A Knight of the Sacred Blade (8 page)

Siduri glared at her husband. “Oh, so you already have asked the honorable Shan if you can send me away? Have you decided? Rahanna, perhaps?”

Jabir smirked. “Rahanna has wide hips. Perhaps she will have enough virtue to birth many sons…unlike you.”

“Enough!” said the Shan. “This is not the time or the place.” He looked to Arran. “We shall wait until you have recovered, man of Carlisan. Then we shall decide what is to be done with you.”

Arran nodded. Part of him wished the Shan had decided to throw him out into the desert. Another part, however, remembered the burning heat and the shriveling thirst and did not want to endure that once again. “I…I…”

A jolt of pain shot up his leg and sank into his chest wounds. His leg felt as if it had been stabbed with a hot knife, and his answer to the Shan disappeared in a wince of pain.

“Sandstorm!” spat Siduri. “His leg shifted. I must tend him.”

The Shan nodded. “Do as you must. We will speak later.” He turned and left. Jabir spun and stalked out without a word.

Arran gritted his teeth, pain pulsing through him.

“Here,” said Siduri. She held out a stone cup. “Drink this.”

She held the cup to his lips and he drank. The thick draught inside had a bitter tang. Heaviness swept through his jerking muscles, and he sank into sleep.

Chapter 7 - A Business Arrangement

Anno Domini 2012

Wycliffe picked up the phone, dialed, and listened to it ring. He leaned back in his chair. 

Someone picked up. 

“Hello, old friend,” said Wycliffe. “It’s your benefactor.” He paused and listened. “How are things on the police force? Good, good. What do I want? Just to complete our little contract. I did you a favor, and now you do me one. Oh, don’t worry. It’s nothing onerous. Nothing even particularly illegal. I just want a list of names. Specifically names connected to cigarette and tobacco related crimes in the last six months…”

Wycliffe blinked, and his scowl morphed into a grin. “You’re joking. That’s ideal.” His grin widened. “Yes, quite right. I’m in need of a flunky.”

###

Powdery snow fell against the limo’s windshield, the wipers’ blades screeching against the glass.  

“Here,” said Wycliffe, pointing. “Driver. That motel right there.”

“Yes, sir,” said the driver. 

Wycliffe adjusted his overcoat. Goth sat beside him, a dark and brooding presence in his black jacket and sunglasses. 

“Talkative tonight, aren’t we?” said Wycliffe.

Goth said nothing. 

The limo pulled into the motel parking lot. Wycliffe ran a hand through his hair. “An interesting missing persons report crossed my desk the other day. Anne Louis, the reporter who did that flattering interview of me.”

Goth’s lips pulled back in a fanged smile. 

Wycliffe sighed. “You understand the last thing I need right now is a scandal?”

Goth seemed almost amused. “Nothing of her shall ever be found.”

“Well.” Wycliffe blinked. “Good. Driver! Remain here. I expect to complete my business momentarily.” The driver pulled into a parking space before the motel. 

Wycliffe climbed out the back seat. “Goth. Wait over there by the door.”

“Why?” said Goth. 

Wycliffe glared at him. “Because you send people into screaming fits. I’d prefer to avoid that, just yet. If I need you I’ll come and get you.”

“Very well.” Goth stood to the side of door, snow accumulating on his broad shoulders. He looked like some thug waiting to ambush a motel patron Wycliffe shook off the morbid thoughts and strode into the motel lobby, brushing snow from his overcoat. 

The motel had seen better days. Artificial wood paneling peeled away from the walls, and dingy furniture stood around a coffee table covered with periodicals from the early eighties. An elderly woman with bright red hair sat at the front desk, attacking her nails with a file.

Wycliffe put on his politician’s smile and leaned against the desk. The woman didn’t look up. At last Wycliffe coughed into his palm. 

The woman didn’t look up. “No vacancies.” 

Wycliffe rolled his eyes. “No doubt, no doubt.” He focused his will and brought up a tiny portion of the Voice. “Ma’am.”

The woman blinked and looked up. “Oh my God. Oh my God, oh my God, I don’t believe it.” Her hands began fluttering like anxious birds. She hopped up and down on the stool. “Oh my God…”

Wycliffe frowned in consternation. Had the Voice had an adverse effect on her mind? “Is there something amiss?”

“You’re Senator Wycliffe!” said the woman. “I voted for you! And…and I saw your speech the other night! It was great. You’re a great man, sir. I even joined the Gracchan Party, and I haven’t voted since 1982.” She produced her purse, fumbled through it, and brandished a Gracchan Party membership card. 

Wycliffe smiled. “It’s always good to meet a supporter.”

“I’m going to vote for you, sir, and I’ll make my husband and his worthless step-kids vote for you, too,” said the woman. “I really think you should be running for president and not Senator Jones.”

Wycliffe smiled and raised a hand. “What can I say? Senator Jones is a wise and experienced statesman. I’d be honored to serve as his vice-president.” His smile widened. “Still, there’s always the 2016 election.” The woman beamed. “Now, do you think you could call my friend for me?”

“What? Oh, oh, sure. What’s his name?” She leafed through a dog-eared binder.

Wycliffe remembered the name his contact had provided over the phone. “Kyle Allard. Should have checked in just today.”

“Oh! Here it is.” She picked up the phone. “I’ll call him down for you.”

Wycliffe resisted the urge to clap. “Thank you.”

The woman dialed and argued with someone over the phone. “He’ll be right down.” 

“Good,” said Wycliffe. The woman smiled at him. Fame did have its advantages. A pity she wasn’t forty years younger and forty pounds lighter.

Footsteps thudded down the stairs, and a skinny young man in a rumpled business suit walked into the lobby. He didn’t look older than twenty-five. A shock of greasy black hair crowned his head, dark stubble shaded his jaw, and a number of rings gleamed in his ears. 

“Kyle Allard?” said Wycliffe. “I’m Thomas Wycliffe. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Allard ran a hand through his hair. “Yeah, yeah, whatever. Listen, buddy, I’ve got a lot on my mind, so why don’t you just say your piece and get it over with. Unless you’re with the cops. Then you can go to hell.”

“Mr. Allard!” said the woman, shocked. “Speak respectfully to the Senator!”

Allard frowned. “Senator…” Wycliffe saw the realization dawn on his face. “Oh, God. A Senator. Listen. I…I was just broke, it seems like a quick way to pick up some bucks…”

Wycliffe laughed. Fame did indeed have its advantages. “Relax, Mr. Allard. I’m not here to talk about…that. At least not directly.”

“Right.” Wycliffe saw the bravado reappear on Allard’s face. “Yeah, yeah, whatever. Tell you what, Senator. Why don’t you cut through all the bullshit and get to the point? I’m a busy man.”

The woman glared. “You apologize…”

Wycliffe smiled and waved a hand. “Quite all right. I deal with politicians all day. I appreciate a man who gets right to business. Let’s take a little walk, Mr. Allard. We have business to discuss.” Perhaps meeting Goth would put the fear of God into the insouciant little bastard. 

The receptionist beamed. “It was an honor meeting you, Senator.”

Wycliffe nodded. “Thank you, ma’am.” He took Allard’s shoulder. “Let’s go for a walk. We have quite a bit to discuss.”

Allard swallowed, but let Wycliffe lead him out into the night.

Wycliffe smiled. An appropriate comparison, really.

Allard frowned. “Right. Whatever. Listen, what do you want…” His voice trailed off. Goth strode out of the shadows and stared down at him. Allard took a step back. “I…I don’t have any money.”

“What?” said Wycliffe. “Oh, don’t flinch so, Mr. Allard. Petty theft is not my business. This man is an associate of mine.”

“Associate?” said Allard, staring at his reflection in Goth’s sunglasses. 

Wycliffe bit back a laugh. “This is Mr. Goth Marson, a business partner of mine. He also works as my bodyguard. He’s very good at it.”

“I can imagine,” said Allard. He had gone paler. “Um…nice to meet you, Mr. Marson.”

Goth said nothing. 

“Well, to business,” said Wycliffe. He hoped to convince this young fool without use of the Voice. He wanted to save his energies for the campaign. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the cigarette Marugon had sent with the scroll. “Care for a cigarette?”

Allard scowled. “No!”

“Really?” said Wycliffe. “Why not?”

“It’s a disgusting habit,” said Allard. “I don’t want cancer. And I’m…well, I’m sick to death of cigarettes.”

Wycliffe grinned. “And just why is that?”

Allard shoved his hands into his pockets and looked away. “I don’t want to talk about it.” 

“Oh, but I do,” said Wycliffe. “I heard about your little misadventure with the cigarette sales.”

Allard flinched. “How’d you know about that? I only got arrested yesterday.”

Wycliffe rolled his eyes. “Come, come, Mr. Allard. Do you seriously think I became a Senator without a few well-placed contacts?”

Allard bit his lip. “How much do you know?”

“All of it.” Wycliffe remembered the information his contact at the Chicago Police Department had provided for him. “It was a good idea, really. Buy up all the cigarettes you can in Kentucky, which has the lowest state cigarette tax in the nation, and sell them all here in Illinois. You’d turn a considerable profit. But you got caught, didn’t you?”

Allard glared. “How the hell was I supposed to know she was a cop’s wife?” 

“It’s rather amusing,” said Wycliffe. “Professional criminals usually can pick their marks with greater skill.”

Allard shook with anger. “I’m not a professional criminal. I just got a bit over my head into some student debt for my MBA, okay? The interest was eating me alive. I needed some money, I gambled on the cigarettes, and it looks like I’ve lost. Do you have something useful to say, or are you should going to stand there and give me a shit lecture on morality?” His voice trembled with desperation.

“Hardly,” said Wycliffe. “In fact, I think your whole scheme rather admirable.”

Allard frowned. “You do?”

“Absolutely,” said Wycliffe. “You tried to defraud the cigarette companies and the greedy state government? So what? You seem like an ambitious and enterprising young man. It’s men like you, I think, that have made America great. But what’s the most you could have made from your little scheme? A few thousand dollars? A pity indeed that your career should end over such a trifle.”

“Yeah, whatever,” said Allard. “I’ve got better things to do than stand here and listen to you make speeches. Like finding a lawyer, for instance. So do you have a point?”

“Oh, I do,” said Wycliffe. “I’m offering you a job.”

“What?” said Allard. 

“A job,” said Wycliffe. “Employment. A regular source of income, something you seem to need at the moment.”

Allard folded his arms over his skinny chest. “A job. Okay. A job doing what?”

“Handing out free cigarettes,” said Wycliffe. 

Allard laughed. “This is bullshit.”

“It most certainly is not,” said Wycliffe. “I’ve been looking for a man like you, Allard.” Marugon’s instructions had been quite clear. “A Senator’s salary is nice, of course, but I was a businessman before I went into politics, and I still am. My partner Mr. Marugon and I have recently acquired a controlling interest in Stanford Matthews Tobacco, a minor cigarette producer.” That, too, had followed Marugon’s instructions. 

“Marugon?” said Allard. “Weird name.”

“He’s Romanian,” said Wycliffe. “Now, Mr. Allard, Mr. Marugon and I wouldn’t have bothered with Stanford Matthews, except that it’s developed a new strain of tobacco. I believe it will be very popular with cigarette smokers. In fact, we believe that within three years it will become the leading brand in this country.”

Allard laughed. “You’re shitting me.”

Wycliffe grinned. “When it comes to business, Mr. Allard, I never shit.”

Allard snorted. “So, what are you offering? Minimum wage, right?”

“A bit better than that,” said Wycliffe. “A hundred thousand a year.”

Allard gaped. “How much? You’ve got to be joking!”

“I assure you, I am not,” said Wycliffe. “Of course, the potential for raises are in the future. Mr. Marugon and I plan on a broad customer base for Stanford Matthews cigarettes. Tell me, are you not tempted?” 

“I…have some legal troubles, sir,” said Allard. Wycliffe could see the eagerness gleaming in his eyes. “I don’t know if I can…”

“Rubbish!” said Wycliffe. “Mundane matters do not trouble one such as I, as Mr. Marugon often says. We’ll clear up this legal trouble, don’t you doubt.”

Allard hesitated. “How are you going to do that?”

Wycliffe grinned. “I have…a very convincing voice, Mr. Allard.”

The little fool had no idea.

Allard looked at the ground. “I’m…I’m not sure. I’ll have to think about it.”

Wycliffe snorted. “You do that.” He pulled a small roll of paper from his pocket and pressed it into Allard’s hand. “Take this for your trouble.”

“I don’t smoke!” said Allard. Wycliffe laughed as Allard’s eyes widened. “How much money is this?”

“One grand,” said Wycliffe. “As I said, a bit of compensation for your time. Come along, Goth. Let’s leave Mr. Allard to his thoughts.”

They walked towards the limo, leaving Allard staring at the money. Wycliffe smiled. 

Allard belonged to him now. It was only a matter of time.

The same approach worked on his 13A freight handlers, the ones who knew where Wycliffe’s money really came from. He paid them well, they adored him, and the Voice cleared up any little problems. The same approach had worked on Simon Wester, years ago. Wycliffe blinked. Perhaps he should get in touch with Dr. Wester. The historian had been quite a talented speechwriter…

“Senator!” Wycliffe heard running footsteps.

Kyle Allard ran up behind him, panting. “I…I think we can work something out.”

Wycliffe smiled. “Good.” He only wished he knew what Marugon intended with this bizarre scheme. 

He thought of all those black crates of strange tobacco Marugon had sent through the Tower. 

Every last tobacco leaf positively radiated black magic.

Whatever Marugon intended, it was going to be big.