Robert Charrette - Arthur 01 - A Prince Among Men

by Robert N. Charrette

  Hardly a noble reaction. Would D 'Artagnon look the other way?

  John felt his cheeks grow hot. I'm not D'Artagnon.

  No. Just John Reddy.

  Right. John Reddy, not D'Artagnon. John Reddy, who's got a date tonight. John upped his speed a notch. The sooner he was out of earshot of the hazing, the sooner he could forget it.

  So much for nobility, John Unready.

  A couple hundred yards ahead, a group of women turned the corner onto the lane. A dozen or so of them, more than twice the number in the hazing party. The girls would see what was going on and hurry prudently on their way. They'd be all right.

  John spotted Kelley among the approaching group. If the girls saw what was happening, they'd know he had seen it as well. What would Kelley think if John just walked away from someone who needed help? He was back on the fringes of the hazing group in a few quick strides.

  "Hey, Winston. You're not being very sporting."

  Hand still gripping Trahn's bunched shirt, Winston looked over at John. His eyes narrowed in recognition. "If it ain't the ghostly broomstick. Fade, or you're next."

  Winston turned back to Trahn, giving him a slap across the cheek. John elbowed his way past one of the jocks and grabbed Winston's upraised wrist. "Guy like this isn't much of a challenge for one of your obvious attributes."

  "You want the same?"

  "No."

  "Then walk away."

  They stared into each other's eyes. Winston was partly drunk; John could smell the alcohol on his breath. Not a lot of judgment left behind those piggy eyes. At the periphery of his senses, John could tell more of a crowd was gathering. Was Kelley among them? He didn't want to look around and see. There were too many people watching. Unlikely a bully like Winston would back down now.

  Still, John wanted to give him a chance. He released the jock's wrist and offered a placating smile. "You've had your fun. Leave him alone now and nobody'll complain. Isn't that right, Trahn?"

  "Ain't your business," Winston growled. "Ain't that right,

  Trahn?"

  "I've made it my business," John said, dropping the smile.

  "You've made it your trouble."

  Winston released Trahn and swung on John. John stepped back into one of the jocks, who shoved him right back at Winston. Winston's second punch caught John in the stomach, doubling him over.

  Winston laughed. "Don't need your help, Vinny. The ghostly broomstick's all shadow, no substance."

  John's punch caught Winston in the stomach, but the jock didn't double over; he just whuffed, more from surprise than from pain. The guy was built like a wall. But the attack bought John time to get out of Winston's reach.

  He danced away from Winston's next swing and punched back. John's long reach let him strike while staying out of Winston's range. He took advantage of it, lashing out to belabor the jock as he tried to close. But Winston wasn't stymied for long. Ducking his head down, he charged, apparently willing to take punishment in order to get to grips with John. The guy was a pig-head like Phil. Like Phil, he was successful. He slipped past John's fists and slammed into him. They both went down, John landing on the shoulder that Phil had slashed.

  It hurt.

  Heat flared through him. Thrashing his way free of Winston's clutching paws, he rolled to his feet. The jock was up too, and charging again. Ready for that tactic now, John stepped aside and clipped him on the side of the head. The pig-head tried again just the same. John gave him fists.

  He felt giddy. This was not like fighting Phil. No swords here, just flesh and bone. And blood. John caught the jock on the right temple and opened the skin. Winston was spending more time blocking now. John's knuckles were raw, but he kept punching, because Winston kept coming. John was glad to oblige him. The jock's defenses were getting sloppier, and John scored again and again. Winston's own attacks were becoming less coordinated. John caught him on the nose and felt it crunch. Winston staggered back.

  "So, mister tough guy. Like the other side of it?"

  Somebody in the crowd laughed.

  Winston flung himself forward, catching John off guard. The jock's head came up under John's chin, shocking John's teeth together. He tasted blood. His own.

  Grappling, Winston tried to squeeze the breath out of John. John hammered Winston's shoulders, to little avail. John's vision grayed as the jock squeezed harder. Dizzy, John brought his fists together against Winston's ears. The jock howled and let go. John pummeled his unprotected midsection.

  "Hurt me, will you?"

  John hit him again. And again. Winston started to stagger, but John was not going to let him off easily. He kept punching, harder and faster. Winston went down.

  Not easy at all. Gonna pay, Winston.

  John pounced on Winston and pinned the jock's flailing arms under his knees. Winston's head rocked back and forth under John's fists. Someone was yelling somewhere. It sounded like Trahn. Let him yell; Winston was getting what he deserved.

  John raised his fist for another punch, but it didn't fall. Someone was restraining his arm. He tried his other hand, but that was held as well.

  At first, all John saw was the uniform.

  Police.

  He looked down at Winston's battered face. The guy's eyes were shut, his jaw slack. John's brain slowed down into something like normal thought. Shit! He was in trouble now.

  He looked up at the cop.

  Who wasn't a cop. The man was wearing a campus sanitation uniform. John stared into the ugly face of Trashcan Harry. Not a cop. Just Trashcan. Nobody important.

  Trashcan Harry was a custodian on campus, and his nickname was as much for his odor as his job. He was a hairy old prole who made Winston look, thin and anemic. Harry's nose had met somebody's fist too many times and his ears had been on the receiving end of cosmetic surgery performed by a blind butcher. He had an odd accent as thick as Winston's head, and was the butt of more campus humor than John could recall. But Trashcan's grip wasn't funny; John thought he could feel his wrist bones grating together.

  Finally John realized that Trashcan Harry was saying something to him. The same thing, over and over, like a chant.

  "You stop now."

  He stopped resisting the custodian's iron grip.

  At least Trashcan Harry wasn't a cop. But relief faded as fast as it had come. Trashcan's work-relief job probably required him to report anything that disturbed the peace of the campus.

  John looked around. Trahn was the only one left, and he was looking at John with wide eyes. Even Winston's buddies had deserted him. Kelley wasn't present either. Had she ever been?

  Winston lay on the pavement, bloody and breathing raggedly. Had John done all that damage? He didn't remember.

  "Where'd everyone go?"

  "Nobody likes trouble," Trashcan said.

  Trouble. Yeah, there'd be trouble, all right. Winston was not in good shape.

  Trashcan tugged on John's arm. "You go get cleaned up."

  "What about him?"

  Trashcan Harry looked down at the fallen bully. "I take care. You not worry."

  Worry? An incident like this would trash his new job at the museum. Worse, it'd mean more sessions with Dr. Block. Regular sessions. Probably cost him his place on the fencing team, as well. Sure, why worry?

  And Kelley. Had Kelley seen it all?

  There was no one in sight along the lane. The campus was quiet at the end of its day. No one here to stand over Winston but John, Trashcan, and Trahn. And Trashcan was chasing Trahn off, exhorting him to go home and be quiet. John just stood there, pinned by Trahn's accusing stare.

  What had he done?

  Trashcan tugged on his arm again. "Go get cleaned up."

  "I've got to do something about him."

  "Done enough. Go."

  Embarrassed and scared, John went. He didn't run home, but he wanted to.

  Faye, what am I going to do?

  Faye?

  CHAPTER

  4

  Techni
cally, Mr. Sorli was a dwarf, his legs being far shorter than normal for a man with his breadth of shoulder. Yet he showed neither the unsteadiness of gait so characteristic of those afflicted with dwarfism, nor any of the other deformities common among ordinary dwarves. But then, Sorli was not ordinary. If he had been, he would have had no business taking up any of Pamela Martinez's time.

  He walked into the room and headed for the chair—just one special chair today—facing her desk. He walked confidently, paying no attention to the rich furnishings. Most people could not stop themselves from gawking at the art on the walls, the fine furniture, or, at the very least, the soft thick carpet under their feet. This office was of a quality beyond the means of most, a chamber suitable to the president of the North American Group of the Mitsutomo Keiretsu. Sorli paid it no more attention than a commuter might pay to a subway platform. The dwarfs indifference to her office irked her more than his brusque manner.

  She let him sit long enough for the chair to take a baseline and match it against the file readings. While he waited for her, she watched the tracings fall into line on her desktop monitor. For all he would know, she was reading the Wall Street Journal.

  Sorli didn't wait for her to speak.

  "I'm busy."

  Was that irritation in his voice? Yes, the monitor confirmed it; she was getting better at reading him. She was pleased; it made him a little less mysterious. But she was also displeased that he would have the temerity to imply that his time was more valuable than hers. He was on her payroll, after all. Besides, she knew he was busy; she'd read her watchdog's report. As she pretended to cut off the monitor, she said, "You did not report to me when you returned from Maine."

  He shrugged. "There was nothing conclusive."

  "We expended resources at your request. I expect a report. From you."

  "Very well." Sorli drew a breath. "A! Churdy was killed by a creature of the otherworld, probably one of the Red Cap cult."

  The otherworld. She'd been hearing about it for years now, and still the very mention of it sent shivers down her spine.

  Though the monitor said he was telling the truth, she asked, "You can verify this intrusion?"

  "Probably not to your satisfaction, Ms. Martinez. But then, the proof you want will only be obtainable after it is too late."

  It was his standard response. When Sorli had first mentioned the otherworld to her, she had thought he was joking. The very idea of a dimension coexisting with the normal world was weird enough, though it had some justification, according to some of the more abstruse philosophers of physics. But to claim that this other dimension was one in which magic worked and chaos ruled! That was an insane concept, the stuff of tabloid journalism and instant video documentaries. Sorli's hypothesis of an otherworld went far in explaining many of the strange things that happened in the world. If one accepted his basic assumptions. But asking acceptance was asking a lot.

  "Churdy was a motorcycle racer. What kind of connection could he have had with the otherworld?"

  "We have not been able to ascertain any connection at all. This leaves the inescapable conclusion that the connection lay with his passenger. It is likely that the passenger was the real target of the attack."

  "Passenger?"

  "A woman. As yet unidentified."

  "There was no mention of a woman in the police report."

  If Sorli was surprised by her mention of the police report he didn't show it, either visually or on the monitor. All he said was, "Good."

  Confidence, or overconfidence? Or simple insanity?

  "I did not get to where I am today by being a fool." No, indeed. She had taken advantage of every opportunity, equal or otherwise, and gained a high position. She had clawed her way up through the corporate world to her current post with Mitsutomo, and men and women who had thought her a fool had learned otherwise, to their regret. "You have used Mitsutomo resources, and you bring me no results. I have to answer for these expenditures. What am I to tell my superiors?"

  "The truth."

  "That we are being invaded by goblins and fairies?"

  "Your words."

  "Give me other words, then. Something to make this alleged threat more credible."

  "Names aren't important." The monitor jumped a little there. "Call them what you want, it won't change their nature. But do not deny their existence."

  "Bring me proof."

  "In time."

  It was the same promise he had made when he had first asked for her help in combating the intrusions of the other-world. She hadn't believed him, of course, expecting to find real-world monsters behind his fairy-tale dangers. She had

  gone along assuming that the information he gathered would eventually turn out to be useful; she had never found information-gathering to be a waste of resources. An organization as diverse as Mitsutomo Keiretsu had many places to apply information.

  Sorli's investigations had given her some of what she sought, but they had also turned up situations that were less understandable. That was unless one accepted his otherworld hypothesis. But there was never anything concrete, incontrovertible. Proof, hard proof, continued to be elusive, and each day she found herself locked tighter and tighter into his intricate schemes. He was leading her farther and farther down the path he walked. No longer could she deny that something was happening. Whatever that something was, Sorli had some sort of inside line on it. Each day, she found herself closer to accepting his explanation.

  Perhaps it was she who was mad?

  No. That was an unacceptable explanation. There was something real going on, and S5rli knew more about it than he was telling.

  "Tell me about this woman."

  He shrugged. "The powers of the otherworld have agents here. Those agents are working to bring about a full convergence of the worlds."

  The monitor suggested that he was withholding information, but the confidence quotient was not high enough for her to call him on it. "Are you saying that she is some kind of fairy?"

  "My information concerning her origins is insufficient at this time. However, I suggest that we must be prepared to act. It is likely that she is an agent of the otherworld. In that case, she must be stopped."

  "Are you proposing what I think?"

  He smiled at her. He might have been a cat contemplating a trapped mouse. She considered his sanity again. If he was suggesting a murder, perhaps his delusions had taken too dangerous a turn. In fact, she detected a flaw in his logic.

  "You said you thought that this woman was the target of the attack. If she is an agent working for the otherworld's interests, attacking her makes no sense. Why would the powers of the otherworld, wishing to see a convergence, try to kill their own agent?"

  As always, he had an answer. "There are factions on the other side, and they do not always work in concert. This is fortunate, a factor in our favor."

  "Why not leave her to this opposing faction, then?"

  "As well trust a work-relief prole to do your own job. Stopping the convergence must be our highest priority." He slipped out of the chair and leaned on her desk. "The intrusion of magic into this world would be disastrous. You cannot begin to imagine the chaos that would result. Not only governments would collapse."

  For once, Sorli was wrong; she had often imagined the chaos of a world gone magical. In fact, she had done such a good job of constructing that nightmare scenario of unbearable instability that it was costing her sleep. Magic did not belong in the world. Not in her world. Her world was a rational one; dangerous, perhaps, but predictable. She knew how to survive in it. She had built herself an island of stability in the turmoil of the world, and she had no intention of seeing her hard-won stability torn away from her.

  Magic was the wildest of wild cards, capable of destroying all stability, everything she had made for herself. In a world confused by magic, the corporations would lose control; and by extension, so would she. Unacceptable! She could not—would not—let that happen. She had to take action. But what sho
uld she do? She hated herself for dithering. She'd thought she'd been long done with such indecision. Her uncertainty reminded her too much of who she'd been.

  The threat of chaos reminded her of things, too. Past things, things she had walked away from or buried, things she had sworn never to let affect her life again. She'd banished chaos from her life once, she was never going back there. Never!

  Sorli was still asking her to take a lot on faith, but could she afford not to believe him? What he'd shown and told her was so nebulous. Why hadn't he been able to provide her with more than hints and suggested interpretations? She wanted real, solid evidence, which Sorli had so far been unwilling or unable to supply. Without evidence, acting involved risk. She didn't like to take chances, but she had survived times when a gamble was the only answer, the only way to remain in control, and this was looking more and more like one of those times. But if she played this wrong, there'd be a scandal; a scandal could prove very hard to survive.

  The fear of chaos haunted her. If there was an otherworld, and if Sorli's mystery woman was working to bring it into convergence with the world as Pamela knew it, that woman had to be stopped. Pamela had never lacked resolution in the past; she had always had enough guts to do whatever had to be done. So why was she hesitating? Was it just prudent caution, or was if more than that? Was she afraid of being embarrassed if Sorli pushed her into unjustifiable actions? Or was she afraid that Sorli's fears might be all too correct, and that there might be nothing she could do to stop the advent of the chaos? She needed to know more about what was really going on.

  "I want you to find out more about the woman before you take any action."

  "We may not have the luxury of discussing this at leisure."

  'I don't have the luxury of making a mistake." She fixed him with a stare. "Neither do you."

  "The biggest mistake would be to let this woman continue to operate."

  "Convince me."