Reamde полностью

Skeletor was nodding, like he’d been wondering for years when Richard was finally going to get it. “It just doesn’t work,” he said. “We already talked about Good versus Evil and how that failed.”

“Totally ridiculous,” Richard said, as if it were some huge admission. “Just a weak effort on our part. ‘How can we get two groups fighting, competing? I know, we’ll have one group be Good and one Evil.’ Exactly the kind of thing you’d expect to come out of a corporate committee.”

Skeletor was just nodding, still mostly gazing out the window but occasionally flicking his eyes back Richard’s way, perhaps looking for signs of sarcasm.

“We should have just left it to you guys,” Richard concluded.

“The way I see it, it’s really a sport,” Devin said. “Maybe not like soccer, but like some combination of fencing and chess. Now, it has to be story driven, of course.” He held up his hand like a pupil volunteering to erase the chalkboard. “Happy to help out there.”

In exchange for vast sums of money, Richard mentally added. But he just kept nodding. Looking interested. As if there were any doubt as to what would come next.

Devin continued, “But in the end if you don’t have that competitive element, you’ve got nothing, business-wise. And for those who want solo questing and one-on-one competition, it’s there. You can do that. But the real attraction is in the team sport angle, the social thing. Being part of an army. An alliance.”

“Wearing a uniform,” Richard said. “Having a mascot.”

“Yeah, and that is what the Bright versus Earthtone thing turned into. Whether we intended it or not.” Devin was being a bit slippery there. A week ago Richard would have been furious at his treachery, at this blithe admission. Devin might even have sensed this, the potential for an explosion, and declined to reveal what he had just now come out and said so baldly. Now he’d said it because he could sense somehow that Richard didn’t actually give a shit. Richard had moved on.

“I just came from Cambridge,” Richard said.

“Mass?”

“England. Where Donald lives half the time.”

“Ah.”

“I want you to know that he’s fine with all of this.”

It seemed pretty clear that Devin had not been expecting this turn in the conversation, and he got a preoccupied look about him.

“He’s a quick study. You think I’m joking. But no. For a guy who has never played a video game in his life—”

“Donald Cameron has his own character in the world now!?” Skeletor exclaimed, in somewhat the same tone of voice as a tribune might have said, Hannibal has crossed the Alps with elephants!?

“Very weak, of course,” Richard said reassuringly. “Didn’t even have shoes, for a while.”

“I don’t care about what he’s wearing on his feet! I care about his—”

“Vassal tree? Yes. I understand. He’s not quite as quick to get going on that front as you’d imagine. Still learning the ropes. I explained how it all works. He was reluctant to swear fealty to a more established character.”

“Why the hell should he!? With a few text messages he could be an Emperor!”

“If he knew how to send text messages, yes.”

“How many vassals does he have? Are they powerful?”

“I haven’t checked since the FBO at Cranfield.”

“The huh?”

“In about ten hours. So I have no idea.”

“Why would he suddenly start? Why now?”

“Between you and me—and really, Devin, this must never leave this trailer—” Richard leaned in, held up his hands, rubbed his thumb against his fingertips.

“How could he possibly be in need of money?”

“Have you ever paid taxes in the U. K.? Tried to fix up a sandstone castle on the Isle of Man? Not to mention his other properties.” Richard just made the last part up.

“What other properties?”

“Palaces and stuff he inherited, I guess. I’m just saying, he looks like a tattered old professor, but behind that façade he burns through specie like a rap star.”

Devin was thinking. “You’re referring to the money in Torgai. Vast hoards of gold rumored to be just lying there for the taking.”

“Don’t be coy, man; we all know what those three thousand K’Shetriae were thinking. No one is going into the Torgai for its scenic beauty.”

“It is so obvious,” Devin marveled. “So. Friggin’. Obvious. He never cared about playing the game until there was money on the ground. Never went in once. Just wanted to”—and here Devin held his hands aloft and made fluttering motions with his fingers, like an airborne faerie sprinkling dew over rose petals—“craft ancient dead languages. Imbue the history of T’Rain with a grammar and a rhetoric.”

“And cash royalty checks.”

“Egg-ZACT-ly!” Devin snapped, looking around himself in a kind of shocked, prim way, as if he had never accepted one penny of compensation. “But the minute some Troll dumps a few tons of gold on the ground, he gets an account and turns into Ozzy Fucking Mandias.”