"It Isn't a Game Anymore"
I do not know whether I was then a man dreaming
I was a butterfly, or whether I am now a butterfly dreaming
I am a man.—Chang-tzu
"Jason, wake up," James Michael's voice rasped.
Jason Parker shrugged the hand from his shoulders, reaching for the covers, to pull them over his head. But the covers weren't there.
"Want me to try?" The voice was Karl Cullinane's, but changed: a deep, rich baritone.
"No, we'll do it. You go back to your little friend," Doria said. "Maybe she's over her crying jag by now."
Jason pried an eye open, squinting painfully in the bright sunlight. Doria knelt on the grass next to him. But it wasn't Doria, not exactly. She was older, gaunt, the rounded features of her face having changed into the well-defined ones of a thirtyish woman. And her eyes were strange; nobody had yellow irises.
But Doria did. And that seemed . . . right, familiar.
"What the hell?" Jason jerked upright, now totally awake.
Maybe.
He was sitting on damp morning grass, wearing a musky-smelling leather jerkin and dew-damp gray woolen leggings, an ivory-hilted shortsword in its scabbard at the right side of his waist, a sheathed dagger strapped to his chest beneath his jerkin.
He reached his right hand up to his face, to slap himself awake. This had all the makings of a bad bad dream.
He missed; air brushed his cheek. Missed? He looked down at his arm. Instead of a hand on the end of his withered, age-spotted right arm, there was nothing but a naked stump, covered with brown keloid scars.
My hand . . . The world went gray.
James Michael's voice came from behind. "Take it easy, Jason. Deep breaths. But you've got to get yourself together. You're next to the last—we still can't get Arist—Ricky to wake up."
He kept his eyes closed. A massive hand gripped the back of his neck, pulling him forward. Reflexively, he retrieved his dagger with his left hand, thrust it over his shoulder—
And found his wrist caught in a bone-crushing grip. The dagger was wrenched out of his fingers, thudding on the ground beside him.
"Don't try that again."
"You just go easy on him, Ahira." There was a strength, a confidence in Doria's voice that Jason had never heard before. "It's going to be harder on him than it was on you." Gentle fingers stroked his face. "We'll just have to take this one step at a time."
"Maybe you're right, but I don't like it. Aristobulus is still—"
"Shh. One step at a time."
Jason opened his eyes. Somehow it was fitting that James Michael was a dwarf, a broad-shouldered creature with a huge, broken nose and a jutting jaw. But it was still James Michael's eyes that peered at him from beneath the heavy brows.
"You're Ahira."
"That's right." The dwarf smiled, running a hand down the front of his gapped chainmail vest. "We're here, on the other side."
"Other side?"
Ahira shrugged. "Somehow or other . . . never mind, for now. But if I'm Ahira, who are you?"
Doria glared at the dwarf, then clasped Jason's good hand in her two. She was wearing a long, high-necked robe, belted tightly around her waist. "Easy, now. Don't let him rush you."
Jason snatched his hand away and slapped at Doria's sleeve. It didn't even dent; it was like slapping a brick wall. "It works." In the game, Doria of the Healing Hand had a robe like that, a magical one.
She smiled reassuringly and waved her arm, the tightly woven cloth flapping. "It's just like in the game. Feels like a cotton robe from the inside, but from the outside it's like armor. Just like in the game." Her face sobered. "And all of us, we're our characters. Sort of."
"Which means that I'm Lightfingers." A small leather pouch dangled by a thong from her sash. He let his head loll forward as though he were fainting again, slipped his hand across her body while his head movement distracted her, and fingered open the pouch without disturbing the strap that attached it to her belt. He clipped two gnarled fingers in, lifted and palmed a coin, closed the pouch with a gentle tug, and tucked the coin into a pocket inside his sleeve with a practiced flip.
Elapsed time less than three seconds. It felt natural, as though he'd done it thousands of times before. But I've never stolen anything. It's—
"A nice try, Jason." Ahira shook his head. "But I was watching for it. Give it back."
"Watching for what?" Doria's brow furrowed in exasperation. Now that was strange; she always deferred to the little cripple.
Oh. He isn't little anymore. Or crippled. Just short. The snotty bastard must be having the time of his life.
"He just picked your purse." The dwarf chuckled. "Give it back. Now."
"I don't know what you're talking about—and who are you to be giving orders, anyway?" He braced himself on his stump and slid his feet under him. It was the practiced routine of a thief when caught: First deny, then challenge, then run.
Ahira grabbed his sleeve and shook the coin out. Picking it up, he handed it to Doria. "Don't worry; I'm not going to give him a hard time. This once." He turned back to Jason. "But we're in enough trouble as it is; I don't want you adding to it. Understood, Lightfingers?"
"My name is Jason." But the name felt strange in his mouth. "And I want to go home."
The dwarf helped him to his feet. Standing, Ahira's head barely came up to his chest. Ahira picked up his battleaxe from the damp grass and tapped a well-chewed thumbnail against the blade. "Two things. In answer to your question, this says that I'm in charge here. Back home, the group chose me as team leader. That's the way it is; that's the way it's going to be.
"And second, we are going home." Ahira opened his mouth; shut it. He shook his head. "Just take it easy for a while, get your bearings. Doria, let's go see to the wizard."
* * *
Karl Cullinane had often thought of holding Andy-Andy in his arms, but nowhere in his imaginings had she been crying. "Everything will be fine." He patted her clumsily on the back.
But these weren't his arms, this wasn't his body. Not quite. Karl was of average height, and skinny. Was. Now, he towered over her as he held her, careful not to squeeze her tightly; somehow, he knew that his grip could break a strong man's back.
After a while, her weeping died down. He let her go, then took a loose sleeve of her gray robe and wiped at her eyes. "Feeling better?"
"N-no. I'm scared. What happened?" She rubbed at her temples. "I . . . feel so strange—how do I know that I could turn invisible, or make you fall asleep, or charm—it's like there's something in my head, trying to get out."
Her mouth started to move; he clapped a hand over it. "Don't. Just listen to me, but don't say anything." Her eyes grew wide; she brought up her hands, vaguely pulling at his arm. "No. Nod if you understand me, and I'll take my hand away."
Her head moved; he let his hand drop. "Don't do that again," she said, planting a palm against his chest, shoving.
He could have laughed, almost. But he took a step back. "Okay, but be careful what you say. You've got three spells in your head, and they're trying to get out."
"How do you know?"
He shrugged. I don't know. But I do. "It's . . . like I've got two minds. One is Barak; the other is me." That a wizard had to constantly rein in spells was something Barak would know. It had to be: Karl hadn't known it; it wasn't part of the game. He stooped slowly, and lifted his scabbarded sword from the grass. "Barak knows how to use this, not me." The sword was long, almost three-fifths his height. Without drawing it from its scabbard, he knew that it was single-edged like a Japanese katana, but straight, not curved; primarily a slashing weapon, it still could be used to thrust. "And why not to strap it to anything; it'd take too long to draw it." He gripped the cord-wound handle with his left hand almost at the pommel. To draw the sword, he would slip the scabbard away, add his right hand in its place on the grip, and strike. That was one of the rules: Get your sword into play, and worry about picking up the scabbard later.
It was important to keep the blade clean and dry; an image of his hands—his hands—cleaning the blade with a dead enemy's hair welled up, unbidden.
"But what happened?" She gestured at her robes, at him, at the boxes on the hillside. "We're in the place that Dr. Deighton described. Look."
He looked to the east. The early-morning sun sat over the far walls of the city below. Karl raised his hand to his forehead to shield his eyes. The walls were solid and wide; a few bowmen stood on the pathways girdling them. People, and horses drawing two-wheeled carts, swarmed in and out of the gate.
To the north, a vast expanse of dark water spread across the horizon, waves rippling in toward a rocky shore. Off in the distance a broad-beamed schooner glided slowly in toward the docks.
But there was more than Deighton had described; he hadn't mentioned the fishing village to the north, and Karl hadn't visualized it.
How did he know that it was a fishing village?
It was too complicated, too strange. He shook his head. "You're right. I don't know how, but somehow we're here." He stretched his arms, letting his shoulders strain against the seams of his leather jerkin, and drew in a deep breath. It was clean air, fresh and sweet with a tang of ozone; this world had never known the stink of the internal combustion engine. "But doesn't it feel fine?"
"For you." She was nearing tears again. "But how do I get home?"
"I don't know. And I didn't mean it that way—not that I wanted to stay here forever." It was one thing to play at being a warrior, but a fuzzy memory of his sword opening someone's belly like an overripe fruit . . . that didn't feel right, not to Karl Cullinane. But I'm not just Karl, not anymore. There's a lot of Barak in me, now. Then again, maybe that's not all bad. He and Andy-Andy used to be close to the same height, although when she wore heels she'd look down at him. Now he towered over her by a foot, or more. When he stood close to her, she had to crane her neck to look up at him. She wasn't changed, though, at least on the outside, except for the loose robes that had replaced her jeans and shirt.
And the fear in her eyes. That was new. "Karl, how are we going to—"
"I don't know." He shook his head. "But someh—"
"This a private conversation, or can anyone join?" Walter Slovotsky's voice boomed from behind him.
Karl spun around. He hadn't heard the big man—no, not big anymore; I'm half a head taller than he is. "Don't do that."
"Don't do what?" Slovotsky smiled innocently. Except for Andy-Andy, he was the least changed of the group, at least physically. His skin had darkened a shade or two, his black hair was slightly straighter and a bit longer, and there were hints of epicanthic folds around his eyes, but that was all. Even his all-is-right-with-the-world smile was intact.
"Don't sneak up on me. I don't like it."
Slovotsky shrugged, muscles playing under the bare skin of his chest. He was dressed as Hakim would be: shirtless, a blousy pair of pants belted tightly to his waist, the cuffs tucked into the lacing of his sandals. From the left side of his waist, a wickedly curved scimitar hung in a leather scabbard; from the right, a tangle of knives and straps. Slovotsky rubbed at his temples. "I guess I should apologize, or something. It's just that moving silently seems to come naturally to me. It's sort of like a new toy, Karl. Or should I call you Barak?"
"Karl." He forced a smile. "Barak would give you a clout on the head as a reminder."
"Good point. You had better call me Walter. Hakim would slip a knife between your ribs, for—" He stopped, puzzled, raising a palm. "Sorry. That wasn't me."
"I understand." Karl unclenched his hand from the hilt of his sword. "But the question is—"
"What the hell are we going to do?" There was a new strength in Andy-Andy's voice. Just a little.
Karl gave her a smile. "Right." She was adjusting. A few minutes before, she would have put the emphasis on do instead of hell.
"In theory, it's simple," Slovotsky said.
"Nonsense." She waved a hand at their surroundings. "Simple?"
"Everything's simple, actually." He held up a well-manicured finger. "First, you figure out what you want."
Karl didn't like the way Slovotsky's eyes roamed up and down her as he said that, but he let it pass.
"Second, you figure out what you have to do to get it." Another finger. "And three" —he added a third, tapping all three fingers against his other hand— "you do it. That's the way life works." He jerked a thumb toward the city below. "Somehow or other, we're in the world that Doc described, no?"
"Yes, but—"
"But nothing, Karl. That has to be our operating assumption, until and unless we find out differently. Which is unlikely. I mean, I've got skills I never had, Doria's got cleric spells trying to bust their way out of her head, you're a full foot taller than you should be, James is—"
"I get the point. But what does that do for us?"
"Simple, again. The name of the campaign Doc designed is, if you'll remember, the Quest for the Gate Between Worlds. How we got here, I don't know. But if we want to get back, then obviously we've got to find this Gate thing." He pointed at the six wooden boxes, just over fifty yards away. One of the boxes stood open and empty; the other five, smooth, dark, and seamless, closed. "I'm willing to bet that there's something inside that'll give us a clue. Or more than a clue."
Hushed voices whispered behind the cluster of boxes.
"They haven't woken Riccetti yet?"
"They're trying. Jimmy—make that Ahira; he likes it better—Ahira thinks that we should have a fully conscious wizard on hand before we try to open any of the rest. And no offense, Lotana—"
"Andrea."
"Andrea, then—no offense, but the way you fell apart, I wouldn't want to count on you to sniff out any spells on them. You think you could spot a Glyph of Shrouding?"
"I don't know what you're talking about—wait." Her hands flew to her temples, her fingers digging into her scalp. "It's strange. I know things that I don't know, if you understand what I mean."
Karl laid a gentle hand on her arm. "We all do."
She grabbed his hand, squeezing it with white-knuckled fingers. "A glyph is like a magical charm, usually placed on a doorway or entrance. It can hurt anybody trying to get past it, unless it's tuned to leave them alone, or unless they break its spell," she said, her voice calm and businesslike. "Like the ones on the city." She jerked her hand toward the walled city, below. "Right?"
"What ones?" Karl and Walter said in unison.
She chuckled. "C'mon, don't play games with me—I don't need that."
Karl sighed and looked back toward the city. Just a walled city, no writing on it. "You see anything, Walter?"
"No." Slovotsky raised an eyebrow. "And that was a part of the game I always had trouble swallowing."
Karl nodded. "Me, too." He shrugged. "Well, another—"
"If you don't mind, I'd like to know what you're talking about. Please?"
"We can't see magical writing," he said. "To Walter and me, that's just a wall."
"Don't be silly, it's plain as . . ." She turned back. "Really?"
"Really. As Deighton said, unless you've got the genes for wizardry, all magical writing is transparent to you. What does it say?"
"I can see it, not read it. Besides, it isn't something that can be pronounced, but it would fry Aristobulus or me to a crisp if we got inside the city." She wrinkled her forehead. "Wait a minute. How did I—"
"Comes with the territory," Slovotsky said. "Looks like wizards aren't too popular there; probably cost the locals quite a bit to hire one to do the work." He smiled. "But it looks like there's a pony in the bottom of this shitbucket; want to check out the boxes for glyphs?"
Karl frowned. "I thought you said Ahira wanted to wait."
"I'll check it out with him, first. But" —he clapped a hand to Andy-Andy's shoulder—" it looks like you've got what it takes."
Karl suppressed an urge to knock Slovotsky's hand away from her. "Why don't you go clear it with him, then?"
"Which was something else I wanted to talk to you about. You got any objection to him being in charge? Somebody's got to do it." Slovotsky's face was studiously blank.
Karl thought about it for a moment. In the game, he'd always enjoyed his occasional chances to be the team leader. But this is for real. I may be good at the game, but this is for real. "No. No objection. As long as there're no PMDs, or anything like that."
"PMD?" Andrea asked. "What's that?"
Slovotsky grinned broadly. "Stands for Polish Mine Detector." He covered his ears with both hands and mimed stomping fearfully on the ground. "Boom. Seriously, it's a technique for checking for traps. You send the lowest-class character on ahead. If there's no trap, there's no harm. And if there is, then you bring the player back into the game with a new character. It's kind of hard on the old character, but—"
She looked up at him. "You mean that it kills him. Or her."
"Right, but—"
"But we won't have any of that," Karl said. "Not as long as I'm around."
"I can speak for myself, Karl." She scowled at both of them. "And I'm not going to let myself be a guinea pig."
"Understood, Andrea." Slovotsky nodded and walked away.
"Karl, he seems so . . . sure of himself."
"That's Walter. Possibly Hakim, too." Which was one of the things he'd always envied about Slovotsky. Always so sure of himself, no matter what. And so comfortable around women.
Karl shook his head. Even around Andy-Andy he felt awkward, gawky. And she was a friend.
"What are you thinking?"
He returned her smile with interest. "Nothing much." This was ridiculous. Here he was, God knew where, more scared than he cared to admit, even to himself. And thinking about how good it had felt to hold her. "And you wouldn't believe it, anyway."
"Bets?"
* * *
"Well, what's the diagnosis?" Ahira asked.
"I think he's in shock." Kneeling over the limp form of Aristobulus, Doria looked up at him. "Shallow breathing, thready pulse." Her fingers dipped into the wizard's short gray hair. "And I think he might have hit his head on one of the boxes; there's a lump here." She bent over, examining his head more closely. "Although the skin isn't broken. Do you think there might be a blanket or two in one of these boxes? We should keep him warm."
"No."
"What do you mean, no? He could die."
Ahira repressed a smile; she wouldn't have understood. But that felt good; Doria would never have contradicted James Michael Finnegan, would never, ever have argued with a little cripple.
But I'm not a cripple anymore. He bounced on the balls of his feet, reveling in how good, how natural it felt. I'm Ahira Bandylegs, and I'm strong. Better than normal. "No, he won't die. Try your Healing spell, the one for minor wounds. I think this should count as a minor wound."
"But, James—"
"But nothing. You're a cleric, a healer. You've been complaining about spells buzzing around your head. Here's your chance to get rid of one. You'll have to pray for it, to get it back—but we'll have plenty of time for that later."
Her face paled. "I—I don't know if—"
"I trust you, Doria of the Healing Hand. And so would Aristobulus. Do it. Now."
She nodded a reluctant agreement, and planted spread-fingered hands on the old man's chest. The polish was gone from her nails, just as the fear of him was gone from her manner. Perhaps, somewhere inside, Doria Perlstein was confused, frightened. But not the cleric.
"Easy," he whispered. "It's going to be easy. You've done this a thousand times."
Slowly, her eyes sagged shut, as her weight bore down on her arms, on Aristobulus' chest. The old man looked to be in bad shape; his skin was ashen, his breathing barely perceptible.
Strange, liquid syllables issued from her barely parted lips, starting slowly, then becoming a torrent. Ahira could hear the words distinctly, tried to memorize them.
But he couldn't. Not a phrase, not a word, not a syllable. They vanished from his mind like a snowflake melting on a palm.
The volley of sound flowed into Aristobulus, his breathing becoming deeper, a tinge of pink replacing the fishbelly pallor of his face. The fingers of an outflung arm twitched, then curled, as his eyes snapped open.
Aristobulus sucked in air with a desperate gasp, and a stream of sound issued from his mouth, obscenely guttural and harsh.
And like a striking snake, a bolt of lightning crackled from the tips of his fingers, shattering the nearest of the boxes into a thousand charred, smoking pieces.
"You idiot!" Ahira reached out, grabbed the wizard's throat, setting broad thumbs against his windpipe.
"Stop it! Stop it!" Doria's fists beat a rapid tattoo on his back.
Reluctantly, Ahira released Aristobulus, bouncing the old man's head against the grass.
The wizard's eyes were wide. "You told me, have the spell ready—you told me, Ahira." He rubbed at his head. "Ahira? Or are you James . . . ?" He bit his lip.
Ahira spat in disgust and stood. "Take care of him, Doria. Just get him out of my sight." He raised his voice. "Barak, Hakim, Lightfingers, Lotana—get over here. Let's see if there's anything we can salvage out of this . . . mess."
"I . . . don't understand," the wizard whined. He began to cry, to weep like a frightened child.
* * *
After more than half an hour on their hands and knees, sorting through charred pieces of bone and horn, smashed vessels of glass and clay, Ahira called a halt.
"Anybody find anything salvageable?"
Barak shook his head, rubbing a sooty finger against a smudge on his nose, which only made it worse. "No, whatever was in here is gone." He lifted a jagged scrap of horn and scraped a clean spot with a thumbnail. "What do you think this was?"
Hakim shrugged. "A Joshua's Horn?"
Lightfingers swore softly under his breath. "And unless I miss my guess, these scraps of leather and parchment were spell books. Were. Unless there are duplicates in one of the others, we can kiss Lot—Andrea's and Ari's relearning their spells goodbye." He pitched a shard at the wizard. "You stupid little shit."
This couldn't go on. Ahira agreed with Lightfingers—emphatically—but what was done was done. The problem was what to do now. He wasn't sure that he knew.
Never mind. The leader has to seem to know what he's doing. At least. "Shut up, Lightfingers. We go on from here. Lotana?"
"Andrea," she said, with a friendly nod. Good—at least somebody was on his side. "Yes, Ahira?"
"Do you think that you can check out the rest of the boxes for magic? Without touching them, I mean."
Hakim held up a hand. "I'd better check for mechanical traps."
"Fine. You two do that. And if it seems safe, have Barak open them."
Barak nodded slowly. "You don't think there's any trap."
No, I don't. But if there is, you're probably the most expendable. Without the spell books, we can't afford to risk either of the wizards. And we've only got one cleric, and one two-handed thief. "I'm certain of it. I think that what's in the boxes is our supplies, or what's left of them. But be careful, anyway." He beckoned to Lightfingers. "Come here for a moment."
"What do you want?" the thief asked, walking over, stopping a few feet away.
Just about half a foot farther away than I could swing my axe. Which was good; at least it showed caution, if not respect. "We're going to need somebody to scout around, check out the city down there. The wizards are out, what with the glyphs Andrea sees on the walls. And I don't think Barak or I tend to be subtle enough. You think you're up to it? Jason," he added, deliberately. Not a whole lot was clear to Ahira, not yet. But one thing he was certain of was that he wanted to encourage the other's Jason-part, not the Lightfingers persona.
Lightfingers stood silently for a moment, rubbing his stump against the point of his jaw. "Yes." He stopped himself in mid-nod. "You do want me to pick up more than information, of course."
"No. Just find out whatever you can. We're going to have to find this Gate thing. Whatever and wherever it is. Which means, among other things, that we'll have to find out where we are. And, Jason, you're too valuable to lose. Don't pick any pockets; don't try any swindles. We've got quite a few coins in our pouches; we need information a lot more than money."
"Yes?" Lightfingers tilted his head to one side. "And how much is one gold piece worth, here? It could buy half a town, if gold is scarce. But if not . . ."
"Then maybe we couldn't buy half a sandwich. If they have sandwiches here. Good point."
"It is, isn't it?" Lightfingers' hand came to rest on the hilt of his shortsword, perhaps accidentally.
But perhaps not. Ahira pretended not to notice. "You know, maybe I made a mistake. Declaring myself in charge, that is. You've always been a bit sharper than me. Maybe—"
"Don't be silly. You think Slovotsky or Cullinane and his little friend would follow me? A one-armed thief?"
The dwarf took a slow step forward and laid a hand on Lightfingers' arm. "Perhaps no. But if I am going to be in charge, I'll need your full support. Or I won't be able to do it. If you want—"
Lightfingers cut him off with a full-throated laugh. "James Michael, you little bastard. You're damn good at manipulating people, aren't you?" His smile was almost friendly.
Ahira shrugged. "You have to learn a lot of things when you spend your whole life in a wheelchair. Lots of things you can't do for yourself; you have to get other people to do them for you. In your case," he said, smiling, "all the technique in the world isn't going to do any good, is it?"
"Maybe, maybe not. For the time being, I'll follow your lead." He jerked a thumb at the city below. "You want me to leave now?"
Ahira hadn't thought about it. In the game, daytime was safer than night. But a thief was at his best in the dark. "Hmmm. How far away would you say that the city is?"
"Five miles, or close to it. You want another opinion?"
"No, I'm sure you're right." That sounded phony, even in his own ears. But the point, that he was going to trust Lightfingers, had gotten across; Lightfingers was smiling. "What do you think the chances are that they lock up the city at sundown?"
"If they don't, I'd be surprised. Why build a wall around a city if you don't lock up?"
"Right. So, time it so you get there just about an hour before sundown. Plan to spend the night inside. Find out whatever you can, then get back up here, first thing in the morning. Understood?"
"Fine." The thief nodded. "Which means—figure it'll take two hours to get down there—that I ought to leave, say, about three hours after noon. Sounds good?"
Noon was still a while off; the sun was at about a forty-five-degree angle. "Right. So get Hakim. We'll see if there're any blankets in those boxes. You two duck into the woods and get some sleep." It would be best for them to stay awake all night. In preindustrial cities, the night was a time of danger, when the only safe place to sleep would be behind locked, barred doors.
"Hakim?" Lightfingers glared down at him. "What do you mean?"
"He's going along." I may have to trust you a bit, Jason, but I'm not going to go overboard about it. "Two is better than one. Besides, I want you to keep an eye on him."
A snicker. "Don't play games with me. It's me that—"
"Ahira, Lightfingers—we found something." Andrea jumped up from in front of a now-open box, waving a sheaf of paper. "It's a letter. From Dr. Deighton."