The King of Plagues

Both Toys and Gault started to laugh and then realized that the American wasn’t joking.

“Really?” asked Gault. “That’s it? Your word?”

The Saudi leaned forward, his face serious and intense. “It all depends to whom your word is given. We each agreed to give and receive our word of trust. We agreed never to lie to one another. To everyone else, to the world, to our closest friends on the other side of that door, yes. We agreed that our word would only matter to the Seven Kings and the Seven Consciences of the New World Trust.”

“It’s a covenant,” said Thieves. “A sacred one.”

Toys and Gault exchanged a look that turned into a smile.

Famine cocked an eyebrow. “You find that amusing?”

“Well,” said Gault, “it smacks of ‘honor among thieves,’ doesn’t it?”

The Frenchman shrugged. “I assure you that this is not a joke.”

“He’s right, Sebastian,” said the American. “The one thing we don’t joke about is the integrity of our word when given to the others here in this room. It’s what bonds us and defines us.”

“Very impressive, I’m sure,” said Toys. “But what does Sebastian get out of this?”

The grin that bloomed on the American’s face was broad and toothy and filled with true delight. “Why, son, you both get every goddamned thing you ever wanted. And I’m not talking about caviar and blow jobs; I’m talking about everything. You think you understand what power is? I’m here to tell you, boys, that you surely do not.”

The King of Famine nodded. “When people talk about secret societies they claim that these groups want power, but they don’t attempt to decode what the word ‘power’ truly means. But I will bet you already know.”

“Money,” answered Gault. “It’s always about money. Money buys power—which itself is a catchall term for the ability to do things. Purchase, push, build, destroy, own … money is the only path worth walking.”

“Root of all evil,” said Toys. Several of the Kings nodded at him with approval. “So then … what is evil?”

“It’s how the losers describe the winners,” said the American.

Gault nodded and rubbed his palms back and forth along the armrests of the throne. “So,” he said, “you really are an ancient society?”

The American gave a dismissive laugh. “Nah. That’s the myth we’ve been constructing. It’s what we sell to the rubes. Truth is, we’ve only been in operation for twenty-five years, give or take. We studied all those conspiracy theories to design our group and build our myth. And we hijack a lot of stuff to make that myth look ancient. It’s easy, ’cause if you look hard enough you can find clues to anything, whether it’s there or not. That’s how all those kooky New Age books about Lemuria and Atlantis and the Alien Reptoids got traction. Take a glyph from some tomb that shows a guy in a weird headdress sitting in a chair, and with the right caption underneath it in a book aimed at the right audience you can convince people that it’s a spaceman who visited the Aztecs. Erich von Daniken made a frigging fortune with that, all that Chariots of the Gods bullshit. We spent years on that sort of thing, and we used our people to seed it into pop-culture books on ancient societies, historical mysteries, and conspiracy theories. We poured money into programming at local libraries and coffeehouses for the most vocal nut jobs, and we used dummy corporations to set up a lot of the more subversive small presses that publish books about the Illuminati and the Trilateral Commission. All of that stuff. Mind you, some of it’s true, of course, and that makes the deception that much more compelling. There’s an old carnival barker saying: ‘Use nine truths to sell one lie.’ That’s us.”

The Saudi gave a thin smile. “None of us are what the world thinks we are.”

Gault turned to him. “Even you? Why pollute your own name, then? Everyone knows your face—”

“Do they?” interrupted the Saudi. “People know what they’ve been led to believe. You see this face, this beard, these clothes … but do you see the dialysis machine that the world press insists I’m dependent upon? Do you know for sure that this beard is real? Or that under this beak of a nose I don’t have a smaller one that has been carefully reshaped? Or … is the face beneath the makeup the real one and this exterior merely special effects? How do you know that I’m even a Muslim? I could as easily be a Christian or a Jew or a Buddhist or even an agnostic or atheist. You wonder how it is that I am here in this country when every airport security person in the world knows my face. I ask, are you sure that I have ever been out of this country since 9/11? Or that a surgically altered twin is not making videotapes for me in a cave somewhere? Is any of this true? Or real? I am, after all, the King of Lies.”

“Your people would tear you to pieces if they got so much as a whiff of this,” Gault said.

The Saudi shook his head. “My ‘people’ are all here in this room.”

Gault leaned back and folded his arms. With narrowed eyes and pursed lips he studied the Kings. “Well, well,” he said softly.

Toys gestured to the empty throne on the dais. “Who’s that for?”

“Ah,” said the King of Gold, “that is for the Goddess. It was the Goddess who gave birth to the Seven Kings. It was her idea.”

“It was a family idea,” corrected the American. “We cooked it up together and we brought in the first of the other Kings.”

The Frenchman turned and bowed. “Indeed, my friend, and I meant no insult. Everyone here honors your contributions.”

“So … what is my role?” interrupted Gault. “You say that I’m to be the new ‘King of Plagues.’ It sounds wonderful and flattering, but in practical terms, what does it mean? If your goal is to destabilize rather than destroy, then you surely don’t want a global pandemic.”

“God, no!” laughed the Frenchman. “We want a scalpel, not a sword.”

Toys looked at Gault, saw how those words cut delicately into him. A scalpel, not a sword. How beautifully phrased to appeal to Gault’s vanity. How sweetly it matched his hungers, his passions. They know him too damn well.

Gault nodded slowly.

“Then let us seal this in sacred honor,” said the King of Famine.

They all stood and placed their hands over their hearts. Sebastian Gault and Toys exchanged a brief look and then did the same. The room quieted and one of the Consciences must have touched a rheostat, because the lights dimmed to a soft glow that extended no farther than the table.

“Sebastian Gault,” asked the American, the King of Fear, “do you pledge your life to the Seven Kings of the New World Trust?”

Without a second’s hesitation, Gault said, “Yes, I do.”

“Will you keep the secrets of the Seven Kings of the New World Trust?” asked the Israeli, the King of War.

“I will.”

“Will you share your truths with the Seven Kings of the New World Trust?” asked the Saudi, the King of Lies.

“I will.”

“Will you share your secrets openly with the Seven Kings of the New World Trust?” asked the Russian, the King of Famine.

“Yes, I will.”

“Will you trust your fortune to the Seven Kings of the New World Trust?” asked the Italian, the King of Gold.

“I will. Freely and completely.”

“Will you forswear all other allegiances in favor of the Seven Kings of the New World Trust?” asked the Frenchman, the King of Thieves.

“All but one,” said Gault. “I have long ago placed my life and trust in the keeping of my friend Alexander Chismer. Toys. As long as he is part of this deal, then I agree with my whole heart.”

Toys looked up at Gault’s face, surprised at his words. Surprised and more touched than he would have ever admitted.

“Toys is your Conscience,” said the Saudi. “You speak for him with this oath, and he is oath bound to us as are you.”

Everyone turned to Toys, who was shaken by everything that he was hearing, and his voice was charged with emotion: “I will always be with Sebastian.”