Ariel (31 page)

Apparently my mind didn't work chivalrously. "What if you didn't want to honor his shot?"

"It happened. Tom once fought someone who wouldn't honor his shots. It irritated Tom; he was running circles around the idiot and nothing was being acknowledged. Tom's Society character—we called them personas—was a pre-Arthurian warrior named Beowulf Brassmountain. You can see why." I could indeed—Tom Pert was
big
. "The guy he was fighting was bigger than him. Tom kept banging away at him, killing him half a dozen times, and he just kept swinging back. Tom called a temporary halt, found an official, and protested. The official asked Tom's opponent why he wasn't honoring shots. Tom's opponent said they weren't hard enough to be counted as killing blows. The official just grinned and told Tom to keep hitting harder, until his opponent had no doubt whatsoever that he was being dealt killing blows. So Tom strides back onto the field, engages his opponent, blocks a slow swing, and gives him a Babe Ruth special on the ribs. Everybody watching heard him gasping for breath, but he stayed up and tried to swing again. So Tom reared back and sent one to the side of his head. The impact went through his helmet and knocked him cold."

I laughed, but not without some bitterness. It must have been fun when all that was for pleasure and not for keeps.

He paused, eyes looking into the distance. It was as close as I ever saw him to nostalgia.

"Anyway," he said, and he was his old self again, "I was taken to him here. I told him everything, he told me everything, and he said that if I'd help him, they might be able to help me. They sent out a few more scouts to New York and Tom told them to be on the lookout for you and Ariel, to mention my name and get you back to Washington if they found you. Mac's team had already been sent when I arrived, so they didn't know about me when you met up with them." He looked up from his sharpening. "We'll do something about Ariel, I promise you—but you better realize something. These people will do what they can for you, but they have other priorities. People they cared for have been killed by those in New York. I have my own reasons for going up against the necromancer and the rider. But I'll do what I can to help you get Ariel back."

* * *

I lay awake in my cot, staring at the dim ceiling. The lone candle burned pitifully a few feet from my head and darkness threatened to engulf the room. I'd lit it from one of the paper-covered Japanese lanterns in the hallway outside my door. After a while it was extinguished by its own build-up of liquid wax and the room was swallowed as if by a great whale.

Whales—there was an unbelievably huge reconstruction of a blue whale on one mammoth wall of the Smithsonian, fully ninety feet long, Nature's biggest and most prideful possession. I had talked a while under it with Tom Pert just before coming to my room. He told me the latest on the ambush of the returning scouting party. Apparently they'd been attacked by a roving band of scavengers. Esteban was dead; Doc Mundy had been unable to stop the bleeding from the arrow wound.

I turned on the stiff cot. So much, so fast. I resolved to go to sleep, as it would bring the day of the march to New York a little closer.

* * *

I unbutton her shirt with trembling hands  .  .  .  .

I dreamed it again, more graphic than ever this time. When it ended, another came—a brief image, almost a photograph:

I am in a huge bell jar, and Ariel is on the other side.

* * *

Malachi woke me up at eight a.m. by charging into my room with his sword out and screaming like a homicidal maniac. I had Fred out and ready before he could reach me, and before I was fully awake and knew what the hell was going on. He smiled grudgingly, lowered his sword, backed away, and bowed, indicating the door.

I returned Fred to its sheath and stared at him. "Ah, shit," I finally said. "I wouldn't have got back to sleep anyhow." I used the chamber pot, covered it, and followed him outside. We began limbering up on the dew-soaked grass.

Somebody had made him two wooden swords, or perhaps he'd made them himself. Not a lot to it, really—a yard-long dowel with a circular wooden guard ten inches from one end to prevent smashed fingers. He tossed me one.

He put me through my paces for three solid hours, pressing attacks that took everything I had to block, not giving me time to counter, then easing up and allowing me to work on strategy and technique. About a dozen early risers had gathered around to watch by the time we finished. They maintained a respectful distance. I didn't notice them until we disengaged and Malachi lowered his wooden sword. My concentration relaxed as the sword lowered. I was startled by the staccato of applause. They were making fun  .  .  .  . No, they weren't; their applause was sincere. Malachi nodded curtly to me and walked away without a word. I was exhausted, but it felt good. New York had left its mark; I was not in the best shape I'd ever been in.

Hunting up lunch later on, I met Shaughnessy.

"You've been keeping yourself scarce, Pete," she said.

I was conscious of my sweat-soaked body. I probably stank. "I've been busy. There's a war in a few days, you know."

"Yes, I'd noticed."

The cat-and-mouse distance between us irritated me; I didn't feel like playing games. "I, uh, I've got to be going, Shaughnessy. Got to eat and then see some people."

"Will you come see me later? I'm staying in Archives. I've still got your blowgun, remember?" Her face was blank, not matching her tone.

"Will do."

We went our separate ways down the hall.

* * *

I ate lunch on the steps where Malachi and I had talked last evening. A plastic spoon and a paper plate of beans and franks. I could have found something else, I suppose, but I'd grown to miss the little buggers. Someone sat down beside me.

"Mac! How's it going?"

"Hey, Pete. Where were you? You missed the meeting."

"The—oh, shit."

"You didn't miss much. Nobody had any new ideas."

"We're still stuck with fighting all the way up, then, I guess." I snorted. "Mac, that's suicide."

He shook his head. "I don't think so. Neither do Tom and Malachi. If they're as loosely organized as you said, we at least have a fighting chance. It's just going to be a long, drawn-out battle."

"'Just?'"

He spread his hands. "Okay, so it won't be easy. What other choice do we have?" He hesitated. "I don't want to say this, Pete, but it's sort of obvious why you're so anxious that we raid the top."

My fork paused en route to my mouth. Would I use these people like that?

Yes. To get Ariel back, yes. Oh, that's shitty, Pete.

Yeah. I chewed on beans and franks.

"When you finish eating," said Mac, changing the subject, "you want to give me a hand with some stuff?"

I swallowed. "Sure. What do you need?" Why did I get the feeling that everyone was trying to keep me distracted, to keep me occupied instead of dwelling on Ariel? Dammit—I didn't need anyone's sympathy.

"Some help putting together equipment."

I stood. "I'm finished." I walked down the steps and threw the rest of my lunch into a green metal garbage can.

He nodded and rose. "Follow me." We went indoors. He began leading me through the maze of corridors.

"What made you people choose the Smithsonian?" I asked as we walked. "I'd think it would be pretty inconvenient."

"It has disadvantages, sure. But this place is a gold mine. It's full of relics from times when the Change wouldn't have made that big a difference—pioneering days, colonial times. It's loaded with ideas. Just take a random walk through this place and you'd find things right and left that'd help you survive." We stopped in a large chamber. Mannequins were arrayed along the walls, dressed in clothes of bygone days. A black sign with white letters said that they were gowns worn by previous First Ladies. In front of one wall was a long stretch of tables. Almost two dozen people sat at them. As we neared, I saw they were using short lengths of wire, snippers, and pliers to make chain-mail garments. They looked up as we approached. One of them, a short woman with long brown hair and bright blue eyes, stood. "Hi, Mac. Coming to work with us lowly peons?"

He chuckled. "Yeah. Every now and then I like to remember what the low life was like."

"Hmmph." She looked at me, eyes  .  .  . cautious? Something; I couldn't recognize it. Appraising, maybe. "You're the one they brought in from New York," she said. "I saw you at the assembly the other night. Paul, isn't it?"

My heartbeat increased. "Pete." Aw, come on—what was there to feel flustered about?

She looked at Mac expectantly. "Oh," he said, "ah, Pete, this is Terri—Theresa McGee."

"Hi." She smiled at me. "Okay, let's put you two to work. Grab a chair and the stuff you need. You ever make this stuff, Pete?"

"I'll show him how," said Mac.

"I'll show him, Mac. You get busy."

"Sir yes sir!" He grabbed a vacant chair, sat down, and started to work.

"Come on, Pete," said Theresa. "Sit next to me and I'll show you how it's done."

"I'll bet you will," Mac muttered under his breath.

I followed her to the table. We made chain-mail vests for the next three hours. I finished one that had already been started. They were easy to make, but time-consuming: cut off a short length of wire—an inch and a half or so—slip it through a previous ring on the vest, bend it into a circle with the pliers, repeat the whole thing. Turn the mail the way you want it to go and leave holes for arms.

After a while Theresa put down her pliers and looked at me. I didn't really notice until she'd been motionless for almost a minute. I looked at her expectantly. "You need a haircut," she said.

I blinked. "Excuse me?"

"A haircut," she repeated firmly. "You can't go into battle with your hair that long."

"Oh. Is it a breach of etiquette?"

"It'll get in your way. You want hair in your eyes when someone's trying to take your head off?"

I drew a deep breath. "You have an eloquent way of putting things."

"You need a bath, too."

My cheeks warmed. True, I'd managed to rinse off once since New York, but I hadn't had a real bath since  .  .  . since  .  .  . hell, I couldn't remember the last time. "I suppose," I answered defensively, "that I don't want to smell bad if someone's trying to take my head off, either."

She smiled. "Don't get mad. I was just telling you. I know what you've been through; you've probably been too busy to notice."

I started to ask her how she knew and stopped. Everybody in Washington probably knew by now.

"I'd be glad to give you a haircut, if you'd like."

I looked down at the lengths of wire I'd snipped off and began bending them to form more links. "I  .  .  .  . Yeah. Yeah, that'd be nice, thanks." I looked up and smiled. "I can take my own baths, though."

She returned my smile and shrugged. "Can't win 'em all."

Mac appeared very interested in bending wire into links.

My hands were clammy. I tried to busy them in making mail and fumbled with the pliers. Wire fell to the floor. "Shit," I muttered, and picked them up. Theresa seemed not to have noticed, having returned to her own chain-mail vest, almost completed. Across the table and four chairs down, Mac appeared to want to say something, then apparently thought the better of it. We kept working until I had completed one vest and started another. Mac put his tools down and announced that we had to leave.

"I knew it was a token effort," chided Theresa.

"Sorry, hon. We've got other things to do to turn them ol' war machines. Coming, Pete?"

"I—" I glanced at Theresa. "Sure, Mac. Nice meeting you, Theresa."

"Terri."

"McGee," I decided.

"Nice to meet you, too, Pete. I meant what I said about that haircut."

"Okay. I'll  .  .  . be by when Mac's finished with me. How long will we be, Mac?"

"A few hours. Three at the most."

"That's fine," she said. She gave me directions to her room.

* * *

"Where to, Mac?"

He was silent for a minute, leading us back outside the Smithsonian. "Horses," he finally said. "We're going scavenging."

"For?"

"Weapons. Bows, arrows, knives, anything we can find to make life easier for us in New York." He stopped walking. "Look, Pete, this is none of my business, but—"

"McGee," I said.

"Well, yes." We were out on the front steps now, blinking in the sunlight.

"Look, Mac, you don't have to be diplomatic. If you don't want me to see her, I won't. I mean, if she's one of your prospects, don't worry about me. I'm  .  .  . spoken for."

He made a sour face. "It's not—Ah, hell. She's not a prospect. I've known her since I've been here, but  .  .  . she's—" He broke off. "Never mind," he finished. "It's none of my business." He went down the steps ahead of me.

I stared at his back, confused. "Hey," I breathed. Then louder. "Hey, wait up!" He turned around and I caught up.