Disclaimer: Recognizable characters from Highlander and the American
Front/American Empire books still belong to their respective creators, who
are not me. Connor's comment to Nellie about his accent is borrowed from
Highlander 1. They're not making me any money, and I don't have any for
anyone to take, either.
"The Russian Prince" is written with no regard for the plot developments in American Empire: The Victorious Opposition, because I started the story before TVO came out.
Sentences enclosed in - - are spoken in the native languages of whomever happens to be speaking at the time. Russian's not my thing, and my German is as good as the foreign language of almost anyone who studied in an American high school. (
Chapter Three: Ships in the Night
"Karolek?" A high pitched, hesitant voice accompanied the knocking on his door. "Are you awake?"
The formerly sleeping Russian glanced up at his clock before groaning. It couldn't be time to get up already, could it? He rubbed sleepy eyes and looked again. 5:30. It really WAS time to get up. 'Swell.' He raised his muttering voice and called out to Clara, "I'm awake, Clara. Be out in five."
"Good." Clara returned through the locked door. "I think Mama's in a bad mood today. She's already downstairs waiting for you." Clara smoothed out her dress and finished tying back her hair before walking down the short hallway to the kitchen.
Karolek rose somewhat groggily from his bed and pulled his clean shirt from its peg in the wall. Immortal or no, he wasn't quite awake until he had his first cup of coffee in the mornings. A quick glance out the window showed the promise of a sunny, albeit cold, day. It would be a good day to escape after his shift was done downstairs and do a little training on his own. Working out with Erich was all well and good, but once a week wasn't enough to keep him in fighting shape. Their second sparring match, when Erich had come uncomfortably close to putting a dagger through his chest, had proven that lesson entirely too well. It had also done wonders to show Karolek that the younger German could still be a sneaky s.o.b. when he really needed to.
Dressed in his customary black pants, white shirt, and gray vest, he reached for the small band of black leather that tied his hair back. Clara jokingly called the outfit his uniform, since he wore it or some variation on the placement of the colors almost every day. Karolek preferred it because blacks and grays blended into the background. The less you invited someone to look at you twice, the more likely it was you could just slip ghostlike, through the background. Who, after all, was likely to remember the kid waiting tables in a coffee shop, even if he did have long hair?
Walking downstairs, Karolek braced himself for the likely unpleasant atmosphere in the shop, caused by Nellie's purportedly lousy mood. Just last week, at their usual Saturday afternoon session, Erich had asked Karolek why he was bothering to work in the shop when he was capable of doing so much more.
"What are you still doing there?" Erich asked, going on the offensive.
"Doing where?" Karolek returned, parrying the blow and moving to lock up Erich's sword.
"At that coffee shop." Erich continued. "It can't be much fun as far as work goes. I've met the woman who owns the place, Widow Jacobsen, and she's not exactly what you'd call warm and fuzzy. You can't need the money, and you're more than capable of doing something better, I'm sure." He stopped, frowning in concentration as Karolek launched a rather aggressive attack. For his trouble, he wound up disarmed and on his knees, courtesy of a rather nasty left hand swipe. "Yield," the German sighed, seeing the point of Karolek's broadsword at his neck. "That's what, four for you?"
"Da." Karolek said with a grin, allowing his friend to stand and collect his sword. "Break for ten?" At Erich's nod, the two men made their way over to the small icebox where Erich stored some water.
"You never answered my question, you know." Erich pointed out as they sat on boxes drinking.
Karolek frowned. "Sure I did. I agreed that was my fourth win."
"Not about wins, Karo. About the coffee house. Why stay when I'm sure you're capable of doing more?"
Karolek leaned back in thought, wondering how to answer. "Because.because it's -normal there.-"
"And for those of us who don't speak Russian?"
"Ah." Karolek translated his earlier statement for Erich. "I still have to pretend. Nellie and Clara both think I'm a nineteen year old kid, fresh out of the army and looking for a start. Granted it's a little frustrating when they TREAT me like I'm a nineteen year old kid, but those moments aren't as frequent as they might be."
Erich sipped at his water, suddenly wishing it were beer or wine. "And that's normal?"
Grinning wryly, Karolek pointed out that lying about their ages was in fact very normal for an Immortal, causing Erich to chuckle. "No, that's not the sort of normal I mean, Erich. The fate of the world doesn't hang on what goes on in this coffee shop. No one suspects I'm capable of anything out of the ordinary, except for maybe cooking a little to well for a man. Countries won't rise or fall based on how the coffee tastes. No one's life is in my hands if I don't get their eggs out on time." Leaning forward, he looked at Erich in earnest. "It's as normal a life as someone like me can hope to live, for now at least."
"That's very profound." Erich raised his glass as if in a toast.
"I've had a lot of years to think." Karolek sipped at his water thoughtfully. "I've done the big things, you know? I've commanded men in three American wars and at least as many European ones.captained ships.made and changed history.hell, I was the prince of a large Russian province for three years before I died." A long silence ensued, leaving Erich unsure as to whether or not he should comment. His past lesson in patience was rewarded. "Yes, I've done the big things. Now I want to spend some time doing normal things."
Thoughtfully, Erich commented, "That's a noble ambition, Karolek, and good luck with it. Maybe it'll happen for you." As if to make a silent point, he raised his sword so that the light flashed off the blade. "But I don't think it will happen. It doesn't.not for men like us."
Nodding sadly, Karolek finished the glass of water he was drinking and picked up his own sword. They moved out into the center of the open space and raised their swords, ready for another go round.
~~~~~~~~~~~
The day passed slowly in the coffee house. Clara spent most of the day at school, returning in mid-afternoon.
As Clara was halfway to her apron, Nellie's sharp voice cut across the kitchen. "What do you think you're doing, young lady?"
Clara looked up into an angry face and said, "Putting on my apron to help."
"I should think not." Nellie retorted. "You have homework, don't you?"
"Just some algebra and a composition for government." Clara shot a pleading look at Karolek, trying to will him to come into the budding argument on her side.
Karolek said nothing, continuing to wash out the coffee pot, but the gesture was not lost on Nellie. "Get yourself upstairs then and get to work. I'll have no daughter of mine shirking her schoolwork because she'd rather be working here."
"But Mama." Clara began to whine.
"Upstairs." The finality was evident in the older woman's tone. Clara gave Karolek a last, mournful glance before turning and slamming her way through the door which led to the upstairs apartment. Both adults were glad that no one else was in the shop to witness the display.
Clara gone, Nellie turned her temper on Karolek. "I don't appreciate your encouraging her."
"What, ma'am?" Karolek asked, deciding to play dumb for the moment.
"Always backing her up against me. Playing into this crush she seems to have developed on you. Those four years are an important four years, you know."
"I know, Mrs. Jacobsen." Karolek held up his hands in a placating gesture. 'Oh, how I know. I also know that 401 years is a much more important gap.' "I promise you, ma'am, I haven't knowingly done ANYTHING to lead her on into believing I have an interest in her."
"You haven't?" Nellie repeated, disappointed.
Karolek vigorously shook his head, causing a few longer strands of hair to escape his ponytail. "No, ma'am. Clara's a nice girl, but she's still a girl. I'm not stupid, ma'am."
Nellie studied Karolek intently. His gray eyes, which even now she still found slightly disturbing for the age they seemed to convey, were open and earnest. She had to smile at the picture he made, soapy hands held open, though she kept her smile to herself. If Clara were older, she might not care so much. Like her son-in-law Merle, Karolek seemed to be a good man. He was always neatly dressed, a hard worker who seemed to be possessed of common sense, and was always polite and courteous. A girl like Clara could do worse.
But not now. Not today. Nellie had never gotten much of an education, which meant she'd done some very unfortunate things in order to get by.things she'd been trying to live down or get past for too many years. She didn't want that for Clara. "See to it that you stay that way, Karolek." She finished sharply, attention diverted to an entering customer. "Go and see what our customer wants."
"Yes, ma'am." Karolek said, wiping his hands on the towel he still wore as an apron and moving out towards the front of the shop. Internally, he congratulated himself for not pulling his switchblade from his pocket and giving her the sort of scare he'd given Erich six weeks ago. It had been very, very tempting.
The second he stepped out of the kitchen, he received a double shock. The first came in the form of an all too familiar ringing Buzz in his head. The second came in the form of the new customer, a young looking man who was eyeing the shop every bit as intently as he was. "-I'll be damned.-" Karolek muttered softly, sizing up the familiar brown hair and vaguely bored look of Connor MacLeod. "Connor, what are you doing here?"
To say that Connor was surprised to see Karolek with a makeshift apron tucked in his waistband would be quite true. The two Highlanders had met the Russian Prince shortly after the end of his headhunting days, while traveling in Ireland. Karolek had recently married his second wife, Brighid (Bridget), and was living in Killorglin on the west coast.
The world was bigger in those days, before the invention of the wireless and the telegraph, but somehow word about Immortal fighters got around. Karolek knew that Connor was a contemporary of his, trained by Ramirez and therefore likely to be pretty good. Duncan was less well known, but had the build and singlemindedness to be a good fighter in his time. Likewise, Connor knew that Romanov had a rather fearsome reputation as a fighter who'd taken a lot of Quickenings in a short time.
Prudence would have dictated that they all go their separate ways, leaving well enough. The odds should have suggested that some combination of the three would have fought, maybe more than one depending on the outcome. But prudence and the odds are not always right. Duncan and Karolek initially got on like a house afire. The younger of the two Highlanders welcomed the contact with another, older Immortal as a chance to continue learning. Karolek appreciated the man's more optimistic outlook - one which had been missing from his life since Irina's death.
Connor and Karolek, however, were cut from molds too similar to get along easily. Based on his past reputation, Connor did not believe Karolek could be trusted with Duncan alone, and so stayed by his kinsman while Karolek was showing Duncan what he knew. Karolek suffered the elder Highlander's presence, figuring it to be a fair one given the reputation he'd so recently discarded. Brighid was kind and welcoming to the two men, both of whom were unfailingly polite to her. The more Karolek and Connor talked to one another, the more they realized they had in common. In the end, it was the similar losses of their first wives that allowed the older Immortals to connect. But while Connor continued to mourn the loss of Heather and still did, Karolek had let Irina rest and moved on with his life.
Over the years, the two men had developed a strong friendship. Connor was not the type to trust easily, and for that reason the Highlander's friendship meant all the more to the Russian Prince. They stayed in touch through letters, and when they found themselves in the same part of the world they would arrange to meet.
Having not sent Connor a letter since settling at the coffee shop, Karolek was surprised to see him there. Determined not to let his surprise dampen the reunion, he quickly crossed the room to his stunned friend.
For his own part, Connor was equally stunned to see Karolek wearing what, by all accounts, was an apron. The last place he'd ever pictured a former prince working was in a little shop like this. Answering Karolek's earlier question, he responded, "Passing through Washington on my way to Richmond. The better question is what are ye doing here?" He embraced his old friend before standing back and sizing up the outfit. "And wearing an apron, no less."
"I'll have you know it's a towel, Connor, not an apron." Karolek growled with feigned indignance. Connor merely raised his eyebrows and chuckled lightly. "I'm working here."
"Why?" Connor asked, echoing Erich's question from a few weeks ago.
"It's a job. I like the people," Karolek explained, adding, "most of the time, anyway," in a stage whisper.
Connor nodded his head absently, though he admitted to himself that it did make a certain amount of sense. Karolek had always had unusual choices as far as employment and amusement went. He remembered quite vividly a rather unfortunate incident in Athens in the 1820's involving a goat and a rather angry neighboring vineyard owner that still made him shudder. Often Karolek's actions made very little sense to anyone but Karolek. Better not to question too hard.
"I'm only in town overnight." Connor explained, after placing his order for a ham sandwich and some black coffee. "I have a meeting I need to attend in Richmond tomorrow. Are you up for a night on the town, Karo?"
"Sounds good to me." Karolek replied with a bright grin as Nellie came back out with Connor's coffee.
"Sandwich will be up in a minute." The widow said, with as much cheerfulness as she usually mustered for her male customers. She raised an eyebrow at Karolek, plainly asking who this man was he was sitting with in the middle of a work day.
"Mrs. Jacobsen, let me introduce you to a friend of mine." Karolek responded pleasantly. "This is Connor MacLeod, an old friend." Karolek never bothered to learn any of Connor's aliases. It never struck him as worth the effort to keep it straight, except for the few war years when Connor had been serving in the artillery. "Connor, this is Mrs. Nellie Jacobsen, the owner of the shop."
"Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Jacobsen." Connor nodded at the woman.
"Likewise, Mr. MacLeod." Nellie returned. "Your accent is unusual. Where are you from, Mr. MacLeod?"
In another world, one less beset by wars and where continents and former countries were not split only by boarders and accents, the question might have been a little less loaded. With another man besides the Highlander, the question might not have mattered quite so much. Connor's Highland speech had mellowed considerably over the years, but he didn't sound much like an American and Nellie knew it. She was fishing, trying to find out information about Karolek without sounding so direct about it. "I'm from lots of different places."
"I'll not be around for supper, Mrs. Jacobsen." Karolek interjected into the long silence that followed. "Connor is only in town overnight. We haven't seen each other in years, and I'd like to do some catching up."
Nellie sighed, "very well. See to it that you're quiet when you come in."
"Yes, ma'am." Karolek replied. Nellie retreated into the back of the shop, leaving the two Immortals alone in the front room.
"She's pleasant." Connor muttered.
"You get used to her after a while." Karolek said, tipping his chair back against the wall. "If it's any consolation, she doesn't dislike you in particular. She doesn't like men in general, or so Clara tells me?"
"Clara?"
"Her daughter. She's upstairs doing her homework."
"Pity." Connor said with a wink that was meant to be suggestive.
"Sorry Connor, but you're not really my type." Connor made an offensive gesture out of sight of the table, prompting the Russian to bust out in loud laughter. "And Clara is only 15. Get your mind out of the gutter."
"Ah, but I'm only 18, now aren't I?" Connor chuckled. Looking up from his sandwich, he caught the expression on his friend's face. Karolek's clear gray eyes were growing stormy, a sign that the Russian prince was nearing the end of his temper. The Highlander nodded and allowed the subject to drop. It didn't take a man of his years to understand that Karolek cared for the young daughter of his employer, though in what way Connor couldn't yet tell. He decided to change the subject, asking eagerly, "When do you get out of this prison?"
Karolek raised his eyes in a gesture of thought. "Around 6:30, I think. Once we're done cleaning up after the last customer leaves." He looked at Connor and sighed heavily. "Whatever it is that you're planning, it's not going to get us arrested again, is it? Because I have to tell you, that jail in Tuscany was enough to last me for a few centuries and then some."
"Karo, sometimes you are entirely no fun, are you aware of that?" Connor smiled wolfishly. "Besides, what good is a night on the town if you don't get good and thoroughly drunk?"
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Karolek was still feeling the effects of his hangover when he went to meet Erich the next afternoon. The only consolation he'd managed to take from the evening was that Connor had been suffering just as badly when he'd boarded his train from Washington to Richmond. He wasn't sure how he was going to manage this session with Erich without either getting whupped from here to next week or lectured about the amount that he'd had to drink last night. The beer that he and Connor had consumed at a number of different taverns last night would have surely killed a mortal man, and Karolek wasn't so sure that it might not yet still claim him.
When he arrived at the warehouse, he noticed something was off, even through his severely hampered haze. Karolek stopped at the walkway leading up to the warehouse, finally deciding what the problem was. There was no Buzz. Erich wasn't there, or if he was he was way out of sensing range.
His mental problems forgotten, Karolek put a cautious hand on the hilt of his sword before silently opening the door to the warehouse. Stepping in, he crept slowly to the door of the office. No Erich. He cast his eyes around the large open space. He saw no body and no blood, nothing to suggest that there had been a fight. "-If Erich were alive anywhere in the warehouse, I would be able to sense him.-" The Russian muttered to himself. "von Ridesel is not the type to forget we're supposed to meet on Saturdays, and he would have sent a note or some kind of signal if he had to cancel."
Lacking another idea as to where his friend might be, Karolek shed his overcoat and drew his broadsword from its usual harness. If he was going to wandering about the place without knowing what had happened, he was certainly going to go armed. His black shin-length coat fell to the floor, a barely present muffled clack sounding as the harness hit concrete. His newsboy's cap followed suit, and he raised his sword in a ready position as he made his way towards the crates stacked in the back corner.
An hour later, Karolek had searched the warehouse from top to bottom without finding anything. None of the crates were disturbed except for the ones he had moved. No blood, no sword, nothing to suggest that anything out of the ordinary had happened here...except that Erich was still missing. And Erich was not the type to go randomly missing for nothing.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
HMS Doncaster 50 Nautical Miles from Norfolk, VA
"You stare at the sea as though it is going to get us to Philadelphia faster." Sir Edward Philips commented to his young aide. "It's not much further, really."
"I suppose not." The young Englishman replied, brushing a lock of reddish hair from his eyes. "You could say I've never been much for boats." He waved a graceful hand at the stars and the half moon. "Especially boats at night."
"Oh?" Philips, the new British ambassador to the United States commented, leaning his jacketed arms against the railing. "And why not? It certainly beats flying somewhere in a plane." Philips shuddered violently at the thought, though it may have been the cutting cold winds which prompted the shiver. As cold as it was on the deck of the Doncaster, a refitted WWI battleship, it beat being in what passed for a cabin.
"I don't know. Seems to me that planes are the wave of the future, Edward. It wouldn't do for you to be left behind the times, would it?"
Edward laughed, patting the young man's shoulder. "I suppose you are right."
"How long until we reach Philadelphia?"
"Two days. Maybe three." Philips stroked his beard in thought. "We have to be met by an escort from the US navy. They're still worried about mines in Delaware Bay from the last war." Shivering again, Edward pulled his scarf a little more tightly around his neck. "I'm going back in to the coffee pot. Remind me to thank His Majesty for the wonderful accommodations. Don't stay out too long, James."
"Of course not, sir." James replied, returning to staring at the waves.
~~~~~~~~~~
Karolek's search of the neighborhood surrounding the warehouse halted as he approached the edge of the river. Several of the warehouses had docks, which allowed them to load supplies from larger ships onto boats and into their warehouses before distributing them inland. As he exited Erich's warehouse and moved to go back to the coffee house, he felt the beginnings of an Immortal Buzz sneaking around his head.
"Erich?" Karolek called out cautiously, reaching for his restored sword. "Is that you?" Getting no answer, the Russian looked around to make sure he was alone. Seeing no one, he carefully drew his sword from it's hiding place in his overcoat, holding it before him in a defensive position. He crept around the sturdy edge of the warehouse, drawing closer to the source of the oh-so-familiar sensation.
And then he spotted the figure. A tall man with brown hair sat on a crate at the end of the docks, staring at murky gray water. His hat sat beside him on the decking of the dock, and his overcoat tails were also fluttering in the breeze. Though the man appeared to be older, he sat with his knees drawn up to his chest and his chin on his knees, just like a little boy who is trying to make himself as small as he possibly can. The other Immortal gave no sign of recognizing that Karolek was anywhere near him, but continued to stare at the waters of the Potomac as if they held some secret to the mysteries of the world.
Concerned, Karolek slipped on almost noiseless booted feet towards the huddled Immortal. The click of the heel of his boot on the concrete and wood of the dock seemed to snap the man out of his reverie, and the dispassionate face of Erich von Ridesel turned to face his approaching friend. "Ah, Karolek." The German's flat voice seemed to be coming from somewhere other than his own mouth. Karolek furrowed his expressive brows in concern. He'd never seen his friend quite so...lost before. "Is it time for our session already?"
"It was time for our session almost an hour and a half ago, Erich." Karolek said softly. He didn't know what to make of this other Erich. "Is something wrong?"
For the first time, Erich saw the gleaming silver and steel broadsword in Karolek's left hand. "-It seems I should be asking you that question, no?- " Luckily, Karolek's German was worlds better than Erich's Russian, and he glanced down at the weapon he hadn't realized he was still holding.
"Erich, what is wrong?" Karolek said, trying to muster some vehemence into his voice.
"Some days, my friend, it seems a waste to be what we are."
"Have you been drinking?"
Erich sighed heavily. "No, I have not. I have been THINKING, which I believe is all the worse."
"You going to tell me what's wrong?"
"This, Karolek Romanov, is what is wrong." The German pulled a newspaper from the inside of his overcoat and tossed it at the Russian. "The Philadelphia Journal. It came down from the city yesterday."
Karolek deftly caught the thrown paper and opened it to the front page. The Journal had a long article praising the appointment of a new British ambassador to the USA, replacing the old one who had died of a heart attack only two months before. "Sir Edward Philips sails for Richmond to assume the role of British Ambassador to the United States." Karolek read, skimming down through the article. "I don't see what's so awful about this..." he trailed off, voice fading away.
Accompanying the article was a picture of the new ambassador, taken almost two years ago at a function at the court of King George V. Philips was seen shaking hands with the Queen, but that wasn't the part of the picture that caught the Russian's eye. To the left of Philips, in the background, was a man identified as the Lord's personal aide, James J. Tudor.
Karolek shivered involuntarily, as he looked at the unmistakable features of Jacob Book.
Erich noticed the gesture and smiled an odd, sad, humorless smile. "I said the same thing, myself." He sighed loudly. "I've been sitting here on my dock, wondering whether to smile or curse at fortune."
Karolek said nothing for a moment, trying to collect his thoughts. When he did finally speak, the haunted note in his voice was clearly present, and his Russian accent was thickened slightly from emotion. "Are you going to go after him?"
"I just don't know, Karo." Erich said mournfully. "I just don't know. He was a good fighter 50 years ago. There is no reason to think he is not a good fighter now."
"You're a good fighter." Karolek said encouragingly.
Erich smiled that odd smile again. "Danke schoen, Karolek. But you and I both know that while I can be sneaky, I am not the same kind of fighter as Jacob Book. I fight because I must. He fights because he ENJOYS it...because he can."
"So what are you going to do, then?"
Erich shook his head. He didn't know what he was going to do. He'd never seen Book fight, but he knew the man's reputation through Karolek. He wasn't sure he was good enough to beat the Brit. He had no doubt that, if he truly wanted to, Karolek could. The question was, then, did Karolek want to fight his old ghost? "For now, I plan to do nothing. There is nothing I can do, with Book in Philadelphia in some official capacity. I would most likely be killed for my efforts, and I like the life I have right now."
Erich may have thought he was being sly, leading up to what he was eventually going to propose. Karolek, however, had been a fan of chess from the time his father Konstantin had shown him how to play when he was seven. The elder Romanov thought of chess as a wonderful lesson in strategy, and he had thought it important that Karolek and his younger brothers Ondrezj and Vassili all knew how to play. Vassili had grown bored wit the game, and Ondrezj had never shown much interest in anything other than attacking. Karolek, however, ate up the idea of strategy. He was still a very good chess player, which is why he was three moves ahead of Erich.
"The British ambassador will be in Washington in a little less than two months for the inauguration." Karolek said flatly. "Book will come with him. You know if he senses one of us he'll come looking for the fight." Erich blushed slightly, telling Karolek he'd hit pay dirt. "And you want me to be the one he fights."
"Yes." Erich said fiercely, eyes bright with anger. His accent and the barely controlled rage in his voice made him sound like a man possessed. Had Karolek not know the man as well as he did, he might have taken several steps back as a precaution. As it was, he was surprised at the outburst. "I don't know if I can beat him. Are you satisfied? I don't think I am strong enough to fight him and win. I want to be, but I don't know if I am. YOU ARE. You were 250 years ago, and you probably are now. I want Schuyler to rest in peace, knowing his killer was killed. You said you thought he was a good man, now I'm asking you as a friend to stand up for him where I can not."
The Russian prince's expressive face was alternately sad, reflective, and slightly angry. "I'm not the man who goes looking for fights anymore, Erich."
"You came looking for me in that graveyard!" Erich shouted. "You knew we were on Holy Ground but you came to find me anyway. A man looking to stay out of fights would have stayed as far away from me as he could. You WANTED a fight!"
"I DID NOT!" Karolek roared back, spurred to anger. "I didn't then and I don't know!" He ran a hand through his hair, pulling it loose from its ponytail. "I regret leaving Book alive knowing what he's become, but I don't go hunting my regrets."
"-Then what good is a headhunter who will not hunt?-" Erich spat in angry German. "-You claim to have become a man of peace. Perhaps this is a clever disguise for becoming a coward." He muttered something that Karolek couldn't catch, before going one step too far. "Maybe Grayson is right to think Darius a coward. Maybe you are one too."
Just as he'd never seen the sword coming at their first practice session, so too did he never see the fist which struck him squarely in the face. Surprised by the blow, Erich stumbled to the ground and raised a hand to his bleeding nose.
"Darius is a good man who made an impossible decision." Karolek growled at the man, fists ready to go again. "I am NO COWARD." He looked squarely in Erich's hostile brown eyes. "A coward is a man who looks to others to take the risks he is unwilling to take himself."
"I won't associate with such cowards. Hunt Book yourself." With those parting words, Karolek spun on his heel and stormed out of the dockyard, leaving Erich still bleeding behind him.
"The Russian Prince" is written with no regard for the plot developments in American Empire: The Victorious Opposition, because I started the story before TVO came out.
Sentences enclosed in - - are spoken in the native languages of whomever happens to be speaking at the time. Russian's not my thing, and my German is as good as the foreign language of almost anyone who studied in an American high school. (
Chapter Three: Ships in the Night
"Karolek?" A high pitched, hesitant voice accompanied the knocking on his door. "Are you awake?"
The formerly sleeping Russian glanced up at his clock before groaning. It couldn't be time to get up already, could it? He rubbed sleepy eyes and looked again. 5:30. It really WAS time to get up. 'Swell.' He raised his muttering voice and called out to Clara, "I'm awake, Clara. Be out in five."
"Good." Clara returned through the locked door. "I think Mama's in a bad mood today. She's already downstairs waiting for you." Clara smoothed out her dress and finished tying back her hair before walking down the short hallway to the kitchen.
Karolek rose somewhat groggily from his bed and pulled his clean shirt from its peg in the wall. Immortal or no, he wasn't quite awake until he had his first cup of coffee in the mornings. A quick glance out the window showed the promise of a sunny, albeit cold, day. It would be a good day to escape after his shift was done downstairs and do a little training on his own. Working out with Erich was all well and good, but once a week wasn't enough to keep him in fighting shape. Their second sparring match, when Erich had come uncomfortably close to putting a dagger through his chest, had proven that lesson entirely too well. It had also done wonders to show Karolek that the younger German could still be a sneaky s.o.b. when he really needed to.
Dressed in his customary black pants, white shirt, and gray vest, he reached for the small band of black leather that tied his hair back. Clara jokingly called the outfit his uniform, since he wore it or some variation on the placement of the colors almost every day. Karolek preferred it because blacks and grays blended into the background. The less you invited someone to look at you twice, the more likely it was you could just slip ghostlike, through the background. Who, after all, was likely to remember the kid waiting tables in a coffee shop, even if he did have long hair?
Walking downstairs, Karolek braced himself for the likely unpleasant atmosphere in the shop, caused by Nellie's purportedly lousy mood. Just last week, at their usual Saturday afternoon session, Erich had asked Karolek why he was bothering to work in the shop when he was capable of doing so much more.
"What are you still doing there?" Erich asked, going on the offensive.
"Doing where?" Karolek returned, parrying the blow and moving to lock up Erich's sword.
"At that coffee shop." Erich continued. "It can't be much fun as far as work goes. I've met the woman who owns the place, Widow Jacobsen, and she's not exactly what you'd call warm and fuzzy. You can't need the money, and you're more than capable of doing something better, I'm sure." He stopped, frowning in concentration as Karolek launched a rather aggressive attack. For his trouble, he wound up disarmed and on his knees, courtesy of a rather nasty left hand swipe. "Yield," the German sighed, seeing the point of Karolek's broadsword at his neck. "That's what, four for you?"
"Da." Karolek said with a grin, allowing his friend to stand and collect his sword. "Break for ten?" At Erich's nod, the two men made their way over to the small icebox where Erich stored some water.
"You never answered my question, you know." Erich pointed out as they sat on boxes drinking.
Karolek frowned. "Sure I did. I agreed that was my fourth win."
"Not about wins, Karo. About the coffee house. Why stay when I'm sure you're capable of doing more?"
Karolek leaned back in thought, wondering how to answer. "Because.because it's -normal there.-"
"And for those of us who don't speak Russian?"
"Ah." Karolek translated his earlier statement for Erich. "I still have to pretend. Nellie and Clara both think I'm a nineteen year old kid, fresh out of the army and looking for a start. Granted it's a little frustrating when they TREAT me like I'm a nineteen year old kid, but those moments aren't as frequent as they might be."
Erich sipped at his water, suddenly wishing it were beer or wine. "And that's normal?"
Grinning wryly, Karolek pointed out that lying about their ages was in fact very normal for an Immortal, causing Erich to chuckle. "No, that's not the sort of normal I mean, Erich. The fate of the world doesn't hang on what goes on in this coffee shop. No one suspects I'm capable of anything out of the ordinary, except for maybe cooking a little to well for a man. Countries won't rise or fall based on how the coffee tastes. No one's life is in my hands if I don't get their eggs out on time." Leaning forward, he looked at Erich in earnest. "It's as normal a life as someone like me can hope to live, for now at least."
"That's very profound." Erich raised his glass as if in a toast.
"I've had a lot of years to think." Karolek sipped at his water thoughtfully. "I've done the big things, you know? I've commanded men in three American wars and at least as many European ones.captained ships.made and changed history.hell, I was the prince of a large Russian province for three years before I died." A long silence ensued, leaving Erich unsure as to whether or not he should comment. His past lesson in patience was rewarded. "Yes, I've done the big things. Now I want to spend some time doing normal things."
Thoughtfully, Erich commented, "That's a noble ambition, Karolek, and good luck with it. Maybe it'll happen for you." As if to make a silent point, he raised his sword so that the light flashed off the blade. "But I don't think it will happen. It doesn't.not for men like us."
Nodding sadly, Karolek finished the glass of water he was drinking and picked up his own sword. They moved out into the center of the open space and raised their swords, ready for another go round.
~~~~~~~~~~~
The day passed slowly in the coffee house. Clara spent most of the day at school, returning in mid-afternoon.
As Clara was halfway to her apron, Nellie's sharp voice cut across the kitchen. "What do you think you're doing, young lady?"
Clara looked up into an angry face and said, "Putting on my apron to help."
"I should think not." Nellie retorted. "You have homework, don't you?"
"Just some algebra and a composition for government." Clara shot a pleading look at Karolek, trying to will him to come into the budding argument on her side.
Karolek said nothing, continuing to wash out the coffee pot, but the gesture was not lost on Nellie. "Get yourself upstairs then and get to work. I'll have no daughter of mine shirking her schoolwork because she'd rather be working here."
"But Mama." Clara began to whine.
"Upstairs." The finality was evident in the older woman's tone. Clara gave Karolek a last, mournful glance before turning and slamming her way through the door which led to the upstairs apartment. Both adults were glad that no one else was in the shop to witness the display.
Clara gone, Nellie turned her temper on Karolek. "I don't appreciate your encouraging her."
"What, ma'am?" Karolek asked, deciding to play dumb for the moment.
"Always backing her up against me. Playing into this crush she seems to have developed on you. Those four years are an important four years, you know."
"I know, Mrs. Jacobsen." Karolek held up his hands in a placating gesture. 'Oh, how I know. I also know that 401 years is a much more important gap.' "I promise you, ma'am, I haven't knowingly done ANYTHING to lead her on into believing I have an interest in her."
"You haven't?" Nellie repeated, disappointed.
Karolek vigorously shook his head, causing a few longer strands of hair to escape his ponytail. "No, ma'am. Clara's a nice girl, but she's still a girl. I'm not stupid, ma'am."
Nellie studied Karolek intently. His gray eyes, which even now she still found slightly disturbing for the age they seemed to convey, were open and earnest. She had to smile at the picture he made, soapy hands held open, though she kept her smile to herself. If Clara were older, she might not care so much. Like her son-in-law Merle, Karolek seemed to be a good man. He was always neatly dressed, a hard worker who seemed to be possessed of common sense, and was always polite and courteous. A girl like Clara could do worse.
But not now. Not today. Nellie had never gotten much of an education, which meant she'd done some very unfortunate things in order to get by.things she'd been trying to live down or get past for too many years. She didn't want that for Clara. "See to it that you stay that way, Karolek." She finished sharply, attention diverted to an entering customer. "Go and see what our customer wants."
"Yes, ma'am." Karolek said, wiping his hands on the towel he still wore as an apron and moving out towards the front of the shop. Internally, he congratulated himself for not pulling his switchblade from his pocket and giving her the sort of scare he'd given Erich six weeks ago. It had been very, very tempting.
The second he stepped out of the kitchen, he received a double shock. The first came in the form of an all too familiar ringing Buzz in his head. The second came in the form of the new customer, a young looking man who was eyeing the shop every bit as intently as he was. "-I'll be damned.-" Karolek muttered softly, sizing up the familiar brown hair and vaguely bored look of Connor MacLeod. "Connor, what are you doing here?"
To say that Connor was surprised to see Karolek with a makeshift apron tucked in his waistband would be quite true. The two Highlanders had met the Russian Prince shortly after the end of his headhunting days, while traveling in Ireland. Karolek had recently married his second wife, Brighid (Bridget), and was living in Killorglin on the west coast.
The world was bigger in those days, before the invention of the wireless and the telegraph, but somehow word about Immortal fighters got around. Karolek knew that Connor was a contemporary of his, trained by Ramirez and therefore likely to be pretty good. Duncan was less well known, but had the build and singlemindedness to be a good fighter in his time. Likewise, Connor knew that Romanov had a rather fearsome reputation as a fighter who'd taken a lot of Quickenings in a short time.
Prudence would have dictated that they all go their separate ways, leaving well enough. The odds should have suggested that some combination of the three would have fought, maybe more than one depending on the outcome. But prudence and the odds are not always right. Duncan and Karolek initially got on like a house afire. The younger of the two Highlanders welcomed the contact with another, older Immortal as a chance to continue learning. Karolek appreciated the man's more optimistic outlook - one which had been missing from his life since Irina's death.
Connor and Karolek, however, were cut from molds too similar to get along easily. Based on his past reputation, Connor did not believe Karolek could be trusted with Duncan alone, and so stayed by his kinsman while Karolek was showing Duncan what he knew. Karolek suffered the elder Highlander's presence, figuring it to be a fair one given the reputation he'd so recently discarded. Brighid was kind and welcoming to the two men, both of whom were unfailingly polite to her. The more Karolek and Connor talked to one another, the more they realized they had in common. In the end, it was the similar losses of their first wives that allowed the older Immortals to connect. But while Connor continued to mourn the loss of Heather and still did, Karolek had let Irina rest and moved on with his life.
Over the years, the two men had developed a strong friendship. Connor was not the type to trust easily, and for that reason the Highlander's friendship meant all the more to the Russian Prince. They stayed in touch through letters, and when they found themselves in the same part of the world they would arrange to meet.
Having not sent Connor a letter since settling at the coffee shop, Karolek was surprised to see him there. Determined not to let his surprise dampen the reunion, he quickly crossed the room to his stunned friend.
For his own part, Connor was equally stunned to see Karolek wearing what, by all accounts, was an apron. The last place he'd ever pictured a former prince working was in a little shop like this. Answering Karolek's earlier question, he responded, "Passing through Washington on my way to Richmond. The better question is what are ye doing here?" He embraced his old friend before standing back and sizing up the outfit. "And wearing an apron, no less."
"I'll have you know it's a towel, Connor, not an apron." Karolek growled with feigned indignance. Connor merely raised his eyebrows and chuckled lightly. "I'm working here."
"Why?" Connor asked, echoing Erich's question from a few weeks ago.
"It's a job. I like the people," Karolek explained, adding, "most of the time, anyway," in a stage whisper.
Connor nodded his head absently, though he admitted to himself that it did make a certain amount of sense. Karolek had always had unusual choices as far as employment and amusement went. He remembered quite vividly a rather unfortunate incident in Athens in the 1820's involving a goat and a rather angry neighboring vineyard owner that still made him shudder. Often Karolek's actions made very little sense to anyone but Karolek. Better not to question too hard.
"I'm only in town overnight." Connor explained, after placing his order for a ham sandwich and some black coffee. "I have a meeting I need to attend in Richmond tomorrow. Are you up for a night on the town, Karo?"
"Sounds good to me." Karolek replied with a bright grin as Nellie came back out with Connor's coffee.
"Sandwich will be up in a minute." The widow said, with as much cheerfulness as she usually mustered for her male customers. She raised an eyebrow at Karolek, plainly asking who this man was he was sitting with in the middle of a work day.
"Mrs. Jacobsen, let me introduce you to a friend of mine." Karolek responded pleasantly. "This is Connor MacLeod, an old friend." Karolek never bothered to learn any of Connor's aliases. It never struck him as worth the effort to keep it straight, except for the few war years when Connor had been serving in the artillery. "Connor, this is Mrs. Nellie Jacobsen, the owner of the shop."
"Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Jacobsen." Connor nodded at the woman.
"Likewise, Mr. MacLeod." Nellie returned. "Your accent is unusual. Where are you from, Mr. MacLeod?"
In another world, one less beset by wars and where continents and former countries were not split only by boarders and accents, the question might have been a little less loaded. With another man besides the Highlander, the question might not have mattered quite so much. Connor's Highland speech had mellowed considerably over the years, but he didn't sound much like an American and Nellie knew it. She was fishing, trying to find out information about Karolek without sounding so direct about it. "I'm from lots of different places."
"I'll not be around for supper, Mrs. Jacobsen." Karolek interjected into the long silence that followed. "Connor is only in town overnight. We haven't seen each other in years, and I'd like to do some catching up."
Nellie sighed, "very well. See to it that you're quiet when you come in."
"Yes, ma'am." Karolek replied. Nellie retreated into the back of the shop, leaving the two Immortals alone in the front room.
"She's pleasant." Connor muttered.
"You get used to her after a while." Karolek said, tipping his chair back against the wall. "If it's any consolation, she doesn't dislike you in particular. She doesn't like men in general, or so Clara tells me?"
"Clara?"
"Her daughter. She's upstairs doing her homework."
"Pity." Connor said with a wink that was meant to be suggestive.
"Sorry Connor, but you're not really my type." Connor made an offensive gesture out of sight of the table, prompting the Russian to bust out in loud laughter. "And Clara is only 15. Get your mind out of the gutter."
"Ah, but I'm only 18, now aren't I?" Connor chuckled. Looking up from his sandwich, he caught the expression on his friend's face. Karolek's clear gray eyes were growing stormy, a sign that the Russian prince was nearing the end of his temper. The Highlander nodded and allowed the subject to drop. It didn't take a man of his years to understand that Karolek cared for the young daughter of his employer, though in what way Connor couldn't yet tell. He decided to change the subject, asking eagerly, "When do you get out of this prison?"
Karolek raised his eyes in a gesture of thought. "Around 6:30, I think. Once we're done cleaning up after the last customer leaves." He looked at Connor and sighed heavily. "Whatever it is that you're planning, it's not going to get us arrested again, is it? Because I have to tell you, that jail in Tuscany was enough to last me for a few centuries and then some."
"Karo, sometimes you are entirely no fun, are you aware of that?" Connor smiled wolfishly. "Besides, what good is a night on the town if you don't get good and thoroughly drunk?"
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Karolek was still feeling the effects of his hangover when he went to meet Erich the next afternoon. The only consolation he'd managed to take from the evening was that Connor had been suffering just as badly when he'd boarded his train from Washington to Richmond. He wasn't sure how he was going to manage this session with Erich without either getting whupped from here to next week or lectured about the amount that he'd had to drink last night. The beer that he and Connor had consumed at a number of different taverns last night would have surely killed a mortal man, and Karolek wasn't so sure that it might not yet still claim him.
When he arrived at the warehouse, he noticed something was off, even through his severely hampered haze. Karolek stopped at the walkway leading up to the warehouse, finally deciding what the problem was. There was no Buzz. Erich wasn't there, or if he was he was way out of sensing range.
His mental problems forgotten, Karolek put a cautious hand on the hilt of his sword before silently opening the door to the warehouse. Stepping in, he crept slowly to the door of the office. No Erich. He cast his eyes around the large open space. He saw no body and no blood, nothing to suggest that there had been a fight. "-If Erich were alive anywhere in the warehouse, I would be able to sense him.-" The Russian muttered to himself. "von Ridesel is not the type to forget we're supposed to meet on Saturdays, and he would have sent a note or some kind of signal if he had to cancel."
Lacking another idea as to where his friend might be, Karolek shed his overcoat and drew his broadsword from its usual harness. If he was going to wandering about the place without knowing what had happened, he was certainly going to go armed. His black shin-length coat fell to the floor, a barely present muffled clack sounding as the harness hit concrete. His newsboy's cap followed suit, and he raised his sword in a ready position as he made his way towards the crates stacked in the back corner.
An hour later, Karolek had searched the warehouse from top to bottom without finding anything. None of the crates were disturbed except for the ones he had moved. No blood, no sword, nothing to suggest that anything out of the ordinary had happened here...except that Erich was still missing. And Erich was not the type to go randomly missing for nothing.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
HMS Doncaster 50 Nautical Miles from Norfolk, VA
"You stare at the sea as though it is going to get us to Philadelphia faster." Sir Edward Philips commented to his young aide. "It's not much further, really."
"I suppose not." The young Englishman replied, brushing a lock of reddish hair from his eyes. "You could say I've never been much for boats." He waved a graceful hand at the stars and the half moon. "Especially boats at night."
"Oh?" Philips, the new British ambassador to the United States commented, leaning his jacketed arms against the railing. "And why not? It certainly beats flying somewhere in a plane." Philips shuddered violently at the thought, though it may have been the cutting cold winds which prompted the shiver. As cold as it was on the deck of the Doncaster, a refitted WWI battleship, it beat being in what passed for a cabin.
"I don't know. Seems to me that planes are the wave of the future, Edward. It wouldn't do for you to be left behind the times, would it?"
Edward laughed, patting the young man's shoulder. "I suppose you are right."
"How long until we reach Philadelphia?"
"Two days. Maybe three." Philips stroked his beard in thought. "We have to be met by an escort from the US navy. They're still worried about mines in Delaware Bay from the last war." Shivering again, Edward pulled his scarf a little more tightly around his neck. "I'm going back in to the coffee pot. Remind me to thank His Majesty for the wonderful accommodations. Don't stay out too long, James."
"Of course not, sir." James replied, returning to staring at the waves.
~~~~~~~~~~
Karolek's search of the neighborhood surrounding the warehouse halted as he approached the edge of the river. Several of the warehouses had docks, which allowed them to load supplies from larger ships onto boats and into their warehouses before distributing them inland. As he exited Erich's warehouse and moved to go back to the coffee house, he felt the beginnings of an Immortal Buzz sneaking around his head.
"Erich?" Karolek called out cautiously, reaching for his restored sword. "Is that you?" Getting no answer, the Russian looked around to make sure he was alone. Seeing no one, he carefully drew his sword from it's hiding place in his overcoat, holding it before him in a defensive position. He crept around the sturdy edge of the warehouse, drawing closer to the source of the oh-so-familiar sensation.
And then he spotted the figure. A tall man with brown hair sat on a crate at the end of the docks, staring at murky gray water. His hat sat beside him on the decking of the dock, and his overcoat tails were also fluttering in the breeze. Though the man appeared to be older, he sat with his knees drawn up to his chest and his chin on his knees, just like a little boy who is trying to make himself as small as he possibly can. The other Immortal gave no sign of recognizing that Karolek was anywhere near him, but continued to stare at the waters of the Potomac as if they held some secret to the mysteries of the world.
Concerned, Karolek slipped on almost noiseless booted feet towards the huddled Immortal. The click of the heel of his boot on the concrete and wood of the dock seemed to snap the man out of his reverie, and the dispassionate face of Erich von Ridesel turned to face his approaching friend. "Ah, Karolek." The German's flat voice seemed to be coming from somewhere other than his own mouth. Karolek furrowed his expressive brows in concern. He'd never seen his friend quite so...lost before. "Is it time for our session already?"
"It was time for our session almost an hour and a half ago, Erich." Karolek said softly. He didn't know what to make of this other Erich. "Is something wrong?"
For the first time, Erich saw the gleaming silver and steel broadsword in Karolek's left hand. "-It seems I should be asking you that question, no?- " Luckily, Karolek's German was worlds better than Erich's Russian, and he glanced down at the weapon he hadn't realized he was still holding.
"Erich, what is wrong?" Karolek said, trying to muster some vehemence into his voice.
"Some days, my friend, it seems a waste to be what we are."
"Have you been drinking?"
Erich sighed heavily. "No, I have not. I have been THINKING, which I believe is all the worse."
"You going to tell me what's wrong?"
"This, Karolek Romanov, is what is wrong." The German pulled a newspaper from the inside of his overcoat and tossed it at the Russian. "The Philadelphia Journal. It came down from the city yesterday."
Karolek deftly caught the thrown paper and opened it to the front page. The Journal had a long article praising the appointment of a new British ambassador to the USA, replacing the old one who had died of a heart attack only two months before. "Sir Edward Philips sails for Richmond to assume the role of British Ambassador to the United States." Karolek read, skimming down through the article. "I don't see what's so awful about this..." he trailed off, voice fading away.
Accompanying the article was a picture of the new ambassador, taken almost two years ago at a function at the court of King George V. Philips was seen shaking hands with the Queen, but that wasn't the part of the picture that caught the Russian's eye. To the left of Philips, in the background, was a man identified as the Lord's personal aide, James J. Tudor.
Karolek shivered involuntarily, as he looked at the unmistakable features of Jacob Book.
Erich noticed the gesture and smiled an odd, sad, humorless smile. "I said the same thing, myself." He sighed loudly. "I've been sitting here on my dock, wondering whether to smile or curse at fortune."
Karolek said nothing for a moment, trying to collect his thoughts. When he did finally speak, the haunted note in his voice was clearly present, and his Russian accent was thickened slightly from emotion. "Are you going to go after him?"
"I just don't know, Karo." Erich said mournfully. "I just don't know. He was a good fighter 50 years ago. There is no reason to think he is not a good fighter now."
"You're a good fighter." Karolek said encouragingly.
Erich smiled that odd smile again. "Danke schoen, Karolek. But you and I both know that while I can be sneaky, I am not the same kind of fighter as Jacob Book. I fight because I must. He fights because he ENJOYS it...because he can."
"So what are you going to do, then?"
Erich shook his head. He didn't know what he was going to do. He'd never seen Book fight, but he knew the man's reputation through Karolek. He wasn't sure he was good enough to beat the Brit. He had no doubt that, if he truly wanted to, Karolek could. The question was, then, did Karolek want to fight his old ghost? "For now, I plan to do nothing. There is nothing I can do, with Book in Philadelphia in some official capacity. I would most likely be killed for my efforts, and I like the life I have right now."
Erich may have thought he was being sly, leading up to what he was eventually going to propose. Karolek, however, had been a fan of chess from the time his father Konstantin had shown him how to play when he was seven. The elder Romanov thought of chess as a wonderful lesson in strategy, and he had thought it important that Karolek and his younger brothers Ondrezj and Vassili all knew how to play. Vassili had grown bored wit the game, and Ondrezj had never shown much interest in anything other than attacking. Karolek, however, ate up the idea of strategy. He was still a very good chess player, which is why he was three moves ahead of Erich.
"The British ambassador will be in Washington in a little less than two months for the inauguration." Karolek said flatly. "Book will come with him. You know if he senses one of us he'll come looking for the fight." Erich blushed slightly, telling Karolek he'd hit pay dirt. "And you want me to be the one he fights."
"Yes." Erich said fiercely, eyes bright with anger. His accent and the barely controlled rage in his voice made him sound like a man possessed. Had Karolek not know the man as well as he did, he might have taken several steps back as a precaution. As it was, he was surprised at the outburst. "I don't know if I can beat him. Are you satisfied? I don't think I am strong enough to fight him and win. I want to be, but I don't know if I am. YOU ARE. You were 250 years ago, and you probably are now. I want Schuyler to rest in peace, knowing his killer was killed. You said you thought he was a good man, now I'm asking you as a friend to stand up for him where I can not."
The Russian prince's expressive face was alternately sad, reflective, and slightly angry. "I'm not the man who goes looking for fights anymore, Erich."
"You came looking for me in that graveyard!" Erich shouted. "You knew we were on Holy Ground but you came to find me anyway. A man looking to stay out of fights would have stayed as far away from me as he could. You WANTED a fight!"
"I DID NOT!" Karolek roared back, spurred to anger. "I didn't then and I don't know!" He ran a hand through his hair, pulling it loose from its ponytail. "I regret leaving Book alive knowing what he's become, but I don't go hunting my regrets."
"-Then what good is a headhunter who will not hunt?-" Erich spat in angry German. "-You claim to have become a man of peace. Perhaps this is a clever disguise for becoming a coward." He muttered something that Karolek couldn't catch, before going one step too far. "Maybe Grayson is right to think Darius a coward. Maybe you are one too."
Just as he'd never seen the sword coming at their first practice session, so too did he never see the fist which struck him squarely in the face. Surprised by the blow, Erich stumbled to the ground and raised a hand to his bleeding nose.
"Darius is a good man who made an impossible decision." Karolek growled at the man, fists ready to go again. "I am NO COWARD." He looked squarely in Erich's hostile brown eyes. "A coward is a man who looks to others to take the risks he is unwilling to take himself."
"I won't associate with such cowards. Hunt Book yourself." With those parting words, Karolek spun on his heel and stormed out of the dockyard, leaving Erich still bleeding behind him.