Date: Mon, 25 Apr 1994 17:09:49 EDT Reply-To: Highlander TV show stories Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: Obi-wan never saw this place 25-Apr-1994 1702 Subject: Sacrifice Gambit (1/4) This is my first attempt at fan fiction. Here's hoping it entertains. Feedback cheerfully accepted at wall@rndhse.enet.dec.com Copyright April, 1994 by David F. Wall All Rights Reserved *Sacrifice Gambit* 1 It was cold in Paris. The mid-November wind was wet and raced along the canal, making lonely noises as it swirled between the buildings. The sky was full of clouds that hid the stars and moon and threatened the city with cold hard rain. The weather suited Duncan Macleod's mood. It was very comfortable in the living room of his houseboat, but there was a damp, dark, icy place inside him, proof against the effects of physical comforts. He ought to get rid of this hulk, get it away from him just as he had the apartment over the store. There were too many triggers for his memory here. Something of Tessa Noel lingered in the very air: Sung with undertones of sculpting clay, overcoming the scents of the canal and general disuse. This morning while rummaging through the things Maurice had put in impromptu storage he found one of her hairbrushes, a cracked wooden one she must have put aside for an emergency, strands of long blonde hair still caught in it. Macleod sank back in the welcoming leather chair and took the Sotheby's catalogue off the side table at his left. There was a set of wheel lock dueling pistols going on the block three days from now. The catalogue never had exactly the information one wanted, and the photos were always a little bit wanting. The people at Sotheby's understood the psychology of collection very well. They knew there was nothing like being close to something to make people want to buy it. He was estimating what he could afford to offer and the possible returns a year from now when he sensed the presence of another immortal. The unease triggered by the preternatural pins-and-needles evaporated a moment later when a familiar voice called, "Anybody home?" What was *he* doing here? Macleod cast a glance at the white-hilted katana in its rack on the wall, then shook his head and went up on deck. Richard Ryan hadn't changed very much. That little bit of childish puffiness in his face was going to be there forever. His expression in repose was still cocksure. Some time in the last nine months he had come into some money: he was wearing a pair of custom leather boots that must have cost five hundred dollars. Aside from the boots, he looked like a messy room. His leather jacket, in particular, looked to have seen him through one too many motorcycle spills. Or were those blade slashes? "What do you say, Mac? Long time no see." Was he going to get any more unpleasant reminders tonight? "Nine months isn't a long time, Richie." There was almost as much ice in his voice as in the evening wind. Richie's wiseguy smile faded away. "Okay, so much for the pleasantries. I need some help." "It's been my experience that you don't accept help." "What is that supposed to mean? You want me to deliver some kind of 'where would I be without you' speech?" None of the emotion in Richie's voice crept into Macleod's. "Where you are, or where I left you, was with a head start, Richie. I told you the rules and I showed you the basics. You spent most of two years not doing what I told you or listening to me and chafing. I'm done telling you." "You weren't right all the time." "Maybe not, but I have enough things to wonder about, Richie, without putting you back on the list." "I'm not asking for anything special, Mac. I just don't think I deserve to be treated any worse than a perfect stranger. I could really be in a jam." *I must be out of my mind.* With exasperation more at himself than Richie, Macleod said, "Come aboard." They went below decks. Richie took a seat on the sofa and thumbed through the catalogue while Macleod served brandy in crystal balloons. They said nothing until Macleod was back in the leather chair. Richie leaned forward and put the catalogue on the coffee table, holding the brandy in both hands. "Someone is trying to set me up for something I didn't do." "Someone? Another immortal?" "I don't know. There's another immortal involved, but -- it's complicated." "Then maybe you'd better start a little further back." "I've been on the move since last we saw each other. I got to England a little while ago, and after seeing the sights I came to ground around Oxford. I thought I could look like a student, even if I never went to college." Macleod sipped. "Minding your own business?" The brandy left a pleasant heat in his throat, a tingle in his nostrils. "For the most part. I found a little room and set myself up in it. I had enough to money to last me a while. I did put some aside, Mac -- I didn't ignore all your advice. I was thinking I could find some sort of part time job once I was settled in." "And in the meantime you were...?" Richie drank before answering, more of a slug than a sip. "Finding my way around. Meeting some people, going to some parties. Trying to blend in." "What went wrong?" "Two nights ago I was at a party at someone's apartment. I met this girl there, and we seemed to hit it off." "Good party?" "Too good." Richie half-raised the brandy again. Then he set the balloon down on top of the catalogue. "This is where it gets a little foggy." When Macleod remained silent, Richie went on. "I remember both of us drinking, a lot, I guess, and going back to her flat. At least she said it was, and she had a key, but now I'm starting to wonder." "There's a lot that our immortality isn't proof against," Macleod said neutrally, knowing that was both a curse and a blessing. "What makes you think it wasn't hers?" "It didn't seem nice enough. I mean, it wasn't a dump, but it was pretty average looking and she was wearing really nice clothes, silk blouse, cashmere sweater. She had emerald earrings." *He has started paying closer attention.* "Anyway, I remember getting there, and I must have gotten undressed." Richie paused, his face flushed. "I wasn't wearing anything in the morning." "And what else?" "When I had time to think about it later I think the sound of the door slamming must have woken me up. I'm hung over, I'm not remembering anything clearly, and I'm sort of stumbling around the bedroom when all of a sudden I hear this banging, not on my door, but out in the street. I go to the window and this girl is standing out in the street, a sheet wrapped around her, banging on the door of the house across the street and screaming for help." "Was there anyone else in the apartment?" "That was my first thought. I take a quick look around while I'm pulling on my pants, but there's nobody there. So I run down into the street, in just my pants, and I go over to where she is, asking what's wrong." "That's when the door she's banging on opens," Macleod predicted. Richie picked up the brandy again and knocked back the rest of it. "You don't know the half of it. She hears me calling and turns around, and I can see that someone has been beating the hell out of this girl. Her face is one big bruise. I can see marks on her shoulders." "So you..." "So I'm shocked. I'm thinking maybe someone broke in and whacked her and she ran and somehow I slept through it. Then two things happen. She starts screaming that I did it. Then I feel The Buzz." "Another immortal." "And this guy who looks about eight feet tall and six feet wide comes out of the door she's been banging on." "Oh, boy." "Oh boy is right. He takes one look at her, and she's pointing at me saying I did it, and he calls me something I don't quite catch and takes a step back. He looks like he's reaching for something. I'm standing there in my pants and people are starting to look out their windows. So I run." "Did he chase you?" "He came out of the apartment with a cricket bat and chased me up the street, but I ran into traffic and I lost him." "And then?" "Then I went back to my room and grabbed a bag and ran some more and now here I am." "Where's your bag?" "I rented a car when I got into Paris. The bag is in the car. I parked it around the block." "Why did you come all the way to France?" "I didn't know what else to do. I figured someone was bound to call the police and I didn't want to be around when they got there." "Some sense in that." "I took a chance you'd be over here." "What do you expect me to do?" Richie tossed himself back in the chair and looked up at the ceiling. "I don't know." There were a lot of things Macleod could have said at that moment, cutting little comments about getting drunk and going to apartments with strange women, but Richie would have thought of all that already and saying it wouldn't change anything. Richie had larceny in his heart and he was not beyond putting a crowbar between a fool and his money, but Macleod didn't believe him capable of such a thing as he described. He sipped his drink. "Why do you think she said you did it?" "I have no idea," Richie answered, not taking his eyes off the ceiling. "Who do you think did it?" "You got me. I didn't even start to wonder about it till I got to Calais." "Not having done it is not enough, Richie. You can't leave this alone. Not unless you're planning on staying out of England for the next fifty odd years. Maybe Europe altogether." "I know. It's her word against mine, though. And..." "The immortal being there was probably just a coincidence, Richie." Macleod did not sound convinced. "Yeah, probably, but..." In answer to Macleod's unspoken question, Richie said, "This guy was scary, Duncan. He reminded me of you when you're really, really pissed." "If I had been in his place, I probably would have been upset, too." "When I was about to lose him, when I got through the traffic and he stopped, he shouted something." Richie sat up straight and his eyes met Macleod's. "Something not in English." Macleod leaned forward and waited. "It sounded like this." Richie went through it slowly, pausing after each sound. "Uh oh." "Uh oh? You sound like you just figured something out and I'm not going to like it." "I have, and you aren't. This would be a tall man with black hair?" "I think so -- I didn't stop to look too hard." "And you're sure that's what he said?" "Pretty sure. Meeting Annie Devlin made me pay more attention to things like that. What is it?" "It's Middle Welsh. It means 'There can be only one.' I think I know who this is. I might even have a picture we can look at. His name is Trevor Rhys-Jones." "And how long has he been around?" "Born around 1260. Made immortal during the English conquest of Wales -- he looks somewhere between twenty and thirty, right?" Richie nodded and gave a low, disconsolate whistle. "More than seven hundred years." Macleod nodded. "And he didn't spend them hiding out, either. Coming to the rescue of women in distress is his avocation." "And there she was, crying, beat up. That makes it sound like more of a set up." "That it does." "Another reason I said the apartment might not be hers. It might have been gotten especially for the purpose. Is he as scary as he looks?" "I would go out of my way," Macleod said, "to avoid crossing swords with this man." Another fretful whistle from Richie. "He is a very serious man. That's bad for right now, but it's good if we can get to talk to him and give him your side of it. He and I think the same way on a lot of things, and despite what he said he won't come after you just because you're immortal. Is there any chance this girl was just scared out of her mind? Or that she wasn't really beat up?" "I have no idea, Mac." "That's something to check in to, if we can. If we can convince him you didn't beat up this woman, your troubles with him are probably over." "And if we can't?" It was almost a minute before Macleod said, "Then you'll have made a very bad enemy." He got out of his chair and said, "Let's see if we can find that picture." # Saturday morning, Macleod left Richie standing in line waiting to get in for a tour of the Louvre, in keeping with the idea that Rhys-Jones, no matter his ire, would not be reckless enough to come after Richie in public. Richie had wanted to accompany him to see Dawson, but Macleod had insisted and Richie had acquiesced with little of his old recalcitrance. Richie was either learning something, or really scared. Macleod was glad that Richie did not seem to be aware of the events involving Dawson and himself. That probably had something to do with his giving in, as well. Joe Dawson was staying at the Hotel George Cinq. Macleod had dressed for the occasion. Richie's jeans and motorcycle jacket would have raised quite a few eyebrows in the lobby of one of Paris's most exclusive hotels. As it was, the desk manager gave a millimetric nod of approval to Macleod before informing him that Monsieur Dawson was in Suite 202. Dawson was at the door when Macleod got there. "To what do I owe the pleasure?" "This is business." Macleod said. "Can I come in?" Dawson stepped aside and gestured into the room, closing the door after Macleod came inside. There were open suitcases on the bed; clothes and personal items in them. "You'll have to excuse the disarray. I was in the middle of packing. I'm flying home today." "This won't take long," Macleod promised. "Do you people have anything on Trevor Rhys-Jones?" Dawson raised his eyebrows and smiled through his salt- and-pepper beard. "Maybe." "I don't want any sordid details." "On Rhys-Jones? There probably aren't any. Not since the Second World War." "I just want to know where he's been recently." "How recently?" "I don't care about anything before this summer." "I ought to be able to accommodate you." Dawson went over to the desk in the suite and unpacked a portable computer from its case. He sat down heavily in the chair and laid his cane aside. "Going home for Thanksgiving?" "Which home? Only one of them is in a place where Thanksgiving matters." Dawson shrugged and switched the computer on. It was ready to take commands within a minute. While he typed he asked, "I wouldn't think you and he would have a lot to do with each other." "It's a small world," Duncan said, moving so he could look over Dawson's shoulder at the screen. "Move around long enough, and you meet everybody." "I downloaded a database refresh only a couple of days ago." The screen coalesced into a question-and-answer display. "Rhys-Jones has been a visiting instructor at Magdalene College. Helping them read up on their classics. Wonder whose texts he uses?" "Oxford," said Macleod, with more feeling then he intended, none of Dawson's jocularity. "Does he know about your organization?" "From what I understand, he either doesn't know or doesn't care. He's at least heard rumors. He hasn't been all that hard to keep track of. Kind of a stay-at-home, compared to you." "Sorry to complicate things for you," said Macleod. Dawson's query had been specific -- the screen showed nothing more than Dawson had told him. "Thanks for the tip." "Sure there isn't more I can tell you?" "Oh, I'm quite sure there is," Macleod laughed. "It's just that I always feel like I'm talking to a lawyer when I talk to you. Every minute costs me something." He turned to go. "You know, Macleod, if you treat me like an enemy this can't work. They'll find someone to replace me and you'll have to start all over again." Macleod was walking fast. He was out the door by the time Dawson got to his feet. He checked his watch and decided he had plenty of time to kill before having to catch up with Richie. He used a courtesy phone in the hotel lobby to call British Airways. He changed the reservation he made for purposes of getting to the auction to a flight leaving this evening, then changed his hotel booking accordingly. Then he skimmed international editions of two London newspapers, but there was no mention of an incident near Oxford University. It had been a long shot. By eleven o'clock he was waiting in front of the Louvre. Richie came out at ten minutes after eleven. Macleod noticed him freeze and look around carefully as the auras of their immortality brushed against each other. He looked like a rabbit in someone's headlights until Macleod waved. He trotted across the street and said, "What did you find out?" "Rhys-Jones is teaching at Oxford," said Macleod as they started to walk toward the Citroen. "So that was him." "You haven't changed your mind about the picture?" "No -- I'm pretty sure it's him. So now what?" "So now I try to talk to him. I had to go to London anyway." "And what about me?" "You stay put. Get on the boat and relax. There's a little French man called Maurice that might turn up. He's off visiting his cousins but they can't stand each other. If he comes around keep him out of the wine closet and get him to cook something for you." "I appreciate this, Duncan." "Let's get something straight, Richie. I'm going to try and get this misunderstanding between you and Rhys-Jones straightened out. I'm not looking beyond that. If I catch sight of you before I come back to Paris I'm just going to assume you decided to handle it yourself. No discussion." "Okay." "No arguments, no 'Mac-I-only-wanted.'" They were at the Citroen now. "Okay, okay!" "And this is not a step back to the way things used to be." Macleod opened his door and pushed the button to unlock the passenger door. "When this is smoothed over you go your way and I go mine and I'd appreciate it if we didn't cross paths again quite so soon." "Right. I have only one question." "Which is?" "Suppose while you're over there looking for him, he's over here looking for me?" Macleod considered this while he put the key in the ignition. "You might try getting him into a church to talk." =========================================================================