Choose Your Enemies Carefully

by Robert N. Charrette

  The great double orichalcum doors to the inner court opened, swinging wide until they came to rest against the walls of vines in which they were set. Two elves, outsiders by their dress, walked through the arch. As they passed Hart, the woman nodded in friendly recognition. It was nothing personal. Hart’s upswept fall of hair was the latest style outside. Even though she wore local garb, the hairdo marked Hart as a visitor to this fey land, and most visitors, though strangers to each other, found other visitors more congenial company than the locals. The man, glowering beneath his dark brows, didn't seem to notice Hart existed.

  A voice from beyond the arch called Hart’s name; it was time for her audience. She felt no trepidation. She had been expecting the summons to come soon.

  She almost tripped as a gaggle of leshy scurried by in front of her just as she stepped forward. The short humanoids were a common sight among the verdant forest-city of the Seelie Court, but Hart didn’t like them. They were flighty, dirty, and unkempt; their bark and leaf garments were rudimentary and showed no sense of fashion at all. She often doubted if they were truly intelligent at all. Even when she could make out the words their high-pitched voices mangled, the leshy were always either asking an impertinent, silly, pointless question or expressing some obscure and contradictory concern about the harmonious nature of what was going on around them. She cursed the group that had impeded her, and they scattered, laughing.

  The doors closed behind her as she crossed the threshold. For a while she walked in darkness, which defeated her elven eyes. The floor beneath her feet felt like earth, firm yet with a resilience unequalled by synthetic carpets. The light level increased until it was comparable to that in a deep forest at night. She could smell the leaf mold and the fragrance of night-blooming flowers. Ahead of her she saw an open space. The light was brighter there, as if stars and moon shed their full light. No city-born plexer had ever seen such a night sky. No one would expect to at this time of day; it was mid-afternoon.

  She entered the clearing, finding it little more than a wide lane between the great boles of ancient rowan and hawthorn trees. Amid the trees she could see the strolling or standing shapes of members of the inner court. None spoke to her, or even showed interest. She continued walking ahead.

  At the end of the lane, the packed earth mounded in several steps to a raised area, behind which stood a singularly massive oak tree entwined about with mistletoe. Three thrones stood on the flat surface. The seat on the left was placed near the front edge. Though it was small, bold carvings painted in bright colors embellished every surface, making it seem larger than it was. Symbols of life and energy dominated the decorative motif in a vibrant statement of youth. The center throne stood well back, almost hidden in the shadows. Though the light which struck it revealed an intricacy of carving, Hart could discern no details. To the right of that great chair and set nearer and fully in the light was the third throne. Like the others, it was a masterpiece of the carver’s art. The bold relief was accentuated by subtle painting that enhanced the relief to the point that many of the designs seemed to stand free from the panels. Of the three thrones, it was the only one occupied.

  The woman who sat in the chair was exquisite, of a delicacy that even made Hart’s own elven slimness seem fleshy. The lady had the ageless look of a mature elf, a youthfulness that would fade only as she approached the end of her allotted span. Her hair was of such fineness that it drifted in the slightest breeze that snaked across the dais, becoming a mist floating about her shoulders that owed more to light than to substance. Slender fingers toyed with a few errant strands, absently plaiting knots that vanished in a flick of those same tapering digits. Her eyes were the transparent blue of deep ice. Though she wore no symbols of rank, Hart had no doubt that she was the ruler here; the woman’s bearing was that of a sovereign.

  A male elf stood on the first step down from the dais. His name was Bambatu and his dark skin was an ebon contrast to the porcelain fairness of the hall’s mistress. He no longer wore the elegant business suit in which he had recruited Hart. His bare chest shone as if it had been oiled, which perhaps it had. Around his loins he wore a cloth of many bright colors woven in mystical designs. Bangles, bands, and chains of gold and brazen orichalcum hung around his neck, waist, wrists, and ankles. He made a magnificent barbarian. She found his long, smooth musclss much more appealing than the over-developed travesties that norms seemed to insist their trid heroes possess. He watched her, too. his large dark eyes pools of sparkling interest.

  When Hart reached the dais, she knelt at the beginning of the steps, holding her head bowed. The text she had read on formal courtesy suggested that such behavior was appropriate.

  "The Lady Brane Deigh bids you stand, Katherine Hart," said Bambatu.

  Hart did as she was bidden. Bambatu had recruited her, but Lady Deigh was her employer. The Lady’s eyes met hers in a coolly appraising stare. Suspecting the importance of the moment, Hart held her gaze steady. A ghost of a smile touched the lady’s lips.

  "You have sheltered under my roof and accepted my coin. Hart. By the laws of the land that makes you milessaratish. You understand this obligation?"

  Hart inclined her head. "I do, Lady." But understanding doesn’t mean agreement. You’ve hired your talent, but I haven’t become your liegewoman. That sort of thing is your concept, not mine.

  "Very well. You were told of our opposition to the Hidden Circle, that you might prepare yourself to face them. Lord Bambatu informs me that you have availed yourself of our resources, seeking to hone your skills and study your adversaries. This is laudable. But the time for preparations is past, for tomorrow is the Solstice. Do you stand ready to confront them?"

  "Yes, Lady."

  "Then you have my blessings, Hart." She stood and walked across the dais towards Bambatu. He bowed to her as she approached. The Lady paused at the edge of the stairs and turned her face to Hart. "Ozidano teheron, milessaratish. Imo medaron co versakhan.

  Hart replied to the formal dismissal with the ritual recasting of Lady Deigh’s commands. "I leave my existence behind. Lady. At your word, I am the death of your enemies."

  12

  The sky was beginning to grey with the coming of dawn. As it grew, the light let them make out the sentry. Their patience had paid off; he was drowsing.

  So far their departure from the mansion had gone unnoticed. The last barrier, the gate, lay before them. Once through, they would be out of Glover’s hands. They knew from Dodger’s tap of a NavSat that Glover’s estate lay in the southwest of England. There was a town only a few miles away. From there, transportation to the Bristol metroplex would be a simple matter.

  Sam drew his Narcoject Lethe.

  The guard jerked at the impact of the dart and slid to the ground in a subdued clatter. While Sam injected an antidote, Dodger tapped into the gate control system. Three minutes later they were on the road to Taunton, the gate closed and locked behind them. In a few more minutes, the sentry would awaken, propped against the guard house. With little evidence to the contrary, he should think that he had dozed off naturally. If their luck held, it might be an hour or two until their absence was noticed.

  The Black Down Hills were strange territory, but for those first minutes of freedom, Sam felt more at home than he had on Glover’s estate. The growing dawn dampened his spirits as it unveiled a desolate landscape. Like much of England, the hills had been ravaged; first by overpopulation and industrialization, then by the ecological terrorism to which the country had been subjected in the early part of the century. It was a scarred and battered land, tortured further by the natural and man-made disasters that had plagued it in the last few years. The awfulness began to weigh him down.

  Dodger trudged at his side. He and the elf had talked little beyond the necessary planning for their escape. Dodger’s contributions had been terse, completely lacking in his usual banter and archaic style. Sam hadn’t minded; he wasn’t sure that he wanted to talk to Dodger just yet. The druids’
talk last night had raised uncomfortable questions.

  They reached the outskirts of Taunton without observing any signs of pursuit. The relief must have heartened Dodger; the elf tried a conversational gambit. Perhaps he was motivated by the need to discuss some matters before they were surrounded by curious ears.

  "Sir Twist, don’t you find it intriguing that so august a personage as Sir Winston Neville would be involved in these druidical shenanigans?"

  "No," Sam replied brusquely. Druids weren’t the only ones who were pulling shenanigans.

  "What about this ‘uncrowned sovereign’ business? Does not that compel your curiosity, Sir Twist?"

  "No."

  "Sir Twist, the paucity of your response suggests that you harbor some unspoken concern. Is this so?"

  Of course it was so. Dodger’s nagging at the druids’ plans only gave credence to Sam’s suspicions. They were not safe yet and they were beginning to encounter people, so all he said was, "Yes."

  The elf lapsed into silence again.

  Taunton’s grimy buildings soon surrounded them. The town offered them a chance to get some supplies. Beyond the obvious necessities of food, water, and ammunition, they had need of protective gear; there was a stage four smog alert in Bristol and a sane person wouldn’t be outside a breath mask. If they wanted to reach their destination quickly, they also needed a means of transportation.

  Finding connections wasn’t easy, and Sam didn’t make it easier. He stubbornly remained silent, forcing Dodger to do all their talking. Watching the elf struggle to conduct his dealings with the locals, Sam felt a perverse satisfaction when he saw the sidelong glances that the passing Brits gave Dodger. Though most concealed their feelings behind a veneer of politeness whenever addressed directly, Sam was sure that the locals didn’t like elves much.

  They got what they needed, but the locals drove harder bargains than seemed reasonable, even allowing for the fact that they were dealing with strangers. Dodger was forced to pay a premium price for the beat-up old bike, which was the only vehicle anyone would part with. The decrepit thing was alcohol-powered, and its hard rubber tires were gouged and greying. They’d be lucky if it didn’t disintegrate at the first bump, but they didn’t have time to wait for a better deal.

  Though pursuit remained unseen, they had no assurance that the druids were not busy trying to track them down. Dodger and Sam would be safer in a metroplex where outsiders were more common and they could lose themselves among the masses. The sooner they hit the plex, the safer they’d be.

  The ride to Bristol was every bit as bone-shattering as the bike’s condition promised. Unlike Seattle, Bristol didn’t have a wall; it wasn't an enclave of alien territory in the midst of a green and fertile land. The drab grey and brown countryside gradually seemed to blue into drab grey and brown cottages that merged almost imperceptibly into drab grey and brown multistory buildings. They passed the boundaries of the sprawl without noticing.

  Dodger abandoned the decrepit bike as soon as he spotted a rail station, announcing that they would be able to use the public transportation from there. Bristol, though a separate entity, had good transport links with the great English Sprawl that slashed across the island from Brighton to Liverpool. The elf seemed to assume that the bigger metroplex was their destination. and made vague references to connections he had there.

  Now that they were in an urban environment, Dodger appeared to be in less of a hurry. He dragged Sam through a series of seedy pubs and squalid shops. Several rounds of haggling later, the elf was in possession of the access code to an over-priced, underheated flat on the twentieth story of a pillar high-rise.

  The building was supposed to have been part of the support system for an enclosing dome, fashioned after the one over the London district of the English Sprawl. Bristol’s dome, like those of every other sprawl district except downtown London, had never been completed. Fragments of the biofibre mesh that had stretched between the pillar high-rises still clung to one edge of the building. The splotchy fabric fluttered in the clammy breeze from the Bristol Channel. Sam wondered how much the ambiance contributed to the price.

  The apathetic owner did not bother to accompany his new tenants to their flat. While Dodger prowled around, Sam stared through the filthy transparex. Across the channel, Sam could see the smog bank that hid the Cardiff plex. Beneath him, grey Bristol bustled about its business: but the smog covered any sign of the activity and hid the tawdry Christmas decorations and neon and trideo exhortations for gift-giving that had festooned the streets. It could be any day, any sprawl.

  He and Dodger were safely ensconced for the moment, anonymous among the masses of humanity. Time for a confrontation.

  Without turning from the window, Sam said, "You knew that Janice was never on their list, didn’t you?" The sudden cessation of sound behind him told him he had achieved the effect he wanted. He turned to find Dodger staring at him. The elf’s expression was uncertain.

  "Sir Twi . . . Sam, I will not lie to you. I knew, but . .

  "You already have lied to me," Sam said bitterly. "I never said that the name on the list belonged to your sister. I merely suggested that ..."

  "You meant for me to believe it. You deliberately deceived me. Go ahead. I want to hear you deny it." Dodger swallowed, then spent a moment considering what to say. "I cannot deny that I deceived you."

  "Why not? What’s another lie? You’re very good at words; surely you can find some. Don’t you want me to trust you anymore? Or doesn’t it matter anymore?" Sam asked. "Why not lie again? Tell me that you were deceived, too. Tell me that somebody forced you to fake the list. I’ll believe it. I’m just a stupid norm, ripe for a few elven tricks."

  "Sam, I . . ." Dodger ran a hand through his shock of hair. "What does it matter? Whatever I say, you won’t believe me. How you got involved isn’t really important. You’re involved now, and you have to believe what is happening."

  "Do I?"

  "Yes, you do. These druids are serious trouble. They’ve got to be dealt with. You may not want to believe me about the importance of what is going down, but the facts should convince you." Dodger tapped his cyberdeck. "Before we left Glover’s mansion, I swiped a few copies of a few files and stashed them in a little-used corner of an ATT mainframe.

  Once I knew we were dealing with druids and that the Solstice was almost upon us, I used the date as a cue to run a similarity search. I could see that I was getting somewhere, but that it would take time, so I set a few special programs to work. If no one has disturbed my creative time-sharing arrangement, I should have a few revealing files to be read. Will you look at them?"

  Sam shrugged. "I’m not going anywhere for a while; looking won’t hurt."

  Despite his predisposition to disbelief, Sam found himself engrossed by the files Dodger had cracked. If they were real and not another concoction, Glover and his cronies were involved in evil doings.

  The files told a tale worse than Haesslich’s murders. The dragon had sacrificed lives in his search for personal aggrandizement; murders, yes, but incidental to his desires. These druids were methodically planning death.

  Most of the data was in a language that the computer tentatively identified as Old English. Without the proper translation programs, most of the files remained unreadable, but enough of the contents were clear to make the druids’ intent unmistakable. It all seemed to revolve around a special ritual of immense power. There were several unambiguous references to the "king who must die" as the key to the "cycle of restoration." Other passages referred to "scions of untainted bloodlines" as important components of the ritual. Sam had little doubt that these "scions" would turn out to be the people on Glover’s infamous list. They, too, were to be sacrificed as the druids sought to end human lives for the magical energy that would be released. Deliberate, cold-blooded human sacrifice. Black magic of the worst kind.

  It was all too horrible to believed. If it could be believed.

  "I don’t like what you are
showing me, Dodger. I don’t like it at all."

  "Neither do I, Sir Twist. ’Tis what I feared, though. Suspicion of this evil drove me to deceive you. Had I simply told you about it without evidence, you would have rightly scoffed."

  The elf so casually admitted his toying with Sam’s belief in his honesty. Hadn’t they been friends, shadow brothers? Where was the elf’s trust? Didn’t he think he could be open with Sam? Sam had considered Dodger a friend ever since the elf had helped him after his escape from Renraku. How had he deceived himself into believing that this elf was his friend? Friends didn’t lie to friends. Friends didn’t deceive friends.

  He let his bitterness fill his voice as he said, "You deceived me right into helping them with their foul magic."

  "I had thought that we could stop it from the inside," Dodger said forlornly.

  Sam couldn’t help but wonder if the hint of regret he detected in the elf’s tone was real. If it was real, did the elf regret what he had done or did he regret the lost opportunity to work against the druids? Did it matter?

  "Well, we’re not inside anymore, and I don’t see how we can stop them. If the druids mean to try their ritual on the Solstice, there’s no time left. We’re thousands of miles from our home turf. We’ve got no resources but what we’re carrying, and some of these druids are the heads of major corporations. They could put out a contract on us and the bill would show up in petty cash. What could just the two of us do?"

  "I have friends in London."

  "Why am I not surprised? Why didn’t you just take on these druids with them? Or was it too much fun to dupe the norm?"