Date: Thu, 21 Sep 1995 00:15:50 EDT Reply-To: Russ McMillan Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: Russ McMillan Subject: Dark Side, Part 7 The Dark Side of the Mirror, Part 7 by Russet McMillan mcmillan@astro.psu.edu Duncan opened his eyes to an unfamiliar room. He was tucked into a bed, wearing only his briefs, with his clothes folded neatly on a chair that stood against the wall. A knock sounded on the door, insistently, as if it wasn't the first of its kind. "One moment!" Duncan called automatically, leaping out of the bed and reaching for his clothes. Something fell from the shirt pocket as he lifted them: an open pack of cigarettes, with two or three missing. He stared at it in consternation for a moment, then hastily pulled on his pants. "Yes?" he said as he opened the door. A husky young man stood on the other side, looking moderately annoyed. "Monsieur Dalou is ready to see you now." Duncan stared. Dalou was dead! The messenger grew impatient with Duncan's surprise. "Come to the salon in fifteen minutes," he commanded, and made his way down the hall. Duncan closed the door again and stood looking around the bedroom, baffled. He picked up his clothes and began to search through them. A little money was missing from his wallet, not much more than the cigarettes would have cost. Nothing else seemed out of place. His watch, on the bedside table, declared that less than one day had passed. He caught sight of an ashtray next to the watch. It held one stub, the same brand as the pack he had just found. He ran his tongue around his mouth, but couldn't really identify any taste after a night of sleep. He sniffed the fingers of his right hand and recoiled at the scent of nicotine. With a curse, Duncan threw the ashtray and the nearly-full pack of cigarettes across the room into a wicker trash basket. He dropped his head into his hands. Another memory blackout, and this time he _knew_ that he had been acting out of character, at least enough to smoke a few cigarettes. He groped for his last clear memory and stiffened at the image of Joe's white face and accusing eyes. What had he done? His coat was draped over the back of the chair. He grabbed it and felt inside, but there was no sword there. Perhaps he really had dropped it after attacking Joe. He felt its absence keenly, after carrying it almost every day for hundreds of years, but it was a relief to think that he had been unarmed while he was prowling the city like a madman last night. Perhaps this man he was supposed to meet would have some answers. Duncan dragged himself to his feet and pulled on his clothes. A little water splashed on his face made him feel more clear-headed, but there was no time to shave. He opened the bedroom door, wondering how to get to the salon. The young messenger he had seen earlier was just rounding a corner in the hallway. His frown cleared as he saw Duncan, and he gestured for him to hurry. Duncan recognized the salon when they reached it -- he had been in this house before. He also knew the black-clad man who looked up alertly from the couch; it was Armand Dalou, Georges' second son, who had inherited most of Dalou's operations. "Mr. Macleod," said the young Dalou. "Come in, sit down." Duncan cleared his throat. "I'm sorry if I seemed a little strange last night . . . " he said uneasily. "Not at all, not at all. I understand that you recently lost a dear friend. That is always difficult to accept." "Er -- yes, that's right." "Well, Mr. Macleod. I know that your father and my father were very close -- he often spoke of how many times Duncan Macleod had saved his life. And so we owe you a debt." "I wouldn't put it that way," Duncan said. "We do, it's true. We also owe you for avenging my father's death, although I wish you had left his killer to us." "I couldn't do that. There was old business between us." "So I understand. I want you to know that I will be happy to help in any way that I can. Now, please tell me, what do you need?" "Well, I --" Duncan hesitated, trying to think. He had no idea why he -- or whoever had been in charge of his body -- had come here last night. He did, however, have some questions that Dalou's organization could probably find answers for. "An acquaintance of mine was found murdered yesterday, in his hotel room," he said slowly. "Would this be Francois Duhamel?" asked Armand. "Yes, that's the man. I'm . . . some people suspect me of the murder. I thought the best way to clear my name would be to find the real guilty party." "I see," said Armand Dalou. "All I know just now is what I've seen in the paper." He snapped his fingers and the young messenger-bodyguard handed him a newspaper, hastily retrieved from across the room. He flipped through until he found the right page. "The police are searching for a man who visited Duhamel late the night before. The hotel employees described him as well-built, in his thirties, with dark hair and a black trenchcoat." He looked up. "That is not much help, since it could just as easily be a description of you." "Yes," said Duncan, his heart sinking. What if it _was_ a description of him? "I will see what else I can find out. In the meantime, do you need a place to lie low?" Duncan nodded reluctantly. He could hardly go back to the barge, where he would be putting his friends in danger. "Just for a few days," he said, "until I figure out what my next move is." He had a dreadful feeling that he already knew his next move, but it was going to take him a while to accept it. "All right," said Armand crisply, getting to his feet. "In that case, it would be best if you didn't leave this house. My staff will provide whatever you need. I hope you do not have to retrieve any of your belongings? You might be walking into a trap." Duncan thought of his sword, and swallowed. "No, I don't need anything else." He thanked the young man and made his way back to the bedroom to sit despairingly on the edge of the bed. It would be better for everyone if he stayed in this house away from his friends, but he wasn't going to enjoy being cooped up. He had been in some fairly dank prisons in his time, but they had always been made pleasant by good company. This time he didn't have that option. Insanity, Duncan thought, had to be the loneliest thing that could happen to a man. =========================== Duncan peered at the scratches on the floor. "Knight to king four." The young man crouching across from him pushed back a scrap of dirty lace from his wrist and bit his lip thoughtfully. Squinting in the dim light, he rubbed out a few of the marks in the dirt and drew in new ones with a fragment of stone. "Queen takes knight," he pronounced with a grin. "Check." "King takes queen." "What!" Duncan reached out and made the alterations in their makeshift board himself. "You can't do that with a king!" "You can if the other queen gets close enough." "Pfaugh!" the youth exclaimed. "I've never been any good at this game, and I doubt I ever will." Duncan leaned back against the rough stone wall behind him. "You're getting better at it already. You just have to learn to think about your moves, and not be so impetuous." "You, the wild Highland warrior, tell me not to be impetuous?" Duncan grinned. "Caution and a proper appreciation of strategy can be useful to a warrior as well." "But they don't come naturally to me." The boy glared at the makeshift chess board. "How many moves to checkmate?" "Six." Duncan tented his eyebrows apologetically. "And that's if I don't do anything stupid, eh?" The boy sighed. "You should play with my father. At least he can give you a challenge." Duncan looked toward the corner of their cell, where the boy's father lay on the straw mat that was their only approximation to a bed. "I don't think we should bother him," he murmured. "He's very tired," the boy agreed. "I heard that," said the older man, rolling over to glare at the two of them in the dim light. The young man stood up, nearly cracking his head on the low ceiling. "I'm sorry, sir," he said quickly. "We didn't mean any disrespect." The Duc de Givagny chuckled and sat up. "Respect would be singularly out of place in a dank hole like this. In any case, don't you think you should worry more about tiring our wounded hero?" Duncan's face grew hot. "I wasn't hurt that badly, sir." "It seemed bad enough to me." The Duc came to crouch by Duncan's side, shrugging on the remains of a once-elegant coat with its gold embroidery ripped away. He stepped carefully, since his shoes had been stolen for the money their gold buckles would bring. "You were wounded in our service, and if I had the power I would see to it that you had only the best of care. Instead you are condemned to rot here with us. I wish you would let me look at that cut. I would swear the fellow's knife went deeper than you said." Duncan's arm curled protectively around his ribs. "No, sir, better to leave it covered. I bandaged it right away and put some of my grandmother's best salve on it. I'm sure it will heal best if left alone." "Very well, if that's how you would have it," the Duc conceded. "I still don't understand why you came to our rescue, but we are deeply in your debt." "But I didn't do any good, sir. You were taken anyway." "Even so. Why did you do it?" Duncan swallowed. "Your daughter sent me, sir. She was most concerned for your welfare." "Anne-Marie?" the young Vicomte de Tourennes exclaimed. "Er -- yes. Madame la Comtesse de Roulembert." Duncan suspected that it would be unwise for him to speak of the Comtesse as "Anne-Marie" in the presence of her father. "She made it to England, then?" the Duc pressed. "Yes, she's quite safe. She sent me here to look for you two." The Duc and his son exchanged exclamations of surprise and admiration, but Duncan hardly heard a word. He was distracted by a roaring that reverberated through his head and blotted out all sound. Another Immortal was here, a very old and powerful one. Footsteps approached down the hallway. Duncan started to climb to his feet. The Duc pressed him down with a hand on his shoulder. "Hold still, man, you'll start bleeding again if you move about so!" "Who is that in the corridor?" Duncan gasped. The Vicomte pressed his face to the tiny grille in the door. "The guards are coming," he reported, "and they have a priest with them." He turned away from the door. "There is no one else." "Do you wish the priest to come to us?" the Duc asked. "I'm sure they will let us be shriven before they . . . take us out." Duncan shook his head. "That's no priest!" he said vehemently. "You recognize his voice, then?" "After a fashion, yes." "Is he an enemy of yours?" Duncan calmed as the stranger's buzz began to fade into the distance. "I'm not sure," he said. "Probably . . . he would be glad to see me dead." After the initial shock, he began to wonder if it wouldn't be better to have another Immortal present when he was guillotined. At least it was preferable to the alternative of losing all that he was, with no one being the gainer for it. "Well, in that case he shouldn't have long to wait," the Duc replied with grim humor. "The priest paused outside our door," reported the Vicomte, who had watched the visitors pass. "The guards didn't tell him our names, though. I don't think he could know that you are here." "Oh, he knows," said Duncan with certainty. "He knows." =========================== =========================================================================