by Peter David
It was a damned heavy door, all right. There was a large keyhole that doubtlessly accommodated some sort of very old-style key. Above it sat a massive iron ring, welded to the door so thoroughly that nothing short of a rampaging elephant tied to the opposite end of a chain could possibly pull it off. So obviously there was some sort of latch operated via a key outside, and the door was pulled open and closed via the ring (which doubtless had a mate on the other side). He glanced over with only mild hope before he verified for himself that the hinges were, of course, on the outside. Well, no one said this was going to be easy.
Percival’s strength was considerable, certainly above the norm, and had only grown since he had cleaned himself up and left his days of alcoholic haze far behind. But he was not a superman. He couldn’t simply reach out, seize the door with one hand, and yank the thing free of its frame. This knowledge didn’t stop him from trying, however. He gave several experimental pulls, but was rewarded with nothing in return.
“All right,” he said softly to himself.
He heard footsteps just outside the door then, and a very small window—narrow enough to reveal a pair of eyes and no more—slid open at eye-level. It was at that moment that Percival also noted a slot at the bottom of the door, which would be large enough to accommodate a plate of food being slid in . . . or, he noted as he spotted a small chamber pot at the other end of the room, a container with waste material being slid out. How cheerful. He’d been in prison a number of times during his life, usually because he’d been in the wrong place in the wrong time or on the wrong side. Prison food could oftentimes be indistinguishable from waste matter. He wasn’t especially anxious to test the cuisine of his latest dwelling.
Although he could see only the eyes looking in at him, he knew instantly who was on the other side of the door.
“They said you were awake,” came the voice of the High King. “I trust my faithful brother in war did not hurt you too much?”
“How comforting that you have taken an interest in my welfare,” and then he paused and, hurling the name like a spear, added, “Gilgamesh.”
The eyes on the other side crinkled slightly in amusement. “It certainly took you long enough,” he commented. “What gave me away? The greatness of my being? The majesty of my personality?”
“No, the presence of the one whom you addressed in front of me as Enkidu.” Percival took several steps back from the door, and there was rough humor in his eyes and disdain in his voice. “Posturing lords of the land are a dime a dozen. I’ve seen them in all shapes, in all forms, my entire life. But one in the company of a great beast such as that,” and he shook his head. “That would make you either Gilgamesh, or possibly Tarzan of the Apes.”
Gilgamesh laughed loudly at that . . . the sort of laugh one has when one is totally and completely in control, and knows it. “A good jest,” he said, “a very good jest. I know this jungle lord. We may be out of the way here, but we do acquire works of fiction, usually from the occasional new arrival. But you do me a disservice, Grail Knight. A posturing, dime-a-dozen lord? I am the first hero of all history, Percival. I was king of Uruk in Babylonia . . . I was, and am, two-thirds god, one-third man . . .”
“I don’t care if you’re two-thirds orange juice and one-third vodka,” shot back Percival. “I’m aware of your background, aware of everything that’s attributed to you, aware of your place in history. But this isn’t history. This is here and now, and to me you’re just a jailer, no matter how many thousands of years back you hail from. Now if you want to prove your magnificence to me, then act in a way that’s more suited to your self-esteem and let me out of here.”
Gilgamesh actually seemed to consider the request for a moment, which was a moment longer than Percival had thought he would consider it. He took a step closer, his eyes seeming to bore right through the back of Percival’s head, but when he spoke it was with a tone that came across as remarkably reasonable. “You know now that the term ‘high king’ is not simply an affectation,” said Gilgamesh. “I am truly a king . . . the first one of literature. The first one of acclaim. There are none who are more worthy of the title of High King than I.”
His mind racing, Percival was able to sense the considerable arrogance that seemed to permeate Gilgamesh’s tone. It was certainly something that he could use to his advantage. “You make a strong argument in that regard,” he admitted. “You are legendary, Gilgamesh.”
“This man you work for,” asked Gilgamesh with disdain, “would any say that he is legendary?”
More than you would think, mused Percival. “I would say so, yes.”
“But not as legendary as me.”
Percival said nothing. He just stood there, pulling on the large ring attached to the door.
“No . . . no, he couldn’t be,” Gilgamesh said with obvious, eminent satisfaction. Lord, the man was insufferable. Then again, he’d had plenty of time to become so. “Do you know what I think, Percival? I think I shall give you another chance. My opinion of you has not altered from before.”
“It hasn’t.”
“No, it hasn’t. I still think that you are an honorable man, Percival. And I believe that if you tell me that you will remain here . . . forsake your liege, come into my service . . . that your word can be taken. And if that should happen, why then,” and he thumped his meaty hands together so loudly that it echoed off the walls, “just like that, you will be released. Released, and welcomed here, to act in my service and enjoy life here on Pus Island.”
Percival had to laugh out loud when the name was spoken. Far from being put off, Gilgamesh shared the amusement. “The name of our little paradise strikes you as amusing, does it?”
“It shouldn’t,” Percival said. “But yes, it does.”
“I did not give it that name, Percival,” Gilgamesh informed him. “It bore that unlikely moniker when I first came here, long centuries ago. An island of lepers, it was. Pathetic, destroyed creatures. Lepers, and plague sufferers. Poor creatures, barely recognizable as human, making their way here. So many died in that futile pursuit. Do you know why they sought to come here?”
“Because they heard,” said Percival knowingly. “They heard that you were here.”
Gilgamesh shook his head. “They heard something was here. They had nothing to lose. They came in huge numbers, died in huge numbers, and only a few—call them hardy, call them lucky, whatever you desire—only those precious few made it here. Here, to ‘Pus Island,’ the home of infection and pain and suffering. No one but the most pathetic of humanity’s dregs would brave the journey. Why should they? Who in the name of Nineveh would want to come to someplace called ‘Pus Island?’ ” Without waiting for an answer, he responded to his own question. “About as many people as would desire to brave Iceland, and would instead seek the warmer climes of Greenland. Of course, they’d arrive in Greenland, find a brutal and intemperate place, and reason that either they should stay and die . . . or else leave and let someone else make the same foolish mistake.” He smiled at the recollection. “Ah, the joy of outwitting one’s intellectual inferiors.”
“What pleasure is there in that?” Percival inquired, genuinely curious. “True joy only comes from outthinking an equal or superior, not one who is hopelessly behind.”
“I’ll defer to your opinion on that, Percival, what with you being my guest and all.”
“Guest?” He looked around. “The accommodations leave something to be desired.”
“That, I’m afraid, is your choice. Really, Percival,” and he was sounding a bit impatient, “I think I’m being somewhat ill-used here.”
“You’re being ill-used?” said Percival incredulously. “That’s rather amusing considering which side of the cell door you’re standing on.”
“Here am I,” continued Gilgamesh as if Percival hadn’t spoken, “prepared to release you, taking you at your word. Your word. The amount of trust that indicates is truly overwhelming. But instead you simply stand there, gawking at me, refu
sing to acknowledge my generosity and pledging your fealty to me. I don’t know what else I’m supposed to do.”
“Let me go.”
Gilgamesh’s voice dropped, and sounded very dangerous and very ugly. “That is not going to happen. Do not tempt my generosity, Percival, for you will most certainly not enjoy the consequences. Now will you pledge your loyalty to me?”
For a long, long moment Percival studied him as comprehension slowly dawned upon him. “You,” he said at last, “are afraid of me.”
Gilgamesh responded exactly as Percival thought he would: so loudly, so over the top, that the very urgency of the reply said far more than anything Gilgamesh actually articulated. “That is absurd! I am Gilgamesh! Two-thirds god, one-third man!”
“Doesn’t make no never mind to me how big you are, how tough you are, how wonderful you think you are. To me you’re just a quivering little craven, afraid of a future that is as unforeseen to you as it is to anyone else.”
“That’s where you’re wrong!” Gilgamesh shot back. “I’ll have you know that . . . !”
And then he stopped, catching himself. Percival was intrigued; obviously Gilgamesh had been about to let slip something of great significance, and who knew what impact it might have on Percival’s current or future situation. But instead of continuing in that vein, Gilgamesh simply smiled lopsidedly. “That was good, Percival. That was very good. I think we shall have a very interesting association, you and I. You have a very quick mind. Mine is far more learned, of course, but even so . . . yes. Yes, a very interesting association. I think I will find your time with us most stimulating, even if you do not. You will be attended to, and I will visit regularly, and you will provide intriguing conversation and the occasional battle of wits over many topics. For you see, Percival,” he said, sounding a bit sad, “I am somewhat isolated here. I have very little word on what has been going on in the outside world. Not that I’ve been all that interested, but still . . . there’s no harm in a man being informed, now, is there?”
Percival stepped back from the door and briefly allowed anger to seize him as he lashed out with a furious kick. The pain of impact shot up through his leg, all the way to his hip, but the door didn’t seem particularly impressed. Nor was Gilgamesh.
“That didn’t do you any good,” he observed.
“I will get out of here,” Percival warned him. “And you know I will. That’s the reason you’re afraid of me. That’s the reason you won’t even try to kill me. Because if you do, you’ll know for all time that you’re a coward.”
Gilgamesh threw his head back and laughed. “Your words mean nothing to me, Moor. I do not have to prove my bravery to such as you.”
“Yeah,” Percival replied. “Yeah, you do.”
For a moment, Gilgamesh’s eyes were burning coals in the darkness, and then, without another word, he turned and walked away. From behind him Percival called, “I know you for what you are, Gilgamesh! I know you now! And you know too! I will get out of here! I will escape! And you know it! You know it!”
His voice echoed down the corridor, but no response came from Gilgamesh. Finally Percival sagged against the door and stared at the dank wall opposite him.
“Shite,” he muttered.
And then he turned, gripped the massive ring with both hands, and began to pull.
And pull.
And pull.
CHAPTRE THE TENTH
FRED BAUMANN FLASHED his press ID for what seemed the hundredth time in the course of the evening, and then stood with arms extended while the security guards checked him over.
He had to believe that he didn’t exactly fit the profile of the standard terrorists against whom the Capitol dome was being guarded. Baumann was a heavy-set, very Caucasian, very unthreatening-looking man pushing his sixties. His blond hair had long since turned white and gotten thin, and annoyingly he seemed to be acquiring hair every place he didn’t want to have it: His eyebrows were getting bushy; there was hair coming out his ears. He would look at his face in the morning, with a swelling nose courtesy of too many late-deadline-prompted beer orgies, and the bags under his eyes, and he’d wonder, Jesus, Fred, when did you turn into an old man?
Young reporters in the press briefings would try to push him aside to find favored seats, but Baumann didn’t care. He could just as easily get attention from the back of the room, and it made it that much easier for him to get out of the room when the briefings were over.
The Capitol building was alive with activity this night, and Baumann felt as if he was reliving the State of the Union. Hopefully, that wouldn’t be the case. He hadn’t been outside to see when the First Lady had been gunned down, but God almighty, what a zoo it had been that night. It had been hard for him to concentrate, because he’d come to like Gwendolyn Penn, having gotten to know her as a person before she acquired the iconic position of First Lady.
And now the President was going to address Congress and the nation once again. The reason was obvious to most of the press corps: He was going to rally the spirit of the American people, still in shock and in mourning over the fate of the First Lady. He was going to let them know that he was broken, but unbowed. He was going to show them who was in charge. At least, that’s what everyone else was saying.
Baumann, as he took his seat in the press galley overlooking the busy hive of activity on the floor of the House below, wasn’t so sure.
WHY IS IT always raining at times like these?
Arthur stared at the window of the limo as rain cascaded through the night skies. It sounded heavier than usual to him as it fell upon the roof in staccato fashion. He wondered if there was some hail mixed in with it. His senses felt heightened, as if he were highly attuned to everything that was happening around him.
When he had first come to Washington, he had been surprised by how much it reminded him of the days of old. He had arrived as part of a general tour given to mayors of major cities, and he’d been struck by how much the White House seemed like a castle. They all did, really, all the major buildings. Great structures that housed and protected the lords of the land, so that they could conduct the business of the nation and affect the fates of millions of people. Instinctively, he’d felt very much at home here.
Now it all seemed alien to him. He was merely a stranger, a charlatan, someone masquerading as that which he was not. He felt separate and alone, and he wanted to blame Merlin for pulling him into this madness instead of leaving him to the mists of legend where he belonged. Or he wanted—as irrational as it seemed—to blame Gwen, because so much of it he had done for her. He could, of course, blame Sandoval, for it was his actions that had brought Arthur to this pass.
Ultimately, though, he realized that all such thoughts were unworthy of him. He had made the decisions, he had cooperated, he had done what he felt needed to be done. And if it had not worked out the way that he had planned it, well . . . it certainly wasn’t the first time.
A loud clearing of a throat, perhaps half combined with a cough, caught Arthur’s attention, and he realized that he’d been sitting there wrapped in his thoughts and ignoring Ron Cordoba and Bob Kellerman, both of whom were seated opposite him. Kellerman fidgeted with his hands as he usually did when he wasn’t seated in front of a computer working up a draft of a speech for the President. Kellerman was a lean, balding man who had only stopped performing hideously obvious comb-overs because Arthur threatened to whack him personally with a baseball bat if he didn’t cease doing so. It was Cordoba who had made the noise in his throat, and Arthur looked at him expectantly. “Yes, Ron?” he inquired.
Cordoba seemed surprised to be addressed. “Yes, what, sir?”
“You made a noise.”
“When?”
“Just now. I thought you were trying to get my attention.”
“No, Mr. President,” said Cordoba, pulling in slight discomfort at his shirt collar. “If I were trying to get your attention, I’d probably just say, ‘Mr. President.’ That usually does the trick
.”
“Ah,” Arthur said.
Now that the long silence had been broken, though, Kellerman leaned forward and there was a look of true perplexity on his face. “Mr. President, I admit I was just wondering . . . are you satisfied with the speech?”
“Of course I am,” said Arthur, clearly a bit surprised. “I said it was your best speech ever, Bob. I’m using your first draft.”
“Yes, sir, I know. That’s . . . with all respect, that’s what I find puzzling.”
One eyebrow cocked, Arthur asked, “How so?” “You’ve never used a first draft of mine. Ever.”
“I know.”
“Not ever.”
“Yes, I know, Bob,” Arthur acknowledged with a touch of impatience. “It was perfection. I said to you, ‘Write me a speech that I can deliver to a special joint session of Congress, because all anyone remembers of the State of the Union is what happened afterward, and I need to cleanse that from the collective American memory. Write me a speech that will say what I need to say to the nation about terrorists in general and Sandoval in particular.’ I saw no reason to change a word of it because it suited my purposes to the proverbial tee. So I don’t quite understand what point you’re trying to make.”
Bob’s mouth moved, but no words came out. “It’s nothing, Mr. President,” he finally said.
But Ron had been watching the exchange, his eyes narrowing, and when Kellerman declined to pursue the matter further, Cordoba said softly, “I think what Bob here is wondering . . . is whether you accepted the first draft because you truly thought it was ideal . . . or because it didn’t matter what he wrote, because you’re planning to say something completely different and this text is simply a decoy.”