Morlock Night (7 page)

  A cold wind swirled around us, and I shivered. Ambrose glanced at me sharply. "Yes," he said. "You're right. Here in the darkness is no place to speak of things like this. Let us find a little warmth and human noise in which to shelter ourselves. Dark secrets and plans will lead to dark actions soon enough."

  He led us to a small pub a few streets away, where the stout proprietor in his stained apron nodded to Ambrose as if he were a long-familiar customer. Soon three of Ambrose's excellent cigars were turning the air blue in a booth at the rear of the pub, as we worked our way down through a pitcher of dark beer.

  "It's like this," said Ambrose. The glowing tip of his cigar danced in the smoky haze. "King Arthur is reborn every generation in time to intercede against the direst threat facing the cherished Christian and human ideals that are embodied in England more than any other place. It's a commentary on humanity's penchant for mischief, inasmuch as there's
always
a threat to Christendom. Evil exists on its own but the best and brightest must be guarded as though they were but flickering candle flames; Hence Arthur and his cycle of lives and deaths.

  "But–" His cigar jabbed at us. "It's more complicated than just that. The Fates have their little jokes and trials for us all. Arthur lives again and again, but each time he is born he has no memory of being Arthur. He grows into manhood – coward, fool, or even a hero – unaware that he is England's greatest defender called forth in her time of need."

  "Then of what use is his being Arthur?" I said. "If he lives as no more than any other man, good or bad – of what good is his other true self that is locked away?"

  "Quite right, Hocker. Very perceptive." Ambrose drew long and meditatively upon his cigar. "Locked away indeed – but there is a key."

  I glanced over at Tafe but her expression remained unchanged behind her own veil of exhaled smoke.

  "The key is Excalibur," said Ambrose quietly. "Arthur's sword, though it is much older than even he. Its power has diminished since the long distant age when Arthur's ancestor Fergus chopped mountains in two with it. But it is still a weapon of great strength, and more than that. Every time Arthur dies, Excalibur returns into the earth and is lost – until it finds its way into the hands of one who can read the inscription on its blade and doing so, knows that he is not the person he thought he was, that the name he bore is not his true one, that he is in fact Arthur Pendragon, the defender of England. Sword and key – Excalibur is both."

  "That is all very well, I'm sure," said I, "but where is this magical weapon at the present moment? I trust you know of its whereabouts."

  "Not so simple as that, Hocker." Ambrose's lean face darkened with his inner thoughts. "Arthur was reincarnated in this life as one Henry Morsmere – now Brigadier-General Morsmere – after a long and minorly distinguished military career – and found the sword Excalibur somewhere in the smoking aftermath of one of the Crimean battlefields. I was watching him from behind the blackened remnant of a tree and saw him stoop down at the sight of his seemingly accidental discovery. When he stood back up with the blade in his hands I could see that he had read the inscription and that he knew who he truly was. No longer General Morsmere, but Arthur. His eyes were as dark as wells with the memories of the many lives and accumulated centuries through which he's been."

  "Just like that, eh?" said I. "He remembers everything?"

  Ambrose nodded. "In an instant it happens and he is transformed. The inscription on Excalibur's blade is formed in an ancient runic script. The reading of these words summons up Arthur's real identity to his mind. I saw it happen on that Crimean battlefield as I had seen it happen many times before, but I did not reveal myself to him then, though he would certainly have recognised me as his trusted adviser and friend. Things were not yet at a stage where his intervention was needed. Soon enough that messy, blundering business in the Crimea was ended, and Arthur – still posing for convenience's sake as General Morsmere – returned to England, retired from his military status and took a suite at the Savoy to await the coming of the task for which he had been summoned to life again. He kept Excalibur hidden under a false bottom of his old military campaign chest"

  "I see." The image occupied me of Gen. Morsmere/Arthur sitting alone in his hotel suite, patiently waiting for the danger to England to appear for which he had been summoned to life again. Sometimes, no doubt, he must have taken Excalibur from his chest's secret compartment and lightly ran a whetstone down its gleaming length. And other times he very likely looked out the window upon our bustling, modern and prosperous world, and thought – ah, what would he have thought? For some reason I couldn't imagine this proud old warrior-king looking upon the scene with much satisfaction. I cut short my melancholy musing and returned my attention to Ambrose's exposition.

  "So," he continued, with another wave of his cigar, "when I became at last aware of the grim situation with the Morlocks – for with my old adversary's guidance they had managed to conceal themselves from my notice until their invasion plans were well underway – I then hied myself to Arthur's pied-aterre in order that we could formulate together a strategy to roust the Morlocks from their toehold in the London sewers of this time. But when I arrived at his Savoy suite I discovered not Arthur, but–" He broke off to take a quick pull at his beer.

  "Who was it?" I interjected.

  "No one." Grey flakes of ash floated down to the table. "No one at all. Arthur was gone. None of the hotel staff had seen General Morsmere, as they knew him, for several days. Inveigling myself into his suite, I found that Excalibur was missing as well from the secret compartment in Morsmere's chest."

  "Abducted!" I cried. "Abducted by this opponent of yours who now calls himself Merdenne."

  "Quite right, Hocker, as I soon found out through my own sources. I have a large network of people who, through friendship, fear or finance, manage to keep an eye on most things that happen in London for me. One such informant quickly discovered Arthur's whereabouts – Merdenne's clinic." Which was also the first revelation to me that my old adversary was involved in all this."

  "But I don't understand," said I. "If, as you say, Arthur's fighting prowess is undiminished by age and he was in possession of his miraculous Excalibur as well, how were his abductors able to overpower him and bear him off to Merdenne's clinic? Surely he would at least have put up enough of a struggle to alarm the management of the Savoy. And by what deviltry is he kept a hapless prisoner in the clinic?"

  "Those are mysteries, Hocker, that are quite deeper than my present knowledge." Ambrose's eyes darkened with brooding. "Many answers will depend upon your getting Arthur out of Merdenne's grasp."

  I glanced across at Tafe and saw that even her eyes had widened a bit in surprise. "What was that," said I to Ambrose, "about getting Arthur out of the clinic?"

  "Yes, well, quite frankly, it's going to be up to you and Tafe. That's the whole point of my enlisting you as my allies. It would be disastrous for me even to attempt to enter the clinic. The automatic result would be my death and an enormous increase in Merdenne's own power. The very building itself is a trap designed to leech off my spiritual power and transfer it to Merdenne. No, as I said, the task falls to you and Tafe – to enter the clinic, find both Arthur and Excalibur, and bring them both out again."

  "But surely," I protested, "if Merdenne can devise a trap such as that for you, no doubt even worse pitfalls await lesser figures such as we two. What better chance would Tafe and I have in such a place."

  "No chance at all," said Ambrose placidly. "The only exit you would make would be as cinders and ashes rising out of one of the clinic's chimneys, and the Morlock's invasion plans would continue apace. True enough are your forebodings –
if
Merdenne were to be aware of your having entered the clinic."

  "And what's to prevent that? Surely the place is rigged with alarms enough to warn him of any surreptitious visitors."

  "Indeed so, Hocker. You anticipate my every precaution. But alarms, effective as they might ordinarily be, are of little avail to someone who is, shall we say, too distracted to hear them."

  "You propose, then, to divert Merdenne's attention while Tafe and I invade his stronghold and liberate Arthur? How, pray, do you intend to do that?" A touch of sarcasm entered my voice, increased by my anxiety over the whole project.

  "That," said Ambrose, "is my concern. You needn't worry over it."

  "And what should happen if your ploy fails and Merdenne discovers the invasion before we are quit of the premises? What then?"

  "Then, Hocker, he will hideously murder you and Tafe, hide Arthur in some new place beyond my powers of discovery, and all will be lost. It is as simple as that."

  "Oh." My cigar had gone out, and I pulled disconsolately at the dead stub.

  "Well, Hocker?" said Ambrose after a moment's silence on all our parts. "I can't very well force you to help in a matter like this."

  "I suppose not. Still – one never really plans on encountering this sort of thing."

  "Show a little backbone," said Tafe. They were the first words she had spoken since we had entered the pub. "Things will get pretty rotten soon enough if you don't do anything at all. You saw what it'll be like. At least this way we've got a chance of preventing all that."

  Shamed at this rebuke from a woman, I nodded. "When do we start?" I dropped the cigar stub to the littered floor and ground it beneath my boot heel.

  "Capital," said Ambrose. "We haven't a moment to lose. Listen…"

  Tafe and I leaned our heads closer toward him. I followed the outlines of his plan, while the cowardly portion of my heart turned away and fled.

 
 

 
 

  
"Why, Ambrose – it's still Ambrose, isn't it? – of course
not. Here, do try some of the Latour." The one called Mer
denne took one of the unused wine glasses above his plate,
poured the lustrous red vintage into it, and extended it
across the restaurant's snowy-white damask.

  
"Thank you." Ambrose held the glass to the light, then
brought it to his nose and inhaled deeply, then at last
drank of it, rolling the wine on his tongue to savour it fully.
"Quite pleasant," he said after a moment's reflection. "But
the vintners really should, have asked for a priest's blessing
on that old graveyard before they planted their vines in it.
The unconsecrated bones in the soil leave, I fear, a bitter
aftertaste in the mouth."

  
"Actually," said Merdenne with a thin smile, "that's the
thing I like most about this wine."

  
Ambrose half-smiled back. "
De gustibus non disputandum
. Not your usual sort of refreshment anyway,
is it? You were fond of a rather different intoxicant, I be
lieve, when you were a counsellor to the great Suleiman."

  
Across the width of the restaurant, one waiter nudged
another in the ribs and pointed at the two men. "Look at
em," he whispered to his colleague. "Just as like as two
eggs in the same nest!" The other nodded in sage acknowl
edgment. "Those are what are called identicable twins,"
he pronounced with grave authority.

  
Merdenne took a swallow from his own glass. "One must
conform," he said, "to the vices of the time and place one finds
one's self in. I'm afraid this England of which you're so fond
isn't quite civilised enough yet to view the open smoking of
opium without at least a small measure of scandal. Though
I imagine the scandal lies more in the lower class associations
of the habit, rather than in any perceived peril in the drug
itself. How tiresome these little minds are, with their endless
preoccupations about classes, places and positions! Won't you
be glad to see them all wiped away at last?"

  
"Twins or no," said the first waiter, "there's something
about the sight of the two of em sitting together that fair
makes me blood creep! What do you suppose they could
ever be talking about?"

  
"They might," said Ambrose coolly, "not be wiped away
as easily as you fancy."

  
"Come, come, Ambrose. Don't delude yourself. In the
past, our conflicts have been like… like chess games, so to
speak. Yes, exactly, games of chess. But in this one, your
king is already forfeited to me. Check and mate. The game
is over. Nothing is left but the clearing of the pieces from
the board."

  
"Perhaps, perhaps… You speak of chess. I would imag
ine you've found few opponents hereabouts worthy of your
passion for that game!" Ambrose sipped at his wine, letting
his eyes wander over the crowded restaurant. The noise of
many conversations, the clink of silverware on china, all
washed against the two of them.

  
"Damn, but you're right enough about that," said Mer
denne fervently. "This is a nation of whist players, and
other beastly card games which serve as nothing more than
a pretext for polite gabbling at the opposite sex!"