A Prince Among Men Part 10

"Over there by the sculpture."

Holger saw nothing out of the ordinary. No fireworks, no gun-waving thugs, no monsters, l.u.s.t a crowd of mall crawlers, kids, old folks, shoppers, idlers, and working folk. Ordinary, everyday people. "Could you be more specific?"

"The dwarf."

Holger spotted her obvious referent: a dark, bearded man little taller than the lunch stand table by which he stood. He was short enough to be termed a dwarf, but he stood with an aggressive stance that suggested no one would call him one unless he gave them permission. Two other men, a Caucasian and an Asian, shared the table. They were holding a conversation, which suggested that they knew each other.

"I see him, Doctor. Why have you pointed him out?"

"Seeing him here tells me we've come to the right place."

This mall? She must mean Worcester. "How so?"

"He's turned up before."

"CIA?".

"Don't be ridiculous."

He hadn't thought he was being ridiculous. They were supposed to be stealing a march on the rival agency, and her reaction hadn't been strong enough to suggest that the dwarf was an enemy.

"So who is he?"

"I don't really know. He's used the name Sorii more than once. Fits if you like cross-language puns; he's a surly little b.a.s.t.a.r.d."

"Will we be coordinating efforts, then?"

"Over my dead body. The b.a.s.t.a.r.d's trouble."

"Is he a-" The therapy hadn't been totally effective. Holger couldn't bring himself to say the word, so he opted for the euphemism so popular in the Department. "Is he a specialist?"

Spae snorted a laugh. "No more sensitive than a rock. On all counts."

Holger was glad of that. It was always bad enough dealing with a situation when you didn't understand what was going on or who the players were, but to have some of them be-be magicians ... Well, that would be too much.

Too much like before.

"Let's get out of here before he sees us," Spae said.

Holger was happy to comply. Fresh air and sunlight would be good right now. Spae and her search would wait. Questions about the dwarf would wait.

He needed to see the sky.

CHAPTER 8.

John slept better Friday night. Not well, just better. He kept waking, thinking he heard someone calling. It wasn't Faye. She wasn't around. He stayed in bed late, chasing the elusive rest, and only rose when his mother called him to the phone. He wouldn't have bothered if she hadn't said it was the Armory Museum calling.

It was Mrs. Bartholomew, the personnel director. John had a moment of anxiety when she asked how his orientation session had gone; he was afraid she was going to rescind the job offer. But it turned out that one of the guards had just quit and the museum was caught in a scheduling bind. Mrs. Bartholomew told him that the museum was in a budget crunch, and hiring a subst.i.tute from a private guard agency would cost money better spent on the museum's mission. She wanted to know if he could start tonight. He said he could. Who really needed sleep anyway? She went on about some details, but John didn't listen very closely; he was too excited. He had to ask her to repeat what she said about uniforms.

The uniform shop didn't have any s.h.i.+rts with sleeves long enough for him and the pants had to be taken in at the waist.

While he waited, he tried to avoid thinking about the Winston situation. He wasn't entirely successful. Obviously the museum had not gotten word of his involvement in the beating incident. He supposed that he shouldn't be surprised, since apparently no one else had either. He hoped they wouldn't, but he couldn't count on it. In the past, the flare-ups of his temper had always brought official notice. It was probably only a matter of time. He resolved to enjoy his time with the Museum while he could.

Following Mrs. Bartholomew's instructions, he arrived about an hour before the Museum closed for the day. He waded through a crowd of school kids and around to the side door of the small room that served as the ticket office. It also doubled as the nighttime guard station. John tapped on the door and Mrs. Hanson opened it. He chatted with her while he signed in. When a late-arriving visitor took her attention, he went off to the staff room to change into his new uniform. The gift-shop staff came in while he was admiring himself in the mirror, so he had to put up with Jenny's smart remarks about how handsome men looked in uniform. With the museum about to close, he had the excuse of business to extricate himself.

Mrs. Bartholomew herself showed him the watch station and how all the controls worked. When the last of the office and shop staff had departed, she turned on the security system and sat with him through the fifteen-minute diagnostic and setup program. They watched the motion sensors report the movements of the janitor as he finished the last of his ch.o.r.es and followed the janitorial dot as it wandered about on the console screen's map of the museum. Mrs. Bartholomew showed him how to call up identification data; the computer said the dot was Mr. Revirez, janitor, and cited a ninety-seven-percent probability. Standard margin of error, Mrs. Bartholomew told him. The dot approached the watch station and John couldn't resist greeting Mr. Revirez just before he came into sight. Revirez gave John a perfunctory "good night" and a considerably friendlier one to Mrs. Bartholomew. He left, and for the next five minutes the mo-lion sensors reported nothing. The computer reported the galleries and all of the staff areas except the guard station cleared of people.

With only the two of them left in the building, Mrs. Bartholomew demonstrated how to key the system up to the next level of security, Once it was activated, she had three minutes to exit the building without setting off an alarm. The combox on John's belt exempted him from the same requirement. The box was a call unit as well as a part of the security system loop, and broadcast continually to the system's scattered sensors; the system would ignore any readings generated within two feet of him. Mrs. Bartholomew said good night and wished him a pleasant first night on the job. He waved to her through the window as she pa.s.sed through the lobby and listened until he heard the heavy steel doors thud closed behind her. The console flashed its green lights. The Woodman Armory Museum was secured for the night.

The position of night watchman didn't really require a lot of effort. The electronics did most of the work. All of it,- really. The watchman was more a concession to tradition, a sort of honor accorded the men who had worn the armor and used the weapons that the museum so proudly displayed. It was better to think of the position that way than as a pointless redundancy in the security system.

Pointless or not, John was glad to be there. The museum felt different at night. Different even from just being closed. He'd been around when it was closed before, and then the arguments and jokes of the staff had still given the place a sort of ordinary life. Now with everyone gone but him, it was quiet in an absolute way. There was only John.

John and the armor.

He couldn't stand sitting in the watch room any longer. He had to get out and experience the great quiet in person. He wanted to see those hollow knights in all their solitude.

He took the back elevator up to the great hall. His pa.s.skey opened the lock on the ancient wooden door and he entered. The gallery lights were on their lowest setting, adequate for a slow amble and soaking up the somber, glinting magnificence of burnished steel, but not enough to see very far with any clarity. He liked the ambiance.

A suit of seventeenth-century three-quarter armor faced him. It was a new acquisition, said to have belonged to one of Oliver Cromwell's generals. It was a fine piece, but not the sort that John favored. He turned right, toward the medieval wing. The Middle Ages, when knights were knights.

The center of the hall was dominated by the jousting display, two mounted knights in full tourney armor aiming their lances at each other over a section of tilting barrier. Beyond them two English men-at-arms attacked a mounted French knight of the Hundred Years' War. Beyond them a pair of sixteenth-century knights fought with poll axes within the confines of a tiny list. The freestanding displays were only the highlights. More suits and isolated pieces of armor filled the alcoves on either side. The museum was blessed with a number of fine suits and had commissioned an equal number of fine replicas. All were carefully labeled as to which was which. He liked the replica displays better; they were generally mounted in more interesting ways.

Tonight, they ail belonged to John.

He leaned on the railing around the Hundred Years' Warriors, admiring the narrow, tapering shape of the French knight's blade. John recalled the curator saying that the sword was the only real piece in the display, the only omission in the museum's labeling. It certainly looked real enough to slash unarmored men and thrust its diamond-shaped point through any gaps in a foe's armored protection, John imagined himself in the armor. He had survived the English arrow storm, and his horse, half mad with wounds and excitement, now reared and plunged among the scrambling English. They feared his good Bordeaux steel, these English dogs. As they should. John raised his blade high, ready for another slash.

A noise, half heard, made him spin around, reaching for his flashlight. He turned on the beam and sent it searching through the alcoves. The light played across gla.s.s cases, past wall-mounted weapons, and over suits of armor standing tall, proud, and motionless. The shadows of the armorer's shop display parted, but nothing moved among the anvils, tools, and half-finished pieces.

He heard the sound again, a soft, furtive shuffling. This time it came from his left, toward the new addition that housed traveling exhibitions. His light fell across the gallery sign: "Romano-Brithonic Warriors of the Dark Ages." There were a lot of rare pieces in there, many of which had never left England before. If John had been a thief, he would have considered it a target. From where he stood, his flashlight showed nothing of the gallery itself.

He thought about heading back to the watch station and calling the police, but he'd look awfully foolish if it was a false alarm. Checking out strange noises was part of his job. Cautiously he moved toward the gallery.

What if there really was someone there? What would he do about it? He couldn't hold a thief at gunpoint; he wasn't armed. He tried to convince himself that no one would be there, that it was just a random noise. Maybe it was a rat. Old buildings had rats, didn't they? Old buildings made all sorts of strange noises, too, didn't they?

From the doorway, he swept the flashlight beam around the gallery. The room was less crowded than the rest of the museum.

The walls were white and the carpet cream, a strong contrast to the dark wood-framed cases and the darker relics within them. The cases around the walls held minor artifacts and interactive displays covering the history of the time, detailing the various archaeological digs that had resulted in the exhibit, and even one covering legends a.s.sociated with the countryside from which the finds had come. But the important stuff had pride of place in a large central case.

That case was set up like a grave mound for a warrior-a prince or king, from the quality and quant.i.ty of the grave goods laid around him on the bier. An armored form lay upon a carefully reconstructed cloak of handwoven cloth, rich with embroidery. The cloth itself was a minor, if modern, treasure. But the real treasures were the armor and weapons. The sc.r.a.ps of ancient armor that had survived were pieced together, missing parts reconstructed in plastic, and adorned blank-faced mannequins. The gold decoration of the real pieces glinted tawnily in the light. Four of the armored mannequins stood around the bier, one in each corner of the case, martial mourners for their dead mannequin king.

The five figures represented the best parts of three burial finds and the most complete martial suites yet recovered from post-Roman Britain. Each was more complete than the famed Sutton Hoo find, of which a few minor pieces resided in a case on the far wall. Each item was priceless; together their worth was even more priceless, if such a thing made sense.

To John's relief, nothing looked amiss. There were no thieves cutting their way into cases, no burglars tucking helmets under their arms.

The noise must have been a rat; Jenny had told him that the museum had been plagued with them recently. They were supposedly smart rats, too. So far all the traps had come up empty-sometimes sprung, but always empty. The curator had only just given permission for exterminators to be called in. Certainly the rats were smart enough to avoid John's light.

Seeing nothing amiss, he cut off the beam and walked back to the door to the central stairwell. Deciding against the antique elevator, he took the stairs that wound around the shaft. The building's outer wall here was gla.s.s and offered a view of the city and the hills beyond. The valley sparkled in the clear night like a sky gone mad with stars. The real sky might once have had so many lights, before man's cities stole away the night's natural brilliance, but there was little of it to be seen now. Still, Worcester wasn't as bad as some places. He couldn't recall having seen a single star on his last trip to Boston.

Thinking that simpler times had to have been pleasanter, he reached the landing and opened the door to the balcony galleries. The older stuff was arrayed here. He turned right toward the oldest. Green, half-corroded Greek helmets whispered to him of the glory of G.o.d-ridden heroes and the broad-brimmed gladiator's helmet echoed the roar of the crowds cheering the skill of the Thracian who had proudly worn the highly decorated piece. He ran his hand along the case that held the Roman horse armor from Dura Europa. He pictured the iron legions marching dusty roads on their way to keeping the Pax Romanum.

A noise from the great hall below drew him out of his imaginings. He crossed between cases dedicated to the hunt. I le leaned over the railing and played his flashlight beam across the floor. The light cast strange shadows, eerie, jagged shapes. Something skittered away in the dark, scampering ahead of his light and disappearing behind the tournament display.

A rat. It had to be.

But were rats so big? From the glimpse he had caught, the thing had looked as big as a cat. It was creepy to think about animals sneaking around just out of sight. Furry wild things with beady eyes could be watching him from the shadows, lie felt creeped out. There weren't any rats in the rezcoms. The cleaning 'bots would take care of them. This old hulk of a building wasn't fitted for cleaning 'bots. Historic register and all that.

The exhibits didn't seem so friendly anymore. With so many nooks and crannies, rats could be anywhere, just waiting to spring out. He headed back to the watch room, where there were lights. Opening the door, he surprised something that fell, or jumped, from the desk with a thump. By the time he got around the desk to see what it was, it was gone. He was left with what the rat had left behind.

Crumbs of bread, shards of plastic wrap, bits of paper, sc.r.a.ps of turkey roll, and shreds of lettuce littered the desktop. His lunch bag had been mauled, the sack ripped to pieces and the contents spread around the desk. His can of soda, its Chilseal gnawed, lay on the floor. No place in the museum was safe from the marauding beasts.

Cursing the little monsters, he picked up the dented can and tossed it into the recycle bin, then started sc.r.a.ping the desktop mess into a trash can. AH the while, he hoped the exterminators would be successful.

An all-nighter without fuel was difficult to contemplate. The cafeteria was closed, but there were vending machines in the staff room, although they didn't offer much that was humanly edible. He tossed the last of the shredded bag and the scattered remains of his mother's handiwork. These rats deserved to die. It was not as though the species was endangered or something. He thought about going out and hunting them down himself. He couldn't get at any of the crossbows, all safely locked in their cases, but there were some demonstration swords in the closet with the gear for the outreach program. He could chase the rats down and slice off their heads. But then he'd have to deal with their bodies. And the d.a.m.ned things would probably bleed on some of the armor and he'd get in trouble with the curator. He gave the plan up as a bad one.

At least they hadn't messed up his reader. He called up the novels and selected R Norman Carter's The Heirs of Prester John. He'd have more than enough time to finish it before his relief showed up at two. He settled in.

By eleven, his stomach was complaining regularly enough that he visited the machines in the staff room, settling on the Cheese Winks as the most nouris.h.i.+ng and least likely to have been spoiled by a couple of centuries inside the machine. Occasionally he heard some of the rats skittering about on their nocturnal wanderings. Hunting for food, whatever it was they ate when they weren't depriving him of his lunch. Most of them probably lived on sc.r.a.ps from the cafeteria; they surely couldn't survive on things like Cheese Winks.

Fortified by his fine repast, he felt a little foolish about his reaction to the rats. Why should he let them rob him of the pleasure of having the armor all to himself? They were just animals, doing their animal thing, and their day was coming, along with the exterminator.

His own days might be numbered, at least as far as the museum was concerned. He might never have another opportunity to wander the museum like this. Would he let a few rodents, who now that he thought about it were acting more scared of him than he of them, keep him from enjoying himself?

No. He wouldn't. He had more right to the galleries than they did. He would go on with his private tour.

He considered turning on the lights from the watch station, but that would mean the rats had won, creeping him out. It would also mean he'd have to explain to Mrs. Bartholomew why he had burned the power. Lights or no lights, he was going. He had the flashlight, and he'd always been able to get around in the dark. He didn't need the lights.

With some vague idea of sneaking up on the rats, he took the stairs. Before he reached the landing, he could hear them scampering about. No wonder, the door to the great hall was open. Hadn't he closed it? He felt sure he had; but he must not have, because rats couldn't open doors.

He stood by the door and listened. There seemed to be an almost continuous shuffling of padded feet. Sometimes they squeaked, but not often. There were either a lot of them, or a few of them who were very busy. But why were they hanging out in the galleries? Armor certainly wouldn't be to their taste, but the leather straps on the suits might offer some sustenance. That was probably why the curator finally decided to do something about them. That, or the fear that one would pop up during the day and scare some of the visiting schoolchildren-or, more likely, one of their teachers. Bad for public relations.

A sharp rap, like something hitting gla.s.s, echoed from the south end of the hall. One of the d.a.m.ned rats must have run into one of the cases. He knew birds did that sort of thing; maybe rats did too. He didn't think they could break into the cases, and he hadn't heard the tinkle of shattered gla.s.s, but he thought he ought to check it out.

None of the cases in the galleries off the main floor were damaged. John headed for the special-exhibit gallery.

Standing at the door, he pointed his flashlight. The beam reflected in an unexpected place. With a shock he realized he was looking at the open door of the central exhibit case. The reflections made it hard to see, but he thought he counted five standing human shapes in the case. There should have been only four.

One of them moved and John turned his beam on it, expecting to see a dark-clad thief. Instead, the light revealed a short, willowy woman dressed in jeans and a tattered T-s.h.i.+rt. Back to him and rocking back and forth on her heels, she seemed oblivious to his presence and to the harsh glare of the flashlight beam.

Behind him something skittered and he spun in reflex. His flashlight's beam fell on a spindly scarecrow figure barely two feet tall. The thing crouched, squinting against the light. He stared at it and it stared back with slitted eyes beneath a s.h.i.+elding paw, hissing and baring sharp, yellowed teeth.

"Pay it no mind," the woman said. "They always gather near a working."

John turned his head at her words, then heard the thing move. He snapped his head back around, but it was gone. Tiny feet scampered in the darkness to his left. And to his right.

There was more than one of them!

Were they dangerous? He hoped not. If these things were what he had been hearing all night, there were a lot of them.

"What the h.e.l.l are those things?"

"Boggles. Harmless, really."

One of the things she called a boggle peered around the case at John. Another dropped to the floor from the top of the case. The two of them grinned at him. Evilly. Anything with that many teeth had to grin evilly.

John forced himself to take his eyes off the boggles and check his combox. According to the black box, the security system was still working, despite its failure to note the entry and presence of this woman. How had she managed that?

"Who are you? How'd you get in here?"

"Sideways."

"There is no side door."

"Whatever." She shushed at him. "Now be quiet. I have to get to work now."

Work? Doing what? Why was he asking himself instead of her?

John watched her dig into a knapsack and pull out a jar. She unscrewed the lid and poured something into her hand. Putting the jar down, she began to scatter the stuff like a Sumo wrestler tossing the ceremonial rice before a bout. The stuff sparkled like carnival glitter. As she turned within the beam of his flashlight, he finally got a good look at her face; it was a face he'd seen before-twice-in pictures.

This was the woman both Bennett and the FBI were looking for. John was confused. She wasn't acting like a thief caught in the act, or a fugitive. Just what was she? Whoever she was, she wasn't supposed to be here, and whatever she was doing, she probably wasn't supposed to be doing. But what was he going to do about it? And why wasn't the alarm going off? The alarm should be going off.

"Turn the light off, please," she said. "It's distracting."

He did as she asked, feeling satisfaction that he had pleased her.

What business did he have pleasing her?

Sure, she was pretty, beautiful even; but she wasn't supposed to be here. G.o.d only knew what she was doing to the exhibit. So why wasn't he doing anything about her?

One of the boggles scampered up to him and sat at his feet. It watched the woman. John stared down at it, dumbfounded.

The woman started speaking in a low monotone. John didn't understand her words; she wasn't speaking English or j.a.panese. It sounded a little like Spanish, but only a little.

Moving about within the display, she touched several of the artifacts, crooning to each. Each object she touched began to glow with a blue light.

John blinked. All he could think of was that she shouldn't have been touching the artifacts without wearing white cotton gloves. He began to feel a pressure in his head as though he were in a rapidly rising elevator car. Cool air drifted across his skin. Was that frost forming on the gla.s.s of the case?

The boggle at his feet was joined by two more. They chit-tered together for a moment, then quieted.

The pale blue nimbus limning the artifacts strengthened, filling the display with azure light. Each of the objects the woman had touched shone now. The dead king's belt, the greave on one of his mourners, and the body armor and helmet of another were all glimmering brightly, but the crown enfolded in the king's hands gleamed more brightly still.

It was a h.e.l.l of a show. Kind of like being in a virtual reality simulation, but the effects were better. Realer. But then, this wasn't a simulator, this was real. Wasn't it? If it was, and all of his senses told him that it was, this woman was working magic. Real magic.