lie about it?'
'Not Arthur,' said Moe with absolute certainty. 'He prides himself on telling the truth. It would be totally against his dementia to lie about who he thinks he is.'
'Too much. Just too much.' He stabbed a finger at Moe. 'But I better not come out looking like an idiot on this.'
'You can't possibly. You ask him point-blank what his real name is. Even if he maintains that it's Arthur Penn-which he won't-then you just cover yourself by saying that you'd heard he'd changed it, and you just wanted to make sure the record was straight. At worst it'll get you a raised eyebrow or two that will be quickly forgotten. At best,' and he smiled unpleasantly, 'it will get you the election in your hip pocket.'
Moe stepped outside of the tall gray building that housed Bernard Bittberg's office. He glanced up at the moon and pulled his coat tightly around him against the stiff breeze. You could tell that winter was on its way.
He started walking, scanning the streets for a passing cab, when he suddenly felt an arm around his throat in a choke-hold. Moe tried to scream for help but his wind had been effectively and precisely cut off. His assailant dragged him into a nearby alleyway, pulling Moe as if his weight were nothing. Moe clawed at the arm around him, pounded on it, to no avail.
Once in the alley Moe was swung around and hurled against a wall. He slammed into it with bone-jarring impact, and with a moan sank to the ground. Distantly he heard the shikt of a bladed weapon being drawn from its sheath, and he tried to draw air into his lungs to shout for help.
The tip of a glowing sword hovered at his chest.
'I wouldn't, Modred,' said Arthur quietly.
'You ...' He swallowed. 'You wouldn't kill an unarmed man.'
'Perhaps,' said Arthur. 'Perhaps not. Are you willing to bet your life on it?'
He prodded Moe gently in the ribs with Excalibur. Moe shook his head frantically.
'Now then,' continued the king, 'where is your god-cursed mother? Because wherever she is, it's certain that's where Merlin is. So all you have to do is tell me where I can find them and I'll be on my way. And you'll have your skin intact.'
Moe's mouth moved several times but nothing came out. Arthur sighed and said, 'Oh, do try to get on with it, won't you?'
'I... I don't know where she is.'
'You're lying,' said Arthur tightly.
'I'm not! As God is my witness, I'm not! She said ...' He swallowed. 'She said she thought you might try something like this. So she deliberately didn't tell me where she was going to be hiding. Because she was afraid that I'd crack and bring you to her.'
Arthur shook his head. 'Ah, Morgan. Always the judge of character. All right, puppy, get up.
Up, I said.' He waved with his sword, and Moe staggered to his feet. But Arthur kept the point of Excalibur only an inch from Moe's chest.
'Tell her,' said Arthur, 'that when next we meet--no mercy from me. Is that understood? No mercy.'
'Yes. Absolutely, no mercy. I'll tell her.'
'You do that.' Arthur stepped back and loudly sheathed Excalibur. Moe winced at the finality of the sound.
The sword and scabbard vanished from Arthur's hip and he stood there nattily attired in a gray Brooks Brothers suit and overcoat. He backed out of the alley, a sardonic look on his face, and Moe realized that Arthur wasn't turning his back on him for a moment. Moe took a degree of satisfaction from that.
Arthur didn't come in to his campaign headquarters until ten a.m. the next day, startlingly late. The moment he walked in, Ronnie was all over him. 'Arthur, where the hell have you been? We're already late for-'
'Have you heard from him?' Arthur said urgently, just as he had every day for the past month and a half.
Ronnie shook his head and looked down. 'Arthur, this is insane. You at least have to file a missing persons report or something.'
He put a hand on Ronnie's shoulder. 'Trust me, my friend. It would do no good at all.' He looked around and frowned. 'I assume Gwen isn't here yet.'
'She called in, said she would be a little late. Said she had an errand to run. Arthur, look, it's none of my business but-'
'You're right, it's none of your business. Where's Percy?'
'He's floating around. He's been holding up pretty well-finding that furnished apartment for rent certainly helped. Was that really all on the level, that he and Merlin were commuting from Bermuda?'
Percy seemed to materialize behind them. 'Hard to believe, isn't it?' he said cheerily. Then he turned serious as he said, 'Arthur, we have to talk about you and Gwen.'
'No, we don't,' said Arthur, 'and I wish that all of you would feel less constrained to meddle in my private affairs.'
'Private affairs!' said Percy. 'Arthur, the woman is the head of your campaign, and it's obvious that she is number one on your personal hit list. And none of us understands why.
But it's starting to get on everyone's nerves, and frankly, it's hurting morale.'
Arthur looked at the two men grimly and said, 'Gentlemen, what has gone on between myself and Ms. DeVere is between the two of us. I do not consider her trustworthy-however, she seems to be doing a competent job as campaign head, and the staff likes her. So she is still here, but I do not have to be pleased by it. And that is all I have to say on the matter.
Ronnie, kindly cancel the rest of my plans for today.'
'What?'
'I want to discuss the debate this Friday. It's important that I have all the facts at my fingertips. I'm quite concerned about the entire affair, and the more prepared I am, the better I'll feel.'
He stalked through the headquarters toward his office in the back. Workers greeted him, and were surprised when he did not do much more than grunt, if that. Percy shook his head.
'It's nerves. That's all.'
'Well, it wasn't a problem when Merlin was here,' said Ronnie. 'I never understood the relation between those two, but I never questioned it. And now he doesn't have Merlin, and it looks like he doesn't have Gwen. Still, he's got himself, and that should be enough.'
'Uh-huh, except that I know what he's thinking. The last time he had only himself to depend on, everything fell apart.'
'Really?' asked Ronnie. 'When was that?'
Percy Vale sighed. 'Long time ago,' he said. 'Before your time. Before my time, in a way.
But for Arthur, it might as well have been yesterday.'
The owner of the occult-supplies store down on MacDougal Street opened his doors and was surprised to find a young woman standing there, waiting for him. The owner was a big man. His head was shaven, but he sported a large handlebar moustache. 'Yes?' he rumbled. 'Can I help you?'
'Yes,' said Gwen, walking past him into the cool darkness of the store. Once she would have been frightened to set foot in such a place. But that was a lifetime ago. Her eyes scanned the various accoutrements, the horoscopes, the tarot cards, the small bottled and carefully labeled ingredients for witches brews, and then she saw what she was looking for.
She stepped over to a rack of ornate daggers and pulled one down from the display. It was small, in a black leather sheath. The thing that attracted her was on the pommel-a carved skull with red eyes, as large as her thumbnail.
'The lady would like a knife?'
'The lady would like this knife,' said Gwen. She slid it out of the sheath and admired the sharpness of the edge.
'Are you purchasing this knife, may I ask, for protection?' asked the proprietor. 'Or perhaps you had a certain ritual in mind?' He smiled. 'If a sacrifice is intended, that knife might not be appropriate.' He pointed to a large curved dagger on the wall. 'Now that, on the other hand-'
'No,' said Gwen, sliding the dagger back into its sheath. 'This is just what I'll need. Small enough for easy
