Gnomeslayer Estate reminds me of the palaces of deposed dictators we used as forward base camps in Syria, Lebanon, and Iran. Everything is over the top. Marble statuary, great sputtering fountains replete with ducks and peafowl, servants everywhere, and a line of carriages bordering the mile-long stone driveway that had to be the medieval equivalent of a car collection. The whole place reeks of wealth and status.

Our carriage arrives at the grand double doors, and I pile out with the rest of the soldiers. We, the underlings, stay a few respectful feet back as a pair of black-clad servants open the grand doors to a party already in full swing. Perhaps the carriages were for guests, and I was too quick to judge.

At least a thousand people are in the main hall. And there’s still plenty of room for another thousand. Everyone has a drink in their hand, servants carry platters of food on their shoulders, and a lively band plays a rousing song from one corner.

“Cornelius,” I say, grabbing the man on the shoulder. He’s busy unloading his weapons and armor on a servant girl. It appears he and the other soldiers will be attending the party shirtless, which is a little odd considering the opulent dress of all the other guests.

“Yes?” he fixes me with a smile.

“Ah, what am I supposed to do? I mean… party, sure, I get that. But then what? Am I going to disappear?”

He shrugs, and the serving girl takes his gear away without a sound. “Ask Sir Vasily. He’s the wizard, not me. I’m just a level forty-one guard captain trying to get to level forty-two, you know?”

“No, that’s the point! I don’t know what the hell you’re saying! Every word that comes out of your mouth is insane. Level? I don’t know what any of this means!”

Cornelius skips over a foot and snatches a crystal glass from a serving tray and brings it to his lips. “Just enjoy the party! The wine is excellent! Sir Vasily really spares no expense. And give you… wand, or whatever, your magic stick thing, to one of the servants. I’m sure Sir Vasily will give you a room until you… you know…” He gestures with his hands, mimicking an explosion. “Poof!”

Before I can ask anything else, Cornelius downs his wine, saunters into the crowd, and is lost among the sea.

I pick out a servant girl and decide to try my luck with her. She’s young, probably just a teenager, and dressed in a fancy formal jacket with a silk bow in her black hair. “Hey,” I say, grabbing her attention. “Can you show me to a room?”

She nods. “Right this way, ma’am. Are you staying for the night?”

“I guess so.”

“Too much wine? I can fetch a pitcher of cold water, if you please.”

“That would be great.” I follow her along the side of the massive room, past portraits of people who vaguely look like Sir Vasily and tapestries that I assume depict other Inktown Tournaments, to a curving staircase of polished wood that reminds me of a set from The Sound of Music. At the top of the stairs, a long hallway extends over the ballroom below with no less than twenty rooms on both sides. The girl leads me to one and fishes a key from her black jacket.

“I’ll be along presently, ma’am, with a pitcher of cold water. Do you need anything else?”

God, these people speak weird. “Some food, if it isn’t too much to ask. And… a map of the city?” I don’t know how much I can demand from the servant, but a map feels like a strong choice.

She gives me a meek curtsy. “Of course, ma’am. You shan’t wait long.”

I shake my head and slip the key in the door as the girl silently disappears. The room on the other side completes the Sound of Music look. The ceiling has to be twenty feet, and giant, embroidered curtains frame a glass window next to a bed large enough for the entire Von Trapp family plus a few dogs. A stained wooden cabinet dominates the right wall, and a towering oil painting of a gaudily dressed wizard occupies the left.

I take stock of the room, check under the huge bed and inside the cabinet for threats, then finally drop my bag from my shoulders. I’m still not sure about leaving the rifle, especially since I didn’t take a knife with me to the gun range. There are candlesticks that would probably make a decent bludgeon, but I resign myself to finding something better later.

For now, I need to inventory. I have my range medical kit, my white Kriss Vector rifle, and ninety-one rounds of .45 ACP. I also have a change of clothes in the range bag and a cleaning kit for the rifle.

“What a weird fucking day,” I say to myself, plopping down on the plush bed beside my gear. So far, I’ve come to the conclusion that everything is real. I was summoned to Inktown, wherever or whenever that is, and I was supposed to vanish when Sir Vasily ran out of mana. But Vasily ran out of mana, and I’m still here. God, if my brother was here with me, he would be able to explain it all. The guy played games with terms like mana, summoning, wizards, and familiars all the time. And when he wasn’t playing the games, he read the books. Total nerd.

But he isn’t here. Just me. It wouldn’t be the first time I’d have to rely on my own skills to get out of a situation and survive. Images of Aleppo in 2028 flash through my mind, but I run through one of my counting techniques to keep them at bay.

Fortunately, the serving girl returns with a meek knock on the door, and she wheels a cart into my room. The cart is laden with food of all shapes, sizes, and colors. Most of it is recognizable, but some is completely foreign. She pours a glass of water from a metal pitcher and hands it to me.

“Thanks,” I say, taking a sip.

The servant girl quietly exits the room and then returns a few seconds later with a paper map in her hands. “A map of Inktown,” she says meekly. “Are you from Vortrube? Are you staying just for the Tournament?”

“Vortrube?” I repeat. The name means nothing to me. “No, I’m from East Rutherford, but… its pretty far away. I wouldn’t expect you to know about it.”

She shakes her head. “No, ma’am. I’ve not heard the name. Is there anything else you require?”

I think for a moment, but nothing exactly comes to mind. What I need is information. Perhaps the girl can help me there as well. “Are you allowed to stay for a while and answer some questions? I’m new to the city, after all.”

The girl dutifully sits in one of the plush chairs across from the bed and folds her hands in her lap. “I am here to serve the guests. You are a guest. I am happy to serve.” She smiles, and I genuinely believe her. She’s not a slave or a harem girl or some kind of indentured servant. At least not that I can tell.

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“Tell me about Sir Vasily. We just met, and he seems… enigmatic.”

Her eyes brighten. “Oh, Sir Vasily is the best Wizard in Inktown, probably the world! And he’s so dreamy, don’t you think?”

“Well, no, not really my type…” He looks more like a Turkish kebab salesman than a wizard, but to each their own.

“Sir Vasily has won the Inktown City Tournament four years in a row! No one can beat him!”

“And by beat him, you mean kill, right?”

She nods, completely unfazed by the wanton death. “Just watching him practice in the courtyard… I could never be a wizard. He’s so strong.”

She’s really down bad for Sir Vasily, I guess. But celebrity worship is nothing new. “How did he become a wizard?” I ask. I need to figure out more of the magic, or whatever, before I run into someone with the ability to stop one of my bullets.

She screws up her face. “What do you mean?”

“Just assume that I’ve never met a wizard before. We don’t have them in East Rutherford.”

Her eyes go wide. “Well… Sir Vasily chose to become a wizard on his twelfth birthday, just like I chose to become a servant, and you chose to become… what are you?”

“Wait, you chose to become a servant?” I could come back to her question later.

She nods and smiles, her enthusiasm obvious. “It is a good life. Steady work, all the best food from Sir Vasily’s chefs, and look where I live! Plus, I’m quite good at it, or at least I like to think so.” She spreads her arms wide, beaming at the room.

“Well, I guess that makes sense. And you’re an excellent servant.” I pick up one of the pastries from the food cart and sniff at it, the sweet aroma pungent enough to make my teeth hurt. I put it back in favor of a savory pretzel covered in a faint yellow cheese sauce.

“And what are you?” the girl asks again.

“I’ll tell you a secret.” I lean in, and she does the same. “I’m a familiar. Sir Vasily summoned me at the Tournament, but for some reason, I didn’t vanish when he ran out of mana. Or that’s what Cornelius, the guard captain, told me.”

The servant girl laughs as though I’ve just told her the funniest joke, and then her expression immediately darkens when she realizes I’m telling the truth. “Oh, oh my,” she finally sputters out.

“I know, I know. It doesn’t make sense to me either. I’m just—”

“But you need a class! You need one! Everyone has a class!”

I put it together that class means wizard or servant or guard captain. “Yeah, well, I don’t know how to get a class. I’m pretty new here in Inktown, remember?”

She gives me a funny look, her hands once more clasped in her lap with perfect posture. It feels a little like talking to a doll from a horror movie. “What does your status say?” She makes a strange gesture through the air.

“Status?” All of a sudden, my vision changes. The word ‘status’ triggers some kind of… something… that quickly takes over my view.

Sarah O’Connor

Class: _____

Level: 4

Mana: 0/0

Physique: 14

Cunning: 12

Authority: 9

Attunement: 0

Progress to next level: 35/40

“Alright, this is weird. I’m going to need some help,” I say. The floating numbers move in sync with my head, and I can’t get them to go away. It is hard to focus on the girl beyond the status screen as the numbers take up my entire vision.

“Just swipe them away or you’ll get a headache after too long,” she says.

I imitate her gesture, and the stats instantly vanish. “Whoa. So weird.” I want to try it again. “Status.” The numbers instantly return. I swipe, and they disappear.

“What’s it say?” the servant asks, her voice eager.

“No class, level four, whatever that means, and a bunch of other stats. What does it all mean?”

She giggles like a schoolgirl. “Level four? And you’re how old?”

“Hey, come on. I just got here,” I fire back. Apparently, level four and being in my thirties is terrible. Just my luck. “There’s a blank line next to class, and it just blinks. What do I do?”

“Well, you need to pick a class. Once you pick one, you have to find someone of that class and have them confirm it for you. That’s it!”

Pick a class… Again, my brother’s expertise would be lovely. “Well… I’m good at a few things. Not many, though. Back in… in the war, I was a ranger. Is there a ranger class?”

She nods enthusiastically. “My uncle is a ranger. He lives in the woods in a little cabin by the river. Its such an idyllic life. Quiet, really.”

“Ah. Not my kind of ranger, then. I guess there won’t be a sniper class either, not that I can make more bullets.”

“Sniper? What’s that?” Now it is her turn to be confused for once.

I wave away the question. “Don’t worry about it.” A thought creeps into my head. If people die here with the regularity with which it appears they do, I’m going to need to rely on my military training to survive. I’m good with a gun, but I have no access to more rounds. That’s the problem I need to fix. “Is there a class that can duplicate items?”

“What do you mean?”

I grab one of the .45 ACP rounds from the box on the bad and hold it in my palm. “My, uh, wand here uses these special cartridges. Ever see one before?”

She shakes her head, ruling out the possibility of going to the local gun store and stocking up.

“Is there a class that can make more of these? Like duplicate them with magic? Clone them?”

Her eyes perk up a bit at the word clone, and it seems I’ve finally struck gold. “Cloning… I’ve heard stories. Sir Vasily’s tutor, Sir Mormont, was a powerful wizard who could clone sheep and other animals.”

“Was?”

Her voice drops. “He’s dead. Or missing. Or just gone. But probably dead. He’d be over a hundred by now anyway.”

Well shit. “You said he taught Sir Vasily? Can Sir Vasily clone things?”

“Oh no, he’s not nearly as high level as Sir Mormont was. Not even close.”

I finish the cheesy pretzel and take another drink of water. “Wait, you mean over a hundred as in level, not age, right?”

She laughs again. “Of course.”

“And can anyone else clone things?” I ask.

“Not that I know. But Sir Vasily is the only wizard I’ve ever known. You should ask him in the morning. Maybe he knows where to find Sir Mormont.”

“Not a bad plan, kid. Looks like I might need to become a wizard.”