The man lay there twitching, his eyes screwed closed. Arms enfolding his head, he curled into a ball and started mumbling. John couldn't quite catch what he was saying; it sounded like a foreign language, something Germanic. Whatever the language was, the short phrases and stuttering delivery made his words sound disjointed. Although he couldn't tell for sure, John suspected the man's speech was slurred. He seemed to be in shock.
John knelt beside the man and gently tugged his hands away from his head. Brushing aside feebly flailing arms, he shifted the man around so that his head could rest against John's thighs. That seemed to relax him; he stopped fighting, at any rate. The babbling stopped too.
John was thinking about where he'd find something to keep the guy warm when the woman laid her hand on his shoulder, startling him, and spoke.
"Take good care of this man."
John recovered enough to say, "But—"
"Artos needs your help."
John was befuddled. Who was Artos? "What are you tulking about?"
"Artos has slept a long while, but the time is come. He is needed." She giggled. "All of them. Great and small, need (hem all."
This woman—this sorceress—was crazy. Then again, maybe she wasn't the crazy one. "I really don't understand what's going on here."
She smiled a sad smile and touched his cheek with her hand. "Such enviable innocence."
"Who are you?"
"Nym." She smiled beatifically at him, as if that explained it all.
Right. Try again. "Who's he?"
"Artos."
Nym looked at him expectantly. Was he supposed to know this guy? John didn't exactly make a habit of hanging out with naked men in closed museums. "Be careful of strange men," his mother used to tell him when he was little. How much stranger did you get than appearing out of nowhere when a ditsy sorceress called you up with a spell?
Or had she? What if this guy wasn't a man? The head lying against his thigh suddenly seemed far warmer than it should be. What if she had called up something else, and it just had the shape of a man? What if—
What the hell was he thinking about? This couldn't be real. It had to be a trick of some kind, but he couldn't imagine anyone with the resources or the reason to pull such a thing off.
Nym frowned, apparently displeased by his reaction, then she brightened. "Oh, sorry," she said. "It gets a little confusing sometimes. So many, you know. And things get a little fuzzy over time. You'd probably call him Arthur."
"Arthur?" No. It couldn't be. "Arthur?"
She nodded.
His eyes flashed to the case behind her. It held a few artifacts of gold and silver, a Caxton printing of Malory's Morte D 'Artur, photoprints of several manuscript illustrations, an original eel from Disney's The Sword in the Stone, and a block of text headed "The Matter of Britain: Arthur, Myth or Reality?" The screen that showed a clip from Sandler's Legacy of the Round Table was dark. Centuries of legends about the king who waits.
"As in King Arthur?"
She nodded again.
"The King Arthur?"
She smiled radiantly. "Sleeping no longer." Bending down, she kissed the man on the forehead. "Rise, O king. The fight is to be fought."
The man groaned. She nodded in satisfaction and started gathering her things into her knapsack.
"It can't be," John said.
"Were you there?" she asked.
"Where?"
"I thought not. You're a bit young. That being the case, who are you to talk? One must have knowledge beyond learning or wisdom beyond understanding to say what can and cannot be." She leaned over and murmured in his ear, "The stars have whispered to me. They have told me that the time for sleeping is over. The time of need is upon us."
"I—" He decided it was better not to voice his doubts about her story. This woman, whoever she was—whatever she was—was not entirely fastened down. It would be best to humor her until he could find somebody who might have some idea of what was going on. He decided to try to talk her into helping him get this guy down to the watch station. From there he could call the police; they'd have somebody who could make some sense of this. Hoping he'd be inspired to say the right things, he started, "I—"
"Yes, you. You surely have a place in this. I had not foreseen you, but something is sure to come of this. You are here, and he is here, and—" She cocked her head as though listening. Eyes narrowing, her expression hardened. John hoped that it did not presage violence. She shouldered her pack, then leaned down again, whispering, "And he is here us well."
Her hand brushed John's waist, shifting the combox. The lights came on in the great hall. How did that happen? A shaft of illumination fell through the doorway into the still-shadowy exhibit gallery. Arthur—if he was Arthur—groaned again and raised a hand to shield his still-closed eyes.
The light dimmed as a man stepped into the doorway. The backlighting and the dark trench coat that he wore made a lean column of his figure, and silver hair glowed in a halo around his head. He took a step forward and his face came into the light. It was Bennett.
For a moment, John was overjoyed. Here was someone who knew about Nym. Bennett would know what was going on. Then he remembered that the FBI agents had said that Bennett was an impostor. The agents hadn't said what Bennett really was except dangerous.
A handful of boggles scampered past Bennett. He didn't seem surprised by them. The light behind him diminished for an instant as something moved out there. Whatever it was, it didn't stray into John's line of sight, but he sensed it lurking out there. Bennett remained undisturbed by its presence, but Nym stared worriedly over his shoulder.
As with Nym, there had been no alarm to mark Bennett's entry into the building. John checked his combox. The status light still burned green, falsely claiming that the building's security remained unbreached. That wasn't right. Couldn't be, could it? He had to be dreaming all this, didn't he? The weight of the man's head in his lap was real, and when Bennett spoke his voice sounded as real as it had in the Frilly Cow.
"I see I'm too late for the show."
Apparently galvanized by Bennett's voice, Arthur rolled out of John's lap and struggled to rise. His muscles trembled and his arms gave out on the first attempt. John helped him with the second and the man got to his knees. His eyes, open now, were fixed on Bennett. John would not have liked to have been the recipient of that venomous glare.
Arthur said something in his guttural language. His stutter was gone, his voice stronger, almost compelling in its power.
"I've seen stronger puppies, man," Bennett replied to him in English.
"What can you expect from a day that begins with getting out of bed?" Nym said.
Bennett ignored her. "Really, John, you should have told me when you began to keep such bad company."
"You're not a federal agent," John accused.
"According to whom?" Bennett asked.
"Some real federal agents."
"Are you sure they were federal agents?"
"I saw their badges. Who are you, really?"
"A person very concerned about what this woman is trying to do." He took a step into the gallery, and though his hands remained in his pockets, Nym flinched back.
"Don't trust him," she said to John.
"She is a liar, John," Bennett said. "Pathological."
"I am not," Nym protested.
"Do you know what she's done, John?" He paused, more for effect than to allow John to answer. "She's summoned a murderer. A hunter. A maker of war. You were here; you saw the anchors she used for her summoning. Weapons. The tools of a killer. The man you so tenderly held in your lap is very dangerous. A veritable demon in man form. He will deceive you into betraying all you hold dear. He has done so before, with others."
"You are the deceiver," Nym stated.
"Will you deny what I have told John about this man?"
Nym bit her lip.
"Her silence is the answer, John. This man is all that I have told you and more. He should be
destroyed like the mad dog he is."
"He is needed," Nym protested.
"Not by me," Bennett said. A boggle tugged on his pants leg. He kicked the thing away and it ran away into the darkness, whimpering. A melody, faint and hauntingly sweet, lloated in the air. Bennett tilted his head and listened, smiling. "Ah. However, his wakening does have benefits, and so for that I thank you."
Nym glared at him. "I did not do this for you."
"Of course not, woman. But whatever your motives, your results seem less than complete. Your champion doesn't look as though he will be much good to anyone."
Nym drew herself up, raising her chin loftily, and said, "He's still half asleep."
"Still? Not handling the transition well, is he? Or a fault in your spell, perhaps? Too bad. I'd rather have had him aware for this."
Bennett withdrew his right hand from the pocket of his trench coat. He flicked his wrist, and instantly a ball of crackling energy sprang to flickering green life around his hand. Boggles scattered.
"No," Nym protested, stepping between Bennett and Arthur.
Arthur mumbled something. Reaching out a hand, he tried to draw her back, but she shrugged off his hand.
"Leave," she whispered to him over her shoulder. "Get far
away."
"You can't protect him from me," Bennett said.
"Can't I?"
"Don't overestimate your skills, i know you must be feeling quite strong now, frisky even, but it is a false confidence.
"Step away, John."
Mouth dry, John asked Bennett, "What are you going to do?"
"Something that should have been done long ago. Now step away."
John hesitated.
"Very well," Bennett said. He flicked his hand forward, and the energy rolled off his fingers. The ball of lambent green fire floated toward Nym, Arthur, and John.
Nym held up both her hands, palms out, and crossed her arms. The fire vanished inches from her hands. John could only stare, wide-eyed.
"Not bad," Bennett said.
"I've been practicing," she said coyly.
"But not enough. If you insist on interfering, I will simply have to settle with you before I settle with him."
"I insist."
Nym slashed her hands down and a wall of shimmer appeared between her and Bennett. Bennett gestured again and sent another, larger ball of fire at them. The sphere burst on Nym's shield. John felt the heat. That was enough for him. He grabbed Arthur's arm.
"We've got to get out of here."
Bennett's hands started weaving in complex patterns; Nym's too. Lights flashed as energies leapt between them. John's hair stood on end and he felt flares of heat wash over him.
There was a service elevator in the back of the exhibit gallery. It was installed for the convenience of the prepara-tors, but it offered another way out than the doorway that Bennett blocked. John's combox would unlock it. He tugged on Arthur's arm.
"Come on."
The man resisted. In the glare of the flaring energies, John could see the man's expression shift rapidly. There was naked fear there, and other emotions as well: determination, anger, and frustration. Beneath John's hand, he trembled with passions. Clearly Arthur wanted to do something more than stand and watch this wizardly duel. The fear seemed strongest.
That was something John understood. This magic stuff was scary, real scary, when it wasn't in a book or a vid. His guts felt like something was stirring them around. He hoped that all he was feeling was fear, and not the insidious effects of some spell designed to turn him inside out. All John wanted right now was to get out of there.
"Unless you can throw spells, there's nothing to be done. Come on."
Arthur let John tug him behind the case, putting something between them and the sorcerers, before stopping again. He stared at the contending magicians.
"Sure, it's a great show," John babbled. "But, like, we're outclassed. Come on."
John tugged on Arthur's arm, but again he resisted. Some weak puppy. It was like trying to move a statue.
Maybe he had a reason to stay. Maybe there was something he could do. John had to ask. "Can you do magic?"
"No."
With that word, Arthur gave in to John's insistent tugging, allowing himself to be led away. John got him around the corner before releasing his arm and racing ahead to punch the call button for the elevator. For a miracle, the car was on their floor, and the doors hissed open immediately. The doors were closing, sealing them in the elevator car, when John realized that Arthur had spoken comprehensibly.
"You speak English?"
"Speak."
Was that an answer or a command? "Then maybe you can tell me what's going on?"
"Slow."
What was slow? Geez, don't tell me King Arthur is an idiot. Maybe his brain was fried from sleeping too long. The doors opened; it was time to move again. Once John got somebody to take charge, everything would get sorted out. He bolted from the elevator.
"Come on. Come on. We'll call the police."
After a moment's hesitation, Arthur followed him. John didn't wait for him, but hurried through the staff areas behind the gift shop. The lobby was lit with strange lights flickering down through the stairwell, and a gaggle of screeching boggles scattered from the landing as John raced across the open space. He nearly fell over one of the things, but caught himself on the framework of the archway into the orientation wing.
Almost there. He looked back to see Arthur trotting after Mm. The guy was looking around like a lost tourist.
"Come on!"
Arthur picked up his pace. Satisfied, John took the last few yards to the entrance of the watch room. John slammed the door open and flung himself down in front of the security console. Before he called the cops, he wanted to see what was happening upstairs. There was still a small chance that this was all a dream.
Damn small.
John punched in the commands to put the gallery camera on screen while Arthur started prowling the watch room. John heard him open the closet door just as the gallery vid camera came on line.
When it came up, the image was almost white, all glare and flash. John had to turn the contrast all the way down before he could see anything. Even then, it was hard to be sure what was going on through all the fireworks. He checked the motion sensors. As far as they were concerned, nothing was moving up there. Bizarre.
Arthur returned to his side. In Ms right hand, the guy held one of the demo swords from the outreach collection. Naked as a jaybird and the first thing he grabs is a weapon! Hope he knows how to handle that thing. The blade's edge glittered coldly. Geez, he'd picked the only sharp one in the bunch. Maybe it would be better if this guy didn't know how to handle a sword.
Time to call the cops.
As he reached for the phone, a prompt appeared on the monitor and started flashing: "Malfunction station three."
Now what? Station three was the rear service entrance. Before John could acknowledge the prompt, it disappeared. it wasn't supposed to do that.
The motion sensors were registering movement near the service entrance, so John called up the vid camera that covered the rear entrance. The magical battle in the gallery disappeared from the screen, replaced by a much darker scene. Cloaked in the night, several figures hunched against the wall of the museum building. One of them, considerably shorter than the others, stood by the control box with a dark object in his hand. Several wires led from that object to the control box. That was all John saw before the image went black.
John heard the distant rumble of the loading-dock door opening. Pointlessly, he looked in that general direction. From the corner of his eye, he saw Arthur look up, as though he was searching the sky for thunder. John turned back to the console, cutting in the camera inside the loading bay. Men carrying guns rushed in. John recognized two of them: McAlister and Surimato. What the hell was the FBI doing raiding the museum?
The camera went dead, then the whole security console blinked: tel
ltale lights, monitor, submonitor, everything. When they flickered back to life, everything looked normal, but somehow John didn't think everything was normal. He tried to call up a diagnostic, but the console didn't acknowledge his attempt.
Things were getting very strange.
A gunshot thundered somewhere in the building.
Weren't federal agents supposed to issue warnings first? He hadn't heard anything like a warning. He picked up the phone and found the line dead.
More gunshots erupted from upstairs, then a whumping noise like nothing John had ever heard. Someone started to scream in agony.
John didn't understand what was going on, but it was obvious that the museum was not a healthy place to be at the moment. Nym's advice to leave sounded very good. Very wise.
He shoved his chair back, Arthur's nakedness flashing in his peripheral vision. It was cold outside; the guy would freeze. John panicked for a second, then remembered that there were clothes where Arthur had found the sword. Stupid costume stuff, but warmer than naked skin. John dove for the closet and hauled out the first things he saw. He tossed the handful to Arthur, who caught the floppy mass without fouling his blade.
Maybe he did know how to handle that thing.
"Let's go," John said as he ran out of the room.
At least this Arthur guy wasn't completely in the ozone. He followed John to the door and shrugged into one of the long robes while John fiddled with the lock. The noise from upstairs made John nervous, and he kept fumbling with the key.
"Haste," said Arthur.
John looked up to see him, sword held ready, staring across the lobby to the stairwell. Something heavy was clumping down the stairs. Motivated, John slotted the key and turned the heavy mechanism. He tugged on the door, but the massive steel valve resisted. Arthur gripped it with his free hand, and together they swung it open.
Chill air blasted in. It was cold outside, but they ran out into the night anyway. Intent on putting distance between himself and the museum, John didn't look back. He headed up Randolph Road, toward the rezcoms. The only thing he heard behind him was the slap of Arthur's bare feet on the road surface.
Robert Charrette - Arthur 01 - A Prince Among Men Page 11