Knight Life ma-1

by Peter David

  She inclined her head in acknowledgment. * Thank you, Merlin. You're too kind."

  "I know." He studied her for a moment. "You're not surprised to see me?"

  In truth she was very disconcerted. It had not occurred to her that Merlin's power would be so great that he would detect her attempts to find him; that he would turn the tables back on her, apparently without effort. He did not seem to have undertaken any conjurations. He had simply taken command of her equipment, commandeered her. Could his power really have grown so? Was everything so effortless for him now? If it were true, he would be far more than formidable. He would be unbeatable.

  All of this passed through her mind in a moment, and in the next moment she said, "No. I'm not at all surprised. Your overwhelming ego would only allow you to perform some such stunt as this."

  "Ah, how well you know me."

  "I knew Merlin the man, not Merlin the tot," she said airily. "I had thought the legends exaggerated. I see now they were not. You do indeed age backward."

  He nodded. "Just so. And, intriguingly enough, I become more powerful as well. It's quite a combination, Morgan: the energy and drive of youth combined with the wisdom and skill of an older man. An unbeatable combination, wouldn't you say, Morgan?"

  She leaned back, uncaring of her nudity. Her long hair hung discreetly over her breasts. "You would certainly say so, Merlin. Unless you let yourself be overwhelmed by your staggering sense of self-complacency. I will admit I'm impressed. Magic wards were placed all around the cave in which you were imprisoned long centuries ago. How did you get through them?

  Even at the height of your power-"

  "Remember what I taught you, Morgan. Wards are nothing more than mystic prison bars.

  These were small enough to contain any man. However, sliding between the ward bars in a child's body was quite simple, really."

  "So you simply allowed time to take its course."

  "Quite true." Merlin slid forward, alighting on his feet, and came "closer" to the screen. "And I'm sure you realize that I subsequently arranged for Arthur's release."

  "Time off for good behavior, no doubt."

  This time Merlin did not even try to smile. "Now listen carefully, Morgan. I did not have to contact you this way. I can assure you that mystically you would never have found us.

  However, before too long Arthur is going to be in the newspapers. Rather than give you the satisfaction of locating us, I decided to expend the smallest aspect of my power to issue you a warning."

  She raised an eyebrow. "Warning, is it?"

  "It is. Arthur will be running for mayor of New York City. As I said, you would undoubtedly read of this in the newspapers, for Arthur is destined to be quite a controversial candidate. I would not wish you to think for even a moment that we were living in fear of your discovering us. So I give you our city of operations ahead of time, secure in the knowledge that there is not a damned thing you can do to deter us."

  She frowned. "Arthur? Mayor? I would think that president would be more appropriate.''

  Merlin shook his head and his image flickered on the screen. "You and Arthur, half brother and half sister, thinking alike. That was Arthur's first inclination. But he has too much he has yet to learn, including," he said ruefully, "the name of this country. But that is neither here nor there. A complete unknown cannot come sweeping into the greatest office in the land from nowhere. He has to establish a political track record. New York is a highly visible city. And they could really use him. So," he concluded, "mayor of New York it is. It's inevitable, so don't even think about averting it. You do not have anyone to aid you any more, Morgan. Modred is long-gone bones. You command no legions of hell-human, mystic, or otherwise. It is just you, rusty in the use of your powers, versus me at the height of mine. You might say I've been working out."

  "Are you trying to scare me, Merlin?"

  "Trying? No. I believe I've succeeded. Stay out of my way, Morgan, or prepare to suffer dearly."

  Morgan opened her mouth to reply, when sparks began to fly from the television. She dove for cover and ducked as, with a low hum followed by heavy crackling and smoke, the TV screen blew outward, spraying glass all over the inside of the hotel room. It flew with enough velocity to embed itself in the wall, in the carpet, and if Morgan had presented a target, in Morgan herself. She, however, had moved quickly enough to knock over and hide behind a coffee table, and so was spared the inconvenience of having her skin ripped to shreds.

  She waited until she was certain that the violence was over. Slowly she raised her head, picking a few shards of glass out of her hair. She looked around. Gray smoke was rising from the now silent television. There was faint crackling in the air, and her nose wrinkled at the acrid odor. She stood fully and then slowly, daintily, picked her way across the floor. She stood in front of the television and, somewhat unnecessarily, turned it off. Then she padded across to the telephone, picked it up, and waited impatiently for an outside line.

  When it came she dialed a long-distance number quickly, efficiently. Her face was grim, but her spirits were soaring. She felt the blood pulsing in her veins for the first time in centuries.

  There was almost a sexual thrill, she thought, matching wits and powers with Merlin. She had been little better than dead all these decades. How had she survived all this time? she wondered, as a phone rang at the other end. How could she possibly have-.

  The phone was picked up and a slightly whiny male voice said, "Yeah?"

  Her eyes sparkled as she said, "He's contacted me. They're in New York."

  "They're in New York?!" The voice was incredulous. "But I'm in New York! How could I not have known?"

  "Because you're a great bloody twit. I'm on my way up there now." She paused, frowning.

  "We have only one thing going for us. Merlin is not as all-knowing as he believes himself to be. He thinks you do not exist, Modred. He thinks I am on my own. It may prove to be his fatal mistake."

  "Fatal?" There was an audible gulp. "You mean like dead?"

  She sighed, and hung up without another word. Then she leaned back on the bed, brushed away pieces of glass, and closed her eyes.

  "Great bloody twit," she muttered. "This is going to be tougher than I thought."

  Chaptre the Sixth

  "You're late."

  Gwen stopped in the doorway, openly surprised. Lance was seated at the kitchen table, his chair tilted back against the wall. He looked impatient, even huffy. And she realized with a shock that it had been ages since she'd really taken a look at him, so rarely had he been around these days.

  He pushed his thick glasses back up on the bridge of his nose. The unhealthy pallor he'd acquired had not improved. In addition his lips were dry and cracked. The blue check shirt he'd worn for four days straight was taking on a life of its own. His jeans were threadbare at the knees, and his socks were standing over in the corner, retaining the shape of his feet from memory.

  "Lance," she managed to get out. She glanced at her watch. "Am I really that late? It's only a little after six."

  He tapped a bony forefinger on the tabletop. "I expect dinner by six p.m. sharp."

  She looked askance at him as she removed her coat and hung it on a hook near the door.

  "Since when, Lance?"

  "Since when what?"

  "Since when do you expect your dinner at six p.m. sharp. You're usually not home then. And even if you are, you might be asleep, like as not."

  "Are you criticizing me?" He'd spoken in a tone that was guaranteed to make her back down, to force her into a sniveling apology. But as she crossed the room and sat down across from him, he realized with a distant sort of surprise that such an apology was not to be forthcoming.

  "I am not criticizing you," she said slowly, thoughtfully. "If you have a regular schedule you'd like to maintain, I'll be more than happy to aid in maintaining it. But don't try to change things on me and then get mad because I can't read your mind."

  His eyes narrowed
wolfishly. "I don't think," he decided, "that I like your attitude." He had tilted the chair forward, and now tilted it back, interlacing his fingers in a gesture he imagined made him look very authoritative. "I think you should give up your job."

  Her eyes widened. "Stop working for Art? Are you nuts?" Her voice went up an octave.

  "He's the best thing that's ever happened to me! The past two weeks I've been working for him have been- "

  He wasn't listening anymore. "Wait a minute. Best thing? What about me? I thought / was ostensibly the best thing that's ever happened to you."

  She huffed in irritation. "Well, of course you are, but I'm talking about two different things."

  "Best thing means best thing. It doesn't mean anything else." He stood up, swaying slightly, and it was only then that Gwen realized he had a few drinks in him. The alcohol was easily discernible in the air now. "I should know. I'm a writer."

  "So you say," she replied, and immediately wished she could have bitten her tongue off. She stood quickly and started to head for the bedroom when Lance's hand clamped on her shoulder. She turned and faced him, and his eyes were smoldering.

  "What do you mean by that?" He spoke in a voice that was low and ugly. "What do you mean?**

  "Nothing, Lance. I-"

  "What do you mean?"

  She whimpered and pulled back ineffectually. With an angry snarl he shoved her away and drew himself up to his full height. "You seem to forget our college days, Gwen. You looked up to me then, remember?"

  "I still look up to you, Lance." Gwen backed up slowly, until she bumped into a wall and could go no farther. She waited, panic stricken, for Lance to advance on her, but he did not.

  Instead he said, "Remember those days, huh? I was somebody then. All the English teachers knew me. They said they wished I'd never leave."

  They said they thought you'd never leave, Gwen wanted to scream at him. You flunked bonehead English, twice. Creative writing teachers said you were incomprehensible. She thought all of this, but didn't say it. Instead she said, "I remember, Lance. I remember. Lance, I can't quit my job. We need the money. And Arthur's going to be the next mayor. You'll see...."

  Lance guffawed and waved his hands about as he spoke. He bumped the single bulb that hung overhead in the kitchen, and it tossed up wildly distorted shadows on the wall. "Mayor, is he? Has he been out canvassing for votes? Has he even got the signatures of people who say they want him to run for mayor? Gwen, the man is a loser. You always hook yourself up with losers. You have a streak of self-abuse that..."

  His voice trailed off as he realized she was looking at him in an assessing manner, and he realized also exactly who he had described so accurately. With a snarl he stormed over to the front door of the apartment, yanked it open, and barreled out into the hallway, down the stairs to the next landing, and eventually out the door of the building.

  In the past Gwen would have chased him down the stairs, risking a battering of life and limb just to throw her arms about his legs and get him to come back. But this time she watched him go. He stopped at street level and looked up at the window. She glanced down at him briefly, then turned away.

  With a roar he pushed his way into the crowd and vanished from Gwen's sight... had she been looking, of course.

  Instead she was looking elsewhere-at the shape and course of her own life.

  AH she knew was one thing-that over the past several years she'd been living in limbo. A lady in waiting. Waiting for Lance to complete his book and sell it (he'd made it sound so easy!). Waiting for her life to take some direction.

  A lady in waiting.

  She pulled herself up with a smile. That's what she liked about Arthur Penn, she decided. He didn't make her feel like a lady in waiting. He made her feel like a queen.

  Chaptre the Seventh

  The couple was walking briskly down Fifth Avenue near the park, the woman's heels clacking merrily on the cobblestones, when the mugger leaped from behind a tree.

  Instinctively the man pushed the woman behind him. His desperate gaze revealed, naturally, that there was not a policeman in sight, so he pulled together the shards of his shattered nerve and held up his fists.

  The mugger stared at them for a moment, puzzled, and then slapped his forehead with the palm of his hand in self-re-proachment. "Right!" said Chico. "Money! You think I want money!"

  The man, who was somewhat portly and in his late fifties, peered over the tops of his fists.

  "You ... you don't?"

  "Nah! I mean, in the vast, general socioeconomic strata of the world, yeah, sure I want money. I mean, it makes the world go around." He paused. "Or maybe that's gravity or something."

  "Yes. Well. We have to be going."

  "Fine. Well, you have a nice day."

  "You bet. Same to you."

  "Real soon."

  The couple was slowly backing down the street. Chico stood there, waving the filthy fingers of a filthy hand, his beat-up army poncho blowing in the breeze. They turned quickly then, but had only taken several steps when a voice screamed out from behind them, "Hey!"

  "This is it, Harold," muttered the woman. "We're going to die now."

  Chico came barreling around them and faced them for a moment, his shaggy head shifting its gaze from one of them to the other. Then he thrust a clipboard forward. "I'm getting signatures for an election."

  Harold looked at him incredulously. "What ..." He cleared his throat, "What are you running for?"

  "Who, me? Oh, geez, no. It's for mayor. I'm helping one hell of a guy become mayor of the city."

  "Which... which city?"

  Chico paused a moment and frowned. "Holy geez, I never asked. You think it's this one?"

  "With my luck," muttered the woman.

  "Look, we don't want any trouble," Harold began again. He noted the fact that people were walking right past without offering any aid to two older people, obviously in distress. Indeed, they seemed to pick up their pace. "If you want me to sign this--"

  "Harold!"

  "Hey, man, you're great." Chico thrust the clipboard forward once again, and this time Harold took it, holding it gingerly between his fingers.

  "Urn," Harold said, and patted down his pockets. "I, uh, I don't seem to have a pen."

  "Not to worry," said Chico, who patted all the pockets in his limply hanging poncho and then in his tattered pants. With a frown he checked the hair behind his ears and then his beard. It was from that unchecked growth of facial hair that he finally extracted a Bic pen and extended it to the couple.

  "I'm going to be sick," said Alice between clenched teeth. "I swear, God as my witness, I'm going to be sick."

  "Shut up, Alice," muttered Harold as he took the pen and signed the petition. "Maybe you would have preferred it if he had assaulted your virtue."

  Chico and Alice exchanged glances. Neither seemed particularly enthused with the idea.

  "Harold!" she said after a moment. "You're putting our address!"

  "Yes. So?"

  "So . . ." Her eyes narrowed as she inclined her head toward Chico. "What if he tries to, you know, come to the house."

  "Oh, I'd never do that," said Chico. Then he gave the matter some thought. "Unless you invited me."

  Harold tried to smile pleasantly. What he achieved was the look of a man passing a kidney stone, but he continued valiantly, "What a . . . what a marvelous idea. We have to do that, real soon."

  "When?"

  "What?"

  "When do you want me to come over?" He looked eagerly from one of them to the other.

  "I'm . . . I'm not sure. It's going to be pretty hectic for us, too hectic to make social plans."

  "Oh." Chico looked crestfallen, but he brightened up. "Well, 1*11 give you a call, okay?" He smiled ingratiatingly.

  "Okay. You bet."

  They walked at double-time down the street. Chico watched them go, and when they were almost out of earshot he screamed, "Are we talking dinner or just coffee and cake here?"
<
br />   He shrugged when he got no response, and looked down proudly at his first signature. Only a few thousand more and he could knock off for the day.

  Then he reached into his beard and moaned. "Crud! The sons of bitches took my pen." He shook his head in disillusionment. "You just can't trust anyone these days. There's freaks everywhere."

  Professor Carol Kalish, noted geologist, was emerging from the depths of the New York University subway stop on the BMT when a shadowy figure materialized in front of her.

  In one hand was a switchblade. In the other was a clipboard.

  "Hello," growled Groucho. "I'd like your support for Arthur Penn, who would like to run as an independent for mayor of New York City. Sign this or I'll cut your fucking heart out"

  Groucho collected 117 signatures. Before lunch. Without breaking a sweat.

  * * *

  Up in Duffy Square, in the heart of the Broadway theater district, Arthur Penn stood on a street corner near a Howard Johnson's and felt extremely forelorn.

  A likely looking pair of elderly women approached him, and he started to say, in a very chatty and personable manner, "Hello, my name is Arthur Penn and I would like your support in my candidacy for mayor...." which was more or less the phrasing that Merlin had told him to use. But the couple picked up their pace and stared straight ahead. His voice trailed off as Arthur realized with a shock that they were ignoring him. But then he thought maybe they simply had not heard him. The elderly were notorious for being hard of hearing. Yes, that may very well be it.

  So the next time a youngish, businessman looking sort approached him, he began his approach again of "Hello, my name is . . ." But again he got no further than stating his raison d'etre before this chap, too, was out of earshot.

  No. It was not possible. People of any age could never be so unspeakably rude as to ignore someone who was point-blank addressing them. Could they?

  Arthur checked his appearance in the reflection in the display window of the Howard Johnson's. No, his suit was well cut and smart, his grooming immaculate.

  It started to sink in on him that everything that Merlin had said to him very early this morning, before he'd gone out canvassing, had been absolutely correct.