2.9 How They Reached Essetir

The rumble of the Newsy Queue's engine starting jostled Merlin awake. He tensed against the rustle-squeak of his own denim and boot-soles on the mat-padded bench, one palm splayed on the hull curving beside-behind-above him.

Mr. and Mrs. Editor in the wheelhouse, two stories up? His senses reassured him, and he breathed into his relaxing heart-rate. Wesley and Sarah. Thirty years married.

He watched the faint blue light ripple over the locker ceiling, reflected from the water outside the porthole-window, and his entire body responded to the definite acceleration of the craft away from the dock of Sutton Bay marina. Heading north meant, at some point, the sun would peek right in that window with a distant golden eye… Ropes shuffled in their coils, bumper-floats thud-thudding gently on paneled walls.

Merlin's stomach decided he was more hungry than sleepy, in spite of the banana whose peel still needed to be tossed in their wake, and he shifted up to his knees to blink out the porthole.

It was low enough that displaced water washed across his view occasionally, but they motored close enough to the shore to identify deciduous and evergreen on the coast, rocky rather than sandy. And once in a while, the foliage would unfold to reveal someone's coastal residence – decks and docks and windows and boat-sheds – before closing around them again.

Remember the first time we ever went boating? We rented that little pontoon on the lake and towed the kids behind us on the inner tube…

Remember we went so fast Josh lost his swim trunks? And we didn't know to stop because he was holding to the tube with one hand and his shorts with the other-

And Stacy couldn't stop laughing-

He was such a good sport about that, for such a little guy.

Yeah, he was… Lucky he didn't let go of his shorts before we got stopped.

Stacy was lucky he didn't let go of his shorts…

The shared memory was warm and fond and it made Merlin's chest ache with something like longing or regret, even as he grinned wryly over the mishap. He'd never gone boating with his family - once only to his mother's parents. And all he remembered of that visit was the white porcelain cat that ruled unblinking from the corner of the front hall, and the raised voices from the other room as he tried to pet the cold hard curls of fur.

Merlin rolled to his feet and left the locker, careful to latch it behind him so it wouldn't swing.

The constant movement of the boat was disconcerting, but not hard to get used to – he didn't figure that they were far enough out to worry about seasickness. The sun wasn't yet threatening the tops of the trees along the coast to the west, but still spilling generously through the windows on the left.

Port? they called it? And how come re-use a word that also meant a place to dock the boat? The port is on the port side. Hard a-port…

Merlin steadied himself with a hand on the galley counter, passing the bar stools bolted to the floor, and investigated the latching mechanism before prying open the pantry door. Well, it stood to reason they wouldn't want the galley cabinet doors swinging and banging about, either…

He braced his boots against the surging rise-and-fall, and bent to investigate – each shelf had a lip in front and green felt lining to keep the contents from sliding into each other, or shifting right out of the cabinet. Canned goods, dried goods… but he didn't want to risk taking anything that left evidence and might raise questions.

Dear, did you open this can of pork-and-beans for a snack?

Of course not, dear, why do you ask?

Because there's an empty can of pork-and-beans in the trash can…

He supposed he could eat a few corn chips from an open bag, and no one would notice it was only half-full instead of three-fifths full…

Merlin latched the pantry door and turned to balance his way to the refrigerator – one-third the size of one of the Pendragon kitchen appliances. He went to one knee to hold the door open while he perused the contents, conscious of the wash of cold air against face and neck and hands.

This was better. He could break a few celery sticks from the stalk or filch a handful of baby carrots from an opened bag. Pickles from an unsealed jar, bread slices from behind the heel – no one would notice the loaf was shorter by an inch and a half, or that the package of deli-sliced ham was diminished by four or five, or that the twelve-count individually-wrapped processed cheese was down to ten. No one would notice a mayonnaise or mustard jar lighter by a teaspoon-helping…

Merlin sat on the short industrial carpeting of the galley floor devouring his late-afternoon meal, careful of crumbs and serene in the stretching rays of the sinking sun, equilibrium enjoying the motion of the boat.

If only it were Arthur and Gwen in the wheelhouse above, comfortable in each other's space as they motored leisurely along. Maybe Percival and Leon lounged on the horseshoe couch playing cards, or balanced on the foredeck, damp in the spray from the bow…

They called it a bow, right? Or a prow?

No, that's all right, I'll get it – you keep the wheel.

Merlin tensed, feeling the vibration of the wheelhouse door above unlatching. Beer-nuts, pretzels, something – Sarah was coming.

He lurched upright, swiping breadcrumbs from the short counter into the basin-sized sink – not good enough, turn on the water to rinse them down – now the sink was wet; grab a paper towel from the holder glued to the counter to wipe the sink dry and stuff it down in a trash receptacle that already had a few items of paper-garbage-

And duck behind the counter as Sarah reached the main deck, and let herself into the cabin.

Merlin's heart thudded as he watched the room through her eyes, and crab-crawled out of the opposite end of the galley as she balanced her way to the pantry.

She was humming contentedly, and he recognized the tune. Greensleeves. She turned, bag of pretzel-nuts in her hand, to make a comfortably-unsteady way back to the cabin door. Outside, she paused – and stepped to the front deck instead of climbing immediately to the wheelhouse.

Merlin turned his back to the galley counter and hung onto one stool-seat for his own balance, to watch Sarah brace her stance and ride the rhythm of the Newsy Queue. Her delight was effervescent and encompassing; the worries of her daily life few and easily forgotten… and he'd have two seconds to dive behind the counter if she turned back again, so she didn't glimpse him inside the cabin.

Mayonnaise and dill soured a bit in his stomach. They'd never know he'd been here, a stranger intruding on their joy and privacy, but he'd never be able to escape the fact of what he'd done…

She wasn't going to turn for several long moments, he read, so he pushed to his feet and made his way to the steep interior stair, returning himself to the locker and latching the door carefully-quiet behind him.

The smell of old banana mingled with long-deep damp, rope fibers and seaweed, and he curled up on the bench to ride and wait for Essetir.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Arthur stood at the helm of his rented Wrapter Fifty-Five, too impatient to relax in the captain-seat and careless of the wind and spray over the top of the plexiglass shield. Angling into the tide so he wouldn't bounce over the incoming waves like a skipping stone, he headed further from the coast than he thought a houseboat would venture, and opened the throttle as far as he dared. A rough, swift journey.

His belt kept his trousers rubbing against the still-healing wound on the back of his hip, even when he tucked in one or both of his shirts. The speed kept the air cool enough against him that he had no desire to shuck his denim shirt and glance beneath the cotton tee for telltale trickles of blood. He wasn't going to dock at any of Essetir's marinas anyway – too much time and trouble, probably, to slip past a harbor-master, and the only paperwork he had was his CPO ID, which would have him instantly arrested and detained indefinitely – and interrogated with no great attention to gentleness, likely enough.

He smirked grimly to himself, thinking of the base-bunny contact, and her current situation.

Blinking against wind-tears and ignoring the way his skin numbed under the constant onslaught of sensation, he held his course and scanned the horizon to the north and west for other craft.

It would probably be the only Oliver-class boat out here. No scheduled ports in Essetir meant they'd cut motor and anchor for the night, but with a fair-weather forecast they wouldn't need to seek and choose a sheltered inlet at all.

His boots were sufficient to keep his socks dry, but the edges of his denim shirt flapped unrelentingly over his t-shirt; he didn't care enough to slow for a moment's autopilot to button it up against the chill – though he might change his mind by the time the sun had finished reacquainting itself with the horizon.

His hair would be a stuck in a blown-back style, stiffened with dried salt water and wind. At least til he chose a point to abandon the water and make his way to land – and it likely wouldn't be a place of wide-open beach and lazy-long shallows. The ruck was waterproof but it was possible he'd have to have to strip and swim to shore.

And hope no one happened upon the Wrapter while he was taking care of the psychic, if he wanted to leave this means of retreat behind him…

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Gwen stood half a pace from the one-way window, watching Gregory question the psychic in the interrogation room.

"What sort of name is Nimueh, anyway?" she said to Gaius, not caring if she sounded sulky or spiteful.

Not really caring if the woman knew she was there – probable, from the way she was smirking over at the window, slouched in the plastic chair in track pants and an athletic bra, because Gwen had indeed demanded the return of the CNU sweatshirt. Or even what else she might be plucking from Gwen's brain; it didn't seem Gaius was too worried about that, either, if he allowed her here.

The psychic scout wouldn't be going back to Essetir. Ever. Unless the unthinkable happened, and she was let escape, but… Gwen was certain that was a laughably remote possibility. She'd put her money on Camelot's Psych Ops over Nimueh, any day, and the other woman might as well know it.

"Scout contacts don't usually use their real names, you know that," Gaius said mildly.

She thought of the regular-army captain they'd met in Camp George, and the Velcro nametags for Smith and Jones. She thought of Merlin in an interrogation room and Arthur and Gaius watching him – unseen, at least.

"Merlin was his real name," she said aloud.

Gaius made a noise of neutral corroboration. "Merlin rarely lied," he observed. "Of course he kept secrets – we all do, after all – though I must admit, I did not wish to pry because I was concerned primarily for the humiliation he'd feel at what I found."

"And he'd know you were prying," Gwen concluded. She took a moment to consider that fact she didn't believe Gaius was mistaken about.

Merlin rarely lied.

But lies weren't always in what was said, were they?

As a scout she was trained to mislead people with body language – actions, attitudes, gestures and posture. None of the Aravians in Qauyl suspected they were scouts of Camelot. But she hadn't deceived them in order to exploit the relationship - their focus had been Urhavi and the militant faction there.

"So why did he come? What was his objective?" she said slowly, trying to reason it logically, from an Essetirian point of view.

"Psych Ops, probably," Gaius answered in the same calm, impersonal way. "Me, as the Director. Quite possibly, Uther Pendragon as an ultimate goal."

Gwen watched Nimueh stretch and affect to yawn, slouching at a different angle, and wondered if Gaius was working her, even now, even from outside the room. Knowing she was likely reading them – what did he see in the woman's body language?

She allowed herself to remember one moment in frozen Ealdor, and Merlin's reaction to Arthur's name. Scout Pendragon? he'd repeated her use of the title, and it had been wariness she'd seen in him – perfectly natural for a native Essetirian trying to defect and uncertain what his reception might be… But for a scout intending to be taken in and betray – decidedly odd. Shouldn't he have shown some eagerness, some interest in hearing Arthur was a son of his father? But he'd seemed far more comfortable with simply Arthur.

As she had been.

"Was he really that good at acting?" she wondered, feeling disappointment curdle in her stomach – not because she hadn't suspected, but for the loss of something precious if it wasn't genuine to Merlin. In the corridor the other day she'd tried to pretend to Pendragon that their time in Aravia was just-business, but of course it wasn't true – or for him, she thought. Which was why she'd tried to shut them both down and remind them of professionalism only, not possibilities.

"No," Gaius said. "Not at all, actually. I always found the echo of his emotions to match the external expression of them, even if he concealed the cause. Fear – embarrassment – hope – affection. I believe his desire to find a home with us was entirely sincere."

From his tone, Gwen guessed that the Old Man was also re-evaluating every interaction with the Essetirian psychic, coming to his own conclusions, which would then translate into an intentional course of action.

His desire to find a home with us… quite genuine. The echo of his emotions, match the external expression…

She'd seen much of that, herself, and it was good to believe it was true. Those unforgettable first days, over the mountains of Ealdor, down into Camelot… turning into weeks of scrutiny at Fort Fuller, and gradually easing to months of slowly-earned trust…

"So he didn't… cultivate Ar- I mean, Pendragon's friendship, on purpose," she said slowly. "He… resisted that, at times." She'd been busy with and distracted by other things – duties, and relationships. Lancelot and his recovery. But, looking back – "I thought maybe it was, he was socially awkward from not have a lot of practice interacting with… just people, growing up."

"Mm," Gaius agreed.

"And from… the whole defection thing, the obvious suspicion of him as an Essetirian, as a psychic," she went on, verbally feeling her way toward her own conclusions – and maybe Gaius was using her judgment as a gauge, also. "But he wasn't… eager to reassure us. He didn't… pursue relationships."

Maybe he didn't need to, though, if he could read the information he needed from any kind of distance. Still, would it have gathered or deflected attention, him being charming and extroverted and gaining friend after friend? As opposed to how he'd held himself apart, ever uncertain of a heartfelt welcome for his own sake.

No, that was truth -her impression that he consistently doubted anyone would consider him a worthwhile companion. The surprise that met her invitation for him to join her with her friends. The look on his face when he was included in Leon and Percival and Pendragon's mutual teasing. As if he rather expected rejection… or maybe that he preferred it? as something he understood as familiar? couldn't quite deny the attraction of unconditional friendship? but still tried to resist the pull, because…

"It wasn't voluntary," she said suddenly. "What he was doing here. Scouting for them. He wasn't trying, because it… wasn't something he wanted. Was it?"

"She is not aware of any surety they held over him," Gaius observed, indicating the subject in the interrogation room.

Nimueh shifted again, tilting her chin away from them in an arch expression of insouciance in spite of whatever Gregory was saying… and Gwen almost smiled at a wry realization that Gaius knew exactly what he was doing, holding this conversation with her in the room right next to this captured enemy psychic. And the knowledge of exactly what her response should be. What it was.

"There's a lot they don't tell their scouts, isn't there?" she questioned, with exaggerated derision.

One of Gaius' eyebrows quirked, because of course he realized when she caught on. Maybe sooner or maybe later than he'd anticipated – because he was psychic himself, or because he was just this good at their job. "Indeed."

"Well, I hope Arthur is able to reach Merlin before he does something irreversible and regrettable," she observed aloud, meaning each application of the pronoun. "If we can address the issue of whatever that surety is, do you think we might earn Merlin's loyalty in a way Essetir never could?"

What an asset Merlin would be, then.

"I hope so," Gaius answered – oblique in his reference but with undiluted honesty. "I do hope so."

That would give Nimueh something to think about, at any rate. Maybe knock some honesty unsettled from her, too.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Merlin listened to Wesley shut off the motor and press the button in the wheelhouse to lower the anchor. There was plenty of time to mix margaritas and lounge on the foredeck with Sarah in a fuzzy shared blanket and watch the sun set.

He knelt on the bench in the damp smelly locker and estimated the distance to the shore – fifty paces. And how many arm-strokes was that?

The grass grew right down to the water, and rocks showed their teeth in the backwash of lapping waves. Distant lights to the north and south, but nothing along the closest stretch of shore. Grimsby was around the northernmost point of visible land, according to Wesley's calculations.

The water that slapped against the port-hole was sluggish slush-gray, and Merlin shuddered to think of lowering himself into it, dressed or undressed.

Undressed, to keep his clothes dry in one of the waterproof bags some of the cord-rope coils were stored in. Then once he stood on firm ground again he could put them back on and warm up. It felt like a much better idea to wait for a noon sun to warm the water with a shower of glittery wash, and invite disrobing and slipping in. Except for, of course, Mr. and Mrs. Editor. And if he waited another day and passed Grimsby, in favor of trying another port further north, that was another day Arthur would use to get closer.

How did he know to take to the sea? Merlin didn't bother much with the question, as he hadn't really bothered much trying to outwit the scout who'd elected to chase him down.

Arthur was just that good.

Merlin could only hope to stay ahead of him long enough to persuade him to give up before he was captured, in Essetir. Because, then… well, then Merlin would… would have to…

Dammit; he didn't know what he'd do.

In the cold musty locker, Merlin shucked his long-sleeve t-shirt. Unlaced his boots and toed them off, then peeled his jeans down his legs and his socks off his feet, one by one. Bits of lint stuck to his toes and soles and insteps as he balanced on worn-nautical carpet and stuffed his clothes in the small waterproof bag; red was better than yellow or white for not drawing the eye in the water. He scuffed bare feet on the floor, thinking of last night – just last night – in the guest suite of the Pendragon estate, the thick soft carpets and the promise of that magnificent hot shower.

My, how the mighty have fallen.

Don't the traitors deserve even less…

His skin looked whiter in the chill gloom since the distant shore-trees rose higher than the sun could reach, and he felt gooseflesh break out as he reached for one of the bumper-floats hanging from a hook on the wall.

Wesley and Sarah snuggled unsuspectingly and sipped their margaritas, and Merlin in his undershorts crept up the steep-narrow steps, waterproof bag and bumper-float and banana peel in hand. He braced himself on the panel with his elbows so he wouldn't lose his balance and catch their attention with a lurching thud, and carefully unlatched the cabin door on the – starboard? – side. Slipping to the rear of the craft, where the waves reached up to slap the underside of the pace-wide deck covering the quiescent motor, he flung the peel as smoothly as he could, as far as he could. He had no idea if his weight in violent motion would disturb the boat's balance enough to alert Wesley or Sarah, but he wouldn't risk it.

Did fish eat banana peels? Oh, well.

Beside and behind was all open water, not so much as a sail or the white line of wake in sight. Three hundred kilometers to the unseen mainland, around the bulk of Nighthead to the south, and even being psychic wouldn't help much where he couldn't speak the language. Even if he could swim that far, and not just… drown himself and his troubles in deep oblivion. And no one would ever know he'd taken the coward's way out…

Merlin crouched wretchedly behind the thigh-high deck gate, riding the rise and fall of the hidden depths beneath, red waterproof bag and the line of the float clutched in his off hand, and waited for Wesley and Sarah to finish the margaritas, conclude the sunset vanished, and retreat to the galley to jointly prepare their planned surf-and-turf anniversary meal. Candles in holders with wide heavy bases so they wouldn't slide off the table. Wine in crystal shaped the same way. The plans, the anticipation, were so full of warmth and certainty and contentment that misery rippled through Merlin's mostly-naked body, clacking his teeth together.

I remember that you told me to shut my eyes before you started, because you wanted to surprise me…

Was that for the proposal, or the wedding night?

Oh, you- As if she couldn't think of a word descriptive enough.

Followed by his low, confident, You know you love me.

The cabin door latched, shutting him out of the murmur of voices, taking their rumpled blanket and their love inside.

Shrimp and scallops would cook in mere minutes. But the steaks – low and slow – would take longer. And set the table and focus on each other, sit and eat before maybe one more look outside before they retired to the master cabin below, safe and warm and unworried and together.

Merlin, still clutching the red waterproof bag and the line of the bumper-float in one hand, braced the other on the scruffy wet material of the narrow rear-deck, and hitched himself forward and off.

The water closed frigid over his body, up his throat and into his ears, in spite of the bracing – clutching – hand, and he felt his movements jerk with the instinctive panic of cold and deep. It was like jumping into an ice cube, and the Newsy Queue was no longer a refuge but a threat, a much much larger object afloat than he was-

He remembered reading once that men could be crushed to death between a dock and a ship's hull if they fell into the water between the two.

No dock here.

Every nerve ending shrank with each passing heartbeat. He gasped for breath and tried to keep his flailing submerged, so he wouldn't splash and maybe call attention to himself, if so happened they stepped out of the cabin again.

Have to let go.

Have to swim, swim to shore… Then he could get warm and dry again, but not before.

His legs and feet churned, treading more than propelling him in any given direction, but he hooked his elbow firmly over the oblong floating bumper. His fingers cramped around the string of the clothes-bag, also floating, and he spread the fingers of his other hand to try to paddle.

Leave the boat behind. Swim to shore – to Essetir.

He checked on Wesley and Sarah in short, disconnected bursts, and they never noticed him, bobbing unsteadily closer to the shoreline, which grew darker and less distinct even as he neared. It was disorienting and entirely natural, as the sunlight slipped further away, finally releasing the sky to the governance of one bold star as his toes detected a silty thickness when he let his body sink upright.

Struggle onward, and kick a rock – wince, and limp-swim his way up the submerged incline, til he was wading only and not swimming at all.

Now the water felt almost warm around his knees and shins as the indifferently curious air explored goosebumps on his goosebumps pimpling wet flesh. He was nearly luminously pale, shuddering uncontrollably and unable to breathe in more than a shallow anxious pant. He fell once more in the muddy shallows before making it out of the water and onto grass and forest-bracken that his soles were cold-numb to.

It didn't matter at all if his clothes got damp or dirty from his skin and his dripping underwear, he just wanted them on. His fingers jittered, and he dropped the clothes-bag and almost lost it in the dark and almost despaired of finding it again…

Didn't care if the socks or the shirt were right-side-out or not. And he could tie his boots later, when his fingers were functional again.

Abandoning the empty waterproof bag and the stolen bumper-float where they couldn't be seen from the water – hoping that Mr. and Mrs. Editor wouldn't be charged for their loss from the rental houseboat – he began to stumble his way up over the ridge. Maybe there would be a track he could follow into Grimsby, and then…

Find a late-night grocery. Shoplifting a makeshift meal was easy when you were psychic.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Arthur passed the mouth of the Humboldt estuary just as the tops of the shoreline trees interrupted the perfection of the sun's shape.

He'd seen a couple of other boats closer to land, but none of them were Oliver-class with a turquoise stripe. That was okay – he hadn't really expected to catch up, only if the middle-aged anniversary couple chose to idle leisurely along or halt to anchor for whatever reason, rather than motoring northward.

It was fine; the psychic would enter Essetir further north than Arthur, but probably at roughly the same time. He could still head him off; instincts and training had to be a match for psychic-ness, didn't they?

They had to.

Arthur kept an eye on the shore-lights as he zipped north, maintaining his distance so the sound of his motor drew no unwanted attention. Need a place to infiltrate, to leave the Wrapter. He was losing the light, and though he didn't mind adding a few scrapes or dings to the rented hull, he couldn't risk compromising its integrity, or stranding the craft.

There… there? He tipped the helm, easing back the throttle to half-power, and watched the forested coast loom around his port flank.

No sign of the sun anymore.

This bit was steep – trees right to the waterline, and the ground shoving their neighbors higher in rising tiers. Too steep for easy construction, which meant it was likely left wild and alone – and the shelf would drop off immediately deep from that shoreline, which meant he could-

Guide the craft in carefully, looking for a sheltered double-back where he could drop a short anchor and keep the Wrapter hidden from land and sea, both.

Easing way back, he let the boat drift, giving a low burst to the propeller twice to adjust the angle, trying to watch down into the water and anticipate the depth. A grinding sensation erupted beneath his feet, but it felt superficial, and the craft shivered quiet as he shut her down. The chain releasing the anchor rattled subtle and short, and settled sooner than he anticipated. Dry ground was only a hop, skip, and a jump away, so maybe…

Arthur opened a seat-compartment for a safety flotation device on a line. Uncoiling it strategically, he aimed the ring and flung it to the shore, neatly over the V made by a sturdy alder trunk and one of its lowest branches. Tugging made the ring slide upward til it caught, braced against its own sturdy width.

He snagged his ruck, slung it over his shoulder ignoring aches and pains as he'd done all day, then braced his boots and leaned backward against the line, not so much pulling the craft toward the shore as he was pushing it there with his feet.

Come on, come on…

The bulk and weight resisted him, then slid so obediently through the water that the hull rubbed and ground on submerged rocks again.

He was ready, and vaulted to the shore, feeling the shale shift under his boots. Ripples washed anxiously ashore and rebounded to the hull as he extricated the safety ring from the tree, and snugged the end of the line to the convenient branch. He tossed the floating-ring back into the cabin area of the Wrapter without much hope that it would behave agreeably, snagging on something that would hold; maybe if he had the time, coming back, he could give the line a lucky flip between the seat and arm-rest of the captain's seat, or something. Might make it easier to board than splashing out in the shallows and lurching up to grip the hand-rail that topped the hull on each side, chin-upping and scrambling over.

Then he turned his back, leaning forward for the climb up the ridge. Flint by midnight. Then it wouldn't be hard to find a public comm-block.

There was a question he'd forgotten to ask Gaius.

It was awkward, unsteady going up the ridge, and he found himself often dropping one hand or the other to the ground in front of him, or gripping a rough tree trunk or branch. He waded through underbrush and caught his balance back from shifting rock beneath a thinly treacherous layer of dirt – and once over the ridge, discovered that part of his problem was the immobility of the land, after he'd gotten used to the motion of the Wrapter.

Nerves in his legs buzzed and tingled as he stumbled onward, resolute and rarely uncertain of his direction. By the time he could see the glow of the lights of the town of Flint, there was more exhaustion than land-sea confusion in any uncertainty of gait.

Nearly midnight, by Arthur's calculation, which meant he wasn't falling behind his mentally-set schedule. Still Sunday, which was technically weekend, but Monday was a work-day everywhere. So, when he'd passed the outlying residential areas of Flint, there were still places open to the public – downtown, near the station, though the last train was already gone - but not many boasting a full room of patrons.

Not quite last call. Neon garish but not unfamiliar, washing everything in unnatural dim-stark colors. After a full night of service with the music turned up for patrons' good time, neither bartender nor hold-out drinkers were paying attention to the nuances of Arthur's accent.

He was too tired to pay attention to forming words Essetirian anyway.

"Vodka, two shots," he told the guy – military-style haircut accentuating a bullet-shaped head; thick brow, jaw, hands; stupid-tired eyes. Percival's half-size cousin in a faded rock-band t-shirt and a dead-end job. "And your comm-block?"

The bartender pointed, already turning his back to reach the vodka and shot glasses at once.

Arthur passed two sets of hunched shoulders and vague eyes on the way to the far corner, and dipped his hand into the slouched-loose jacket pocket of the second, as delicate as a hummingbird sampling nectar.

Hiding the filched wallet with his body as he went, he extracted enough paper money to pay for his drinks plus change – not enough to be missed immediately, or to result in the conviction of theft rather than misplacement or miscalculation. Gingerly he twisted out of the rucksack and lowered it to one of the bench seats of the nearest booth before bracing himself on the wall to pick up the comm-block, glancing back to be sure drinker-number-two hadn't missed his wallet. Nope – still got the touch.

Office or home? Gaius said they picked up the female contact – probably they wouldn't be questioning her anymore tonight… unless they were subjecting her to the milder form of disorientation by way of disturbed routines. Missed meals, unscheduled meals, interrupted naps…

Story of his life, that sounded like. Each and every mission.

"Gaius," the old man said, answering at home and proving Arthur's first instinct correct.

"Pendragon," he said, keeping the bartender and both drinkers in the corner of his vision. Make certain he wasn't overheard, but give off no vibes of clandestine behavior.

"Report." The Director was tired himself, and curt – but there was energy there, and not discouragement.

"I'm in Flint," Arthur said. "Waste of time trying to pick up his trail at the coast, wherever he came ashore…" He could still be aboard the houseboat Arthur had no corroboration for anyway, but instinct said not; he'd find a way ashore during dark hours, and not wait another full day, not if he was aware of Arthur's pursuit. And surely he had to be. "I need details about Fort Araun."

The only place he knew the psychic would go, had to go. What was his range? Last winter, he'd made several claims about what the Essetirian pursuit knew or didn't know about his defection and location, but if he'd had any inkling about that sniper shot, it had been half-a-second at best. Possibly he'd alerted to the intent of the trigger pulled, even at the distance.

The handgun in Arthur's ruck probably wouldn't take the psychic by surprise, then, but he could find someone's hunting rifle without too much time or ground lost, and then if he could reach that bottleneck outside For Araun's front gate, he could plan on the fly, two or three or maybe four vantage points. If he kept moving between them, maybe the psychic would have a harder time anticipating…

Maybe he'd go to ground to wait Arthur out. As long as he didn't call in to the base to begin his debriefing via comm-block connection, Arthur was fine with waiting him out. And if he called for back-up – well, Arthur would see them coming. He had no intention of this becoming a suicide mission.

The Wrapter was waiting. And, Gwen was only skittish… if he could trust that the psychic wasn't playing him on that count, too.

"Well, we don't have aerial photos or recordings, you know that," the Director said with asperity, and Arthur could have done without the reminder of his failures during the Ealdor mission last winter.

"No," he said. "I mean your contact, your deep-cover scout, the bartender. The observer and his button?"

"I haven't heard from her since January," Gaius told him, hesitating.

"I want her name and address," Arthur asked. "Her cover's blown anyway, since he was aware enough of her for them to set us up to take him in – probably I need to warn her to activate her exit strategy ASAP…" Unless they'd taken her in already, on the psychic's intel. Then maybe her home would be an ambush for any scout of Camelot who came around to investigate her silence.

Pause. The silence grew in significance as in length, and Gaius probably realized it. He cleared his throat and said, deliberately even, "Her name is Alice. She lives in Number Twelve, Gardenia Court, in Drysell."

" 'Kay," Arthur said, committing the information to memory. "Thanks."

"She's psychic as well," Gaius remarked mildly, but Arthur felt his spine straighten slightly in reaction. "A bit. If you're in the same room she'll read your emotions."

Well. Unspecific and short-range, but it gave her a bit more defense than any scout without the ability, in her altered situation.

"I'll check back in tomorrow," Arthur said, by way of thanks and farewell, and disconnected.

The bartender had finished with the shots and was eyeing him, as the newcomer and marginally more interesting than the other two, individually and obtusely drowning their sorrows. Out of habit Arthur gave them a twice-over from the different angle as he returned to the bar, but was immediately satisfied that all three were no more than what they seemed.

And bent as if he was picking the missing wallet up from the floor, palming it below the edge of the bar so the bartender couldn't see. "This yours, buddy?"

The drunk barely flinched at the question, or when Arthur tossed the wallet down on the bar beside his elbow. Maybe the bartender thought to entertain suspicions, but Arthur immediately reached for the first of the shot-glasses, so totally turning his own attention away from the wallet that the bartender half-forgot the incident himself, and the man reached out to drag it back to his jacket pocket half-heartedly.

"Cheers," Arthur managed wearily, upending the vodka. It burned going down, and he deserved nothing less. Digging in his jeans pocket, he pulled out the currency so crumpled that neither other man should once think it was pulled from the 'dropped' wallet. "Here… this cover the drinks?"

"You're not a big tipper, huh?" the bartender grunted, disillusioned. He deposited it in his till, returning a small handful of change, which Arthur pocketed again.

"Are any of us?" he returned in a grumble, reaching for the other shot-glass.

Lifting it in half-hearted salute, he took it back to the booth where he'd left his rucksack. Dark enough corner that he could pillow his head on the pack on the tabletop, and by the time the bar closed and kicked him out, probably he'd be awake enough again to march cross-country - or possibly hitch an overnight ride with a delivery truck to Drysell.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Merlin focused on his bootlaces as he trudged, flopping limply with each weary step.

The grocery and its shoplifted meatball-sub was a memory, and his stomach was convinced it was a new day. Start again. Breakfast, please?

He couldn't summon the same kind of hope, regardless of the streaks of pink and orange lightening the blue overhead. Grimsby was behind him, and he expected Drysell in sight around the next corner. He'd trudged steadily all night, trying not to think of wading south through the snow with Arthur ahead and Gwen behind.

Because Arthur was behind, this time. Still. Or rather, not exactly – he was somewhere to Merlin's seven-thirty, and not moving in a perfectly straight line. But definitely in Essetir, and resolutely gaining.

He hadn't given up at the border, or the coast. Bloody hells.

Even after the letter. And a full day of not catching up. Dammit, Arthur was stubborn, and Merlin hadn't fully realized how much. He'd only been on one mission with Arthur, and his own situation had distracted him from objective observation, then.

There wasn't much hope to his sense of Arthur, either. Just a mulish determination not to quit trying to catch Merlin that only faded as the scout had fallen asleep – and Merlin had retreated from monitoring his presence and location and trajectory and speed.

What was he supposed to do about what he had to do, with Arthur flailing about in his wake? Drawing attention to both of them, endangering himself obviously, and making Merlin's choices harder.

There was no visible change to the gravel crunching beneath his boot-soles, or to the subtly-increasing bird-call about him, but Merlin lifted his head to watch the roofs and chimneys of Drysell come into view, a small town not unlike Ealdor. He rather missed Ealdor, and only having to follow Arthur's lead, reading confidence and stealth in the scout's movements and focus, and trusting. Here, he was alone.

And he couldn't do it alone.

Merlin rocked to an unsteady stop, feeling his sea-legs for another moment of unbalancing weariness – he wouldn't let himself pause for rest, all night, for fear he'd find himself unable to start walking again, and for the sense of Arthur's implacable approach. Now he focused on Drysell like a sparrow dipping and spurting overhead, flitting from one neighborhood to another, one street to another…

There. Someone he'd never met, save through her unwitting dupe's impressions, carried into the interrogation room faintly and on rare occasion.

Merlin turned off the track, heading straight as the sparrow flies – or as the arrow flies? – as the arrow spies…

Still too early for most to venture out-of-doors, but many were up and enjoying the day's first cup of coffee. He skirted fenced yards and avoided outdoor dogs and tried to keep his boots quiet on the grass and packed earth and leaf mold. But his legs felt like oars, clumsy and wooden, slowly pushing his way through deep water, and…

Then there it was. White or light gray or blue in the predawn light, crumbling porch steps and the peeling paint and sagging eaves of a screened back porch. She was up – cup of tea, single light on over the kitchen sink. No backyard fence, just a little shed and a big tree and three steps up to a porch light that wasn't on, the glass cover for the bulb nearly choked with spiderweb and grime.

He knocked softly, but it was enough for her to hear, and come to the inside door where the porch entered the house. Surprise, but no suspicion, and she only hesitated a moment, coming to push open the screen door. He shuffled so it wouldn't push him off the worn concrete step into the dilapidated yard.

She was plump, round-cheeked – older than he would have thought, and the braid pulled over the shoulder of her cardigan was long and generous with gray. Her eyes were inquisitive, but friendly, ready to offer whatever help was needed in a neighborly way.

"Alice?" he said tiredly. "I'm Merlin. The psychic of Fort Araun. I need your help."

A/N: Sorry no Arthur&Merlin this chapter, it got away from me a little. But I promise to start next chapter with the two of them together, how 'bout that?