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  “It does!” Harald was jubilant.

  “The team. Do they know? You must get them!”

  “They are in the library. We weren’t sure it would work and we didn’t want to make false promises. But they are ready in case.”

  “This is magic.” Erik was preparing Cindella to enter her world again. “With this you could play Epic anywhere!”

  “Aye. Well, we are lucky we have one working set in the whole of Hope District.” Harald sounded grim for a moment. Then his voice became more cheerful. “So, when Thorstein gets back, he will link you up with the tournament.”

  “Erik? What’s that?” asked little Ivarson, the small boy from the bed opposite Erik’s.

  Erik partially removed his headset in order to look at the curious face beside his bed.

  “Do you know Epic?”

  “Of course. My brothers are playing in the championships today.”

  “Well, so am I.”

  “Oh. That’s good. Can I watch?”

  “I don’t know. Can he, Dad?”

  Harald smiled. “Certainly, here.” Harald carefully and gently removed another headset from the device. “There are a few public characters that you can occupy to watch events in the amphitheater. They are not full interfaces. Only Erik has that.”

  Ivarson clapped. “This is fun! I can watch my brother!”

  “Dad?” said Erik. “Can you stay here while I play?”

  “Of course I will. As much as I can.”

  One of the adults in the hospital came into the room with a stack of chairs.

  “You don’t mind if a few of us watch, do you?” She looked at Harald and Erik.

  “No.” Erik was pleased.

  Harald sat in a chair to test the viewing devices. “This is better than the library.” He sounded delighted. “Much better head motion.”

  Chapter 10

  HARALD UNMASKED

  The sun was finally down; Svein’s turn as the Executioner was over. It had been an insufferably long waste of time, watching kobold after kobold scurry over the mud flats of the hunting grounds, their shadows lengthening as the sky grew imperceptibly more scarlet. It was pitiful to observe the scuffles between the kobolds and small groups of gray fighters. This kind of fighting was so extraordinarily limited. The players across from him had no idea of the real depths of the game. For a while, Svein had turned his thoughts to his own goal, solving the Epicus Ultima quest. In all his research, Svein had never discovered the origin of the term, but he was convinced that it referred to something real. Several NPCs he had personally spoken to had indicated that Epic contained this ultimate quest, a quest to end all quests; many thought it to be impossible to solve but Svein felt that he was very close to a breakthrough. The threads that led to this goal were many and complex, but considering them simply increased Svein’s frustration at having to waste time on this execution shift. He could be doing something so much more productive.

  A tap on his shoulder. Immediately, Svein began to unclip, rubbing the soreness from his ears.

  “Anything?” asked Bekka.

  “Just hour after hour of people collecting pennies from kobolds.”

  Bekka sighed unhappily. “I feel sorry for them. Sometimes I just want to go over and make someone’s day by giving them a ruby or something.”

  She saw the stern look on Svein’s face.

  “I know. I’m just saying I empathize.”

  All at once, Svein smiled, hoping it did not look forced, and reached up to touch her cheek. “I know you do, and that is a most admirable quality in you.”

  Pausing only to get a plate of food from the canteen, Svein hurried to his office, avoiding contact with anyone. At last, with the door locked, he could relax and concentrate on his project.

  Covering three of the four walls of his office were the tidily arranged spines of books and files. From floor to ceiling, wide shelves held journals, reports, essays, magazines, electronic data, and books. The fourth wall was mostly taken up with an enormous pin-board. As he sat at his desk eating, Svein contemplated the board. Colored pins held pieces of paper to a map of the main game world. Threads of various kinds—including silver and gold ones—ran around the pins, creating a colorful net over the world.

  The Epicus Ultima, Svein had realized, could be solved by anyone, each with their own starting point. In his own case, he had made progress on several fronts, only to reach dead ends at certain stages.

  Pushing his plate aside, Svein got up and examined the board again. His final entry read simply, Find the Ethereal Tower of Nightmare. The objective was simple enough: the Earl of Snowpeak had asked him to release from the tower the soul of his kidnapped daughter; her body lay in suspended animation in Snowpeak Castle. No doubt the essence of the girl was held in captivity by some magic device or creature. But the really interesting aspect of this quest was his only other reference to the tower, which described it as containing the “ultimate lock.”

  What would happen if he completed the Epicus Ultima had been only hinted at by NPCs, but he would most likely gain some extraordinarily powerful magical item or weapon. What interested Svein, though, was not the prize, but the challenge. By solving the Epicus Ultima, Svein would instantly become the most famous player ever.

  However, although he now had his most promising lead ever—this reference to the Ethereal Tower—he had still come up against a very stubborn dead end. Nobody knew where this Ethereal Tower was to be found. The Earl of Snowpeak had said only that priests had performed their most powerful auguries, and all they could see of his daughter’s soul was that it had been taken to a place called the Ethereal Tower of Nightmare, where she lay dreaming, near the world’s end. No spell had been able to help, nor the thousands of NPCs whom Svein had asked. Every librarian in the world had been alerted to the problem and monitored their localities for news of the tower—knowing that Svein would reward information with resources or promotions. Throughout his tenure as librarian, Svein had always been careful to keep the local librarians as well looked after as he could, despite opposition from other members of the committee. If anyone could complete the Epicus Ultima, surely it was Svein, with his access to a thousand sources of information. The problem was that players were so unadventurous these days that only a feeble trickle of new information was arriving from the provincial libraries. Svein might achieve better results by encouraging the university students to look for the Tower—but he had to tread a fine line. Giving information away was dangerous, especially if some precocious student somehow got a lucky break and ended up ahead of him.

  A timid knock on the door disturbed him.

  “What?” Svein shouted angrily.

  “Sorry to disturb you, sir,” came the voice of student. “A Special Session of the Committee has been called and is convening now.”

  “Very well.”

  Curiosity overcame his annoyance. There must be a new development. Perhaps the Executioner had found its target and that business could be laid to rest?

  Most of the committee members were there ahead of him, and the hum of good-natured conversation rose towards the high, transparent ceiling; there were even a few smiles as Svein took his seat. As if to match the humor of those at the table, outside a bright sun and racing clouds created a patchwork of color over Mikelgard. Occasionally the swift moving rays of light passed directly over them, causing the whole room to sparkle and warm.

  “Good news?” Svein asked his neighbor, Wolf.

  “I think so.” Wolf nodded his heavy head. “Godmund called the meeting.”

  Svein looked across at the old man. Certainly his blue eyes were alive with eager animation.

  With Bekka’s arrival, the meeting could begin. Hleid immediately called upon Godmund to speak.

  “My researchers have done well and spared us a lot of bother. Harald Erikson is none other than Olaf the Swift.”

  Several of the members gasped. Svein glanced quickly at Ragnok, whose face was flushed. Uncomfortable memories
no doubt.

  “Of course!” exclaimed Halfdan the Black. “No wonder they did so well.”

  “Hmmm. It was not so obvious—he kept himself hidden for twenty years. But not all of us had forgotten.” Godmund was clearly very pleased with himself. “Eh, Ragnok?”

  Again that rare blush on Ragnok’s face.

  Lifting up the sheet in front of him, Godmund read aloud, “Olaf the Swift was exiled for striking another student of the University, the only other person training as an assassin, none other than our very own Ragnok Strongarm. Perhaps you can tell us more about this opponent of ours?”

  “Th-there is no need,” Ragnok stuttered angrily. “All that matters is that the opposition is over. Remove him to exile again and that’s the end of it.”

  “Not quite,” Svein mused aloud.

  “Go on,” invited Hleid, gesturing towards him with the arm of her glasses.

  “If those who harbored him knew he was under sentence of exile, then they too must go.”

  “Svein, don’t be cruel. For all we know, he has a family now. Do you want them to suffer more than this blow?” Bekka was looking at him, astonished.

  “They might prefer to go with him.”

  “Then let it be their choice and let us not force them.” Bekka looked rapidly around the table for support.

  “Legally Svein is right.” Godmund intervened again. “If anyone was knowingly harboring him, they must be exiled too. Otherwise our whole system is called into question.”

  “And that might include more members of their team, if we are lucky!” Halfdan was jovial, his shiny face red and amused looking.

  “Please,” grunted Wolf, clearly less than pleased with Halfdan’s attitude. “This is a professional and not a personal matter. Who cares about that setback in the arena in the light of this development? Let us send a judge to Hope to enforce the exile and make inquires as to whether other people were involved.”

  “Agreed?” Hleid checked for assent around the table. “Good.” She gathered up her silver hair and tied it back, while checking the paper in front of her. “Svein, it is your duty to alert the librarians to this news. I take it we can leave the wording of the decree to you.”

  “Indeed.”

  “In that case, we have one other piece of business.” Hleid’s thin mouth tightened, and her wrinkled forehead indicated the severity of the matter. “The latest edition of the New Leviathan .”

  For a few minutes there was silence as the paper was passed around the room and the committee members studied it. The cheerful atmosphere of the committee dissolved.

  It was the editorial that was most disturbing to Svein’s eye.

  GRADUATION COMPETITION IS A FARCE

  Graduation week has come and gone again. Once more, young players of Epic from all over the world entered the amphitheater this week hopeful of winning a place at Mikelgard University and a career in administration. And once again those hopes were dashed. The fact is that in education, as in every sphere of life, the new Casiocracy has evolved a system of control that serves only the few. How can young people in agricultural districts hope to compete with those few schools around Mikelgard dedicated to Epic? It is simply not possible to work and study the game.

  Not only that, but the children of the Casiocracy enter the competition with great advantages handed down to them from their parents and indeed grandparents. Was that Hleid the Necromancer’s Staff of the Elements that we saw in the hands of her granddaughter? And indeed, before Halfdan went for his all-black style, did he not own the Shield of Many Colors that appeared in the hands of his grandnephew? The only team from outside the top five exclusive schools to progress to the university qualification places was that of “The Osterfjord Players” whose original use of a new character class kept opponents guessing. Three cheers for them. But even they have not won automatic places, and if they do make it to University will they then not lose touch with their homeplace? The education system has to change. It should devote far fewer resources to Epic and more to pressing problems of agriculture, transport, and economy. It should promote those with ability and not those whose parents happen to be privileged members of the administration.

  Around the table, elderly shoulders sagged and faces lengthened.

  “Where is this coming from?” Godmund was furious. He looked accusingly at Hleid, who shrugged. “This is too well informed. Look! Who here remembered about Halfdan’s shield? Not I. This is coming from the inside. One of us perhaps?”

  “But why?” Brynhild was perplexed. “Why would one of us do this?”

  “I don’t know,” Godmund growled. “But whatever they think they are doing, the result is that they are going to cause chaos and instability for us all.”

  For a while, the committee members said nothing, but looked at each other with confusion and suspicion. Bekka was the recipient of several scowls.

  “There is no point in continuing the meeting if we have nothing constructive to offer. One day the person or people responsible for this will make a mistake. Then we will act.” Svein stood up to leave.

  “Very well. We are adjourned,” announced Hleid.

  As Bekka slowly made her way down the stairs of the tower, Svein came alongside her.

  “It’s not me. They think it’s me, but it is not.” She looked over her shoulder at Svein.

  “Of course not. Only a fool would think that you would write such things.” Svein gave what he hoped was a reassuring smile. There was no longer an attractive side to the aging, irresolute druidess. But as long as Bekka was a member of Central Allocations, Svein would make the effort to create the impression that he was an admirer of hers, through his considerate words and attentive glances. After all, it cost him nothing and might secure him an important vote one day.

  “Then, who is it?”

  “I’m not sure Godmund is right. Why would any of us write it? Perhaps it is another bitter person like Olaf the Swift.”

  “I hope so.” Bekka nodded. “It makes me cringe inside, the thought that someone at that table is pretending, is lying to us.”

  Chapter 11

  BROKEN GLASS

  The Osterfjord Players were giddy with merriment as they returned from Hope Library and the final stages of the graduation tournament. Rolfson had come to meet them with the horses, and they were all in the cart, bouncing along as the horses picked a steady route through the potholes of the path. Now and again, as they met travelers coming towards Hope, Rolfson would embarrass them all by proudly calling out, “We reached the finals. My children reached the finals.”

  B.E. was leaning against the side of the cart, arms stretched out on either side, holding the wooden frame to help him ride the bumps.

  “I hear that in Mikelgard the roads are covered in a metal surface that does not wear.” B.E. was convinced that their performance would earn them places in Mikelgard University, and, as the oldest, both he and Bjorn would get their places this year.

  “Ohhhhh, smooth rides. What a treat is in store for you,” his sister Sigrid tried to mock him, but he was unflappable.

  “Ahh, yes. I will think of you plodding along in your cart, while Bjorn and I sunburst along in our racing sallers. Probably with a couple of girls in the back seats, eh?” B.E. winked at Bjorn, who smiled but did not encourage B.E. further; that kind of joking made him uncomfortable.

  “You think they still have sallers in Mikelgard?” asked Erik.

  “Of course they do, standard issue to students no doubt.” B.E. closed his eyes, enjoying the image in his mind.

  “I saw one once.” Rolfson looked back over his shoulder.

  “Really, Dad?” Bjorn sat up. “What was it like? Was it working?”

  “Oh, yes.” Rolfson nodded. “It was fast. You had to be careful not to get in the way as it came along the road. Very low. The driver’s head would not have come above my belt.”

  “That’s really tech. I hope we get to Mikelgard and get to see them.” Bjorn beamed at the others.r />
  “If we do win places. It’s a shame we didn’t get one more win and then we would have been in the compulsory places.” Erik didn’t want them to get their hopes up too high.

  The cart paused as a herd of goats, bells jingling, crossed the path.

  “Oh, don’t be a spoiler, Erik.” Now that she did not need to hold on to the side of the cart, Sigrid used her free hands to wave away his pessimism. “Nobody outside Mikelgard has done this well for years.”

  The sun was just beginning to redden as their cart jolted over the last hill. Orange and brown light filled the fields of olive trees that surrounded their houses. Not long now and Erik would be in the kitchen, telling his parents everything about the tournament. He felt hungry and was looking forward to a large dinner. Even if they had eaten already, his mum and dad would sit with him to hear about the day’s competitions.

  “Strange,” said Rolfson. “What’s Freya doing on the roof?” Sitting up, Erik could see a yellow light reflected from the ax blade that his mother was bringing down vigorously near the solar panel.

  “Is it broken already?” Bjorn’s brow furrowed. “That’s bad luck.”

  A cascade of sparks flickered like fireworks from her next blow; it was followed by a painful groaning sound as the panel lurched partway down the roof, causing a flock of starlings to flit away towards the sea.

  Another flashing strike with the ax, more sparks, and the panel slid to the end of the roof, cables pulled taut behind it.

  Erik jumped from the cart and ran. Something was wrong.

  “Erik!” shouted Injeborg. But he did not turn.

  Dashing through the trees, eyes jumping from the path ahead to his mother on the roof, her ax raised for a final blow, Erik was still far away when the crash echoed through the valley. A thousand glass bottles dropped together would not have created so much volume. Nor would they have made such a hideous splintering sound, as though the sky itself had been wrenched and cracked apart. Up on the roof, his mother fell forward, hiding her head, sobbing into her arms.