Reamde

The transaction that Marlon hoped to pull off would amount to something like thirty pieces of Indigold, or three thousand of the Blue stuff. Since carrying around three thousand pieces of anything was not practical, Csongor had little choice but to set up a relationship with one of the big traders down in the bottom of the pit who, (a) dealt in Indigold all the time, and (b) was controlled by players who could wire funds to the Philippines. But precisely because such characters were carrying around such immense amounts of money, security here was suffocating, with the innermost and lowest ring of the amphitheater guarded by a ring of extremely fearsome-looking guards, standing shoulder to shoulder and looking outward, and walled, roofed, and domed by nested layers of shimmering light that Csongor recognized, vaguely, as magical spells. In T’Rain, figuring out how powerful another character was was a far more complicated proposition than in other such games where you could merely compare levels. Csongor lacked the experience to judge another character’s abilities, but he knew a few rules of thumb and had little doubt that even the small-time traders around the rim could strike Lottery Discountz dead just by giving him a cross look.

Which gave him the notion that he might be able to get close to the center of the action precisely because he was so harmless. He tried the experiment of simply walking across the plaza to the edge of the pit and then clambering down on to the topmost bench. No one cared. He moved down another. No reaction. Things began to get crowded and he had to sidestep this way and that to find gaps in the crowd of traders, but no one paid him any particular note. He was close to the dividing line between the merchant side and the priestly side, and he heard priests calling out “Benison!” and coming together with merchants to exchange money. Benisons, as he’d learned, were a way for players to transfer real money into T’Rain; the character would pray to a god, a charge would be placed on the player’s credit card, and the gold pieces would simply appear on an altar somewhere, or turn up at the end of a rainbow in a mountain glade controlled by this or that faction of priests, and then they would transfer it through markets like this one to the prayerful recipients. Csongor eavesdropped on a few such transactions and noted that they were typically in the thousands of GP range, which was to say, a handful of Red Gold pieces. But after he had worked his way down into the middle reaches where Blue Gold changed hands, he still, from time to time, heard a priest calling out, instead of “Benison!” the phrase “Miraculous Benediction.” He looked this up and learned that, every so often, when a character prayed for a Benison, he got a hundred or a thousand times as much as he had asked (and as his player had paid) for. It was a lucky break, like finding a hundred-dollar bill in a box of Cracker Jacks.

And this gave Csongor all he needed to form a sort of plan. He worked his way down as close as he could to the ring of guards, the dome of spells. Once he descended to the point where the magic barriers were inflicting damage on Lottery Discountz and the guards were turning their eyes his direction and reaching for their weapons, he backed off a step, sat down, and began to observe the transactions taking place in the innermost circle. Flashes of purple were going off all over the place. He was watching millions of dollars changing hands. The total number of traders within that ring was perhaps twenty, and any one of them could handle the transaction he had in mind.

He was beginning to hear words coming from Marlon’s mouth, which pulled him out of the imaginary world and brought him back into the Internet café in the Philippines. Marlon, who had played almost silently for the last couple of hours, was now communicating directly, in Mandarin, with one of his lieutenants. Or perhaps they were generals. Csongor could only speculate at the size of his army now. Marlon’s voice was calm, quiet, but insistent, and his hands were prancing around the keyboard like spiders on a hot skillet.