Mark holds his shield out to me with a smile that already assumes I'm taking it. I smile back, which is annoying because I haven't actually agreed yet, and now refusing would mean changing my expression as well as saying something. He'd probably ask what was wrong. I'd have to explain that nothing was wrong, exactly, I just didn't particularly want another piece of his equipment hanging off me, and somehow that sounds worse in my head than simply carrying the fucking thing.
It isn't even his main shield. That one is already strapped across his broad back, a scarred kite shield with a chipped steel rim and dried monster blood packed into the grooves. This is his backup, and it's almost as tall as I am. He rests its lower edge on the stone between us while I look for somewhere on my pack that isn't already occupied.
“Should fit, right?” he asks. “You've still got room?”
Mark's human avatar stands a little over six feet, broad through the chest and stomach rather than built like one of those men who apparently spend their entire character-creation session adjusting individual abdominal muscles. His dark hair is shaved close at the sides, and a pale scar runs from his left temple to his cheek. He bought that scar in a decal pack. I remember because he spent part of an evening showing us the different versions before deciding which one made him look as though he'd survived the most interesting injury.
I open my inventory.
CARRY CAPACITY: 76%
“Yeah.”
“Awesome.”
He lifts the shield, and I take it with both hands before he lets go. My arms handle the weight easily enough. That's part of the problem with being a dwarf with a Squire Knight Title. I can carry things that look unreasonable, which makes it difficult to convince anybody that occasionally I'd prefer not to.
My pack is propped against a rock on the little shelf where we've stopped. I turn the shield sideways across it, then move it lower when the rim blocks the flap over my potions.
“Could put the bedroll on top,” Mark suggests.
“Then I can't get to the healing stuff.”
“Oh. Right.” He catches the far end while I thread a strap through the grip. “This way?”
“Yeah. Hold it there.”
For a minute, it's easy to talk. There are straps to tighten and a piece of equipment to secure, and I know what needs doing without having to work out whether anybody particularly wants to hear me say it. Mark holds the shield steady while I lash it down. I test the lower strap twice, make sure the rim won't catch my heels, and thank him for helping me attach his own property to my back.
Five minutes later, my carry capacity reads eighty-two percent.
The shield sits beside two bedrolls, a bundle of torches, three coils of rope, Jane's spare quiver, and a cooking pot nobody has admitted to owning. The pot swings when I shoulder the pack, so I reach behind myself and tighten its cord before it can start banging against the shield. My own square iron buckler hangs at my right hip, and my sword is on the left, still accessible beneath all the extra straps. I check that too, although the people we're traveling with aren't likely to need it.
I'm Level 99. Most of them are several hundred levels above me. I knew that when I accepted the invitation, and I knew Zachariah wasn't bringing me because he'd heard wonderful things about my swordsmanship. Being offended now feels a little dishonest, especially when the carrying is what qualified me for a share in the first place. Still, knowing why something happens doesn't make it pleasant to have another shield handed to me as though the space behind my shoulders belongs to everyone.
I originally took Squire Knight because I wanted a sword. There was more thought involved than that, obviously, but not nearly as much as I'd like to claim. It had agility, useful carrying bonuses, and the word Knight in it, which sounded considerably more exciting before I learned how much of being somebody's squire involved looking after their things. I could change Titles. I'd also lose the levels and skills I've spent months building, and rent is due in ten days. Starting over isn't especially tempting when the build I already dislike is the one keeping me in my apartment.
“Bekah.”
I look up, hoping Jane is about to say something that doesn't involve my inventory.
She holds out a narrow bundle wrapped in oilcloth.
“Silverheads. Can you keep them somewhere dry? I'm almost capped.”
“Sure.”
Jane is tall and lean even for an elf, with brown skin and black hair braided tightly against one side of her head. Little silver rings decorate her pointed ears. Most of her armor is dark green leather, fitted so she can move, although a thin steel gorget protects her throat. She carries a recurved bow over one shoulder, and when she turns to check the trail, nothing rattles or catches on anything else.
I envy that more than I should. Not just the equipment. Jane can walk up to somebody because she wants something and ask for it without spending the next five minutes wondering whether she's been irritating. Presumably people learn how to do that somewhere. I've managed to reach adulthood without finding the place.
“Thanks,” she says, passing me the bundle.
I tuck it beneath my cloak, where the oilcloth will stay sheltered and I can still get it out without unpacking everything. Eighty-three percent. Jane moves away to speak to the others, and I tell myself I shouldn't be disappointed. She came over for arrows, not a conversation. There wasn't anything else I particularly needed to say to her anyway.
At least, nothing I can think of while she's still close enough to hear it.
We leave the shelf and string out along the narrow trail. The mountainside rises to my left in fractured gray slabs, while the ground on my right disappears beneath pines growing at angles that make me distrust their roots. Frost crunches under our boots. Somewhere below, water crashes through a ravine, loud enough that I keep thinking it ought to be visible through the trees.
I'm near the back, where my shorter legs and burdened movement speed won't hold up anyone who matters in a fight. Jane drops behind me while Jing settles a few paces ahead. Every fourth step, my buckler knocks against the plates of my leather-and-steel skirt. I try changing my stride, discover that makes the shield on my back move instead, and settle for the original irritation.
The wind smells of wet stone and pine resin. It comes down from the snowfields cold enough to sting my face, but when the trail turns out from beneath the branches, sunlight warms the bridge of my nose. For a moment I want to stop and let it. There's an entire valley opening beside us, layers of dark trees and distant rock, and I can stand here with my face uncovered without wondering what it'll cost me later.
That's still one of my favorite things about DemonsBane. In real life, I have polymorphous light eruption, severe enough that going outside during the day means checking conditions and covering myself instead of simply opening the door. My mother calls to remind me about jackets and gloves as though I've misplaced the condition since our last conversation. I get annoyed with her, but I usually check whatever she's told me to check. I've had enough bad reactions to know that being right about my own independence doesn't make them any less miserable.
I was homeschooled, which sounds perfectly ordinary until people start talking about all the things they did with their friends while I was doing lessons at home. There were people I spoke to online, and it wasn't as though my parents locked me away. It's just that when going somewhere takes planning, staying home is often the easiest answer, and eventually I stopped waiting to be asked. I could read, play something, watch something, or spend an entire afternoon being very busy without having anything to tell anyone about afterward.
Living alone was supposed to change some of that. I certainly argued as though it would. Now I have my own address, my own bills, and blackout shades I keep closed without anybody reminding me. Going out after dark is an option. So are a lot of indoor places. I know that because I consider them occasionally, usually while arranging another delivery and deciding that tomorrow would be more convenient.
Here, at least, I can walk through the mountains.
A piece of shale shifts under my boot, and I grab the strap across my chest while I find solid footing. The view disappears from my attention immediately. Six hundred feet of ravine would still kill me, even if my actual body is lying safely in a pod. DemonsBane's pain limiter would soften the experience, but I don't particularly want to find out how much, and dying means twenty-four real-world hours locked out. That's a whole day with no earnings and far too much time to sit in my apartment thinking about how I managed to lose money by walking.
Ahead of me, Mark and Alluoah have been talking for about twenty minutes. Mostly Mark, although Alluoah keeps giving him enough encouragement to continue.
“So Friday morning, everything's normal,” Mark says, ducking under a pine branch. “I'm bitching because Greg brought those fucking powdered donuts again. Not even the good ones. The cheap ones where you breathe near them and suddenly you've got cocaine all over your shirt.”
Alluoah laughs, turning his head enough that I catch the smile in profile.
He's probably the prettiest man in the guild. Tall human avatar, dark skin, carefully trimmed beard, long black hair tied at the nape of his neck. His armor is a collection of expensive pieces that look as though they should clash more than they do: blue-steel bracers, a black leather cuirass, and one gold-trimmed pauldron. He claims stats matter more than fashion, although his boots have matching gold trim, which seems like a remarkable coincidence.
I could point that out. It's the sort of harmless comment Jane makes all the time, and it would give me a reason to join the conversation instead of listening from behind them. Unfortunately, he'd probably turn around, and then I'd have to say something else while he was looking at me. I haven't prepared that part, so I watch where I'm putting my feet and let the opportunity pass.
It's ridiculous how much easier attractive people are to deal with when they don't notice me. I can appreciate the effort he put into his face, tell myself I'm only looking because he's directly ahead of me, and keep whatever else occurs to me entirely private. Once someone actually looks back, I start wondering what my expression is doing. Am I smiling too much? Did I look away too quickly? Does being quiet make me seem uninterested, or has he already decided I'm strange enough that it doesn't matter?
I'm twenty-one, and I've never had sex. That's a fact I can usually leave alone until somebody starts talking about it as though it's no more complicated than deciding where to eat. Then I find myself listening much more carefully than I want anyone to notice. I don't have an objection to it. I'm not waiting for some perfect person to appear, either, although that would be a nicer explanation than admitting I've never even let a conversation get far enough for the question to become relevant.
I want it. I want to be close to someone I find attractive without spending the whole time wondering whether they've noticed something wrong with me. But there's the part where they'd learn how inexperienced I am, and I have no idea how to get through that without feeling as though I've asked them to supervise something. Being patient with me isn't the same as wanting me. I know people can do both. I'd just rather not have to watch someone decide whether I'm worth the trouble.
For someone who worries this much about being sheltered, I spend an embarrassing amount of my time alone watching porn. Not that I'd ever volunteer that information. It's easier when there's nobody waiting for an answer from me, and I can close the tab whenever I start feeling stupid about how long I've been there. Sometimes I close it to answer a message, spend several minutes trying to make the reply sound normal, and go back to the browser without sending anything.
“Anyway,” Mark says, raising his voice as the wind picks up, “eleven rolls around and my boss sends this mandatory meeting invite for two. Whole department. Cameras required.”
Alluoah's smile fades. “Oh, fuck. Yeah, you knew.”
“Everybody knew. Nobody said it, but Slack just fucking died. Like somebody unplugged the building.” Mark kicks a pinecone off the trail and watches it tumble through the brush. “Two o'clock comes around. Boss is there. HR's there. Some woman I've never seen before starts reading off a script about restructuring and difficult market conditions. Twenty-three of us gone.”
“Jesus, man.”
“Seven years.”
Mark says that more quietly. He keeps walking, but for several steps he doesn't add anything, and Alluoah doesn't try to fill the space.
“Did they at least give you severance?”
“Six weeks. Which, yeah, better than nothing. Wife's still working too, so we're not fucked-fucked. We're just regular fucked.”
He laughs, briefly. Alluoah doesn't, and Mark rubs at the cosmetic scar on his cheek before continuing.
“We bought the house last year. That's the part keeping me awake. Mortgage, car payment, daycare. Fucking daycare. You know what daycare costs?”
“No.”
“Neither did I. I swear to God, I thought Melissa was fucking with me when she showed me the bill. My girl Emma almost cried seeing my expression fall.”
A fallen pine lies across the trail, its trunk slick with moss. Alluoah steps over it while I stop long enough to work out where to put my hands. I can lift the weight. Getting it over an obstacle without tipping backward is another matter. I brace one boot against a knot in the wood, push myself up, and hear my buckler knock against my knee guard. Neither man notices. They're already moving on, so I get both feet down and hurry the few steps needed to stay close.
“How old's Emma now?” Alluoah asks.
“Four. Starts school next year.”
Alluoah stops so abruptly that I nearly walk into him.
“Wait. Emma's your kid?”
Mark turns. “Yeah. My daughter. Emma. Remember?”
“Fuck. I thought Emma was your dog.”
For a moment, Mark just looks at him. I lower my head and press my lips together because laughing immediately after the mortgage conversation seems like something a less awkward person would know not to do.
“You thought my daughter was a fucking dog?”
“I've heard you talk about her,” Alluoah says, as though this might help. “You said she shit on the carpet.”
“She was two!”
Jane comes up behind me. “What happened?”
“Alluoah thought Emma was my dog.”
“Your daughter?”
“Yes, my daughter!”
Jane looks at Alluoah. “He's shown us pictures.”
“Thank you!” Mark throws one hand toward her.
“I haven't seen them!” Alluoah is smiling now, which doesn't improve his defense. “And people do put dogs in daycare.”
Mark stares at him for another second before he starts laughing. Once he does, I can't stop myself. Jane leans against the uphill side of the trail, shaking her head, and someone farther back asks what they're missing. Mark repeats the whole thing for their benefit while Alluoah insists that the misunderstanding was entirely reasonable with the information available to him.
We get moving again, still laughing, and for the next few minutes Mark supplies increasingly obvious clues Alluoah apparently missed. I don't have to find anything to add. Nobody seems to mind that I'm only laughing with them, and for once I don't spend the whole time wondering whether that counts as participating.
Eventually Mark's voice settles.
“Anyway, that's why I messaged Zach. Told him I'd take whatever contracts were open. Melissa keeps saying I should take a month off, spend some time with Emma, decompress. Which sounds great until I'm lying awake at three in the morning calculating how long before the savings run out.”
Alluoah nods. “This contract should buy you some time.”
“That's what I'm hoping.”
Three hundred thousand gold. Nobody needs to say the number again. It's been coming up for three days, sometimes in conversation and sometimes in the silence after someone complains about the climb. Through the exchange, it's roughly thirty thousand real-world dollars before fees. Split between us, with the guild taking its cut and expenses coming out, it's obviously less than the number makes it sound. It's still enough that Mark can think about the mortgage without immediately reaching the end of the money.
My share is smaller. Support share, which I agreed to, so there isn't much point arguing with it privately every time I remember. It would still cover things I've been putting off and give me some room before the next payment comes due. I keep trying not to calculate exactly how much room, but I know what's on my kitchen counter, and I know what my account balance looks like. The arithmetic starts whether I invite it or not.
The actual contract couldn't be much simpler. A group of mages hired Zachariah to locate an unnamed cavern somewhere in these mountains, confirm its position, and return with the coordinates. We're specifically forbidden from entering. Supposedly there are demons around Level 500 inside, which makes staying outside sound like an excellent use of professional judgment.
I can fight enemies around my own level. I'm not completely helpless just because these people mostly see me carrying things. Against a Level 500 demon, though, the distinction probably wouldn't last long enough for anybody to appreciate it. The job is worth doing because fighting those demons isn't part of it.
“Hold.”
Zachariah's voice carries down the trail. Everyone stops, and I do too, but the weight across my back pulls through the movement and makes me take an extra sideways step. Jing steps back and catches my elbow before I can overcorrect.
“Easy.”
“Thanks.”
“You all right?”
I nod while I get my boots planted properly. Jing checks the equipment rising behind my head. His human avatar looks older than most people choose, perhaps early forties, with gray at the temples of his short brown hair and weathered lines around his eyes. Plain mail shows beneath a faded blue surcoat. Nothing about him looks expensive at first glance, although his armor is always maintained and I've never seen him waste movement in a fight.
“You want me to take some of that?” he asks.
I want him to take Mark's shield. The answer arrives so clearly that for a second I almost say it. Jing has enough strength, and he offered, so I wouldn't even be imposing. But if he starts carrying the awkward things and the others carry the rest, I'll still be the lowest-level person here, except without the contribution that justified bringing me. He probably isn't thinking about that. He's waiting for an answer, not opening the guild roster to see who could replace me. Still, I don't like the idea of letting everyone discover how easily they can manage without my particular advantage.
“I'm okay.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah. Just stopped funny.”
He waits another moment, then releases my elbow. “All right.”
The strap settles back into the sore place on my shoulder as he turns away. I could still change my mind. He's right there. All I'd have to do is say his name, except now I'd also have to explain why I'd said I was fine when I wasn't, and I don't want to hear myself making excuses about a shield. I adjust the strap instead.
Twenty feet ahead, Zachariah crouches beside a granite outcrop. His dark mythril plates overlap from his neck to his boots, thickest around the shoulders, where he has to turn his whole upper body to look behind him. A massive rectangular shield hangs across his back beneath a bastard sword that looks ridiculous until I remember I've watched him use it one-handed. Scratches and old impact dents cover the armor. Unlike Mark's facial decoration, those have happened while somebody was trying to kill him.
Purple light glows beside his name.
EPIC HEAVY MYTHRIL KNIGHT
He's very fond of that Title. I don't entirely blame him, although listening to him explain why it's superior to somebody else's build gets old long before he finishes. Mine determines how much I can carry without collapsing. His lets him stand in front of things the rest of us have to run around, and when a fight gets ugly, I generally prefer him between me and whatever caused it.
That helps explain why he's guild leader. It certainly isn't charm. He's good at DemonsBane, difficult to kill, and willing to challenge anyone who thinks they can lead better. Nobody's beaten him yet, so the arrangement continues.
He scrapes a gauntleted finger across the rock.
“Found another marker.”
Jane squeezes past us to look. “Fourth one.”
“Third,” Alluoah says.
She looks over her shoulder. “We've had this argument.”
“And you were wrong then too.”
“The creek marker counted.”
“It had two lines.”
“It had three.”
“You were drunk.”
“At nine in the morning?”
Alluoah shrugs. “You've done worse.”
“My sister's wedding doesn't count. There was champagne at breakfast.”
Mark grunts. “That's alcoholism with catering.”
Jane gives him the finger. Zachariah ignores all of them, opening his translucent map and comparing it with the marks he's cleared on the stone.
“We're close.”
“You said that an hour ago,” Jane says.
“I was right.”
“We're still walking, Zach. It feels like we're lost.”
“That's because you people bitch too much. We aren't lost.”
He closes the map and stands, taking the uphill side of the path while the rest of us make room. I lean forward before I start walking this time, letting my legs move the weight instead of trying to catch up with it. Jing notices but doesn't comment, which I appreciate. Being helped is one thing. Having an audience while I demonstrate that I needed it is worse.
We walk for another thirty-five minutes. The pines thin around us as the trail climbs, and the wind gets strong enough that most of the conversation stops. I concentrate on the patch of ground ahead of my boots and occasionally look up to see whether we're finally approaching the top. By the time we crest the ridge, I've stopped believing Zachariah every time he says close, which makes the opening across the valley take a moment to register.
It's black against the gray cliff, partly concealed by trailing vines and an overhang of fractured stone. Dark pines crowd the narrow valley between us, their upper branches disappearing into strips of mist. Beyond the entrance, the cliffs climb toward the snowline, but my attention stays on that one patch of darkness while my interface flashes.
LOCATION DISCOVERED
UNNAMED CAVERN
Mark lets out a long breath. “Holy shit.”
Jane opens her map. “Descriptions match.”
Alluoah checks his too. “Same.”
I keep looking at the notification. After three days of searching, I'd started expecting another ridge, another argument about markers, and another night spent trying to find a comfortable position beside everyone's supplies. Instead, the thing we came for is right there, and nobody has to fight it. We can stop searching. We can go back.
Mark sits on a lichen-covered boulder and rubs both hands down his face. He laughs softly, looking across the valley again before he speaks.
“Melissa's gonna fucking cry when she sees what I'm bringing home.”
Nobody laughs. He lowers his hands, seeming to realize how much he let into his voice.
“I mean, after the cut and exchange fees, it's not like I'm retiring. But a couple months without worrying about the mortgage? I'll take it.”
“Yeah,” Alluoah says. “Of course.”
I look away to give Mark the privacy he apparently needs after saying something in front of all of us. I understand it too well. I've imagined telling my mother I don't need help with groceries, then had to imagine saying it again because the first version sounded ungrateful. I'd like to be able to thank her without wondering whether she'll start asking about my account balance. This payment wouldn't change everything. It would let the next conversation be about something else, and that's enough to make me reach for my contract window.
Jane keeps her map open, the blue light catching on her glove. “All right. Send confirmation, hike back, collect our money. Cleanest job we've had all year.”
The cavern's coordinates are already filled in. One press will timestamp the discovery and send it through with our confirmation. I check the location against my map anyway, partly because I don't want to make a mistake and partly because having something useful to do makes the relief easier to handle.
“I've got it,” I say. “Do I send?”
“Yes,” Jane says.
My thumb moves toward CONFIRM.
“Not yet.”
I stop.
Zachariah is still looking at the cavern. He hasn't opened his contract, and now that I'm watching him, I don't think he's been listening to us talk about going home at all.
Jane notices too.
“No,” she says.
He turns his helmeted head. “I didn't say anything.”
“You've got that look.”
“What look?”
“The one you get before you fuck up my evening.”
A couple of people chuckle. I don't, because my contract is still open and I don't understand why he wanted me to wait.
Zachariah points across the valley.
“Three hundred thousand gold.”
Jane's expression tightens. “Zach.”
“For coordinates.”
“Yes.”
“To a cave we're specifically forbidden from entering.”
The last of the laughter stops. Mark raises his head, and I find myself looking at the entrance again even though I don't want to encourage whatever this is becoming.
“Nobody thinks that's weird?” Zachariah asks.
Of course it's weird. I thought it was weird when he first showed us the contract. I accepted it because the conditions were clear and because sometimes people with more money than me pay well for something I don't understand. That doesn't happen often enough for me to want to investigate every possible reason they might regret it.
“The demons,” Jane says. “Level five hundred. That's why.”
“That's what they told us.”
Alluoah folds his arms. “You think they're lying?”
“I think if somebody offers me thirty thousand real-world dollars to find a fucking hole, then tells me under no circumstances should I look inside the hole, I'm going to wonder what's in the fucking hole.”
“Something that kills people?”
“Maybe. One Level 500 demon, I can handle. That's a miniboss for us.”
“They said infested, Zach. Not one.”
“And if there's a horde sitting inside, we'll see it and leave.”
Jane glances at the rest of us, looking for someone to point out what's wrong with that before she has to do it herself. I know what I'd say. Seeing something doesn't guarantee it lets you leave afterward. Unfortunately, saying it would mean interrupting, and Alluoah is already opening his mouth. I wait for him.
“It's an expensive way to keep people out,” he says instead.
Mark stands slowly. Jane sees him looking across the valley.
“Don't.”
“I'm not agreeing with him.” Mark rubs his jaw. “I'm just saying he's got a point. That's a lot of money for coordinates.”
“You were happy with that money thirty seconds ago.”
“I still am.”
“Then let's collect it.”
Zachariah moves closer to the edge of the ridge, studying the slope below. “And let the mages walk straight to whatever's down there? We spend three days finding it, hand over the location, and never even know what we found?”
“That is the job,” Jane says.
I look at the confirmation window again. It hasn't changed. The coordinates are correct, the discovery is recorded on my map, and all the sensible reasons I had for wanting to send it still apply. But now I'm wondering what the mages could expect to get back from spending so much, which is exactly the thought I don't need while Zachariah is trying to make our finished contract sound like the least interesting part of the expedition.
There could be something valuable inside. He isn't wrong about that. It might be worth more than the payment, and if everybody else finds it while I'm being sensible on the ridge, I'll still be here with the same share and the same collection of bills. I dislike how quickly that occurs to me. A few minutes ago, the money was enough. Nothing about my life has become more expensive since then.
“Five minutes,” Zachariah says. “We cross over, check the entrance. If there are five-hundred-level demons waiting inside, we turn around and leave. Contract completed. Nobody loses anything.”
Jane watches him. “And if there aren't?”
His smile is visible beneath the raised edge of his visor.
“Then we find out why somebody's paying us three hundred grand not to go inside.”
Nobody answers. Wind moves through the pines below, and the corner of my cloak lifts against Jane's oilcloth bundle. I press it back into place without looking down.
I want to go back. I want my share, something hot to eat, a shower, and several hours without the weight of somebody else's equipment pressing between my shoulders. None of that stops me from waiting while Zachariah looks for a route down. I could tell him I don't want to do this. Jane has already said it loudly enough for everyone, so it isn't as though the objection would surprise him. What I can't work out is whether they'd argue with me or simply tell me to wait here while they went without me.
Zachariah starts down the ridge.
Mark follows, then Alluoah. Jane swears under her breath and closes her map before going after them. The others begin moving, boots dislodging little stones that tick down the slope, and I stay where I am for another few seconds with my thumb resting beside the unsent confirmation.
Five minutes at the entrance isn't the same as agreeing to fight anything. I can still turn around when we get there. That's what I tell myself while I move the window to the edge of my vision, tighten the strap over my shoulder, and follow them down.