Knight Life ma-1

by Peter David

  The front of the armor rose slightly. The knight had laughed. "Anyone who was clad in such foolish armor. Do you mind if I come inside?"

  "Not at all. Not at all." Sidney backed up slowly, his eyes glancing at the scabbard that hung at the knight's side. It had not yet registered on him that there was no sword in it.

  The knight stepped through the bashed-in door, walking across the spotless green carpet of the men's clothing store. Glass crunched under each armored foot.

  "I suppose you're wondering," said the knight, "why I'm wearing this ridiculous armor."

  Sidney tried to come up with an answer that seemed safe, since he was still convinced that at any moment this armored maniac might pull out a sword and send his toupeed head sailing across the store. Sensing his boss's hesitation, Quigley brightly stepped in with the first thing that came to mind. "Armor?" he said cheerfully. "What armor?"

  Sidney Krellman moaned softly and waited for the whir of sharp metal winging toward his neck.

  Arthur Rex laughed softly. "Italian, I'd say from the look of it," he replied, inspecting one armored hand. "Wouldn't you say?"

  "Oh absolutely," said Quigley. "You can always tell Italian armor. It has, uh ... very narrow, pointy shoes."

  "Really?" said Arthur, apparently with genuine interest.

  *I'd place this armor at about, oh, fourteenth century." He tapped the chestplate and smiled at the sound. "I daresay none of your suits would wear for quite so long. Nevertheless I still find it clumsy. In my day we wore leathers. That's when men fought men, not metal shells fought metal shells. Tell me, young man, what's your name, please?"

  "Quigley," said Quigley, and chucking a thumb at his supervisor he said, "And this is-"

  "The manager," said Sidney quickly.

  "Ah. Well, Quigley"-Arthur leaned against the counter, draping one arm against the cash register-"you seem to be an expert. Tell me, what think you of chain mail?"

  "I tried that once," said Quigley. "Sent five dollars to five friends. I should have gotten $10,037 back, but I never saw a dime."

  Arthur cocked an eyebrow, said nothing for a moment, then said, "As I was saying, this whole armor thing is something of a practical joke, played by someone who I thought a bit too old for this sort of thing. I really wasn't anticipating wandering about New York City dressed for the Crusades. I had more imagined, well, something along those lines." He inclined his head toward a three-piece suit that stood handsomely displayed on a mannequin. "Might I try that on?"

  "Um ... I don't think," said Sidney cautiously, "that it will, um, quite fit over your, um, current vestments."

  "I quite agree. If you would be so kind as to help me off with these..."

  Sidney Krellman glanced at Quigley and inclined his head. Quigley shrugged, walked over to the knight, and began to pull at the thick leather straps that held the armor on.

  "Do you have experience in this sort of thing?" asked Arthur as he pulled his helmet off.

  "Well, I took shop once," offered Quigley.

  "Metal shop?"

  "No. But I made a baseball bat with a lathe."

  "You'll do."

  Passersby were glancing in the windows of the store as they went about their business.

  Some looked at the destroyed door while others focused their interest on the man in armor who stood in the middle of the store, arms raised as high overhead as he could make them go, while the young assistant manager worked busily on removing the heavy plating.

  Quigley's glasses kept sliding to the end of his nose and his longish hair kept falling into his eyes, but piece by piece he got the job done. He staggered and grunted under the weight of each component of the armor, and muttered at one point, "How do you wear all this stuff?"

  "With as much dignity as I can muster," replied Arthur patiently. "I can readily assure you of that."

  By this point Sidney Krellman had long since dispensed with the notion of contacting the police. The last thing he wanted to do was draw the attention of the store owners to this bizarre turn of events. The shattered door he would be able to chalk up to vandals. Quigley he would be able to swear to secrecy. Then Sidney looked up and saw the pedestrians looking in through the window, and with a frown he walked over to the windows and pulled closed the folding shutters that ran along the inside of the windows. This was enough to discourage most of the idly curious.

  Sidney turned and was astounded to see the knight now clad in a simple tunic and a long-sleeved and legged white undergarment, the assorted pieces of armor scattered about the store. In the armor he'd seemed immense, even threatening. Here he was under five-and-a-half feet tall.

  For a moment Sidney entertained the thought of throwing the unarmed and largely unclothed man out of the store. As if Arthur sensed what was on Sidney's mind, he turned his gaze on the clothing-store manager, who promptly wilted under the pure power of Arthur's presence.

  He dropped his gaze to the floor, the brief fire of rebellion easily extinguished, and said, "So why don't we try that suit you had your eye on?"

  Some minutes later one would never have suspected that Arthur had not always worn three-piece suits. The dark blue pinstripe fit him as if it had been tailored for him, except for being slightly tight in his broad shoulders. His hair, which was a shade lighter than his beard, hung in the back to just below the jacket collar. He had picked a cream-colored shirt and a dark red tie to complete the outfit. Although the store did not carry shoes, the mannequin had been sporting black loafers, and fortunately these, too, fit Arthur just fine.

  He admired himself in the mirror, turning first right and then left, and decided finally, "They are cut quite nicely. Not at all what I'm accustomed to wearing, but-"

  *'Clothes make the man," burbled Quigley, "although in this case I'd say it's more the man making the clothes, Mister ... geez, what's your name anyway?"

  "I am King Arthur," said Arthur pleasantly, but then he frowned. "Oh, but perhaps I shouldn't have told you that."

  "King Arthur? You mean like in Camelot and Monty Python and all that stuff?"

  "Yes, friend Quigley, although I request that you do not allow my indiscretion to slip past this room."

  "Hey, count on me, your highness," said Quigley.

  Arthur glanced at Krellman, who nodded his assent so quickly it appeared that his head might topple from his shoulders. Krellman then tried to speak, but once again nothing particularly verbal escaped his lips. Arthur viewed the abortive efforts for a time and then said, with just a trace of impatience, "Come now, sir. If you have something to say, say it.

  Screw your courage to the sticking point."

  "Nothing," said Sidney quickly. "I had nothing to say. Except that it is late Mister . .. Mister King Arthur. King Arthur. Your Kingness," he said, searching for the right term to assuage this madman. "If we could just close up the store and go home."

  "Oh, but I haven't settled with you yet."

  Sidney's voice was a mouselike squeak. "Par-par-pardon?"

  "Why, yes. I assume this suit costs money, and your door that I accidentally destroyed also would amount to a sum."

  "Take it! Gratis, Compliments of Arthur's Court, to the man who gave us our name. Quigley, get a box for Mr. King Arthur to carry his armor out-"

  Arthur waved a hand in peremptory dismissal. "I wouldn't hear of it."

  He began to pat the pockets of the suit, as if looking for a wallet. This, thought Sidney Krellman, was rapidly degenerating into the ridiculous. How could this man, who claimed to be a long-dead, legendary king, now be checking the pockets of a brand new suit to find a wallet. This was a question, Sidney realized, that asked and answered itself. If you thought you were King Arthur, then just about anything after that was possible.

  Arthur's probing hand stopped at a vest pocket and a slow smile spread across his pleasant features. From the inside pocket he produced a small wallet, and from that he extracted a familiar platinum card.

  "Do you take American Express?'' he asked. />
  Sidney snatched it away, scowling, and studied it. His eyebrows knit and he stared, squinting at the card. Quigley looked over his shoulder. The date of issue was the current month. They stared at the name, and Quigley looked up.

  "It says Arthur Penn. Your name is Arthur Penn?"

  "It is?" He took the card back and examined it, turning it over as if a hidden message might be on the back. Finally he sighed and handed it back. "I suppose you're right."

  Sidney quickly processed the card for the cost of the suit, not even bothering to add in the cost of the door (still preferring to stick to his story about vandals). He handed it back to Arthur, who was watching with amusement Quigley's attempts to stuff the pieces of armor into a variety of different boxes and bags.

  "Don't bother, please," he said, laying a hand on Quigley's shoulder. "I assure you that if I never see the wretched stuff again, it will not trouble me at all."

  A stiff wind was blowing through the destroyed door, and Arthur felt the chill even through the buttoned suit jacket. "You know, I think I might have need of an overcoat."

  Sidney dashed around to a rack of coats, picked a long tan one out, ran back and gave it to Arthur. "This is perfect. It'll be just what you need."

  "But-"

  "Please," and his voice began to tremble, "please. Please go. I can't take this much longer."

  "All right," said Arthur, a trifle befuddled. "But let me at least pay for-"

  "It's my gift to you!"

  Arthur stepped back, eyes wide. "If you put it that way, all right. I shall remember you for this kindness...."

  "No! Don't remember me. Forget you ever saw me!" His fists were clenching and unclenching.

  Quigley took Arthur by the elbow. "I think you'd better go, your honor. He gets like this when things go a little . . . wrong."

  "Well," said Arthur, buttoning his coat. "That's the true mark of a man. To be able to take minor variances in routine in stride. He could stand a bit of work on that score." "Yes, sir."

  "You be certain to tell him that." "I will, sir."

  "When he stops crying, that is." "Yes, sir."

  Chaptre the Third

  Arthur shook his head in wonderment, tilting back leisurely on his heels so that his gaze could follow to the tops of buildings that caressed the skies. It was a cloudless night, with more than a considerable nip in the air. Arthur hardly noticed, so captivated was he by the sheer immensity of the city around him. And the thing he found more staggering than anything else was that the evening's pedestrians seemed to be utterly oblivious to the wonderment all about them. No one looked up to admire the architecture or whistle at a building height which in Arthur's time would have been considered a fantasy. Such a building should surely topple over! Nothing could possibly support it.

  "How things change," he murmured. "Now these buildings are the reality, and it is I who have become the fantasy."

  He jammed his hands deep into his coat pockets, feeling the comforting shape of the empty scabbard through the cloth. Only the tip was visible, peeping out every so often from the long coat, and Arthur was certain that no one could possibly spot-There was a gentle tap on his shoulder, and he turned to look up-gods above, why was everyone so bloody tall?- into the face of a middle-aged cop. He was sizing up Arthur with a gaze perfected over years of staying alive when, in his uniform, he was a walking target. He said, "Excuse me. Might I ask you what you're wearing under that coat?"

  Arthur recognized authority when he saw it. He smiled politely. "Certainly. It's a scabbard."

  "Ah." The cop smiled thinly. "Are you aware of the laws, buddy, against carrying a concealed weapon?"

  Arthur's voice abruptly turned chilly as the evening air. "I am aware of a great many things, sir, the main of which is that I do not appreciate your tone of voice, nor shall I tolerate being addressed in that manner."

  The officer, Owens by name, was not accustomed to any abuse either. In the station house he was known as Iron-Spine Owens. Iron-Spine had backed down from no one and nothing in his life.

  His face set, he locked gazes with Arthur. For a moment, but only for a moment. Then he dropped his gaze, feeling like an impudent child. "Sorry, sir. But-"

  "I know that, my good man," said Arthur with no letup. "For your further information and, if you insist, for your peace of mind, the scabbard is empty. There is no sword in it, and therefore no need to concern oneself with concealed weapons. And I might add that if mankind had not worked so hard to perfect weaponry that any fool could hide in a pocket and launch a cowardly assault from yards away, with no more skill or finesse than a diseased crow, then we wouldn't have a need for quite so many laws about concealed weapons."

  Arthur shook his head. "Most insane bloody process I've ever seen. Create the weapons, then legislate against them. It doesn't stop in New York, you know. It pervades society.

  Create nuclear weapons, then try to stop them from being used. The moment they used the first one they should have stopped when they saw what they had on their hands. I certainly would have."

  "Well, sir," said Owens contritely, "it's a shame you weren't around then."

  "Oh, I was. But hardly in a position to do anything." He sighed. "Hopefully I shall remedy that now."

  "Pardon my asking sir, but . . . are you a politician or something?"

  Arthur reflected a moment and then said, "I'd have to say I fall under the category of 'or something.' Why, do I come across to you as such?"

  "Well, sort of. Except you sure have the rest of them outclassed. You got a way with a phrase. Let me tell you, if you ever run for public office, you'll have my vote."

  "Really? On what basis?"

  "Basis?" Iron-Spine Owens laughed out loud, coarsely. "Only thing people ever vote on is gut instinct. Only ones who ever vote on stuff like issues are the intellectuals, and half the time they're too intellectual to vote in the first place."

  "Yes, well... good evening to you then."

  Owens touched the brim of his cap with his finger. "Evening to you, too, sir. Oh, sir . . . you weren't thinking of heading into the park, were you?"

  Arthur looked across Fifty-ninth Street to the edge of Central Park. There were a few stray couples walking arm-in-arm along the sidewalk running around the park, but no one was actually entering it.

  "That had, in fact, been my intention, yes. Why? Is there some reason I should not?"

  Owens rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Well... most of the time it's safe enough. Nevertheless I'd advise against it. Unless you have a way of occupying that scabbard of yours with a sword double quick."

  "I'll see what I can do. Thank you for the advice."

  "Good evening to you, sir."

  Iron-Spine Owens spun on his heel and went on his way, whistling an aimless tune, his hands resting relaxedly behind him. It was not until he was eight blocks away that he suddenly realized he had just totally violated the Iron-Spine character he had created for himself and maintained all these years. With just a few choice words this lone, bearded man had taken Owens firmly in hand, and in moments had him rolling over and playing dead. And Owens hadn't minded!

  Owens whistled softly in awe. "I don't know just what that man has going for him," he said, waiting for the light to change at the corner of Fifty-first Street and Fifth Avenue, "but whatever it is, I wish I could bottle it and sell it. I'd sure as hell make me a fortune." A woman with a dachshund on a leash looked curiously at the police officer mumbling to himself, and walked quickly away, shaking her head.

  Arthur walked briskly through the park, the soles of his shoes slapping with satisfying regularity against the blacktop. A cyclist sped by him in the opposite direction and didn't even afford him a glance.

  Arthur felt his pores opening, his senses expanding to drink in the greenery around him. This was something to which he had an easier time relating. This wood-and-leaf forest was something that came far more naturally to him than the brick, steel, and concrete forest that loomed all around, hemming in th
e park at all sides. This brought back pleasant memories of home....

  Home? What was home to him now? He had no friends, no loved ones. No family. Only descendants, and even they were completely screwed up. Held in high esteem by the modern British, Arthur had in his day actually fought against the ancestors of the modern-day Englishman. But a lot could be forgiven and forgotten in over a dozen centuries, he decided.

  Camelot long gone, lost in the mist of time and memories.

  Gwenyfar . . . how are they spelling it now? he wondered. Guinevere, yes. His queen, long gone.

  He had survived. All were gone, but he had survived. Or were they? None of the others had been locked away in an enchanted cave all this time, of course ... had they? But no, that was impossible. Only Arthur and Merlin had survived, and Merlin would certainly have told Arthur if any of his latter-day companions were still with them. Wouldn't he?

  So lost in thought was Arthur as he made his way through the park that he failed to notice the two men lurking in the bushes.

  Men might be too charitable a word. With their wild manes of black hair and their equally scraggly beards, they were of an indeterminate age. They, and others like them, were the primary reason that people rarely walked along in Central Park at night.

  Once upon a time there had been three of them. Much of what was real and what was not floated in and out for the trio, and there had only been a handful of things that they agreed upon that absolutely, truly existed. Artificial stimulants headed the list, followed by money.

  Then came superheroes- after all, in the whole world there had to be at least one, somewhere. And right after superheroes came Marx Brothers films. Everything else, from the name of the president to fast food, was nebulous in what passed for their minds. In honor of the one group of actors who absolutely truly existed, the three took the names of Chico, Groucho, and Harpo. Fortunately they did not have a fourth in the group, so nobody had to be Gummo. Unfortunately, somewhere in the intervening years Harpo disappeared into the ozone. They were never sure just where he went. They were just sort of wandering around one day and realized that he was gone. They adjusted to it, but kept their own respective names, partially out of homage to their vanished partner but mostly because, after a great deal of thought-searching, they could not manage to remember what their original names had been.