In a Hostile Country: The Saga of Cahmel (Epilogue, Part 1)

When we last left our patient, virtuous, gracious, long-suffering hero…

It was six hours after I found the book; that’s fifteen minutes to cut the squealing down to acceptable thresholds, four minutes to decide whether or not to abort my current mission, one minute to consider the ethics of ditching a quest to go pawn a religious text I’d stolen from a woman I’d murdered, two minutes to stop snickering, and then five hours and fifty-three minutes to get back to the nearest place where I could rent a ride going to a place where I could rent a ride to get back to the outskirts of decent civilization. And then I was lounging in the luxurious South Wall Cornerclub, nursing a mug of the least bug-derived beverage in the house and planning my next move.

I had a real score, that’s for sure. The book I had with me was worth more than everything I’d earned so far put together, all of the drakes I’d scraped up from pinching flatware and dissecting wildlife and leading my friends to their deaths. I’m not counting my profits from working with Hlaalu, but that’s only because my net gain on an average mission was something like negative 50 bones. Point is, this thing I’d just dredged up could make me rich beyond my reasonably wildish dreams.

The first question was, how do I sell it? That was a difficult question, and one that I immediately discarded in favor of: what am I going to do with the money once I’ve sold it for its full value and instantly fixed all of my problems?

And really, that was the only important question, whether or not I ever managed to fence this book. My grandmother always said that what a man does with a vast sum of illegitimately-acquired blood money is what there are as a person. My decision right now would define everything—what I stood for, what I strived for, and the legacy I intended to leave behind after I went. It was, of course, entirely fitting that I make this decision while steaming drunk.

Despite a steady stream of drinks consumption, I made little progress. I toyed briefly with the idea of forming my own charity (The Endangered Cliff Racers Fund, with which I would employ a staff working around the clock to ensure these majestic creatures would become endangered as quickly as possible,) but decided that I’d never be able to look myself in the mirror if I squandered this kind of money on the public good. My other idea was to buy a ticket out of this godforsaken country, but I’d never seen a transport that took passengers besides the one going to Solstheim (which promised all of the fun of wandering a feral wasteland mixed with the exotic thrill of freezing to death). Hours dragged on, and every idea I added to the list was scratched off almost instantly.

Gradually, I realized what the problem was. Up to this point, I’d always had the vague idea that I worked for subsistence. Sure, I was never low on food money and only rarely low on booze money, but I was never more than a couple of really stiff bribes away from being flat broke, and that knowledge meant I was always looking for the next job. It kept me moving in the face of stupid objectives, jerk questgivers, impossible odds, and what may have actually been the worst working conditions outside of an early textile mill. It sucked, but it was what I did for a living, so I did it—I subsided. But now that I had a payout of 50,000 sitting in my backpack, resting snugly between the scrib jerky and the loose animal body parts, subsistence was essentially out of the picture. I was not likely to go hungry anytime soon; with this kind of money, I could hire a full-time team to go hungry for me.

So, now that what I needed was no longer an issue, what did I want?

That was a damn good question. For one thing, I wanted another drink, which—somewhat unfortunately, as this was so far a very troubling scenario—did not cost 50,000.

Well…respect, I guess. I’ve always wanted to be respected by my peers. Can money buy respect? I forget how that works. I guess I could go around bribing people, since that seems to be the primary tool of social mobility out here. Then again, all bribing does is raise the other person’s disposition, and I’ve proven conclusively that disposition and respect are not connected. Case in point: most of my employers have been crazy about me so far, but from the orders they’ve given me, you’d think I was an untrained slack-jawed intern who needs a winch to pull his pants on in the morning. Also, that I’d performed unspeakable acts on their morning oatmeal. They’re right on both accounts, but that doesn’t make it any less hurtful.

You know, now that I think of it, what have I done that even would engender respect in someone? I’ve spent my time losing fights, dodging obligations, doing people’s grunt work, streaking for business and pleasure, and acting as a companion to the pathetic and a tour guide to the mentally disabled. My career has been a breathtaking journey from embarrassment to embarrassment.

I thought of my lowest moments. I thought of my weeks of kowtowing to the Hlaalu—and eventually failing out of their order after being given a quest I was unable to complete. I thought of my inability to deal with the Brotherhood despite brazen, repeated attempts on my life. I thought of my rousing, crowd-pleasing defeat at the hands of Gaenor, scrambling down a Mournhold street while Ordinators watched and laughed. I stirred these memories, stewing them in alcohol as fires of humiliation burned in my gut.

So many indignities, and I had nobody to blame but myself. I had swaggered into all of these situations with the cocksure arrogance of a god; my long history of failure was nothing but the fruits of that hubris. I could see that so clearly now.

Yes, I knew now what I needed to do. Somehow, I had to use this 50,000 to better myself. Take classes, maybe. Learn how to do something besides fight, because I was never much good at it and I usually only ended up face-down in the dirt. I ought to put down my sword and learn a simple, honest trade, and never strut about the place like I was above an honest day’s work—like I was somehow better than the potters and smithies who made up this island’s rich cultural tapestry. Maybe in time I’d learn to stop pretending I was a victim of fate, and maybe then I could spend the rest of my days in quiet, peaceful psyche, I’m totally blaming everybody else. I’m going to spend the 50,000 learning how to kill them.

Well, okay, I’m a pragmatist. I can’t kill everybody who’s ever reduced me to a human punchline; I’m going to want someone lying around to high-five afterwards. I’m going to need a narrower spectrum of scapegoats.

This 50,000 is enough to buy a king-hell dose of training and equipment upgrades—I’ve got at least one enchantment I’ve had my eye on. After those are in hand, it’s just a matter of figuring out who I want to bring the hammer down on.

With much difficulty, I narrow my list of enemies down to the following five.

I can't make this thing show up the right size, so just click for the full version, would you kindly.

I’m glad I took the time to work through these issues. What better way to celebrate than a shopping spree, followed by premeditated, hot-blooded murder?

I don’t know about you, but I can’t think of a single damn thing.

TO BE CONTINUED