Date: Wed, 13 Jul 1994 23:30:26 EDT Reply-To: Highlander TV show stories Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: "(Nancy Cleveland)" Subject: Aloha Part 4 (of 7) "Wow." Jari was impressed, this time. "What about Robin Hood? Is any of his stuff here?" Jonathan stepped closer to the boy, subtly blocking the shadow's line of attack. The man smiled faintly and stayed put. < See, I'm no threat. Sure. Just out for a Sunday picnic. Right. > "Robin Hood was just a myth, Jari." Jonathan tried to smooth out the anger in his voice, to keep Jari from thinking it was at him. < Damn the Agency and their labyrinthine plots. Who was this man? > " A legend. He never really existed." "Oh." The boy looked disappointed. "Actually, there was a Robin Hood." The shadow moved forward, cutting through Jonathan's perimeter, standing next to the boy. His eyes glinted with some secret joke. Jonathan tensed, ready. < Where were the others? > "Robin Hood was the son of a small landholder, a Saxon country squire. His family lost their land to the Normans, when we...they.... conquered England. He spent his time skulking in the forest, trying to stir up an insurrection, and robbing anyone foolish or weak enough to be caught by his band of ruffians." The shadow spoke lazily, but there was a peculiar relish to his words. < It's almost like he knew the man, personally. > "What about Little John? Maid Marion?The Sherrif of Nottingham?" Jari was entranced. "Were they real people too?" "With your permission?" The shadow raised his eyebrows in mock inquiry to Jonathan. "Be my guest." Irony for irony. < Let's play this out. Just leave the boy alone.> "Let me think now." The shadow pretended to muse."As I recall, Little John was a fat giant of a man, his specialty was sitting on his enemies until he suffocated them. Maid Marion, alas, was not quite the beauty of legend. She'd had the pox, you see". He touched his own cheeks, almost regretfully. "What about the Sherrif? What about the archery contest?" Jari was impatient, caught up in this new vision of history and myth. "The Sherrif, yes, he was quite a man. History, like legends, can distort things. Don't you ever forget that." he stared intently at the boy. Jari nodded, uncertainly. The shadow continued. "He and Robin had quite a time. The Sherrif did finally catch the outlaw, and put him in his dungeons, to rot. He was well rewarded. The townsfolk and the king were grateful. But the storytellers took the tale and turned it upside down. Never trust a storyteller, boy. They care more for the romance, than the facts." Jonathan cut in. "And how do you know these facts?" The man smiled, and held out his hand. "Kassmir Atatul. I have a passion for history. That's why I'm here today. And you?" "Jonathan Raven." Atatul's hand was hard, capable. There was an odd pattern of calluses on the palm. A flash of recollection. The hand of the sword master, in the Black Dragons, had felt the same. This man was a master swordsman, or at least one who practiced steadily, every day. The Black Dragons? Here? Unlikely, but not impossible. But this man didn't fit. He wasn't Japanese. And the Agency didn't go for swords. Guns, poisons, bombs. Not swords. So who was he working for? "Thanks for the insight. I'm sure Jari enjoyed it." < See, I can be civil too. > " I enjoy sharing my little tidbits of history with such an eager audience." Kassmir glanced at Jari, who had wandered to the next display. Kassmir paused, then looked directly at Jonathan, inquiring in a casual tone, "Are you interested in any particular item?" Jonathan sensed an undercurrent to the question. Something is here I'm supposed to want? Personally? Jonathan thought back to the catalog. Nothing came to mind. Maybe it wasn't listed? < How well does he know me, anyhow? What is his brief? > "Everything here is unique, very special. Just seeing it is a treat, for us." Play the innocent, let him lead. "I collect swords, myself." Kassmir moved casually towards a small pool of light across the room. Jonathan followed, allowing himself to be reeled in. Jari seemed engrossed in whatever he'd found. No one was close to him. Fine. "There's a truly excellent specimen here. I don't believe it was in the catalog." Kassmir continued, then paused to let Jonathan join him in admiring the display. A sword, a simple katana, hung in the light. It was suspended horizontally, the bare blade catching the light like a molten bar of silver, almost glowing. The scabbard hung below, its lines paralleling the curve of the blade. Intricate knots and a long elaborate fringe dangled beneath it. Jonathan stepped closer. Was that a dragon, etched into the blade? A black dragon? A small black marble stand held a white, neatly lettered card. He read the inscription. The sword of Okiko Matogawa. The founder of the Black Dragons. Why was it here? This could never be sold, not as long as a single Black Dragon was alive. Did this mean the clan was gone? Wild surmises tumbled through his brain. He turned to Kassmir. Kassmir was staring fixedly at the entrance to the room. A tall, dark haired man had just entered, and the two locked eyes across the ballroom. "Excuse me, please. I have just seen an old...friend. We'll talk again, later." Kassmir was gone, stalking across the rug like a cat, hunting. The other man walked to meet him, tension screaming in every line of his body, to Jonathan's experienced eye. Didn't anyone else see? The other patrons continued their browsing, oblivious to the two men approaching one another in the center of the room. Jonathan watched, remembering two samurai, both accomplished assassins, and bitter enemies, he had seen approach one another in a similar way, in the hall of the Black Dragons. Those two had screamed simultaneous challenges, and fought a ferocious duel to the death, right there. Both had died, one stabbed through the heart, one with a gaping wound to his neck. Their blood had mingled, staining the floor, together in death. He blinked, cleared his eyes. For a moment he thought he'd seen swords. Impossible. The two men stood in the center of the room. They exchanged a few words, turned and looked towards him, then walked together to another exhibit. They kept a careful distance between them. Interesting. < So was Atatul here for me, or for him? I'll keep an eye open for the other fellow. We'll talk. > But this sword...He turned back to the katana. What did it mean? What's going on here? * * * * * Duncan paused as he entered the ballroom. His still damp hair tickled his neck, a solitary drop inching its way down his back. Yomo had been gone, when he'd returned to the suite, the sword with her. He looked around, wondering if she was mingling with the browsers. Then the buzz came. Yes, he was here. Across the room. There. A shock of recognition from *inside*. * We know this man.* ** He's a killer.** * Assassin. * ** Murderer. ** * An Immortal who kills mortals and Immortals, for pleasure. * ** To hurt and torment others. ** * For money. * ** For no reason at all.** Duncan shivered, the cool air raising goosebumps on his skin. < Worse than I expected. Sheer evil. > He stared hard across the room. Who was he talking to? A friend? A victim? So much for the relaxing vacation. They stared at one another, then walked closer, drawn by a force stronger than either of them. "I am Duncan MacLeod, of the Clan MacLeod." < And several hundred others. > "I am Kassmir Atatul. I will meet you later, but right now I am... involved." Duncan smiled, showing all his teeth. "Who are you stalking now, you bloody killer? You'll deal with me before you kill another mortal." He glanced at the dark haired man watching them from across the room. "Is this your intended prey? Leave him alone." Kassmir smiled back, matching Duncan's rage with ice. "I'm here for the auction. Are you so eager to die? We can meet tonight, no? An opportunity to see these treasures, it only comes once or twice in a man's life. Even an Immortals. Come, look." He stepped back and gestured gracefully towards the nearest display. Duncan was drawn, despite himself, towards the pool of light. < He's right. Why miss this show. One of us will be dead, by tonight. What do we lose, to spend a few hours honoring the past. > ** No. He lies. It's a trick. A trap. ** Duncan brushed aside the inner voices, impatiently. "Very well. Tonight. " He stood next to Kassmir, gazing in silent appreciation at a small mace. It had finely worked gold filigree, chipped and gouged in places. Some of the teeth on the head were missing. It was still beautiful, and lethal. A woman's weapon, for a noble warrior. Berengaria. Last fighting queen of the Saxons. *I knew her. She was as deadly as she was beautiful.* < Later. Tell me about Kassmir, now. > "Ladies, Gentlemen." A quiet announcement stirred the small groups of people, they swirled and began to gather in the rear of the room, where padded chairs had been set up for the bidding. Kassmir offered Duncan an ironic bow, and gestured towards the seats. "After you?" Duncan saw Yomo talking with one of the staff, next to the impromptu stage. She was wearing blue. A high necked silk dress in a deep rich midnight color that brought an answering lustrous sheen to her hair . She had on a single strand of pearls, each perfectly matched in size. If they were real, they were worth a fortune. Duncan wondered again whose money was behind her. He took a seat near the rear, to watch the other bidders in action, and keep an eye on Kassmir. There were over a dozen items, according to the catalog. Duncan thumbed through it , noticing that at least one had been left out, Yomo's katana. Perhaps there were others, too. He mentally reviewed the resources he was willing to commit to purchasing. Since he'd sold the antique store, he'd put most of his possessions in storage. Some of his more valuable pieces, things he had no particular attachment to, were on consignment with other dealers. He'd come more to look, and to relax, than to bid aggressively for anything. He didn't have any purchasers lined up, a standard practice for any dealer bidding in such a high stakes game. Anything he bought today, would be for himself, or for a speculative future resale. His cash position was good. No shortage there. And anything bought here today would only appreciate. Each item was unique. But nothing stirred him with a desire to possess it. Nothing, except that katana. < Wait and see what the competition is. Perhaps no one else is interested.> He settled back in his seat, to listen. The first three lots went quickly, bought by a representative of a private collector. Heir to a huge oil fortune, he could afford whatever he wanted, and his agent beat down the competition by simply doubling the last price bid, each time. Duncan had seen him in action before. < I wonder if he's just going to clear everything out? > Angry murmurs from the audience followed his closing bids. Several dealers, including at least two Duncan recognized to be representing major museums, walked out, furious, shut out from the start on the only items they wanted. After securing the third lot, the agent rose and left the room. An almost audible sigh of relief moved through the audience. < At least the rest of us have a chance at something, now. > The bidding was brisk on the next three lots, and the victors were flushed and triumphant as they completed their paperwork to certify payment and set the pickup date. One man even insisted on paying cash, producing a pile of $10,000 bills and demanding his trophy on the spot. He left, carrying it himself, trailed by two watchful bodyguards. Duncan recognized him as a Capo of the Union Corse. < The customers are almost as interesting as the merchandise. Of course, who else would want old weapons, but old fighters? Old killers? > The next three lots moved quickly again, this time the bidding evolving into a one on one high stakes contest between a Japanese dealer and an Arab dressed in flowing robes and headdress. Two for the dealer, one for the sheik. Both looked satisfied as they completed their paperwork, then left. Three lots remained. Several more of the smaller dealers and collectors had drifted out of the room by now, their choices gone. Dozens of empty seats were scattered among the audience. Kassmir was still there, though, calmly reading the catalog. He hadn't bid on a single item yet. < Well neither have I. Maybe the game is too rich for his purse, too. > The final three lots went excruciatingly slowly. Almost every person left in the room, it seemed, wanted to at least put in a bid. The last listed piece, the gun used to assassinate Abraham Lincoln, went up in price by tiny increments, the battle swinging among almost a dozen individuals. Finally one put out a substantial jump, and the others folded. As she stood to complete her paperwork, there was a general movement towards the door, purses and jackets reclaimed and voices raised in reminiscence and regret. Kassmir hadn't budged. Duncan stayed in his seat and glanced around the room. So did a few others, including that fellow Kassmir had been speaking with earlier. A bored looking teen squirmed in a seat beside him. < What about Yomo's katana? > There was a pause, then the modulated announcer's voice. "Ladies, Gentlemen, the next item was added to the sale after the catalog was printed. Information is now being distributed. We apologize for the delay." Paper rustled around the room as an assistant passed out still warm sheets from a copier. Only a dozen people remained. Yomo sat, calm, in the front row. All Duncan could see was the top of her shining hair. < At last. > Duncan examined the provenance. Verified in the strongest terms, authenticity vouched for and guaranteed. This was the real thing. < Now who's my competition? Interesting, they waited to add it formally until after most of the dealers had left. Hess's man would have snapped this up in a second. So would Toyokara. Odd. > The bidding opened at $100,000. Rather low for an item of this quality, Duncan mused. A few desultory bids from dealers, obviously speculating they could line up a purchaser later. None of the individual collectors were left, at least none Duncan recognized from among the super rich. He waited until the bids stalled on $250,000, then nodded at the auctioneer. The man nodded back, and moved it to $300,000. The previous high bidder shot Duncan a poisonous glare, then folded his arms. He was out. None of the other previous bidders made a move. < That was easy. > Duncan's lips curved up, a small trickle of excitement stirring in his heart. < To hold that sword again. > The auctioneer glanced around the room. "Gentlemen? Ladies? Do I hear another offer?" That man, the one Kassmir had been speaking to, stirred in his chair. The auctioneer raised his eyebrows, then smiled. "I have $350. Do I hear $400?" < Damn. Where did he come from? > Duncan's euphoria evaporated immediately. He wondered if Kassmir was working with the man. < Perhaps he's fronting for him? Well I'll be damned if I'm going to lose this. Not without a fight. > Duncan frowned, then nodded at the auctioneer again. "$400. I have $400 thousand. Do I hear $500?" The auctioneer was smiling now. < Competition always made them smile, > Duncan thought, dourly. Kassmir lifted his catalog. "$450, I have $450 thousand. Do I hear $500?" < So much for that theory.> The other man turned to look at Kassmir, his stare flat and unreadable, then turned back to the front. His nod was almost imperceptible from Duncan's perspective, the back of his head all Duncan could see, but the auctioneer picked up on it immediately. The auctioneer was in his element. A three way competition. He fairly glowed with satisfaction as he chanted the next bid. "$500, I have $500 thousand. Do I hear $600?" < Damn and double damn. This was getting too rich for his pockets. One last try. > Duncan tugged at his earlobe. The auctioneer nodded. "$525. I have $5250 thousand. Do I hear $550?" Kassmir again. < Blast him. I should have dragged him out and killed him when we met. Is this what he was so anxious to stay for? > $550. I have $550 thousand. Do I hear $600?" The other man lifted his catalog. "$600. I have $600 thousand. Do I hear $700?" The auctioneer looked at Duncan, inquiry in his face. Duncan shook his head and looked away. *It's worth it. You know it is. You'll regret this.* Duncan ignored the inner voices and sat silently. Kassmir folded his arms, and shook his head to the auctioneer's insistent gaze. The man searched the room again, chanting his litany, then brought down his gavel, once, twice, thrice. "Sold, for $600 thousand." < Less than half what it could have fetched, if it had been up sooner. Kassmir looks as pleased as if he'd gotten it, himself. I wonder why? > The room was emptying rapidly. The last bidders had left, and the auctioneer's staff were sorting their paperwork, and packing the items for storage, until payments were verified and they were delivered to their new owners. The man who had purchased the sword stood at the clearing table, writing a check. The teenaged boy waited next to him. Yomo was no where to be seen. She must have gone back to the rooms. Duncan stood and moved toward the table. < Be a good sport. Congratulate the man. > Kassmir stepped into his path, intercepting him. He hissed a low voiced warning, one meant for Duncan's ears only. "Leave him alone. He's mine. When I'm done with him, I'll come for you. Tonight. If you interfere, I'll go after all your friends, too. And you won't be around to protect them." Duncan stopped and glared back at him. "No one threatens my friends. No one. You'll never even get a chance to see them. You'll be in hell." Kassmir smiled. "Perhaps. But you'll be there before me." Duncan kept his face still, trying not to show his utter disgust. "Why should I even let you leave this room alive?" "Because if you don't, I'll kill that boy right now." Kassmir stepped out of Duncan's reach, and showed him a glimpse of a snub nosed revolver, held under his jacket, the dully gleaming barrel protruding barely an inch. "The man is dead, but I'll let the boy live, if you don't interfere." Duncan considered. Kassmir was lying. He had no compunctions about killing anyone, ever. The boy was as doomed as the man, if he had his way. * Let him think you agree. * Duncan nodded. "Fine. I just wanted to congratulate him on his new acquisition. You don't mind that, do you?" "Of course not. I'll even join you." Kassmir relaxed, confident of victory. < We'll see about that. > Duncan strode past Kassmir, and approached the man and boy, who were now waiting for the auctioneer's assistant to verify the check was good. "We can make delivery this evening." The assistant put down the phone and smiled, briskly. "That would be fine. You have my address." The man turned to go, the boy at his side. Duncan stepped forward, held out his hand, smiling. "Congratulations. I had hoped to take home that sword myself. I'm Duncan MacLeod." The man hesitated the barest moment. His eyes searched Duncan's, assessing his intentions. "I'm Jonathan Raven. Thank you." His hand felt hard, competent. And familiar? Raven kept his other hand protectively on the shoulder of the boy. His son? Kassmir broke into their little circle, radiating charm and bonhomie. "Yes, Jonathan Raven. Congratulations. It looks like my friend Duncan and I will go home empty handed. That's life. To the victor goes the spoils." He smiled. < Friends indeed. Charming as a rattlesnake, and about as deadly. > Duncan turned back to Raven. < How to warn him? > "Are you a collector? I haven't seen you at international auctions before." Raven looked steadily at him, then shifted his gaze to Kassmir, his dark eyes balancing, calculating, trying to add up the situation. He looked vaguely puzzled. "No, I don't usually attend. Interesting that they had me down to invite. Tough on my bank account, too." He grinned, quizzically. "Not many people would know what to do with that sword. Do you intend to resell it? Or keep it for display?" Duncan probed, watching Raven, alert to Kassmir for any reaction. Again that disturbing look. < Unusual for a mortal to have eyes that seemed to have seen so much, to be so old. > "I intend to keep it." < Hmmm. What does this Raven do for a living? There's something about him. Something that smells of death. But whose? > On an impulse, Duncan spoke a phrase in Japanese, a ritual greeting among warriors." May your arm be strong and spirit stronger." Raven blinked, then made the ritual response. "And your shield carry you to victory, or to death." Duncan inclined his head, Raven returned the gesture. A connection. "Well I hope you enjoy it. It's a beautiful piece. Functional, too." Duncan put a subtle stress on the word. "Keep the boy away from it, he might cut himself." Raven's eyes shifted to Kassmir, then back to Duncan's. A flicker, in their depths. There. Message sent. Message received. Duncan nodded at the boy and stepped away. Kassmir shot a fast, furious glare at Duncan, then turned his back. He remained, chatting with Raven about Japanese customs and law. Angling for an invitation to his home, it sounded like. < Perhaps I can get his address from Yomo. Call him, warn him. Kassmir won't dare try anything here, not unless he sees no other way. With me out of the picture, he'll relax and take his time. > Duncan headed back to his rooms, stopping at the registration desk to inquire if Yomo had checked out. Not yet. She must be upstairs. =========================================================================