I had about four hours left. Theoretically. The cooldown from yesterday's High Spell would only expire one hour before midday. And I still hadn't got hold of the Reset Potion. Twice had it showed up at the auction and each time the bids exceeded my auto buy's reserve. And in any case, I still had to break into the dome shield as they wouldn't be able to restrain the Bone Dragon with ordinary chains and bars. They did say in the news that she was very weak, the question was how weak exactly. Anyway, we'd have to solve that problem when we came to it. I just hoped she was strong enough to pull her backside off the ground and stay in the air for a few miles.
Task #2: a support group. No one was going to let me deactivate the dome and steal an important dragon in full view from the city square. I didn't want to ask the Vets for help: they would take too much time to get their act together. Besides, I wasn't really prepared to shoulder another moral debt—that's not even talking about the money which I'd have to pay them anyway. It often happens in life that you end up paying more for a friend's service than what professional mercenaries would have charged you. So mercenaries it was, then. I had a few contacts and faces to turn to. I scrolled through my already-long contact list for Zena's name and PM'd her asking for an urgent appointment.
She replied instantly,
Our secretive Max, finally! It's taken you awhile! What caused you to remember the ladies you dumped in the Dead Lands? Okay, RV: Original City, The Pickled Penguin ice cream parlor. If it's something serious, you'd better make it quick. Ladies don't need much: we'll be as high as a kite after a couple of banana splits.
Scratching my head, I searched for the map I'd bought ages ago and found the café in question, then rushed down the stairway looking for the hiccupping Porthos or whoever it was on duty in the Portal Hall.
The next minute I was rubbing my bruised feet after landing on the square's flagstones: the portal had hauled me too high up. It had never happened before: either the wizard had hiccupped while casting the spell or, God forbid, my magic had begun to play up. Which wasn't a good thing considering this square was about to witness a highly publicized event. Moreover, I hoped that the viewers would get a lot more show for their bucks. How interesting could it be, really, watching twenty servants of Light disembody an apathetic dragon which would then crumble to the ground in a heap of bones? But an attack of the Dark Ones and the following mass slaughter, that would be a totally different scenario.
The place promised to be pretty crowded. Market stalls lined the square already busy with vendors laying out their wares. The city carpenters drove the last nails into the long rows of benches that semi-circled the improvised arena. I estimated the average backside's size, multiplied it by the number of benches by twenty rows and shook my head, disheartened. The organizers were looking at about three thousand spectators. Way too many.
Checking my internal compass, I trotted toward the mysterious café. I located the girls at once: you had to be blind not to notice the massive Troll hugging a bowlful of colored ice-cream scoops the size of a washtub.
"Hello, ladies!"
Zena's purple tongue demonstratively licked her spoon. She gave me a wink. "Hello you too, castle conqueror and dead dragon slayer! What brings you here? What on earth would make you remember our green-faced bunch?"
The Troll gave their leader an offended look. "Gray-faced, too!" she boomed grudgingly.
I waved my hands at them trying to extinguish the first spark of the conflict. "Don't listen to them, baby! They're just jealous. I thought more of you than I did of them put together."
"Did you really?" Bomba the Troll stared at me with suspicion.
Not wishing to aggravate my karma with petty lies, I gave her a reconciling smile. "I've got a really nice troll living in my castle, you know. He's strong and agile as a cat, and—he's quite an intellectual. True, he's an NPC but does it really matter? Fancy meeting him?"
Bomba peered into my eyes trying to work out whether I was poking fun at her. Her face blackened. She lowered her eyes. "Mind if I do? There aren't many of our kind around, actually, and those that are..." her voice trailed away. She made a helpless gesture.
Actually, I hadn't exactly meant it. I had been poking fun, to a degree. But nothing prevented me from introducing Snowie to her. Wasn't I myself drooling over Ruata the Drow Princess? If so, why couldn't Bomba meet a single responsible Troll seeking same? You never know how the years spent in the skin of a different race could affect your mentality. I could clearly see these girls had been here for quite a while. I'd have loved to hear their story one day. Their strange racial choice for perma mode made me prickle with curiosity.
An approaching waiter disrupted my musings. To his "What are you having?" Zena turned to me.
"What you mean to discuss, is it serious?"
"A contract," I nodded.
She cringed, her face resembling a pickled lemon, then instructed the waiter, "Two Isabellas for me and a bubbly."
"Eight brandies," Bomba mumbled, looking upset. "Make sure they're all different!"
The waiter marked down three more orders in the same vein, then stared at me, expectant. What kind of ice-cream parlor was that? I ventured a guess,
"A few beers, please. One light, one dark and one Elven."
Nonplussed, the waiter jotted it down and left.
Sensing the quizzical silence, I leaned forward and lowered my voice. "Now, girls. I need a group of Dark mercs for a five-minute gig at the main square. Today. In two hours."
They exchanged glances. "How many are there?"
I gave it some thought. "At least three hundred. They are going to have a big event there today. At least three thousand attendees are expected. Plus staff, guards and some rapid-response people. We need to distract all that menagerie to allow me about three minutes of absolute immunity so that no arrow or stray bolt of lightning disrupts my concentration. Which means that I will need a group or two to cast a Minor Power Dome. The rest will have to create a security ring to keep all the potential assailants at bay," I stopped as Zena shook her head. "What?"
Her tiny reassuring hand lay over mine. "Max. What you're offering is not some boss raid or a clan scuffle. We here call it 'interference in the sphere of interests of a large faction'. Your contract would bring our Guild into conflict with the City of Light and the King's administration, the Light priests and God knows who else: the guards, the King's officers, and other clans who just happen to be in the wrong place at the wrong time..."
"Doesn't the merc contract say it doesn't affect your relationship with factions?" I said.
She nodded. "Not officially, no. But in reality, there will be some bad blood left. With time, it might backfire really badly. Imagine if it was your raid we slaughtered while you were busy dishing out the loot? Nothing personal, just business as usual. Imagine for a second that they also know the name of their employer—let's call him Clan X. Imagine that? So you think you wouldn't change your opinion of those mercs? Cross your heart? Ah, you see. So what we need is the Guild Coordinator to sanction it. I can pull a few strings to make sure he sees you as soon as possible. Would you like that?"
Why was life so complicated? I had no choice, though. I nodded.
She seemed to have expected it. Her eyes glazed over, her fingers trembling as she hit the virtual keyboard wording the message to the mysterious Guild Coordinator.
The waiter arrived and began filling the table in front of each of us with a plethora of bowls containing colored scoops of ice-cream. We sat surrounded by whiffs of the aroma best described as an alcohol-delivery truck accident. Finally, he reached me. Placing a crystal thin-stalked bowl onto a lacy napkin, he commented,