Author's Note: Due to feedback from readers, this chapter was revised and reposted on 27 Nov 2013. The plot hasn't changed, but some of the discussion was altered, and a few things were added and some were taken away.
Holy Isle, Scotland, 2053
As Friar Liam knelt in silence during his morning devotions in the chapel facing the sea, he was reminded of a sermon he had heard when he had visited the holy city of Rome years ago. The priest had described the world as a lake and God's love as a rowboat, ready to pick up people lost overboard. But to Friar Liam, God's love was the lakeshore, always in front of you and behind you no matter which direction you went, and always ready to take in whatever swam or washed ashore.
A year ago, that metaphor had taken a literal turn.
"I found him on the shore last week," Mrs. Donnell had said. "Not a stitch of clothing on him, so I gave him some of my Ned's old things. I had to make a patch for his missing eye. He doesn't eat much, or talk, but he works hard. I thought he could live here, at the centre?"
"Of course," Friar Liam had said. The centre was home to many strays, humanity's flotsam and jetsam and debris. The currents of time and trouble brought many people here. Himself included, along with three ancient Buddhist monks, five brothers of his own order, a few Gaians who came and went with the sun, a writer, and a woman who talked to seals. Most left, but some people found a home. "What's his name?"
"He said to call him John."
John said little and worked hard, as Mrs. Donnell had promised. He rebuilt stone walls, worked in the fields, and went fishing when the weather was fine. He took over the smithy, repairing door hinges, making hooks, and fixing tools that had lain useless for years. He went to Mass every morning, but he never took Holy Communion or said the responses or sang the songs. John never came for Reconciliation, either, though Friar Liam had invited him numerous times, and John never came to the movie nights in the hall. Whatever burden he was carrying, he would not set it down.
So in the summer, when a pretty young woman named Chelle came all the way from France and asked to see John (though not by that name), Friar Liam suspected it would not go well. He trudged over to the smithy, where John was hammering iron, his forearms and face speckled with soot.
"Tell her I'm sorry," John said, carefully arranging coals over the glowing iron bar, his head down and his face turned away. "Tell her I can't see her anymore."
"Anymore?" Chelle demanded when Friar Liam went back to the visitor's parlor. "Does he mean ever?"
Friar Liam didn't have an answer for that. "He said he was sorry."
"Oh, he did; did he?" Her eyes narrowed as she demanded, "Where is he?"
"I can't be telling you that."
"Then I'll find someone who can," she announced and walked out of the building.
Friar Liam caught up with her, but not before one of the monks had pointed her in the direction of the smithy. He protested, but she kept walking, and soon they reached the top of the little hill that looked down into the vale where the smithy lay. She'd taken but two steps on the path, when at the smithy a dirty hand reached out and pulled the door shut with a bang. There was another thud when the crossbar dropped into place. Then the wooden shutters to the windows were closed as well.
Chelle marched up and pounded on the door, and when no one answered, she yelled, "Connor! I damn well know you're in there, and you damn well know I'm here." She pounded again. "Connor!"
"Chelle," John replied through the shut door, with the same gentleness in his voice that Friar Liam's mother had used when she told him that his dog had died. "I'm sorry that I didn't meet you in Paris. I should have sent you a letter."
"Damn right you should have."
"I'm sorry," he said again.
"OK." Chelle reached up and put one palm flat on the door, leaning her forehead against the weathered oak. "So let me in."
"No." That word had no gentleness in it at all.
"Connor—"
"I am truly sorry, Chelle, but I cannot see you anymore. Please go away."
"Are you fucking kidding me?" she demanded. "You know I just came all the way from Paris, right?"
His only answer was a rhythmic pounding of a hammer on a hot iron rod.
She yelled some more and pleaded then cursed at "Connor" again. The hammering continued, steady as a heartbeat, pausing now and again to heat the rod anew. Friar Liam tried to get Chelle to leave, but she shook him off and cursed him, too.
"Watch your mouth, Chelle!" John ordered from inside then said more calmly, "Go along, Friar Liam. There's no reason for you to stay. I'll deal with it."
"Deal with it?" Chelle snarled at the closed door. "You mean: deal with me."
Friar Liam went back to the center. He mentioned the unhappy couple to the Blessed Mother when he said the rosary that afternoon, and he mentioned them again in his prayers at Vespers. Rain came, cold and stinging, and just before sunset he walked to the smithy again. The hammering had stopped and no lights were on, but Chelle was still there, a huddled shadow near the door. She was dripping wet and blessedly silent.
"There's a bed for you in the guest room at the centre," Friar Liam told her then tempted her further, for she was like to catch her death of cold if she stayed at the doorstep all night. "Hot water to wash with. Supper and tea."
In the dim light, he saw the flash of a smile as she asked, "How about coffee?"
He shook his head but offered, "We have whisky. And beer."
Chelle sighed, laid her hand on the door one more time, then nodded and went with him up the hill through the cold rain.
When the dawn came seven hours later, John was already gone. "I saw him take the boat out at first light," said one of the Buddhist monks over breakfast. "He's gone west."
Friar Liam crossed himself, for though the monk didn't know it and hadn't meant it, going west was the final voyage of a soul.
"That girl who came to see him yesterday put on quite a show this morning," said the writer. "Stripped off every stitch of clothing and stood on the headland, her arms spread wide."
"She was talking to the birds," said the woman who talked to seals. "You could see her move with one of the gulls, turning with the wind."
"I didn't see that," said the writer. "I thought she was drunk, especially after she fell down."
The woman shook her head. "She went too far and lost herself. When I got to her she was still unconscious. She woke up white-faced and shaky. I put her to bed."
And there Chelle stayed all morning. She emerged at midday, still pale. She thanked Friar Liam for his help and apologized for her behavior the day before.
Friar Liam nodded gravely. "It is frustrating to come so far and be disappointed. Perhaps later, John may change his mind."
Her eyes were shadows of pain. "He won't." Chelle left on the ferry that afternoon.
When Friar Liam had walked past the smithy the next morning, it had been silent and closed. The door had opened easily, for it was unbarred. All the tools had been oiled and neatly put away, the forge emptied of ash, and the floor swept clean. A slightly crumpled envelope had lain on a workbench, apparently left by Chelle, its block letters reading: "For Connor. From Cassandra."
But as the weeks had gone by and summer faded into fall, the letter lay untouched, for John never returned. Friar Liam lived his days and nights as the Rule ordained: in obedience and community with charity and hope. And every morning, including today, he prayed for John to leave the troubled waters of his soul and come fully ashore into God's love, wherever that might be.
Haven, 16 October 2053
"We want to know more about the truth stone, Urushan," Karla said as soon as lunch was over and Pivik had taken all the students from the dining hall for a class.
Ever since the trial of the rapist earlier that morning, Duncan had been wanting to say the same thing. He moved to sit next to Cassandra at the table, but stayed quiet, letting Karla run the show.
Urushan waited until Duncan sat down. "Of course." He broke off a small piece of his roll but set it down untasted. "Nine hundred years ago, I joined the knights of Christ. We set out to reclaim the Holy Land from the infidels. In the hills of Palestine, a group of us left the army encampment to visit a nearby town. We rode out in full armor , banners flying, so certain of our cause and our righteousness and our strength." He touched the piece of bread but still did not eat. When he looked up, his eyes were staring into the past.
"We were fools. We had just arrived, and we did not understand the land or the people or the heat. We became lost, grew sick with thirst, and were attacked by bandits. Most of us were killed; I was wounded. I crawled away, then got to my feet and somehow reached a hermitage. The holy man gave me water to drink.
"But as I said, I was a fool. I had been followed by the bandits, and they attacked again. This time, I died. My first death." He took the bread and ate it slowly, while everyone was silent, probably remembering (as Duncan was) the first time they had died.
"When I revived," Urushan said, "I had been stripped of my weapons and armor and money, and the bandits were gone. The hermit said it was a miracle, that God had sent me to him in his hour of need, for he had been mortally wounded; the bandits had simply left him to die. Then the hermit told me of the Stone of Truth and where it was hidden. He charged me to keep it safe and use it always in the service of justice. I held his hand as we prayed together, and then he died.
"I took the stone and made my way back to the encampment. The next day, I saw Karla; she was one of Queen Eleanor's Amazons."
Duncan had read of Eleanor of Aquitaine's fanciful outfits for herself and for her three hundred female companions. "Did you actually fight in that crusade?" Duncan asked Karla.
"Yes, but I dressed as a man, as I did in the first and the fifth crusades."
"Karla and I had met before," Urushan continued, "but this time, just the sight of her made me light-headed, and not in the normal way between a woman and a man."
"I told him what he was, what we were," Karla said. "Then I told him about the Game."
Urushan smiled wryly and rubbed at his neatly clipped black beard with the back of his hand. "My reviving did not sound like a miracle from God anymore, but the hermit had entrusted the stone to me, and my oath still held."
"Are you the keeper of the stone?" Cassandra asked.
"No one can keep the stone, for it belongs to God," he proclaimed, with the total conviction of a man who truly believed. "I am but its guardian, honored to be chosen for this sacred trust." Urushan's eyes glowed with certainty. "The Stone of Truth helps lead us to justice. This is the duty I was born to, as were all my family, for I am a noble of the House of Mehnuni. Since ancient days the people of my house have been servants of Mihr."
Duncan remembered Cassandra sounding that way, when she had spoken of the Prophecy and the Highland foundling she had waited centuries for. He glanced at her, but she was watching Urushan through half-closed eyes.
Urushan came down from his soapbox to explain: "Mihr is the yazata—what you might call an angel—of heavenly light and truth."
Duncan had had reason to study yazatas, along with other figures from Zoroastrianism. Mihr was also known as Mithras, the sun god worshipped in dark caves by Roman soldiers, and Plutarch had written that Mithras was the mediator between light and dark, between Ohrmazd and Ahriman. Duncan knew what it was to balance on the edge between good and evil. He wondered what kind of balancing Urushan had done, how dangerous he was.
"You've kept this Stone of Truth hidden for centuries, Urushan," Karla said. "Why do you tell us of it now?"
"Because I believe that God has sent you in my hour of need."
Faith could not be argued with, not matter how illogical it seemed, and true believers could become fanatical in pursuit of their cause. Duncan needed to know how far Urushan would go. "What makes this an 'hour of need', Urushan?"
"The world is changing, and it is a time for decisions. Truth is revealed to each of us in a unique way, and one person cannot see the entire picture." Urushan leaned forward, earnest and intense. "I need your help; I cannot serve justice alone."
Duncan knew that feeling.
"Are you asking us to take the stone to other places and set up trials, or to bring people here, or something else?" Karla asked.
Urushan steepled his hands together, his fingertips just touching his lips. "Even when we know the truth, justice is not always clear. I would ask you to help me find the way."
"From what I saw, the local people do not need our help," Cassandra observed.
"The stone works on immortals, too," Urushan told them.
Which immortals would Urushan want to use it on? And why? Duncan pushed back his chair and stood. "Show us."
Urushan also rose, accepting this challenge with a serene smile. "Gladly." He told them, "It is not on Holy Ground; we should get our swords."
They got flashlights, too, for Urushan was leading them to a cave. The door to it was hidden in the back of a closet in a corridor beneath the old chapel. The air felt chilly, and steps disappeared into the darkness. "Be careful," Urushan said. "The steps are uneven. And please pull both doors shut behind us to hide the way." Then he turned on his torch and started down. Karla followed him and then Cassandra.
Duncan went last, shutting first the closet door and then the door to the cave. He stayed a few paces behind, for the steps were indeed uneven and the ceiling low, and descending with no handrails led to careful movements, bumped elbows and heads, and muttered curses. Finally they stopped going down, and the corridor became wider and smoother. Then the tunnel became a cave, and they walked between stalagmites as stalactites disappeared into the darkness above. The air was cool and clammy, and Duncan was glad of his jacket.
Widely spaced light bulbs on the walls anticipated their passage and extinguished themselves after they'd gone by, and Duncan put his torch away. When they passed an opening to yet another passageway, he heard water flowing. Eventually, in a large cavern, they came to an artificial structure, as big as a train boxcar. Electric cables snaked across the floor and disappeared into its wall.
Urushan unlocked its grey metal door. The box-room held a long table, chairs for a dozen people, video monitors with old-fashioned keyboards that had a full set of keys, and two sets of bunk beds along the far wall. A small cooking area and closets were built in. Another door was marked as a lavatory.
"Well equipped," Karla commented, looking around.
"We've used these caves for centuries, especially during wars."
"And the stone?" Duncan asked.
Urushan unlocked one of the cabinets and took out a small wooden box. "Before the Soviets came and closed the churches, the stone was kept in a golden reliquary, set with jewels and lapis lazuli." He set the box on the table and flipped open the lid. Inside lay a plain white stone shaped like a very large coin or a medal. It had a hole in the center, about the size for a pencil to slide through. Thin white threads held the stone to a headband that was elaborately woven of cotton string.
Karla reached for it first. "It's heavier than I thought." She passed it to Cassandra, who slipped it out of the headband and rolled it between her fingers.
"It's well balanced," Cassandra noted. "If it had a rod, I might think it was a whorl for a drop spindle."
Karla, now sitting at the table, leaned her chin on her hand. "What might it spin?"
Cassandra offered it to Duncan, and he took it in the palm of his hand. The stone was cool and smooth. Such a little thing to be used in deciding to kill a man. "Where does the blue light come from?" he asked.
"From the rims," Urushan answered.
Duncan peered closer and saw shiny flecks on the edges, both the outer rim and the center hole. Crystals? They were used in lasers, so maybe something like that was happening here. Connor or Kate might be able to figure it out; they were engineers. "People just … wear it, and it knows?" Duncan asked.
"Yes."
He put it back into its headband then fastened that around his head, feeling a bit silly. A bluish spot appeared on the table. Urushan brought out a mirror, so that Duncan could see the blue glow clearly on his face. Then Karla and Cassandra started asking him things, and he answered each question two different ways: once with the truth and once with a lie. He didn't feel anything, no tingles, no heat, no sense of anything happening in his brain, but the light was never wrong. He took the stone off and looked at it again. It was warmer now, closer to body temperature, just as any stone might be. "There's no power source, no moving parts. How does this work?"
"You are a child of the Enlightenment, I see," Urushan observed with a tolerant smile. "Karla and I are children of an earlier time, before reason supplanted faith." He turned to Cassandra. "And you?"
Cassandra's half-smile hinted at mystery and power but gave no information as to her age. "I believe in many things that cannot be touched or seen. Magic, if you will."
"Miracles," Urushan suggested.
Cassandra bowed her head in assent, and Karla seemed perfectly willing to accept it all as true. Duncan wasn't. He examined the stone more closely, but that didn't tell him anything new. He didn't understand it, and he didn't trust it. He certainly didn't like it. He put the stone back on the table. "Do you know anything about this, Cassandra?" he asked, because she seemed much too calm.
"I have heard of such things, and I saw another truth stone, years before. That one was gray."
"There is another?" Urushan said in surprise.
"There was," she corrected. "The gray truth stone was destroyed, but there may be others left. In times past, they were used to separate truth from falsehood, to authenticate solemn vows, to help find justice."
"And so is this stone still used," Urushan intoned.
"And you want to use it on immortals," Karla said. "Why? How? We don't have immortal courts; we fight one-on-one."
"Some of us fight," Urushan pointed out. "Not all of us are capable. Thus, we must rely on the strong to enforce the rules. This means bullies can continue unchecked until someone is brave enough to face them and skilled enough to defeat them."
"A hero." Cassandra slipped the stone out of the headband again, and held the naked stone in the palm of her hand. She ran her finger around the top of it, as if she were trying to make a wine glass sing, and the hole in the center glowed pale blue while the edges flickered. "Yet heroes, even immortals ones, don't last forever. They become weary or corrupted by the endless fighting and death. Eventually, of course," she said, setting the stone on edge and giving it a spin, so that it looked like a white orb traveling across the table, "the hero is killed."
Duncan knew that story. Methos had recited it often enough as a cautionary tale. Though he didn't say "You're going to die" or "Someone will kill you." It was always: "You're going to get yourself killed." Even worse, when an immortal died, his power went to the victor. Whoever defeated an immortal hero could become damn near impossible to kill.
The stone went into its final erratic spin, wobbling on the table, then tipping over so that its rim clattered quicker and quicker until, abruptly, it stopped.
"That is the Game," Karla said, sounding impatient. "We're supposed to kill each other."
"In duels, yes," Urushan agreed. "But what about murder? Killing new immortals or pre-immortals. Or someone who is unarmed."
"That's wrong," Duncan declared.
"So is using loved ones as hostages, or treating mortals as if they were disposable," Karla added. "Or targeting those who have much less skill with a sword than you."
Duncan nodded in agreement. "There's no honor in that."
"But there is a quickening," Cassandra pointed out. "And what do bullies care for honor?"
"Nothing," Karla replied then added matter-of-factly, "That's why we kill them."
"But we don't always get there in time," Duncan said, remembering too many dead immortals, too many weeping women, and too many children who would never laugh again. And young Sofie, twenty years ago, asking: Why didn't you stop him?
"Stopping them all would be impossible," Cassandra said. "Even mortals, with their police and judges, don't stop all the criminals."
"But they stop quite a few," Urushan said. "And deter countless more." He leaned forward, elbows on the table, and tossed out the question, "What if immortals had police?"
"Instead of heroes?" Duncan asked
"We'll always need heroes, Duncan," Cassandra told him with a smile.
She was trying to be reassuring and complimentary, he knew, but he didn't always want to be a hero. And he didn't want to die.
"Heroes and police," Urushan suggested. "And a court of justice. I am very interested in your thoughts on this. As I said, one person cannot serve justice alone."
"And you want to use that thing to find the truth," Duncan said, eyeing the stone with distaste.
"The truth stone tells you only what people believe to be true, not what is true," Urushan warned. "It's useful, certainly, but it's not necessary. After all, every society has a judicial system of some kind."
"Immortals don't," Duncan pointed out.
"Immortals aren't a society," Cassandra said sharply. "We're combatants in a 'war of every one against every one'. Thomas Hobbes described us perfectly in The Leviathan four hundred years ago: murderous individuals living in 'continual fear and danger of violent death'."
"True," Karla admitted, "but not our lives are all 'solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short'."
"Short for most," Cassandra replied. "And solitary for all."
True, more often than not. Duncan often had friends in his life, both mortal and immortal, and once he'd had a family, but many years he'd been alone.
"And nasty and brutish for many," Cassandra continued. "How many immortals friends have you buried?" She looked at each of them in turn while asking: "How many immortals have you killed?"
Duncan had stopped counting years ago.
"That is the Game," Karla repeated simply.
But it wasn't simple. By the rules of the Game, Duncan was allowed to kill every single immortal he met. No reason needed, no justification necessary. Just kill and kill and kill and kill.
He couldn't do that. He couldn't bring himself to take the lives of the weak and the young and those who meant him no harm, or to live a life without friends. So he killed only when necessary, only to stop the evil in the world. But even so, he was tired of killing. He was tired of deciding who lived and who died, of being the one to swing the blade.
What if, as Urushan said, that burden could be shared?
"Hobbes was describing total anarchy, and the Game does have two rules," Karla reminded everyone. "We don't fight on holy ground, and we fight only one-on-one."
"What if it's not a fight?" Cassandra asked. "What if it's murder, as Urushan described?"
Duncan immediately quoted his father: "'A warrior may kill, but only a man without honor will murder.' All Immortals have to fight, and so we all have to follow the warrior code."
"And when we don't?" Cassandra prompted.
Karla was the one to answer. "When people break rules or codes of behavior, there must be consequences, swift and certain, or the rules come to mean nothing."
Duncan knew that, but he wasn't always swift and he wasn't always certain, not anymore. He did what he could, as did Connor and Elena and others, but the world was too large. No individual could handle it all. An immortal police force could work together, serve as backup and intel, capture the "bad guy" and then … what? "How would you want this court of justice to work?" he asked. "With a judge or a jury?"
"I prefer a jury," Karla said. "Especially if you want to enforce an honor code, not just the two rules of the Game. Honor is complicated sometimes."
So was killing. What would a jury make of beheading a seven-year-old, as Connor had recently done? Or beheading a toddler, as Duncan had done two centuries before? Would mercy killing be allowed? "Who would make the rules?" he asked. "Where would they be written down?"
"Online?" Karla suggested. "Or, since each case is unique, evaluate each case on its own merits. That's what we do now."
And the results were inconsistent and unpredictable. Well, he considered with grim amusement, if this fantasy court of justice ever actually came to be, at least that part wouldn't change.
"Would you still want lawyers, Duncan?" Cassandra asked, with just enough sweetness to be tart.
"Advocates," Duncan corrected. "I wouldn't want to get tangled in a lot of 'whereas'es and 'therefore's, but the accused should have at least one person on their side."
"I hate to think who might have volunteered to advocate for the Kurgan," Cassandra said with a shudder. "And I would hate to have been assigned that job." She looked up again to declare, "The quickenings would need to be lost, not taken. No decent judicial system can let killing be a reward of any kind."
"That's true," Karla agreed.
"What would you do?" Duncan demanded. "Tie the condemned to the railroad tracks? Or hire mortals to do the killing?"
"A remotely controlled guillotine could do the job," Karla suggested.
Duncan gritted his teeth, remembering how Zachary had killed himself, alone in a barn with the jury-rigged blade of a plow. Warren Cochrane had used a more conventional design to sever his own head. The Watchers had nearly chopped off Fitzcairn's head with one, and during the French Revolution, Connor and Duncan had each lost friends to "Madame Guillotine".
"Being judged by a jury of your peers might be acceptable, if it's done carefully," Duncan allowed. "But being executed by them?" He shook his head. "No. We can't gang up on people, hold them down, and cut off their heads while they're defenseless. It's wrong."
Urushan tilted his chair back and looked Duncan over slowly, from his feet to his hair. "You prefer one on one. In combat."
"Yes, in combat," Duncan retorted hotly. "One on one. Those are the rules of the Game."
Urushan's chair slammed down as he leaned forward, elbows on the table and eyes intense. "Justice," he declared severely, "is not a game."
Duncan didn't like to argue with anyone about their deeply held beliefs, so he tried to calm Urushan down. "That's not what I—"
"It is not to be played at," Urushan interrupted. "Or trifled with or fought over."
"Then what?" Duncan demanded, giving up on the soft approach and learning forward himself. "Is it to be handed down from on high?"
"We shall all be judged some day." Urushan actually sounded at peace with that idea. "But here and now, we judge each other and then we enforce the rules. It would be best to do that upon due reflection and with deliberation and prayer. And we should not make such decisions alone."
Duncan has been making decisions that way for centuries. The Game left him no choice. "We have to."
"Do we?" Urushan challenged. "Or is that what you want to do?" He gazed into Duncan's eyes, searching, then his own eyes narrowed with a look of surprise and concern, and he drew back slightly, as if repulsed. "Do you like taking heads that much?"
"No, of course not! I don't—" Duncan stopped, took a breather, then tried to explain. "I don't kill people because I like taking heads." Certainly that wasn't the only reason he killed people. He wasn't that much of a headhunter, and neither was Connor. They only killed to protect others, or when they had to.
"I think this idea could mean more deaths, not fewer," Duncan warned. "Right now, if you challenge someone, your own life is on the line." That fact definitely helped keep his hunger for Quickenings in check. "So you make damn sure you've got good reason to make that challenge."
"You make damn sure, Duncan," Karla said. "And you put your life on the line, and you follow the honor code. But not everyone does. Some of us immortals are psychopaths or thugs. Some of us kill for fun."
"I know that." He wasn't a child, even if he was the youngest person in the room. "But if you could get rid of someone with no worries about your own safety, like with this court and remote-controlled guillotine idea, it becomes just too easy to kill."
"Whereas now," Cassandra drawled, "it's just too easy to die." She dropped the sarcasm and became earnest instead. "Immortals kill each other all the time. That's 'the Game.' But some of us kill mortals, too. If we didn't have to wait for a hero, if a court existed that could stop them—even if that court sometimes executed an immortal who perhaps didn't deserve to die—then I think saving thousands of mortal lives is worth losing a few of ours."
"Even if that immortal life were yours?" Urushan asked.
Cassandra's eyes were bleak with long-carried guilt and pain. "Especially if that life were mine."
She had once told Duncan that Roland had killed tens of thousands of people, sometimes forcing her to watch. For centuries she had been silent, frozen in fear, waiting for the prophecy to be fulfilled and her champion to arrive, while the killing went on and on. Duncan wondered if Connor carried that same sort of burden over what the Kurgan had done. "I want to kill him," Connor had once confided to Duncan as they had sat by a fire. "And I will. But while I'm preparing to face him, he's out there killing people, and I can't stop him. Not yet."
A court of justice, if such a thing had existed, could have executed Roland and the Kurgan centuries ago. It might have executed Kronos and Kalas and Ingrid and Sully and a lot of the people that Duncan had challenged and defeated.
And if a court took care of the evil immortals, Duncan wondered, who would be left for him to kill?
"So," Karla said into the silence, "we find ourselves asking the same question Hobbes asked centuries ago: How much freedom will we sacrifice for security?" She turned to look at Urushan with a steady, measuring gaze. He returned it in just the same way. "But Urushan is no longer asking this question," she said, not taking her gaze from his. "He has already created this court of justice, and he is, I believe, inviting us to join."
"Not just me," he demurred, "and the court is not quite as you described, but yes."
"Damn," Duncan muttered in a weird mix of curiosity and dismay. Designing an imaginary immortal justice system had been an interesting exercise. Having a real one meant the whole damn world had just changed.
Urushan turned to Duncan and Cassandra. "We prefer for people to hear about this from their own friends, but since you two were here, along with Karla, I am broaching it to all three of you."
"What if we say no?" Karla asked.
Urushan shrugged. "Jury duty is not compulsory."
"What if we decide no such jury should exist?" Duncan asked.
Urushan looked at him steadily. "I do not think any of you would track us down and kill us for what we are doing. Though if you decide to…" He shrugged again. "That is the Game. Unless you use dishonorable methods, in which case you would find yourself before the Tribunal, instead of part of it."
The calm certainty of that statement was more chilling than any threat would have been. "You call yourselves the Tribunal?" Duncan asked, not much caring for the name. The Watcher Tribunal had been high-handed and arrogant, and it had sentenced Joe Dawson to die.
Urushan turned his head with studied slowness. "Yes. A tribune is one who defends the rights of the people. It is an honorable title."
Karla blew out air in a slow and steady stream, a controlled exhalation, not a sigh."How many people has this Tribunal already executed?"
"Three."
"Who?" Duncan demanded, then, equally important: "Why?"
Urushan ticked them off on his fingers. "Anifiok, for the torture and killing of children and animals. Felice Martens, for using mortals as pawns in the Game. Mandeep Kapur, for hunting new immortals."
Duncan had killed other people guilty of those crimes.
Karla tapped her fingers on the table exactly once. "You had proof?"
"Police reports, witnesses, complaints, and, once we brought them in, their own testimony."
"They admitted it?" Cassandra said, sounding surprised.
"Anifiok and Kapur did; they seemed proud of their deeds. Martens denied everything, but with the truth stone, we knew when she was lying."
"She lied a lot," Duncan noted, remembering the elaborate ruse Felice had concocted to ingratiate herself with him sixty years earlier. She'd thrown herself off a building, pretended to be a new immortal, and set about befriending Duncan and seducing Richie, all in the same day. She'd counterfeited friendship as well as maps and pictures. Duncan wasn't sorry she was dead.
But he didn't like the idea of her being executed, and he wanted to know who had signed up for this thing. "What friends would have invited me?" he asked, going back to what Urushan had said a few minutes ago.
"Carl Robinson, perhaps. Or Katya Greenhill. They each sponsored you for membership."
Duncan could easily see how Katya and Carl, who'd each been mistreated by the law both as mortals and as immortals, would like being on the other side of the bench. Maybe too much.
"Who sponsored me?" Cassandra wanted to know.
"Katya also. And Halao Mahelona," Urushan told her.
Karla didn't bother to ask who had sponsored her. "I've been here for more than a year, Urushan. Why now?"
"I would have told you earlier, Karla," Urushan said, "but all recommendations are vetted by the group, and that takes time."
"What's 'the group'?" she asked, still sharp. "And what does 'vetting' entail?"
"The group is twenty-two tribunes, and vetting means we all learn of your background, and your sponsors speak on your behalf. Some tribunes might want to meet you in person. We vote, and if the group approves, your sponsor asks you if you would like to join."
So a bunch of people Duncan had never met knew more about him than he knew about them. Duncan didn't care to be spied on, but immortals often kept tabs on each other, and it wasn't as bad as what the Watchers had done. "Sounds like the Masons," he commented.
Urushan nodded. "Many of us have been in fraternal organizations. We started with five tribunes, and we invited friends whom we trusted. Now, we are specifically seeking older immortals, because we need your centuries of experience. Eventually, we hope all immortals—the decent ones—will be involved."
"Is this Tribunal like the system we just came up with?" Cassandra asked.
"Very similar, yes. It is a problem that seems to converge on one solution."
That sounded like something Connor or Methos would say. "Are you an engineer?" Duncan asked.
Urushan drew himself up in his chair. "I am a mathematician. I attended the University of Krakow, where I studied with Mikolaj Kopernik."
"Copernicus?" Duncan said, translating the name to the modern style.
Urushan nodded with pride and straightened his lapels. "Later, I worked with him on his tabulations of the motion of planets, and I contributed money for publishing his treatise On the Revolutions of the Celestial Spheres."
"Impressive," Duncan said, because it was, and because Urushan obviously thought so, too.
"He was an impressive man," Urushan said. "A great mind."
"I'll join the Tribunal," Cassandra announced.
Duncan turned to her in surprise. "Cassandra—"
"This is what we've been looking for, Duncan," she said, laying her hand atop his, her gaze compelling. "This is a dream come true."
It took him a second to catch her meaning: she thought Methos was being held by this Tribunal. She was almost certainly right: it all fit. If Cassandra were on the inside and Duncan on the outside they could approach from two directions, just as they had done with the Haven school.
Urushan blinked a little before saying, "Welcome, Cassandra! I am glad… if a little surprised at your quickness."
"As you say," Cassandra said with a smile, "it is a time of decisions. Is there an oath?"
"There is. And an orientation. Karla and Duncan, if you wish to leave now…"
Karla didn't interrupt her measuring stare of Cassandra as she said, "I'd like to learn more."
"So would I," Duncan said. "I'd like to stay."
"Of course." Urushan drew himself up to announce: "Now I would like you to meet some other members of the Tribunal."
Karla smiled slightly. "They're already waiting, aren't they?"
"Yes."
"Always organized," she murmured before asking: "Who are they?"
"You know two already: the students Sofie and Chonglin."
"Did you recruit them at Haven?" she demanded, as protective as a mother hen.
"No, I met them through the Tribunal several years ago; later I suggested they come here to Haven to learn. The other two tribunes are Isadora, who was Swiss originally and now lives in Rome, and Tunji, who is of the Yoruba people and lives in Nigeria."
Duncan shoved back his chair and stood. "Let's go meet them." Though everyone was supposedly friendly, Duncan didn't want to be in that box of a room when they arrived. He loosened his scabbard as he went out into the cavern, and he noticed that Karla had done the same.
He staggered a bit as the sensation of four immortals flooded through him. Urushan stepped forward smiling with hands open and introduced them all as friends. Duncan nodded to Sofie and Chonglin then more formally to Tunji, whom Duncan had never met before. Tunji was tall, with dark brown skin and horizontal scarification tattoos on his cheeks.
Duncan took a longer look at Isadora, for he'd known her by two different names: once as Countess Ludmilla Albertina Katushka Tcheka of Hungary and once as Reagan Cole. She'd been a bounty hunter both times. "Reagan?" he said in delight, and she kissed him on both cheeks and then on the mouth in a way that made both Cassandra and Karla lift their eyes to the heavens as if in prayer. Duncan ignored them and held onto Reagan's hands. She was a redhead now; she'd been a blonde half a century ago, and a brunette one hundred seventy years before that. She was always very pretty. "I thought you were killed in the DC bombing," he said.
"Got out a few hours before it hit," she said. "My quarry had skipped town, and I followed."
"And are you the bounty hunter for this Tribunal?"
"Strictly pro bono, Duncan," she said cheerfully. "I don't get paid at all."
That was new. Reagan was a stickler for getting her money as well as her man.
Karla was talking to her students. "Out hiking today, were you?"
"We hiked here," Chonglin answered, not insolent, just matter of fact.
Sofie was nearly bouncing with impatience. "What do you think, Karla? About the Tribunal?"
Karla looked at Urushan as she said, "It's interesting."
"Karla and Duncan wish to observe," Urushan told everyone. "Cassandra is ready to take the oath and join."
"Great!" Sofie said. Chonglin bowed and Tunji clasped his hands together in front of his heart. Reagan nodded in a friendly way, and they all went into the room.
Cassandra put the stone on and recited the oath at Urushan's prompting. "As a member of the Immortal Tribunal, I pledge to seek a true evaluation of those who stand before the tribunal, instead of revenge or punishment for their past deeds; to take such action as is necessary to remove clear and present threats to mortals or immortals, to deal honestly and fairly with my fellow tribunes and with those being evaluated, and to abide by the decisions of the tribunal while heeding my own conscience."
Duncan would have been fine saying the first part, but he wasn't ready to abide by the decisions of a group of people he'd just met.
After handshakes and words of welcome for the new tribune, Sofie asked, "Is Cassandra going to be helping with the evaluation today?"
"There is an orientation," Tunji reminded her.
Urushan waved that away. "The evaluation will provide a practical orientation before the theoretical one."
Tunji was shaking his head. "We have standard procedures—"
"Nothing is standard with this case," Urushan broke in.
Reagan seemed to take that as an affront. "That's not my—"
"Enough," Karla ordered with a quick downward chop of the hand, and people were silent. Duncan reflected that while she didn't have the Voice, she certainly had command, probably a result of her centuries of military experience. Or from being a nun.
In the quietness, Duncan asked, "Who is your prisoner?" He tried to sound merely curious instead of frantic, because no one except Karla and Cassandra knew he was searching for anyone, and Duncan wanted to keep it that way for now.
"He calls himself James Coulsen," Sofie said.
So Methos was here. And about to put on trial for his life. Through fierce joy and terror, Duncan breathed out slowly, not daring to look at Cassandra or Karla in case he gave something away. Any enthusiasm he might have had for an immortal jury was fading fast. A court of justice, if such a thing had existed centuries ago, would have executed Methos the Horseman as a "clear and present" danger to all of mankind.
Of course, Duncan would have, too, if he'd been around back then. But this was now. "Where is he?" Duncan asked.
Tunji answered. "Nearby. Safe."
Methos wasn't near enough to trigger the sense of an immortal. "Do you mean that he's unharmed, or that we're safe from him?"
"Both," Tunji replied."He is in the waiting room."
That was a hell of a euphemism for a jail cell.
"We can see him from here," Sofie offered then turned on a monitor, and people crowded around.
She stood back to reveal a picture of Methos in a small room, fast asleep on the floor with a blanket over him. He was lying on his left side, with his cheek pillowed on his hand and his knees slightly drawn up. Duncan stepped forward to look more closely at the image. Methos seemed fine. "This is live feed?"
"Yes."
Duncan clamped down on his outrage, but some of it filtered through when he asked, "You spy on him?"
"No," Urushan said, stepping forward. "Occasionally, we check his status. Briefly." Urushan turned the monitor off and Methos disappeared.
"How long has he been here?" Cassandra asked, sounding mildly interested.
Members of the Tribunal glanced at each other, and it fell to Reagan to reply. "Eighteen months."
Karla turned on Urushan, obviously without any reservations about hiding her outrage. "You invited me to bring the school—and the students—here, and you neglected to tell me you were keeping prisoners at the same facility?"
"The caves and Haven are separate."
"We walked from one to the other in ten minutes," she pointed out sharply. "When word gets out, who will trust that Haven is not simply a front for your vigilante group? I should have been informed."
"Yes," he agreed immediately, as if he'd been waiting for the opportunity. "I apologize. I'd already invited you when they brought him here, and he wasn't supposed to be here very long."
"Because you were going to kill him?" Duncan asked.
Chonglin looked puzzled. "Only if he were a clear and present threat to mortals or immortals."
"Usually, evaluations take a week at most," Urushan explained. "This one…" He shook his head as he sighed. "As I said, nothing is standard."
"Why not?" Karla bit out, clearly still not happy, and Duncan was pretty sure that Urushan hadn't heard the last of it from her. "What has he done?"
People looked at Reagan again, and she stared back defiantly.
"Perhaps we should all sit down," Cassandra suggested, making the idea sound extremely reasonable and desirable, and everyone found a chair around the long table. Cassandra smiled directly at Reagan and encouraged, "Tell us, Reagan, how did James Coulsen come to be here?"
Duncan didn't hear the Voice of Command in any of what Cassandra was saying, and she wouldn't have needed to use it on Reagan, who'd been about to talk anyway. Still, Cassandra seemed unusually focused and sincere. Nerves? Special persuasiveness? He'd ask her later.
"An immortal we had helped in the past told us that a young immortal named Gitali was being stalked," Reagan began.
Duncan could see the pieces of the puzzle coming together.
"Her background checked out; Gitali was a new immortal, utterly clueless. The guy going after her was experienced. When we looked into him, we found he had done it before. So we dispatched a team to pick him up and help her find a teacher, if she wanted one. Maybe here at the Haven school. But when we got there, we found Gitali beheaded in an alley with him standing over the body. So we nabbed him." Reagan sighed. "But it wasn't him. I mean, it was Coulsen, but we realized later that he wasn't the killer."
"The killer was Mandeep Kapur?" Karla asked. "Urushan told us he'd been executed by this Tribunal for stalking young immortals."
"That's him. I pulled him in a week later. A real piece of work."
"Where is the justice in this?" Duncan asked. "If you know Coulsen didn't kill Gitali; why didn't you let him go?"
"His responses were anomalous and troubling," Tunji said. "We had to look into his history."
"For eighteen months?" Duncan asked incredulously.
"There were special circumstances. And we must be thorough."
Duncan knew that Methos was extremely cautious about leaving trails. "What did you find?"
Urushan met his gaze directly. "Information even more troubling."
"Like what?"
"We will see it all soon," Urushan promised. "Today, we are met to examine the evidence and reach a decision."
"So, you'll be bringing Coulsen to this room?" Cassandra asked.
Tunji shook his head. "No. We will communicate with him via the monitors. Respondents are contained at all times for safety."
"Respondents are contained?" Duncan repeated with heavy irony. "You mean prisoners are kept in jail."
"We have to," Sofie said. "There's no telling what he might do."
"Which," Tunji put in, "is precisely why he is still here."
Duncan shook his head. "Everyone has the right to confront their accusers."
Tunji raised his eyebrows, and Chonglin snorted in derision. "Not where I grew up."
"Everyone should have the right to respond to accusations and to provide evidence and explanations," Urushan corrected. "However, rapists and stalkers should not be allowed to confront, and thereby intimidate, their victims."
"He's not—," Duncan began, but he couldn't claim—especially with Cassandra sitting right there—that Methos was not a rapist. "He's not being accused of rape," Duncan said more calmly. "Right?"
"He is not being accused of anything," Urushan said. "He is being evaluated to see if he is a clear and present threat to mortals or immortals."
Duncan didn't like the sound of this at all. "Evaluated on the basis of what exactly?"
"Background information, his own testimony, and a character witness."
Karla lifted an eyebrow. "Only one?"
"We would prefer more, but he refuses to name any one else who knows him, and no one within our group recognizes him."
Duncan had heard enough. "I know him," he declared. "And I will testify on his behalf." He leaned forward, his arms on the table, his hands not quite fists. "And I expect to see him in this room. In person. Now."
Reagan and Sofie and Chonglin were all shaking their heads. "Coulsen can speak with us through the monitors," Chonglin said. "There is no need to move him."
"Are you all that cowardly?" Duncan challenged, his gaze traveling from face to face. "Not willing to face the man you might kill?"
Sofie narrowed her eyes at him and Reagan shrugged, but Urushan flushed, his lips tightening, and Tunji and Chonglin glared. "It is standard procedure," Tunji explained, as if that settled it all.
"Standard procedure?" Duncan repeated, half-rising from his chair, his hands tight with the urge to beat someone's head against the wall. "You're worried about standard procedure when a man's life is on the line?"
"Of course," Tunji answered with placid stubbornness. "For that is precisely when standard procedure should be followed: when passions are running high."
"Urushan," Karla said, "you've had the truth stone for hundreds of years. What did you do before you had monitors?"
"We met face to face." He nodded to her then turned to the other tribunes to say, "We could go back to the old ways."
"I don't like it," Sofie said.
"It is asking for trouble," Tunji agreed.
The two did not seem to realize that trouble had already arrived. Duncan could see that Reagan and Chonglin were considering the notion, and then Cassandra joined in, suggesting, "We could learn more by talking directly to Coulsen."
"Body language is important," Reagan agreed.
"As long as he is restrained," Chonglin added.
Reagan nodded. "Yes."
"We don't have time to put him under," Sofie objected. "What if he tries to escape on the way here?"
Duncan didn't doubt that Methos would try just that … and very probably succeed. Or at least get away from his captors. Getting out of these caves was another matter. They'd passed quite a few passageways on the way here.
"We need insurance," Tunji said. He turned to Duncan. "We will bring Coulsen to this room on one condition: You serve as surety for his behavior. If he escapes, you take his place. If he kills someone, your life is forfeit."
"That's disproportionate," Karla objected.
"And scapegoating," Urushan added. "Tunji, we can not—"
"It's OK," Duncan said. "On one condition: Cassandra tells him about the deal. Coulsen won't believe any of you."
"Why would he believe her?" Reagan asked, her gaze sweeping over Cassandra.
Cassandra smiled calmly at the other woman. "Because I know him, too."
"I see," Urushan murmured, looking back and forth between Duncan and Cassandra. "Will you testify for Coulsen, too?"
Cassandra smiled again. "Of course."
Duncan wasn't sure that was such a good idea.
Tunji was still focused on the transfer. "Cassandra will also need to be restrained."
"But she's a tribune," Chonglin protested.
"She is a very new tribune," Tunji said. "And she is compromised. Additionally, Duncan MacLeod, your life is also forfeit if she kills someone."
Duncan hadn't realized just what his scheme would entail. "Cassandra?" he asked, hoping she would play along. She didn't look happy about it, but after a moment she agreed.
On the monitor in the corner, a light blinked and a buzzer sounded. Sofie looked at it then announced, "I'll guide the witness in," and hurried out the door.
Tunji said to Duncan and Cassandra, "I need to search you both for weapons." He was efficient and practiced, and in a few minutes Duncan's katana and knives and a few other oddities were sitting on the table. Soon, Cassandra's stungun, knives, wire coil, miniature tool kit, hairpin, electric torch, necklace, and belt joined them there.
"Other weapons," Karla murmured, sounding amused.
"Turn around," Tunji ordered, and Cassandra's wrists were expertly lashed together behind her back with her own belt.
"Sorry about this," Duncan called softly, and Cassandra smiled and shrugged, not seeming too worried. After all, Duncan consoled himself, she still had the Voice, and they didn't know about that.
"Your turn," Reagan told him, and using ropes from a cupboard she tied Duncan to a chair. She was also efficient and practiced, but she wasn't exactly professional about it, whispering in his ear, "We could do this for each other later. Remember?" while her fingers wandered over the tender skin on the inside of his wrists.
Duncan gave her a flirtatious look to keep her happy, but he really wasn't in the mood. He was staking his life on Methos wanting to see him. He was also asking Methos to do the same for him.
Continued in Testimony, in which Methos finally gets to meet his jailers and much is revealed