Freckles checked her bowl again and, finally convinced it was empty, sat back in her chair. She sent me an invitation to join the group, waited for the acceptance notification and announced with the intonations of the first man in space,
"Off we go!"
I had barely jumped to my feet when a micro port pulled us out of the café and onto the teleport pad opposite the mercs' Guild building.
"After you!" she motioned me into the main gates guarded by a pair of golems.
I forced the last mouthful of Elven beer down my suddenly constricted throat. I pulled the spoon—which could now be considered stolen, I suppose—out of my mouth, studied it in astonishment and hurled it aside. "Come on, then."
The VIP conference room was dripping with over-the-top luxury. Its walls were lined with tapestries depicting the mercs' exploits: the Nagafen raid, the week-long defense of the entrance to the Valley of Gold, and the storming of the Citadel of Gloom.
I sat in a comfortable leather chair. The Coordinator's powerful figure towered across the table opposite. Apparently, the corporate dress code that demanded all minor staff to wear Goblin guises didn't apply to him. Personally, I wasn't sure that a malicious snout with its finger-long fangs sticking out between black lips was a good working image to communicate to his VIP conferees. But judging by the fact that his green mug with its recognizable tattoo on one cheek kept recurring on some of the tapestries, the Coordinator hadn't always been a staff pen pusher. He must have come up through the ranks: his tough-guy appearance must have initially been generated for the battlefield, not office chitchat.
He gave ear to my request, his direct stare unsettling. Then he paused, thinking. He seemed to have made up his mind as he sat back in his chair and spoke,
"You see, dear Laith, there are several problems with your request to begin with. But let me start with a question. How are you going to hack the dome?"
That got me thinking. I really didn't want to expose my ability in front of all that crowd. At first I'd planned on using the Shadow of the Fallen One that guaranteed me some nominal anonymity. Very nominal, because even Snowie was quite capable of putting two and two together and sussing out the ability's proud owner. And I didn't want them to make me do their dirty work for them. But wait—there was a solution. Costly enough to make my inner greedy pig clutch at his heart, but a solution nonetheless.
I reached into my bag, produced my handmade scroll and laid it on the table. The orc peered at it. His nostrils twitched greedily; his hand jerked mechanically as if to grab it.
"Hm. Are you sure you want to waste a unique item like that? Why not sell it to me? I'd pay you two hundred thousand in gold. You don't really need it to deactivate the dome. Just hire an extra hundred wizards and they'll do it for you, for less money too. What do you say to that?"
Yeah, right. I'd give it to him, and then the scroll would resurface at the worst possible moment, probably under my own castle walls. Not mentioning the fact that the spell cost at least a million. The merc wizards would take at least half an hour to break through the shield. As if I had that kind of time! I probably could just about handle the guards with their 15-min respawn times, but regular players could step in, too, and they respawned instantly.
No, giving matches to children wasn't a good idea. "With your permission, I prefer to act fast and be sure. So how much do I owe you for hiring three hundred top warriors for a five-minute coup?"
With a disapproving shake of his head, the orc began talking up his prices. "The minimal hire is twenty-four hours. It would take me about two hours to gather the force you need. Five hundred each, that's a hundred and fifty thousand in total."
"That's a lot," I tut-tutted. "No wholesale discount?"
He gave me an encouraging smile, like, there would be if you wait a bit. "I haven't finished yet. As the proposed op has a more political rather than military character which may potentially affect the Guild's relationship with some of AlterWorld's top factions, a risk ratio comes into play, doubling the price. That's in case I give you my permission to proceed. Which I won't because under these conditions, the money is of less interest and can't serve as a means of payment."
"Then what will?"
He gave an indifferent shrug. "Possibly, the return service of a comparable caliber or," he pointed his eyebrows at the parchment, "a unique item of similar value."
Wasn't he cornering me, the bastard? No, Sir, I don't think so! The higher his interest in the scroll, the less I wanted to satisfy it. I just didn't happen to like shady types with unclear agendas.
Under his sour stare I put the parchment back into the bag. I felt for a Tear of a Phantom Dragon and placed it onto the table. The orc's eyes glistened. Tilting his head, he read the stats and beamed. Gingerly he picked up the stone, his sensitive fingers stroking it.
"Very well, dear Laith. The Tear is valuable. I think I know what we can do with it," his eyes stealing toward an enormous scimitar on an expensive mahogany stand. "But... I'm afraid it's not enough."
Looking into his gleaming yellow eyes, I slowly reached for the second tear. The Coordinator leaned forward, his cheek twitching. "Still not enough!"
Oh, well. Their combined value was between a hundred and two hundred grand. True, not quite enough, but considering their scarcity... Very well, Sir, take and choke on it. My Lena was probably standing up to her waist in baby Dragons' tears now...
I lay the third tear onto the table.
"Not enough."
Wasn't he a bit too greedy for a senior manager? He could use a lesson. Fuck the whole hire thing—if it failed, I'd just have to try something else. I could always turn to the Vets: I could ask them to give me Lt. Singe's men to cast the Minor Power Dome on top of the 30-sec immunity I got from the Shield of Faith. I just might make it.
Again I reached into my bag and started pulling my hand slowly out. The orc leaned forward till he lay on the table, his clawed hands twitching. Then his stare froze, uncomprehending, first on me, then on the protruding middle finger that I'd produced from the depths of my bag.
"W-what do you sug-gest?" he stuttered.
"What do you think? All finished! No more stones! And those that you have already may just have all run out, too. Some people should keep their greed on a short leash. Now. Three Tears against a proper three hundred squad, fully equipped and buffed to the teeth. Deal?"
I was about to offer him my hand but reconsidered. This dashing armchair warrior made me question his combat past. His brutal looks, his tapestries with his own image lovingly portrayed in the foreground, his scimitar on the mantelpiece... He could just be a militarized office rat—I'd seen his type in real life. They love wearing camos and cropped hair, have a house collection of a dozen knives and burn the night oil at all the relevant forums. Never mind they never did army service. Or if they did, they were on kitchen duty.
But this character didn't quite fit the mold. Too smart, the bastard. A millionaire daddy's spoiled nerd with Harvard behind his belt, casting jealous glances at pumped-up movie hulks? Could be.
In the meantime, the orc was combatting his own inner greedy pig. After a minute's thought, he scooped up the crystals and recapped,
"Three hundred sentients. Average level, one-fifty. Plus the buffs, catalog price forty grand. Combat time: ten minutes, after which the warriors are ported back and the contract is considered closed."