Winds of Fate Read online

  My little lady, however, had seen too many TV shows where all the women wear their evening best even out in nature. And if that doesn’t work, she said, I’ll just wear this little black dress. It was apparently good no matter the occasion.

  I didn’t really care how ridiculous she’d look, and I didn’t care about how ridiculous I’d look next to her, either. She would spend weeks kicking herself afterward, however, and I felt bad about that. Not to mention the fact that my life would be miserable, too. Those strange creatures people call “women” like to think up problems and then start to actually believe in them, after which they get themselves worked up and upset. The more emotional among them even blame any men who happen to be nearby.

  No, I had to nip the problem in the bud, and I did that as effectively and simply as I knew how.

  “Maxim, good morning, it’s Kif. I didn’t wake you up, did I?”

  “Oh, hey, Kif. I hope you’re not about to disappoint me by saying you’re not coming.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it,” I replied, feigning indignation. “When have I ever declined some Dalmore? No, I have a different problem.”

  “What’s up? Can I help?” Zimin’s voice sounded unusually sympathetic.

  “You’re the only one who can. The problem’s name is Vika, and she’s about to visit your picnic wearing an evening gown.”

  Vika’s eyes popped out of her skull, and a crazed look came over her face. Once she regained control of herself, she circled a finger around her temple at me and began miming what she was going to do to me.

  Zimin laughed so hard Vika heard him, sat down, and covered her cheeks with her hands.

  “Kif, put me on speakerphone,” Zimin said when he calmed down.

  I followed the order willingly.

  “Vika, good morning, this is Max Zimin. I can assure you that today’s party will be free of ties, suits, and evening gowns, even if those evening gowns were sewn by Coco herself. Just wear some jeans, a sweater, and sneakers. The weather looks great, so maybe we’ll even go mushroom-picking.”

  “Okay,” Vika squeaked.

  “Thanks so much. I was going crazy over here,” I said to Zimin after I took him off speakerphone.

  “Not at all. Women are always like that,” he answered complacently. “Okay, see you soon.”

  I hung up the phone and turned to Vika. “Shall we try on some jeans?”

  She silently collected her dresses and carried them out into the hallway, where she started stuffing them back into her bag. I stood there trying to figure out what the problem was. A few minutes later, I figured it out.

  I’d just robbed her of her dream. Well, maybe not her dream, but at least something she’d been thinking about for a long time. She was an ambitious girl from a small town who had always been number one. And here she’d gotten a ticket to a party attended by some powerful people, and the way she got it didn’t really matter. What mattered was her grand entrance with bare shoulders and a sparkling smile. She may have been walking in wearing a dress made in China rather than something made to order in Italy or France, and that may have drawn the derision of the wives accompanying Raidion’s top management, but that was fine, too.

  She needed that moment. And I’d taken it away from her. I can’t stand all that talking about feelings, the young, and the restless, but I did hurt her. Everything was simpler with Elvira, as much as it pains me to say that. At least, I didn’t have to explain basic truths of life to her.

  I pulled on pants and walked into the hallway. Vika was there sitting on the bench, her lower lip quivering as she smashed her dresses into a bag. A tear glistened on her nose.

  “Ah, kids these days. Anything happens, and you start to cry.” I dug around in my coat pocket to find a cigarette before crouching down next to her and leaning up against the wall. “Vika, you’re a smart girl, don’t ruin what I think of you.”

  She forced the bag closed, wiped the tear away, and looked at me.

  “Here’s the thing,” I continued as I lit up. “You’ve never been to these things, and I have. Believe me, most of the women there will loath you from the minute you walk in the door.”

  Vika’s eyebrows shot up inquiringly. She glanced down at the cigarette in my hand in annoyance, crinkled a piece of paper into something I could knock the ashes into, and handed it to me.

  “Thanks,” I told her before continuing. “It’s simple. The chances are they’re rich, powerful women, probably company employees or married to top managers. Either way, they’re 35 or 40, and they all look great, but…”

  I paused and noted Vika listening with interest.

  “There’s one small difference between you and them. They know very well how much their beauty costs, and they also know what they’d be if they hadn’t spent that money on themselves. Sure, life is just beginning at 45—nobody disagrees with that. But at that age, you have cellulite, stretch marks, and all the rest.

  “But you’re just you—a dab of makeup, a natural blush, a firm chest, and you’re already in the game. You aren’t a doll someone paid for or a pair of boobs on heels; you’re someone they know is competing with them. So, why should they like you? And here you’re about to go and hand them a trump card by letting them laugh at your outfit. ‘That naïve little fool comes out to the dacha wearing a dress—welcome to the big city, sweetheart.’ Do you want that?”

  My impression of high society women must have been on the money because Vika laughed.

  “You don’t need that. I know it’s not what you expected, but these are the rules of the game. You’ll get your moment in the sun—my gut tells me it’s coming. Don’t you think they’re going to invite us to the Raidion New Year’s Eve party? They will; believe me. And you’ll be a star.”

  “You’re probably just lying,” she replied sadly. “You’ll have broken up with me 100 times over by that point.”

  That took me by surprise. “Why would you say that? New Year’s isn’t even that far away.”

  Vika smiled. “I know, you’re right. Still, I really wanted that…”

  “There’s a time and place for everything. A few of the top guys there will even come with hired girls. You’ll see what happens.”

  “With who?”

  “There are these agencies that offer escort services,” I explained. “You can order yourself a gentleman or lady for an event, you know, if you don’t have a boyfriend at the moment but still want to show up your friends. You look through the catalog, hand over the money, and he’s the picture of passion for you the whole evening. He won’t pay your friends a lick of attention no matter what hints they’re sending his way.”

  “Hey, I’m not a complete simpleton,” snorted Vika. “I have a few friends who worked for an agency like that. It wasn’t for long—the clients all thought they were just prostitutes, and one time, Sveta just barely got away. Horrible.”

  It didn’t matter if what I’d told her was true or not. The important thing was that she’d calmed down, thank God. Actually believing my story was only secondary. And who cared? Whatever she didn’t believe, she could fill in for herself, since women are good at finding multiple meanings in just a few simple words. Plus, we really had to go.

  ***

  Zimin’s dacha was simpler than I’d expected. It was a sturdy, three-story house that was obviously well built, and it had all the communications one might need running through a vane on the roof that had been made to look like a black cat. The property, which was the size of a football field, was surrounded by a forest, with similar houses visible through the birches and pines. It was the simple tastes of the bourgeoisie—not pretentious, but definitely something to look at.

  And here I was expecting a castle or something of that nature.

  Vika was suitably impressed, and, more importantly, she was reassured by the women walking around wearing sweaters and jeans just like she was. She even had to chuckle when she saw a few wearing UGGs—they looked oddly out of place among the yellowing trees an
d dirt paths that had apparently been made by someone on weed. She had sneakers on her feet. There were a dozen men, also wearing relaxed gear, standing near the entrance and talking.

  “Ah-ha, and here’s my friend Kif!” Zimin walked over, gave me a friendly hug, and kissed Vika on the cheek. “Young lady, I’m pleased to make your acquaintance. Kif has told me all kinds of things about you—all very impressive. I’m Maxim Zimin; this is my house.”

  Vika blushed. Zimin turned to face the group by the door, took us by the shoulders, and asked for attention. The men looked in our direction.

  “Friends, let me introduce you to our newest guests. This is the head editor of the Fayroll Times, which you all read every Thursday, a consummate professional, and my friend, Harriton Nikiforov—or just Kif. And this is his companion and assistant Vika. Please make them feel at home, as Kit and I are very happy to have such excellent people working in the company. I think it’s safe to say that Kif and Vika have a very bright future ahead of them.”

  Welcome to the snake pit, I thought to myself. Zimin had made it clear how highly he thought of me, and I could see some looking at me inquisitively to see exactly how close I was to the boss. Others just started looking for a way to take out the new favorite who had appeared out of nowhere.

  And I didn’t appreciate in the least all the smarmy glances Vika was getting. One already-drunk gentleman, who looked to be about fifty, was eyeing her up and down in particular, and I realized I’d have to keep an eye on him. He practically licked his lips as he stared at her, rolled up his sleeves, and wiped away a bit of drool.

  That’s when the office intrigue started. My new colleagues tried to figure out who I was and where I was from, while at the same time measuring my usefulness. I lazily laughed it off, realizing that the whole charade was part of the event—something like the lollipops in a kid’s New Year’s present. Nobody eats them, but they’re always there.

  The boredom was broken up by the cask of whiskey. Valyaev popped out of the house with it and happily greeted me, scoring me a few more points with everyone who heard him. Shashlik made an appearance next. It was prepared by a long-nosed and mustachioed gentleman from the Caucasus who was clearly a master of his craft. I’ve had my share of shashlik in lots of different places, but it’s never been anything like what he could do.

  Several large helpings of juicy meat and a few glasses of whiskey later, I had finally relaxed and headed over toward some wicker chairs I’d had my eye on for a while. The group had broken down into smaller clusters to chat about God knows what, and a few of the younger people there, Vika included, started to dance. I was quite happy to sit off by myself and enjoy the peace and quiet that came from being alone. It let me ponder a question I couldn’t get off my mind—why had Ingvar decided to betray the könig?

  The thing was that in real life, everything would have made sense. People are fickle and emotional, and sometimes they betray each other without there being much in it for them—they just feel the urge or give in to a momentary impulse. Say something that strikes someone the wrong way, and they’ll turn on you for it. But this wasn’t a person; it was a program. He didn’t have impulses. In fact, he had everything but impulses. He couldn’t do things just because he felt an urge; there had to be a clear reason built into his code, and I was having a hard time seeing it. There had to be an algorithm.

  Ingvar had everything he could dream of: status, friendship with the könig, access to money, unlimited power. There was no reason for him to betray the könig. He couldn’t take the ruler’s place, if only for the fact that he was from the wrong class—he wasn’t a fighter. He wasn’t a priest, so carried no favor with the church, and the fact that he’d never proven himself on the battlefield meant that the army wouldn’t back him. The army in the North had to decide everything—it just had to. Even marrying Ulfrida wouldn’t help.

  He wouldn’t have sold himself to Fomor, either. Even if Fomor had promised to make him könig… No, Fomor wouldn’t have had any reason to make him könig, so he wouldn’t have promised that. It was the kind of spot, where you could only try to wrest control yourself or install your puppet. Fomor knew that, and so did Ingvar. Ingvar certainly wouldn’t have wanted to be rix of one of the burgs, especially since he could have just gotten that from the könig. And finally, there was no sense buying him, because he had access to the treasury and was in charge of collecting taxes. If he needed money…

  I just couldn’t see the logic. The clues all pointed straight at Ingvar; it was true. Although, why did the witch’s monsters listen to him? Were they all acting together?

  There wasn’t anything to be found on the forums. Elina had been right about the quest being easier in the past—Ulfrida had been stashed in a cave; the kidnapping had been done for ransom; and a single player at a reasonable level could take care of the whole thing on his own. It had been changed, though the developers had threatened anyone who talked about it with serious penalties—up to and including deleting their account. All I could find about Gunther’s quest from the Tearful Goddess Order was that it existed. Either nobody had ever gone through it, or something fishy was going on…

  “What’s on your mind?” Zimin came over, having put on a jacket to stay warm. The wind was picking up, dusk was starting to stretch shadows across the ground, and the first few stars had appeared in the sky.

  “Nothing much… Just musing about contradictions in the game,” I replied.

  “Oh, geez, what contradictions are those?”

  “I’m trying to figure out what reason one NPC would have for betraying another.” I scratched my head.

  Zimin’s forehead wrinkled. “Who exactly are you talking about?”

  “Ingvar, the könig’s advisor.”

  “Ah, that quest. Yes, it’s a doozy.” Zimin wiggled his fingers.

  “Sure is,” I muttered gloomily. “I don’t like it when there’s something I don’t understand. It was definitely Ingvar, but what was the motive? There isn’t any.”

  “What are you two gossiping about?” Valyaev came over, just as cheerful as ever, and plopped down into the chair next to mine.

  “Kif is trying to figure out Ingvar’s motive,” Zimin replied with a subtle smile.

  “Ah, I remember that one. Good luck, my friend,” said Valyaev, making a face. “The mo-o-otive…”

  “Well, thanks for laughing at me!” I was actually a bit offended. Not only had I been forced to join their whole circus, but they were even mocking me while I was there.

  “Never,” Zimin responded, patting my shoulder. “We can’t tell you what to do, but I think we can give you a tiny little hint. Here’s mine: everything’s simpler than it seems.”

  What a huge help you were! Now the whole thing makes sense.

  “And I’ll say this: you’re in a world of swords and magic!” Valyaev stuck his tongue out at me.

  Oh, really? That I definitely didn’t know!

  “That’s it.” Zimin held up his hands. “We can’t do anything else for you.”

  “Well, thanks for that,” I replied with a sigh. “Tomorrow, I’m going to free the daughter, so maybe I’ll find something out then. It’s going to be a massacre, I can feel it.”

  “Yes, with the Sea Kings—you figured that out beautifully. There was another option, a bit simpler, but you picked the more entertaining one,” noted Valyaev.

  Huh. What other option did I miss?

  “Anyway, here we are like Canadian lumberjacks: talking about the woods when we’re with the ladies, talking about the ladies when we’re in the woods.” Valyaev went off somewhere and was back almost instantaneously with a decanter of whiskey, a small plate with lemon slices, and three tall shot glasses.

  “I know, you’re not supposed to drink whiskey from a container like this, and you’re not supposed to follow it with lemons, but that’s all we have,” he joked, pouring the amber liquid.

  “Kif, to you.” Zimin saluted me with his glass.

  Valyaev
followed suit. “Welcome to the family.”

  “It’s an honor.” I stood up, and we threw back the shots.

  “Hey, Kif, you aren’t bored with the paper, are you?” asked Valyaev as he chewed on a lemon slice. “It has to be awful.”

  “No, not really,” I said truthfully. “I don’t have time to get bored; three days at work, four in the game. It’s not long enough to get on your nerves.”

  “Agreed,” Zimin said, nodding. “But what plans do you have for later? Everything in this life comes to an end sooner or later.”

  “I haven’t made any. You can call me imprudent if you want.” I hung my head contritely.

  “Why would we do that?” Valyaev shrugged. “You’re on the right track. Sure, I mean, everyone should have a plan, but it needs to be realistic and have a set timeline. Everything’s up in the air for you right now.”

  “Wait, what are we talking about?” Zimin raised a finger. “Just remember that Raidion has your back and won’t let you down. Kit, did you hear that he got beaten up recently? And robbed for good measure.”

  “Really?” Valyaev stepped back in surprise as he ate another lemon slice. “Who would dare do that?”

  “Some nobody. It’s just a good thing I found out about it—accidentally, in fact. All thanks to the cutie who was over there dancing a little while back, his assistant.”

  “Kif, you need to stop your lone wolf business,” Valyaev said reproachfully. “You’re a part of the whole now, so you don’t have to do anything on your own. You can relax and let other people handle things. Unless, of course, that contradicts the interests of the corporation.”

  “Oh, I’m not stupid enough to bite the hand that feeds me,” I replied, looking him in the eye.

  “Crude,” noted Zimin, “but clear, wouldn’t you say, Kit?”

  “And highly reasonable,” agreed Valyaev. “It’s always nice doing business with you, Kif. Like Max said, I think you really do have a bright future in Raidion.”

  “Ki-i-if!” Vika’s voice rang out above the music.

  Valyaev turned his head. “What was that?”