Chapter 3: Chapter 3

"I'll be at his office in about thirty minutes," Jacob said through the console by the door. "Let him know I'll be bringing my maid."

He hung up, and then Pip shared all she claimed to know about the Maid-Class System.

They sat at opposite ends of the couch as she drew the main menu on paper for him, pencil-scratchy though it was:

Class: Maid
Sub-Type: Maid of All Work

Skills:
Discretion [Level 12]
Duster [Level 30]
Fold [Level 35]
Iron [Level 8]
Toadie [Level 2]

Why didn't she have a high level in Iron?

"Because you never have me iron clothes," she told Jacob.

And what about Toadie?

"If I do just the ordinary running-around-doing-errands, it doesn't count," she said. "See, Toadie the Skill is where you're given a task, and the task is so close to impossible that you're really running around to accomplish it."

"Do you know what that sounds like?" Jacob said.

"Like the Persuade and Curse skills," she said dutifully.

So she had heard all too much about the systems of royalty. Pip knew that when a prince wanted a person to do his bidding, he could either tell them what to do or turn to a Skill.

He wanted to Persuade his allies and underlings, since anyone who fulfilled those tasks would receive a reward. If they were the rare individual who had a system, they'd gain experience across all their Skills. If not, they would still receive a divine sensation of spiritual fulfillment, as if a god himself had seen the wish through.

Whereas a Curse would make someone labor under spiritual depression and psychic debuffs until the command was fulfilled—or the person killed.

If the demand was seen by both prince and servant as impossible, Persuade and Curse couldn't even get through.

So yeah, Toadie was just sounded like a worse, contrived version of those.

"So an outside party has to give you a command, and that has a chance of activating Toadie," Jacob said.

"That's right!"

"And...what buffs does it give you?"

"A bit of a speed boost."

"Is that all?"

Pip hummed and shrugged. "I might get more if I can level it up some?"

"Pip, tell the whole truth. Stop leaving things out. It's not helping you anymore, now that we're on the same side." He said it without sarcasm, but his common sense was always setting off that alarm bell, saying, Traitor, traitor, she'll never not be a traitor.

Pip took a deep breath. "Here's the description, word for word: 'When faced with nearly impossible odds imposed upon you by a boss or other social superior, all stats receive a multiplier equal to Skill level times 1.07.'"

"Does that sound like 'only a speed buff' to you?"

"Well, that's all I feel when it activates. I'm a maid! Don't expect me to know what a stat or a multiplier is!"

Jacob leered at her. Since she was a maid who knew what Persuade and Curse were, she could certainly be expected to have picked up a little basic system language.

"One last thing before we head out," Jacob said. His mind was wading through ideas about experience, grinding, munchkin-izing. He'd have to address them later. "What is 'Discretion?'"

Pip blushed. "Hiding things really well."

"Give the description."

"'Attempt to hide in plain sight by dividing Charisma by Skill level times 1.07."

...Was that how Charisma worked?

Most people assumed that low Charisma must make you super ugly, but it wasn't so cut-and-dry. Actually, none of the Stats were that simple. Though they were mentioned in Skill descriptions (with the descriptions of the summonable weapons granted to kings and queens mentioning several), they were mind-bogglingly hard to research, since nobody—okay, nobody on official record, that was the phrase Jacob would have to start using—could get their system to pull up a Stats menu.

Therefore, Jacob had no trouble believing that Charisma could work that way. Yes, sometimes it meant you were really ugly, but other times it just meant you attracted no attention.

He told Pip, "That's a very good Skill for a murderer. You should've used it."

"I thought my way would do it faster. And it seemed more fun."

"I figured."

That was the last question he asked Pip before they left. It was far from the only question left on his mind, the biggest one being: Fold at level 35? Holy shit. If she wasn't just bluffing, that meant she'd reached a level of folding expertise that rivaled the Skills of the most powerful king of all time. King Renard of Zuuse had boasted constantly of his level, and his wartime achievements were so well-documented that historians could actually chart his growth in Strength and Skill levels across decades. (Statisticians had checked his rate of level growth against dozens of others and found it plausible, making this as close to confirmed as any one-man system could be.) At death, his Morningstar had attained Level 32.

That would make Pip...

Extremely disappointing, since even though Fold had reached the level of legends, it still hadn't killed him.

It was on its way, though. His jaws still hurt.

***

The Known World's Fair hadn't officially opened yet. The VIP guests onboard now were told to have a few drinks and settle in. They'd have more than enough time to take in all the wonders. So the halls were virtually empty, and the exhibits were roped off and dead.

Showing a clear lack of Discretion, Pip's pointing finger bopped a picture on the wall. It was a watercolor sketch of a row of strange machines. That's an oxymoron. Every machine was strange to Pip and Jacob. "We can't see any exhibits yet? Not even this one?"

"Why are you asking me?" the prince said, walking on with hardly a glance.

He knew the answer. Pip wasn't asking him or anyone else, she just liked to think out loud, and she did it all the time back at the castle. Had she started doing it because she worked alone, or had she been ordered to work alone because people found it so annoying?

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Instead of mulling over this fairly pointless question, Jacob decided to just spit it out. This was not something he was used to doing, and admittedly, it even made his insides seize up a bit.

"That's one of those chicken-and-egg questions," Pip said. She didn't seem insulted in the least. "No, I work alone because the castle only has one maid of all work at a time."

"Got it."

"But Jacob, sir, can we please swing by that exhibit? The washing machines look so cool."

Was she serious? A whole spiel unfurled in Jacob's head, and its tone was surprisingly vitriolic: That's all you care about right now? Trivial shit like household appliances that not even royals will get to use in this lifetime? Besides, aren't you aware that even if our castle did get one, the labor you save wouldn't mean a thing to you. Once your boss is convinced you can do more work, he is going to cram in all the work you can stand and more. Rich families all over the country would have their own washing machines. You would become a servant to the washing machine.

...

Jacob wondered if he was weirder than he thought.

Anyway, they'd descended a dour spiral staircase and reached the door to Sir Huxley's office. Here there were a few more people, all employees with a definite job to do, whether that was standing guard with huge pitchforks or writing important notes on importantly yellow notepads. At the sight of Jacob and Pip, one of them took hold of the giant brass handle. She smiled politely. Jacob smiled politely back. Pip said a long greeting, but Jacob interrupted it.

"Oh, and Pip, give me that coin."

She squinted. "What coin?"

Ugh.

"The one that was on the floor? In your pocket, right now?"

The woman holding the door politely coughed to get their attention. It was more like a wheezy hack. "Excuse me. Sir Huxley doesn't like it when the draft comes in."

By the looks of her, Jacob was sure she didn't like standing longer than she had to, either. He hooked an arm around Pip's and led them inside.

The suite had a wall of sky—this office, a whole dome of it. It was as if a quarter had been trimmed out of a humongous glass sphere, then slotted into the bottom-front of this skyship. The ceiling was solid black, hanging uncountable meters away. Jacob and Pip themselves were hanging, technically, because the floor of this office was a catwalk hovering above that glassy quarter-dome, and the catwalk was just slender enough to give you doubts. The view was incredible, vertigo-inducing, and, so far, empty.

Straight ahead and almost backed against the glass, Sir Huxley and a crowd of officey possessions sat in a huddle, the waning daylight giving them a weird saintly glow. They looked absolutely minuscule. It would take ages to cross this room.

Jacob and Pip experienced forty dull seconds of walking toward the ship's owner and benefactor. His hardwood desk, grandfather clock, and twin portraits of himself, propped up on easels, expanded in their vision.

Then the man himself was there in full, his smile as wide as it had been forty seconds ago. Sparse, dust-colored hair looked like it would fly off in a strong wind. Glass-blue eyes suggested crystal. He rested a double-chin on folded hands, delighted to see them both, yes, both—he was the first person aboard this skyship delighted by Pip's presence.

With a curtsy slightly stifled by Jacob's arm constricting hers, Pip said, "How do you do, sir? This is quite an eclectic office you've got here. And I love the dome!"

"Oh, yes!" he said. "This globe I got from Matthias Everleaven, the famous explorer. He crossed the Fifth Sea—do the lower classes know him?"

"Um, vaguely!"

He went on to tell the stories behind his first portrait, his second portrait, his three compasses, an old knotted rope, a tricorn hat, and the nameplate on his desk, which didn't have any real story behind it, he just thought it looked nice.

This was agony. Jacob felt like a parent at a child's birthday party.

He wasn't the type to go "ahem" unless it felt truly necessary, so he endured it until Sir Huxley finally turned those icy eyes on him.

"I know who you are," the old gentleman said, "but you didn't introduce this charming young lady."

"She's Pip."

"Pip, Pip..." He stroked his chin with his pointer finger. "Just Pip?"

"Yes, sir!" she said.

"And the young Prince Jacob!"

(Note: Jacob was twenty-one.)

"Sir Huxley, I speak for both of us when I say it's an honor to meet you," Jacob said, and now, at last, he did a customary, princely bow. His hasty tone made it clear that he was not interested in hanging out here for too long. "I've been enjoying my stay so far. So, what did you summon me fo—"

"Before we get to know each other, I'd like for you to call me something more...familiar. My first name," the gentleman said, each word dripping with self-importance. "Ralphie."

"Ralphie," Jacob repeated. "Yes."

"Now, Jacob, here's what I called you in for." He licked his lips. "Have you heard of...the Zhufra Inci—"

A metal hook dangling from a long metal wire clacked against the vast dome window, suddenly reawakening the white-noise feeling every single passenger had of being watched. Jacob, in particular, felt his heart race. He wouldn't let the hook out of his sight for the rest of the conversation.

But Sir Huxley laughed it off. Turning in his rolling chair to face the hook, and then virtually ignoring the hook, he said, "Don't you worry about the windows. They've got friam and aetham coursing through them. To any prying eyes, we're just a blur."

"Yes. We have them too," Jacob said. Of course, Castle Alzeny didn't make such extensive use of them (too unnerving). He didn't bother asking why the tapping at the window had come from a fishing rod, of all things, because he knew Pip would.

"Who's fishing?" she asked.

Sir Huxley waved his hand dismissively. "One of the workers. I keep telling him it doesn't work like that, but I suppose the people must be allowed their dreams. You'd know that, wouldn't you, Pip?"

Again, Pip didn't seem to be offended. In fact, she grinned and nodded more aggressively each time she was acknowledged by "Ralphie," and with an exuberance she would never have shown to Alzenian royalty.

Sir Huxley wheeled himself back into position. Leaning forward, letting his eyebrows darken his eyes and sour his whole expression, he said, at last, "But I'm sure you're both wondering why you're here, in my office."

Both guests nodded.

"Well...have either of you heard of...the Zhufra Incident?"

If this was another excuse to tell them another long story, Jacob would either need some air or a long fistfight.

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