Krim Times Revised: Chapters 1 and 2

Author’s Note

A couple of years ago, I decided to pull together the first three novellas and publish them as a print book for my most loyal fans. (You know who you are.) And, to do this, I needed to do a quick edit and tidying up first.

Well, one thing led to another and what was previously a 17,000-word novella has turned into a 75,000 word novel.

I’m now doing a final editing pass on it, before I turn the book over to a professional editor, and thought I’d share my progress here, with you, my favorite readers.

Let me know what you think. If you find any typos or grammar mistakes, or plot holes, feel free to pass them along. If it’s an easy fix, I’ll fix it. If not, I’ll just hope that the majority of readers aren’t as perspicacious as you are! And, also, when you’re editing a book, there are an infinite number of ways you can improve it. At some point, you just have to say, “enough!” and hit the publish button.

I’ll be posting a chapter or so a day, five days a week, until the entire book is up, then I’ll send it out for editing, upload it to Amazon, and serialize it for free on Hypergrid Business.

For anyone interested, the story has been written by my own human hands, and I’m currently working with an actual human artist for the book cover.

The first three novellas have been on Amazon’s bestseller list for free humorous sci-fi for the past few years, with people moving on to books two and three after reading book one, so I feel pretty positive about the books as they are now, and even more optimistic about this latest rewrite. I appreciate all the positive reviews you guys have left!

And now, on to Krim Times!

You can read all installments published so far on this page.

Prologue: The Griefer

Monday, July 15, 2120

Once upon a time, there was an unpopular virtual world that was almost, but not quite, completely unlike 1500s England. It was called Krim, and its capital was Krim City. 

Krim City did not have a police force, which concerned some users, but was appealing to others.

An individual of the second type peered out from a window overlooking Leadenhall Street, just a short walk from the city center. A curtain kept anyone below from catching a glimpse of the killer-in-waiting. He pushed himself away from the window, and a splinter dug into his palm. 

Anyone else would have cursed, or at least said, “Ouch.”

But the assassin didn’t feel any pain. An assassin with a small “a” since he bore no signs of guild affiliation. In fact, a better term to describe him would be “griefer,” since he brought grief to the other residents of the world. 

He didn’t think of himself as a griefer. He thought of himself as someone doing the best he could in a world where the odds were stacked against him. 

It was midday and there were plenty of targets. Local residents, mostly. Ppeople with no lives, playing at being medieval merchants and warriors. But also a fair number of idiot tourists and would-be adventurers looking for quests. The tourists drew the eye with their colorful, impractical costumes still mostly unstained by city filth. It was tempting to kill them all.

But right now, the killer was waiting for someone else, someone specific. It wouldn’t do to kill the wrong person and cause everyone, including his actual target, to flee for safety. He was an excellent shot. The fact that he’d missed before wasn’t his fault. There must have been a sudden burst of wind—air moved unpredictably between Krim’s stone buildings.

No matter what he was trying to do, the universe was biased against him. It wasn’t fair.

He pulled back the curtain slightly and peered down at the street. His target already walked past once today, but the griefer’s arrow went very wide, down an alley, and in the morning hubbub nobody even noticed. The street was loud with the sound of morning deliveries and the air was thick with smoke and fog. Smog, they used to call it.

The second arrow came closer, but bounced off a lamp post and landed in a gutter. A few people saw it but nobody could figure out where it had come from or who the target had been. Still, word spread and the number of pedestrians on the street thinned significantly. That was good. It made it easier to aim. And, better yet, delivery wagons started avoiding the area as well, making it easier for the griefer to see his victim.

The target went to the city hall every morning to chat with whatever grid administrator was on duty, then he normally stopped by the post office and went back to work, which meant he’d walk past this location again. 

The next arrow was bound to hit, the griefer thought. The third time was the charm, wasn’t it? And he was starting to get the hang of shooting from this angle. If he failed again… well, he didn’t know what he would do. And the consequences were too dire to think about.

He pushed back the curtain a tiny bit further so he could look further up the street. Any minute now…

Chapter 2: Trask has lunch

Marshal Henderson Trask was the closest Krim City had to a police chief. 

He was the chief of security for the Krim Chamber of Commerce, and he had it on good authority that someone was out to kill him. That authority was the arrow that narrowly missed him seconds ago. 

His heart thumped in his chest and he fought back the urge to jump off the steps and hide behind the wooden sign advertising the inn’s daily specials.

Trask was not, by nature, a brave man. In his previous life — literally in his previous life, since he’d been brought back from the dead almost a year ago — back when he still had a physical body and lived on the actual Earth he’d been a mid-level functionary in a mid-sized government agency. His only prior experience with law enforcement was watching cop shows.

When he found out who shot at him, he’d throw the book at them.

That book being the chamber rules and regulations, particularly the part specifying a steep fine against damaging commercial property.

He forced himself to turn slowly. It wouldn’t do for people to see him panicking. 

It would set the wrong example. 

He looked around at the street in front of the Barley Mow Inn. He’d been thinking about lunch as he walked up and hadn’t noticed how empty it was. Even the traffic seemed sparse today. He didn’t see any archers. In fact, nobody else had even noticed that he’d almost been shot.

He touched the arrow. It was embedded deep into the wood. It would have done a bit of damage if it had hit him.

Ever since his death, Trask had an aversion to being killed. He went back to his job after his six-week bereavement leave was over only to discover that they’d hired someone else for his position and tried to pawn him off with something equivalent in customer service. Equivalent! What a joke. He’d quit on the spot. He’d have filed a claim that he was being discriminated against because he now lived online, but so did the person who they hired to replace him, so that was a non-starter.

Trask was still mad about it. He’d dedicated his life… well, no point in dwelling on it now.

He had a job to do. The shiny badge hanging around his neck was proof of that.

He looked at the arrow again. The public would expect him to be able to tell at a glance where the arrow had come from, but he wasn’t an archery expert by any means. He had more important things to do than to get involved in those kinds of operational details.

He couldn’t tell one arrow from another. 

Though, now that he was looking at it, it was obviously a Krim Deluxe Crossbow Arrow, Special Edition, included in the default assassin character pack. It must have come from directly across the street and embedded itself into the door frame at a downward angle. It could have been shot out of a doorway to angle up and over and then down again.

If so, it could have come from Tottie’s Threads. That was a surprise. He was one of her favorite customers. In fact, just last week, he’d let her slide on a sidewalk obstruction violation.

He looked over at the closed door of her shop. He had half a mind to go over there and…

Another arrow thwacked into the other side of the door frame. He turned, wrenched the door open, and ducked inside.

***

“Someone just tried to kill me,” he told Quimby Plummer, the proprietor.

Quimby should have been outraged by the disrespect shown to the city’s premier law enforcement officer, but wasn’t. Instead, the innkeeper said, “It’s worse than that,” and pointed out the front window, where pedestrians were scattering in all directions. “They’re killing tourists.” He sighed. “I guess that’s the end of Krim. It was bound to happen sooner or later.” He glanced down at Trask’s outfit. “Maybe they thought you were a tourist. Why do you always look like King Henry the Eighth? He died a horrible, painful death, you know. Suffered for years from perforated leg ulcers, not to mention smallpox, malaria…”

There was no way to fact-check Quimby’s information while on Krim proper, so Trask ignored him. Besides, everyone in the middle Middle Ages died a horrible, painful death. What stung was Quimby’s comment that Trask looked like a tourist, because it reminded Trask of the failings of his fellow Krim residents.

It was unfortunately common to see only tourists dressed appropriately for the sixteenth century. Most merchants, and residents in general, didn’t have the same level of commitment as Trask did to their appearance. They complained that formal dress was too inconvenient, which was just an excuse. Trask had no patience for such thinking. Take Quimby, for example. The man wore loose wool trousers and a linen shirt, like a peasant, even though he was interacting with the public, not mucking out a horse stall. He also wore an apron to protect his clothing from spills. Disgraceful. Trask made a mental note to bring this up at the next chamber meeting. No, he might not remember a mental note, and this was important. He took out his notebook and flipped to the next open page. 

“I take my position seriously and dress appropriately.” Trask tapped his butt of his pencil against his badge, then eyed a particularly prominent and greasy stain on Quimby’s apron. Maybe from the oil used to deep fry the skirrets, a Barley Mow specialty. He made a note of that, as well.

“Well, you’re not going to have your position for long if the griefers keep picking off the tourists,” said Quimby. “Who do you think pays your salary? Mark my words, this is going to end badly for all of us. It always does.”

Trask snorted. 

Of course, in at least one respect, Quimby was right.

Tourists were the lifeblood of Krim. They traded real money for Krim currency when they first arrived on the grid and then spent their golds, shillings, pence and groats on local goods and services. They typically didn’t enjoy their purchases for long, as the grim reality of the sixteenth century caught up to them. Once they fled back home, they told all their friends how horrible Krim was, how bad the air smelled, and how dangerous it was to walk the streets. Somehow, all this negative word-of-mouth kept bringing new people in, probably out of morbid curiosity.

Most ran back to the gate the minute they stubbed their toe and realized that they couldn’t turn the pain down. Those that stuck around would be tortured by flea bites, chilled by Krim’s damp winds, pained by blisters, and, if they continued to stick around, they’d get stabbed and robbed in a dark alley. That last would be their own fault, though. Visitors were specifically warned not to go into any back streets when they first signed up for their user accounts. In fact, they had to sign disclaimers promising not to sue if they died a horrible, violent death, caught a deadly disease, or were forced into self-cannibalism to stave off starvation. 

None of this was Trask’s responsibility. As far as he was concerned, his main job was showing his face in public and listen to merchant complains so that they felt that they were getting their money’s worth from the dues they paid to the chamber of commerce.

“You should be out there catching the griefer.” Quimby pointed out the window. “Though I don’t know why I even bother telling you. Nobody ever listens to me, anyway.”

Trask stepped around an empty table and peered through the glass. It looked like the threat had passed. One tourist was holding his arm, wailing. Grazed by one of the arrows meant for Trask, most likely. 

The tourist’s friends were already helping him up. They’d go right back to the main gate and teleport out of Krim then leave bad reviews about how dangerous the grid was. The victim would tell everyone how close he’d come to dying a slow painful death from an infected arrow wound. 

“A little bit of danger is good for business,” Trask said.

Quimby shook his head then sighed dramatically. “Dead people don’t pay their bills.”

Other than the one injured tourist, the street was almost completely empty. There was normally quite a bit of traffic on Leadenhall Street, but word must have spread and delivery drivers were taking the long way around. Trask leaned forward so he could see better. There was a crowd of tourists gathered about halfway to the post office, where Leadenhall met Banking Street. Maybe they thought the sniping was a staged event. Some virtual worlds did that, but Krim’s owners were too cheap to pay for scripted drama.

Across the street, locals got up the courage to peer out from doorways, trying to see where the attacks had come from. Given the direction of the arrow, probably from across the street. The downward angle told Trask nothing. It could have come from ground level, if the arrow went up and came back down again, or it could have come from a higher floor. It probably had something to do with how fast the arrow was moving. Trask was no expert, of course. But what he did know was that he could easily have been killed.

Trask had considered wearing armor before, not so much for protection as for aesthetics, but it was heavy, the chamber refused to get Trask his own carriage. Krim didn’t exactly have a public transportation system.

“Has the griefer actually killed anyone yet?” Trask asked Quimby.

“It’s only a matter of time.”

So, no. Nobody was killed. 

“And, of course, being wounded is a lot worse than being killed outright,” Quimby added. “You could be in agonizing pain for hours, or even days, before you make it back to the gate and go home. Watching your limbs being slowly eaten by sepsis and infection…”

Trask tuned out the innkeeper’s complaints. His close call with death made him hungry, so he turned away from the window, sat down, and perused the menu on the back wall

“Shouldn’t you be doing something about the griefer?” Quimby asked. “Or is too much to expect that people would do their jobs?” He motioned at the dining room around them. “Look how empty this place is. We’ll be out of business any minute now, and then where will the chamber be?”

Trask looked around. Given the time of day, the inn seemed to have the same amount of patrons as it normally had. There were a few people sitting at the bar, eating and drinking. And one of the dining tables was occupied by a trio of dice players. 

“Fine, since it’s hurting business…” Trask leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his belly. Most chairs on Krim were on the wide side, to accommodate women’s voluminous skirts, men’s voluminous overcoats, and everyone’s weapons. But the Barley Mow was extra generous, which made it one of Trask’s favorite places to sit and restore himself.

“Well?” Quimby asked.

“Well what? I can’t chase a griefer across the rooftops on an empty stomach.”

Quimby grumbled something under his breath. It was probably something unflattering. Trask glared at him and eventually Quimby wilted and said, “Well, what do you want then?”

“I want potatoes,” Trask said. “But I’ll settle for skirrets and sausage.”

Potatoes hadn’t arrived in England yet in 1500, so they weren’t allowed on Krim. Maybe there were some in some unexplored part of the grid where potatoes grew naturally, but there were none here at in Krim City. Still, Trask was always hoping. Any minute now, a ship or a caravan might come in with a supply of new vegetables. 

Instead, the menu offered skirrets, a thin, pale, carrot-like tuber. There were boiled skirrets, baked skirrets, mashed skirrets, and—Trask’s favorite—peeled skirrets deep fried in beef tallow. 

“Make it fried skirrets,” Trask added.

“All out of fries,” said Quimby.

“I’ll take them mashed, then.”

“No skirrets at all,” said Quimby. “Delivery didn’t come, what with the griefer shooting arrows at everyone coming down the street. We might never get another delivery. That means no fresh meat or veg. Just peas porridge from now on.”

“It’s just a guy with a bow and arrow,” said Trask. “I can’t believe none of the local lads or lasses went up to the roof and took them down.”

“They tried,” said Quimby. “But there are a lot of roofs around here. Who knows where the griefer was actually shooting from. And by the time you’d get up there, he’d be long gone. It’s hopeless.”

“Well, I’m sure they’ll get the griefer soon enough,” Trask said. “Since it’s not good for business.”

“You’re not going to investigate this, are you?” Quimby said. “Of course, you never do. Why should I have expected anything else?”

 Trask realized that he might never get his meal and took out a notepad. Maybe it was time to check that the inn was up to date on its chamber dues. Or maybe Quimby would like to be appointed to a steering committee. Yes, that would…

Trask thought of something else and snapped his fingers. “Actually, we are already investigating. In fact, I forgot to tell you, but I’ve got my best man on it.”

“I’m sure Joe means well,” Quimby sighed.

“Joe Steelstrikes Phantomblade is an excellent investigator,” Trask said, sticking up for his one and only subordinate. “In fact, we already have several suspects.” This was true. Whenever there was an attempted murder on Krim, there were always several suspects. For example, everyone in the Assassin’s Guild, all the members of the mercenary guilds, and, of course, the archery club that met on Sundays at the Aldwich Row Community Center. Maybe Tuesdays?

Trask considered each of those possibilities. None of the guilds, and certainly not the archery club, normally targeted tourists. All the killing was usually of people in rival guilds. Or rival archery clubs. Or other people in the same guild. 

The less important a position of power was, the more people fought to get it, Trask thought. He had little patience for people who had so little respect out in the real world that they would come to a virtual one and invest months or even years of their life into slowly climbing up the hierarchy of a made-up organization.

 “And now that they’re targeting law enforcement, this has become our top priority,” he told Quimby.

The innkeeper sighed again. “If you say so.”

Trask ignored the insinuation that he might be shirking his duties. “We’ve got all hands on deck. Believe me, it’s  the top of my agenda. The only thing holding me up is that I can’t work on an empty stomach.” He held Quimby’s eye until the man trudged off to the kitchen.

Suspects. List of potential suspects. Trask flipped to a new page of his notepad and took out a pencil — just a stick of graphite wrapped in string — and started making a list. First, the assassin and mercenary guilds. How many were there? At least half a dozen at last count. There was a type of hard-core role player who thought that dying in a basic-bio world gave them extra bragging rights. He added the archery club to the list.

Then he thought about people who targeted tourists specifically. 

Only one name immediately came to mind: Larry the Lifter. Larry was more about picking pockets in dark alleys than sniping at tourists from rooftops, but maybe he wanted a change of scenery.

Trask looked back at the kitchen, but there was no sign of his food, so he turned his attention to the dice players.

“Any of you good people see anything?” He didn’t expect to recognize any of them. Krim had thousands of full-time residents, not to mention all the part-timers and tourists. Trask preferred to focus his attention on people who were actually important, like guild leaders, Krim World administrators, and, of course, the merchant members of the chamber. He was too important to concern himself with riffraff.

One of them looked up. 

“I didn’t see anything,” she said.

That was Lady Ismena—also known as Izzy—and she was not officially recognized as a lady of Krim. The title was completely fictitious, and Trask didn’t trust a thing she said. 

Izzy looked across the table, where Taenaran the Bard shook the dice in his hand. 

“But I might have heard something.” Izzy smiled slightly and tilted her face down so she could look at the bard through her eyelashes. 

“Did you, honey?” Frieda Lane, a woman who owned a florist shop across the street next to the tailor, padded Izzy on her hand. “Or do you just want to be mentioned in a ballad? The only validation you really need is right here.” She reached out a finger, as if to tap Izzy on her chest, where breasts were spilling over a tightly-laced bustier, but changed her mind about half way and touched Izzy gently on the forehead, instead. 

Izzy ignored her, eyes fixed on the bard.

“I don’t write ballads about petty crimes,” said Taenaran. “My specialty is epic battles and feats of derring-do.”

“You must be so brave,” Izzy said. “Risking your life for a song.”

“Art is the only thing worth dying for,” said Taenaran. 

As far as Trask knew, the only battles that the bard had come anywhere close to were bar fights. The only danger he faced was the danger of being stepped on while he crawled under the nearest table. And, worst of all, Taenaran never mentioned the chamber, or its head of security, in any of his ballads. The man wasn’t worth the time it would take to get up, walk over, and talk to him.

“I was talking to a fishmonger at the market this morning and she said that Krim’s owners are selling the grid,” said Frieda. “The board is voting on Thursday.”

Taenaran and Izzy ignored her. Trask was curious to learn more but, just then, the kitchen door swung open.

Quimby backed into the dining room then turned around, holding a bowl of beef soup and a plate of sliced rye bread. He dropped them both in front of Trask with an air of defeat.

The beef soup was mostly cabbage and grease but smelled good. Trask broke off a piece of bread and dipped it into the soup. Perfect. Well, a little gritty because of the tiny bits of stone in the bread, but that’s what happens with medieval flour mills.

“Have you heard anything about them selling the grid?” he asked Quimby as the man was walking back towards the kitchen.

Quimby stopped and turned. “I can’t believe that anyone would want to buy Krim,” he said. “But I’m sure if they do, it will all turn out for the worst.”

“It’s for real this time,” said Frieda. “It’s on the agenda.”

“You’ve seen the agenda?” A burly red-haired man sitting at the bar turned and looked back at her. Trask recognized him as Jarl Ironfoundersson, who ran an iron foundary on the south side of the city. “Are the impex holdups on it?”

Krim had a chronic labor shortage when it came to menial jobs in the agriculture and manufacturing sectors. Nobody wanted to role play as a farm laborer. Krim’s jury-rigged solution was impex — import-export. Food, clothing, and other miscellaneous items were duplicated off-world and then brought into Krim by the wagon-load. 

“I don’t think they’ll be discussing imports, but I’d like to know, too,” said Frieda. “All the distributors I work with are having trouble getting licenses.”

“I was wondering why the cast iron pans were always on back-order,” said Quimby. “I thought it was just my luck.”

“It’s not just you,” Jarl said. “I’m having trouble getting enough limestone. But even if we had all the limestone we needed, we can’t fill all our orders because we can’t hire enough people. We need the export license to be able to duplicate our goods, and the import license to distribute it to you guys.”

“Maybe they just don’t want a flood of cannons on the grid,” said Izzy. “Think of all the death and destruction. Wars are already dangerous enough.” She looked up at the bard. “You must be so brave to go out there.”

“Guns and cannons would completely change Krim’s character,” said Trask. “Though, historically speaking…”

“Well, maybe I can understand about the cannons,” Jarl interrupted. “But what’s wrong with cast iron pans? Or door hinges, or hammers, or… or plowshares?”

“I thought we already had all those,” said Trask.

“Wrought iron,” Jarl said. “Not the same.”

“For cooking, cast iron is infinitely better,” said Quimby. “But I’ll find a way to make do.” He shook his head and went into the kitchen.

Trask turned away and looked out the window as the other patrons at the bar dove deeply into the comparative merits of cast and wrought iron.

This wasn’t the first time he’d heard complaints from merchants about supply chain problems, and everyone had a different theory about what was going on. Some thought that the problem was with Wilson Gully himself, the grid’s founder and majority owner. He had some peculiar ideas of what the true character of Krim was, ideas that were often completely different from what was actually happening on the grid. Others put the blame with the board of directors, which was packed with Gully’s idiot relatives and friends. Still others blamed the Impex Board of Appeals, which was dominated by the big merchants. The theory was that that those merchants were blocking applications from their rivals. And everyone suspected corruption, but they all had different ideas about who was taking bribes.  

This was a topic that came up at nearly every chamber meeting, and was one of the things that Trask had been hired to investigate. The problem was that nobody wanted to admit to having paid a bribe. It would be bad for their reputation if word got out and they also liked the competitive advantage they got from the arrangement. 

Quimby returned a minute later with a tankard of ale and a ramekin of wet suckets, dropping them both down so that it shook the table. Trask grabbed the tankard in time to keep it from falling. Only a little bit spilled on the table. There was nothing slow about his reflexes, he thought to himself.

He ignored Quimby’s bad manners and tucked a corner of a large cloth handkerchief into his collar to protect the front of his shirt and doublet from food stains. Then he dug in. He hadn’t had anything since late breakfast and was very much looking forward to the meal, and especially the wet suckets he was saving for desserts. The proper way to serve it would have been in a silver sucket barrel, accompanied by a silver sucket fork. But that would have been too much to ask.

Someday, Trask thought, Krim would grow to the point that residents would happily take all the menial jobs that went into properly making and serving food. For now, however, there was a shortage of people willing to do the work. Roleplayers wanted to be kings, or warriors, or assassins, or just own their own businesses. Nobody valued hard work anymore.

Maybe the food on Krim didn’t compare to, say, World of Battle, where there were non-player characters around to do the menial labor, and where players without NPC servants could use magic spells to prepare meals. And, yes, it paled in comparison to even the chain restaurants in Facepage’s Main Street shopping district. But it made Trask happy.

The beef soup was properly greasy and salty, with little dried charred bits floating in it that had been scraped up by the serving spoon.

There was just something about eating meat that came from an animal instead of a cloned meat factory. The sinews, the gristle, the other bits of connective tissue. The random bits of bone that showed a lack of skill on the part of the butcher.

And the turnips did taste a bit like potatoes, he though. Once you cooked them long enough, almost every root vegetable did. 

Then the suckets. Sweet sugarplums and other dried fruit swimming in a thick, sweet syrup flavored with ginger and other spices. Quimby must have found a new supplier—the Barley Mow Inn’s cook wasn’t known for making fancy desserts from scratch.

Finally, Trask was satisfied. He leaned back in the chair and there was a moment of worry when it creaked. But it didn’t break and Trask sighed a happy sigh and patted his belly.

And he admitted to himself that he did, in fact, look a bit like King Henry VIII. But not only was this appropriate to Krim’s setting but also allowed him to look even larger than he was, which intimidated miscreants.

In fact, Trask was twice as wide as his chair, but only some of that width was due to his physical flesh. The rest came from his box coat, stuffed with historically accurate straw. He was particularly proud of his puffy upper sleeves and the fur lining. 

And his badge. He was very proud of his badge.

He took out a clean handkerchief and started rubbing it. The bronze was slightly tarnished, and he’d tried every cleaning solution he could find. Now his plan was just to keep rubbing it and hoping that, eventually, some of the tarnish would start coming off.

“Hey, dalcop, the cutpurse is back.” Taenaran the Bard stood up to get a better look.

“Dalcop?” asked Izzy. “You know the fanciest words!”

“A dalcop, my dear, is a particularly dull person,” said Taenaran. “I’m insinuating that our local law enforcement isn’t up to the job.” He shook his head. “I just hope I’m not forced to step in and solve the crime for him. After all, I’m just a chronicler of events.”

Frieda snorted.

Izzy ignored her and clutched her hands to her chest. “Oh, you’ve caught murderers!”

Taenaran preened. “Let me tell you the story of a little town called Gegorport…”

Trask glanced out the window. Larry the Lifter was half-hiding behind a cart piled high with skirrets, a bright KSL logo painted on the cart’s side. Krim Shipping and Logistics.  

Skirret deliveries were back on. Thank God. Trask made a mental note to return soon for dinner.

Then he made an actual note to catch up with Larry. The pickpocket was hard to get a hold of, being wiry and slippery, but he might have seen something. 

Frieda turned in her chair to face Trask. “I’ve been thinking of putting in an offer to buy the flower shop outright,” she said. 

Izzy immediately stopped batting her eyes at the bard and Trask could see her running the numbers in her head. The only claim to power Frieda had was being chair of the Leadenhall Street Beautification Committee. But maybe she was secretly rich? Izzy looked at Frieda’s dress, then glanced down at the woman’s shoes and must have decided that the flower seller wasn’t worth her time and turned back to Taenaran.

“But it would be a big investment, but hardly worth it if nobody comes to Leadenhall Street anymore,” Frieda continued, oblivious to Izzy’s once-over.

Trask shut his notebook. That was enough work for the day. Time to get back to the chamber and have an afternoon nap. 

He began the long process of extricating himself and his clothes from the chair. But before he was completely free, Quimby returned.

“Everybody always leaves,” the innkeeper said mournfully. 

Trask ignored him. He knew Quimby didn’t mean it. He wanted people to leave so that he could clear the table ahead of the dinner rush.

“You haven’t even asked about last night’s murder,” Quimby continued.

“What murder?”

“Someone killed one of my customers. Choked him to death with her breasts.”

Could it be the same perp? Sure, the method was different, Trask thought… “Was the customer a tourist?” he asked.

“No.”

“Then she’s probably not the griefer.” Trask stepped away from the table and headed for the exit.

The door opened before he got to it and the man who walked in was covered head to toe in leather and metal armor. So, not a local, Trask thought. Not even the most die-hard role players wore armor around town unless it was for a special occasion.

“Welcome, my good sir, and good morrow,” Quimby said in a said monotone. He was never happy when he had to speak official Krimmish with a tourist. “Thou art a strapping young figure of a lad. Prithee, won’t thou partaketh of our fine establishment? A mighty fine repast awaits thee.”

“I’m not a tourist,” said the visitor, removing his helmet. “I’m looking for the newspaper.”

Quimby gestured at the stack of papers on the front desk. “You can look at it for free if you’re a customer. But I’m sure there are other places you’d rather be. In which case, it’s two dollars.”

“Dollars?” the visitor asked.

“One groat,” Quimby corrected himself.

So the armored visitor wasn’t a Krim regular after all, Trask thought. Which explained why he didn’t recognize him. Regulars didn’t bother with the official Krim currency, which was almost completely impractical.

“What’s a groat? No, never mind, I meant the actual newspaper building,” said the armored visitor.

“Next block over,” said Frieda. “But if you’re looking for Seymour, he won’t be there for at least a couple of hours. He’ll stop by here first.”

“You can wait,” Quimby said, gesturing to the bar. “But you probably won’t want to.”

“Why not?” the visitor said. “It’s been quite a hike. It would be nice to get off my feet.” He put his helmet and a leather briefcase on the bar and sat down. “Got any tea?”

“If only,” Quimby said.

“Isn’t this supposed to be England?”

“Tea didn’t come to England until the mid-1600s,” said Frieda. “Krim is set roughly in the 1500s.”

Taeranan the Bard looked up with enthusiasm. This was a favorite topic of conversation in the city.

“Strictly speaking,” Taeranan began.

“Krim is not a historically accurate representation of 1500s England,” Frieda cut him off. “But a grid loosely based on Earth in the year 1500, though the geography is all different.”

Old-timers often referred to virtual worlds as grid because the early ones had a checkerboard layout.

“Tea was, in fact, around at the time, throughout Asia and along the Silk Road,” said Taeranan. “So there’s no reason why one of the role players couldn’t take a ship and find some.”

“I would just love to have a cup of tea,” said Izzy. “If only a brave adventurer would discover some and bring it back.”

“Personally, I’d just like to see indoor plumbing,” said Frieda.

“If the grid admins knew what they were doing…” Jarl spoke up from the bar.

If the visitor wasn’t a tourist, he was still new to Krim, Trask thought. So he probably wasn’t the griefer. It usually took a few days for people to develop an unquenchable need to kill everyone.

Maybe he was looking to move to the grid, which made him a crazy person. Or maybe he was just visiting a friend, though, in Trask’s experience, Krim residents tended not to have many friends in the real world.

The visitor did seem comfortable enough in his armor, but moved a little slowly. So he was more focused on defense than offense. Maybe he was a courier of some kind? Krim residents couldn’t receive any electronic communications while they were in-world, and the local mail system left a lot to be desired.

“So, Quimby,” said Taeranan. “You said someone died here last night. Anyone we know?”

“Some adventurer,” Quimby said. “His friends stopped by later and took the body. I thought I was going to have to clean it up.” He sighed. “I always have to clean up the dead bodies.”

It sounded like everything worked out then, Trask thought. 

“Do people often die here due to sexual misadventure?” the armored visitor asked. 

Trask paused with his hand on the door. He was curious to know the answer, too. He turned to look at Quimby.

“Not usually, no,” the innkeeper said. “Mostly just the usual suicides, like cheating at cards. Or looking at someone funny.” He shook his head. “People have no consideration for what a mess that makes.” 

“There’s a death cult up north,” Frieda casually mentioned. “I think it’s headed by by a sex goddess.” Everyone in the inn looked at her but she just casually resumed sipping her ale.

Finally, Taenaran got tired of waiting. “Well? What’s the story? Are there human sacrifices? Naked dancing under the light of the moon?”

“It sounds awfully dangerous,” Izzy said. “You hear all the time about people being kidnapped off the streets into sexual slavery. I hope someone can protect me.” She glanced at Taenaran, but the bard didn’t notice. 

“What city is this in?” he asked Frieda.

“Last I heard? Up in the northern mountains somewhere,” said Frieda. “I really don’t know any of the details. It was something someone said in passing at the Aldwich Row Community Center. I teach a flower arranging class there every Sunday afternoon.”

“There’s a lot of narrative potential in a death cult lead by a sex goddess,” said Taenaran. “Northern mountains, you say?”

“That’s where the war is going to be,” said Izzy. “It would be so dangerous to go. I couldn’t bear it if something happened to you.” She laid her hand on Taenaran’s forearm.

“Right, right, the war,” the bard said. “Of course I have to cover the war. Daring deeds and all that.” His face grew blank for a second. The logistics of being a war corrrespondent on Krim must be difficult, Trask thought. Then Taenaran snapped back to the present, noticed Izzy’s hand, and smiled at her. “Has anyone ever written a ballad about how beautiful you are?”

Frieda sighed. “Are we playing dice or not?”

Since distant death cults had no impact to speak of on Krim City commerce, Trask decided that it was time to go back to his office. After all, there were no crimes against business being committed here. His work was done.

He opened the door just in time to hear someone on the street yell, “Thief! Thief!”