Act Four, Part Four

The man in blue was about to round a corner within the palace when he instead pressed himself up against the wall. He grinned, listening to the sound of a knock on a nearby door, followed by the door opening. A brief conversation ensued, both too short and too quiet for the fake Jim to hear what was being said. He recognized one of the voices, however: it was unmistakably that of His Majesty King Stepanko. This fool of an American had led him right to his quarry!

From the holster at his side the impostor drew a revolver, pausing a second to admire the rattlesnake inlay on the grip. It was a pity he would have to leave this gun behind, dropped on the floor by the body of the king, for he would be proud to own such a fine weapon. But in order to frame the real James West for the assassination, he would of necessity have to abandon the distinctive gun here.

But no matter. He was to be well paid for this little adventure; he would shortly have more than enough krufkozí to order such a weapon be made for him by the finest gunsmith in Pterovnia.

He listened and heard no sounds from beyond the corner. Likely the king and the American had withdrawn into the king's study for whatever purpose the king had summoned the man. Quietly the impostor stepped forward, rounding the corner.

Indeed, he saw no one in the corridor, only the usual assortment of grandiose knickknacks, including a suit of armor practically at his elbow. He smiled and glided forward, his borrowed boots making hardly a sound in the thick carpeting on the floor. He reached for the gleaming marble doorknob of the only door in the hallway.

A small sound behind him drew his attention. He pivoted, the gun in his hand automatically coming up…

Clang!

…

Practically every person in the courtyard with the exception of James West himself saw the guard standing behind him, murder in his eyes as he raised the rifle to club it over the back of West's head. To a woman the bridesmaids gasped and clutched at something, whether her own heart or the arm of the woman standing next to her. Niko's mouth dropped open as he began to frame a cry of, "Behind you!" while beside him Captain Andreshko's finger tightened on the trigger to fire yet another warning shot.

And Jim, seeing all the shocked looks aimed in his direction, took the hint and dove for the ground rolling.

Whoosh! He both heard the sound and felt a breeze as something whizzed by over his head. He looked up to see a guard stumbling sideways with a rifle held in his hands like a baseball bat, teetering from having missed his target. Before the guard could recover, Jim lashed out with one foot, catching the man in the knee. As the sneaky guard yelped and crashed to the ground, Jim bounded to his feet again and took off running for the palace door.

Niko limped after him, and Andreshko as well hurried to intersect Jim's path. "My apologies, Mr West!" the captain cried. "The impostor — he fooled me as well!"

"But not Artemus, I think," said a brunette from among the gaggle of beautiful ladies congregated around Ruvenko Duzko.

Jim glanced at her, then took a second look. "Leandra? That is, Queen Leandra?"

She nodded, and the blonde beside her with pearls in her hair added, "Yes, Mr Gordon followed the fake you inside, almost right on his heels."

"And Princess Gina Carlotta," Jim said, recognizing her as well. "Do you know where they were going?"

The royal ladies exchanged a look. "Well… no…"

"Does anyone know where Artie and the man wearing my clothes were going? Or does anyone know where the king is right now?"

The general silence gave Jim his answer. Turning to the young captain, Jim ordered, "Get some men together and follow me as quickly as you can. I'm going in."

"Not without me!" called Niko. He took off after Mr West, limping along woefully behind as Jim raced for the door and charged inside the palace. If only he could find the king before the assassin did!

Meanwhile, Captain Andreshko looked around the courtyard and tried to find some guards who were still in good enough shape to rush to their king's aid.

…

Pain shot through the impostor's wrist as something clobbered his gun hand, sending the revolver sailing through the air to land under a Louis Quinze table. With shock he found himself confronted by the very American he had been following through the palace, and he took in the dark and dangerous look on the American's face along with the medieval mace held in his hand.

"Hi, Jim," the man said casually. "Or wait! No, you're not Jim; you just lurk in palace corridors and pretend to be Jim. You know, it's not exactly conducive to your continued health and well-being to try to make people believe you're James West. He has too many enemies who might just attack you thinking you're him — not to mention a certain best friend of his who's about to beat the snot out of you, knowing you're not him!" Artie brandished the mace and took a step toward the impostor.

The bogus Jim took a step backwards, a look of dismay upon his face. A second later that look disappeared as he whipped up his left hand and snatched Jim's knife out of the pocket at the back of his collar. He grinned and slashed the knife at his opponent, cutting the back of Artie's hand.

The mace fell to the floor. "Now we are even," chortled the fake Jim, his accent plainly Pterovnian. "Each of us injured in the right hand, yes?" He swept the knife back and forth, seeking to keep the American off balance.

"Who are you?" Artie demanded, carefully staying back out of the reach of the man and his knife. "What have you done with Jim, and why are you here at the palace pretending to be him?"

Fake Jim laughed. "Oh, I am sure you have guessed my business here, Mr Gordon! That is the king's study there, is it not? I need only get past you, and then there will no longer be a king in Pterovnia!"

"Yeah, that's what I thought," growled Artie. "But what about Jim?" His eyes scanned the corridor as he took yet another step backwards.

The impostor grinned. "He was in a jail cell the last I saw of him, waiting to bear the blame for the king's murder! But I see now that, before I rid Pterovnia of her king, I shall have to rid myself of you!" He lunged forward, aiming the knife at Artie's midsection.

Clang! Suddenly there was a shield in the way, plucked from the same suit of armor that had contributed the mace. Artie batted the knife to one side, then swatted the shield across the assassin's face. And something cracked.

The impostor grabbed at his nose, then stared down at a palmful of blood. "You… you…!" he hissed, then sprang at Artie, arms wide to grapple with him.

Artie took a small step to one side, his elbow coming up to drive hard into his attacker's ribs. As the man's air whooshed from his lungs and his own momentum carried him on past Artie, the Secret Service agent followed up the elbow with a double-hammer on the impostor's back, ending with the coup de grâce of a foot in the seat of his pants. The impostor stumbled onward, falling head first into the…

Crash! Into the suit of armor by the corner. For a moment he looked like he might rise up again as he got his hands under himself and began to push up.

Then he collapsed and lay still.

Whew! Well, Jim had certainly drilled that particular set of moves into Artie time and again during their sparring sessions on the train; good to know all the training had paid off! Artie yanked a handkerchief from his pocket and quickly tied it around his bleeding hand, then started to kneel by the fallen assassin to check both his pulse and eyes to assess the man's condition. Before he could touch him, however, Artie heard the sound of the door behind him as it clicked open.

"Mr Gordon? You are done?"

Artie whirled and scrambled back to his feet. "Your Majesty, I told you to keep that door closed and locked until I gave you the all-clear! Shut it back again at once!"

"But…" The king, standing in the doorway, gestured at the tangled mess of assassin and armor cluttering the floor. "You have removed the threat, have you not? So the danger is past."

"Maybe this danger is past, but we don't know yet if he was the only one! Now get that door shut again, and…"

Blam!

…

Jim charged through the corridors of the palace, trying to guess which way to go, which direction to search. Not much time, and the fight at the gate had wasted far more of it than he would have liked. He sprinted onward, rounding a corner.

And bowled right into someone who was coming the other way. Jim bounded to his feet again and reached down a hand to help the other up as well. "I'm so sorry," he said automatically, then recognized his unintended victim. "Oh, Dr Rodin! Maybe you can help me. I need to see the king right away. Where is he?"

The little Frenchman patted at himself until he found the black ribbon by which his pince-nez glasses were pinned to his vest. These he retrieved, then polished them before settling them on his nose again. He now blinked owlishly through the lenses at Jim for a second, then shook his head in puzzlement. "Mais bien sûr, M'sieur West, I told you not twenty minutes ago, n'est-ce pas? His Majesty is waiting to speak with you. Why have you not gone to him?"

"Waiting for me where?" Jim asked hurriedly.

"I… I told you," Rodin dithered. "How is it that you have forgotten?"

Seizing the Frenchman by his shoulders, Jim barked, "Because that wasn't me! That was an assassin, and if you told him where the king is, you may well have contributed to…"

From somewhere within this labyrinth of a palace came a muffled blam!

"Sacré bleu!" squeaked Dr Rodin. "That was from the direction of the king's study! That was where I sent him. Ah, mon Dieu, what have I done? What have I done?"

"The study," Jim repeated. "I was there earlier; I ought to be able to find it. Watch over him!" he added as Niko came puffed up the corridor. Leaving the horrified Frenchman in the care of the limping miner, Jim raced off again, seeking the source of the gunshot.

…

Artie wasn't quite sure what had happened. When he saw the king standing in the open study door, he had berated the royal dunce and strode towards him, reaching into the room to grab the doorknob and pull the door shut himself. Then had come the explosion, followed by a searing pain in his side. As his legs buckled under him, Artie's hand missed the marble doorknob and he toppled forward. That was when the gleaming marble connected with his temple, and after that was blackness. Artie did not even hear the king cry out, "Mr Gordon!" nor did he feel the king's hands as His Majesty dropped to his royal knees beside him and grabbed his shoulders.

"Mr Gordon!" Stepanko cried again, shaking the American agent to no avail. He did not awaken. He was, however, getting blood all over the carpet. With shaking hands the king yanked the creamy white silk ascot from his neck and jammed it against Artemus Gordon's side. From the corner of his eye the king saw a figure out in the corridor. "Quickly!" the monarch ordered. "Go and fetch Dr Rodin here at once. Hurry!"

"I don't believe I shall do that," a voice replied. In shock Stepanko looked up to see the familiar figure of James West standing in the corridor, a derringer in his left hand, blood streaming from his nose. And strangely enough, West had just responded to the king in excellent Pterovnian.

Slowly the king came to his feet. "You… you aren't Mr West, are you?"

The gunman grinned and wiped some blood from his face. "You're a smart one, aren't you, Your Majesty? Can't put anything past you, can I?"

The king looked at the small gun in the impostor's hand. Derringers were typically two-shot weapons, and the man had only fired once. There was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide from that second bullet, and with Mr Gordon fallen in the doorway, the king couldn't even shut the door for protection from his enemy. "I see," said the king. Drawing himself up to his full height, Stepanko Milushko Simvjelko Zerildetko, by the Grace of God King of Pterovnia, Defender of the Faith, etc, etc, faced the gunman who had come to take his life and said, "May I at least know the reason I am to be assassinated?"

"For the greater glory of Carpania!"

The king blinked, then gaped. "Car… Carpania! Why, what do the Hapnicks have against me? We have always been on cordial terms!"

"Not the ruling family themselves, you royal idiot! I am an agent of Baron Von Stuppe of Carpania, or as he shall soon be known, Rodrich I of Pterovnia!"

"What, you mean that… that overbearing saber-wielding womanizer? Well, of all the nerve! That man will become king of my people only over my dead body!"

"Yes," said the gunman, cocking the derringer, "that is the general idea." Carefully he leveled the gun, taking direct aim at the king's heart and…

Blam!

Just as the king's eyes winced shut involuntarily, just at the moment the gun went off, he saw a figure fly into view in the doorway and tackle the assassin. The gun's deadly aim went awry at that very last second, and Stepanko felt an impact not in his chest but in his upper arm. He fell anyway, then scrambled back to his feet to gape at the sight of two men as alike as twins rolling over and over down the hallway. The one dressed in workman's clothes came out on top and straddled the one in blue, smashing his fists into his opponent's face over and over again, beating him still bloodier than Mr Gordon had left him as he growled out, "If you've killed Artie, so help me, I'll put you in your grave, you bas…"

He was interrupted by an extremely weak voice from the floor by the king's feet. "J… Jim? That you?"

For one glorious moment, Jim's eyes went wide with fathomless relief. Then he slugged the assassin one last time, checked to make sure he was both senseless and weaponless, then bounded to his partner's side. "Artie!"

Jim started to pull his friend upright, but the way Artie's face blenched told him how bad an idea that was. Instead he dropped to his knees by his injured buddy's side and began checking the wound. "Artie, how bad is it?"

"I've… had worse," Artie murmured. His eyes focused on Jim's face for a second and he ventured a reassuring smile — just before the lights went out once more.

End of Act Four
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