“All of it.” Wycliffe remembered the information his contact at the Chicago Police Department had provided for him. “It was a good idea, really. Buy up all the cigarettes you can in Kentucky, which has the lowest state cigarette tax in the nation, and sell them all here in Illinois. You’d turn a considerable profit. But you got caught, didn’t you?”
Allard glared. “How the hell was I supposed to know she was a cop’s wife?”
“It’s rather amusing,” said Wycliffe. “Professional criminals usually can pick their marks with greater skill.”
Allard shook with anger. “I’m not a professional criminal. I just got a bit over my head into some student debt for my MBA, okay? The interest was eating me alive. I needed some money, I gambled on the cigarettes, and it looks like I’ve lost. Do you have something useful to say, or are you should going to stand there and give me a shit lecture on morality?” His voice trembled with desperation.
“Hardly,” said Wycliffe. “In fact, I think your whole scheme rather admirable.”
Allard frowned. “You do?”
“Absolutely,” said Wycliffe. “You tried to defraud the cigarette companies and the greedy state government? So what? You seem like an ambitious and enterprising young man. It’s men like you, I think, that have made America great. But what’s the most you could have made from your little scheme? A few thousand dollars? A pity indeed that your career should end over such a trifle.”
“Yeah, whatever,” said Allard. “I’ve got better things to do than stand here and listen to you make speeches. Like finding a lawyer, for instance. So do you have a point?”
“Oh, I do,” said Wycliffe. “I’m offering you a job.”
“What?” said Allard.
“A job,” said Wycliffe. “Employment. A regular source of income, something you seem to need at the moment.”
Allard folded his arms over his skinny chest. “A job. Okay. A job doing what?”
“Handing out free cigarettes,” said Wycliffe.
Allard laughed. “This is bullshit.”
“It most certainly is not,” said Wycliffe. “I’ve been looking for a man like you, Allard.” Marugon’s instructions had been quite clear. “A Senator’s salary is nice, of course, but I was a businessman before I went into politics, and I still am. My partner Mr. Marugon and I have recently acquired a controlling interest in Stanford Matthews Tobacco, a minor cigarette producer.” That, too, had followed Marugon’s instructions.
“Marugon?” said Allard. “Weird name.”
“He’s Romanian,” said Wycliffe. “Now, Mr. Allard, Mr. Marugon and I wouldn’t have bothered with Stanford Matthews, except that it’s developed a new strain of tobacco. I believe it will be very popular with cigarette smokers. In fact, we believe that within three years it will become the leading brand in this country.”
Allard laughed. “You’re shitting me.”
Wycliffe grinned. “When it comes to business, Mr. Allard, I never shit.”
Allard snorted. “So, what are you offering? Minimum wage, right?”
“A bit better than that,” said Wycliffe. “A hundred thousand a year.”
Allard gaped. “How much? You’ve got to be joking!”
“I assure you, I am not,” said Wycliffe. “Of course, the potential for raises are in the future. Mr. Marugon and I plan on a broad customer base for Stanford Matthews cigarettes. Tell me, are you not tempted?”
“I…have some legal troubles, sir,” said Allard. Wycliffe could see the eagerness gleaming in his eyes. “I don’t know if I can…”
“Rubbish!” said Wycliffe. “Mundane matters do not trouble one such as I, as Mr. Marugon often says. We’ll clear up this legal trouble, don’t you doubt.”
Allard hesitated. “How are you going to do that?”
Wycliffe grinned. “I have…a very convincing voice, Mr. Allard.”
The little fool had no idea.
Allard looked at the ground. “I’m…I’m not sure. I’ll have to think about it.”
Wycliffe snorted. “You do that.” He pulled a small roll of paper from his pocket and pressed it into Allard’s hand. “Take this for your trouble.”
“I don’t smoke!” said Allard. Wycliffe laughed as Allard’s eyes widened. “How much money is this?”
“One grand,” said Wycliffe. “As I said, a bit of compensation for your time. Come along, Goth. Let’s leave Mr. Allard to his thoughts.”
They walked towards the limo, leaving Allard staring at the money. Wycliffe smiled.
Allard belonged to him now. It was only a matter of time.
The same approach worked on his 13A freight handlers, the ones who knew where Wycliffe’s money really came from. He paid them well, they adored him, and the Voice cleared up any little problems. The same approach had worked on Simon Wester, years ago. Wycliffe blinked. Perhaps he should get in touch with Dr. Wester. The historian had been quite a talented speechwriter…
“Senator!” Wycliffe heard running footsteps.
Kyle Allard ran up behind him, panting. “I…I think we can work something out.”
Wycliffe smiled. “Good.” He only wished he knew what Marugon intended with this bizarre scheme.
He thought of all those black crates of strange tobacco Marugon had sent through the Tower.
Every last tobacco leaf positively radiated black magic.
Whatever Marugon intended, it was going to be big.
Chapter 8 - Exile
Year of the Councils 972
“Up now, Sir Arran. You can’t lie here forever.”
Siduri stood in the doorway, a pair of crutches under her arm.
“What?” said Arran.
She leaned the crutches against the wall and stood over his bed. “It’s time for you to get up and start walking again. You need to recover your strength.”
Arran looked at the wall. “Suppose I don’t want to?”
“And just why not?” said Siduri.
“It is not your concern,” said Arran. “Just leave me be.”
Siduri snorted. “You just want me to let you die?”
Arran glared at her. “Yes. That’s just what I want. Throw me out in the desert and let me rot. Let me die.”
Siduri walked to the far side of the room and sat down on the floor, her arms wrapped around her knees. Arran watched her for a moment, and then turned away. He could still feel her eyes on the back of his neck.
“Why do you stare at me?” he muttered.
“Did you know Sir Liam Two Swords well?” said Siduri.
Arran’s head jerked around. “What are you talking about?”
“You said his name,” said Siduri, “and others, while you lay in your delirium. Sir Liam. Luthar. Lithon. Anna. But you said the name of this Sir Liam the most. How did you know him?”
“It is not your concern!” said Arran, his voice hoarse.
“How did you fail him?”
Arran flinched as if slapped. “I did not fail him. I did not. I did what I had to do. There was no other choice.” The words poured from his throat in a torrent, as if Siduri had breached some dam within him. “He would have perished if I had not taken up that gun, him and King Lithon both. And what else could I have done? Marugon’s men were everywhere. They all had guns, bombs, liquid fire, and the other horrors. What else could I have done!” His voice rose to an angry scream.
“So you do blame yourself,” said Siduri.
“I…” Arran’s voice broke. “I have damned myself. The…the guns are evil things, forged on Earth. I…should have never taken them up.”
Siduri tapped his Glock with the toe of her boot. “They’re just machines.”
“Machines made to kill,” said Arran.
Siduri laughed.
Arran scowled. “You mock me.”
She shook her head. “What is a sword, if not a thing made to kill?”
“That is absurd!”
“How so?” said Siduri. “It is a sword. It is a piece of metal made to kill things.”
“It is a Sacred Blade,” snapped Arran. “It was forged of the finest steel and imbued with the power of the white magic. It is a symbol of everything a Knight of the Sacred Blade is supposed to defend, everything a Knight is supposed to uphold.”
“Perhaps that is all true,” said Siduri. “But it is still a sword.”
Arran rolled his eyes. “You simply do not understand.”
“I understand just fine,” said Siduri. “A gun is a gun, and a sword is a sword, but they are both made to kill. What of this world that makes the guns? Earth? Do you think in this world of Earth that there are Knights of the Sacred Gun who take vows on their guns, swear by them, and make flowery speeches about their virtues?”
“Ridiculous,” said Arran.
Siduri laughed. She knelt and picked up the sniper rifle.
Arran flinched. “Do not touch that. You might hurt yourself.”
She turned it over, the barrel gleaming in the light. “It doesn’t look hell-forged to me. Just another piece of metal.”
“Put that down,” said Arran.
Siduri smiled. “Make me.”
Arran gritted his teeth. “You are an exasperating woman.”
Siduri held out the rifle at arm’s length and spun it like a spear. “I’ve been called much worse, believe me. Oh, don’t worry. It’s not loaded…I took the lead cylinders out.”
“You’re certain?” said Arran. “Many of Marugon’s soldiers lost a finger or a head when they thought their weapons unloaded.”
Siduri nodded. “Maybe you should check it yourself.”
Arran held out his hand. “Give it here.”
Siduri’s eyes flashed. “Come and get it.”
Arran’s hand balled into a fist. “You are an exasperating woman.”
“You repeat yourself,” said Siduri. “Are you going to get up and check your weapon, and perhaps go for a longer walk while you’re at it, or are you going to lie there and let me hurt myself? Well?”
Arran gestured at himself. “You expect me to hobble about your chambers…”
“Hold,” said Siduri. “The home of a clan is called a Hold.”
“Fine,” said Arran. “You expect me to hobble around your Hold naked?”
Siduri smiled and held up a bundle of brown cloth. “I brought a robe. Now, let’s get you dressed.”
Arran rolled his eyes, but spread his hands in resignation.
###
“This…this is all underground?” said Arran, the crutches digging into his armpits.
Siduri laughed. “Where did you think you were, man of Carlisan? Some great fortress, like those in your land?”
Arran shook his head. “I never thought about it.”
They stood in a huge cavern, a dozen giant lanterns of colored glass throwing beautiful patterns across the rough walls. Walkways and paths had been carved along the walls, and brightly colored curtains marked off individual dwellings. The men, women, and children of the Hold went about their business.
All gave Arran strange glances as they passed.
“I’d always heard the Scorpions of the desert lived in tents,” said Arran.
Siduri laughed. “Tents are hot, and you are exposed to any beast that wanders past. The clans did live in tents, many years ago. But our ancestors found the caves, and since then we have lived here.” She pointed. “Some beasts live in the caverns, and we raise them for food. There are also great pools filled with eyeless fish and squids, and fungus that we can eat, though some of it is poisonous.”
Arran blinked. “How many people live here?”
“About four hundred,” said Siduri. “A clan’s Hold might have five hundred, or twenty. Their numbers are the will of the gods. Now, let us keep walking. You must build up your strength, and you must practice with the crutches. You shuffle along like a wounded jackal.”
Arran grimaced. “My leg is broken and my side is torn up. I think I’m entitled to shuffle along like a wounded jackal.”
“This way,” said Siduri, leading him along another path through the cavern’s Hold. Siduri took slow steps to keep pace with Arran’s lurching gait. “How does your side feel?”
“It itches,” said Arran. “So does my leg.”
“That is good,” said Siduri. “Your wounds are healing.”
“They shouldn’t be,” said Arran. “You should have left me there to die. It would have been better.”
“Oh, do be silent,” said Siduri. “You’ll work yourself into a black despair if you keep up like that.”
“You don’t know what I’ve seen,” said Arran.
“I don’t care,” said Siduri.
Arran had nothing to say to that.
They walked in silence. A group of children ran past, clad in the same sort of dust-colored clothes as Siduri, but some of the children wore black scarves wrapped around their mouths and noses. The children looked at Arran and laughed as they ran past, but he heard no malice in their voices.
“You mustn’t think anything of them,” said Siduri. “It’s the first time they’ve seen a man from outside the desert.”
“Why were some of them wearing scarves?” said Arran.
“They’re girls,” said Siduri. “A girl, or a woman, wears a scarf over her face until she is married.” She shrugged. “It is customary, though I think it is silly. The Shan insists upon it.”
A shapely young woman came up the path, her trousers and coat tighter than the clansmen usually wore. A dark scarf covered her face.
Siduri glanced at her. “Rahanna.”
The young woman flinched. “Oh…Siduri…”
“How is Jabir?” said Siduri.
Rahanna trembled. “I…do not know.”
“Oh, come now,” said Siduri. “You spend more time with him than I.”
“I would not presume,” said Rahanna. “He came to me. I…I am sorry…”
Siduri waved a hand. “I do not blame you. Rather, I pity you. Pray you have sons, Rahanna. Else you’ll find yourself wandering the desert one day, as will I.”
Rahanna trembled for a moment, then spun and ran the other way.
“A rival?” said Arran. He had seen similar things among the nobles of Carlisan’s court.
Siduri sighed. “No. I am no rival to her. She is seven and ten years old. I am eight and thirty. I have been married to Jabir for two and ten years, and have not borne him a son, or even a daughter.” She sighed again. “And it is a sign of virtue for a wife to bear sons. Yet I have not.”
“It’s not your fault,” said Arran.
Siduri glanced at him. “You are correct. It is not. When I was young, I became deathly sick. I lay in bed for months. The healer said I should have died. Yet I survived, but the disease scarred me. I would not have children, the healer said. So I became her apprentice, and was content with that life.” A lock of hair escaped from her cowl and slid across her face. “And then I met Jabir.”
“Why did he marry you, if he knew you could not have sons?” said Arran.
Siduri shrugged. “Jabir was…different then. That is all I can say. Now he dreams of becoming the Shan when the old one dies. When we were younger, he was different. He was smitten with me, and I with him. He did not want sons then. But a man must have sons to become the Shan, and he thinks Rahanna can give him sons.
“Jabir sounds a fool,” said Arran. “Perhaps you’re better off.”
Siduri shrugged. “Mayhap.” She smiled. The gleam in her eye made Arran uneasy. “But who can say what paths the gods have in store for us? Who can see his own destiny?”
Arran licked his lips. “There is…was…a saying among the Wizards of the White Council that no man is given the gift to see his own future.”
Except Alastarius, who had the gift of Prophecy. Yet he had still failed to foresee his own death at the claws of Goth-Mar-Dan.
“Perhaps it is a blessing,” said Siduri. “A man, or woman’s, fate may be too horrible to see.” She looked at his leg. “Look what happened to you. Stil
l, who can say what the gods have in store?”
“I am sorry that had to happen to you, though,” said Arran. “It is not just.” Siduri laughed loud and long, and Arran felt color flood into his cheeks.
“You are a fool, you know?” said Siduri. “Like all men. Your home was destroyed and you are near crippled, and yet you say it is not fair that I was young and foolish and married a fool.”
Arran grimaced and looked away.
Siduri laughed again. “You have color in your face! That is good. You have looked pale as a ghost since I brought you in and your sunburn peeled away. Now, let us keep walking.”
Arran had no choice, so he kept going.
###
Arran tested his weight on the leg. “I can stand.”
Siduri watched from the corner. “Yes, I noticed.”
Arran rolled his eyes and took a tentative step. The muscles in his left leg trembled, tensed, but did not fold. He walked the far wall and back again before he had to sit down.
“Well?” said Siduri. “How do you feel?”
Arran shrugged. “I…lighter, I guess.”
“Lighter?” said Siduri. “Well, you have lost a lot of weight. You should see yourself. You look a wraith.”
“A pity you don’t have a mirror,” said Arran.
Siduri’s brows knit beneath her cowl. “A mirror? What is that?”
Arran clenched his fist. His hands felt damnably weak. “It’s a piece of silvered glass. You can see your reflection in it.”
Siduri snapped her fingers. “Oh, you mean a seeing-stone. I’ll get one, if you want.” She rose and disappeared through the curtain.
Arran pulled himself up to his feet once more, and his left leg felt like a wavering column of water. He cursed and reached out to steady himself. He must look like some bent old woman, moving with weak and feeble strides. Yet he did feel lighter. He had lost weight, as Siduri had said, but it couldn’t have been that much…
He looked at the swords and guns stacked against the wall.
He hadn’t been carrying his weapons. For the last nine years he had been carrying his Sacred Blade, his brother’s Sacred Blade, and his guns. It had been heavy at first, but he had gotten used to it. He scrubbed the wet from his eyes. The strength went out of his legs, and he sat back down on the bed.
A Knight of the Sacred Blade Page 9
