The chess board is the world, the pieces are the phenomena
of the universe, the rules of the game are what we call the laws of Nature. The player on the other side is hidden from us. We know that his play is always fair, just and patient.
But we also know, to our cost, that he never overlooks a mistake, or makes the smallest allowance for ignorance.—Thomas Henry Huxley
While Deighton began to speak in low, mysterious tones, Karl Cullinane borrowed five four-sided dice from James Michael, then slid a well-chewed pencil and a sheet of paper in front of Andy-Andy.
She picked up one of the dice. "Funny-looking little pyramid. But how do you get the numbers to come up on top?"
"You don't. Look at it a bit closer." Instead of being stamped in the center of the faces, the numbers, zero through three, were along the edges; when the die was thrown, the player would read the upright number, the one closest to the table. "But I want to keep half an ear on what Doc's saying, so we'll make this mechanical—I'll fill you in on the background later. Okay?"
"Fine. But bear with me if I'm slow."
He couldn't let that pass without turning to look her straight in the eye, letting a tight grin creep across his face. She didn't have the grace to blush.
"This campaign," Deighton intoned, his face lit demonically by the light of the flashlight in his opened briefcase, "is the Quest for the Gate Between Worlds . . . ."
"Now write this down on the paper: ST, S, I, W, MD, WP, E, and C."
" . . . find yourselves on a hilltop, overlooking a vast walled city, and—"
"Doc?" Karl half-raised a hand, then brought it down.
"Yes?" Deighton snapped.
"Sorry for interrupting, but I've got to know: How do you want me to generate her character? And what level? This sounds like a pretty heavy-duty campaign; you're not sending in an A-Class character, are you?"
"Good point." Deighton nodded a quick apology. "Try . . . three rolls for each characteristic, and set Miss Andropolous up as a C-Class whatever. If her Intelligence is high enough, try for a wizard; the company is a trifle light in that department—"
"Wait a minute!" Riccetti's head snapped up. "I—"
"—despite the great skills and talents of Aristobulus. Now, if I may proceed . . ."
Andy-Andy tilted her head close to his. "Intelligence? If he's suggesting—"
"No, he was talking about your character's intelligence. But let's roll Strength, first." He gestured at the five dice. "Go ahead."
Andy-Andy shrugged, took the dice, and rolled them gently. "Three, three, one, and two zeros—how's that?"
"Not too good; strictly average, in fact. The top possible score's fifteen. Try again; twice more, in fact. I think we can better a seven."
The next roll brought a total of five, the one after, a nine. "That's not too bad, but it's not too good; your character's barely above average Strength. Speed next. It's related to Strength; we throw out all rolls that aren't within two points of your Strength score of nine."
Her first roll was five zeros. "Doesn't count," Karl said. "Three more tries."
In the three tries, she couldn't do better than eight. "So you've got average Speed. Roll for Intelligence, now."
Her best score out of three rolls was the best score. "A full fifteen, and that's good. Means you can be a wizard—like being a magician, except for real."
"Almost."
"Right."
Deighton droned on, " . . . to the north, you see a great body of water stretching out to the horizon. It could be an inland sea, but the wind blowing across it brings no smell of salt; you suspect that it is a lake, instead . . ."
"Roll for Wisdom."
"Wisdom? What's the difference between that and Intelligence?"
"Edith Bunker."
"What?" She flinched as the others glared as though in chorus. "What?" she whispered.
"I said, 'Edith Bunker'—from All in the Family? Not too bright, but wise as all hell. Or to take a counterexample, Richard Nixon. Get it?"
"Fine."
Three rolls gave her a ten. "That's not too bad," he said. "Manual Dexterity is next."
"As opposed to electric dexterity?" She arched an eyebrow.
"As opposed to Weapon Proficiency—wizards can be dexterous as hell, but not with weapons. It comes with the territory. Roll."
" . . . beside your party is a collection of large wooden boxes. Except for weapons and personal effects, they are the only equipment you have with you . . ."
The best she could do was five. "Too bad. Guess I'm clumsy, eh?"
"And cold." He smiled. "Now, Weapon Proficiency."
Her first roll was a total of twelve. "Which is a waste of some good numbers," Karl said. "The best WP a wizard can have is five, which is what we'll give you. Now try Endurance."
" . . . you have no sure recollection of how you got to this hillside, and the only possibility that suggests itself is too incredible to be taken seriously . . ."
"Hmm, a thirteen." She lifted her head. "Which means I'm hardy as hell, right?"
"Close. One more to go."
"What's the C stand for?"
"Charisma. Roll."
Her first roll was a perfect five threes. "Which figures," he mumbled.
Andy-Andy just smiled back.
" . . . and now," Deighton straightened himself, "all that remains is for you to decide who you are, and what to do next."
"Not quite, Doc." Karl tapped Andy-Andy's sheet. "Still got to work out her spells, decide on a character."
"Quite right. Miss Andropolous, if you'll step over here, you and I can work that out. Mr. Cullinane tends to be a bit too . . . generous with spells, as I recall."
"Not fair." James Michael's voice held a decided edge. "I was there the time Karl rolled up Martin the Illusionist. Righteous rolls, all of them."
"As it may be." Deighton motioned Andy-Andy over to his side of the table. "And now, it is time for you to decide on your characters, weapons, and effects."
* * *
James Michael Finnegan held himself back from the arguments over who was going to do what. There was no question that he was going to be Ahira Bandylegs, a dwarf warrior of great Strength and Weapon Proficiency, average Intelligence, Wisdom, and Charisma, low Speed—because of the three-point penalty for his short dwarf's legs—but with an Endurance level that was just this side of magical. That was settled, for certain. On the other hand—
"Dammit, I don't want to be the cleric this time." Doria thumped her hand on the table. "Let me run a warrior, a thief, a wizard—and get to do something. One of you be the cleric."
Cullinane shook his head. "Who? The only one of us with a reasonably high-level cleric is Walter. And as I recall, his cleric's only about a D-Class—we'll be better off with Walter as a thief." Cullinane shrugged. "It makes sense to do it that way."
Slovotsky shifted position uncomfortably. "I do have a cleric character." He licked his thumb and riffled through the character sheets in front of him. "Gin. But it's Rudolph—"
"—the Incompetent," Jason Parker finished, his voice taking on a whining tone that made James Michael itch. "Forget it. A D-Class cleric in a killer campaign? C'mon, Dore—stick with what you're best at."
Riccetti sucked air in through his teeth. "Why don't we let her decide for herself? If she's tired of being a cleric, if she wants to do something else, let her."
"Thanks, Ricky." Doria smiled a promise at him.
Now that was strange. Riccetti always followed Parker's lead, but . . .
Of course. James Michael nodded. The only character of a higher class than Riccetti's Aristobulus was Doria's cleric, and Riccetti wanted to be the most advanced character in the game.
Cullinane spun around. "You want to be the cleric?"
Riccetti sneered. "And have our only wizard be a C-Class novice? Don't be silly."
James Michael sighed. If this haggling went on much longer, it would threaten to cut heavily into playing time. And that would be intolerable. "Excuse me." Five pairs of eyes fastened on him, "Ricky, it seems to me that you're being kind of . . . generous. Usually, you're the one pushing for a balanced team. At least you were, until Doria went up to K-Class."
"Yes, but . . ." Riccetti obviously couldn't think of a but.
"But nothing. The fact is that Doria of the Healing Hand is K-Class. Aristobulus is J-Class, one level lower. I'm sure, Ricky, that you'll put aside your jealousy. For the good of the group." He turned to Doria. "If you're willing to be the cleric, that is."
Suddenly, he was ashamed of himself. Not that he'd meant it that way, but Doria was taking it as a request from a cripple. And she wouldn't turn down a little feeb, would she? Please, Doria, say no. You wouldn't give in to anyone else on this. Treat me like everyone else, for once. Please?
She nodded. "I'll be the cleric—but I want to have a say in your characters. You choose mine, I get to veto yours if I don't like it. Agreed?"
"Agreed," James Michael sighed.
"Fine," Parker said. "Ricky and I were talking to Doc on the way in; he kind of agreed that it would be a good idea for Walter to run Hakim, if that's—"
"Yippee!" Walter leered at Doria. "This thief's going to steal your heart, he is." He riffled through his character sheets and selected one. "I like that greasy bastard. Please don't veto him, Doria-beautiful, please?" He clasped his hands below his chin and ducked his head.
"Okay, okay." Doria turned to Parker. "And I suppose you've decided on a character already?"
Parker shrugged. "Einar Lightfingers, I guess—Doc suggested that we might want to have a couple of thieves along. Particularly if we're going to have to steal this Gate thing."
Cullinane's head snapped back from his almost constant staring at the new girl, who was still talking with Doc in the corner of the room. "Steal it? Do we know that it's portable? I was helping Andy roll up her character; must've missed something."
"No." James Michael made it final. "We don't know what it is, where it is, or how it does what it does—although I'm willing to bet I know what it does."
"Big fat hairy deal." Walter waved it away. "Getting to it, and then doing whatever the hell we're supposed to do after we get to it—"
"—is the problem." Parker tapped a pencil against the table. "But we're getting a bit ahead of ourselves. Doria hasn't okayed me as Lightfingers, James as Ahira, or Ricky as Aristobulus—you want to veto them, Dore?"
James Michael suppressed a scowl. Cute—by lumping his and Riccetti's characters in with James Michael's Ahira, Parker was making it more than a little awkward for Doria to exercise a veto.
Doria opened her mouth, closed it again. A quick glance at James Michael, then, "No. No veto."
"Fine." Parker slid a sheet of paper in front of him and picked up his pencil. "Now, on to weapons. . . . I don't see any problem for Lightfingers: shortsword, dagger, and a few throwing darts should do it." He looked over at Riccetti. "Unless you think I can get away with armor."
"Out of character. But how about tools?"
Parker lifted his head. "Doc? Do thief's tools come under the heading of personal effects?"
"Don't worry about it. I suspect rather strongly that you'll find all that you need in the wooden boxes next to your party, on the hillside." Deighton turned back to Andrea.
"Fine." Parker glared at his back. "Just fine."
James Michael tapped Slovotsky's leg. "Do you think I could arrange to borrow Hakim's plus-three battleaxe?"
"Nope." Walter didn't bother to take the sting out of the refusal. "Hakim doesn't lend anybody anything. You want to talk buying?"
"With Hakim? What would the price be? Two or three times whatever I could come up with?"
Doria laughed. "He's got you. Probably four. James, you'd better stick with your usual stuff; the battleaxe, crossbow, and . . ." she wrinkled her forehead.
"Flail. I like to go well armed."
"Flail," she agreed. "If you think you can carry all . . ."
Everyone was silent for a moment. Damn it, why can't you forget about it for one bloody second?
Walter raised himself and stretched. "Hakim, m'friends, will be carrying a scimitar, and two braces of throwing knives."
"Be more specific, please. How many knives in a brace?" James Michael kept his words as acid as possible, but couldn't help smiling his thanks.
"Two. Always two in a brace." Walter quirked a smile at Karl. "And if you're running Barak, I assume he still turns up his nose at anything except his two-handed broadsword?"
"Yup." Cullinane sat back. "Established character trait."
"Wait a minute." Doria sounded more calculating than peeved. "I'm thinking about changing my mind and vetoing Barak."
Karl snatched his lighter from the table, stuck a cigarette in his mouth, and lit it. "Make up your mind." He snapped the lighter closed. "I've been running Barak all semester, but if you've got an objection, let me know. You think I've got another character that'll be better for the team?"
"No, but . . ."
"Doria's within her rights, Karl," James Michael said. You stupid bastard. You treat her like a piece of furniture, then get offended when she insists on a bit of attention.
"Thank you, James. But go ahead, Karl, run Barak." She smiled ingratiatingly.
James Michael tried to keep his face straight, but brought his hands up to rub at his eyes in case he failed. All the dynamics of a kindergarten. Doria's still chasing after Cullinane. He's hooked on Andrea—badly, unless I miss my guess. And to make it worse, Parker has been shooting meaningful glances Andrea's way, and Cullinane's looking as though he wishes he had a real sword to run through Parker's guts.
So Doria tries a quick I-don't-have-to-let-you-but-I-will to get some attention. All of which means—
Walter Slovotsky leaned over. "Looks to be an interesting evening, all things considered." He tapped his temple with a stubby finger that was almost the size of a hotdog. "Wal-ter may look dumb. Doesn't mean he is."
"Just what I was thinking. On both counts." James Michael raised his voice. "And since neither Aristobulus nor Doria carry weapons, I think we're all set. Except for picking a team leader, of course."
Parker sat smugly in his chair. Which wasn't totally unreasonable; he'd been doing an adequate job as team leader in the Draa Dungeon campaign, the adventure that Deighton had just terminated. But that was as a warrior, not a thief.
Walter reached out and laid a massive hand on James Michael's shoulder. "You think you're up to it, Jimmy-me-boy?"
"What?" Parker was stunned; Cullinane, Doria, and Riccetti smiled their approval in unison, as though they had rehearsed it. Even Riccetti? Hell, Ricky followed Parker around like an obedient spaniel.
"Makes sense," Riccetti said, drumming his impatience on the table with nail-bitten fingers. "Can't have a thief as team leader; nobody'll trust him farther than I could throw Walter." For Ricky, the game came first.
"Yes, but—"
"But nothing, Jase." Cullinane was enjoying this, perhaps a little too much. "James has been gaming longest here; he hasn't been team leader in quite a while. Give him a chance." His glance over toward Andrea took most of the pleasure out of hearing that. James Michael wished there hadn't been . . . superfluous reasons.
"Doria-beautiful, speak up." Walter slipped down from the table, stretching broadly. "If you're in agreement, then let's have Doc finish getting Andrea's character ready, and play." He rubbed his hands together in mock impatience.
"It's okay with me. Besides, there'll be plenty of time to argue—and fight—once we start playing." She turned to James Michael, and actually smiled as if she meant it. "You're on, Ahira."
"Fine." James Michael folded his hands in his lap. "Okay, everybody—character sheets to Doc. Start an encumbrance list."
"With what?" Parker was still chafing.
"With just your weapons and armor, so far. Once we open the boxes, you'll add to that. Doria of the Healing Hand?"
"Yes, Ahira?"
"I'll need to know your spells—that goes for you, too, Aristobulus."
Riccetti—no, Aristobulus; get into the spirit of it—nodded. "You want me to write them down for you?"
"Ahira doesn't carry sheets of paper. Orally, of course. You first."
"Okay." Riccetti closed his eyes. If James Michael could remember his spells, so could he.
Good.
"I'm carrying . . . Herstell's Spell of—"
"Just the short names."
"Make that Sleep, Lightning, Fire, Glow Temporarily, the two-way version of Charm, Injure, Preserve, Shatter Metal, and Dispel Magic. That's nine, isn't it?"
"Yes. And that's fine. Don't waste them, now." One of the rules of the game was that a wizard's spells were immediately forgotten when used. It was sort of like firing a gun; the gun could be reloaded, but a spent cartridge was gone. And it would take valuable time out of a campaign for a wizard to relearn his spells from his spell books. Often that time couldn't be spared. "Doria?"
She had to consult her notes. "I'll memorize them, Ahira . . . Here they are: Heal Minor Wounds—I've got that one three times—Make Edible—"
"Handy. Good choice." Situations could come up where there wouldn't be food at hand. But with that spell, the company could survive for a long time on anything; she could even make cafeteria food edible.
"Thanks, Ja—Ahira . . . Ah, and Warm, Glow, Heal Disease, the Gift of Tongues, Heal Serious Wounds, and—ta-da!—Locate. That last could be handy, no?"
"Very. But be careful. You'll have to know what the Gate is, roughly where it is . . . and we'll have to be reasonably close before you use it." He turned to Cullinane, smiling. "I know what your special skills are."
Karl Cullinane cracked a smile and stroked at the stubble that he no doubt thought of as a beard. "Arrgh."
"Arg, indeed. Hakim."
Walter Slovotsky bounced to attention and bowed from the waist, clasping his hands in front of him. "Thy servant, O short sahib."
"Don't waste the oil on me. You might need it later. We're going to need a thief on this quest, probably."
"Yes, O Source of All Wisdom, but what is thy point?" His look of total innocence was perhaps a bit overdone.
"It would be a shame to have to execute you for stealing from members of the party." James Michael mimed hefting an axe. "A great loss."
"As it would be to thy servant." Walter felt at his neck. "So this unworthy one shall keep thy counsels in mind."
"See that you do." This was getting better all the time. "And Lightfingers."
Visibly, Parker considered giving him a hard time, not playing along. James Michael was counting on Parker's basic desire to play to overcome his irritation at not getting to be team leader for once. For a moment, opposed desires balanced. Finally, Parker shrugged and answered in a harsh whisper. "And what do you want?"
Good. "I want you to listen very closely to me, thief.'"
"I always listen closely. To humans, at least. Not to a filthy little dwarf."
"Barak? Do you think I should have to take this?"
"No. You want me to persuade him, Ahira?"
James Michael glanced over at Deighton, who was again standing in front of his open briefcase, his hands hidden inside. One of the things James Michael liked—a lot—about Doc Deighton's gamemastering was that Doc almost always chose to do the dice-rolling himself, freeing the players from as much of the mechanics of the game as was possible. It helped to maintain the illusion, the atmosphere. "Will that be necessary, Einar Lightfingers? Barak would lop off your remaining hand if I asked him to." And Karl Cullinane would probably enjoy kicking Jason Parker out of the game by killing off Parker's character
Lightfingers/Parker sighed. "What do you want me to do?"
"Good. And it's not what I want you to do, it's what I want you not to do. Understood?" He rapped on the table. "I know your habits; we won't have any of that nonsense in this company."
Pause. "Understood."
And we're off. He gave a slight nod at Deighton.
"You have just awoken on a hillside," Deighton intoned, "a company of . . . six adventurers, seeking treasure and fame."
"Wait a minute," Aristobulus grated. "How did we get here? And I thought that there was—"
"Patience, please. Last night, you all slept in an inn, which was located in a village just south of the great walled city, D'tareth. You don't know how you got here." He stopped.
Doria picked up the hint. "Where the hell are we?"
"Yeah."
"What're we doing on this hilltop?"
"Last thing I knew, I was kicking the serving girl out of bed so I could get some sleep." That was from Slovotsky/Hakim; Ahira leaned back, closed his eyes, and smiled.
"From the top of this hill, you can see the dawn sun, rising over another walled city. It is not D'tareth; the walls of this city are of some wet-looking gray stone."
"Forget the distance—what's close up?" Ahira understood Parker's impatience, but wished that he'd contain himself. They would learn, soon enough.
"Beside you on the hillside are half a dozen large wooden boxes. They are plain, almost cubical, each side roughly the height of a dwarf."
Eyes still closed, Ahira spoke up. "Nobody touch the boxes. We don't know what's in them."
"I'll dispel any spells."
"You're not thinking, Aristobulus," Ahira shot back. "First, if it's harmless, you're wasting a spell. Second, there could be, say, a magic carpet inside. You want to turn it into a throw rug?"
"But what can we do?"
"Hakim." He voiced it as a command.
"Here, sahib."
"You want to give the boxes a try? Careful, now."
A deep chuckle. "So you want me to be the sacrificial meat? Very well. I walk over to the nearest of the boxes and run my fingertips lightly over its top surface."
Deighton: "You feel nothing unusual, although your . . ." As he paused, dice clattered. "Your suspicion is that there is a hidden catch."
"For some reason or other, I suspect that there is a hidden catch, Ahira. You want me to find it?"
Deighton: "From behind you, you hear a voice."
"Quick!" Ahira said. "Everybody, turn around. Barak, loose your sword—but don't draw it. Aristobulus, get ready to throw a spell—if anything funny happens, throw it."
"Which one?"
"Lightning." James Michael knew that the new voice would be Andrea's character, joining the group, but Ahira was a suspicious sort, who wouldn't know that, anyway. Best to be prepared.
"As you turn around, you see a young human woman, dressed in the gray robes of a user of magicks. Go ahead."
"I . . . I'm supposed to say . . ." Andrea was uncomfortable; James Michael resigned himself to having a hard time getting her into the spirit of things.
Hakim/Slovotsky's basso boomed, "Speak for yourself—are you possessed by a demon, wench?"
"Wench? Oh. No, I'm not possessed by a demon. I'm, uh, Lotana," she said, the accent firmly on the second syllable, "and," she added in a low monotone, "I'm going to get even with you for this, Karl Cullinane."
Never mind; get back into it.
"Greetings, little girl, would you like a piece of candy?"
"Barak," Ahira snapped out, "if Einar Lightfingers opens his mouth again, stick a sword through his lips."
"Delighted."
Bringing a new player—a new person into the company was always a touchy situation. Ahira didn't need Lightfingers complicating matters, not with a nov—a not terribly experienced magic user. "Lotana, we are a band of adventurers, seeking . . . something, although we don't quite know what, yet."
Deighton: "You have a vague, unexplainable feeling that what you are looking for is something called the Gate Between Worlds."
"Although we all share a vague suspicion that we're looking for the Gate Between Worlds, whatever that is. Would you like to join us?"
"Sure. Uh, what were you going to do about those boxes on the hillside?"
Doria's voice was almost a whine. "Open them, silly."
"Okay, fine, I'll open them."
"No, don't—"
"As the first box is opened, you are overwhelmed by a rush of . . ."
James Michael couldn't hear the rest; a rush of sound like the roar of an impossibly loud, impossibly near jet buffeted his ears, acrid smoke invading his nostrils until he found himself on his knees in a coughing spasm, his tearing eyes jammed shut.
He bounced to his feet on the damp grass, reflexively reaching for the axe strapped to his chest, loosening the straps with two quick jerks and taking the axe in his gnarled, well-muscled hands.
Well-muscled hands?
He opened his eyes.
He was standing on the side of a grassy hill, a dwarf with an axe in his hands.
"Ohmygod."