Knightfall: Book Four of the Nightlord series

by Garon Whited

  Wow.

  I hurried through the remainder of my meal while she attracted the attention of every man in the room and several of the women—not all of whom were angry at her for attracting the attention of the men. She politely brushed off a couple of younger gentlemen, both of whom were gentlemanly enough to accept a polite brush-off. I signaled the waiter, bought her a drink from afar, and continued wolfing down my meal.

  The sound of her sliding into my booth was the same sound as every eye in the room swiveling to follow her.

  “I thought I should thank you for the drink,” she purred, lacing her fingers together and resting her chin on their back. Her accent was thoroughly British.

  “You’re very welcome, Ma’am,” I replied, adding a bit of an American southern drawl to my voice.

  “Oh, you’re not from here!”

  “Yes, Ma’am. I’m from across the pond.”

  “How delightful! Do you suppose you could tell me about the Colonies? I’ve always wanted to visit, but it seems so huge. Where does one go to really understand the country?”

  “That’s a long story. Can I get you something to eat?”

  “No, thank you. I have a dinner engagement this evening. But I’d be delighted at your company, if you’d care to join me.”

  “It would be my pleasure, Ma’am.”

  I followed her out of the pub area and up the stairs.

  “Your room or mine?” she asked. I shrugged. She led me to hers, a much less Victorian, much more modern suite. She kicked off her heels and settled on a chair with a relieved sound.

  “Busy day?” I asked.

  “Not really. Heels aren’t my favorite shoes, and these aren’t yet broken in,” she explained, massaging one foot. I examined a shoe, worked it a bit with my hands and a trace of magical power, decided it would do, and repeated the performance on the other shoe.

  “They’ll break in quickly,” I assured her, taking over the foot massage. “So, how did it go?”

  “Visiting? Or yachting?”

  “Let’s start with the visiting.”

  “I started with the Etiennes. They’re nice people, if a bit jumpy about visiting vampires. A bit jumpy in general, I think, due to your unfriend Johann and his magical domes of power. I’m not sure I’d have gotten out of there if it wasn’t for your letter and lack of presence.”

  “Lack of presence?”

  “If I didn’t report back, you would show up to ask their corpses searching questions. I had to mention the Mendoza incident.”

  “I’m sorry you had to bring that up.” And I was sorry. It’s not a memory I treasure.

  “Not to worry,” she assured me. “I took great care to be polite and they were very formal with me. I suspect I could go back and be welcomed as a messenger, although maybe never as a guest. I’ve proved I know how to behave, at least, so I won’t get shot on sight.”

  “The letter of apology they sent seemed to indicate they have a strong streak of ethical behavior, possibly outright honor.”

  “I’d say so. I asked them about Johann and all that. They’re not taking you up on any offers. They’d rather batten down the hatches and wait until the matter resolves into something clearer. They can’t see through the magical shields, so all they know is it’s a collection of big bubbles—and more power than everyone else in the world combined can field.”

  “They’re determined to wait and see.”

  “Yes. I get the impression, though, they’ve either tried something or heard about someone who did. Little things—glances between themselves, the way they phrased things, stuff like that.”

  “Oh?”

  “I think someone attracted demigod-magi attention and was vaporized, or incinerated, or just plain killed. To make a point, probably, but it was certainly a success. The Etiennes aren’t exactly hiding, but it’s the next best thing.”

  I sighed and switched feet.

  “They did relay the message to other families for me,” she went on, wiggling her toes. “I’ve got an online message box they can talk to and a number where I can reach them. So far, the answers have ranged from horrified appeals to leave him alone to outright laughter at the idea. Nobody else is willing to do anything against Johann and family, not with the kind of power at their disposal. I have no doubt they’ll salvage anything they can, though, from the wreckage. They strike me as magical scavengers, not as actual magicians.”

  “They’ve lived with that attitude for generations,” I realized. “I shouldn’t be surprised.”

  “I guess. Recruiting help doesn’t seem to have gone too well. But the yacht was no trouble.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. It’s an older boat, from the thirties, when historical styling was in fashion. Its general pattern is styled after some ship called the Sirius, but it’s strictly modern. Two sidewheels, diesel-electric power, a hydrojet engine for tricky bits, even a mast and sails. You’ll like it.”

  “Sidewheels? You mean it’s an old paddlewheel steamer?”

  “Oh, yes, but not an actual steam-engine steamer. The paddlewheels work; they’re actually the main propulsion. The diesel-electric setup runs them, but you can pull a lever and the paddles all tilt to reduce drag and the hydrojet takes over. Looks pretty when it’s chugging along, though.”

  “I look forward to seeing it. I hope it wasn’t too hard to come by.”

  “Not at all. I’ve been in Campione and Monaco, looking for money and rich men. I wasn’t sure if I could win a yacht at a poker table, so I focused mostly on either stealing from casinos or from people with far too much money. Turns out a hot redhead can be a distraction at a no-limits poker game, and I did win us a yacht.” Mary pouted. “Now I have all this money I don’t need.”

  “Cry me a river of hemoglobin.”

  “I suppose we could get cash and one of the bigger inflatable pools.”

  “What for?”

  “To fill the pool with the cash and roll around naked in all the money.”

  “Seriously? How much money are we talking about?”

  “Well, it sure won’t fit in singles. Maybe if we get it all in hundreds and get a really big inflatable pool. We want room for us, too.” She shrugged. “A couple million.”

  “I have no idea how to respond to that.”

  “How about a nice expression of thanks?”

  “The foot massage doesn’t count?”

  “You have a good point,” she agreed, wiggling her toes some more.

  “I thought so. But we’re not rolling around in money. Paper cuts galore.”

  “We’ll do it at night.”

  “It still seems like it would be painful.”

  “I want to try it.”

  “Fine. Once we’re on the boat.”

  “Good. Meanwhile, stop rubbing my feet and rub something else. I’ve missed you.”

  After sunset and a shower, we went down to the river. Mary had the motor launch at the equivalent of a floating parking lot while the yacht was anchored farther out.

  “You just left it out there?” I asked, as she fired up the engine and gunned the small launch downriver.

  “No. It comes with crew and some staff. There’s always someone aboard.”

  “That could be problematic. I have things to do and human witnesses could be trouble.”

  “There’s a solution for that,” she pointed out.

  “I’d rather not.”

  “We could run the ship ourselves, I suppose, but if anything goes wrong—or if you want to use the sails—we need expert help. I can probably sail it, with your help, but I’m not qualified to captain a ship.”

  “Fair point. I guess we’re bringing the crew.”

  I held on for the rest of the trip out to the yacht. I don’t like boats and this one was only a four-seater. I count for three, at least.

  The yacht was considerably larger than the launch, as it should be. The launch was something you could load on a trailer and take to the lake. The yacht—named the S
ilver Princess, for some reason—was a hundred and seventy feet of heavy steel construction. We pulled in behind her and Mary slid the launch into a submerged cradle. Powered systems lifted it out of the water and locked it in place. We boarded the Silver Princess to a pipe-whistle-thing and some saluting. Mary traded some commentary with the guy in the fancy hat before taking me on her little tour of the boat.

  The top deck of the superstructure was a glass cockpit-style bridge, with social and recreational decks below it. The yacht had a kitchen, bathrooms, music room, theater, lounge, all the things you’d find in a luxurious house, but laid out oddly due to the shape constraints. The lower decks held most of the more standard operational guts, as well as the master suite, guest rooms, and crew quarters.

  I wasn’t too concerned with the luxury accommodations. The cruising range and cargo were more important. Between the solar panels up top and full tanks, the typical cruising range was over six thousand miles. After a discussion with Captain Tillard, he assured me we could more than double it by adding fuel drums to the cargo hold and using them to top up the regular fuel tanks.

  Of course, if we didn’t use the engines—if we used the forward mast for sailing and ran the hydrojet off solar power—our cruising range was limited only by our food stores. I didn’t get into that. His idea of food stores and my fear about food stores were very different things.

  He needed at least two days to bring the yacht in, have it serviced and refueled, handle all the paperwork and legalese, and deal with the general bureaucracy of owning a giant boat. That suited me. I wanted some specialized equipment brought on board.

  “Such as?” he asked.

  “I’m going to need about five miles of corrosion-proof cable for lifting things off the sea floor, a winch to handle it, a scuba setup, a few cases of underwater flares, some sort of signaling arrangement from seafloor to surface, a couple of high-density plastic drums, a webbing harness for the drums—like a fitted basket for one—and a year’s worth of concentrated rations to go with the usual groceries. Oh, and I’ll need space in the hold for special cargo. A somewhat oversized statue of a horse.”

  Captain Tillard’s aplomb was completely unshaken by any of this. Weird equipment? Fine. Eccentric requests? Okay. Totally unreasonable luggage? Ho-hum. It’s as though he was used to dealing with rich weirdos with strange desires. He simply wrote all of it down and shouted for Williams. Williams turned out to be an older man in a sailor suit, complete with bandanna around the neck and bib arrangement over his upper back. Williams took the list, saluted smartly, and hurried off.

  “Just out of curiosity,” I began, “did the former owner insist on the sailor suits?”

  “Yes, sir. They’re period for the mid-eighteen-hundreds, when sidewheelers were in use.”

  “I see. How about we make the uniform requirements Captain’s discretion?”

  “Thank you very much, sir. I’ll see to it. Will there be anything else?”

  “No, I don’t think so. Carry on. No, wait; I just thought of something. We have a boat for shuttling back and forth to shore. Do we have an aerial vehicle?”

  “No, sir. We do not.”

  “Do we have somewhere we could park one?” I asked. He walked forward with me and pointed out a stretch of deck.

  “We’ll want it as low as we can get it, for center of gravity reasons. If you don’t mind losing a lot of open deck space, we can put something about here… A helicopter, perhaps, if we can crane it in. Even if we temporarily clear all the support cables and unship the forward mast, I wouldn’t risk landing it so near the superstructure. It’ll be tricky to lift off in anything but dead calm weather. This is the best we can do, I’m afraid.”

  “Hmm. I’m not sure I want a full-sized helicopter. I’ll think about it some more.”

  “Just as you say, sir. Shall I begin preparations?”

  “Yes, please,” I told him. He glanced at Mary and she nodded.

  “Whatever he wants,” she added. “It’s his trip.”

  “As you wish. May I ask how long a trip, and where we are headed?”

  “I’m not sure how long it will take, but we’re going to visit a number of coordinates, examine the sea floor, and move on to the next. Mostly in the Atlantic, but there’s a possibility we’ll round Cape Horn and hit the Pacific, too.”

  “Might we go through Panama, sir?”

  “Oh. Yes. That would be quicker, wouldn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’ll get a map and some coordinates for you. I obviously don’t know the first thing about running a ship, so you can do the heavy lifting on reaching all the points in the minimum time. How’s that sound?”

  “Perfectly fair, sir.”

  “Excellent. And if I’m being unreasonable or silly, please tell me so. I will happily defer to your experience, Captain.”

  “I’m pleased to hear it, sir. You’d be surprised how many owners say ‘Do this,’ and have no idea what the order involves.”

  “I have a feeling I’ll be more ‘Can we do this?’ instead.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  Mary and I went below to inspect the master suite. She admitted to replacing the entirety of the linens, but the décor still had a decidedly Old West flavor to it. Not my first choice, but not bad. I wasn’t too fond of the various heads looking at us from around the room, though. The paintings of cowboy life were kind of nice. Impressionist stuff, suitable for something seen in the background of your vision.

  “You wanted something for flying?” she asked, while we snuggled on the bed.

  “Yes. Something I can drive, preferably.”

  “There’s an Italian company that makes a sort of heli-bike, if that’s what you’re after. They call it a skycycle.”

  “A flying motorcycle?”

  “More like a four-rotor drone, but scaled up to carry a rider and passenger, like on a motorcycle.”

  “It might get off the ground with me, then. Are they hard to drive?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve never flown one. Want to try it? Italy isn’t too far away. We can be there and back before Walt has the ship ready.”

  “Walt?”

  “Walter Tillard, the Captain.”

  “You call him ‘Walt’?”

  “He’s a nice man. I like him.”

  “Fair enough, I guess. What do we do to get to Italy in a hurry?”

  “Call a cab.”

  It still never fails to stun me how efficient a computerized traffic system can be. Even better, Europe doesn’t inflict speed limits on any autopilot vehicles. Google self-regulates based on the equipment and the traffic. Europe also allows a traffic priority system where a user can pay an additional fee and be routed as quickly as possible to a destination.

  Mary called ahead for an appointment while en route. The rest of the time we spent catching up. Since her time was much shorter than mine, she had less to tell. I spent quite a while explaining who, what, where, how, and why.

  She had a few questions.

  “So, who killed all the children in Carrillon? And who killed Thomen?”

  “I’m not sure, but Bob is investigating.”

  “Do you have any suspicions?”

  “Of course. I suspect one or both of the twins—Malana or Malena or both—killed Thomen. That’s just my gut reaction, of course, based on Kammen’s description. It may be someone within the Guild of Wizards decided to eviscerate Thomen to open up some space at the top. It might be unrelated to me, entirely—I’m not the center of the Karvalen universe, merely a powerful piece on the board. Less so, now, I hope. To be frank, I don’t really care who killed Thomen. Kammen says he’s dead, and Kammen knows dead when he sees it. I’m happy.”

  “And the hundred dead babies?”

  “I care about it, but I can’t do anything about it. I have to know who to blame before I can remove their lungs. Bob’s supposed to find out.”

  “He’ll turn them over to this new justice council thing?” />
  “I… hmm. I don’t remember if I told him to deal with it himself or give it to Lissette. Either way, it’ll be handled. As much as I’d like to settle the account personally, I’ll settle for clearing it.”

  “Okay. And Tort?”

  “I already told you about her.”

  “I know you don’t want to talk about it, but just hear me out, okay?”

  “All right.”

  “You say she’s dead, but not exactly dead?”

  “Yes. It’s complicated.”

  “Only you could make dead or not dead complicated.”

  “Hey, nobody asked me if I wanted to be an undead fiend of the night.”

  Mary took my arm, put it around her shoulders, and squeezed up against me.

  “I know. And I know Tort means a lot to you, no matter what I have to think to feel… safe, I guess. So uncomplicate it for me.”

  “Tort expended… or used… or something… the part of her which makes her… hmm.”

  “Never mind the occult details. I don’t even have my degree in magic, yet. Just tell me what she did.”

  “What Tort did was use herself and everything connected to her through her age-distribution spells. All those animal spirits and plant spirits and whatever else she had on tap. These augmented her own… I guess I have to call it a soul, but I’m starting to suspect there’s more to a soul than a coherent energy pattern.”

  “Postgraduate occult stuff. Move on.”

  “Right. So, she used her own soul and all her additions to build a receptacle to contain the Demon King. This should have drained all the life out of her—vitality and soul, everything—but she managed to keep just enough to survive. I think her plan was to nearly die, then recover. Since it’s never been done before, she couldn’t have known how drastic the damage would be. She turned into a withered old crone practically overnight.”