Chapter 4: Who's Who
Perhaps because it was a Friday evening, The Griffin was crowded when the group from the Pendragon Institute made its way into the handsome interior, shortly after five thirty. As the upscale pub was a popular watering hole with the neighborhood's museum personnel, it was not uncommon to find curators, technicians, or shop employees from institutions like the Metropolitan Museum or the Guggenheim seated at the polished wooden bar or tucked into the booths that lined the walls. The Institute staffers settled themselves at a group of free-standing tables and ordered their drinks. Several people recognized them, and waved. Two or three of the female patrons smiled and raised their glasses in Arthur's direction.
This sort of thing happened on a regular basis, in places like The Griffin and elsewhere. In addition to being burdened with his reputation as a sex god among museum directors – at least this had been his reputation before the appearance of Merlin Emrys - Arthur Pendragon was generally well liked and admired, and was viewed as the consummate professional. He was never late for an appointment. He ran his museum like a ship of the line from the old British navy. He was friendly and accessible to his employees, but remained remote enough that none of them would have dared to take advantage of him in any way (except Morgana). If he occasionally bullied his staff it was in a good-natured way, and nobody saw fit to object to it (except Merlin). He was courteous to the outside world, clever, a good scholar, respected by his peers. Furthermore, his good looks were legendary, and his sexual conquests among museum professionals of other institutions (never of his own, until Merlin) had been numerous, both female and male, and not one of them could complain that he had treated them badly. When word spread around the museum community that he had taken up with one of his young employees, there had been shock and a lot of gossip. Fortunately this had died down; people had accepted his attachment to his junior conservator as fact, and moved on to some other local scandal or other.
The Assistant Director had managed to keep his relationship a secret from the world outside the Pendragon Institute for less than three months, until the so-called "Valiant Incident" at the Metropolitan Museum. After that, everything had come out in the open, and Arthur had done nothing to deny it. At work he maintained his professional stance towards Merlin, treating him much as he did the rest of the staff. They did not touch, or make any direct references to their connection whilst on the grounds of the Institute. This bolstered Arthur's standing as a responsible head of staff, and also made it easier for Uther to ignore a situation that could hardly have made him happy.
Gwen and Lance had no scruples at all about behaving in an affectionate manner in front of their colleagues, although they kept this to a minimum at work. In places like The Griffin they were quite happy to sit close together in one of the booths or at a table, playing occasional footsie or cheerfully linking hands. On this particular evening, Lance had his arm around Gwen's waist, and Will was scowling at them and begging them not to start snogging in public. Gaius, Leon, and the Assistant Director were leaning against the bar, arguing about the most recent World Cup match, whilst Morgana and Merlin watched them from separate small tables across the room.
"As Will's hosted a bachelor party for Lance," Morgana said to Gwen in a loud stage whisper, "I think it's only fair that I host your bridal shower."
"Oh, lovely!" cried Gwen ecstatically. "And no, Lance, we wouldn't dream of hiring male strippers."
Lance snorted derisively.
"How was your little talk with Uther?" Gwen asked Morgana solicitously, and the senior curator groaned.
"Impossible man!" she rapped out in a low voice. "But it wasn't as bad as it could have been."
"Does he know we're getting married?" interrupted Lance. "I'm hoping he'll give us a raise as a wedding present."
"Ha ha," Gwen intoned. "Keep dreaming."
"Or a bonus at the very least."
"He mentioned a possible gift to the Institute, from Cornelius Sigan." Morgana went on. "That was something of a surprise."
"Oh," said Gwen, surprised. "He must mean one of his tapestries. I can't believe it! He's such an odd duck. Merlin! Can you imagine?"
"I don't know anything about the man," Merlin said, almost impatiently, and minutes later, when Arthur returned to their table and sat down facing him, Merlin turned a level stare in his direction and murmured, "Now are you going to tell me about this Sigan fellow? Is he one of your father's mates?"
"Not exactly," replied Arthur, grimacing. "Not one of his mates, no, but they know each other. Sigan's quite a bit younger. He founded Raven Air - you know, the airline - about ten years ago, and it's made him very rich."
"Raven Air...oh, of course. The one with the huge blackbird stenciled on its airplanes."
"He's got a gloomy Victorian pile of a mansion and some flashy trophy wife who used to be a lingerie model."
"And he collects art? He owns, erm, tapestries?"
"He has a wide-ranging collection, actually," Arthur mused. "Everything from African sculpture and Cambodian stone buddhas to medieval French and Flemish tapestries. Some truly excellent, most of them well-published."
"Why is it you don't like him?"
"Going in for mind-reading now, are you?" Arthur asked drily.
"I can tell you don't like him...you're not always difficult to read," said Merlin, stubbornly, and Arthur sighed.
"I can't say I know him well, in fact I definitely don't," he murmured, lowering his voice so that the others could not hear. "When I was fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, Father took me with him to auctions at Sotheby's and Christies, and every now and then we saw Sigan there. He always spoke to us with courtesy, but I didn't like the...the way he looked at me. There was, as the Yanks say, something sketchy about it. Creepy. As though he was a little boy on Christmas eve, and I was the sugarplum in his stocking that he wanted to get his hands on."
"Oh," said Merlin. "Ugh. You mean he fancied you."
"I don't know, exactly," Arthur replied, shrugging. "He never tried to chat me up, never tried to have anything on, but of course I was underage."
"So you're worried about what he might do now?"
"Not worried," said Arthur, rather dismissively. "I mean, he's a bit scrawny, like you, so...I could thrash him if I were blindfolded. And it isn't likely that he's still...that is, I don't even know that he wanted..."
"Who wouldn't want you?" Merlin said simply, without thinking, and then blushed to the roots of his hair.
"Hmm, yes, you have got a point there," Arthur answered loftily, but Merlin could see that he had blushed also.
"Prat," he mumbled, and the Assistant Director gave him a look. It would probably be a very warm night.
Their table shook as Morgana dropped her heavy handbag on top of it, and then Morgana herself dropped into a chair next to Arthur.
"Whatever are you two talking about?" she asked, and then, without preamble, "you're both as red as beets."
"If they gave awards for an absence of tact," the Assistant Director said stonily, "you would win every year, hands down. As it happens, I was telling Merlin about Cornelius Sigan."
"I knew nothing whatsoever about him," Merlin added equitably.
"Odd fellow," Morgana said, raising one eyebrow. "I met his wife once, at a dinner. Gorgeous creature, but scarcely a brain in her head. So, have you scheduled your flights yet?"
"No," Arthur replied, staring into his Guinness. "We'll be spending a few days in…in Ealdor, before our week in London. Just don't say anything about that to Father, Morgana, or I will be obligated to slice and dice your credit cards into little bits and flush them down the toilet."
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A little less than two hours later, Arthur was pacing the length of his study, a street map of the London area in one hand and a larger, wider-ranging road map in the other. Merlin had peered into the study earlier, and seeing the grim look on his Assistant Director's face, had wisely retreated.
Arthur finally deposited both maps on his desk, and pulled a heavy scrapbook that had once belonged to Uther out of his bookshelf. He carried it to the living room, where he placed it on the coffee table with a thump, waking Merlin, who had drowsed off on the sofa.
"I've something to show you, Sleeping Beauty," he announced. "So get up and pay attention."
He began flipping through the scrapbook, sneezing loudly as dust rose from the pages. Merlin chuckled and handed him a handkerchief.
"Here you are, Goldilocks," he murmured. "Now, what is it you're showing me?"
"Don't call me Goldilocks," snapped Arthur. "Look…here's a photo of Cornelius Sigan. Of course you could find something more up-to-date online."
Merlin restrained himself from asking Arthur whether he would prefer to be called one of The Three Bears, and turned his eyes to the newspaper article pasted to the page. It was topped by a slightly yellowing photograph of a somewhat younger Uther, standing between a smiling, thin, and hollow-eyed man, and a third gentleman, distinguished and dark haired with wire-framed eyeglasses.
The caption beneath the image read: "British collectors Uther Pendragon and Cornelius Sigan lend masterpieces to the Metropolitan Museum in New York."
"That's the former director of the Met," said Arthur, pointing to the dark haired, bespectacled figure. "And there's Sigan," he added, his finger below the grainy image of the hollow-eyed collector. Sigan was obviously younger than either Uther or the Metropolitan's former director; he was gaunt-faced, with a blondish Van Dyke beard and moustache, and a broad grin that could be read as either open and friendly or sinister.
"Really?" said Merlin, yawning and rubbing his eyes. "Does he always look totally gormless?"
"He's not gormless, you twit," grumbled Arthur, shutting Uther's scrapbook and pushing his fair hair back from his brow with an exasperated look. "He's a sly fox. Art dealers either love him or hate him. Last year he bought a rare sixteenth-century tapestry of heroes from the Trojan War, and let the Boston Museum borrow it. Perhaps you saw a photo of it in their bulletin."
Merlin recalled the photograph of the tapestry quite clearly. A magnificent piece, depicting the mythical warriors Achilles, Hector, Paris, and Agamemnon (all clad in late medieval armor) against a background of flowering plants. He smiled at the memory and saw Arthur's eyes go to the unbuttoned collar of his shirt for the second or third time that day.
"Stop yawning, Merlin," commanded Arthur as his young conservator stood up and stretched. "And honestly…you needn't look at me as though I was about to tear your clothes off and ravish you."
"Well, aren't you?" Merlin replied matter-of-factly as he picked up the scrapbook and flipped through the pages.
"No," said Arthur firmly. "Or don't you believe me?"
"No," Merlin answered, putting the scrapbook down. "You can say what you please, but you know you're going to do it anyway."
Arthur folded his arms and glared.
"I could ravish you, if you'd prefer," Merlin went on helpfully, but three seconds later Arthur had him against the wall and was attacking his neck, one hand in Merlin's unruly dark hair, the other pulling his shirt open so that buttons dropped to the floor, rolling in all directions.
"Hey," Merlin protested feebly. "That's my best shirt!"
"Merlin," Arthur said in his most dangerous voice.
"What did I tell you," Merlin began philosophically, before Arthur effectively shut him up.