Knight Life

by Peter David

  MOE PUSHED OPEN the door to his Park Avenue office and stopped dead in his tracks. His secretary had said nothing about anyone with an appointment waiting for him, and yet there she was. And from the back, at least, she was a knockout (she had her back to him, gazing out the window at his impressive view). She was clad in a black leather jumpsuit that had revealing openings up the legs, and the back of the suit was cut all the way down to the dimples just above her buttocks. She had thick black hair cascading around her shoulders, and even from behind he could tell that she practically radiated sex.

  Gods, let the face match the rest of it ... and you know what? Even if it doesn’t, that’s why we have bedroom lights that shut off and eyes that close, he thought as he adjusted the knot in his tie and said—with as much suavity as he could muster under the circumstances, “Well, hello ... did we have an appointment?”

  She turned to face him and, sure enough, the face matched the body. “Or,” he continued smoothly, “we could discuss your personal situation over dinner ... at my place, perhaps ... ?”

  Then she spoke, and the voice cut right through him as she said, “I think, little dear, that sex with my half-brother is about as far as I wish to push the notion of incest.”

  His voice jumped an octave. “M-mother! My ... my God,” and he stepped back, stumbling into a chair he kept for clients and sitting down in it hard. “You’re ... that is ... you’re ...”

  “Younger?”

  He bobbed his head. “I ... didn’t recognize you ...”

  “I surmised as much.” She turned and looked around, pretending to be impressed. “You’ve been doing well for yourself, Modred.”

  “It’s ... it’s Moe Dreskin now, Mother.” He tried to sound cheery about it. “Who would believe a PR man named ‘Dread?’”

  She leveled her gaze upon him. “Who would believe the bastard son of King Arthur as a PR man named Dreskin? A PR man, Modred? Centuries you had lain out before you, like jewels in the sand ... and you did nothing to exploit your longevity? Your thirst for power?”

  “Your thirst for power, Mother. Me, I’ve learned the lessons of history. And the lessons say that the person at the top, sooner or later, falls off the top. I far prefer being in the background, making a healthy living manipulating those who are stupid enough to make themselves targets.”

  “Indeed,” was all she said ... but with that one word, her dripping contempt for her son spoke volumes.

  He felt a bit weak in the knees, but he didn’t like the way his mother seemed to loom over him, and so he forced himself to walk past her. He leaned on his desk in what he hoped appeared to be a nonchalant fashion and said, “Last time I saw you, Mother, you looked like hell.”

  “Flatterer.”

  “So ... have you been working out? What?”

  She stared at him in open disbelief. “You can’t truly be that obtuse. It’s exactly what I told you, Modred. Arthur’s returned. Providence set Merlin free from his imprisonment, and he in turn released Arthur from his. And they’re here in New York.”

  “Yes, I know. Running for mayor.”

  He took grim satisfaction in the surprised look on her face. “How did you know that?” she demanded. “I hadn’t told you that.”

  “I make it my business to know these things,” he said airily. The truth was that he had stumbled upon Arthur’s little pep rally purely by accident, but he wasn’t about to admit that.

  “Good. Now,” she said briskly, “I am going to be endeavoring to attend to him, quickly and cleanly and— ideally—in the messiest fashion possible.”

  “‘Messiest?’”

  She smiled nastily. “I still have resources, Modred. Creatures that are beholden to me, beasts of the night that I command. However, I wished to alert you personally, face-to-face, that I may have need of your aid as well.”

  He had known this was coming sooner or later, the moment he’d spoken to her on the phone. He had practiced the speech a hundred times in his head, and even so it was a physical effort for him to get it out. “It is ... kind of you to think of me, Mother, but you don’t seem to understand my situation.”

  “Situation,” she repeated tonelessly.

  “Yes. Situation.” He was feeling more confident with each moment. “The simple truth, Mother, is that it was a thousand years ago. I had my revenge. I killed him. The fact that he returned doesn’t change the fact that I avenged myself upon him. I did what I set out to do. I feel no need to do it again.”

  “You don’t.”

  “No. I don’t.” Even though it didn’t need it, Moe turned to a mirror hanging on the wall and adjusted his tie once more. It gave his hands something to do. “Revenge burns brightly for you, Mother dear, but for me it’s the faintest of embers. And I don’t see any need to stir them up. So if you’d be so kind as to leave me out of—”

  Suddenly his image in the mirror changed. He was aging rapidly, horrifically, his skin wrinkling, teeth rotting away, eyes receding into their sockets, his hair whitening and falling out in clumps. And as he stood there, transfixed, staring in horror at himself, he heard his mother say with icy calm, “I would hate to think, my love, what it would be like for you if the friendly confines of my sorcery were to be removed. The years can be ... merciless.”

  Modred let out a pitiable shriek and fell back, his hands going to his face. And then he discovered that, to his touch, his skin felt perfectly normal. Very slowly, as if afraid his face might fall off if he let go of it, he lowered his hands. It was everything he could do to look in the mirror, but when he did, he was rewarded with a reflection of his normal face.

  He let out an unsteady breath, and then he turned and faced Morgan, managing a stiff bow. “Your servant ... as ever, Mother.”

  “Good,” she said calmly. “Cheer up, ‘Moe Dreskin.’ If my little catspaw does as he is supposed to, you won’t even factor into this business. And if he doesn’t, well then, my love ...” and she rubbed her hands together, “It will be just like old times.”

  “Oh ... joy,” he said.

  CHAPTRE

  THE NINTH

  ARTHUR LOVED THE crackling of the torches that lined the wall of his castle. He loved the solid feeling of flagging beneath his feet, the cool touch of the stone wall against his hand. He loved the tapestries that hung upon those same stone walls, and the rich assortment of leather-bound books that lined the shelves. But most of all ... he loved having the telephone in the castle. Oh, would that they had had such a glorious device back in the olden days. What a difference in his life it would have made.

  The telephone rang, summoning him now, and of course there was only one person it could possibly be. Arthur grabbed up the telephone before the first ring had ended. “Hello, yes? Merlin!”

  Merlin’s voice was overwhelmed by traffic noises in the background. “Calm down, Arthur. You’re not getting a call from the Messiah, after all.”

  “Merlin, where the devil have you been?” The excitement in his voice was not very king-like, but he didn’t care a bit. “I haven’t seen you in over a week. I have so much to tell you! Where are you? What are you doing? What are you up to?”

  “Arthur, please! I don’t understand,” came Merlin’s confused voice. “What’s been happening? I mean, you’ve just been out getting signatures, haven’t you? What could be so exciting about that? It’s—”

  “Oh, no, Merlin! It’s gone beyond that. Way beyond that.”

  Merlin sounded extremely wary. “What are you talking about?” he said slowly.

  Arthur sat back in his throne. Surrounded by the walls of his castle, he felt power surging through his body and spirit. “I,” he said proudly, “have been politicking.”

  “You’ve been what!”

  “Politicking. Getting people to like me. That was what you said we had to do, after all.”

  “Yes! We! In tandem, Arthur!” Merlin’s voice sounded exceptionally put out, and Arthur wasn’t pleased with the tone. “I didn’t intend that you should go
running about half-cocked!”

  “I was not half-cocked, Merlin. I was—”

  “Completely cocked?” he said disdainfully, and before Arthur could say anything Merlin continued, “Wart, who told you that it would be a good idea to start addressing ... what, a few people?”

  “No, crowds.”

  Merlin moaned. “Crowds. Why were you talking to crowds? You just got up and started spouting off?”

  “Not exactly. Gwen fed me questions that—”

  “Ohhh, Gwen. Of course, Gwen,” Merlin moaned even louder this time. “I mean, naturally, if something related to you is going to become a complete and utter balls-up, then of course Gwen would have to be intimately involved with it.”

  Arthur frowned. “I don’t think I like the tone of your voice, Merlin.”

  “Tone of my—”

  “One would almost think that you were jealous that I was receiving aid from someone other than you.”

  “Then one would be an idiot,” Merlin shot back tartly. “Arthur, what in the name of the gods have you been saying to the people? How did this start?”

  “It began the first day I was out,” said Arthur cheerily, as if relating the details of a thrilling game of cricket, and proceeded to describe in detail what had happened at the rally.

  “I wish I was there to see your brilliance,” Merlin said dryly.

  “Oh, don’t worry. You’ll be able to. We videotaped the news broadcast that carried it. Remarkable things, these machines that enable you to tape—”

  “News broadcast?!”

  “Yes, they happened by. Asked me questions. I told them about my campaign. Excellent publicity, correct?”

  “Are you out of your mind?”

  Even though Merlin was speaking over the phone, Arthur bristled at the tone. “Merlin ... do I need to remind you who, exactly, is the king?”

  “Only if I’m entitled to remind you who is the wizard, the demon spawn, the one who sees the far destinies, the planner, the seer, the soothsayer, the—”

  “All right, Merlin, I get the picture.”

  “No, that was merely the frame, Arthur. The picture is what we’re now endeavoring to sketch in. We were to rehearse everything you were going to be saying. Have you forgotten all of that?”

  “No,” said Arthur. “No, I haven’t.” And his voice took on an edge hard as steel as he said, “But before you start throwing all your titles, or nicknames, or sobriquets at me, I think it would be good if I reminded you just who is going to be the next mayor of this state.”

  “City, you great barbarian oaf! Not state! You—”

  Arthur slammed the phone down. He stared at the receiver for a long moment, snapped angrily, “You colossal pointy-hatted complicator of issues! I need have no truck with you! I can function perfectly adequately on my own.”

  Then he sat there in the dark of the castle, the main room illumined only by firelight, and stared at the phone. It didn’t ring. He willed it to do so, commanded it to. It ignored him. Well, why not? Everything else did.

  “I know,” he said to no one. “I’ll get up and walk out, and that will make the bloody thing start ringing.” He got up and walked out of the throne room, and sure enough the phone started to ring again. The room remained empty, though, Arthur making no effort to hurry back. The phone rang a dozen times, and when Arthur finally came back in, the hem of his purple velvet dressing gown swished around on the floor, stirring up dust. He made a mental note to get the place swept, then stood there and let it ring another few times before he picked it up. But before he could get a word out Merlin said, sounding very small, “I’m sorry, Arthur.”

  Arthur hesitated, his eyes wide. His grip on the phone relaxed marginally. “Merlin,” he said softly, “I think this is the first time you’ve ever apologized to me. About anything.”

  Merlin coughed slightly, sounding a bit more comfortingly surly. “I don’t intend to make it a habit. And the only thing I’m apologizing for is the barbarian remark. Everything else stands. You’re supposed to follow the script I’ve laid out.”

  “I’m not an actor, Merlin. I’m ... a politician.”

  “Same difference. Listen, I’ll be seeing you in a day or so. And I’ve got a new member for our group. He’s going to be our accountant.”

  “Good man?”

  “One of the best. Utterly dedicated.”

  Arthur felt a slight lurch inwardly, as if he should know what Merlin was talking about, and was frustrated that he didn’t. “Where have you been for the past week or so?”

  “Sobering him up and cleaning him off.”

  Arthur laughed. “What a sense of humor you have, Merlin. What did you do, pick him up off the street?”

  “More or less.”

  Arthur nodded slowly. “Urn, Merlin—I’m going to assume you know what you’re doing. What’s the fellow’s name anyway?”

  “Ohhh ... I’d rather it be a surprise.”

  “Merlin, I can’t say I like surprises.”

  At that, Merlin made a triumphant squawking noise. “Well, what do you know about that? His highness doesn’t like surprises. Huzzah, huzzah. You know what, Arthur? Neither do I. Do you see now why I was less than ecstatic upon hearing about your little Times Square debut?”

  Arthur’s face flushed momentarily, although naturally Merlin couldn’t see that. Or ... who knew ... maybe he could. He was still unclear on what Merlin’s full abilities were, and that was enough to keep him in a perpetual feeling of unease. “It was Duffy Square, but all right, Merlin. Point taken. I shall endeavor not to allow myself to become swept up in the tide of events in the future.”

  “Thank you. I would appreciate that.”

  “So who is our accountant?”

  Merlin paused a moment—for drama’s sake, Arthur would later decide—and then said, “Percival.”

  It took a moment for the name to register, and when it did, Arthur could scarcely believe it. “Percival ... the ...”

  “... the Grail knight, yes. Percival. Who were you expecting, Galahad? Great, whining, virgin twit. Never had any patience for him. But Percival, well ... he was cut from a very different bolt of cloth.”

  “Percival,” Arthur said the name again in wonderment. “Still ... alive? How is that possible?”

  “You’re asking that of me? You, of all people, asking me, of all people?”

  “But I don’t see how—?”

  “I’m sure he’ll be more than happy to tell you when you see him. He’ll help watch your back, Arthur. And he’ll keep you honest.”

  “What do you mean, honest?”

  “I mean in the event you are tempted to do the wrong thing, for any reason, Percival will make certain you don’t. He did the wrong thing exactly one time in his life, and has been paying for it ever since, so if anyone is sensitive to right and wrong, it is he.” He paused. “It is him. Or is it ... ?” Then he made an annoyed noise and muttered, “Damn language.”

  “Merlin ... I have to ask ... with my return, and yours, and now Percival ... could Gwen Queen ...”

  “That last is a coincidence, Arthur, nothing more. Gwynyfar is dead, and the sooner you come to accept that, the better off all of us will be. Don’t allow whimsies of happenstance to be confused with patterns of fate. Understood?”

  “I suppose I’m just being wistful.”

  “Kings don’t get wistful. ‘Wist’ isn’t even a word. You can be prideful, scornful, hateful. You can’t be full of something that doesn’t even exist. Wist. Stupid concept: He’s full of wist. Cannot happen. Do not dwell on it any further.”

  “Very well, Merlin,” Arthur said evenly. “I won’t wist time on it.”

  This time it was Merlin who hung up. Arthur grinned.

  IT WAS DEATHLY quiet in Arthur’s office at the Camelot Building that evening. Everyone, it seemed, had gone home, and the only noise to be heard was the squeaking of the wheels of the janitor’s rolling trash can.

  There was a rustling noise at the keyhol
e, although oddly enough no key was inserted. Then the door swung open and a figure stood in the doorway, glancing this way and that. It was a short but broadly built individual, and strange, though it was, the flickering light from the outside hallway seemed to bend right around him. That had to be the case, because the janitor who was heading off down the hallway would certainly have made some sort of noise had he actually noticed the individual standing there. But he didn’t notice or say anything, which was probably just as well since the janitor had a wife and three kids at home, and if he had spied the person in the doorway, he would have been very dead very quickly.

  The dark figure stepped through the doorway, and the door closed noiselessly, which was also fairly impressive considering the hinges tended to squeak something fierce. The dark figure squinted in the dimness. He was more or less prepared to come back here every evening, for as long as it took, because it was what she wanted and he but lived to fulfill her desires. He was rather pleased to see, however, a light flickering toward the back, from the area that he would presume would be King Arthur’s office.

  His nostrils flared. Something felt ... off. Then he realized what it was.

  When he had been approaching the front door to the offices, he had smelled rats along the way. Rats scuttling in the walls, rats scouting for food behind the closed doors of the other offices. But in this office, in the place that was inhabited by Arthur Pendragon, there were no rats. He couldn’t understand why that might be. Not only did he not smell rats, he didn’t smell anything living. Which made him wonder whether there really was anyone in the back office, or if someone had just carelessly left the lights on.

  No ... no, he definitely heard something. Heard it, but didn’t smell it. He pressed the bridge of his nose, blew out, and tried to figure whether or not his sinuses were congested. Then, very slowly, one foot gliding in front of the other and making no sound, he crept toward the back office. He found the door open, the light dim but more than sufficient.

  A woman was seated behind the desk. She looked as if she was waiting for him, with her fingers interlaced and folded neatly on the desktop. She had green eyes that glinted in the dimness.