I stumbled out of bed and ordered some breakfast, then pushed open the wide mosaic-pane window and, pulling my soft chair closer, began watching the raindrops' incessant play. Water and flame, the two things that hypnotize you allowing you to relax and forget your mundane troubles—be it the monotony of the surf washing over a sandy beach or the quivering dance of a candle flame.
With a cautious knock at the door, the servant girl rolled in the breakfast trolley. Wonder why they had set her character to being so humble? Was it that their majordomo was a Victorian type who believed that domestics should fade into the woodwork and be neither seen nor heard?
I lifted the heavy silver lid and flared my nostrils in anticipation. An enormous plate of Russian salad and some saucers containing extra cream and mayo. Yes, Russian salad for breakfast, so what? The castle chambermaids could see right through me: they knew very well what breakfast choice guaranteed them a tip of a gold coin and they weren't going to overlook my weakness. No idea what NPCs would need money for but their joy at seeing gold was genuine when they stashed the coins away into their little secret pockets. Were they saving money for buying themselves out? Which was why I was on a Russian-salad diet to a degree. Even when I ordered a barbecue dinner, I was bound to find a little bowlful of the salad lurking somewhere on the tray, the servant girl's stare watchful and just a tad hopeful. I had to live up to every pretty face's expectations: the coin would disappear into the depths of their cleavage, and the salad, into the depths of my dependable digital stomach.
Having finished off the main course, I poured a hearty dose of cream and sugar into my coffee and habitually turned to my morning mail.
Two raid buffs had already sold making me a hundred grand richer. Bids for the Inferno portal had hit two hundred grand. Excellent. I also found some responses to my shield removal offers. Predictably, what the vendors wanted from me were guarantees, evidence and discounts. Among them, a letter from the Minediggers clan breathed anger and hatred. They didn't seem to worry much about the money. Their message read:
Agreed. Will close the deal via the auction through an agent. When can you remove the shield?
This was the kind of businesslike approach I liked. But in any case, before risking my own skin and anonymity, it might be worth trying to transfer the spell to a scroll. That would considerably limit my chances of blowing my incognito, at the same time removing most of the customers' questions. A scroll was exactly what it was: a scroll, no personal factors and no dirty tricks. So I decided against answering them on the spot. Instead, I opened Wiki in search for a skill that had suddenly proved to be so useful.
Glory be to the gods—calligraphy turned out to be a skill and not a profession. That saved me dozens of hours and thousands of gold I'd have had to spend in order to be able to create my own High Spell scrolls. In this case, they had used another restricting tooclass="underline" the rarity and high cost of the ingredients necessary. The skill itself you could learn for a symbolic fifty gold from the Chief Scribe of the King's Library in the City of Light. Whom I could go and see straight away.
I walked downstairs to the Portal Hall hoping to hitch a ride to the city. The guard on duty turned out to be Porthos the Wizard who sat there in a long-suffering pose, hiccupping, his stare fixed on a mana vial. On the wall over his head hung a newspaper cutout saying,
The first case of heartburn among the perma players: How long till we get toothache?
Porthos raised the eyes of a sick cow. "Where to?"
"City of Light. The City Library."
He shrugged. "Couldn't do it even if it were the red light strip. It's the basic portal to the main square. I'm not the Porters guild impersonated. Don't expect me to have five thousand exit points."
"The square is all right," I didn't want to argue. The main thing was, he didn't have any questions which meant my right of passage was still valid. Which was good news.
I transported to the city, got everything settled in under twenty minutes and teleported myself back to the castle as the proud owner of a new skill. At first I wanted to go straight to the First Temple and spend some quality me-time staging some visually impressive hazardous experiments. But then both Lena and Cryl began PM'ing me demanding to take them along so they could explore our clan's new home. Nothing prevented them from going there themselves using their Journey Home ability, but they were understandably wary of showing up there in the absence of the owner.
'Porting, grouping in, 'porting again. Home, sweet home. Inside the Temple, a Hell Hound was busy shepherding their litter. She'd all but jumped at us barking when she noticed me and cooled off.
"They're with me!" I pointed at the freshly-baked priests. Then my eye happened on a heap of scrap metal as high as I was tall. The heap gleamed purple, promising great returns once it was smelted down. Good dogs! Not only had they got hold of the moon silver: they'd retrieved it and somehow dragged it back to the Temple.
"Where's the pack's leader? Call her for me, please."
"Aww, puppies!" Lena squeaked behind me and rushed fearlessly toward the guarded nursery.
I winced, closing one eye, expecting the dog to lunge and the girl to scream, followed by the thud of a tombstone against the marble floor.
But apparently, the girl wasn't as simple as she looked. The Hound stifled a yelp, snatching back a trodden-on paw, then froze again in a Sphinx-like pose as the girl got busy cuddling the pups. Cryl and I exchanged glances, breathing a sigh of relief. What was it the Fallen One had said about her phenomenal immersion? Looked like it. At least the hounds seemed to have accepted her.
Then the Temple's reverential silence was disturbed by the screeching of metal. Claws scratched against the paving stones. I heard some familiar grumbling. A weird procession opened up to our eyes.
My good old Hound friend headed the group. I'd have recognized her anywhere after our combined stretch in the pokey. In actual fact, I think it was my new absolute memory that fixed the unique combination of the dog's features, from the shape of her scars to the pattern of her irises. Actually, I wasn't so sure any more. The idea of absolute memory had started to erode somewhat. Talking about her irises, I wasn't at all sure that I'd be able to draw an identical picture of them if you asked me to. To a degree, it sounded logical and even soothing: it meant we remained human with all our weaknesses, not some cyborg types with their memory crystals stored behind their belly armor panels.
A zombie dwarf was shuffling his feet behind her. He was pulling an improvised sledge loaded with mithril junk. The zombie didn't really look like an undead, more like a dwarf in exile who'd spent the last ten years in the mountains. A shabby cloak concealed a kit of full armor. A bandana covered signs of recent burns on his hairless skull. A beardless dwarf, now that was an oxymoron. Struggling under his heavy load, he grumbled almost voicelessly,
"According to the Haroun Convention, Article 6, Clause 4, the use of prisoner of war labor by private individuals is considered a third-degree crime and is punishable by..."
I didn't get the chance to hear the rest as one of the convoy hounds growled, driving the absent-minded lawyer forward.
The procession drew level with us and stopped, obeying a commanding bark. I gave them a friendly nod and turned to the chief bitch. "Great to see you again. It looks like the new lands are abundant with prey?"
Indeed, she seemed to have gained weight since I'd seen her last. Her once-dull armor gleamed with a mirror-like finish.