AN: All familiar Highlander characters (Connor, Duncan, Darius, and
Grayson) belong to someone other than me.Rysher or Garamont, I suppose.
Karolek, Erich, and others are mine. I confess that the history of the
Russian Imperial family is not accurate.
This is set in an alternate reality created by Harry Turtledove in his book series "The Great War" and "American Empire," which assume that the South has won the Civil War and that the United States and Confederate States are two different countries. WWI has raged between the allied powers of the US and Imperial Germany, who have defeated the CSA, France, Canada, and Great Britain. The Depression is limping along, and tensions are mounting between the two victors of the Great War. The Jacobsens and the setting belong to Mr. Turtledove. For more information on the setting of the story, I suggest reading the books or visiting the Del Ray site courtesy of Random House.
Basically, I'm stuck at the point where the story ends thus far. I don't know where exactly to go next and would welcome some ideas. Flames will be tossed out with the bat found in my apartment toilet.
Washington, DC 1935
The coffee shop was much as he remembered it being when he'd come through Washington shortly after the Great War. Much of the world around him had changed. Washington was no longer a city of rubble, shelled to within an inch of its life. The sense of danger from falling bombs and rifle shots had faded away, replaced with a newer, different sort of danger. This was more the danger of not having money enough to put food on the table, pay rent on a flat, to survive from day to day. The fear that came with falling employment and failing banks.
Not much about Karolek Konstantinovich Romanov had changed in the past 18 years since the end of the Great War. Oh sure, he'd let his close cropped corn-silk-blond hair grow into a ponytail again. His name was different, he'd gone by Romanov during the war but was calling himself Nikailov now. He was no longer carrying a sniper's rifle or wearing Captain's bars on his shoulders. Indeed, he'd severed all ties to his Great War identity. He was pretending to be his own son, and all his papers declared him to be 18, younger than his physical age of 21, and much younger than his actual age of 416.
His long blond hair was tied back from his head by a simple leather string, revealing the same lightly tanned skin and steel gray eyes. Karolek didn't look a day older than he had when he'd been assigned as a sniper to Colonel Morrell in Tennessee from his posting in the Rocky Mountains in Canada, and he never would.
Indeed, because of that one quirk in his physiology, he could no longer contact anyone from that life. It would be a little too obvious that the boy sniper hadn't aged at all in the almost 20 years since the war, since everyone else he'd served with would be on their way to mid-40's by now. A painful fact, but one that had to be dealt with, which is why his war ribbons and medals were packed away in a box instead of on his coat, the way many other war veterans wore theirs. Packed away with medals and decorations, mementos of his many past lives and past wars.
After the war he'd met with Connor, who'd served his war as an artillery man on the Roanoke front, at this little coffee shop. Connor had gone back to New York, Karolek had gone wandering in the vast expanses of the west. With a new set of papers, he'd come back to Washington, with idle plans of going back to Russia to see what remained of his boyhood home in Moscow. With the world the way it was now, however, he wondered whether that was a wise plan or not. Nikolai held a tenuous grip on power at most these days, and visiting a royal palace was asking for trouble. Still, he'd not seen the tsar since he was still the 20 year old tsarevich, and he'd never met Nikolai's son, the new tsarevich Alexei. Maybe a trip would be in order, soon.
A tiny bell jingled, announcing his entry to the shop. He found himself a seat at an open table in the corner. The woman who ran the shop..Nellie, if he remembered correctly, came up and asked him for his order.
"Bacon and egg sandwich and some coffee, light, please ma'am." Karolek requested, offering the woman what was supposed to be a charming smile. From his experience here in the past, he got the feeling that there wasn't much that Nellie liked about men in general. Best to be as polite and cheerful as he possibly could.
"Coming right up." Nellie replied brusquely, heading for the back.
Sitting one table over, Clara Jacobsen cocked her head slightly to look at the young man in the corner. The man's accent, which defied classification as either Yankee or Confederate, had the faintest touches of something else she couldn't quite identify. Living where she did, and doing her homework in the coffee shop, she'd heard plenty of accents, but the odd touches from this one she couldn't place. It sounded vaguely European, which for a Washington DC coffee shop was exotic. The man was young and handsome, with unfashionably long blond hair tied back loosely from his face. On anyone else, Clara decided, this would look silly or wrong, but somehow it seemed to fit the mysterious stranger. He had been wearing a long dark coat which reached all the way to mid calf when he'd entered, this was now carefully hung from a peg in the wall, along with a cloth newsboy's hat. This left him dressed in dark pants and a white button down shirt. He looked young, and the fact that he was neatly dressed and eating in a coffee house suggested that he probably had some money or a job, rare for these days.
In truth, despite the market crash, Karolek had no reason to worry about money and likely never would. The market had been too questionable for him to put much money into it, so most of his substantial fortune was in gold in a few strategically placed vaults around the world. And, of course, there was the small matter of the estate and palace that accompanied his title in Imperial Russia.
Smiling lightly at the young girl who had been watching him, Karolek turned his attention to the papers he'd brought into the coffee house. Nellie returned in short order with his food and coffee, placing it down on the table. "Here you are."
"Thank you, ma'am." Karolek said with another smile, nodding his head politely. He placed the coins for his meal on the table, so that the woman would be able to see that he had no plans on stiffing her for the meal.
Nellie nodded distantly at the young man with the strange accent, before moving on to deal with a group with a slightly more garden variety one. A table of men with Georgian accents were in one of the other corners, most of whom were working on their second cups of coffee and finishing up the remnants of their breakfasts.
As she was moving forward to ask if any of them were interested in a third cup, she heard one of the men, an older man with a purple heart ribbon on his jacket, tell one of his friends, "There was a man who ran a cobbler's place just across the way. Real nice fellow, did a smart job on my boots. Shop's all closed up. Wonder what happened to him."
The damn on Nellie's tightly reigned control broke, and she began sobbing hysterically in the middle of the coffee shop. Hal's shop was closed because Hal was busy dying in the Veteran's Hospital across town. Edna had been unable to come in and run the coffee shop today, which was why she was here instead of there. The whole thing was wretchedly unfair, and all of the self control she'd been using to get to this point simply deteriorated.
The table of Confederates stared blankly, unsure what had set the owner off and equally unsure as to what to do. The few other customers were equally as flabbergasted. Clara abandoned her school books and raced to her mother, trying desperately to find out what was wrong.
Karolek, who in 416 years of living had seen more than a few crises and nervous breakdowns, decided to take charge. Putting his papers and the remains of his breakfast aside, he went over and knelt next to Clara and Nellie on the floor. "Is your mother all right, miss?" Clara's large blue eyes turned to meet the gunmetal gray ones that looked at her with such concern. "I.I don't know." She brushed a stray strand of brown hair out of her eyes. "I've never seen her like this before."
Realizing that Clara was on the verge of hysterics as well, Karolek put a calming hand on her arm. "It's all right, miss. It will be all right." He repeated calmly. "Do you live in this building or a flat elsewhere?"
"Upstairs." Clara responded hesitantly. She didn't know why, but for some reason the calm demeanor of this mysterious stranger was enough to garner her trust and make her calm herself.
Offering a hesitant smile, Karolek started to give Clara some instructions. "All right. Take your mother upstairs, put her to bed, and sit with her until she calms down a bit. If she falls asleep, all the better, but stay with her until she's calm or asleep."
"What about the shop?" Clara asked. "We can't afford to have it closed."
"I can run the shop by myself until your mother calms back down. If she does, come down and help me." He patted her shoulder. "I'm a pretty decent cook, and I've been a waiter once or twice before." Standing and helping a still sobbing Nellie to do the same, he transferred her weight from him to Clara. "Go on, get your mother upstairs. All your money will still be here when you come back."
Clara guided a barely functioning Nellie up the stairs to their living quarters, leaving Karolek in charge of a stupefied room. Footsteps echoing in the quiet, he went over to the table he'd been sitting at and took his jacket and hat off of the hook. Picking up the papers and plate, he went through the small door that led to the kitchen area and set everything down in there. He took a towel from a small stack and tucked it into his belt as an apron, and hung another to use for his hands and wiping up.
He walked back into the main room, rolling up the sleeves of his button down shirt. Speaking into the silence, he asked, "Anyone want a refill on their coffee?"
One man sitting in the corner cautiously raised his hand, and Karolek brought the pot over to fill the man's cup again. The Confederates at the large table asked for their bill, which he quickly totaled and took. One man, the one who had been speaking about Hal, said to Karolek, "I hope the lady is ok. Please, tell her we're sorry for anything we might have done to upset her."
"I'll do that." Karolek promised, as the small knot of men drifted out. He quickly fell into the rhythm of the shop, cooking and serving as if he'd been doing it all of his life. Years counted for a lot when it came to handling crises.
About 90 minutes later, the young girl came back downstairs. Her own eyes were red rimmed, as if she too had been crying. She saw that only one customer was in the place, a young woman in a nurse's uniform who was eating ham and eggs and reading a dime novel. The stranger, who had a towel tucked into his neat black pants like an apron, was moving about the room straightening up. He was wiping down some of the tables that had been in use earlier, clearing away plates to the back to be washed.
Karolek heard the footsteps and turned to see the young girl. She was probably about 14 or 15 or so, pretty in her own way with long brown hair and dark brown eyes. He studiously ignored the signs that she had been crying herself, and asked, "Is your mother all right, miss?"
Clara shrugged her shoulders in a decidedly French gesture for a girl form Washington. "I don't know, really. She's asleep." She went to the pot of coffee and poured herself a cup, lacing it heavily with sugar and milk. "Thank you for all your help, Mister?"
"Nikailov." Karolek answered. "Karolek Nikailov." He shrugged his own shoulders and offered a half smile. "-It was not a problem. I was happy to help.-" He wanted to smack himself, from the look on the girl's face that he'd spoken in Russian without even realizing it. "It wasn't a problem. I was happy to step up and help."
"Oh. I'm Clara, Clara Jacobsen." Clara responded. "What language was that? I don't think I've ever heard it before. It's not German?'
"Nyet." Karolek answered cheekily. "Not German. Russian, actually."
"Russian?" Clara asked, astonished. "Where on earth did you learn Russian?"
Stopping his bussing of tables, Karolek went and poured himself his own cup of coffee. "From my father. He was born in Moscow, came to the United States when he was a young boy. He was a sniper during the war. Ate at this very café when he came through Washington on his way from Tennessee, after it was taken back from the Confederates." He neglected to mention that his 'father' was really him, under a much different name.
"Your father was a sniper during the war?" Clara asked. "Mine was a spy."
"A spy, really?" Karolek repeated with wide eyes. He never would have guessed that Hal Jacobsen was a spy. He supposed that made him a good one.
"Yeah." Clara said proudly. "He received the Distinguished Service Medal from Teddy Roosevelt and everything."
"Sounds like you're real proud of him." Karolek acknowledged. He would let this girl have her pride. Hearing the catch in her voice, he decided to press. "Is that what your mother was so upset about?"
Clara nodded, wiping a threatening tear from her eye. She would not allow herself to cry in front of the handsome stranger. "I suppose so." She took a calming sip of coffee. "He's dying. At the Veteran's Hospital. The doctors say it is from smoking too many cigarettes, he has a carcinoma of the lungs." She stumbled slightly over the unfamiliar phrases that had become such a searing part of her own vocabulary.
"I'm sorry to hear that, Clara." Karolek said sympathetically, patting her shoulder in a gesture of understanding. He'd buried plenty of mortal friends in his 4 centuries of living, but the slow ones were always the hardest to deal with. From his own experience, he knew the best way to cope was to stay busy. Fortunately, he was presented with a beneficial situation, as he saw several people making their way to the café for the noon hour. "We'd best get back to work. Do you want to wait tables or cook?" He decided then to keep his own cigarettes in his jacket pocket. They wouldn't kill him, but the last thing she needed was a reminder.
Clara turned to see the crowd approaching. "You don't have to stay, Mister Nikailov." Clara insisted. "I can manage by myself."
"Oh, I'm sure you can." Karolek said with a grin. "You seem very capable. But my mother would be appalled by my manners, God rest her soul, if I left such a lovely lady all on her own. Now, do you want to wait tables or cook?"
Laughing in spite of herself, Clara capitulated. "Wait tables, I guess."
"Swell." Karolek laughed in return. "And my name is Karolek. Karo if that's too long for you. I'm only 18, I'll be 19 in a few weeks. Just finished my year of service in the army." Well, only pretending to be 18, anyway. I'm physically 21 and I'm really 416. That was the one problem with appearing so physically young these days. Anywhere you went, if you had papers that said you were 18, you automatically did a year in whatever army you happened to be living under. And he had in fact just left the army again a week and a half ago, serving his year as a clerk in Kentucky. He envied Duncan his older appearance that allowed him to forge such formalities rather than actually completing them.
"Right. Karolek." Clara repeated. Picking up her mother's pad, she went off to take orders from the first table as Karolek went back into the kitchen to fire up the grill and clean off some plates and cups.
The pair moved through the lunch hour and early dinner rushes as if they'd been working together all their lives. Clara was relatively seasoned at working in the shop, she'd helped her mother on a few Saturdays here and there. Karolek had become a proficient cook, albeit with Russian dishes, when he'd been living in the palace of Ivan IV as a sword master before he married Irina.
They were closing down the café for the night and beginning the cleanup and prep for Monday when Nellie came back downstairs. She started slightly when she saw Clara laughing and talking with the strange young blond man from the morning as the two cleaned the café. The man.boy really, was wiping down the tables as Clara swept the floor. She could smell the scent of coffee hanging in the air, as though the café had been open all evening until regular closing hours. Had this boy stayed all day to help out? "Clara?" She asked, the note of question asking 'who's the strange boy and what's he still doing here?'
"Mama." Clara said, turning to face Nellie. "You're back downstairs."
Karolek stopped his work cleaning tables and stood up to face Nellie. "Mrs. Jacobsen, ma'am." He tapped two fingers against his forehead, as if tipping an imaginary hat. "Glad to see you feeling better, ma'am."
"Thank you." Nellie trailed off. "If you don't mind my asking, who are you and what are you doing with my daughter in my coffee shop?"
Tossing the towel back over his shoulder, Karolek spread his hands to show he meant no harm or disrespect. "I'm Karolek Nikailov, Mrs. Jacobsen. I stayed on to help Clara keep the café open after she took you upstairs. She was concerned that it would be a.financial liability to close the shop for an entire day. I've been cooking while Clara waited tables, and I was just now helping her to clean up and do a little bit of preparation for work on Monday, take as much strain off you as I could." He saw Nellie's sharp look. "The last customer left only 10 minutes ago, ma'am, and there've been people in here right steady all day. I've done nothing improper with or to Clara, nor do I have any intention of doing so, ma'am. My mother, -God rest her soul,- she raised me properly."
Nellie nodded at the seriousness of the young man's frank confession. He looked young, but she realized that he had a very old soul. His eyes carried the weight of someone who had packed a lot of living into his young years. "It was very kind of you to stay on like that, Mister Nikailov." Nellie admitted. "I hope you weren't being kept from a job somewhere."
"No, ma'am." Karolek admitted. "I finished my tour in the army a week and a half ago. I have an interview on Monday for a possible clerk's job. That's what I did out in Kentucky."
Clara chose that moment to prod Karolek's shoulder, "I'm going to ask her." Karolek made a shushing motion with his hands, but Clara chose not to notice. "Mama, what about keeping Karolek on as a cook? He did a swell job today, everyone said how good the food tasted. He washes dishes and cleans up well, and you know we could use the help."
"I don't know, Clara." Nellie automatically went to answer in the negative. As she thought about it, she knew that it would be a help to have another pair of hands around the place. She wasn't as young as she used to be, and she'd been aching to spend more time with Hal while he still had time left. Clara was at school all day except Saturdays, and Edna had her own worries and life to deal with. Looking back at Karolek, she admitted, "I could use the help, but I can't afford to pay you much."
Karolek shrugged his shoulders. "The money's not necessary, ma'am. Mama, she didn't much trust banks or stocks, and she saved a lot of money even with the bad times. Plus I still have what's left of my army pay. I'd be just as happy to work for room and board if that'd be more convenient for you, what with Mister Jacobsen being ill."
"Clara?" Nellie asked, a note of anger in her voice. She didn't like the idea of Clara speaking out of turn about family troubles to a stranger, even a helpful and well mannered one. Their problems were their own, and she didn't want any man's charity.
"What's the harm in his knowing, Mama?" Clara asked. "He wanted to know what you were so upset about this morning, that was the only thing I could think of."
"I beg your pardon, Mrs. Jacobsen." Karolek apologized. "I didn't mean to speak out of turn. My father came through the area not long after it was recaptured by the United States in the War. He spoke very highly of Mr. Jacobsen's character and your coffee shop, ma'am. He would have been very pleased to hear of the good fortune the two of you had in the years after."
Nellie nodded sharply, still angered with Clara for speaking so candidly. "Your father ate here, did he? Who was he?"
"Papa was a sniper from the first army in Tennessee. Worked in barrels with Colonel Morrell. He was a Captain when the war ended and he came through on his way to Delaware. Captain Karolek Romanov. Blonde hair, gray eyes, looked a lot like me."
Nellie nodded thoughtfully. "I think I remember him, on account of he brought his rifle right in when he sat down." Karolek laughed and nodded, saying that was indeed his father. "You're named after him and look just like him, but your last name is different." That seemed odd to her ears, yet there was no way he could be the same man from almost 20 years ago. The boy barely looked like he might be out of his teens at the outside, and he said he had just finished his conscription tour in Kentucky.
"Yes, ma'am." Karolek said, going back to wiping down the dishes which had been soaking. "By the old Russian naming traditions, I was named Karolek Karolekovich Romanov. Seemed like a bit too much of a mouthful for me, so I changed it to Karolek Romanovich Nikailov. Nikailov was mama's name before she married papa, and with my middle name I still keep the family name alive, so to speak." Stacking the dishes, he explained further. "Papa died in an accident. Fell form a tree a year and a half ago on our farm out in Washington state. Mama had died a few years earlier, so there was no one to object."
Nellie nodded at his careful explanation of strange customs. "If you're from Oregon, what are you doing back east?"
"Didn't want to spend my whole life on a farm, ma'am. That was papa's peace, not mine." It was sort of true, a little bit. "Army brought me most of the way east. I decided to keep on going."
"I see." She couldn't find fault with his manners, he'd obviously been raised very well. He was polite to her, always addressed her as ma'am or Mrs. Jacobsen. He'd behaved himself well with Clara, and she didn't get the sense that he was like other men, always looking for a skirt to get under. He had a good solid work ethic, common sense, and seemed like a genuinely nice, trustworthy, and well educated person. "I've a room upstairs that you can use, if you're willing to work for room and board." Despite his gender, she could find no other strong reason to dislike the boy. It was obvious Clara enjoyed his company, though not in the same way that Edna had enjoyed the company of Nicholas Kincaid. And Lord knew she could use the help in the café. If it came at a few extra sandwiches and some coffee and a stranger in the room across the hall, so be it. No other help would be as cheap or efficient, and with his nature it wasn't likely he'd stay a stranger for long.
"I'd like that, ma'am." Karolek said, ducking his head shyly in a long practiced gesture designed to convince people of his pretend age. "If it's all right with you, I'll go back to my hotel room tonight to get my money's worth and fetch my things. I'll come back tomorrow after mass is done, if it's agreeable?"
"Yes, that's fine." Mass. So he was Catholic. At least he was religious. And sensible about his money, as well. "Come back around 12:30, we'll get you all squared away to start on Monday."
"Maybe get you a proper apron." Clara giggled.
"Oh I don't know." Karolek teased back. "I think the towel is a bit more manly." Clara laughed, and even Nellie couldn't help cracking a smile. Addressing Nellie again, he said, "It's nice of you to do this for me, ma'am. I know you don't know me very well. I promise I don't have a lot of things, just some clothes and a few books, and an antique sword that's been in my family for generations."
"A sword?" Nellie said dubiously.
"Yes, ma'am." Karolek lied smoothly to assure her. "It's very old, a family heirloom. It's not sharpened and stays in it's scabbard and locked up most all the time." So one of those three was true. It was indeed a family heirloom, it had belonged to his father and his grandfather before being passed to him. The rest, rather emphatically not. But it was most definitely sharpened, and rather than being locked up was presently tucked into a secret compartment in his coat. Nodding his head respectfully, he suggested, "Perhaps you should go back upstairs while Clara and I finish up down here.
"Oh, very well then." Nellie conceded. "Go on back to your hotel when you're done with those dishes. Clara can lock up behind you. I'll see you tomorrow at 12:30."
"Yes, ma'am. Good night, Mrs. Jacobsen." Karolek said politely.
"I'll be up in a few minutes, Mama." Clara assured. Nellie nodded, leaving the two to finish up their cleaning. Clara turned to face Karolek. "She likes you. I didn't think she would."
"Oh?" Karolek asked, stacking up the dishes to be used again on Monday. "Why's that?"
Clara giggled slightly as she started to put the dishes away in their appropriate places. "Don't know exactly. Mama doesn't much seem to like men and boys in particular. Never really has, though why I couldn't tell you." Shaking her brown hair out of her eyes, she continued. "Well, I guess she liked Papa all right, and I think she likes my uncle Merle. Don't know whether or not she likes Armstrong. I sure don't."
"Armstrong?" Karolek repeated. "Who's Armstrong?"
"Armstrong's my nephew. My sister Edna is a lot older than me, Armstrong's her son. He's sort of spoiled and a brat." Clara explained.
"How old is he?"
"Eleven."
Karolek laughed a bit. "Yeah, I was a brat when I was eleven too. Come to think of it, I was a brat till I served my time in the army." Clara laughed at his description of himself as a boy. Well, when he was eleven he really was a brat, and more spoiled than Armstrong could ever dream of being. "Something tells me though, you'll think he's a brat even when he's older." He pulled the towels out of his belt. "I best be going on."
"I suppose so." Clara admitted as Karolek shrugged on his jacket and picked up his newspaper and his newsboy hat. She didn't really want to see the young man go, she'd enjoyed his company wholeheartedly and had never had so much fun working in the shop. Karolek had done a lot to take her mind off of her troubles. It would be almost a shame to have to go back to school on Monday while Karolek was working. "I'll see you tomorrow afternoon, though. Do you need any help moving in?"
"No, thanks." Karolek smiled, walking to the door. "I don't have so much to carry, and if it does turn out to be more, I bet I can find someone who'll help me for some money or a meal."
"I suppose." Clara repeated herself. "Take care walking home."
"Take care of your mother." Karolek put his cap on as he stepped outside. "And take care of yourself, too. I'll see you tomorrow." And with that, he put his hands in his pockets and walked off towards his hotel room a few blocks away, whistling cheerfully to himself.
Clara bolted the shop door behind Karolek and pulled the shades on the windows. Turning out the lights and making sure the door out of the kitchen was locked as well, she went upstairs to their rooms and the homework she hadn't finished before.
It was the middle of the day when Karolek reappeared at the coffee shop. The orthodox mass he attended not far away had been slightly lackluster, but he still felt a certain obligation to the religion of his youth. He wondered it that would continue for long; he'd fallen into and out of his faith a lot during 400 years of living. He had a small rucksack full of books and papers, a small suitcase with his clothes and a flat paper parcel that held the aforementioned sword.
Reaching the building which housed the coffee shop, he knocked politely and waited for one of the Jacobsens to come and let him in. The thudding feet he heard approaching the door made him smile, with the enthusiasm and the speed, it must be Clara. Sure enough, the door flew open and he was greeted by Clara. "Afternoon, Karolek." She greeted, reasonably cheerfully.
"Afternoon, Clara." Karolek said, bowing slightly. "May I come in."
"Sure." Clara giggled, stepping aside to allow him access. "You live here too now." She motioned to a door in the corner which led to the stairs and the rooms above the shop. "Come on, it's this way."
Karolek dutifully followed Clara up the stairs, which led to a small, sparsely furnished but comfortable living room. Next to it was a petite kitchen for personal use, much smaller than the one downstairs but equally well cared for. Nellie Jacobsen was there, stirring a pot of mashed potatoes. She turned to see the duo come up into the apartment, wiping her hands on her apron. "Afternoon, Karolek."
"Afternoon, Mrs. Jacobsen." Karolek replied politely. "How are you feeling today?"
"Fair." Nellie admitted. "Did you get everything over from your hotel all right?"
Karolek smiled easily. "Yes, ma'am." He gestured to his few belongings. "Not much to bring along, really."
She motioned to a hallway which led to rooms in the back of the flat. "Clara can show you where you'll be staying while you're here. Dinner will be in about half an hour, all right?"
"Yes, ma'am." Karolek said with a broad smile. "Thanks very much for you kindness. I do appreciate your going to the trouble of putting me up."
Nellie smiled slightly in spite of herself. Maybe this young man wouldn't be so bad as she was initially thinking. By all accounts he seemed thoroughly charming, but at the same time he was very centered and.well.un male-like. "Clara, take him back to his room and help him get settled."
"Yes Mama." Clara said, motioning to Karolek. "Come on, your room is at the top of the hall." She started, well, more appropriately bounded, the few steps out of the kitchen to the first room on the hallway. "Here y'are." She opened the door, revealing a room much like the rest of the apartment, small but neat. A bed stood in the corner opposite the door, next to a small nightstand. A dresser was underneath the window, and a few shelves were next to the door for odds and ends. "This used to be Edna's room. It's not much, but it will do."
"It's a swell room." He assured Clara. "I don't mind it at all."
"Great." Clara cheered, sitting down on Karolek's bed. "What's in the long paper package?"
Karolek grinned, propping the door open to avoid any thoughts of impropriety on Nellie's part. He didn't want to alienate his boss before he ever started working. "Remember my telling you about having a sword, the other day?" Clara nodded. Karolek set the package down next to her on the bed and undid the string. He unfolded the paper to reveal a long silver handled bastard broadsword. The sword was about 40 inches long from the end of the handle to the tip. The handle was textured in the feathers of the double phoenix which began just below the hilt guard and wrapped around the bottom, where a deep red gem was set into the bottom. On the blade itself, just above the hilt, was a small line of Cyrillic printing which read out the family name Romanov.
"It's beautiful, Karolek." Clara said softly. "Where did you get it? It must be worth a fortune." She reached out to touch it, but was halted by Karolek's hand on hers.
"Careful." He admonished, a little sharply. "It's sharp and could hurt you."
"You told Mama it wasn't sharpened." She whispered.
Karolek nodded. "I know I did. I don't think she'd appreciate knowing that truth. Help me keep the secret?"
"Of course." She said, beaming that Karolek trusted her with one of his secrets.
"The sword has been in my family for generations. Made for my ancestor by a master sword smith. It's been passed down from father to son since the end of the 1400's. It's probably worth a fortune to a collector, more to a museum, so it's been closely guarded." Karolek explained, to a degree, the origins of the piece sitting between them.
"What's this, on the top part?" Clara pointed delicately to the Cyrillic printing.
"Here, on the hilt?" Karolek corrected. "It's my family name. Romanov, in Russian."
Clara nodded solemnly. "Like Tsar Nicholas?"
"Just like Tsar Nikolai." Karolek admitted. "Though separated from the imperial line many generations back." "Wow." Clara breathed. "That's still really swell. Why did you get rid of your name?"
"For a change, I guess." Karolek lied, trying to stall and come up with a reason other than the reason he really didn't use his birth name. "I mean, I was named after my father, and Karolek isn't all that common a name even in Russian communities." He hoped, anyway. "I wanted to be different than he was, and the easiest way to do that seemed to be to get rid of my last name."
"I see, I think." Clara said slowly. In truth, she didn't really understand, but she wasn't going to admit that to Karolek.
Karolek wrapped up his sword in the paper again and slid it underneath his mattress. It would do as a hiding place for now, eventually it would make its way back into his coat. "Come on Clara, we'd best go see if your mother needs any help."
Five months later, Hal Jacobsen breathed his last tortured breath. Though he'd clung rather stubbornly to his life until the end, ultimately there was no beating the carcinoma which killed him. For Hal, it was surely a relief not to have to struggle for one more life sustaining breath. For Nellie and Clara, it was alternately a blessing and a devastation. A blessing, in that they no longer had to watch his suffering. A devastation, in that Nellie was widowed once again, and at almost 15, Clara was without a father. It had been a long year for all of them, in that respect.
The funeral was small. Nellie, Clara, Edna, her husband Merle, and their two children Armstrong and Lorraine, a few of Hal's friends and some of the members of the spy ring he'd led during the Great War, no more than 20 people in all.
Karolek attended the funeral only because Nellie and Clara had asked him to. As Karolek Romanov, he'd liked the European born cobbler immensely, and was sad to see such a kind, devoted man pass on. As Karolek Nikailov, he had no connection to the man except through the two Jacobsen women, and so he came as requested.
'What good is it to live forever, when men such as he, more worthy of my gift than I, are made to suffer in the way that he did.' Karolek wondered to himself, standing in the gentle rain behind the family. This was not the first time Karolek had posed this particular question to himself in 400 years, nor was it likely to be the last time he did. 'We all think we want eternity, until it is handed to us.' He laughed bitterly to himself. 'Mackenzie knew whereof she spoke. Odd that I should be taking life lessons from someone half my age.'
As the priest continued the service, a persistent and all too familiar feeling began to tug at the back of Karolek's brain. 'Chert.' He swore to himself, recognizing the sensation as the Buzz which marked the approach of another Immortal. Lacking Mackenzie's ability to detect identity and strength based on the sensation, he was forced to start looking about the cemetery for whoever it was that was looking for him.
He finally spotted the source of the Buzz in the next plot over. A tall, distinguished looking man in a long black coat, wearing a homburg and carrying an umbrella. Karolek slipped away from his spot at the end of the back row and slipped silently through the gravestones to the mysterious Immortal.
Coming up to the cover of the tree, Karolek removed his newsboy's hat and shook some of the water off it, checking his coat to ensure that his sword remained tucked within. He had little to no interest in fighting this Immortal, whoever he might be, but wanted to know that he was armed should it come to that. He hadn't fought a Challenge in almost a year, and he knew his skills were rusty. He'd been sneaking away at nights and sometimes early in the mornings to practice away from Nellie's watchful eye. The few times he'd been caught, he'd spun an excuse about being out walking.
The truth was, 400 years into his existence, Karolek had no real desire to be an active part in the Game. His sword skills, when practiced, were among the best out there, he knew without overstating his abilities. He'd had a period of time, after the death of his first wife Irina, where if he hadn't been a headhunter he'd been damned close. It was a part of his past he wasn't proud of, but had moved beyond in his own mind. Almost a century of that sort of living had made him more than few enemies, and Karolek feared that this might be one of them.
"Lovely weather, isn't it?" The mystery Immortal commented, watching Karolek shake the rain out of his had. "Murder on a sword, though."
"So it is." Karolek agreed, knowing he'd have to wipe his sword down later to prevent rusting. "Prince Karolek Konstantinovich Romanov."
"Erich von Ridesel." The mystery Immortal introduced himself. "You know we are on holy ground." He stated, unnecessarily.
"I've no quarrel with you." Karolek admitted. "I prefer to live life outside of the Game, rather than in it."
Erich laughed quietly. "No man can keep himself outside the Game forever. Sooner or later, it consumes us all."
Karolek nodded, leaning against the tree so that he could see Hal's funeral but keep Erich in his sights. "I suppose it does." He admitted, after a long silence. "But I'm not quite ready to let it consume me, if you know what I mean."
"Lord do I." Erich laughed. "I'm certainly willing to avoid the fight if you are."
"Man can never have too many friends, especially the kind that live forever." Karolek said, thinking not only of Hal, but of all the friends he'd made and lost during the Great War and times before.
"Was he a good friend, this fellow who's funeral you're here for?" Erich asked, taking in Karolek's dark coat and pants.
"Not really." Karolek said, still watching. "I met him after the war, on my way to meet a friend. He's more a friend of friends, I suppose." He looked over at Erich. "You serve?"
"German Imperial Army. Second army, first infantry division. Company commander. You?"
"Started out in the Rockies. Ended as a sniper, barrels in the first army under Colonel Morrell." Karolek commented softly. "Wasn't like war when I learned it. But that's beside the point." The Russian prince sighed softly. "So no, he wasn't a good friend. But it burns all the same. Jacobsen was a good man, probably a better man than I. Came over, made a living for himself, married a nice woman and raised a good girl. Did his bit during the war and was just as much a hero as any man in uniform. I stay forever 21, he spends seven months dying in a hospital." He sighed again. He sounded as brooding and depressed as he ever had, even after his first wife had died. He needed to get away from this line of thinking, stop brooding and sounding so much like the MacLeods.
"It does hurt that's true." Erich admitted. "Sounds as though you could use a drinking buddy."
"And how." Karolek admitted. "Tomorrow's my day off. I'll be drinking at the tavern on 2nd street at 4 if you care to join me."
"All right." Erich agreed. "You'll need someone to watch your back if you're planning on getting plastered the way you sound like. Have you even got enough money to get yourself truly drunk?" He straightened as if to walk away. "For the record, I'm willing to put up my sword till the Gathering if you are."
"Sounds good to me." Karolek said, shaking Erich's hand. "I'd best get back before I'm really missed."
"Till tomorrow." Erich bade the other Immortal goodbye. As Karolek turned to walk away, he called out again, "Romanov?"
Karolek turned to face von Ridesel again. "Nikailov, if you would."
"Hauptmann." Erich offered his own assumed last name. "Life goes on without us. Don't beat yourself up for things you can't control."
Karolek nodded slowly, considering the German's words. "Till tomorrow, Erich." And with that, Karolek walked back to the funeral, and Hauptmann remained at the graves of his wife and young son, buried almost twenty years before in the last year of the Great War.
It took Erich von Ridesel two passes around the block before he found the tavern that Karolek had planned to be at, and even then it was only because he felt the pull of the other man's buzz on the second time around. He pushed open the door and stepped into the dimly lit tavern.
The place was only half full, odd even for a Saturday. Granted, the Depression which had hit hard five years ago was still more or less a factor, but factories were starting to come around again and people were beginning to find work again. That aside, people were probably saving for a rainy day rather than drinking, though any hard times could be counted on to fill bars.
He spotted the youthful, blond Immortal at a corner table, his back to the wall. A second seat next to him was empty, also facing the wall. A perfect table to keep watch on the room and your seatmate, as well. So Romanov was smart or sensible, depending on how you saw it, and well trained at the very least. Erich admitted to himself that he had no idea what he was doing in that tavern, drinking with a relative stranger that he knew next to nothing about. He knew only the man's real name, and what he'd done during the last war. He didn't know how old the man was, who he'd trained with, what sort of person he was.anything really. So what was he doing here?
He slipped across the bar and into the seat next to Romanov. The bartender promptly delivered another round of beers to the table where the two Immortals sat, taking two dollars from Romanov and disappearing. "First round is on me."
"Thank you." Erich said with a smile, undoing his coat and hanging it from a hook in the wall. "I guess you really do have the money to drink with."
Karolek chuckled. "Once upon a time, the Romanovs had more money than they knew what to do with."
"And now the whole country is in trouble." Erich sympathized.
"True." Karolek agreed. "Nikolai has more troubles than he can handle some days, I fear. All the more compounded by the continued illness of the tsarevich."
"How long has it been? Since you left home?" Erich asked softly.
Karolek grinned. "The first time or the last time?" Erich blushed slightly. The Russian had caught him fishing."You're a little transparent, you know."
"Wouldn't be the first time I was accused of that." The German admitted. "My teacher always did say that I was a little too open to survive long as one of us. I like to think I've proved him wrong."
"Who him, if you don't mind my asking?"
"Now who's being transparent?" Erich laughed. "I'll show you mine if you show me yours."
"Fair enough." Karolek agreed.
"Schuyler. William Schuyler."
"Khan Seh." Karolek said, sipping at his beer. "Met Schuyler, once. He's a good man."
"Was."
"Sorry. How?"
Erich shrugged. "I'm not sure, exactly. I know the fellow's name was Book. Jacob Book."
"Oh, he's pleasant." Karolek said darkly.
"You know him then?"
"We've met."
Astounded, Erich had no real idea of what to say. "When? How?" A dark look crossed his face. "And how do I kill him?"
Karolek finished his drink and motioned for another. He gave the man a twenty and told him to keep the refills coming and asked him to keep himself scarce. The bartender nodded cheerfully and moved back to his bar, grateful for such a paying customer. Men of his type were too thin on the ground in working class pubs these days, and he was more than willing to leave the two intense looking men to their conversation.
As he retreated to his bar, the man took the opportunity to study his two patrons. The man who seemed to be doing the paying was young, probably no older than his mid twenties. His pale blond hair was long, pulled back from a handsome face with European features, maybe Eastern Europe but not a Slav. He was dressed in black slacks and a blue vest over a white shirt. A newsboy hat hung with his shin length trench coat from one of the wall nails. His eyes, though, were enough to stop a potential enemy dead in their tracks. They were gray, of the same color as gunmetal, and spoke of a life with trials that stretched way beyond his physical years.
The other man was a study in contrasts to the first. Though not paying, he certainly looked as though he could afford his own drinks. He was somewhat elegantly dressed, in a neat charcoal suit with a gray overcoat and homburg. The man could have been a government worker or a diplomat. He was square jawed, with brown hair and light brown eyes. He had an air of refinement about him, but at the same time he didn't seem out of place in a tavern that was mostly working class. A flexible sort, who could be at home in high society or a factory floor.
Karolek took a long pull on his new beer to avoid answering the question right away. He did not have fond memories of Book, who was largely a mistake compounded by time that he sometimes wished he could get away from. "I met him about 250 years ago." Karolek began quietly, leaning in so that their conversation wouldn't carry. "He was new, then, or relatively, at least. Maybe 10 years in, no more. He was with his teacher, a Swede named Carlsson." He snorted quietly. "I had something of a reputation at the time that I was trying to get away from, so maybe Carlsson was trying to make a name for himself. I don't know."
"A reputation?" Erich interrupted. "As what?"
Karolek sighed. "I wasn't a headhunter, but I was damned close. Almost a century I went looking for Challenges, and found them fairly often. "
"That's how it was with Carlsson?"
"Da. Carlsson issued a challenge, and we fought. At the time I was trying to leave that part of me behind, but the man wouldn't be swayed. 'There Can Be Only One,' or so he kept reminding me. He was a good fighter, damned good, but then so am I." He swallowed some more beer. "Book took offense at my beating Carlsson, and he Challenged me in honor of his teacher's memory. Took me about thirty seconds to knock the sword out of his hands."
Erich nodded thoughtfully. "But you didn't kill him." It was a statement, not a question, for both men knew the answer. "Why?"
"Because he was so young. Too new. He was doing what he thought was the honorable thing, avenging his teacher, and I thought maybe he was best left alone. I told him to study up and not fight out of his weight, because the next person wouldn't be quite so kind as I had been. I left him his head and his sword and left town." He ran a hand through the shorter pieces at the front of his ponytail. "Book found a new teacher. Grayson. You want to talk about dangerous. Grayson fought with Darius before Darius took the holy man's Quickening and spared Paris. Grayson never forgave him the slight of disbanding his army when he could have ruled Europe for a thousand years. He's hell with a blade, and was probably the worst person that Book could have found at the time he did. Ate it all up, became a strong fighter and a vengeful man. We met in a monastery in India about 75 years ago, and Book swore if he ever found me off of Holy Ground, we would pick up our fight where we left off."
"So Book picked up Grayson's habits. Still doesn't explain why he killed Schuyler." Erich mused.
"It may just have been the fact that your man was in the way of something Book or Grayson wanted. He's certainly learned how to be ruthless enough in getting what he wants." Karolek offered. "I made quite a mistake there, but I don't see how I can do much about it. I'm not the man I was 250 years back. Darius I'm not, but I don't go looking for fights."
"Can you still fight?" Erich asked of the older Immortal, concerned. "When was your last Challenge?"
"Almost a year." Karolek admitted. "And yes, I can still fight, though I might be a little rusty. My current employment doesn't really allow for a great deal of sword training."
"Maybe you need to get some sparring in." Erich offered. "I'm not very old, but I'm decent with a blade, and any practice is better than none."
Karolek nodded. "Just how old are you, anyway? I gave you enough to at least rough age me, yet I don't know you."
"Two hundred and eleven." Erich admitted.
"'S not so shabby." Karolek told his friend, who to any other man would appear to be older and more prosperous. In reality, however, Karolek was worth a king's ransom, and had two hundred years on the man. "Not quite as long as 416, but not bad."
"Gee, thanks." Erich groused.
"Oh, take it easy kid." Karolek teased with a touch of irony, as to anyone else's eye, the German should have been calling him kid. "I have half days on Saturdays. Do you have somewhere we can meet to practice?"
"I do." Erich admitted. "I own a shipping company. My warehouse holds dry goods. All the workers leave on Saturday at half day. You could come there, no one would disturb us."
"Sounds good." Karolek said, taking a scrap of paper on which Erich wrote his address. "You seem like a good man, Erich. I think that with time I could trust you. But I want to make one thing clear to you. If you try and play me the wrong way or do something treacherous, I have several friends who are deeply into vengeance."
"Fair enough." Erich said. "I told you. I'll put up my sword until the Gathering if you will."
Downing his last beer, Karolek pulled on his coat and hat. "I'll see you Saturday afternoon, then."
This is set in an alternate reality created by Harry Turtledove in his book series "The Great War" and "American Empire," which assume that the South has won the Civil War and that the United States and Confederate States are two different countries. WWI has raged between the allied powers of the US and Imperial Germany, who have defeated the CSA, France, Canada, and Great Britain. The Depression is limping along, and tensions are mounting between the two victors of the Great War. The Jacobsens and the setting belong to Mr. Turtledove. For more information on the setting of the story, I suggest reading the books or visiting the Del Ray site courtesy of Random House.
Basically, I'm stuck at the point where the story ends thus far. I don't know where exactly to go next and would welcome some ideas. Flames will be tossed out with the bat found in my apartment toilet.
Washington, DC 1935
The coffee shop was much as he remembered it being when he'd come through Washington shortly after the Great War. Much of the world around him had changed. Washington was no longer a city of rubble, shelled to within an inch of its life. The sense of danger from falling bombs and rifle shots had faded away, replaced with a newer, different sort of danger. This was more the danger of not having money enough to put food on the table, pay rent on a flat, to survive from day to day. The fear that came with falling employment and failing banks.
Not much about Karolek Konstantinovich Romanov had changed in the past 18 years since the end of the Great War. Oh sure, he'd let his close cropped corn-silk-blond hair grow into a ponytail again. His name was different, he'd gone by Romanov during the war but was calling himself Nikailov now. He was no longer carrying a sniper's rifle or wearing Captain's bars on his shoulders. Indeed, he'd severed all ties to his Great War identity. He was pretending to be his own son, and all his papers declared him to be 18, younger than his physical age of 21, and much younger than his actual age of 416.
His long blond hair was tied back from his head by a simple leather string, revealing the same lightly tanned skin and steel gray eyes. Karolek didn't look a day older than he had when he'd been assigned as a sniper to Colonel Morrell in Tennessee from his posting in the Rocky Mountains in Canada, and he never would.
Indeed, because of that one quirk in his physiology, he could no longer contact anyone from that life. It would be a little too obvious that the boy sniper hadn't aged at all in the almost 20 years since the war, since everyone else he'd served with would be on their way to mid-40's by now. A painful fact, but one that had to be dealt with, which is why his war ribbons and medals were packed away in a box instead of on his coat, the way many other war veterans wore theirs. Packed away with medals and decorations, mementos of his many past lives and past wars.
After the war he'd met with Connor, who'd served his war as an artillery man on the Roanoke front, at this little coffee shop. Connor had gone back to New York, Karolek had gone wandering in the vast expanses of the west. With a new set of papers, he'd come back to Washington, with idle plans of going back to Russia to see what remained of his boyhood home in Moscow. With the world the way it was now, however, he wondered whether that was a wise plan or not. Nikolai held a tenuous grip on power at most these days, and visiting a royal palace was asking for trouble. Still, he'd not seen the tsar since he was still the 20 year old tsarevich, and he'd never met Nikolai's son, the new tsarevich Alexei. Maybe a trip would be in order, soon.
A tiny bell jingled, announcing his entry to the shop. He found himself a seat at an open table in the corner. The woman who ran the shop..Nellie, if he remembered correctly, came up and asked him for his order.
"Bacon and egg sandwich and some coffee, light, please ma'am." Karolek requested, offering the woman what was supposed to be a charming smile. From his experience here in the past, he got the feeling that there wasn't much that Nellie liked about men in general. Best to be as polite and cheerful as he possibly could.
"Coming right up." Nellie replied brusquely, heading for the back.
Sitting one table over, Clara Jacobsen cocked her head slightly to look at the young man in the corner. The man's accent, which defied classification as either Yankee or Confederate, had the faintest touches of something else she couldn't quite identify. Living where she did, and doing her homework in the coffee shop, she'd heard plenty of accents, but the odd touches from this one she couldn't place. It sounded vaguely European, which for a Washington DC coffee shop was exotic. The man was young and handsome, with unfashionably long blond hair tied back loosely from his face. On anyone else, Clara decided, this would look silly or wrong, but somehow it seemed to fit the mysterious stranger. He had been wearing a long dark coat which reached all the way to mid calf when he'd entered, this was now carefully hung from a peg in the wall, along with a cloth newsboy's hat. This left him dressed in dark pants and a white button down shirt. He looked young, and the fact that he was neatly dressed and eating in a coffee house suggested that he probably had some money or a job, rare for these days.
In truth, despite the market crash, Karolek had no reason to worry about money and likely never would. The market had been too questionable for him to put much money into it, so most of his substantial fortune was in gold in a few strategically placed vaults around the world. And, of course, there was the small matter of the estate and palace that accompanied his title in Imperial Russia.
Smiling lightly at the young girl who had been watching him, Karolek turned his attention to the papers he'd brought into the coffee house. Nellie returned in short order with his food and coffee, placing it down on the table. "Here you are."
"Thank you, ma'am." Karolek said with another smile, nodding his head politely. He placed the coins for his meal on the table, so that the woman would be able to see that he had no plans on stiffing her for the meal.
Nellie nodded distantly at the young man with the strange accent, before moving on to deal with a group with a slightly more garden variety one. A table of men with Georgian accents were in one of the other corners, most of whom were working on their second cups of coffee and finishing up the remnants of their breakfasts.
As she was moving forward to ask if any of them were interested in a third cup, she heard one of the men, an older man with a purple heart ribbon on his jacket, tell one of his friends, "There was a man who ran a cobbler's place just across the way. Real nice fellow, did a smart job on my boots. Shop's all closed up. Wonder what happened to him."
The damn on Nellie's tightly reigned control broke, and she began sobbing hysterically in the middle of the coffee shop. Hal's shop was closed because Hal was busy dying in the Veteran's Hospital across town. Edna had been unable to come in and run the coffee shop today, which was why she was here instead of there. The whole thing was wretchedly unfair, and all of the self control she'd been using to get to this point simply deteriorated.
The table of Confederates stared blankly, unsure what had set the owner off and equally unsure as to what to do. The few other customers were equally as flabbergasted. Clara abandoned her school books and raced to her mother, trying desperately to find out what was wrong.
Karolek, who in 416 years of living had seen more than a few crises and nervous breakdowns, decided to take charge. Putting his papers and the remains of his breakfast aside, he went over and knelt next to Clara and Nellie on the floor. "Is your mother all right, miss?" Clara's large blue eyes turned to meet the gunmetal gray ones that looked at her with such concern. "I.I don't know." She brushed a stray strand of brown hair out of her eyes. "I've never seen her like this before."
Realizing that Clara was on the verge of hysterics as well, Karolek put a calming hand on her arm. "It's all right, miss. It will be all right." He repeated calmly. "Do you live in this building or a flat elsewhere?"
"Upstairs." Clara responded hesitantly. She didn't know why, but for some reason the calm demeanor of this mysterious stranger was enough to garner her trust and make her calm herself.
Offering a hesitant smile, Karolek started to give Clara some instructions. "All right. Take your mother upstairs, put her to bed, and sit with her until she calms down a bit. If she falls asleep, all the better, but stay with her until she's calm or asleep."
"What about the shop?" Clara asked. "We can't afford to have it closed."
"I can run the shop by myself until your mother calms back down. If she does, come down and help me." He patted her shoulder. "I'm a pretty decent cook, and I've been a waiter once or twice before." Standing and helping a still sobbing Nellie to do the same, he transferred her weight from him to Clara. "Go on, get your mother upstairs. All your money will still be here when you come back."
Clara guided a barely functioning Nellie up the stairs to their living quarters, leaving Karolek in charge of a stupefied room. Footsteps echoing in the quiet, he went over to the table he'd been sitting at and took his jacket and hat off of the hook. Picking up the papers and plate, he went through the small door that led to the kitchen area and set everything down in there. He took a towel from a small stack and tucked it into his belt as an apron, and hung another to use for his hands and wiping up.
He walked back into the main room, rolling up the sleeves of his button down shirt. Speaking into the silence, he asked, "Anyone want a refill on their coffee?"
One man sitting in the corner cautiously raised his hand, and Karolek brought the pot over to fill the man's cup again. The Confederates at the large table asked for their bill, which he quickly totaled and took. One man, the one who had been speaking about Hal, said to Karolek, "I hope the lady is ok. Please, tell her we're sorry for anything we might have done to upset her."
"I'll do that." Karolek promised, as the small knot of men drifted out. He quickly fell into the rhythm of the shop, cooking and serving as if he'd been doing it all of his life. Years counted for a lot when it came to handling crises.
About 90 minutes later, the young girl came back downstairs. Her own eyes were red rimmed, as if she too had been crying. She saw that only one customer was in the place, a young woman in a nurse's uniform who was eating ham and eggs and reading a dime novel. The stranger, who had a towel tucked into his neat black pants like an apron, was moving about the room straightening up. He was wiping down some of the tables that had been in use earlier, clearing away plates to the back to be washed.
Karolek heard the footsteps and turned to see the young girl. She was probably about 14 or 15 or so, pretty in her own way with long brown hair and dark brown eyes. He studiously ignored the signs that she had been crying herself, and asked, "Is your mother all right, miss?"
Clara shrugged her shoulders in a decidedly French gesture for a girl form Washington. "I don't know, really. She's asleep." She went to the pot of coffee and poured herself a cup, lacing it heavily with sugar and milk. "Thank you for all your help, Mister?"
"Nikailov." Karolek answered. "Karolek Nikailov." He shrugged his own shoulders and offered a half smile. "-It was not a problem. I was happy to help.-" He wanted to smack himself, from the look on the girl's face that he'd spoken in Russian without even realizing it. "It wasn't a problem. I was happy to step up and help."
"Oh. I'm Clara, Clara Jacobsen." Clara responded. "What language was that? I don't think I've ever heard it before. It's not German?'
"Nyet." Karolek answered cheekily. "Not German. Russian, actually."
"Russian?" Clara asked, astonished. "Where on earth did you learn Russian?"
Stopping his bussing of tables, Karolek went and poured himself his own cup of coffee. "From my father. He was born in Moscow, came to the United States when he was a young boy. He was a sniper during the war. Ate at this very café when he came through Washington on his way from Tennessee, after it was taken back from the Confederates." He neglected to mention that his 'father' was really him, under a much different name.
"Your father was a sniper during the war?" Clara asked. "Mine was a spy."
"A spy, really?" Karolek repeated with wide eyes. He never would have guessed that Hal Jacobsen was a spy. He supposed that made him a good one.
"Yeah." Clara said proudly. "He received the Distinguished Service Medal from Teddy Roosevelt and everything."
"Sounds like you're real proud of him." Karolek acknowledged. He would let this girl have her pride. Hearing the catch in her voice, he decided to press. "Is that what your mother was so upset about?"
Clara nodded, wiping a threatening tear from her eye. She would not allow herself to cry in front of the handsome stranger. "I suppose so." She took a calming sip of coffee. "He's dying. At the Veteran's Hospital. The doctors say it is from smoking too many cigarettes, he has a carcinoma of the lungs." She stumbled slightly over the unfamiliar phrases that had become such a searing part of her own vocabulary.
"I'm sorry to hear that, Clara." Karolek said sympathetically, patting her shoulder in a gesture of understanding. He'd buried plenty of mortal friends in his 4 centuries of living, but the slow ones were always the hardest to deal with. From his own experience, he knew the best way to cope was to stay busy. Fortunately, he was presented with a beneficial situation, as he saw several people making their way to the café for the noon hour. "We'd best get back to work. Do you want to wait tables or cook?" He decided then to keep his own cigarettes in his jacket pocket. They wouldn't kill him, but the last thing she needed was a reminder.
Clara turned to see the crowd approaching. "You don't have to stay, Mister Nikailov." Clara insisted. "I can manage by myself."
"Oh, I'm sure you can." Karolek said with a grin. "You seem very capable. But my mother would be appalled by my manners, God rest her soul, if I left such a lovely lady all on her own. Now, do you want to wait tables or cook?"
Laughing in spite of herself, Clara capitulated. "Wait tables, I guess."
"Swell." Karolek laughed in return. "And my name is Karolek. Karo if that's too long for you. I'm only 18, I'll be 19 in a few weeks. Just finished my year of service in the army." Well, only pretending to be 18, anyway. I'm physically 21 and I'm really 416. That was the one problem with appearing so physically young these days. Anywhere you went, if you had papers that said you were 18, you automatically did a year in whatever army you happened to be living under. And he had in fact just left the army again a week and a half ago, serving his year as a clerk in Kentucky. He envied Duncan his older appearance that allowed him to forge such formalities rather than actually completing them.
"Right. Karolek." Clara repeated. Picking up her mother's pad, she went off to take orders from the first table as Karolek went back into the kitchen to fire up the grill and clean off some plates and cups.
The pair moved through the lunch hour and early dinner rushes as if they'd been working together all their lives. Clara was relatively seasoned at working in the shop, she'd helped her mother on a few Saturdays here and there. Karolek had become a proficient cook, albeit with Russian dishes, when he'd been living in the palace of Ivan IV as a sword master before he married Irina.
They were closing down the café for the night and beginning the cleanup and prep for Monday when Nellie came back downstairs. She started slightly when she saw Clara laughing and talking with the strange young blond man from the morning as the two cleaned the café. The man.boy really, was wiping down the tables as Clara swept the floor. She could smell the scent of coffee hanging in the air, as though the café had been open all evening until regular closing hours. Had this boy stayed all day to help out? "Clara?" She asked, the note of question asking 'who's the strange boy and what's he still doing here?'
"Mama." Clara said, turning to face Nellie. "You're back downstairs."
Karolek stopped his work cleaning tables and stood up to face Nellie. "Mrs. Jacobsen, ma'am." He tapped two fingers against his forehead, as if tipping an imaginary hat. "Glad to see you feeling better, ma'am."
"Thank you." Nellie trailed off. "If you don't mind my asking, who are you and what are you doing with my daughter in my coffee shop?"
Tossing the towel back over his shoulder, Karolek spread his hands to show he meant no harm or disrespect. "I'm Karolek Nikailov, Mrs. Jacobsen. I stayed on to help Clara keep the café open after she took you upstairs. She was concerned that it would be a.financial liability to close the shop for an entire day. I've been cooking while Clara waited tables, and I was just now helping her to clean up and do a little bit of preparation for work on Monday, take as much strain off you as I could." He saw Nellie's sharp look. "The last customer left only 10 minutes ago, ma'am, and there've been people in here right steady all day. I've done nothing improper with or to Clara, nor do I have any intention of doing so, ma'am. My mother, -God rest her soul,- she raised me properly."
Nellie nodded at the seriousness of the young man's frank confession. He looked young, but she realized that he had a very old soul. His eyes carried the weight of someone who had packed a lot of living into his young years. "It was very kind of you to stay on like that, Mister Nikailov." Nellie admitted. "I hope you weren't being kept from a job somewhere."
"No, ma'am." Karolek admitted. "I finished my tour in the army a week and a half ago. I have an interview on Monday for a possible clerk's job. That's what I did out in Kentucky."
Clara chose that moment to prod Karolek's shoulder, "I'm going to ask her." Karolek made a shushing motion with his hands, but Clara chose not to notice. "Mama, what about keeping Karolek on as a cook? He did a swell job today, everyone said how good the food tasted. He washes dishes and cleans up well, and you know we could use the help."
"I don't know, Clara." Nellie automatically went to answer in the negative. As she thought about it, she knew that it would be a help to have another pair of hands around the place. She wasn't as young as she used to be, and she'd been aching to spend more time with Hal while he still had time left. Clara was at school all day except Saturdays, and Edna had her own worries and life to deal with. Looking back at Karolek, she admitted, "I could use the help, but I can't afford to pay you much."
Karolek shrugged his shoulders. "The money's not necessary, ma'am. Mama, she didn't much trust banks or stocks, and she saved a lot of money even with the bad times. Plus I still have what's left of my army pay. I'd be just as happy to work for room and board if that'd be more convenient for you, what with Mister Jacobsen being ill."
"Clara?" Nellie asked, a note of anger in her voice. She didn't like the idea of Clara speaking out of turn about family troubles to a stranger, even a helpful and well mannered one. Their problems were their own, and she didn't want any man's charity.
"What's the harm in his knowing, Mama?" Clara asked. "He wanted to know what you were so upset about this morning, that was the only thing I could think of."
"I beg your pardon, Mrs. Jacobsen." Karolek apologized. "I didn't mean to speak out of turn. My father came through the area not long after it was recaptured by the United States in the War. He spoke very highly of Mr. Jacobsen's character and your coffee shop, ma'am. He would have been very pleased to hear of the good fortune the two of you had in the years after."
Nellie nodded sharply, still angered with Clara for speaking so candidly. "Your father ate here, did he? Who was he?"
"Papa was a sniper from the first army in Tennessee. Worked in barrels with Colonel Morrell. He was a Captain when the war ended and he came through on his way to Delaware. Captain Karolek Romanov. Blonde hair, gray eyes, looked a lot like me."
Nellie nodded thoughtfully. "I think I remember him, on account of he brought his rifle right in when he sat down." Karolek laughed and nodded, saying that was indeed his father. "You're named after him and look just like him, but your last name is different." That seemed odd to her ears, yet there was no way he could be the same man from almost 20 years ago. The boy barely looked like he might be out of his teens at the outside, and he said he had just finished his conscription tour in Kentucky.
"Yes, ma'am." Karolek said, going back to wiping down the dishes which had been soaking. "By the old Russian naming traditions, I was named Karolek Karolekovich Romanov. Seemed like a bit too much of a mouthful for me, so I changed it to Karolek Romanovich Nikailov. Nikailov was mama's name before she married papa, and with my middle name I still keep the family name alive, so to speak." Stacking the dishes, he explained further. "Papa died in an accident. Fell form a tree a year and a half ago on our farm out in Washington state. Mama had died a few years earlier, so there was no one to object."
Nellie nodded at his careful explanation of strange customs. "If you're from Oregon, what are you doing back east?"
"Didn't want to spend my whole life on a farm, ma'am. That was papa's peace, not mine." It was sort of true, a little bit. "Army brought me most of the way east. I decided to keep on going."
"I see." She couldn't find fault with his manners, he'd obviously been raised very well. He was polite to her, always addressed her as ma'am or Mrs. Jacobsen. He'd behaved himself well with Clara, and she didn't get the sense that he was like other men, always looking for a skirt to get under. He had a good solid work ethic, common sense, and seemed like a genuinely nice, trustworthy, and well educated person. "I've a room upstairs that you can use, if you're willing to work for room and board." Despite his gender, she could find no other strong reason to dislike the boy. It was obvious Clara enjoyed his company, though not in the same way that Edna had enjoyed the company of Nicholas Kincaid. And Lord knew she could use the help in the café. If it came at a few extra sandwiches and some coffee and a stranger in the room across the hall, so be it. No other help would be as cheap or efficient, and with his nature it wasn't likely he'd stay a stranger for long.
"I'd like that, ma'am." Karolek said, ducking his head shyly in a long practiced gesture designed to convince people of his pretend age. "If it's all right with you, I'll go back to my hotel room tonight to get my money's worth and fetch my things. I'll come back tomorrow after mass is done, if it's agreeable?"
"Yes, that's fine." Mass. So he was Catholic. At least he was religious. And sensible about his money, as well. "Come back around 12:30, we'll get you all squared away to start on Monday."
"Maybe get you a proper apron." Clara giggled.
"Oh I don't know." Karolek teased back. "I think the towel is a bit more manly." Clara laughed, and even Nellie couldn't help cracking a smile. Addressing Nellie again, he said, "It's nice of you to do this for me, ma'am. I know you don't know me very well. I promise I don't have a lot of things, just some clothes and a few books, and an antique sword that's been in my family for generations."
"A sword?" Nellie said dubiously.
"Yes, ma'am." Karolek lied smoothly to assure her. "It's very old, a family heirloom. It's not sharpened and stays in it's scabbard and locked up most all the time." So one of those three was true. It was indeed a family heirloom, it had belonged to his father and his grandfather before being passed to him. The rest, rather emphatically not. But it was most definitely sharpened, and rather than being locked up was presently tucked into a secret compartment in his coat. Nodding his head respectfully, he suggested, "Perhaps you should go back upstairs while Clara and I finish up down here.
"Oh, very well then." Nellie conceded. "Go on back to your hotel when you're done with those dishes. Clara can lock up behind you. I'll see you tomorrow at 12:30."
"Yes, ma'am. Good night, Mrs. Jacobsen." Karolek said politely.
"I'll be up in a few minutes, Mama." Clara assured. Nellie nodded, leaving the two to finish up their cleaning. Clara turned to face Karolek. "She likes you. I didn't think she would."
"Oh?" Karolek asked, stacking up the dishes to be used again on Monday. "Why's that?"
Clara giggled slightly as she started to put the dishes away in their appropriate places. "Don't know exactly. Mama doesn't much seem to like men and boys in particular. Never really has, though why I couldn't tell you." Shaking her brown hair out of her eyes, she continued. "Well, I guess she liked Papa all right, and I think she likes my uncle Merle. Don't know whether or not she likes Armstrong. I sure don't."
"Armstrong?" Karolek repeated. "Who's Armstrong?"
"Armstrong's my nephew. My sister Edna is a lot older than me, Armstrong's her son. He's sort of spoiled and a brat." Clara explained.
"How old is he?"
"Eleven."
Karolek laughed a bit. "Yeah, I was a brat when I was eleven too. Come to think of it, I was a brat till I served my time in the army." Clara laughed at his description of himself as a boy. Well, when he was eleven he really was a brat, and more spoiled than Armstrong could ever dream of being. "Something tells me though, you'll think he's a brat even when he's older." He pulled the towels out of his belt. "I best be going on."
"I suppose so." Clara admitted as Karolek shrugged on his jacket and picked up his newspaper and his newsboy hat. She didn't really want to see the young man go, she'd enjoyed his company wholeheartedly and had never had so much fun working in the shop. Karolek had done a lot to take her mind off of her troubles. It would be almost a shame to have to go back to school on Monday while Karolek was working. "I'll see you tomorrow afternoon, though. Do you need any help moving in?"
"No, thanks." Karolek smiled, walking to the door. "I don't have so much to carry, and if it does turn out to be more, I bet I can find someone who'll help me for some money or a meal."
"I suppose." Clara repeated herself. "Take care walking home."
"Take care of your mother." Karolek put his cap on as he stepped outside. "And take care of yourself, too. I'll see you tomorrow." And with that, he put his hands in his pockets and walked off towards his hotel room a few blocks away, whistling cheerfully to himself.
Clara bolted the shop door behind Karolek and pulled the shades on the windows. Turning out the lights and making sure the door out of the kitchen was locked as well, she went upstairs to their rooms and the homework she hadn't finished before.
It was the middle of the day when Karolek reappeared at the coffee shop. The orthodox mass he attended not far away had been slightly lackluster, but he still felt a certain obligation to the religion of his youth. He wondered it that would continue for long; he'd fallen into and out of his faith a lot during 400 years of living. He had a small rucksack full of books and papers, a small suitcase with his clothes and a flat paper parcel that held the aforementioned sword.
Reaching the building which housed the coffee shop, he knocked politely and waited for one of the Jacobsens to come and let him in. The thudding feet he heard approaching the door made him smile, with the enthusiasm and the speed, it must be Clara. Sure enough, the door flew open and he was greeted by Clara. "Afternoon, Karolek." She greeted, reasonably cheerfully.
"Afternoon, Clara." Karolek said, bowing slightly. "May I come in."
"Sure." Clara giggled, stepping aside to allow him access. "You live here too now." She motioned to a door in the corner which led to the stairs and the rooms above the shop. "Come on, it's this way."
Karolek dutifully followed Clara up the stairs, which led to a small, sparsely furnished but comfortable living room. Next to it was a petite kitchen for personal use, much smaller than the one downstairs but equally well cared for. Nellie Jacobsen was there, stirring a pot of mashed potatoes. She turned to see the duo come up into the apartment, wiping her hands on her apron. "Afternoon, Karolek."
"Afternoon, Mrs. Jacobsen." Karolek replied politely. "How are you feeling today?"
"Fair." Nellie admitted. "Did you get everything over from your hotel all right?"
Karolek smiled easily. "Yes, ma'am." He gestured to his few belongings. "Not much to bring along, really."
She motioned to a hallway which led to rooms in the back of the flat. "Clara can show you where you'll be staying while you're here. Dinner will be in about half an hour, all right?"
"Yes, ma'am." Karolek said with a broad smile. "Thanks very much for you kindness. I do appreciate your going to the trouble of putting me up."
Nellie smiled slightly in spite of herself. Maybe this young man wouldn't be so bad as she was initially thinking. By all accounts he seemed thoroughly charming, but at the same time he was very centered and.well.un male-like. "Clara, take him back to his room and help him get settled."
"Yes Mama." Clara said, motioning to Karolek. "Come on, your room is at the top of the hall." She started, well, more appropriately bounded, the few steps out of the kitchen to the first room on the hallway. "Here y'are." She opened the door, revealing a room much like the rest of the apartment, small but neat. A bed stood in the corner opposite the door, next to a small nightstand. A dresser was underneath the window, and a few shelves were next to the door for odds and ends. "This used to be Edna's room. It's not much, but it will do."
"It's a swell room." He assured Clara. "I don't mind it at all."
"Great." Clara cheered, sitting down on Karolek's bed. "What's in the long paper package?"
Karolek grinned, propping the door open to avoid any thoughts of impropriety on Nellie's part. He didn't want to alienate his boss before he ever started working. "Remember my telling you about having a sword, the other day?" Clara nodded. Karolek set the package down next to her on the bed and undid the string. He unfolded the paper to reveal a long silver handled bastard broadsword. The sword was about 40 inches long from the end of the handle to the tip. The handle was textured in the feathers of the double phoenix which began just below the hilt guard and wrapped around the bottom, where a deep red gem was set into the bottom. On the blade itself, just above the hilt, was a small line of Cyrillic printing which read out the family name Romanov.
"It's beautiful, Karolek." Clara said softly. "Where did you get it? It must be worth a fortune." She reached out to touch it, but was halted by Karolek's hand on hers.
"Careful." He admonished, a little sharply. "It's sharp and could hurt you."
"You told Mama it wasn't sharpened." She whispered.
Karolek nodded. "I know I did. I don't think she'd appreciate knowing that truth. Help me keep the secret?"
"Of course." She said, beaming that Karolek trusted her with one of his secrets.
"The sword has been in my family for generations. Made for my ancestor by a master sword smith. It's been passed down from father to son since the end of the 1400's. It's probably worth a fortune to a collector, more to a museum, so it's been closely guarded." Karolek explained, to a degree, the origins of the piece sitting between them.
"What's this, on the top part?" Clara pointed delicately to the Cyrillic printing.
"Here, on the hilt?" Karolek corrected. "It's my family name. Romanov, in Russian."
Clara nodded solemnly. "Like Tsar Nicholas?"
"Just like Tsar Nikolai." Karolek admitted. "Though separated from the imperial line many generations back." "Wow." Clara breathed. "That's still really swell. Why did you get rid of your name?"
"For a change, I guess." Karolek lied, trying to stall and come up with a reason other than the reason he really didn't use his birth name. "I mean, I was named after my father, and Karolek isn't all that common a name even in Russian communities." He hoped, anyway. "I wanted to be different than he was, and the easiest way to do that seemed to be to get rid of my last name."
"I see, I think." Clara said slowly. In truth, she didn't really understand, but she wasn't going to admit that to Karolek.
Karolek wrapped up his sword in the paper again and slid it underneath his mattress. It would do as a hiding place for now, eventually it would make its way back into his coat. "Come on Clara, we'd best go see if your mother needs any help."
Five months later, Hal Jacobsen breathed his last tortured breath. Though he'd clung rather stubbornly to his life until the end, ultimately there was no beating the carcinoma which killed him. For Hal, it was surely a relief not to have to struggle for one more life sustaining breath. For Nellie and Clara, it was alternately a blessing and a devastation. A blessing, in that they no longer had to watch his suffering. A devastation, in that Nellie was widowed once again, and at almost 15, Clara was without a father. It had been a long year for all of them, in that respect.
The funeral was small. Nellie, Clara, Edna, her husband Merle, and their two children Armstrong and Lorraine, a few of Hal's friends and some of the members of the spy ring he'd led during the Great War, no more than 20 people in all.
Karolek attended the funeral only because Nellie and Clara had asked him to. As Karolek Romanov, he'd liked the European born cobbler immensely, and was sad to see such a kind, devoted man pass on. As Karolek Nikailov, he had no connection to the man except through the two Jacobsen women, and so he came as requested.
'What good is it to live forever, when men such as he, more worthy of my gift than I, are made to suffer in the way that he did.' Karolek wondered to himself, standing in the gentle rain behind the family. This was not the first time Karolek had posed this particular question to himself in 400 years, nor was it likely to be the last time he did. 'We all think we want eternity, until it is handed to us.' He laughed bitterly to himself. 'Mackenzie knew whereof she spoke. Odd that I should be taking life lessons from someone half my age.'
As the priest continued the service, a persistent and all too familiar feeling began to tug at the back of Karolek's brain. 'Chert.' He swore to himself, recognizing the sensation as the Buzz which marked the approach of another Immortal. Lacking Mackenzie's ability to detect identity and strength based on the sensation, he was forced to start looking about the cemetery for whoever it was that was looking for him.
He finally spotted the source of the Buzz in the next plot over. A tall, distinguished looking man in a long black coat, wearing a homburg and carrying an umbrella. Karolek slipped away from his spot at the end of the back row and slipped silently through the gravestones to the mysterious Immortal.
Coming up to the cover of the tree, Karolek removed his newsboy's hat and shook some of the water off it, checking his coat to ensure that his sword remained tucked within. He had little to no interest in fighting this Immortal, whoever he might be, but wanted to know that he was armed should it come to that. He hadn't fought a Challenge in almost a year, and he knew his skills were rusty. He'd been sneaking away at nights and sometimes early in the mornings to practice away from Nellie's watchful eye. The few times he'd been caught, he'd spun an excuse about being out walking.
The truth was, 400 years into his existence, Karolek had no real desire to be an active part in the Game. His sword skills, when practiced, were among the best out there, he knew without overstating his abilities. He'd had a period of time, after the death of his first wife Irina, where if he hadn't been a headhunter he'd been damned close. It was a part of his past he wasn't proud of, but had moved beyond in his own mind. Almost a century of that sort of living had made him more than few enemies, and Karolek feared that this might be one of them.
"Lovely weather, isn't it?" The mystery Immortal commented, watching Karolek shake the rain out of his had. "Murder on a sword, though."
"So it is." Karolek agreed, knowing he'd have to wipe his sword down later to prevent rusting. "Prince Karolek Konstantinovich Romanov."
"Erich von Ridesel." The mystery Immortal introduced himself. "You know we are on holy ground." He stated, unnecessarily.
"I've no quarrel with you." Karolek admitted. "I prefer to live life outside of the Game, rather than in it."
Erich laughed quietly. "No man can keep himself outside the Game forever. Sooner or later, it consumes us all."
Karolek nodded, leaning against the tree so that he could see Hal's funeral but keep Erich in his sights. "I suppose it does." He admitted, after a long silence. "But I'm not quite ready to let it consume me, if you know what I mean."
"Lord do I." Erich laughed. "I'm certainly willing to avoid the fight if you are."
"Man can never have too many friends, especially the kind that live forever." Karolek said, thinking not only of Hal, but of all the friends he'd made and lost during the Great War and times before.
"Was he a good friend, this fellow who's funeral you're here for?" Erich asked, taking in Karolek's dark coat and pants.
"Not really." Karolek said, still watching. "I met him after the war, on my way to meet a friend. He's more a friend of friends, I suppose." He looked over at Erich. "You serve?"
"German Imperial Army. Second army, first infantry division. Company commander. You?"
"Started out in the Rockies. Ended as a sniper, barrels in the first army under Colonel Morrell." Karolek commented softly. "Wasn't like war when I learned it. But that's beside the point." The Russian prince sighed softly. "So no, he wasn't a good friend. But it burns all the same. Jacobsen was a good man, probably a better man than I. Came over, made a living for himself, married a nice woman and raised a good girl. Did his bit during the war and was just as much a hero as any man in uniform. I stay forever 21, he spends seven months dying in a hospital." He sighed again. He sounded as brooding and depressed as he ever had, even after his first wife had died. He needed to get away from this line of thinking, stop brooding and sounding so much like the MacLeods.
"It does hurt that's true." Erich admitted. "Sounds as though you could use a drinking buddy."
"And how." Karolek admitted. "Tomorrow's my day off. I'll be drinking at the tavern on 2nd street at 4 if you care to join me."
"All right." Erich agreed. "You'll need someone to watch your back if you're planning on getting plastered the way you sound like. Have you even got enough money to get yourself truly drunk?" He straightened as if to walk away. "For the record, I'm willing to put up my sword till the Gathering if you are."
"Sounds good to me." Karolek said, shaking Erich's hand. "I'd best get back before I'm really missed."
"Till tomorrow." Erich bade the other Immortal goodbye. As Karolek turned to walk away, he called out again, "Romanov?"
Karolek turned to face von Ridesel again. "Nikailov, if you would."
"Hauptmann." Erich offered his own assumed last name. "Life goes on without us. Don't beat yourself up for things you can't control."
Karolek nodded slowly, considering the German's words. "Till tomorrow, Erich." And with that, Karolek walked back to the funeral, and Hauptmann remained at the graves of his wife and young son, buried almost twenty years before in the last year of the Great War.
It took Erich von Ridesel two passes around the block before he found the tavern that Karolek had planned to be at, and even then it was only because he felt the pull of the other man's buzz on the second time around. He pushed open the door and stepped into the dimly lit tavern.
The place was only half full, odd even for a Saturday. Granted, the Depression which had hit hard five years ago was still more or less a factor, but factories were starting to come around again and people were beginning to find work again. That aside, people were probably saving for a rainy day rather than drinking, though any hard times could be counted on to fill bars.
He spotted the youthful, blond Immortal at a corner table, his back to the wall. A second seat next to him was empty, also facing the wall. A perfect table to keep watch on the room and your seatmate, as well. So Romanov was smart or sensible, depending on how you saw it, and well trained at the very least. Erich admitted to himself that he had no idea what he was doing in that tavern, drinking with a relative stranger that he knew next to nothing about. He knew only the man's real name, and what he'd done during the last war. He didn't know how old the man was, who he'd trained with, what sort of person he was.anything really. So what was he doing here?
He slipped across the bar and into the seat next to Romanov. The bartender promptly delivered another round of beers to the table where the two Immortals sat, taking two dollars from Romanov and disappearing. "First round is on me."
"Thank you." Erich said with a smile, undoing his coat and hanging it from a hook in the wall. "I guess you really do have the money to drink with."
Karolek chuckled. "Once upon a time, the Romanovs had more money than they knew what to do with."
"And now the whole country is in trouble." Erich sympathized.
"True." Karolek agreed. "Nikolai has more troubles than he can handle some days, I fear. All the more compounded by the continued illness of the tsarevich."
"How long has it been? Since you left home?" Erich asked softly.
Karolek grinned. "The first time or the last time?" Erich blushed slightly. The Russian had caught him fishing."You're a little transparent, you know."
"Wouldn't be the first time I was accused of that." The German admitted. "My teacher always did say that I was a little too open to survive long as one of us. I like to think I've proved him wrong."
"Who him, if you don't mind my asking?"
"Now who's being transparent?" Erich laughed. "I'll show you mine if you show me yours."
"Fair enough." Karolek agreed.
"Schuyler. William Schuyler."
"Khan Seh." Karolek said, sipping at his beer. "Met Schuyler, once. He's a good man."
"Was."
"Sorry. How?"
Erich shrugged. "I'm not sure, exactly. I know the fellow's name was Book. Jacob Book."
"Oh, he's pleasant." Karolek said darkly.
"You know him then?"
"We've met."
Astounded, Erich had no real idea of what to say. "When? How?" A dark look crossed his face. "And how do I kill him?"
Karolek finished his drink and motioned for another. He gave the man a twenty and told him to keep the refills coming and asked him to keep himself scarce. The bartender nodded cheerfully and moved back to his bar, grateful for such a paying customer. Men of his type were too thin on the ground in working class pubs these days, and he was more than willing to leave the two intense looking men to their conversation.
As he retreated to his bar, the man took the opportunity to study his two patrons. The man who seemed to be doing the paying was young, probably no older than his mid twenties. His pale blond hair was long, pulled back from a handsome face with European features, maybe Eastern Europe but not a Slav. He was dressed in black slacks and a blue vest over a white shirt. A newsboy hat hung with his shin length trench coat from one of the wall nails. His eyes, though, were enough to stop a potential enemy dead in their tracks. They were gray, of the same color as gunmetal, and spoke of a life with trials that stretched way beyond his physical years.
The other man was a study in contrasts to the first. Though not paying, he certainly looked as though he could afford his own drinks. He was somewhat elegantly dressed, in a neat charcoal suit with a gray overcoat and homburg. The man could have been a government worker or a diplomat. He was square jawed, with brown hair and light brown eyes. He had an air of refinement about him, but at the same time he didn't seem out of place in a tavern that was mostly working class. A flexible sort, who could be at home in high society or a factory floor.
Karolek took a long pull on his new beer to avoid answering the question right away. He did not have fond memories of Book, who was largely a mistake compounded by time that he sometimes wished he could get away from. "I met him about 250 years ago." Karolek began quietly, leaning in so that their conversation wouldn't carry. "He was new, then, or relatively, at least. Maybe 10 years in, no more. He was with his teacher, a Swede named Carlsson." He snorted quietly. "I had something of a reputation at the time that I was trying to get away from, so maybe Carlsson was trying to make a name for himself. I don't know."
"A reputation?" Erich interrupted. "As what?"
Karolek sighed. "I wasn't a headhunter, but I was damned close. Almost a century I went looking for Challenges, and found them fairly often. "
"That's how it was with Carlsson?"
"Da. Carlsson issued a challenge, and we fought. At the time I was trying to leave that part of me behind, but the man wouldn't be swayed. 'There Can Be Only One,' or so he kept reminding me. He was a good fighter, damned good, but then so am I." He swallowed some more beer. "Book took offense at my beating Carlsson, and he Challenged me in honor of his teacher's memory. Took me about thirty seconds to knock the sword out of his hands."
Erich nodded thoughtfully. "But you didn't kill him." It was a statement, not a question, for both men knew the answer. "Why?"
"Because he was so young. Too new. He was doing what he thought was the honorable thing, avenging his teacher, and I thought maybe he was best left alone. I told him to study up and not fight out of his weight, because the next person wouldn't be quite so kind as I had been. I left him his head and his sword and left town." He ran a hand through the shorter pieces at the front of his ponytail. "Book found a new teacher. Grayson. You want to talk about dangerous. Grayson fought with Darius before Darius took the holy man's Quickening and spared Paris. Grayson never forgave him the slight of disbanding his army when he could have ruled Europe for a thousand years. He's hell with a blade, and was probably the worst person that Book could have found at the time he did. Ate it all up, became a strong fighter and a vengeful man. We met in a monastery in India about 75 years ago, and Book swore if he ever found me off of Holy Ground, we would pick up our fight where we left off."
"So Book picked up Grayson's habits. Still doesn't explain why he killed Schuyler." Erich mused.
"It may just have been the fact that your man was in the way of something Book or Grayson wanted. He's certainly learned how to be ruthless enough in getting what he wants." Karolek offered. "I made quite a mistake there, but I don't see how I can do much about it. I'm not the man I was 250 years back. Darius I'm not, but I don't go looking for fights."
"Can you still fight?" Erich asked of the older Immortal, concerned. "When was your last Challenge?"
"Almost a year." Karolek admitted. "And yes, I can still fight, though I might be a little rusty. My current employment doesn't really allow for a great deal of sword training."
"Maybe you need to get some sparring in." Erich offered. "I'm not very old, but I'm decent with a blade, and any practice is better than none."
Karolek nodded. "Just how old are you, anyway? I gave you enough to at least rough age me, yet I don't know you."
"Two hundred and eleven." Erich admitted.
"'S not so shabby." Karolek told his friend, who to any other man would appear to be older and more prosperous. In reality, however, Karolek was worth a king's ransom, and had two hundred years on the man. "Not quite as long as 416, but not bad."
"Gee, thanks." Erich groused.
"Oh, take it easy kid." Karolek teased with a touch of irony, as to anyone else's eye, the German should have been calling him kid. "I have half days on Saturdays. Do you have somewhere we can meet to practice?"
"I do." Erich admitted. "I own a shipping company. My warehouse holds dry goods. All the workers leave on Saturday at half day. You could come there, no one would disturb us."
"Sounds good." Karolek said, taking a scrap of paper on which Erich wrote his address. "You seem like a good man, Erich. I think that with time I could trust you. But I want to make one thing clear to you. If you try and play me the wrong way or do something treacherous, I have several friends who are deeply into vengeance."
"Fair enough." Erich said. "I told you. I'll put up my sword until the Gathering if you will."
Downing his last beer, Karolek pulled on his coat and hat. "I'll see you Saturday afternoon, then."