by Peter David
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.
"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?"
He prodded Moe gently in the ribs with Excalibur. Moe shook his head frantically.
"Now then," continued the king, "where is your god-cursed mother? 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."
Moe's mouth moved several times but nothing came out. Arthur sighed and said, "Oh, do try to get on with it, won't you?"
"I... I don't know where she is."
"You're lying," said Arthur tightly.
"I'm not! As God is my witness, I'm not! She said ..." He swallowed. "She said she thought you might try something like this. So she deliberately didn't tell me where she was going to be hiding. Because she was afraid that I'd crack and bring you to her."
Arthur shook his head. "Ah, Morgan. Always the judge of character. All right, puppy, get up.
Up, I said." He waved with his sword, and Moe staggered to his feet. But Arthur kept the point of Excalibur only an inch from Moe's chest.
"Tell her," said Arthur, "that when next we meet--no mercy from me. Is that understood? No mercy."
"Yes. Absolutely, no mercy. I'll tell her."
"You do that." Arthur stepped back and loudly sheathed Excalibur. Moe winced at the finality of the sound.
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. Moe took a degree of satisfaction from that.
Arthur didn't come in to his campaign headquarters until ten a.m. the next day, startlingly late. The moment he walked in, Ronnie was all over him. "Arthur, where the hell have you been? We're already late for-"
"Have you heard from him?" Arthur said urgently, just as he had every day for the past month and a half.
Ronnie shook his head and looked down. "Arthur, this is insane. You at least have to file a missing persons report or something."
He put a hand on Ronnie's shoulder. "Trust me, my friend. It would do no good at all." He looked around and frowned. "I assume Gwen isn't here yet."
"She called in, said she would be a little late. Said she had an errand to run. Arthur, look, it's none of my business but-"
"You're right, it's none of your business. Where's Percy?"
"He's floating around. He's been holding up pretty well-finding that furnished apartment for rent certainly helped. Was that really all on the level, that he and Merlin were commuting from Bermuda?"
Percy seemed to materialize behind them. "Hard to believe, isn't it?" he said cheerily. Then he turned serious as he said, "Arthur, we have to talk about you and Gwen."
"No, we don't," said Arthur, "and I wish that all of you would feel less constrained to meddle in my private affairs."
"Private affairs!" said Percy. "Arthur, the woman is the head of your campaign, and it's obvious that she is number one on your personal hit list. And none of us understands why.
But it's starting to get on everyone's nerves, and frankly, it's hurting morale."
Arthur looked at the two men grimly and said, "Gentlemen, what has gone on between myself and Ms. DeVere is between the two of us. I do not consider her trustworthy-however, she seems to be doing a competent job as campaign head, and the staff likes her. So she is still here, but I do not have to be pleased by it. And that is all I have to say on the matter.
Ronnie, kindly cancel the rest of my plans for today."
"What?"
"I want to discuss the debate this Friday. 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. Percy shook his head.
"It's nerves. That's all."
"Well, it wasn't a problem when Merlin was here," said Ronnie. "I never understood the relation between those two, but I never questioned it. And now he doesn't have Merlin, and it looks like he doesn't have Gwen. Still, he's got himself, and that should be enough."
"Uh-huh, except that I know what he's thinking. The last time he had only himself to depend on, everything fell apart."
"Really?" asked Ronnie. "When was that?"
Percy Vale sighed. "Long time ago," he said. "Before your time. Before my time, in a way.
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 was a big man. His head was shaven, but he sported a large handlebar moustache. "Yes?" he rumbled. "Can I help you?"
"Yes," said Gwen, 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 bottled 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," said Gwen. 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 the proprietor. "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," said Gwen, 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 1 can thank my lucky stars that I am not the one who the lady is after."
"Yes," said Gwen pleasantly. "You can." She tucked the knife in her handbag. "How much do I owe you?"
Chaptre the Sixteenth
They had cleared out the Reeves Teletape theater for the event. The television facility, situated on Eighty-sixth Street and usually home to sitcoms and the like, was now decorated inside with three podiums at which the three principal candidates would stand, a center podium where the moderator would be stationed, and on one side of this trianglular arrangement, a table where three local journalists would be seated.
Arthur's earlier nervousness had been replaced by quiet calculation as he 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.
There was a tug at his shoulder and he glanced around. Percy smiled encouragingly at him.
'Turn around. Let's see you."
Arthur turned around obediently, and Percy straightened the collar of his suit jacket. He looked down and said, "Unbutton the bottom vest button."
"Why?" asked Arthur.
"I dunno, man. Because you're supposed to." He held out his hand and pointed proudly at the steadiness of it. "
Congratulate me, Arthur. Ten months of sobriety. Haven't touched a drop."
"Not even raised a flagon of mead?"
"Not a one."
Arthur smiled broadly. "Good for you. Urn . . ." He looked around. "Gwen isn't here, is she?"
Percy stroked his chin. "For someone who doesn't care whether he ever sees a certain person again or not, you're aw^ ful interested in her whereabouts."
"Morbid curiosity. Nothing more."
"Uh-huh."
Ronnie came trotting over, a clipboard in his hands. "Arthur, you're here! Good. I was getting worried."
"Heavy traffic daunts even the best of us, Ronnie," said Arthur stridently. "Where am I supposed to be?"
"We've got an hour before the debate starts. They want to get you into makeup first."
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 protectant salve, to prevent my being severely burned by the intense lights of the cameras."
Percy 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."
Percy 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." He turned to Percy.
"Come, let's get this 'makeup' done. I have an urge to be quit of this whole debate. It's..
.unseemly."
From the opposite corner of the studio Bernard Bittberg and Moe Dredd watched Arthur, Percy, 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 of 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 run-down 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 grass was supplanted by weeds stretching several feet high.
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. But I'm your pathetic creature."
"Come. We're going to watch television."
"Wonderful! Uncle FloydV
"No, not Uncle Floyd'," she grated. "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 WNYW, Channel 5, with the other local stations in attendance for taped 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 prisons 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."
"It's UncleFloydl" said Lance cheerfully.
Despair welled in Merlin's eyes. If he could have moved any other part of his body, he would have screamed and beat his breast in fury.
"No it's not Uncle FloydV Morgan fairly shrieked. "Will you be quiet with your moronic Uncle Floyd." Her voice recaptured its sultry purr. "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 hope for my fool of a half brother to 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, immobile 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.
It could be worse, he mused. They could be making him watch Uncle Floyd again.
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."
Gwen sat in the front row, looking demure in a simple white blouse and denim skirt. Her purse was on her lap. The dagger she had purchased several days ago was still in it.
Arthur, stepping up to his station, looked out at the audience, and his gaze locked with Gwen's. She smiled encouragingly at him. He did not smile back. She bit her lower lip, but that was all, and then she looked up at the monitor, not being able to bear looking directly at him.
"Mr.Penn."
Arthur turned and saw the blond-haired, corpulent man standing next to him. There was a smile on his lips that went nowhere near his eyes. Nevertheless he stuck out a hand and said, "Bernard Bittberg. Your worthy opponent. I've heard a great deal about you, sir. It's a pleasure to meet at last."
Arthur nodded graciously, taking Bernie's hand and shaking it once firmly. "I've watched your campaign with great interest."
"Same here, Mr. Penn. Same here." He studied Arthur's handsome face carefully, trying to see some evidence of self-delusion there. What was he looking for? He wasn't altogether sure.
"Is something wrong, Mr. Bittberg?"
"What?"
"The way you're staring at me ..."
"Oh, nothing. Nothing at all."
Arthur's podium was at the far right when facing the audience. Bernie was dead center.
Arthur glanced down at the end.
"There's another candidate, isn't there?"
"Yes, certainly. The Republican candidate."
"And what's his name?"
Bernie opened his mouth and then closed it again. "You know, I don't recall."
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 Percy 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... 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 had thought the things that Merlin had done were magic.
Merlin...
Arthur looked down toward the end of the row and saw that the Republican candidate had arrived. He was a sturdy-looking fellow, with thinning hair, thick glasses, and a determined, albeit slightly confused, air-confused because he didn't quite know where he was supposed to look.
"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 have seen fit to engage in this evening's forum.
I'd like to introduce them to you now. On the far right, running as an Independent, Mr. Arthur Penn. In the center, the Democratic candidate and City Council head, Mr. Bernard Bittberg.
And on the extreme left, the Republican candidate ..." Shukin hesitated a moment, then glanced down at his notes. "Former Staten Island Borough President, Mr. Archibald Goodwin."
