“We could be living in an inn,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “With pillows…and baths.”
“Like I said, I’m more comfortable outside,” Jeb said, glancing up at the sky and shoving thoughts of PTSD out of mind. Jeb had spent the first two weeks after the Tutorial staring at the ceiling of inns and abandoned buildings before he’d found himself moving his bed closer and closer to the window.
Just to get fresh air, he’d told himself. Then he told himself it was so he had an escape route in case he was attacked. It was as though he was fleeing the room in stop motion.
It was when Jeb was contemplating sleeping with his head out the window that he realized his war PTSD was subtly rearing its ugly head, steering his decisions through an uneasy fear that had no name.
Other than The Spike. The fear loomed over him, always fooling his brain into thinking the ceiling would collapse on him at any moment, skewering him with a thick spike of steel. Hence the name.
Jeb had to do something about it.
Well, there wasn’t exactly an internet to look for a therapist in Kalfath and Jeb didn’t think his shrink would ever get back to him for a second session.
The first time Jeb had tried to muscle through the fear, he’d tried to off himself, so Jeb changed tactics and dealt with the problem by avoiding it entirely: He slept outside in the alley.
“Hey! What’s the first rule of Wizard Club?” Smartass said, hands akimbo, flying directly in front of his face.
“Is it…don’t talk about Wizard Club?” Jeb asked.
“Good. When phrased as a question, it isn’t a lie. You’re sooo close to a hundred days without telling a single untruth. You almost screwed yourself over with that ‘comfortable’ statement, I felt it. Lucky for you, you actually are more comfortable outside, barely. For some awful reason.”
The first rule of Wizard Club, and the only advice that Smartass had given him thus far was ‘Never Lie’. It seemed arbitrary and strange, but Jeb trusted that the fairy wanted that candy bad enough to give him good advice.
It was actually pretty difficult, though. Lies rolled off people like snowflakes, and Jeb had spent the first week astonished at how often he lied.
White lies in public, like ‘good to see you’, ‘it was fun’, ‘I appreciate it’... These reflexive, polite statements were all lies.
Lies by exaggeration: ‘He kicked the shit out of me.’ ‘That chili lit my asshole on fire.’ ‘You fart-knocker.’ They all counted too.
Etc., etc.
The only lies allowed were misleading truths and lies by omission. Technically not lies at all.
Try to go a day without uttering a single untruth. It’s harder than it sounds.
“So what happens when I go a hundred days without telling a lie?” Jeb asked, hobbling out to the street corner, scratching his beard. The scraggly thing was starting to get respectably uncomfortable.
“Then, my enormous disciple, we begin the second stage of your wizard training,” the fairy said solemnly. “Human wizards were rare for many reasons, primarily because telling the truth seems to be beyond your capability, as a species.”
“Your commentary on my species has been noted,” Jeb muttered as he emerged from the alleyway and angled toward his favorite spot for begging, the corner of a street where a modest amount of traffic passed by every day. Just enough to earn a day’s wages but not so much that he would attract the attention of the local fuzz.
The city wasn’t kind to humans, or beggars, and human beggars were right out.
“Morning, Jeb.” A keegan in a snazzy uniform of black with razor-straight gold trim oozed into view, regarding Jeb with that skull-grin they all shared. It was much easier to read a keegan’s expression by looking at their eyebrows.
Think of the devil. Jeb grimaced.
“Morning, Officer Zlesk,” Jeb said, keeping his tone as neutral as possible.
“You remembered my name! I’m flattered,” Zlesk said, his expression amused.
I certainly hope so, Jeb thought. He’d rather have the authorities be flattered than insulted, all other things being equal. Less pain in his ass that way.
“Seemed like a good idea,” Jeb said.
“Right,” Zlesk said, his stance shifting as he peered down at Jeb. “Where you headed this morning?”
“Gonna beg on the corner of Lorne and Kole,” Jeb said, motioning to the wide street just a ways down the road, where a lot of traffic meant decent pickings, begging-wise.
Not having a Class or level was rough. Jeb was now living in a kind of communist fantasy world, where everyone got the job they were good at, and did it superhumanly well.
In short, unless the task was killing for profit, there was really nothing else that he could be expected to do better than an eighteen-year-old pissant with a Busboy Class.
Jeb was on average dumber, weaker, and slower than a normal citizen. The only thing he had going for him was experience and moral flexibility.
Still, Jeb would rather not become a mugger or bandit and make others miserable simply to survive, so…begging filled the occupational gap that kept him breathing.
“Corner of Lorne and Kole, huh?” Zlesk asked, rubbing his chin. “That place gets pretty crowded between noon and three. You planning on holding up traffic?”
“No such plans, sir,” Jeb said, his pegleg clacking against the cobbled stone as the alien police officer stalked him through the street, prodding for some kind of actionable offense.
“You know, I’ve actually been mildly disappointed with you humans. First species to make it through the Impossible Tutorial. Bam! I thought every single one of you was going to be some kind of natural-born survivor, fierce apex predators smeared with dirt and
