Knight Life (34 page)

    
“Nothing?” Percival wasn't following the question.

    
“You know ... Arthur have a thing for plucking young chickens?”

    
“Why would Arthur's taste for poultry ...” And then his eyes widened and he understood. “No. No, I assure you, it was nothing like that. In many ways, Merlin is the
son Arthur never had. That no one ever had.”

    
“Oookay,” said Ronnie uncertainly. “Well, the thing is, he doesn't have Merlin now, and it looks like he doesn't have Gwen. Still, he's got himself, and that should be enough.”

    
“You would think that. Except he's probably concerned that, the last time he had only himself to depend on, everything fell apart.”

    
“Really?” asked Ronnie. “When was that?”

    
Percival sighed. “Long time ago,” he said. “But for Arthur, it might as well have been yesterday.”

T
HE 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, whose name was Drago, was a big man. His head was shaven, and he sported a large handlebar mustache. “Yes?” he rumbled. “Can I help you, Miss?”

    
“Yes,” she said, 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 bottles 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,” she said. 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 Drago. “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,” she said, 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 I can thank my lucky stars that I am not the one the lady is after.”

    
“Yes,” said Gwen pleasantly. “You can. Plus ... I need something else. A very special item.” And she told him what it was.

    
He shook his head, and for a moment she was unable to hide her disappointment and looked slightly crestfallen. “That,” he said, “is rather hard to come by. May I ask where you heard about it?”

    
“Oh, I've been studying,” she said. She spoke without mirth. “I quit my job ... or it kind of quit me ... or I quit on myself. And since then, I've been cramming. I used to be good at that, back in college. Cramming, I mean. I've been talking to people, studying with people, finding out what I needed to do. Been busy. It's probably hopeless, because she's been doing it for centuries and me, I'm nothing ... but you know what? I'm the good guy. And that's got to still count for something in this world, right?”

    
“Riiiight,” Drago said cautiously. “Miss, just out of curiosity, when was the last time you slept?”

    
“Gave it up. Don't need it. It's like when you keep exercising a muscle, it just grows stronger and stronger,” she told him, and she was sounding almost giddy about it. “So I figure, the more I exercise my brain, the stronger it's going to get. So I exercise it all the time. I sleep an hour here or there.”

    
“That's not healthy.”

    
Her eyes narrowed. “Maybe. But you know what's even less healthy? Blackmail. And ... and using me against someone I love. And you know what else? Screwing with me. That can be pretty fucking unhealthy for the wrong
people. For the bad guys. She's one of the bad guys, and I'm one of the good guys. Now have you got the other thing I'm looking for?”

    
“No.”

    
“Do you know who might carry it?”

    
“No,” he lied, not wanting to sic her on anyone else.

    
“Fine. I'll find it. How much for the knife?”

    
“How about,” he put up his hands in a peacemaking manner, “you keep it for free ... if you promise not to come in here again until you've had at least, I dunno ... eighteen hours sleep.”

    
She smiled cheerfully at that. “Deal,” she told him. She turned and left the store. Drago watched her go and, only when she was nowhere in sight did he sigh in relief.

    
“That,” he said, “is one flickin' Wiccan.”

C
HAPTRE

THE
N
INETEENTH

T
HE REEVES TELETAPE
Theater had been cleared out for the event. The television facility, situated on Eighty-sixth Street, usually home to sitcoms and the like, was now furnished inside with three podiums, at which the three principal candidates would stand. There was a center podium where the moderator would be stationed, and on one side of this triangular arrangement, a table where three local journalists would be seated.

    
Arthur 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.

    
He felt as if his mind was in a fog ... so much so that, when there was a gentle tug at his shoulder, it actually startled him. Normally he would have been well aware of anyone who was coming near him. He turned to see Percival smiling encouragingly at him. “Turn around, highness. Let's see you.”

    
Arthur turned around obediently, and Percival straightened the collar of his suit jacket. He looked down and said, “Unbutton the bottom vest button.”

    
“Why?” asked Arthur.

    
“It's the fashion.”

    
“Does it matter, Percival?” he sighed. “Does any of it? Really?”

    
Percival moaned softly. “Highness, please, not again ...”

    
Arthur sat in a nearby chair, which creaked slightly under him. He felt the despondency welling over him again, seeping out of his pores. “Do you think she'll be watching, Percival?”

    
“I don't know, highness. If you called her—”

    
“Call the woman who betrayed me?” he said, clearly trying to sound fierce, not succeeding at all. “And Merlin ... Percival, I am here because of him. Without him ...”

    
“You functioned without his help before.”

    
“And look what happened as a result. Percival, look at this. Look at me.” He plucked at the lapels of the suit. “This is not me. It is a sham, a fraud. Part of a grand scheme that I did not plan. I have no vision of it. I flounder, Percival. I sink. I ...” He seemed too tired even to finish the thought, and finally simply shook his head and stared at the podium. Percival walked away, shaking his head, and when the floor manager came over to tell him that it was ten minutes until air time, all he did was shrug slightly in acknowledgment.

“T
HESE BELONG TO
you?” asked the guard of Percival, chucking a thumb at Buddy and Elvis, who were standing at the stage door. They were dressed in marginally better clothing, but still put the “scruff” in “scruffiness.” “They keep saying they're part of—”

    
“Yes, yes,” Percival sighed, gesturing for them to enter. The guard watched them suspiciously as they passed
through the door. “They're Mr. Perm's ... reality consultants.”

    
“Reality consultants?” asked the guard suspiciously.

    
“Most people have media consultants, but the media isn't real. It's just broadcast perceptions, edited into a semblance of reality. At least, that's Mr. Penn's view,” explained Percival. “Now these two, on the other hand ... well, they're about as real as it gets.”

    
“Give me fiction anytime,” said the guard sourly.

    
Buddy and Elvis followed Percival through the hallway, Buddy saying, “Thanks, man. ‘Preciate it.”

    
“Don't bother thanking me,” said Percival. “The only reason I let you in is because you happened to show up at what might be a propitious time.”

    
“Pro ... what?”

    
Percival stopped and turned to face them. “Buddy,” he said slowly, “his highness feels great darkness upon his brow. It happens from time to time, to all great men, but particularly to Arthur. You seem to amuse him, for reasons I cannot comprehend. You ... are his jester, whether he realizes it or not. All kings need one. This mood has been upon him for some time now; it now threatens to hurt his performance at a time when it dare not be hurt. See if you can attend to him.”

    
Buddy nodded once, cracked his knuckles, said, “I'm on it. Elvis, stay here. Lemme handle this one.” Elvis nodded, and Buddy approached the despondent Arthur.

    
Arthur didn't appear to notice him. Finally he did, looking up questioningly.

    
“These two guys walk into a bar. You'd think one of them would have seen it,” said Buddy.

    
Arthur continued to stare at him. “I ... beg your pardon?”

    
“These two fives walk into a singles bar ...”

    
Arthur shook his head and looked away.

    
Buddy made a repeated, faint popping sound with his lips, thoughtful for a long moment. Finally he hunkered
down, looked at Arthur eye-to-eye, and said, “Your highness, you been like this for weeks, okay? One minute you're moping, next you're shouting at people. It's bringin' everybody down. You're gonna lose all the momentum you built up. You think it sucks to be you? I used to be like you, all pissy and stuff. And I wound up like me. So if it sucks to be you, it'd suck even more if you were like me. So believe me when I'm tellin' you, and I say this with the utmost respect: It's time to shit or get off the pot.”

    
Arthur stared at him for a long moment in utter bemusement. And then, slowly, the edges of his mouth twitched and he laughed very softly. “I believe ... I shall shit.”

    
There were footsteps behind them, and Buddy turned and joyously proclaimed,
“He's gonna shit!”
right in Bernard Keating's face.

    
“I'm so pleased,” said Keating, slowly wiping Buddy's spit out of his eye. There were several people in Keating's entourage. One of them was Modred. Percival was just behind, obviously having seen them coming, trying to get near Arthur to warn him.

    
Arthur rose, waited.

    
“Bernie Keating,” Keating said, extending a hand. “Next mayor of New York.”

    
“Arthur Penn. Same,” Arthur replied, taking the proferred hand and giving it a brisk shake.

    
“I'll make it short and sweet,” said Keating.

    
“Good.”

    
“I'm challenging you.”

    
“Swords or knives?”

    
“I mean in the debate.”

    
“Ah. Good. That will be less messy.”

    
“I'm challenging you to keep up with me. Think you can do it?”

    
“Yes.”

    
“We'll see.”

    
He turned and walked off, Percival pushing through his departing entourage to get near Arthur.