Alex Archer - City Of Swords

“And?” He didn’t bother to turn around.

“It’s downstairs. Archard has it. Do you want to—”

“Of course.”

“Should I have him bring—”

“No. I’ll come down.”

He stepped away from the window and let the drape fall back, paused and then turned to see the girl. Woman, he corrected himself. But just barely. She was young. Beautiful, though he had to really look to see it. She unwittingly dimmed her loveliness by wearing baggy shirts spouting slogans and pictures of whatever rock band she was into. This evening she sported a white skull and crossbones with bat wings and A7X in big block letters. Her makeup did nothing to improve her appearance. She wore thick eyeliner and layered on the mascara. Smudges of shimmering green and blue paste covered her lids and tapered to points. Her lipstick was dark. Unnatural. Never red.

“We got into Paris a few hours ago,” she said. “But I needed to clean up and change. My clothes got pretty well shredded.”

He raised an eyebrow, inviting her to explain.

“It was worse than those rock-climbing walls at the gym,” she began. “Not the big part of the sword. It was just hanging out there in the open...right where your research said it would be. But the tip of it...” She held out her hands so he could see all the cuts and broken fingernails. “It was exactly like the legend you taught in class. Roland had tried to throw the sword away, off the cliff, so the enemy wouldn’t get it. But the blade hit the stone, and a piece of it broke off and stayed there.”

“And the monks displayed the point that fell.”

“Yeah.” She paused. “They never bothered to go get the other piece. I had a hell of a time in the dark, finding the spot where that little shard was in the cliff. Then I had a hell of a time getting it—”

“God guided your hands,” Dr. Lawton said. “And brought the pieces together so that they could be reforged.”

“Uh, yeah.” She waited, fidgeting in the ensuing silence.

He watched her for several moments, knowing she couldn’t keep her tongue from wagging.

“So...who’s going to get this one? Archard? I figured it would be Archard because of Roland’s significance. He thinks it’s going to be his sword. He’s down there drooling over it. Are you—”

“Yes, Durendal is to be Archard’s sword.” A longer silence settled over them.

Finally she broke it, stuttering, “Am I going to... Are you going to—”

“If there are enough, Sarah. I do not intend to leave you out.”

He turned his back to her and faced the large portrait. “He died on the twenty-eighth of January. It was the seventh day since he’d taken to his bed and after his final Holy Communion. Did you know that?”

Sarah shook her mass of short blond curls. “I’m not much of an historical scholar,” she admitted. “I tried to be. Loved your courses. Maybe I shouldn’t have quit like I did, but—”

He gruffly cleared his throat. “He was seventy-two years old, forty-seven years into his reign. Twice my age when the pleurisy killed him.” Lawton slowly paced in front of the painting. “Buried the same day, in Aachen Cathedral. The rush wasn’t necessary—it had been so cold and the disease hadn’t touched his outward appearance. A count in Aachen claimed to have found and opened the tomb, finding the corpse inside sitting on a throne, decked out with a crown and scepter, the tight flesh over the bones incorrupt. God-touched.”

Sarah appeared to be in awe, but the professor suspected it was for his benefit.

“He died depressed. He hadn’t been afraid of death coming—that comes to all men. But he was afraid of being incomplete.”

She tipped her head in question.

“There were things left undone,” Lawton explained.

“But you will finish those things,” she said, squaring her shoulders.

“Together, we will finish those things.” He paused and turned to regard her again. “If your belief grows stronger. If I can sense in you an honest interest and desire. If you shed your youthful curiosity. If you follow me honestly.”

“I do. I—I will.”

He grabbed her by the shoulders. “If you are to be one of my twelve, you must convince me, Sarah.”

“Anything,” she said. “I’ll do anything.”

“Then prepare for another foray. Now, shall we...” He glided past her toward the stairs, inviting her to follow. “Shall we see Roland’s Durendal?”

The big staircase was a wrought-iron, circular one he’d imported from an ironworks in Scotland. It ended in the center of a massive room filled with crates and forklifts—the trappings of a warehouse. An illusion he found satisfactory.

Dr. Lawton approached Archard, who was kneeling in front of one of the smaller crates, now draped with a length of velvet. It was as close to an altar as could be arranged here. The lighting was poor, which helped hide the true nature of the building, but the makeshift altar was directly beneath one of the fixtures.

“Dr. Lawton,” Archard stated solemnly.

“Durendal,” Lawton said. “Our mission has begun in earnest.”

Chapter 8

“I thought it was a wrap, that we were done. You sent the rest of the crew home.” Rembert Hayes was Annja’s photographer for the dog-men segment in Avignon. He’d worked diligently with her on the project for the past three and a half days, and now he nudged his wheeled suitcase with his foot, jiggling it just enough to make a soft clacking sound against the marble floor of the Hotel Danieli lobby. He’d been her cameraman in the catacombs under Paris before that, never complaining, happy to get the work, in fact, as he was a hungry freelancer. But he’d just gotten a text from his daughter, who was on her way to the hospital to give birth. He was obviously going to miss the event, but he wanted to get back home to New York as soon as possible, and Annja sympathized. His daughter would be a first-time mom with single-parent responsibilities.

“I thought it was a wrap, too.”

“May I call a car to take you—” the bellman began, but Annja’s scowl cut him off.

“Rem, I’m very sorry, but—”

“Plenty of footage, Annja. We have some great color work.” He drummed his fingers on the concierge counter and jiggled the suitcase again. “I called. We can catch a flight in two hours at the Caumont Airport, just outside town. It’ll take us to Manchester, and we can connect to New York and—”

“Be home sometime tomorrow,” Annja finished. She studied him and offered a sad smile. “I thought your daughter wasn’t due for another two weeks.”

“The baby had other ideas, I guess.”

“Look, your wife’s with her, right?”

He nodded.

“Then she’ll get your daughter through this. We’ve got one more interview.” She waved a sheet of paper at him. She’d had the concierge print out an email off her phone. “Some tipster named Gaston claims to be one of the dog-men.”

“That’s...what Doug Morrell’s call was about?” Rembert sputtered. “One more interview? We don’t need it.”

“I might not have liked this whole assignment, Rem. But I’m not going to do a half-assed job when this could add something to an otherwise mediocre piece. And that’s what our dog-men story is right now...nothing special.”

“Damn, Annja.”

“I’m not going to argue with Doug about it. We’re doing this.”

“Doug doesn’t have a pregnant single daughter.”

“Doug’s twenty-two.”

“My point.” Rembert made a face. “All your beloved producer cares about are ratings.”

“Let’s go see this guy and get it over with. Then we’ll take the train back to Paris and get a direct flight. We might still make it home sometime tomorrow.” She told the bellman to store their suitcases.