Epic (21 page)

“They certainly do not, but they have driven me to such radical ideas by their policies. For the sake of sustaining the principle of nonviolence, is it worth lying in the dirt with your oppressor’s knee upon your neck?”

“Are we oppressed?” B.E. could not restrain a slight scoffing tone to his voice.

“Maybe oppressed is too strong a word,” Erik intervened earnestly. “But look at all the messages for help we have been sent since we killed the dragon. I don’t know about you, but I’ve had over seven hundred. And some of them are really pitiful. People living in pain, unnecessarily it seems to me.”

“I don’t read ’em.” B.E. shrugged away the point.

“Perhaps you are not oppressed anymore. You are a wealthy man now. But think about the hard work that the vast majority of people are performing, so that a few can live in luxury and devote their energy not to solving the problem of our limited resources, but to working out how to stay in control. And I might add”—Anonemuss’s tone grew sharper—“that until you have had a taste of exile, you have no realization what hard work and hunger means. If you think that they give the districts very little, then you can imagine what they send to Roftig. Rusty, useless tools. Poor-quality seeds. It is a wonder we do not all starve.”

“Fair enough,” replied B.E., and it almost amused Erik that his friend clearly did not care too much about the world’s injustices. They were so different in that regard. “But do you not think that we can challenge them through Epic, the way we are supposed to resolve matters?”

“Until I met Erik and Harald, I did not believe it to be possible. But the five of us, perhaps we can form an unbeatable team. Then I wonder what will happen. Will our opponents go so far as to act against our real personalities?”

“What? You mean physically deprive us of the means of playing?” asked Injeborg.

“That, or worse.”

“Murder?” B.E. laughed derisively.

“You underestimate their willingness to cling to power. You forget that they see themselves as the protectors of the greater good. And that mysterious Holy Grail justifies all actions they might take. People who live by dogmatic ideals are extremely dangerous.” Anonemuss chuckled sinisterly.

“Yeah, well . . .” With as much interest in philosophy as in the condition of the world’s poor, B.E. changed the subject. “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. Let’s talk about tactics.”

“My sentiments exactly.” For the first time in the conversation, Anonemuss sounded as though he had warmed to the young warrior. “I must say, Erik, your young friend has a remarkable talent for cunning and forward thinking.”

“He’s not the only one,” murmured Injeborg. “It was Erik who discovered the way to kill the dragon.”

“That does not surprise me.”

“Enough.” Erik intervened. “You’ll embarrass me. Let’s go over the plan again.”

Chapter 18

A NEW CAUSE FOR CONCERN

The nine members
of the committee were gathered in the great chamber of Mikelgard Tower. A wintry sky of heavy cloud with streaks of orange drifted above them. It was sufficiently dark that the lanterns of the room had been lit, flickering with oily flame. For the moment, all was quiet, apart from the rustle of paper, as they read the latest
New Leviathan
newsletter.

“Comments?” invited Hleid.

“They are impotent,” Godmund said simply, and graced the committee with one of his very rare smiles. “Svein did well.”

“What I find interesting,” Wolf mused aloud, lounging in his chair, ponytail hanging over the back of it, “is that there clearly is no connection between the writers of this scandal sheet and the Osterfjord Players.”

“Or at least they want us to think that.” Ragnok sounded surly.

“No. That seems too complex. I do not think that the
New Leviathan
would publicly revile them if it really thought that they would champion change.” Godmund interlocked his wrinkled fingers and, stretching them against each other, released a sharp cracking sound. “Is there anything else, or can we enjoy a rare afternoon at our own pursuits?”

“Unfortunately, yes.” Svein passed around the documents that had been handed to him shortly before the committee meeting. “This has been posted about two hours ago in every Newhaven tavern and in every library in our system.”

“Odd.” With his good humor gone in an instant, Godmund returned to his more characteristically sharp tone of voice. “What do you make of it, Svein?”

“I think that he must have found something in the dragon hoard that leads him on.” Svein strove to keep his tone absolutely neutral, and not let slip any indication of his interest and his fears about the matter. It could be that the young man was working towards solving the Epicus Ultima and had an important lead.

“It is not out of keeping with someone who wants to be a librarian to show an interest in such apparently irrelevant subjects.” Halfdan gave a mocking smile as he caught Svein’s eye.

“Perhaps not, but I do not like it. This is without precedent, to appeal to the world for participants in this way. And what is new is dangerous. Epic is a strange game with great depths, more than perhaps we realize. It is not good to tamper with it. We have a system that works, and while it could well be that this voyage will turn out to be harmless, it must be considered a potential source of danger.” It was clear from his tone that Godmund was anxious once more.

“So, what are you suggesting?” Curiously, as Godmund had become weighted down with concern, Ragnok had lightened, to look now distinctly lively.

“I have a thought,” offered Bekka, peering at them from under her fringe of gray hair.

“Go ahead.” Hleid waved at her impatiently.

“Why doesn’t Svein Redbeard volunteer for the voyage? That way he can keep us up to date as to its purpose.”

“Good idea,” Thorkell nodded.

“So, a proposal. All those in favor? Everyone. So be it.” Hleid looked over to Svein. “Is that agreeable to you?”

“You bet it is!” Halfdan was scoffing, his lips a thin sneer in the vastness of his face. “More clues for his Epicus Ultima.”

“I agree to keep an eye on the developments arising from this voyage and to keep the committee informed.” Svein was unprovoked by Halfdan’s attempts to mock him. After all, the decision they had spontaneously reached accorded completely with his own desires; his concern before the meeting had been that the committee might have disagreed with his joining the expedition. When no one else was watching, Svein gave Halfdan a wink, happy to see him scowl in response.

“I have another proposal.” Ragnok raised his head.

“Yes? Go ahead.” Hleid looked at him through her large glasses.

“We put the Executioner aboard, just in case.”

This suggestion caused a few mutterings of concern.

“Let us take a speech for and against,” Hleid suggested. “Ragnok, you first.”

“Well it’s self-evident, isn’t it?” He sat up a little straighter to address them. “Anything could happen, and just suppose it is a quest for some powerful item. We do not want it to fall into the wrong hands.”

“Against?”

“The Executioner could be revealed by having to spend time confined aboard a ship, with no escape if matters get nasty.” Thorkell’s pale forehead shone in the lamplight, making it seem as though he was sweating with fear or rage, although his voice was matter of fact.

“If matters get nasty, we kill them all.” Ragnok shrugged.

“Any more comments?” Hleid asked. “Then the vote. Those for Ragnok’s proposal? Ragnok, Halfdan, myself, Brynhild, Godmund. That’s a majority—it is agreed.”

“I shall go aboard invisible,” Ragnok added hurriedly, and it was obvious that he was eager to assume the responsibility for the management of the Executioner.

Looking around the table over her glasses, Hleid saw no objections, even though any of them could have taken up the task equally well.

“Very well. That concludes the business for today.”

Chapter 19

A MOTLEY CREW

The Newhaven quayside
was busier than for a festival day; excited crowds of both gray players and colorful game characters were gathering to witness the start of the much-talked-about voyage of Cindella the Dragonslayer. Fortune tellers had set up tents from which there exuded the scents of strange oils and the prickle of magic; vendors of food who had come early to secure advantageous places were briskly selling grilled rabbit and fish; and throughout the crowds, street urchins, with their more accomplished masters, were practicing the ancient art of pick-purse.

A select group of people walked aboard the
White Falcon
, unwelcome visitors kept at bay by a ghostly white dog, as large as a man, standing intelligently alert at the head of the gangplank. Beside it, Injeborg’s witch stood proudly, gazing out over the busy quays, a hand on the head of her new canine guardian.

“It is beautiful, daughter, wonderful really. I am sure that she will be faster than the
Black Falcon
.” Old Captain Sharky was touring the vessel with Cindella and B.E. Her Ring of True Seeing pulsed its pale blue-green light around them; it allowed Erik to see a golden glow inside the character that indicated a more-than-usual presence of the Avatar in his frame. But it was far from the full shocking presence that had talked to Cindella in the jeweler’s shop.

They carefully checked every room of the ship, no matter how small, to make sure that she was secure from stowaways. Not once did the ring reveal anything out of the ordinary.

Erik’s father and Anonemuss were already on board, keeping well out of sight belowdecks. Erik’s reunion with Harald’s character had been heart-warming, but necessarily brief.

“Tide is nearly in,” observed Sharky.

“Very well, let us get our crew.” It was obvious that B.E. was looking forward to being in the public eye, and not surprisingly, for Erik had to admit that his friend looked magnificent. Apart from the ruby necklace and rune carved rings that shouted of magic, B.E. wore a swirling cloak of phoenix feathers, whose color constantly changed in the light, undulating through scarlet and gold to purple and mauve. Beneath the cloak glittered a delicate chain mail tunic, whose metal was clearly hammered out on no ordinary forge, for it too gave off a faint light. At his hips, sheathed in scabbards, were two matched blades, whose elven names translated as Thunder and Lightning.

As they came to the gangplank, Injeborg, herself transformed by the purchase of powerful magic items, handed Cindella a bag. Cindella looked inside and took out a glass sphere, about half the size of her fist, inside which a milk-white cloud swirled—and was that a tantalizing glimpse of a minute statue within the mist?