Show your support by donating any amount. (Note: We are still technically a for-profit company, so your
contribution is not tax-deductible.)
PayPal Acct: 
Feedback: 
Donate to VoyForums (PayPal):
| [ Login ] [ Contact Forum Admin ] [ Main index ] [ Post a new message ] [ Search | Check update time ] |
Disclaimer: Alex Krycek and Walter Graham are the property of 1013 Productions and Rysher: Panzer/Davis, respectively. No money is made, nor infringement intended. Walter's quotes are from Shakespeare, Emily Bronte, and the Bible, and thus are common domain. Aidan Logan is mine, and quoted one line from Pratchett, who's not common domain. Alex and Aidan met in a snippet I posted earlier, from a story that simply won't work and I'm still salvaging.... Then they insisted on both showing up here. Sorry.
Rated: PG for language and mild violence Written for the X-Files Lyric Wheel; the lyrics from tarsh can be found at the end.
A Fool & His Art
Rain sheeted across the road, whipped on by a cold wind off the harbor. A storm system was rolling up from the southwest, shouldering up the Atlantic coast with a freight of rain, snow, and ice pellets that could lash the skin off your bones. If I tied a man out in it, he'd die before morning. Done right, I wouldn't even need to hide the body.
At least up here I didn't need to watch for Mulder showing up where he was least wanted or expected. In Canada, his badge held no authority. Better yet, I knew he was on the west side of the continent, called in to assist with bear-maulings that looked more like the work of a pissed-off sasquatch or a werewolf. Mulder kept the Consortium nervous and me moving fast. He might not appreciate that properly, but I did.
I'd spent the afternoon wandering the harbor front, getting a feel for the area. It felt like a fishing town made good, a port city and provincial capital where the sea still ruled the land. The civil servants and students walking the streets were descended from sailors and fishermen, used to the sea's whims and Canadian winters, forces which bred odd streaks and strains of practicality, near-paranoia, and superstition. A coffee here and a beer there convinced me that the locals had fire, and whisky, in their blood. In 'inclement' weather like this, people turned fey, raising a glass, making a toast, telling three thousand year old stories as the hours slipped away. Why not? It was a smarter thing to do than risk life, or extremities, in the cold and the wet. It preserved both their heritage, and the balls of those who wanted to pass on that heritage.
Smart of them, and useful to me. It let me get a feel for that section of the city quickly, and it gave me some gossip about my target. Walter Graham was well-known in the pubs for declaiming poetry (some of it good) and for associating with, and sometimes sponsoring, up-and-coming actors, artists, and musicians (all of them good; apparently, his taste improved once he had some perspective).
He probably did buy the painting because he liked it. Sounded like searching for it might take a little while, however. Oh, well. If he showed up, I'd deal with him.
* ~ * ~ * ~ *
Aidan crouched in the shadow of the wall, gloved hands exposed to the light, and tried another key in the lock.
Timing the theft had been simple enough -- she'd scheduled her trip to Halifax around Claudia Jardine's concert schedule. Walter couldn't resist going to Claudia's performance tonight because he still thought that he could find the perfect argument to convince Claudia to let him run her career, her training, and her life. Unfortunately for Walter, Claudia knew that what he wanted was reflected glory. Unfortunately for all of them, right now, Claudia wanted her music more than she wanted her life, and she considered immortality to be an artistic block.
Finding her own reason to live was Claudia's problem, however. Aidan was here to retrieve a book and rather than leave Walter a copy, she was prepared to take every bit of data storage he had, from journals to hard drives.
The third ring of keys finally turned in the lock and Aidan stood, slipped inside, and secured the door behind her again. No alarm sounded and she didn't feel the distinctive chime of another immortal. As she moved to the window to be sure the drapes were securely closed, something sharp poked her in the shoulder.
Aidan turned, flicking on her light to see what she'd walked into. A suit of armor seemed likely, knowing Walter's tastes, but there was nothing next to her. Something moved at the edge of her vision and Aidan turned farther, but the world was turning, too. She saw a man in black standing there, gun in hand. He was the right height to be Walter, but the build was wrong. The world spun her down to the floor before she could remember where she'd seen him before.
* ~ * ~ * ~ *
Even a thief will usually make a noise when shot. The silence was my first clue that I was dealing with a professional. The way she tried to get to me despite the drugs and the change in light was the second.
Her face was the third.
I stripped coat and sword off her, took the knives from her boots, and used a plastic locking strip to tie her hands behind her back. By the time I had her and the dart secured, she was starting to revive from what was supposed to be an hour-long does of anesthetic for a three hundred pound bear. I'd seen her recover from enough blood loss to kill someone Skinner's size, so that wasn't really a surprise.
Having her here was, but it might be salvageable. I pulled Aidan Logan -- or Sunny MacPhee or Phoebe Syn, whoever she really was -- up into an armchair to finish recovering while I finished searching the front rooms. Why not? She couldn't pay off her debt to me if she was dead and I wasn't in a mood to clean up from a decapitation.
The art I needed to retrieve wasn't in the front hall, the parlor, or the dining room. By the time I'd made sure the frame around the clown trio wasn't the one I needed, she was awake and alert again and watching me.
I spoke first. "Why were you breaking in? To fight Graham?"
She'd been evaluating me, watchful but not disturbed, until I asked that. "Dear gods, no. Walter in my mind would drive me mad inside a week." She was frowning though. "Why are you here?"
The last time we'd run into each other Aidan had used one of my practice sites for a real fight, leaving pools of blood, two very dead mercenaries, and a temporarily dead opponent to take the blame. It also left me shy one safe place to practice. She still owed me for that, but seeing her here did explain all the swords, daggers, and pole-arms. Weapons cache, not art. "What are you here for?"
She was still watching me, but that question made her angry: muscles in her shoulders and legs went tight and her gaze sharpened. Being knocked out and tied up hadn't gotten the reaction that did. Interesting. "Walter has a book of mine."
Good. That made it simpler. I'd half-expected to hear that we were after the same painting for different reasons. "A book?" She was wearing dark clothes, and she'd had a Thinsulate-lined leather coat and a selection of keys that would get her pulled in by most cops if the sword didn't. "You're going to a lot of trouble for it. A signed first edition he won't return it?"
"No." Her voice was flat, warning me off, as she repeated, "What are you here for?"
"What, another truce?" I smiled and reminded her, "You still owe me, remember. It is still Aidan, isn't it?"
"Yes, it's Aidan. I was thinking of a second, equally short alliance. I owe you for the loss of your practice site, not for the mutual assistance. You got dinner and a ride back to safety out of it." She cocked her head to study me. "I don't owe you for taking the dagger out of my leg, either; you received information in exchange. Alex still, or Aleksandr?"
"Alex will do." Asking about the Russian would confirm it as fast as ignoring it, and take more energy. She was right about the information, too, and had figured out somehow that I dealt in that. She was professional enough to break in and control her temper over getting caught. She'd just turn the place inside out another time if I didn't cut her loose now.
On the other hand, she hadn't looked for me in the last eight years. Her word probably was good. And the backgrounds I'd traced on her so far involved writing, research, antiques acquisition, farming, herbalist, and military intelligence. "I need to retrieve a painting. Framed, it's eleven inches by fourteen; the frame is inlaid with polished granite, dark green. Subject is Orpheus reaching a hand back for Eurydice, still facing forward." Aidan just nodded. "What does your book look like?"
"We might as well hunt both at once, yes. The book's six inches wide, twelve inches high, three inches thick. Pale cream leather binding with a reddish blotch on the back -- spotted cow, not blood. There's no title on the spine nor deckling on the pages. Hand-bound, handmade, not modern. Handwritten in Gaelic. I'll need his jump drives, disks, and hard drives as well. Walter's likely been working on it."
Well, that explained the size of the bag she'd dropped, but none of it was anything I needed. Good enough. "Turn around." I cut her hands free and indicated the pile of weapons and coat and bag across the coffee table from her. "We'll start upstairs at the back and work our way out."
"Certainly." Aidan rearmed herself quickly and tugged her gloves back into place.
"His library's in the front room, but his office must be upstairs. We'll yank the hard drive first and check the shelves on the way out." I waved her up the stairs first
"A reasonable plan." She chuckled and added, "Still like French food?"
Photographs, paintings, and theater masks lined the stairway wall, and I couldn't afford to ignore any of it. It might be what I needed. But I couldn't afford to run myself empty, either. Hmm. "You buying?"
"If we find my book?" She was checking the walls, too. Useful. "Certainly."
* ~ * ~ * ~ *
Aidan found her book in, of course, the last place Walter should have left it: in his study, on his desk, open next to his computer. The newly acquired painting hung above and to the left of the desk, where someone sitting in the chair could look up to admire it or take inspiration from it, although it was a little subtle for Walter's usual ideal of a muse.
When Aidan looked up from her book, Alex was examining the painting with a pen-light and seemed pleased with what he found. She hadn't really thought he was after the painting, lovely though it was; his focus on the frame confirmed it, but she had no intention of asking what he was after. Some things were safer not to know.
She hit three keys to shut the computer down and carefully stowed her book away, muttering in Gaelic about the notes he'd made in the margins.
"Ever seen anyone flexible enough to do that?" Alex stowed the painting in his pack, shrugged into it, and began searching Walter's desk for flash drives, CDs, and zip disks. He piled them on the desk blotter as he found them.
Aidan kept rifling Walter's papers, so it took her a moment to connect Alex's question with her own comments. Then she laughed. "No, actually, I haven't. Why?"
He shrugged. "Just wondered."
Aidan glanced up, met a bland expression, and shook her head. "Wretch. If I'm not asking about minor things like how you got past the alarm, or what happened to your arm, or what's in that picture, why are you dancing around my names and age?"
Alex flashed her a grin. "For the fun of dealing with another professional. Seriously. Is that actually your book?"
Aidan paused, startled. "Why wouldn't it be?"
Alex said patiently, "Because Graham knows you want it back?"
"Ah. That." Aidan started hunting through his papers again. "Yes, it's mine. And leaving it out on his desk is... very much like Walter." She sighed. "I take it he doesn't know you're looking for the painting?"
"You're assuming it's not his work," Alex pointed out and handed over a stack of papers. "Here, I think he'd been copying it."
"Damn the man." Aidan pulled the computer tower out and opened it up with less care than she'd have used for her own system, muttering about, "Serve him right if I just scorched it...."
"Only if you want to burn the whole building," Alex pointed out, stuffing the flash drives and disks in her backpack. "Need a hand?"
"No, it's going fast enough." Aidan dropped the last screw and yanked the side panel, then asked, "If you were a flamboyant actor, with aspirations of bard-hood, where would you hide your work?"
"It doesn't sound like I'd hide it at all. Did you mean Bard of Avon or traveling singer?"
"Both, really." The ribbon cable didn't want to come free; Aidan shrugged and used a knife. "There. And I take your point, but I'll still be happier if we check the library, I'm afraid." She reached up for her pack, pulled out a thick plastic bag, and inserted the drive, then wrapped the bag in a square of quilted blanket. The whole bundle went into the pack and she stood up. "Anything else you need here, Alex?"
"In here?" He shook his head. "No."
His pack was on his back, but his jacket was partially unzipped. Aidan had her suspicions about what Alex did for a living, and what kind of instincts and edge it required. She kept her own coat loose. Just in case.
* ~ * ~ * ~ *
We got downstairs, reset the alarm, relocked the door, and got out. I was even starting to consider where to claim my dinner before she stiffened. I knew our luck had been too good, but I couldn't tell what had alerted her. It didn't really matter. I faded into the darkness and watched her step out into the light.
"Thieves! Knaves!" Graham was in full voice as he came up the sidewalk. "I'll use you for my mirth, yea for my laughter--" He broke off when he got a good look at Aidan, then said, "Oh, it's you."
I looked him over from my shadows. He moved like a man who could be dangerous, but he wasn't paranoid enough. I memorized him for future reference anyway: just shy of six feet, wavy hair a little too red (henna, maybe?), short beard and mustache, inclined to strike poses. He had a good, carrying voice even when he wasn't playing to an audience. If I ever had another job in his locale, he might make a very good distraction.
"Of course it's me," Aidan said flatly, shifting her balance to her back foot. Graham might know it for cat stance, if he hadn't stuck entirely to stage fighting. "Don't look so surprised. Do you have any idea how tempted I am to tattoo your worst verse on those fair-when-shaven cheeks, Walter Graham?"
He straightened up; maybe he did know martial arts. "You wouldn't--" He reconsidered. "Yes, you would. If you can, of course. I said I'd list you as co-creator, unreasonably generous of me though that was."
"'Co-creator?' You chancre-riddled, pox-muddled excuse for a scrivener--" that was the word that gutted him, too -- "how dare you use my journal for your folly of a play?"
"Now gods stand up for bastards! I bought it, thank you, and I didn't have to tell you I have it--"
"You were more afraid of what would happen if I heard after, you mean," Aidan said flatly.
"And I invited you to collaborate... did you just impugn my honor?"
"Your honor has ne'er been pugned." She watched him, then added mildly, "Pratchett. Do read something recent, why don't you? You didn't ask me to collaborate, Walter, you were trying to inveigle more details."
"Your voice was never soft, gentle, and low--"
"An excellent thing in a woman," Aidan said flatly. She flexed her hands. "Enough, Walter. I heard about the vow Duncan thought you'd sworn regarding Claudia and given that, I can't be bothered to ask for your word. I have retrieved what's mine, but I do know your memory. Should you ever attempt to publish, produce, or in any media or form publicize my works--"
"You'll challenge me?" Graham pulled a blade from his coat, his sweeping bow and hand flourish leaving him on guard and facing her. I revised my opinion on his fighting. He was fast, accurate, and he didn't leave his wrist or arm exposed. Not bad.
Aidan shrugged and said pleasantly, "Blades wouldn't hurt you enough, Walter. No, if you publish anything of mine, I'll establish an annual prize for whomever has played the most humiliating prank on you during the previous calendar year. Amanda would be happy to try for it. So might Cory, or Ish, or that old friend of yours, Jake Falstaff?"
Graham's eyes widened, but he never let his blade waver. "A hit, a palpable hit! You wouldn't." He straightened up, indignant and worried.
"Jake would do it for free, probably, but a prize will inspire him." Aidan watched him, lips curved in something that wasn't a smile.
"The attempt and not the deed confounds? I think not! So be it." He gestured her forward with his off hand. "Be bloody, bold, and resolute! Lay on, MacDuff, and damn'd be he who first cries, 'Hold, enough!'" He stepped back and added, "No coward soul is mine."
Aidan gave him an interested look. "That's a new one. Who wrote it?"
"Emily Bronte." He drew himself up, ready to take offense, or challenge. "Are you going to draw or do I cut you down where you stand?"
Aidan chuckled. "Why should I? I can run faster than you can, Walter."
"Ah, but I can brand you a coward." He smiled, and half-bowed. "My mouth is smoother than oil, and my end is bitter as wormwood, sharp as a two-edged sword."
He waved his sword one more time, a figure eight that flashed street light everywhere. It wasn't late enough that no one would notice this, and besides, I was hungry. He flourished his blade again, and I holstered my patience, pulled my gun, and shot him. Twice.
Aidan stared, then said mildly, "Well, the feathers do complement his coat." She sighed and waited until Walter fell over -- still trying for one more comment -- then dragged him into his doorway. "Can you unlock this again, please? We can't leave him out here. The police would investigate."
"Leave the darts in," I suggested. "If he forgets your hands are empty, he'll still have the reminder."
"That might help, yes." Aidan put a pillow under his head, and pulled an extra coat over him, but we left him on the floor of his entryway, and locked the door behind us again. I didn't tell her that I'd left the alarm set to go off immediately. I was saving that for any argument over the check.
Aidan shot me a sideways look two blocks away. "What's going to happen when he revives?"
"He's going to get a wake-up call."
"Ah." Aidan chuckled. "I do love other professionals... so? French food? Or pub?"
I shrugged. "Good and plentiful."
"I'll follow my nose." She chuckled. "It gets me into trouble, surely it can find us something that smells right?"
"So who's Jake Falstaff?" I grinned at her. "And I take it Graham's plays are as overblown as his challenges?"
"Jake's a decent actor, all mischief on the surface and sharp eyes under that, and a fine poet when he cares to write. Much to Walter's dismay, Jake prefers to pile up experience before writing, won't be hectored, and is faster with a pair of knives than Walter is with a sword." Aidan sighed. "Walter does have a genius for spotting talent, but he's no idea how to handle them when he finds them. He's browbeaten himself for years without producing anything of note. You'd think he'd figure out that browbeating won't work on proven talents, either."
Aidan glanced over at me, hands stuffed in her pockets now that we were away from Graham. "Regardless. The help is appreciated." Her smile was amused and embarrassed. Over the poetry, I suppose. What the hell, I'd helped Mulder with stranger things both before and after I left the FBI.
I just laughed and ducked my head against the wind-blown scatter of ice. "You still owe me dinner."
- - - finis - - -
Comments, Commentary, & Miscellanea:
Walter Graham is from the Highlander episode "Timeless" and, if anything, I toned down his use of quotes. Honest. Scary, huh?
Quotes are from, in order:
Shakespeare: Julius Caesar, Act IV, scene iii; King Lear, Act I, scene ii; Terry Pratchett's Jingo; King Lear Act V, scene iii; Hamlet, Act V, scene ii; and Macbeth , Act II, scene ii. Emily Bronte's quote is from Last Lines. The Biblical quote is from Proverbs 5:3-4.
Lyrics kindly provide by tarsh; lines used in whole or in part marked with an *.
Giant
Stan Rogers
Cold wind in the harbour and rain on the road *
Wet promise of winter brings recourse to coal
There's fire in the blood and fog on Bras d'Or *
The giant will rise with the moon
T'was the same ancient fever in Isles of the Blest
That our fathers brought with them when they 'went west'
It's the blood of the Druids that never will rest
The giant will rise with the moon.
So wash the glass down! move with the tide!
Young friends and old whiskey are burning inside *
Crash the grass down! Fingal will rise
With the moon
In inclement weather the people are fey *
Three thousand year stories as the night slips away *
Remembering Fingal feels not far away
The giant will rise with the moon
The wind's in the north, there be new moon tonight
And we have no Circle to dance in it's sight
So light a torch, bring the bottle, and build the fire bright
The giant will rise with the moon!