by Kris Owyn
“They are, Captain. That’s why I convinced them to go out and be Lothian’s shield... otherwise, sneaking past the perimeter might be challenging. This way, Camelot’s own guards will shepherd us into the city undetected.”
Lancelot raised an eyebrow. “Us?”
“Aye,” said Rufus. “Adwen, me, and lady whatshername over there.”
Guinevere laughed. “Might we also bring Captain Lancelot, sire?”
Rufus looked Lancelot up and down, seemed unimpressed. “If you insist.” He pointed a warning finger. “But pull your weight, or there’s no figs for you.”
Lancelot took Guinevere’s arm, tried to pull her aside, but she wouldn’t budge. He grumbled to himself, leaned in close to say: “Are you sure about this? Without scouting ahead or thinking through a plan, we could be walking into a trap.”
“I’m getting quite good at traps,” Guinevere said. “Besides, the King needs us.”
He smirked. “Careful, you almost sound selfless.”
“Does it count as sacrifice if I risk my life to end Gawain’s?”
Lancelot shrugged. “You could phrase it better.”
“Risk my life to save the King’s?”
“Now you’re getting it.”
Guinevere nodded appreciatively. “So heroics is all in the wording. Very clever.”
Lancelot laughed, saluted to the others and headed for the stairs. “We’ve got to get moving. I’ll find supplies. You all find some weapons.”
As he left, Adwen took Guinevere aside, spoke urgently, but quietly. “Milady, there’s one thing more. My brothers have been ordered...” She looked pained by it. “Lord Lothian ordered them to prepare a livery float.”
Rufus couldn’t hide his confusion. “What’s a livery float?”
Guinevere answered: “For a coronation procession,” she said. “For when you crown a new king.”
Forty-four
Their cart was stopped three times on the way to Camelot. Once by Essex troops, waiting on the road heading west, on the lookout for anyone wearing Lothian colours. Once they were satisfied the drivers were who they said they were, and once they determined this was the cart they’d been told about, they delivered much-needed food and water to the occupants of the hidden compartment, swapped the horses, and sent them on their way.
The second time they were stopped was much less pleasant: a roving inspection team under the Lothian crest caught up with them just outside Camelot territory and subjected the drivers to abuse and threats which went wrong almost from the get-go. Guinevere listened through the wall of the cart, as Lancelot prepared his crossbow, just in case.
“No, tha’s not wha I said,” snapped the first driver, who’d been going a full day without rest already. “This’s Gwynedd cargo for his lordship. If yer gonna stop every wagon headin’ west, you’re be goin’ mad right soon. There’s a lot more comin’.”
“Maybe so,” said the inspector, “but how many of them are in such a rush?”
“Listen, I don’t make the deadlines, I just keep ‘em.”
“So you’re just keeping to schedule.”
“Aye, tha’s it exactly. Get there by dawn, else my pay’s cut in half.”
There was a very long pause, and Guinevere pulled away from the wall, just in case one of the inspectors took it upon himself to fire a projectile, or stab a sword into the side of the cart. Lancelot now had two crossbows aimed; one out the side, one out the back.
Finally, the inspector spoke: “I need to check your cargo.”
Lancelot re-positioned with both crossbows aimed at the back doors. He nodded to Guinevere, and she moved Adwen and Rufus back behind him, as silently as possible.
“Open it up,” said the inspector.
“For truth?” sighed the driver. “You’re a right knob, you are.”
“Watch your tongue!” snapped the inspector.
“You’re costin’ me six tremisses, you brak! I’ll call you a knob and worse!”
The inspector paused again. “You... you’re getting twelve tremisses?”
“Tha’s right,” said the driver. “Each way.”
“And you’re all getting that much?”
“Twenty on the heavy carts, but yeah, twelve to twenty’s the rate. Why? Thinkin’ of switchin’ jobs?”
Guinevere heard the telltale sound of a crossbow being unlocked. “Two coins. Now.”
“Oh, tha’s just great. Highway robbery, is it?”
“Road tax.”
The driver laughed a big, hearty laugh. “You just made that up.”
“Yes I did,” said the inspector. “Two tremisses. Now. Or I tear your cart to such small pieces, you’ll miss every deadline from here to winter.”
The driver gave a loud sigh and dug through what sounded like at least a handful of coins. There was a creak and the cart rocked a little, and a clink as two coins collided in the inspector’s hand.
“Thank you for cooperating,” he said, with an audible grin.
“Feh,” said the driver, and got the horses back underway. After a few minutes had passed, he knocked on the front of the cart, and slid open a small hatch so he could look in, over his shoulder. “All good back there?”
“Yes,” said Guinevere. “And thank God for your quick thinking, too.”
“My pleasure,” said the driver. “Though for future ref’rence, feel free to shoot ‘em next time. I ain’t fussy ‘bout the how we get outta messes.”
Guinevere laughed, and it felt good. She held onto that feeling for the next several hours, until they reached the actual border to Camelot, where their horses were exchanged once again, and their driver was given the break he deserved while another man finished the journey for them.
On proper roads, they picked up speed, and pulled into the central ring area of Camelot City by mid-morning. A few bumps and turns later, the cart came to a final stop, and the back doors were unlocked, but conspicuously left closed. Lancelot led them out, one crossbow ready to fire, stepping into the sunlight with stiff and aching limbs.
They were at the Export Office, nestled among dozens of other carts of various types and origins. It was the safest place to drop them, precisely because of this variety; anywhere else, and someone would ask why they were there, and what their business was. The Export Office’s business was to do everything.
There was no way into the central core without going through the Office itself, or around it; it was a slower path, arcing around the whole of the ring, but at least there, they had a chance to avoid detection. They tucked in tight to the wall of the building, heads turned down to avoid being recognized, and hurried as fast as “casual” would allow.
They had changed clothes to mundane dress, to lessen whatever attention they might get. Guinevere and Adwen had neutral-toned dresses somewhere between maids and lower-rank ladies, while Lancelot and Rufus gave convincing portrayals of Essex soldiers on the prowl. If Lancelot’s face hadn’t been quite so pulpy and bruised, he might’ve avoided attention altogether... but as it was, he was drawing confused and anxious stares. One woman stopped, mouth hanging open, like she knew who he was and knew why he didn’t belong... but couldn’t figure a way to express it without screaming. Instead, she hurried back toward the Export Office, glancing over her shoulder every few steps to be sure Lancelot was still there.
“We have to get off the streets,” he whispered.
They were at the southern edge of the Office complex; around that corner was a clear shot to Council — but they needed to pass through an entire other ring of buildings before getting there. Worse, there would be guards on patrol, the closer they got to Gawain. They might’ve stood a chance, if they strolled casually and pretended to belong... but with danger closing in on so many sides, they’d never make it. They had to find another way.
Just past the edge of the Office, Guinev
ere saw the green fringe of a tree, and recognized the park and shrine that had held Excalibur for so long. “This way,” she said to the others, and hurried along.
There was a low wall around the outside of the park, to help keep people from wandering in from all angles — especially important in the days when hundreds-long queues would form, waiting to try their hand at the sword — but Guinevere had no time to go the long way around. She hopped up onto the edge, and then down onto the uneven terrain below. She braced herself on a tree, checked behind to be sure the others were keeping up, and kept moving. Down another small embankment, and then jumping across the stream that ran through the park; she saw, off to her right, the actual shrine built around Pendragon’s stone. It was odd, she thought, that she’d never actually seen the thing herself... one of the most public faces of Camelot, and yet she’d lived less of the experience than even the lowliest of servants.
She laughed to herself. She’d had plenty of the Camelot experience. More than enough.
The landscaping of the park was meant to be more natural, and unfortunately it succeeded on the western edge; the wall there was higher than it had been on the other side, which made climbing up and over next to impossible. It was made of perfectly rectangular stone blocks glued together with mortar — but the spacing was too small to get any purchase. Even after Guinevere barely got her fingers into position, the stone was just too smooth to work with; she’d never be able to climb it. Her feet just slipped off. Lancelot, too, was at a loss, after so much pummelling had made his shoulder stiff and weak.
“There!” came a shout from behind, and palace guards scrambled toward the entrances, back the way they’d come.
Lancelot checked his crossbows; he handed one to Guinevere, one to Adwen, and drew his sword. “I’ll hold them off.”
Guinevere couldn’t believe what he was saying. “They’ve got crossbows,” she said. “The only thing a sword’s good for is...” She looked back around.
“Keep them back,” she said, trading her crossbow for his sword. She nodded to the ground near Rufus’ feet. “Fetch a rock.”
Rufus did as he was told, ending up next to her with a sizeable candidate. Guinevere was positioning the sword’s tip against the mortar on the wall, two stones up. “Strike the end,” she said to Rufus. “Nice and hard.”
“Deep breath now,” Rufus said to the rock and crack! hit the sword. It jerked forward. sliding between the wall stones, kicking mortar dust free.
“Again!” Guinevere called, and Rufus hit and hit and hit the sword until it was decently embedded in the wall.
Rufus stood back, nodded happily. “Brilliant! Now all we have to do is make the guards run at this from the side, and—”
Guinevere put a foot on the sword and lifted herself up; she got her arms over the top of the wall and hoisted herself over. Rufus blinked.
“That is also a fine option.”
Guinevere helped Adwen, Rufus and Lancelot over the top of the wall, just as a crossbow bolt shot past, overhead. The guards had nearly caught up with them, and were evidently not interested in catching them. They had to move, and fast.
“Quickly!”
They dashed across a short laneway and into the shadows of the southern awnings of the Foundries; soot sprayed out of a horizontal chimney pipe, nearly blasting Adwen in the face. Guinevere grabbed her friend and pulled her down a little further, to a loading bay stacked with wood and rock. Workers with scarred and seared skin barely acknowledged them as they scrambled through the scant open spaces, over and under planks of wood bigger than all of them stacked together, and finally tumbling into the doorway at the end of the bay.
Guinevere couldn’t change course in time, hit the wall so hard she saw spots for a moment; Lancelot grabbed her by the collar and pulled her deeper inside, wrapped a hand around her mouth to keep her from yelping. Outside, they heard the sounds of the guards shouting at workers, asking them where the strangers had gone, where were they hiding? There was a whack-whack-whack as swords stabbed into dark places, hoping for blood.
Guinevere stepped to the side, saw a long corridor, then another, then another. “Which way to Merlin’s?” she whispered to Lancelot.
“He thinks we’re traitors, Guinevere,” Lancelot replied.
“But he’s less likely to kill us, isn’t he.”
Lancelot had to concede the point. He led the others down the first corridor, then out to the right, and a quick left, and finally down a hallway Guinevere recognized from her last visit; at the end of the way, she saw a low door tucked into a corner. Lancelot readied his crossbow again, took the handle, and pushed inside. Once the last of them were in, Guinevere closed the door again, latched the bolt, and turned to see...
The workshop was a wreck. The papers on the walls, once making up such a perfect and orderly grid, were torn down, shredded, hanging in pieces or strewn across the floor. And more: shards of his tubes were there, too, and the sewing device, shattered. Scale models of harvesters and water wheels and all variety of inventions, ruined and crushed beneath unyielding feet.
And at the back of the room, chained to his desk, was Merlin. He was cross-legged on the floor, staring straight ahead, silent and emotionless. Even as they approached, he didn’t so much as flinch. He seemed like he might be dead, if the dead could maintain such perfect posture.
“Merlin...” she gasped, kneeling down before him. “What happened?”
For a moment, he didn’t react. Then he frowned, very slightly, and said: “I must abandon my silly ways.” The words were clearly not his own. He was repeating what he’d been told, and his inflection made clear the message hurt him deeply. “I must abandon my silly ways. If I do not abandon my silly ways, they will hurt the ones I love.” He frowned deeply at this. “The one I love.”
Lancelot was checking the lock on the chains, sighed. “I don’t have anything to pick this with.” He looked to Merlin. “First Minister, do you—”
“Second drawer, third unit down.”
Lancelot frowned, looked back. “You mean—”
“Second drawer, third unit down.”
Adwen found the third unit, laid her fingers on the second drawer from the top, and glanced at Merlin for confirmation. He just stared. She opened it, hesitantly, and slumped.
“Everything’s a mess,” she said, picking out a broken piece of machinery, which fell apart even more in her hand. “I don’t think—”
“Find the lip and push it back,” said Merlin.
Adwen looked back inside, felt at the front edge of the inside of the drawer, and noticed a faint seam. She got as much of a grip as she could, and pushed the bottom of the drawer back in, and... it slid to reveal a second drawer, built into the first.
“A secret compartment!” she gasped, eyes twinkling with envy.
“My master told me,” said Merlin, nodding to himself. “He told me he did not want to ever see my damned distractions again. He did not want to see them. He did not see them.”
Guinevere and Rufus joined Adwen, looked inside and saw a truly delicious assortment of toys. “Which one?”
“It is shaped like a tree fruit,” said Merlin, seemingly bored with his own predicament.
Guinevere saw the device instantly, snatched it up and brought it over to the lock. She turned the thing over, trying to see how to open it, how it might—
“Press it to the lock,” said Merlin, and she did. It rested on the surface at first, but then sunk down with a click, and felt more secured, like it had taken root. “Turn it slowly.” She did, slowly, and felt a few tiny pings before—
“Good God!” gasped Lancelot, as the lock sprung open. “Merlin, you mad fool!”
“Oi!” snapped Rufus. “There can only be one!”
Merlin shook the chains off himself, then stood, turned on his heel and went to his desk, and... started tidying up. Guinevere
watched him, concerned. “Merlin, we... we need to get to the King.”
“If I leave this room, he will die.”
She took his him the shoulders, turned him around. “If you stay, he’ll die, Merlin.”
Merlin was at a loss. She could see it in his eyes. Panic, and then panic at his panic. Whatever they’d done to him, he couldn’t fathom breaking the rules they’d set out for him.
“If I leave this room, he will die.”
“Fine,” said Lancelot. “Stay here and hide.” Guinevere shot him a warning look. “What? He’s nothing to offer. Better not to risk him.”
Merlin turned suddenly, nearly bumped into Guinevere. He wouldn’t look her in the eye, but it was clear he was talking to her when he said: “I have something to offer.”
A gentle push on another unit, and out slid a much larger drawer, full of all kinds of exotic tools. The first thing he picked up was strange: like a miniature drum, it was halfway hollowed on one side, with a cross-beam in the middle. On the front were what looked like a stack of discs, each separated by a finger’s width, made of smoothed and rounded wood. He handed one to Guinevere, one to Adwen.
“These are suppressors,” he said. “They are non-lethal defensive weapons. Put your hand in the base, hold on to the bar and then squeeze to—”
Adwen had been following along, and suddenly her suppressor popped as the frontmost disc fired off and struck Rufus in the side of the head, sending him spinning off his feet and landing on the mess of papers on the ground. Adwen gasped in horror, rushed to his side.
“Your Majesty! Are you—”
“By God, I’m in love!” he said, got to his feet and embraced—
—the suppressors. One of which was still in Guinevere’s hand. She let go before the situation became untenable.
“What’s this?” asked Lancelot, picking out a helmet and breastplate, like a knight’s armour, but rounder, thicker, less defined.
“That is a surgeon’s shield,” said Merlin. “It can withstand sword strikes and bolt impacts and arrows to allow surgeons to safely clear a battlefield.”