Knight Life (27 page)

    
It all sounded great. Percival just hoped that Arthur could pull it off. And he hoped that no one tumbled wise to the whole setup. Percival wasn't sure, but he had a feeling you could go to jail for being the treasurer of an organization backing a candidate for mayor who had supposedly died centuries ago.

* * *

M
OE DRESKIN, HIS
middle swathed in a white towel, sat back in the steam room of his favorite health club. He could feel his pores opening, his skin breathing in the healthful mists around him. Sweat beaded his forehead, slicked his back and upper arms. His hands rested comfortably on his lap. It was a pleasure to relax, particularly after having had to deal with Keating flipping out on him.

    
“I'm getting damned sick of that commercial!” Keating had howled. “It's all over the damned place!”

    
“Of course it is,” Moe had said with forced patience. “It's saturation. It doesn't hit people over the head. And it makes them want to find out who the hell this guy is, already. It's much easier to get people interested than to
make
them interested.”

    
“I don't want semantics! I shouldn't have to put up with this shit!”

    
“I'm working on it,” Moe said. “Don't sweat it.” And naturally, right after saying that, Moe headed off to his health club, where he proceeded to sweat it, hoping to symbolically exorcise the cranky demons of Bernard Keating from his system.

    
He wasn't concerned about Kent Taylor. He was a pleasant enough actor, but Keating was a pit bull, and he was reasonably sure he could take him. But Arthur ... Arthur was going to be a problem. Because Keating was right about one thing: That damned, omnipresent commercial made it seem like Arthur Penn was everywhere.

    
The door to the steam room opened. Moe looked over with half-closed eyes and dimly made out a figure through the steam. “Is that you, Cordoba?” he called out.

    
There was a pause, and then a voice called back, “No. It's me, Arthur.”

    
Moe shrunk back against the wall as Arthur stepped out of the fog, smiling pleasantly. He wore a towel as
well, except that it was wrapped around him like a toga. And it was purple.

    
“You wouldn't by any chance be referring to Ronnie Cordoba, would you, Moe?” asked Arthur with what sounded like only mild interest. “The old racquetball companion of your leash holder, Bernie Keating? You might be interested to know that, with the primary only a month away, old Ronnie has joined my team. Seems he has a flair for public relations and Bernie was attempting to funnel it into the standard channels. So Ronnie came over to us. We're a good deal more flexible. And he told me all about you. You sounded so familiar, just from his description. So we checked out some old news footage of Keating, and there you were, standing right behind him. Isn't this nice, that we should have such a chance to get back together again.”

    
He sat down next to Moe and patted him on the back. Moe, paralyzed with fear, nevertheless recoiled from his touch.

    
“So,” said Arthur, “this is our first opportunity to really talk. Have a family reunion, so to speak. So tell me—how are you doing, you little bastard?”

    
“Mister, um, Mr. Penn, I don't see—”

    
Arthur raised a preemptory hand. “Don't. Don't even try to lie to me. It's foolishness.” He sighed and shook his head. “I thought we'd seen the last of each other on the field of battle, Modred, those many centuries ago. But, believe it or not ... I'm willing to give you a chance.”

    
“A ... a chance to what? Die naked in a sauna?”

    
When Arthur spoke, it was as if he was talking to Mod-red from a great distance. “You may not recall, Modred, but on that last day, when I received the wound that nearly killed me, you claimed you were willing to make a peaceful settlement. Suddenly, at the last moment, a poison adder appeared from nowhere and laid me low. My men, not seeing the snake, thought you had betrayed me, so they attacked. And that was the finish of us all.” He
leaned toward Moe. “The thing I've always puzzled over, and the thing to which I doubt I'll ever get an answer, is my question of whether you arranged for that poisoned snake yourself, or whether you were actually willing to negotiate for peace. On that basis, Modred, my bastard son, I offer you a place within my organization. Because I want to be able to trust you.”

    
Modred met his gaze levelly. “And because you feel it's best to keep your friends close ... and enemies closer?”

    
“As you say,” Arthur replied.

    
Modred stood then, and said very quietly, “I've waited centuries to say this to you.” Then he saw something in Arthur's eyes that he clearly didn't like, and he said, “Enjoy your
shvitz
” as he got out of there as quickly as he could.

    
“I hope it was worth the wait!” Arthur called after him, and then leaned back and laughed softly to himself as he did, indeed, enjoy his
shvitz
, knowing that Modred was sweating a lot more outside the sauna now than Arthur was inside.

C
HAPTRE

THE
F
IFTEENTH

G
WEN STOOD IN
front of the door to her former apartment, listening carefully for some sound of movement. There was none.

    
It had been a rainy day, and Gwen pulled her raincoat more tightly around her. She tossed her head, smoothing out the damp strawberry blonde hair, which she had permitted to grow to shoulder length, because that was the way He liked it. She smiled mirthlessly to herself. Lance had always insisted that she keep it short. She wondered what he would say now.

    
She wondered for the umpteenth time if she should have told Arthur she was coming back to her former home to finally reclaim items she'd abandoned when he'd carried her away. How long had it been? she wondered. She couldn't quite recall, for the past months had been idyllic. Although Arthur had been residing in his more traditional-style apartment, he and Gwen had found an occasional evening to sneak off to the castle and have, as Arthur referred to it, a dalliance.

    
In addition her self-respect had shot up a hundredfold
when she'd been voted president of Arthur's election committee. Merlin had pitched a holy fit on that score, but it had been fair and square. Everyone who worked with Arthur had come to genuinely like Gwen, and she'd blossomed under the appreciation to become a hard-working, quick thinking, aggressive woman—the woman she'd always had the potential to be, until Lance had smothered it. But he could only smother it for as long as he was an influence on her. And now that influence had been broken.

    
And yet ... and yet ...

    
She was back. Because she'd left behind books, clothing, and other personal possessions. But mostly because she had left behind a part of herself. And she wanted to reclaim it, clear up the “unfinished business” between herself and Lance, put closure to it all. Last time she'd left, she had been swept up and saved by her shining knight (and what a warm feeling just thinking of that moment gave her). This time she wanted to walk out on her own, head held high. It was what she knew she needed.

    
So why, with all that, did she feel a mixture of disappointment and relief that Lance might not be home and, thus, her big confrontation would not occur? She didn't know, but rather than stand in the hallway and procrastinate any longer, she reached into her purse and pulled out her keys. It didn't occur to her until that moment that Lance might have changed the lock. Fortunately he hadn't. She opened the door and stepped into the apartment.

    
A woman was lying on the couch, waiting for her.

    
Gwen's breath caught in surprise, and she glanced at the door to make sure that she had the right apartment.

    
“Oh, yes,” said the woman. “You have the right place. Come in, Gwen, come in,” she said, gesturing in a lazy, “come hither” manner. Gwen walked in slowly, cautiously, the hair on the back of her neck prickling. The apartment was dark, illuminated only by the hazy glow
of the television set, which faced the couch. “Who in hell are you?”

    
The woman chuckled. Eerily, it reminded her slightly of Arthur's laugh. “Oh, not in hell, child. Not yet, not yet. I've been waiting for you for quite a while now. You've certainly taken your time.”

    
The glare from the television played odd light images off the woman's angular face, flickering, giving her a look of nonsubstance. She was wearing a long black gown with a low-cut front that displayed a generous amount of cleavage. Again Gwen said slowly, “I don't know you ... do I?”

    
“From another time,” said the woman slowly. “Another life. However, I won't take it as a personal affront that you don't recall me. My name is Morgan.”

    
Gwen blinked. “Morgan. Morgan ... Le Fey?”

    
Morgan inclined her head graciously.

    
“Arthur's sister?”

    
“Half sister, if you please, my child.”

    
“I ... I thought you were dead. A long time ago.” Gwen felt a weakening in her knees, and she rested one hand against the wall to support herself. She saw the look in Morgan's eye when Arthur was mentioned, and for the first time that she could ever recall, she actually feared for her life. She wanted to run screaming from the apartment, but some instinct warned her that backing down from Morgan now would most certainly mean her end.

    
Morgan shrugged. “That is what was believed. Of me. Of Arthur. Of Merlin. But it's difficult to extinguish pure good ... or pure evil.” She laughed. “Tell me, Gwen ... do I look evil?”

    
“I'm not ... no. That is, I'm not sure.” She felt a chill in the air, and it was not a normal one. It felt as if a hundred thousand needles were pushing through her pores.

    
“Looks can be deceiving,” said Morgan pleasantly. She leaned forward and, in a conspiratorial, just-us-girls tone,
she whispered, “I'll tell you a secret, my child—good, evil, it's all subjective. No one really knows what good and evil are, except that those in charge invariably judge themselves good, and those who are not, are judged evil by those who have judged themselves good. Do you see? And if I were in charge, I would be able to label as evil the actions of those whom I did not like, and I would be considered good. And who would there be to say me nay?” She gestured for Gwen to come toward her. “I have something to show you.”

    
But Gwen didn't move from the wall. “Why haven't you then? Tried to put yourself in charge, I mean?”

    
Morgan smiled. “Oh, my darling, if you could only have seen what I've seen all these centuries. When Arthur was first locked away in that cavern, after his near-fatal wound in battle, I could scarcely believe my good fortune. Arthur was gone. Merlin was already long gone. The world was easy pickings for me, or so I thought.” She sighed, sounding as if she was discussing the height of tragedy. “The problem was, I had spent much of my life's work on Arthur's destruction. It had become such an obsession for me that, once he was out of the way, I found myself then facing the rest of the world. It was, to put it mildly, daunting.”

    
She sat up, tucking her long legs under her. She patted the couch next to her, but Gwen still kept her distance. Morgan shrugged. “Oh, I had my followers. I had demons upon which I could call for assistance. But many of these were susceptible to cold steel—very susceptible. In any sort of pitched battle my forces would have been slaughtered, and not all my magiks could have prevented it. So I appeared at courts, but my name and image were already well known. Many kings and landowners shunned me, would not even let me into their homes, and those who did, did so only under a feeling of obligation to their departed liege, Arthur. And they kept quite a close eye on me, I can assure you.

    
“So I became a wanderer. And as I wandered, I plotted how to—as you said—assume the power that I sought. My wanderings led me to some incredible discoveries—the infinite prolongation of life, for one. Astral projection, a feat that had been beyond me during Arthur's lifetime. And the most depressing discovery of all—that time was against me. The world was growing, my pet. Beyond my meager ability to control it.”