The Merchant Adventurer Read online

  The Merchant Adventurer

  Patrick E McLean

  © 2014 Patrick E McLean

  Table of Contents

  Accolades

  Introduction

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  Now What?

  The World’s Most Dangerous About the Author Blurb.

  Accolades

  (for How to Succeed in Evil)

  Well written and a wonderful twist on a well-heeled trope. Thank you Mr. McLean for a great deal of laughs and a thought provoking book: what is the ultimate use/abuse of power and who is responsible?

  David Willis

  Truly Hilarious. It is so difficult to find truly funny novels, but this book definitely is one of the best. If you like the “frustrated anti-hero” archetype, then you will love Edwin Windsor. Basil Fawlty as a consultant to supervillians.

  Darryl Lashambe

  Normally funny books make me chuckle and that’s about it. This book is the first book since ‘Good Omens’ to make me laugh so hard that I lost my place and then prevented me from reading further by putting tears in my eyes.

  If you love superheroes and comics like I do, or hate them like my wife does, you’ll find this book awesome.

  Adam Haner

  Brimming with anarchic wit, this book is a refreshingly original antidote to the reams of identikit superhero stories that have marched across our pages and screens over the last few years.

  Glenn Murphy

  “Nobody offers the hilarious car-crash of ideas that McLean does. At once zany and thoughtful. His writing is as much a map of the human condition as it is satire.”

  – John F. Roberts

  What? No, I haven’t read it. I’m too busy reviewing pain-in-the-ass novels that fall into the same tired-old genres that we’ve been pushing for years. That, and I could never actually admit to reading genre fiction you see. No, no. Another shovelful of dull tombs about dysfunctional American families for me, if you please.

  That guy who snubbed Patrick at the New York Times Review of Books.

  Introduction

  In the middle of my life, I found myself in a maze of twisting passages, each alike…

  I’ve had this thing I’ve needed to get out of my system. It’s writing a heroic tale without a hero in it. How to Succeed in Evil, my first book, is about a really smart guy in a world of superpowered people. He succeeds not because he’s powerful, but because he’s smart, ruthless and (in a very strange way) reasonable. The book you hold in your hands (or file you hold on your digital device) represents another one of those stories. And it had an odd genesis.

  I begged my way into a gig writing and designing levels for an cRPG (computer role playing game). This is not the kind of thing I would be likely to do, except that it was the sequel to Wasteland, a game which my 16 year-old self deeply adored and admired. So of course, I helped fund the Kickstarter for Wasteland 2. Since I knew one of the original designers, Mike Stackpole, I asked him if I could pitch in some words. I was happy to do so for free as a favor to my 16-year-old testosterone-addled self for not getting me killed at that awkward age. I was not suicidal, but curiosity and fearlessness are dangerous brew.

  I did some concept stuff for Wasteland 2. I came up with some ideas and mythology for the cults in the game as well as some background bits. Brian Fargo liked it, so he asked me to do more. He and Matt Findley were very patient and helpful as they coached me through the process of writing and designing levels. Along the way I got to meet and work with very talented and dedicated people including Chris Avellone, Colin McComb, Nathan Long, Chris Keenan and Kevin Saunders.

  I learned a great deal from the experience. And I discovered something interesting about myself along the way. I knew a lot more about computer role playing games than I realized. In fact, I had played most all of the seminal games in the genre. Misspent youth? Perhaps.

  Enter the Merchant

  One of my most favorite, and one of the most ancient games was the original Wizardry. Wizardry and Ultima came out at, effectively, the same time and they have served to define the cRPG genre ever since. Wizardry gave the first (albeit crude) first-person perspective I ever encountered in a game. Ultima used the top-down perspective that would one day evolve to frazzle my nerves in Starcraft.

  I played Wizardry on an Apple III. This was the same box on which I learned to program Pascal. This ungainly beige wonder was also connected to my first hard drive. A 10 pound miracle of innovation called the Apple ProFile. Who would ever use more than 5 megs anyway?

  Thirty-two years later, I drew on the experience of playing Wizardry and countless other games, to write Wasteland 2. And that’s when I remembered Boltac.

  Just as Wizardry is the granddaddy of all cRPGs. Boltac is the granddaddy of all merchants and stores in cRPGs. For me he was a magnificent bastard of a character. In spite of having no in-game characterization at all. In fact, the only hint you got about him was a note in the manual suggesting that he would sell you his arms. This ambiguity was intentional.

  Oh, and there was one other thing you quickly learned about Boltac – his absolutely ruthless approach to trade. Boltac’s Trading Post was quite literally the only game in town. And he perfectly exploited his monopoly privilege in a way that would make the greediest inside trader say, “Damn, dude. That’s harsh.”

  In economic terms, he knew exactly how much everything was worth and exactly what to sell it for to get the most money. This is something that business people would give their eyeteeth to know. Perfect information does not exist. And the whole of useful, durable knowledge about pricing can be summed up in the phrase, “Whatever the traffic will bear.” The only way to know that is to make a deal and try to find out. But you’re always, always wrong. The only question is “by how much?”

  If you’ve ever negotiated a salary or a project payment or the purchase of a ruby necklace, then you’ll know that feeling – that awful feeling that you might have left money on the table. But that’s the thing with Boltac. He never left money on the table. And he never lost a sale because he asked for too much.

  What would a story about that guy be like?

  This question popped into my head as I was writing the dialog for a merchant in Wasteland 2. Balcom Maldrige, the merchant you can find in the Free-Trade Zone in the Gipper’s area of Los Angeles. The idea of the groups of people you encounter in WL2 is that, in response to the physic terror of the end of the world, they grouped themselves into cults created around one aspect of pre-war society. With the Gippers it was Ronald Reagan.

  Playing a game, especially one with as rich, dark and satirical a subtext as Wasteland 2, it’s easy to overlook the process of writing any character in any setting. Among the questions that the writer has to ask is “What does the world/scenario look like to this character?” Often the world is fanciful, absurd and ridiculous. This presents no problem as long
as the creator(s) maintain an internal consistency.

  So what does the world of a fantasy RPG look like to a merchant like Boltac?

  In Wizardry, you don’t have to answer this question. He’s just the store, he never talks or interacts with the players. But now, countless cRPG’s in, we need an answer to questions like this to refresh the genre.

  So here are the facts of the Merchant’s existence as I see them.

  He’s trying to make a buck.

  He sells to penniless, unsuccessful adventurers who are trying to stop some malevolent blight (evil wizard, dragon, ancient demon, what-have-you) they believe has plagued the land.

  Most of these unsuccessful adventurers get killed.

  The Malevolent Blight might not actually be a plague on the land. (Maybe it’s just misunderstood? Maybe it’s all a con?)

  The ones who come back from their adventures do so with loot that they want to sell.

  The merchant then, would be a surly, jaded pawnbroker, making his living off a desperate, deluded and non-productive group of people.

  He’s a greedy bastard who sticks his neck out for nobody.

  So then the question became, how do you tell a story where the merchant is driven to become the hero and save the day? Piece of cake. En-henh. But whatever. The book that follows is the result. I unapologetically wrote this story for myself. But you’re certainly welcome to enjoy it too.

  1

  “I am the Chosen One. Only I can bring peace and restore balance to the land,” said the blonde Knight in Shining™ Armor.

  “You still don’t understand,” said the Ranger, clad in mail. He hiked up his sleeve and showed the mark that was burned into his arm. “This symbol of the Cruel God Azaz signifies–”

  “Azaz my Az-ass! That signifies your whore of a mother spilled bacon fat on you when you were a child.”

  The men drew swords and faced off. But before either of them could swing, a thin man dressed in a faded black cloak stepped between them. He said, “Please, my Lords, please! We mustn’t fight amongst ourselves.”

  “Out of my way, Rattick! You are but a hireling!” cried the Ranger. He waved a gauntleted fist in Rattick’s pinched face. “It is my destiny to run him through.”

  “Your destiny? Don’t be absurd. I am the CHOSEN ONE!” shrieked the Knight.

  “Perhaps,” said Rattick, “you have both been Chosen.” They stopped to consider this possibility. Rattick pressed on, “We go to face a mighty foe. A powerful Wizard in a deep dungeon. Perhaps all the others have failed not because they didn’t have a Chosen One, but because they didn’t have enough Chosen Ones.”

  “I AM THE CHOSEN ONE!” they both shouted.

  Okay, thought Rattick, that was a mistake. Best to let the morons fight it out. But before he could step off the field of idiocy, the Enchantress chimed in. “Don’t talk to him like that,” she said. “He is a member of this party. Moreover, the sacred vows I have taken at the Shrine of Lauranda mean that I must treat all beings with courtesy and respect, and eat nothing that has a face,” she intoned with reverence.

  To Rattick’s surprise, this worked. The men lowered their swords and apologized (apologized!) to each other. Rattick stared longingly at the Enchantress. She was beautiful. Her curves were accentuated by the belt of gold rings that encircled her hips and the massive ruby that gleamed from between her breasts. Perhaps there was a way he could… No. Better not to think of such things.

  “Forgive me, good Rattick,” said the Knight, his head bowed. “Though it is true that we have hired you to guide us to the lair of foul Wizard Dimsbury, you have served us true and are a member of this party.”

  “We brave Companions,” said the Ranger, “we happy few, each, in our own way, fulfilling a mystical and wondrous destiny. Yes, we are all sorry to have used you so badly, faithful Rattick.”

  Rattick’s jaw dropped. Could they be serious? Was it possible that they were they conning him rather than the other way around? He clacked his teeth together and pasted a smile across his sour mouth. “Not at all, good sirs,” said Rattick. “We are Adventurers! Spirits run high with ones so bold as we.”

  “Huzzah!” cried the Knight, as he lifted his heavy blade in the air.

  “Huzzah!” cried the Ranger, clanging his blade against the sword of the man he was very recently going to run through.

  “Huzzah,” giggled the Enchantress, clapping her hands together and sending a tiny fireball up to dance against the blades.

  “You gotta be kidding,” thought Rattick as he lifted his dagger in half-hearted salute.

  • • •

  A few hours later, they emerged from the forest into a strange clearing and Rattick announced, “This is it.”

  “What do you mean?” asked the Ranger. “You mean this? It’s just a door in the side of a hill.” And so it was. A frame and stout oak door had been incongruously installed into the side of a well-grassed mound perhaps 25 feet high and 50 feet around. In front of the door was a reed mat that read “Go Away.”

  “You expected a sign?” asked Rattick.

  “Well, I… I don’t know what I expected,” said the Ranger

  “That’s why you hired me to be your guide.”

  “No, good fellow,” protested the Ranger, “do not wound me so. You are no longer hireling, but boon Companion, a full member of our brave band.”

  “Yes, yes,” said Rattick, “let us to it, boon Companions.” He reached for the door but before he could open it, the Enchantress interrupted.

  “Stop! We must first seek the benediction of Lauranda. Her blessing will keep us safe during our time of trial.”

  The Knight and the Ranger both drew their swords and knelt. Rattick rolled his eyes. Just get it over with. He didn’t know how much more amateur hour he could take. But he consoled himself with the knowledge that it would all be over soon.

  The Enchantress completed her babbling, and they ventured into the Wizard’s lair. It did not take long before the Companions heard rumblings and gnashings of teeth from the darkness ahead. Rattick smiled. The Troll was still there, and he sounded hungry. “Stay here, faithful Companions,” he said, playing it for all it was worth, “I will use my mastery of stealth and shadow to scout the way.”

  He handed his torch to the Ranger. He took two steps forward into the darkness of the cave. With a flourish, he wrapped his cape of faded black around him and vanished. Rattick heard his boon Companions gasp as he disappeared.

  “Oh, he’s very good,” said the Enchantress.

  Rattick was good, but so were his tools. The cape, mean and worn as it looked, was a powerful Magical item. It possessed three properties that Rattick knew of. One: when closed, it imposed upon all who saw it a powerful desire to look elsewhere. Two: in anything from darkness to light shadow, it rendered the user invisible. Three: it was an item so enchanted as to be nearly impossible to steal from its rightful owner. Rattick had learned this the hard way, procuring this wonderful item only after killing its previous rightful owner.

  “Be thankful he did not charge us more,” muttered the Knight.

  Again Rattick smiled at the nothingness of the dark. The bill for Rattick’s services was about to come due, and the brave-but-stupid Knight would find it held many hidden charges. Rattick took a few steps around the corner and squatted in the passageway. Faithful Companions? How could they fall for that? Rattick wasn’t sticking his neck out any farther than he had to. He waited for a time, then unwrapped his cloak and returned to the pool of torchlight in which his brave, faithful, and gullible Companions waited.

  As he stepped into the light, he donned an expression of fear. With a skill long practiced, he trembled as he spoke. “It is a Troll my Companions. A creature most large and fearsome. I fear it is more than we can defeat. We should turn back.”

  “Ha ha ha ha!” laughed the Knight, taking the bait. “A Troll! That is nothing to a Knight of the Yarven Dawn.”

  “And it is even less to the Blessed and Chosen
of Azaz,” said the Ranger, revealing the strange mark branded on his arm for what felt like the thousandth time.

  Rattick swallowed his disgust and said, “You are so much braver and stronger than I.”

  The Knight drew his sword and said, “Stay behind me and learn how it is done. Fear not, Rattick, for you are in the company of Heroes.”

  “I shall not let you steal the Glory!” cried the Ranger as he shouldered the Knight aside.

  Rattick couldn’t believe it – the idiots charged! A frontal assault on a Troll? They were so stupid it was a wonder they could remember to breathe.

  The Enchantress edged past him, smelling of exotic perfume. “I will see if I can bind the creature with The Mother’s Embrace. Stay behind me, and you will be safe.”

  He followed her swaying hips through the corridor, for once grateful for torchlight. There was a roar and the stench of something awful. Rattick knew this to be the Troll’s breath. Nothing smells worse than rotting flesh trapped between Troll teeth.

  When she saw the Troll, the Enchantress raised her arms and began casting a spell. As her hands wove their intricate pattern, Rattick slid his knife across her perfect, white throat. She gasped as her life’s blood poured down her neck, over the exquisite ruby necklace and into the deep valley of her heaving breasts. Before she could make another sound, Rattick covered her mouth and dragged her into the darkness.

  She whimpered softly and grew weak. Rattick set her against the wall and removed his hand from her face. When he lifted her chin she mouthed the word, “Why?” Rattick bent down and kissed the dying woman on the lips. Her eyes fluttered as her life left the husk of her body.

  Rattick tore the necklace from her throat. Then he wiped the blood from it with a black silk handkerchief. In the distance, the screams of the Chosen Ones ended in a terrible, squishy, bone-crunching noises.