by Peter David
"What are you doing?" shrieked Gwen. "You only wanted the sword! Morgan said all you wanted was the sword!"
The waiter grinned at her in an unearthly way. "Morgan lied," it hissed. "She does that sometimes."
"Merlin's gone?"
She tried to restrain him. "Now Arthur, try to stay calm."
He lurched to his feet, staggering desperately toward the convention hall. But Gwen's plaintive cry of "Arthur, it's too late!" brought him up short.
He turned and demanded, "How could you stand there while someone dragged Merlin off?
How-"
"What was I supposed to do?" wailed Gwen. "I couldn't fight a demon. I've never fought anyone in my life, much less some creature."
"Yes. Yes, I suppose you're right." He smiled sadly and shook his head. Encouraged, Gwen came to him and supported him.
The camera crews were closing on him rapidly. They all had tape of Arthur's rescuing the children and now wanted some footage of the Hero. Arthur grinned wanly at them, and then a thought sliced through him like a dagger. Gwen yelped in startled pain as Arthur's grip tightened convulsively on her shoulder.
"Arthur, not so hard. You'll hurt me. That's no way to treat your crutch."
His voice was a sick whisper. "How did you know?"
"W-what? What do you-"
He turned to confront her, and Gwen's body shook with fear from the look in his eyes. "How did you know they were creatures from hell and not human beings?"
"You told me."
"No."
"Yes. Just now. You-"
"Don't make it worse!" he shouted at her. "Don't lie to me!"
Tears streamed down her face as she tried to shrink from him. "Arthur, please don't-"
"How did you know?"
"Morgan told me!" she screamed. "She told me they would be. She arranged for everything." She was speaking desperately, words tumbling one over the other. "But she just told me she wanted the sword. That's all. She swore no one would be hurt. I thought-"
"And you provided the distraction." His words were cold, burning with an icy flame that blazed in his eyes.
"Yes. But-"
He shoved her away roughly and stood there, fists clenched as he trembled with repressed fury. "Damn you! How could you betray me again!"
She staggered toward him, her body racked with sobs. "Arthur, please. I had no choice.
Lance-"
"Don't talk to me. Don't even look at me." His voice was pure venom. "You're not fit for human company!"
He staggered away from her as the cameramen descended. "Mr. Penn, what does it feel like being the man of the hour?" the newsmen were shouting. "What were you thinking when you were hanging from the side of that burning building? Did you think you were going to die? How did you feel about-"
Arthur grabbed the first newsman who came within arm's length and shoved him roughly out of the way. He spun and shouted, "Get away from me!
Just ... leave me . . ." His voice caught as he looked at Gwen's tear-stained face. "Leave me alone."
He limped away into the darkness, illuminated briefly in the flickering of the rapidly dying fire.
It was late at night in Central Park. The moon was obscured by clouds, and there were no sounds other than a young woman pounding on the uncaring stones of Belvedere Castle.
The sides of her hands were abraded from the stone as she continued to smash her hands against the wall in supplication. "Arthur, please let me in," sobbed Gwen. "You've got to let me explain!"
There was a tap on her shoulder and she whirled around. "Oh, Arthur, I-"
"No, my sweet," said Morgan quietly. "It's not Arthur."
"You! You . . . bitch!" She leaped at Morgan, fingernails bared like claws. Morgan caught her flailing wrists and tossed her roughly to the ground. She stood over Gwen and laughed harshly. "What a pathetic little fool you are." She nodded toward the castle. "Arthur's not in there."
"How do you-"
"I know a great deal about a great deal. Arthur's wandering the streets right now," said Morgan easily. "Angry. Confused. Hurt. I could attack him now, and probably defeat him utterly. But I've waited far too long to dispose of him so quickly. No, we'll let him stew. You, on the other hand, little queen," and she smiled menacingly, "you have served your purpose."
In a pure, white-hot fury, Gwen hiked up the hem of her evening dress and swept out with her legs. She knocked Morgan's legs out from under her, sending the sorceress toppling to the ground with her. Within moments she was upon Morgan, tearing at her hair, her eyes, her face. Morgan shrieked in anger and indignation.
Gwen felt herself abruptly being hauled off of Morgan's writhing body. She flailed at the men who stood on either side of them.
"Whoa! Hey! C'mon, slugger," said Chico, struggling to hold onto the infuriated Gwen. "This is, whattaya call, undignified."
Gwen stopped, looking from Chico to Groucho and back again. "What are you guys doing here?" she demanded.
"We live here," said Chico simply. "That's how we first met the king. And now we see you and this nice lady who you were tryin' to kill. I tell ya, y'meet the best people in the park."
Morgan staggered to her feet. "You'll regret that," she said, gingerly touching the scratches where Gwen had raked her face. "You'll regret that most dearly."
"What are you going to do?" demanded Gwen. "Kill me? I feel dead already. You couldn't hurt me any more than I've already hurt myself. Damn you! I should have gone straight to Arthur-"
"Yes. You should have," said Morgan with a twisted smile. "Are you wondering where your precious Lance is? I still have him. And you know why? Because he doesn't want to leave. It seems he's developed a fondness for bondage. Isn't that interesting?"
Chico raised an eyebrow. "Well, it's certainly got my interest."
"You're lying," snarled Gwen. "You lie about everything."
"Not about this," said Morgan. "I don't need to lie about this. Tell me-does Arthur ask you to talk dirty, the way Lance does with me?"
Gwen stared at her in shock. "My God. It was all for nothing."
"Yes." Morgan laughed. "All for nothing. That's all it ever was. That's all it ever will be."
Groucho took a step forward. There was a switchblade in his hand and a distracted tone in his voice. "You know, I don't like you."
Morgan stared at him for a time, and then she turned in an abrupt swirl of her long black cape. She strode off into the darkness and merged with the shadows.
Chico shook his head. "She must be zero fun at parties." He turned to Gwen and shook his shaggy head. "You look so sad."
"I had it," said Gwen. "I had it all. And I lost it. And I can blame Morgan, or Lance, or anybody I want."
Groucho stepped forward. "You can blame me if you'd like."
She smiled unevenly and patted his thick beard. She then unconsciously wiped her hand on her dress as she said, 'That's sweet. But what I'm trying to say is that there's really nobody to blame but myself. That's the part that's tough to take."
Chico nodded, not understanding in the least, but determined to be helpful. "Gwen, if you'd like, you can stay with us tonight."
"What, under a tree? Gee, that's nice, but"-she wiped her nose-"I don't think that would be, well, right."
"Oh. You wanna, y'know, get married first?"
Gwen stared at him, and then, to her surprise, laughed. "You know, Groucho-"
"I'm Chico."
"I'm sorry. Chico. That's the first marriage proposal I've ever had in my life."
"You gonna turn it down?"
She nodded. "I'm afraid so."
"Don't worry. You'll get lots of others."
"I hope so. God, I hope so." She patted him on the shoulder. "Thanks anyway. I hope you're not too broken up."
"I'll live," said Chico.
"Okay," smiled Gwen. "Good night, then, boys." She turned and walked off into the night.
Groucho slammed Chico in the shoulder. "That was close! Idiot! What if she'd taken you up on it?
"
Chico shrugged, massaging his hurt shoulder. "She never would have. Pm Jewish. She's not." He sighed. "It'd never have worked."
Chaptre the Fifteenth
Bernie Bittberg had been made the official Democratic candidate for mayor of New York City. The decision from the primary voting had been overwhelmingly in his favor, due to endorsements from the two New York newspapers, namely the Times and the Daily News-no one counted the Post-and from a concentrated media blitz that had effectively destroyed the credibility of his opponents' records.
So now, several weeks after that primary, and several weeks before the election, Bernie should have been happy. He was, in fact, anything but.
It was past midnight as he huddled with his staff in a classic smoke-filled room. Bernie sat forward, rubbing his eyes, his still-knotted necktie draped over the back of his chair, his vest open to allow for his considerable girth. Moe Dredd sat to his immediate right. The various officials who ran his campaign were also there, in varying degrees of wakefulness.
Bernie looked around and slammed his open hand on the table, effectively rousing everyone. "What the hell are we going to do about this Arthur Penn character?" he demanded.
Effecting a gangland tone, his treasurer said, "You want we should rub him out, boss? I'll go round up Rico and the boys and-"
"Shut up, Charlie," said Bernie tiredly. "Now dammit, Pm serious. You know my philosophy about political opponents." He paused expectantly,
Moe filled the void, reluctantly. "Stick it to 'em."
"Stick it to 'em. That's right. Except what the hell are we supposed to do about this Penn guy? He's got no political record to speak of. For most people that would be a detriment, but he makes it work to his advantage. The voters see him as a fresh face in a jaded political arena, and it gives us absolutely zilch to work with. His business practices? Squeaky clean.
Hell, the man's never been investigated. All of his investments are sound and aboveboard.
He's hardly been involved in running the day-to-day business of anything, so although there's virtually no one to vouch for him, there's no one to say anything bad against him either.
"And if that's not enough for you," said Bernie with genuine indignation, "the guy has to go and save kids from a flaming building. Kids! Isn't that just friggin' fabulous! With TV news crews there to tape him." A sudden thought struck him. "Hey, maybe he started it. Stan, you're the press liaison. You have the contacts. Anyone looking into that possibility?"
Stan shook his head. "Police looked into it for weeks and still aren't sure what caused it. It seems like some sort of spontaneous combustion. Either way, certainly no sign of any incendiary device."
The head of clerical, Marcia, put in, "That whole thing gets bigger with every retelling. The children were telling reporters that our Mr. Penn, before the fire started, was fighting a man with a sword, and the man supposedly turned into some sort of creature and then crumbled away once Penn defeated him."
Bernie moaned. "Just what we need. Folk legends arising from this clown. So where does this leave us?"
Moe shook his head. "In a couple of days there's that televised debate. It's going to be you, the Republican candidate, and Arthur Penn. Now-"
Bernie hauled his carcass to his feet. "Penn's in the debate? Since when?"
"Since the TV stations became interested in ratings," said Moe sourly. "Since Penn won that citation from the Fire Department for gallantry. Since New York magazine put him on their Most Eligible Bachelor Politician List. Penn was amassing a following before, but that whole fire business made him really hot, so to speak. They decided that a debate would not really reflect the voters' interest in the candidates unless Penn was present. Frankly I can't blame them."
"Well, that's just wonderful, Moe," retorted Bernie. "And you won't blame the voters when they elect Arthur Penn instead of me or even the Republican candidate . . . uh, what's his name anyway?"
Everyone at the table looked at each other. Stan shrugged. "Who cares?"
"Yeah, you're right. Look, what it boils down to is this-I don't want to lose this race. I really don't. But the key to this is, I suspect, bringing down Arthur Penn."
"For what it's worth," said Marcia, "I think Penn's worst enemy right now is himself."
"Come again?"
"He was on a local news interview program the other day. He was snappish, irritable. Short with the interviewer. It's as if his mind is a million miles away."
"You know," said Stan, "come to think of it, he's been like that ever since the whole fire thing.
Maybe it shook him more than he lets on. He could hurt his image if he keeps it up. Because it's starting to look as if he can't stand pressure."
"Yeah, well, it's looking that way to us, but not to the general public. Not yet at any rate. So we're going to have to bring it to their attention."
He looked around the table. "We're going to have to start playing hardball, ladies and gentlemen. I hope that we have a clear understanding of this. Because if we don't win . . ."
his voice rose dramatically, and then he paused.
"Then we lose?" suggested Marcia helpfully.
Bernie covered his face and said quietly, "Meeting adjourned. Go home. Get some sleep.
See you all tomorrow." He glanced at his watch. "Sorry, make that later this morning."
Bernie himself started to rise, but he felt the gentle pressure of Moe's hand on his arm. He looked at Moe Dredd with curiosity, but Moe said nothing, didn't even look his way. Bernie lowered himself back into his seat, and they waited until the rest of the room had cleared out amidst tired choruses of "Good-byes" and "See you later."
"Nu?" said Bernie, once the room was empty. "What is it?" His voice dropped to a confidential level. "You got something on Penn? Please, say you've got something on him."
"Oh, I've got something on him, all right," said Mae slowly. "But you're not going to like it."
"How can I not like it?" He frowned. "Is he a fag? Don't tell me he's a fag. 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. 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? Look, they made a big deal of that with Gary Hart, but I never thought much of it." He shook his head. "I'm not following you, Moe."
"Arthur Penn," said Moe, "is short for Arthur Pen-dragon."
"Pendragon? 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 as mad as a hatter?"
'Tm 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 litany, 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 in
'rescuing' Benson's girl friend from the supposedly vile clutches of Benson himself."
Bittberg'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 needed 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. "But I better not 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."
Moe stepped outside of the tall gray building that housed Bernard Bittberg's office. 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 choke-hold. 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 his weight were nothing. Moe clawed at the arm around him, pounded on it, to no avail.
