Artos, to Marge’s surprise, was nodding at her thoughtfully, at least half inclined to accept the message at face value. “Very well,” the short man said. “If what you tell me is true, I rejoice that Ambrosius is again able to help us with his advice. We’ll see. When we get to the Strong Fort I expect we’ll be able to talk to him in person.”
TWENTY-THREE
Hawk was sitting on a fence, and it wasn’t very comfortable. Actually there were two fences, one physical, one metaphorical, bothering his backside. The physical barrier enclosed a small parking lot on the north side of Chicago. It was about two feet high, with a metal top that was sharply enough angled to discourage sitting by any Skid Row bums who might wander this far from their own turf a few blocks distant. The metaphorical fence, though, was the one that pained Hawk the most: pretty soon he was going to have to get up and go back to Skid Row, or else he was going to have to make a definite decision about what else to do. To make himself start walking in some other direction, into an unknown and therefore frightening future.
It was early morning again, the sun up somewhere, though still out of sight for most of the dwellers in the city’s artificial canyons. It had rained on Hawk a while ago, but he was used to that, and now it had stopped raining. All he knew for sure was that he couldn’t sit on this damned fence for the rest of his life.
Since getting out of jail he found himself unable—or unwilling, the distinction was frequently blurred—to get a look into his own future. He found himself now trying to imagine it instead. It was an odd thing—or maybe, if he thought about it, not so odd—but he supposed he’d never had much real power of imagination. It seemed to him marvelous that the human beings who thought of themselves as ordinary could sometimes wield such an eldritch power without even thinking twice about it. Hawk strained his own resources when he tried to imagine things, and even then he suspected that he couldn’t do it very well.
Right now, for example, he was trying to imagine what would happen if he decided to go back to Skid Row. He could, with some effort, just picture himself sitting there in the gutter again. His ugly new shirt would be stained here and there with puke and grime, and he would be doing a trick—now that he could do tricks again—for his old coin-pool buddies, to produce some wine. He’d get good stuff that way, of course, probably wouldn’t be able to conjure up anything less than a fine vintage even if he tried.
Hawk sighed. He could imagine one of his old acquaintances going blahhh, spitting the fine stuff out—not the kind of wine they were accustomed to tasting on the Street. Hawk sighed again. He knew he wasn’t ever, if he could help it, going back to that.
At about this point his reverie was interrupted by the realization that two men were approaching him. The pair was coming along the broad sidewalk from the direction of his old haunts, slowing gradually toward a stop as they drew near. Neither of them was the parking lot attendant he’d been halfway expecting to show up to shag him off the fence. One of the men was Carados, halfway expected also. The second was a stranger to Hawk; a second look at this stranger set off alarms all up and down the picket line of Hawk’s defensive powers. Hawk beheld the shape of a fat man, whose throat under its present turtleneck covering had recently been injured, and was now healing at a speed not constant with pure, breathing humanity. Not, by God, another vampire—? No, not this time.
The two came confidently close to Hawk before they stopped in front of him. “Mr. Hawk?” the plump werewolf inquired formally, being mock-courteous in English whose accents the old man could not immediately place.
The old man could feel the fierceness of the glare he gave them in return, the tension in his own beetled brow. “I’ve just decided I don’t want to use that name any more.”
“Oh?” Chubby monster was doing the talking, while Carados smirked silently at his side. “You are now to be known as—?” It was humoring, almost mockery.
The old man gravely took thought. “Falcon. You may call me Mr. Falcon.”
“By whatever name you wish, then. Mr. Falcon, you are to come with us. A certain great Lady wishes to consult you, on a matter of importance to her.”
“Ah. All goes not so well with Nimue. Could it be that she wants me to help her find something?”
Carados, showing anger, spoke at last. “She got you right where it counts, old man. Whatever you got left there, she got hold of it. You know that, we know it, so don’t try to give us no problem. Just get up and march where we tell you.”
That was almost right, Falcon reflected. If Nimue had condescended to come after him herself, there would have been no question about it. He would have had to get up and go with her at once, probably without even arguing. But she hadn’t. Perhaps, not long ago, her power over him had been fully transferable, but he could feel that it wasn’t any longer. Perhaps in general it had started to wear a little thin.
Falcon dug in his mental heels. It was time to see how far resistance could be carried. He couldn’t, or at least he didn’t think he could, go so far as turning these two into turnips or the equivalent, thereby thwarting some of their mistress’ no doubt rotten plans. Now she wanted
