by Peter David
“How can I not like it?” He frowned. “Is he gay? Don’t tell me he’s gay. Not that I wouldn’t use it,” he added quickly, “it’s just that I find that whole thing so, I don’t know ... yuucchh.”
“No. It’s nothing like that.” Moe took a deep breath. “You’re going to have to be prepared to do something a little unorthodox. At the debate this Friday I want you to ask Mr. Penn something—”
“But we’re not supposed to be talking directly to each other. Questions are being posed by moderators, and we’re supposed to answer them.”
Moe laughed curtly. He leaned back in his chair and said, “You telling me you’re reluctant to start breaking rules?”
“Only if it’s going to net me something big.”
“It should.”
“Only should?”
“All right, will, then.” Moe took a deep breath and said, “I want you to ask Arthur Penn who he is.”
Bernie looked at him blankly. “What?”
Moe repeated it, and Bernie paused a moment, stroking his chin. “Moe, you know what the first rule is that a lawyer learns in the study of cross-examination? Never ask a question to which you do not already know the answer. So am I correct in assuming that the answer is going to be something other than the obvious?”
“Arthur Penn,” said Moe, “is not his real name. At least, so he believes.”
“What, he changed his name? I’m not following you, Moe.”
“Arthur Penn,” said Moe, “is short for Arthur Pen-dragon.”
“Pendragon?” He rolled it around in his mouth like marbles. “What the hell kind of name is that?”
“Medieval. Bernie, your opponent believes himself to be the original King Arthur.”
The portly man stared at Moe. “Moe, let’s cut the crap, okay?”
“I’m not kidding, Bernie. The man believes that he is King Arthur, Lord of the Round Table, ruler of Camelot, King of all the Britons.”
Bernie heaved himself to his feet, knocking his chair back. “Moe, this is just too ridiculous! You’re telling me that my main obstacle to being mayor of this city is bug-fuck crazy?”
“I’m saying that the man thinks he’s the original Arthur, son of Uther, Lord of—”
Bernie put up a beefy hand. “Please, spare me the family tree, okay? You got any proof of this?”
‘I’ve got one Lance Benson. He’s ready to swear that Arthur attacked him with a sword while ‘rescuing’ Benson’s girlfriend from the supposedly vile clutches of Benson himself.”
Keating’s mouth dropped open. “Are you serious?” he whispered. “I want to meet this Benson guy.”
“He’s tied up at the moment,” said Moe dryly. “But I’m sure he’d be happy to come forward when you need him.”
Bernie was silent for a long moment, trying to assimilate this new information. “He really, honest to God thinks he’s King Arthur?”
“That’s right.”
“This is too much. But wait—” He turned on Moe. “How do I know that, if I ask him point blank, he won’t just lie about it?”
“Not Arthur,” said Moe with absolute certainty. “He prides himself on telling the truth. It would be totally against his dementia to lie about who he thinks he is.”
“Too much. Just too much.” He stabbed a finger at Moe. “You’re asking for one hell of a leap of faith here, Moe. If I come out looking like an idiot on this ...”
“You can’t possibly. You ask him point blank what his real name is. Even if he maintains that it’s Arthur Penn—which he won’t—then you just cover yourself by saying that you’d heard he’d changed it and you just wanted to make sure the record was straight. At worst it’ll get you a raised eyebrow or two that will be quickly forgotten. At best,” and he smiled unpleasantly, “it will get you the election in your hip pocket.”
They talked for an hour more, Keating waffling over it. By the time Moe left he was only about seventy percent convinced that Keating would go along with it. Moe stood on the curbside, lighting up a cigarette and taking a deep drag. He glanced up at the moon and pulled his coat tightly around him against the stiff breeze. You could tell that winter was on its way.
He started walking, scanning the streets for a passing cab, when he suddenly felt an arm around his throat in a chokehold. Moe tried to scream for help, but his wind had been effectively and precisely cut off. His assailant dragged him into a nearby alleyway, pulling Moe as if he weighed nothing. Moe clawed at the arm around him, pounded on it in futility. Once in the alley Moe was swung around and hurled against a wall. He slammed into it with bone-jarring impact, and with a moan sank to the ground. Distantly he heard the shikt of a bladed weapon being drawn from its sheath, and he tried to draw air into his lungs to shout for help.
The tip of a glowing sword hovered at his chest before he could make a sound.
“I wouldn’t, Modred,” said Arthur quietly.
“You ...” He swallowed. “You wouldn’t kill an unarmed man.”
“Perhaps,” said Arthur. “Perhaps not. Are you willing to bet your life on it?”
Arthur prodded Moe gently in the ribs with Excalibur. Moe shook his head frantically.
“Now then ... where is she?”
“Who?”
“Your mother, you traitorous little worm,” Arthur snapped at him. “All of this, all the ill that has befallen me, has her stamp on it.”
Moe rallied and said angrily, “You got an attitude problem, you know that? I mean, is this the way you treat the son you’ve seen twice in a thousand years?”
“A thousand years ago, you tried to kill me.”
Modred shrugged. “So I’m not the Son of the Year. It’s not my fault that I come from a broken home, is it?”
“You’ll have a broken back to go with the broken home. Where is she? Because wherever she is, it’s certain that’s where Merlin is. So all you have to do is tell me where I can find them, and I’ll be on my way. And you’ll have your skin intact, which I know in the end is what matters to you most.”
“I don’t know,” Modred said bluntly. “That’s the God’s honest truth. Whenever she brought me there, she’d magically transport me. She didn’t want me to know where she was, because she figured I would tell you. And that’s all, and if you want to kill me, go ahead.”
Arthur shook his head. “Ah, Morgan. Always the judge of character.”
“She always knew you, Arthur, better than you know yourself,” Modred sneered, feeling a degree of confidence that Arthur wouldn’t really gut him in cold blood. “My mother is a very imaginative woman, and all you have is a really big sword ... which, so I understand, some knights used to wield in order to make up for other less impressive attributes. Is that right?”
Never shifting his gaze from Modred, Arthur said coldly, “If she’s really so imaginative ... do tell her to imagine what I will do to her with my really big sword when I catch up with her. When next we meet, Modred ... no mercy.”
“Yeah. Swell,” Modred said, looking at the unwavering sword point. “And hey, let’s do this again real soon.”
Arthur stepped back and loudly sheathed Excalibur. The sword and scabbard vanished from Arthur’s hip, and he stood there nattily attired in a gray Brooks Brothers suit and overcoat. He backed out of the alley, a sardonic look on his face, and Moe realized that Arthur wasn’t turning his back on him for a moment. He took a degree of satisfaction from that.
CHAPTRE
THE EIGHTEENTH
ARTHUR KNEW THE day was getting off to a lousy start because, the moment he walked into his campaign headquarters, Ronnie Cordoba was all over him. “Arthur, where the hell have you been? We had a strategy meeting at—”
“In a moment,” Arthur said, forcing a smile. “Percival, a minute of your time.”
He and Percival immediately stepped into a private room, while an annoyed Cordoba watched them go. As soon as they were alone, Arthur said, “Have you found him?” just as he had every day for the past month and a ha
lf.
“No, Mr. Penn,” Percival said formally, “I have not as yet—”
“Damnit, Percival! You found the Grail in a fraction of the time, and that was a cup! Merlin, even Merlin as a child, is bigger than a damned cup!” Percival, his face neutral, did not reply. Arthur sighed. “The rest of the staff still believes that Merlin simply has elected to go off to a private boarding school?”
“Those who don’t know him for who and what he is, such as Cordoba, yes. Miss Basil is most angry, however. She serves Merlin, not you or me. If he does not return soon, it is difficult to say if she will remain in service.”
“We’ll deal with it when and if the problem presents itself.”
“And Gwen called.”
That stopped Arthur in his tracks. His face darkened. “I haven’t heard from her since the night of the fire. What does she want?”
“She ... simply said she wished to hear your voice.”
“I see.”
There was an uncomfortable silence for a moment, and then Percival said, “Highness, it is none of my business, but Morganna is practically kin to Satan, a true princess of lies. If she was able to trick Gwen, certainly Gwen should not be faulted for—”
“You’re right,” Arthur informed him. “It’s none of your business.” And with that he walked out of the room and straight to Ronnie Cordoba, who was pointedly checking his wristwatch. “I want to discuss the debate this Friday,” Arthur said bluntly. “It’s important that I have all the facts at my fingertips. I’m quite concerned about the entire affair, and the more prepared I am, the better I’ll feel.”
He stalked through the headquarters toward his office in the back. Workers greeted him and were surprised when he did not do much more than grunt, if that. Percival shook his head. “It’s nerves. That’s the problem.”
“Well, it wasn’t a problem when Merlin was here,” said Ronnie. “I never understood the relation between those two. You sure there was nothing ... ?”
“Nothing?” Percival wasn’t following the question.
“You know ... Arthur have a thing for plucking young chickens?”
“Why would Arthur’s taste for poultry ...” And then his eyes widened and he understood. “No. No, I assure you, it was nothing like that. In many ways, Merlin is the son Arthur never had. That no one ever had.”
“Oookay,” said Ronnie uncertainly. “Well, the thing is, he doesn’t have Merlin now, and it looks like he doesn’t have Gwen. Still, he’s got himself, and that should be enough.”
“You would think that. Except he’s probably concerned that, the last time he had only himself to depend on, everything fell apart.”
“Really?” asked Ronnie. “When was that?”
Percival sighed. “Long time ago,” he said. “But for Arthur, it might as well have been yesterday.”
THE OWNER OF the occult supplies store down on MacDougal Street opened his doors and was surprised to find a young woman standing there, waiting for him. The owner, whose name was Drago, was a big man. His head was shaven, and he sported a large handlebar mustache. “Yes?” he rumbled. “Can I help you, Miss?”
“Yes,” she said, walking past him into the cool darkness of the store. Once she would have been frightened to set foot in such a place. But that was a lifetime ago. Her eyes scanned the various accoutrements, the horoscopes, the tarot cards, the small bottles and carefully labeled ingredients for witches brews, and then she saw what she was looking for. She stepped over to a rack of ornate daggers and pulled one down from the display. It was small, in a black leather sheath. The thing that attracted her was on the pommel—a carved skull with red eyes, as large as her thumbnail.
“The lady would like a knife?”
“The lady would like this knife,” she said. She slid it out of the sheath and admired the sharpness of the edge.
“Are you purchasing this knife, may I ask, for protection?” asked Drago. “Or perhaps you had a certain ritual in mind?” He smiled. “If a sacrifice is intended, that knife might not be appropriate.” He pointed to a large curved dagger on the wall. “Now that, on the other hand—”
“No,” she said, sliding the dagger back into its sheath. “This is just what I’ll need. Small enough for easy concealment, yet large enough to effect damage.”
“I would say kill, if at close quarters,” said the owner. “I think I can thank my lucky stars that I am not the one the lady is after.”
“Yes,” said Gwen pleasantly. “You can. Plus ... I need something else. A very special item.” And she told him what it was.
He shook his head, and for a moment she was unable to hide her disappointment and looked slightly crestfallen. “That,” he said, “is rather hard to come by. May I ask where you heard about it?”
“Oh, I’ve been studying,” she said. She spoke without mirth. “I quit my job ... or it kind of quit me ... or I quit on myself. And since then, I’ve been cramming. I used to be good at that, back in college. Cramming, I mean. I’ve been talking to people, studying with people, finding out what I needed to do. Been busy. It’s probably hopeless, because she’s been doing it for centuries and me, I’m nothing ... but you know what? I’m the good guy. And that’s got to still count for something in this world, right?”
“Riiiight,” Drago said cautiously. “Miss, just out of curiosity, when was the last time you slept?”
“Gave it up. Don’t need it. It’s like when you keep exercising a muscle, it just grows stronger and stronger,” she told him, and she was sounding almost giddy about it. “So I figure, the more I exercise my brain, the stronger it’s going to get. So I exercise it all the time. I sleep an hour here or there.”
“That’s not healthy.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Maybe. But you know what’s even less healthy? Blackmail. And ... and using me against someone I love. And you know what else? Screwing with me. That can be pretty fucking unhealthy for the wrong people. For the bad guys. She’s one of the bad guys, and I’m one of the good guys. Now have you got the other thing I’m looking for?”
“No.”
“Do you know who might carry it?”
“No,” he lied, not wanting to sic her on anyone else.
“Fine. I’ll find it. How much for the knife?”
“How about,” he put up his hands in a peacemaking manner, “you keep it for free ... if you promise not to come in here again until you’ve had at least, I dunno ... eighteen hours sleep.”
She smiled cheerfully at that. “Deal,” she told him. She turned and left the store. Drago watched her go and, only when she was nowhere in sight did he sigh in relief.
“That,” he said, “is one flickin’ Wiccan.”
CHAPTRE
THE NINETEENTH
THE REEVES TELETAPE Theater had been cleared out for the event. The television facility, situated on Eighty-sixth Street, usually home to sitcoms and the like, was now furnished inside with three podiums, at which the three principal candidates would stand. There was a center podium where the moderator would be stationed, and on one side of this triangular arrangement, a table where three local journalists would be seated.
Arthur surveyed the setup the same way he would have looked over a battlefield before engaging the enemy. He stared at the TV cameras in awe; despite all his assimilation, there were certain aspects of modern-day society that continued to boggle his mind, and instantaneous communication was definitely one of those aspects.
He felt as if his mind was in a fog ... so much so that, when there was a gentle tug at his shoulder, it actually startled him. Normally he would have been well aware of anyone who was coming near him. He turned to see Percival smiling encouragingly at him. “Turn around, highness. Let’s see you.”
Arthur turned around obediently, and Percival straightened the collar of his suit jacket. He looked down and said, “Unbutton the bottom vest button.”
“Why?” asked Arthur.
“It’s the fashion.”
“Does it matter, Perc
ival?” he sighed. “Does any of it? Really?”
Percival moaned softly. “Highness, please, not again ...”
Arthur sat in a nearby chair, which creaked slightly under him. He felt the despondency welling over him again, seeping out of his pores. “Do you think she’ll be watching, Percival?”
“I don’t know, highness. If you called her—”
“Call the woman who betrayed me?” he said, clearly trying to sound fierce, not succeeding at all. “And Merlin ... Percival, I am here because of him. Without him ...”
“You functioned without his help before.”
“And look what happened as a result. Percival, look at this. Look at me.” He plucked at the lapels of the suit. “This is not me. It is a sham, a fraud. Part of a grand scheme that I did not plan. I have no vision of it. I flounder, Percival. I sink. I ...” He seemed too tired even to finish the thought, and finally simply shook his head and stared at the podium. Percival walked away, shaking his head, and when the floor manager came over to tell him that it was ten minutes until air time, all he did was shrug slightly in acknowledgment.
“THESE BELONG TO you?” asked the guard of Percival, chucking a thumb at Buddy and Elvis, who were standing at the stage door. They were dressed in marginally better clothing, but still put the “scruff” in “scruffiness.” “They keep saying they’re part of—”
“Yes, yes,” Percival sighed, gesturing for them to enter. The guard watched them suspiciously as they passed through the door. “They’re Mr. Perm’s ... reality consultants.”
“Reality consultants?” asked the guard suspiciously.
“Most people have media consultants, but the media isn’t real. It’s just broadcast perceptions, edited into a semblance of reality. At least, that’s Mr. Penn’s view,” explained Percival. “Now these two, on the other hand ... well, they’re about as real as it gets.”
“Give me fiction anytime,” said the guard sourly.
Buddy and Elvis followed Percival through the hallway, Buddy saying, “Thanks, man. ‘Preciate it.”
