Knight Life

by Peter David

  “Don’t bother thanking me,” said Percival. “The only reason I let you in is because you happened to show up at what might be a propitious time.”

  “Pro ... what?”

  Percival stopped and turned to face them. “Buddy,” he said slowly, “his highness feels great darkness upon his brow. It happens from time to time, to all great men, but particularly to Arthur. You seem to amuse him, for reasons I cannot comprehend. You ... are his jester, whether he realizes it or not. All kings need one. This mood has been upon him for some time now; it now threatens to hurt his performance at a time when it dare not be hurt. See if you can attend to him.”

  Buddy nodded once, cracked his knuckles, said, “I’m on it. Elvis, stay here. Lemme handle this one.” Elvis nodded, and Buddy approached the despondent Arthur.

  Arthur didn’t appear to notice him. Finally he did, looking up questioningly.

  “These two guys walk into a bar. You’d think one of them would have seen it,” said Buddy.

  Arthur continued to stare at him. “I ... beg your pardon?”

  “These two fives walk into a singles bar ...”

  Arthur shook his head and looked away.

  Buddy made a repeated, faint popping sound with his lips, thoughtful for a long moment. Finally he hunkered down, looked at Arthur eye-to-eye, and said, “Your highness, you been like this for weeks, okay? One minute you’re moping, next you’re shouting at people. It’s bringin’ everybody down. You’re gonna lose all the momentum you built up. You think it sucks to be you? I used to be like you, all pissy and stuff. And I wound up like me. So if it sucks to be you, it’d suck even more if you were like me. So believe me when I’m tellin’ you, and I say this with the utmost respect: It’s time to shit or get off the pot.”

  Arthur stared at him for a long moment in utter bemusement. And then, slowly, the edges of his mouth twitched and he laughed very softly. “I believe ... I shall shit.”

  There were footsteps behind them, and Buddy turned and joyously proclaimed, “He’s gonna shit!” right in Bernard Keating’s face.

  “I’m so pleased,” said Keating, slowly wiping Buddy’s spit out of his eye. There were several people in Keating’s entourage. One of them was Modred. Percival was just behind, obviously having seen them coming, trying to get near Arthur to warn him.

  Arthur rose, waited.

  “Bernie Keating,” Keating said, extending a hand. “Next mayor of New York.”

  “Arthur Penn. Same,” Arthur replied, taking the proferred hand and giving it a brisk shake.

  “I’ll make it short and sweet,” said Keating.

  “Good.”

  “I’m challenging you.”

  “Swords or knives?”

  “I mean in the debate.”

  “Ah. Good. That will be less messy.”

  “I’m challenging you to keep up with me. Think you can do it?”

  “Yes.”

  “We’ll see.”

  He turned and walked off, Percival pushing through his departing entourage to get near Arthur.

  “There goes a man who knows his mind,” Arthur said.

  “Good,” said Percival. “If he ever finds it again, he’ll recognize it immediately.”

  “Did you see that black haired, weasly guy with him?” said Buddy. “He was creepy looking. Wonder who that little bastard was?”

  Arthur and Percival exchanged looks, but wisely chose not to respond.

  Ronnie Cordoba jogged over to Arthur, looking rather relieved to see him. “There you are. Let’s get you over to makeup.”

  Arthur took a step back. “Makeup?” he said cautiously.

  “Yeah. Sure.”

  “Women wear makeup. I have put up with a great deal, but I will not look like a woman.”

  Ronnie stuttered, “B-but Arthur, you have to! You’ll look washed out without it. I don’t understand. You must have worn makeup when you did your commercials.”

  Arthur frowned. “Wait. They put something on my face—”

  “That was it!”

  “Oh. Merlin told me that was protective salve, to prevent my being severely burned by the intense lights of the cameras.”

  Percival nodded, amused. “That Merlin was a smart little bugger.”

  Arthur turned on him with unexpected fierceness. “Don’t talk about Merlin that way. In the past tense, as if he’s dead.”

  Percival stepped back involuntarily. “Arthur,” he whispered harshly, glancing around to see if anyone had noticed Arthur’s sudden flare of temper, “I didn’t mean anything by it.”

  “He’s all right.” Arthur paused and then added fiercely, “He has to be.”

  * * *

  FROM THE OPPOSITE corner of the studio Bernard Keating and Moe Dreskin watched Arthur, Percival, and Ronnie stride toward makeup. “He’s distracted,” muttered Bernie. “Distracted real bad. That’s gonna cost him.” He turned to Moe and waved a finger in his face. “You better be right about this fantasy of his. I don’t want to come across looking like some kind of schmuck.” Moe patted him on the arm. “Trust me, Mr. Mayor.” Bernie grinned, and looked up at the monitor overhead, with the podiums for the candidates on its screen. “‘Mr. Mayor.’ I like the sound of that. I could get used to that real easy.”

  “I knew that you could,” said Moe.

  IF THERE WERE the equivalent of hell on earth, then it was in New Jersey. Verona, New Jersey, to be specific—named after the town in Italy where the star-crossed lovers Romeo and Juliet had met their end. A small, unassuming jock town where, interestingly enough, creatures of evil were residing. But only in the not-so-nice sections.

  It was a rundown two-story house, whose elderly owner had died ages ago, and it had sat vacant for years as courts tried to figure out who owned it. It finally reverted to distant family, who didn’t even care enough to sell it themselves and so left it to a real estate agent, who went out of business a month later. Since then the house had fallen between the cracks in the attentions of all concerned. Ivy ran wild over the sides, and weeds stretching several feet high supplanted grass.

  It was a dump, but Morgan called it home.

  The insides had been done up superbly—exotic drapes and tapestries hung everywhere, illuminated entirely by candles. Morgan strode through the house, her long black gown swirling around her bare feet. Trailing behind her was Lance, dressed in black leather and grinning like an imbecile. “Where are we going, Morgan? What’s up? I adore you, Morgan—”

  “Shut up,” she said tiredly.

  “Yes, Morgan.”

  She turned and stroked his chin fondly. “I don’t need you, you know.”

  “Yes, Morgan. I know.”

  “You’re a pathetic creature.”

  “Yes.” He smiled, puppy dog-like. “But I’m your pathetic creature.”

  “Come. We’re going to watch television. There’s going to be a debate starting in a few minutes. And I think it’s going to be quite, quite interesting.”

  She walked into her inner sanctum. Pillows were scattered about for easy lounging. A television, the modern-day crystal ball, was set up on a small pedestal at one end of the room. Tonight, however, it would be used for something less arcane than spying on the movements of others. Tonight it would be used for something as pedestrian as watching a television program, broadcast live on New York 1, with the other local stations in attendance to tape highlights to be played later on their news broadcasts.

  At the other end of the room was a life-size cylinder made of solid crystal. Encased inside the crystal, like a butterfly in amber, was Merlin. His eyes were open, burning with fury even after all this time. Morgan went to him and stroked the crystal lovingly. “Ah, Merlin. Your incarceration hasn’t dimmed your anger, I see. But then, I suppose lengthy imprisonments are nothing new to you.” She smiled, showing white, slightly pointed teeth. “You’re in luck, however. Tonight I’ve arranged some special entertainment for you. I know you have quite an interest in politics, Merlin. We’re
going to watch a debate. It’s going to feature someone who’s a friend of yours. You remember Arthur, don’t you?” Then she laughed at the look of hope in his eyes. “You still think my fool of a half brother will rescue you! Never! Never, little magician. You’re mine, do you hear? Mine, body and soul, forever.” She continued in a singsong voice as she went to turn on the television. “Forever and ever and ever and ever ...”

  Merlin closed his eyes. Encased, helpless, immobilized in crystal. Unable to send for help. Astral projection not even possible. Unable to help his king cope with a world that could be confusing and terrifying.

  And worst of all, trapped in New Jersey.

  THE FLOOR DIRECTOR, earphones solidly in place, was calling, “Five minutes, everyone!” He turned to the audience and said, “People, please. On air in five minutes. Please refrain from talking from this point on. If cameras are blocking your way, feel free to watch the proceedings in the overhead monitors. I appreciate your cooperation. Thank you.”

  Arthur, stepping up to his station, looked out at the audience, and his gaze locked with Modred’s. His bastard son gave him a sarcastic “thumbs up.” Arthur wanted to pull Excalibur and cut the little cretin in half, but now hardly seemed the time.

  “Well, well, Mr. Penn. Together again.”

  He turned and saw Kent Taylor standing there. He found himself studying the Democratic nominee’s makeup. He wore it as if he had been born to. That said something to Arthur. He glanced over toward Keating, who was heading toward the far left podium, taking some last-minute instructions from one of his handlers. Keating already looked like he was melting through the makeup, and a woman with a powder puff was applying last-minute fixes.

  “Together again, Mr. Taylor,” Arthur said reasonably.

  “I’ve been watching your campaign with great interest. Then again, don’t get too flattered—I also slow down to watch jackknifed tractor trailers.” He laughed heartily at his own joke when Arthur didn’t.

  The three reporters came over and introduced themselves, greeting the candidates and wishing them luck. Arthur smiled wanly and cast his gaze toward the audience once more. He was able to pick out Percival and Ronnie, who both raised clenched fists in encouragement. Arthur blinked, at first thinking they were signaling that he should punch his opponent. But their expressions didn’t seem to jibe with that intent. So he chanced it and raised a clenched fist back. They seemed pleased, so Arthur presumed he had given the right response.

  He did not see Gwen. He did not look for her.

  There was an expectant hush as the reporters went to their side of the room and as the floor director counted down. “And five ... four ... three ...” and then mouthed, “two ... one.”

  An announcer intoned, “Mayoral debate, live, from the Reeves Teletape Studio.” Arthur glanced up at the monitor and blinked in surprise as the words “Mayoral Debate” appeared on the screen, superimposed over the image of the candidates. He looked around, trying to figure out where the words had come from, for they certainly weren’t visible to him. He shook his head. And he thought the things that Merlin did were magic.

  Merlin ...

  “Good evening,” said the moderator. “Thank you for tuning in. I’m your moderator, Edward Shukin. Debates are not always possible in every campaign, so I feel we should be appreciative that the three major candidates for mayor have seen fit to engage in this evening’s forum. I’d like to introduce them to you now. Running as an Independent, Mr. Arthur Penn, the Republican candidate, Mr. Bernard Keating, and the Democratic candidate, Mr. Kent Taylor.”

  Shukin then turned to face the three journalists. “At the far left I have the first of the three journalists who will be posing questions to the candidates tonight. From the Amsterdam News, Mr. James Owsley—”

  Owsley, African-American, raised a fist in a sarcastic black power gesture. Arthur immediately returned the gesture. Percival, still in the audience, moaned softly.

  Shukin rolled merrily on, oblivious. “Next, from The New York Times, Ms. Sandra Schechter.” Schechter, a no-nonsense redhead, allowed a quick smile. “And, from The Daily News, Mr. Fred Baumann.” Baumann tossed a wave at the audience and smiled lopsidedly.

  “The rules for this debate have been agreed upon as follows,” Shukin continued. “Our panelists will pose a question to the candidates on a rotating basis. The first candidate will be given three minutes to answer. The other two candidates will then each be permitted two minutes to respond to or rebut the candidate’s response. With that understood, Mr. Baumann, I believe you won the coin toss backstage.”

  “Damned straight. Used my coin,” muttered Baumann, prompting mild laughter. “Mr. Taylor,” he said, “studies indicate that voting among young people is at an all-time low. In some cases as little as six percent of eighteen-year-old registered voters have turned out to the voting booths. How would you go about addressing this trend?”

  “Well,” said Taylor, looking like he was warming to the subject, “I want to say that young people voting is a very important matter, very important. I also want to say thank you for having the opportunity to address you, and the voters of this city, directly. I know there’s people out there who seem to think that—as a former actor—I can’t speak unless I’m working off a script. Well, that’s certainly not the case. I have a lot to say about all the important matters that will face this city. For example, violent crimes were up last year for the first time. Mr. Keating, as DA, apparently isn’t throwing the fear of God into criminals, and I think that tells you something. If he’s not being wholly effective in his current position, how effective is he going to be as mayor? Furthermore, he has gone on record as supporting the current proposed budget for next year, which includes a ten-percent cut in the budget for social services. Ten ... percent. Not to mention cutbacks in the number of police officers in the streets That is hardly attention being paid to the things that matter to New Yorkers. I don’t think that’s something that this city can truly afford. As for Mr. Penn, well, he has no record to speak of, so I don’t even know how to begin addressing his rather odd tendencies. Let me tell you about myself, however. My time in City Hall, believe it or not, has prepared me for the real City Hall. My research into my character has been so thorough, that when I’ve met with mayors of cities around the country—Los Angeles, Chicago, Cleveland, Boston, to name just a few—they’ve all told me that I was more prepared to discuss issues than they were. Every one of them has said that if they didn’t ‘know better,’ they’d think I was the genuine item. And I’m trusting you, the good people of New York, to realize that I am the genuine item, and can do the job for you and your interests. Thank you.”

  “Mr. Keating, response?” asked Shukin.

  “First off, Ed, I’d also like to say thank you for having this opportunity to engage in what I’m sure will be spirited discussion with my opponents. And I also want to respond to Mr. Taylor’s charges. Yes, there has been an upswing in violent crimes, and naturally that is not to be encouraged. But we are talking about an increase of precisely zero point zero two percent. And that has been attributed to the extremes of weather we had to deal with, particularly during the summer months. High heat, I’m afraid, makes people more prone to anger, and also more desperate to steal things like, say, air conditioners. The fact is that that minor jump was an aberration, compared to the last eight years of steady downward dropping of the incidence of violent crime. That is the overall record that has to be studied, and that is what has to be considered. Now in regards to the budget ...”

  “Time, I’m afraid,” Shukin interrupted him, sounding a bit apologetic. “Mr. Penn?”

  Arthur looked from Taylor to Keating and back again, and there was undisguised incredulity on his face. “You didn’t answer the ques ... they didn’t answer the question.” He looked to Baumann for confirmation, since he could clearly scarcely believe it. “Am I losing my mind? They didn’t answer the bloody question. This is madness! No wonder young people don’t want to vo
te. You’re both idiots!”

  “Mr. Penn!” Shukin objected, over an outroar of laughter from the audience.

  Arthur paid him no mind. “Of course young people don’t vote. It’s a right that was handed to them, and therefore they don’t appreciate it. Young people care about two things, and two things only: Those things they have to fight for, and those things they’re told not to do. Going around and telling teens to vote: That’s your problem right there. You’re telling them to do something. All you have to do to engender resistance in a young person is to tell them they should do something. That it’s their responsibility. That automatically means you’ve lumped voting in with taking out the garbage. You want to get them to vote? Here’s what you do,” and Arthur looked straight into camera and, wagging a finger, said, “Every young person hearing this or watching this, listen to me now and tell all your friends I said this: Don’t vote! Come election day, you are absolutely not to vote! I forbid it! I flatly forbid it!”

  The laughter was louder now, drowning out the sputtering Shukin, who was trying to tell Arthur he had run overtime. Arthur continued, “Do you hear me, young people? Listen to me, girls: Boys hate girls who vote. It shows they have an opinion and spunk and know their mind! Boys, girls hate boys who vote! It shows maturity and makes you attractive to them! And any adults who are listening, march straight up to your children’s rooms right now and tell them in no uncertain terms: You are not to vote! If you were even thinking about voting, put that notion straight out of your head! Listen to your music, talk on the telephone, play your video games, and chat on computer boards, but take no, absolutely no interest at all in politics! Send the message out to every teen in the land: Don’t vote, because adults don’t want you to!” He leaned back and folded his arms, obviously satisfied. “There. That should do it.”

  It took a full minute to restore composure to the proceedings, and all during that time, Keating glowered more and more fiercely. When the next question, from Owsley, came to Keating, he was ready.

  “Mr. Keating,” Owsley said, glancing down at his notes, “incidents of police violence, particularly in the course of arrests, seem to be on the rise. These incidents occur particularly in the apprehension of African-Americans, I have noticed. Yet in the overwhelming number of instances, subsequent investigations by the police have exonerated the officers who have committed the violence. Are you satisfied with the manner in which these internal investigations are being performed, or do you intend to try and have stricter procedures implemented?”