I’ll come up with some sort of cover story. Faith healer down in South America. Aliens in UFOs. Elvis cured me. Something like that.”
“We’re not going to do that, Gwen.”
“We’re not? Are you sure?”
“I’m sure. This is a situation that needs to be addressed, and I’m not going to send my wife in my stead. I’m going. Now if you wish to remain behind—”
“That’s not happening.”
“Very well, then.” He glanced at a navigational chart on the wall. “Percival, I assume you have a means of contacting Ron…”
“Absolutely. You wouldn’t believe the communications system Ziusura has on his boat.”
“At this point in my existence, Percival, there’s very little that I would have difficulty believing. So…contact Ron. Tell him that in”—he made some fast calculations—“approximately four days we will arrive in Pearl Harbor. If he could smooth the way in arranging for a ship or two to escort us in, speed along our ship getting docked, and having a plane there to meet us…”
“Air Force One?”
“I’d settle for something that serves peanuts and some free drinks. Oh…and you may want to tell Ron that he should go ahead and tell the president who I really am, if he hasn’t already.”
“Do you think that’s wise, Highness?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea if it’s wise or not, Percival…but I think he’s going to have to absorb a lot of information once we arrive, and the less we dump on the poor bastard at one time, the better.”
“What about Merlin?” asked Ziusura. “The little runt seemed to have a good head on his shoulders. Perhaps he might be useful in this matter.”
“I’m still not certain that Merlin has forgiven me for resigning and derailing his plans for my monumental destiny,” said Arthur wryly. “He goes where he wishes. I very much suspect that, if he chooses to become involved in all of this, we’ll be hearing from him soon enough.”
C HAPTRE
THE F OURTH
T HE AUDIENCE APPLAUDED wildly for the magician on the small stage as he stepped back and took a bow, smiling pleasantly and bobbing his head in appreciation. There were about a hundred or so patrons in the club, grouped around small tables that accommodated anywhere from two to four people. Some had ordered food, everyone had ordered drinks. But the Magic Shack wasn’t renowned for its cuisine, and the drinks were notorious for being overpriced. Instead the unassuming venue was the premiere spot for magicians in the Los Angeles area who excelled in sleight of hand and close-up magic. No huge, theatrical boxes to be sliced and diced, or vanishing motorcycles, or other such nonsense. This was gasp-out-loud, staring right at it, “How the hell did he do that because I never looked away for a second” magic. This was for the hard-core only. More often than not, half the audience was made up of other magicians who were eager to see what the up-and-comers had up their sleeves, as it were. If you impressed this crowd, you were gooooood.
Merlin Junior impressed them regularly. More than impressed: He baffled them.
Junior was a gawky, eight-year-old boy, with skinny arms and legs, ears that stuck out almost at right angles to his head, and silky brown hair that hung down to the back of his neck. One would have wondered what in the world an eight-year-old was doing in such a place. Certainly his parents would have something to say about it.
But if Merlin Junior had parents, no one knew anything about them. He had simply shown up one evening at the Magic Shack, strode up onto the stage during a brief dead period, and before the manager could haul him off the stage, started doing magic. Astounding magic. Wearing a tank top so that his arms were completely exposed, he snatched cards out of the air with machine-gun rapidity. As he did so, he created a three-story house of cards, whipped a handkerchief out of the air, dropped it over the house of cards—which, despite all reason, actually
“We’re not going to do that, Gwen.”
“We’re not? Are you sure?”
“I’m sure. This is a situation that needs to be addressed, and I’m not going to send my wife in my stead. I’m going. Now if you wish to remain behind—”
“That’s not happening.”
“Very well, then.” He glanced at a navigational chart on the wall. “Percival, I assume you have a means of contacting Ron…”
“Absolutely. You wouldn’t believe the communications system Ziusura has on his boat.”
“At this point in my existence, Percival, there’s very little that I would have difficulty believing. So…contact Ron. Tell him that in”—he made some fast calculations—“approximately four days we will arrive in Pearl Harbor. If he could smooth the way in arranging for a ship or two to escort us in, speed along our ship getting docked, and having a plane there to meet us…”
“Air Force One?”
“I’d settle for something that serves peanuts and some free drinks. Oh…and you may want to tell Ron that he should go ahead and tell the president who I really am, if he hasn’t already.”
“Do you think that’s wise, Highness?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea if it’s wise or not, Percival…but I think he’s going to have to absorb a lot of information once we arrive, and the less we dump on the poor bastard at one time, the better.”
“What about Merlin?” asked Ziusura. “The little runt seemed to have a good head on his shoulders. Perhaps he might be useful in this matter.”
“I’m still not certain that Merlin has forgiven me for resigning and derailing his plans for my monumental destiny,” said Arthur wryly. “He goes where he wishes. I very much suspect that, if he chooses to become involved in all of this, we’ll be hearing from him soon enough.”
C HAPTRE
THE F OURTH
T HE AUDIENCE APPLAUDED wildly for the magician on the small stage as he stepped back and took a bow, smiling pleasantly and bobbing his head in appreciation. There were about a hundred or so patrons in the club, grouped around small tables that accommodated anywhere from two to four people. Some had ordered food, everyone had ordered drinks. But the Magic Shack wasn’t renowned for its cuisine, and the drinks were notorious for being overpriced. Instead the unassuming venue was the premiere spot for magicians in the Los Angeles area who excelled in sleight of hand and close-up magic. No huge, theatrical boxes to be sliced and diced, or vanishing motorcycles, or other such nonsense. This was gasp-out-loud, staring right at it, “How the hell did he do that because I never looked away for a second” magic. This was for the hard-core only. More often than not, half the audience was made up of other magicians who were eager to see what the up-and-comers had up their sleeves, as it were. If you impressed this crowd, you were gooooood.
Merlin Junior impressed them regularly. More than impressed: He baffled them.
Junior was a gawky, eight-year-old boy, with skinny arms and legs, ears that stuck out almost at right angles to his head, and silky brown hair that hung down to the back of his neck. One would have wondered what in the world an eight-year-old was doing in such a place. Certainly his parents would have something to say about it.
But if Merlin Junior had parents, no one knew anything about them. He had simply shown up one evening at the Magic Shack, strode up onto the stage during a brief dead period, and before the manager could haul him off the stage, started doing magic. Astounding magic. Wearing a tank top so that his arms were completely exposed, he snatched cards out of the air with machine-gun rapidity. As he did so, he created a three-story house of cards, whipped a handkerchief out of the air, dropped it over the house of cards—which, despite all reason, actually
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