gated community in the suburbs. That particular pleasure cost me three hundred bucks a week: pricey but bearable, considering the current state of my wallet. I also ordered their removal van for the next morning.
After a moment's hesitation, I decided to humor my paranoia and looked up several security agencies. On average, bodyguards cost from five to thirty bucks an hour. I chose something mid-range: a retrained ex special-ops officer with a gun license. I opted for automatic contract renewal and issued a daily standing order. Now all I had to do was break the news to Mom without triggering a heart attack.
It took me a while to type the message making sure it sounded positive and optimistic. I told her of my inventing a unique recipe bound to secure our financial future. I also told her about the new friends and powerful allies I'd made. Then I complained about 'some people' never happy with their share of the pie and let her know, point blank, about her temporary change of address in order to provide her with the safety and comfort levels befitting a new clan leader and virtual millionaire. My Mom wasn't stupid, of course. She was bound to read between the lines. But at least this way it would take her some time to figure something out—a big difference from the 'Mom, your life's in danger, you've got to lie low and keep a bazooka under your bed!' scenario.
I stretched and slumped back in the chair. I wouldn't call myself a money worshipper. Still, money did help solve many problems, making one's life more comfortable. Instead of silently suffering your noisy upstairs and downstairs neighbors, you could rent or buy a proper house with a bit of land. Instead of swallowing painkillers, you could visit a good doctor. Instead of being extorted by the traffic police, you could simply call your lawyer...
Now my current affairs seemed to be under control. The next thing to do would be to see if I could get access to the Vets' clan storeroom. Time for an upgrade. Failing that, I could always check the auctions. Then I had to spend a bit of time tying some loose ends before hitting the road again: the Dead Lands, the Temple and my little baby Dragons were awaiting!
Chapter Seven
"Open, Sesame!" I whispered as I logged in to the Vets' clan storeroom database. The inventory interface was military-style plain: no bells or whistles there.
Less than five minutes ago, my inner greedy pig had been pacing his cage waiting for the Vets' decision on my storeroom access application. In it, I explained my desire to part-exchange some of the loot for gold. Dan had diplomatically backed out saying the question was out of his jurisdiction and bounced me over to Mr. Simonov. Their decision, however, was signed not by the bookkeeper but by Frag himself. Thanking me for my 'considerable contribution', the General expressed his hopes for further cooperation and made it clear that in the future, my compensation for casting the High Spell during their raids would be revised in favor of a considerable increase. In the meantime, to show their recognition of my services, they granted me full Lieutenant-level access to the storage facility that offered a considerable trade-in discount.
I suppressed a smirk. The Vets had apparently appreciated the outcome of their teaming up with the caster of High Spells enough to attempt securing me for themselves. I didn't even want to venture a guess at the amount I must have helped them make: it's not my style to count the profits in somebody else's wallet. Still, whatever the Vets thought of themselves, I wasn't sure I was happy turning into their hired lockpick. I had to learn to stand on my own two feet, cultivating myself a power strong enough to be reckoned with and not just used. But in the meantime, the Vets guaranteed me the proverbial stroke of a pen that turned my zero into a shiny tenner.