Chapter 17: Where They Reunited
By the bottom of the stair just inside Gaius' front door, Arthur paused. Too early for daylight to reach through the curtains, but not thick darkness any longer. If he held his breath and focused, could he hear Gwen breathing where she slept on the fold-out couch on the landing?
Behind closed doors elsewhere in the house, Gaius was snoring.
And Arthur longed to be able to stay.
A little cottage in a seaside town, if Gwen slept upstairs waiting even unconsciously. If there was nothing to do today but wake late and cook a leisurely breakfast and stroll around the shops with her hand tucked in his, to see what caught her eye and learn what she liked. Maybe he could offer to buy her some frivolous trinket she hesitated to spend money on for herself. Maybe she'd relax enough to flirt with him because she was willing to keep those promises later when they were alone…
Arthur put his hand on the door latch, and let himself out into the chilly gloom of the young morning. No one noticed the soft click of finality, or his footfalls down the front walk, out to the street-
Heading for the early train and its few grumpy passengers.
…..*…..…..*…..…..*…..
Just inside the door of the formal-wear shop Merlin paused, letting his companions move into the space ahead of him, little brass bell on a coiled spring clinking against the top of the glass to alert the proprietor.
Polished hardwood floors in narrow planks, bright morning sunlight reaching effortlessly to all corners, walls painted burgundy behind clothes-racks – some colorful, some stark – and the sales counter, made of the same polished wood as the flooring.
It smelled like new fabric, and old flowers, subtle wealth that welcomed and compromised rather than stifling and discouraging. He liked it.
"What are we meant to do here?" Gwaine asked the room at large.
In the absence of an attendant – door ajar at the rear of the shop to the left, past the sales counter – Freya began to wander, shuffling a few of the richly-colorful gowns on their high hangers as she passed.
"Oh, my," she murmured, turning with one that was wine-purple, beads and lace accented to enhance and seduce, not merely decorate.
Oh, my indeed. Perfect for her – and she smiled at whatever his expression betrayed of his thoughts – and yet… Merlin's feet turned him toward the opposite wall, the shiny black and the deep charcoal and snowy white of a different style of formal wear.
"Penguin suits," Gwaine mocked, disgust mixing with reluctant admiration in his tone. But he was the only one who hadn't moved more than a few steps into the shop, and so it was that he was addressed by the man who emerged from the back room.
Round head with wisps of white hair, small square spectacles, seen-it-all expression. "How may I be of assistance this morning?"
"We're just looking," Gwaine told him, "for the moment."
"Ah," the old man said – Mr. Reddy, if Merlin wasn't mistaken – and read the room with practiced accuracy, redirecting his attention. "Would the lady be interested in trying on any of our floor models?"
"Oh," Freya betrayed longing from behind the purple gown, "well…"
"Here," Merlin said. The rack just ahead of him exuded Gwen's practicality and intuition; this was where she'd lingered and chosen. He unhooked a hanger, then two others to hold up together. "This is what we need."
"For all three of you?" Reddy questioned, polite surprise almost immediately covered by smooth professionalism.
Merlin smiled to reassure both Freya and Gwaine, both of whom looked uncertain at his choice. "Please. And if alterations can't be made by ten-past-eleven, we won't bother and just take what we can get."
"Ten-past-eleven?" Freya asked.
"Gives us time to get to the rail-station to catch the last train for Camelot," Merlin explained. He wasn't one-hundred-percent positive how he knew that, but no one asked.
"Funding?" Gwaine reminded him sardonically, as Reddy came out from behind the counter to help them make determinations and selections.
Merlin let his grin widen. "The Old Man will foot the bill."
For now. Until they could apply for official compensation… which might very well depend on the success of the mission. Because if they didn't succeed…
What would Camelot look like, come tomorrow morning?
"Well," Gwaine said, unhooking another hanger to scrutinize his choice more closely. "If we're going to look this good-"
We better be this good.
…..*…..…..*…..…..*…..
Seat 7D on the aisle, navy upholstery worn and contoured to a ubiquitous passenger-shape, the rumble and tilt of the train around him lulling everyone else. Two of his fellows tried to sip coffees from steaming Styrofoam cups without spilling or scalding. The girl across the aisle and another row up, facing him, glanced up from her book with a willing smile.
Care to chat? It's still an hour to the next stop… are you staying on until Camelot?
Business or pleasure?
I love riding trains, they're always so…
Arthur turned his head to face the window, distant scenery smearing indistinctly past. He used to enjoy riding trains – moving unnoticed through the world he helped to protect, past people who lived peacefully and that might be due to him, in some small measure.
Now, it was… just a little bit tedious. It was a duty. Not unlike debriefing with Junior Director – or rather, with Director-in-Chief Gregory. Unavoidable – must be done. Forms to be signed, protocol to be observed. In spite of… I don't think it'll work, at all.
And yet, none of them had added, Don't go. Maybe it was simple disinclination to argue with him when they knew his mind was made up-
He remembered her clearly, Morgause Renard. Sitting in the kitchen of the Pendragon estate house with Morgana the morning Merlin had scarpered. You're playing hide-and-seek? Her amusement confident, in spite of his deflection.
Arthur couldn't not march up that red carpet tonight, as finely dressed as anyone there, accumulating admiration as the son of his father, and at least attempt to ram that confidence down her throat.
And if that kept her attention on him while Gwen and Gaius slipped around some shadowy periphery elsewhere or elsewhen – literally, or figuratively – so be it.
Fort Fuller wasn't really on the way from Newmarch to the capital, but he had all day, after all. Logistics warehouse was nearly deserted by the time Arthur arrived at the noon hour, but he wasn't disappointed.
Leon and Percival might have reached the Pendragon estate an hour and a half ago, if they left at first light. If all went well, they might be spreading extra toppings on oven-ready pizzas in the kitchen, teasing Della and arguing about which movie to watch if neither Pendragon-in-residence had claimed the theater room, right now. If all was really really not-well, they could be scouting the perimeter til falling twilight, planning strategy; they knew the house and grounds better than any bodyguards and nurses and specialists hired by whoever. Counting ammunition, and weighing odds, and waiting for dark.
He wouldn't be so foolish as to try to contact them via comm-block connection. They'd let Gaius know the outcome, when they could. And he wouldn't check in with Gaius until his business with Morgause was concluded, one way or the other.
Someone had left the desk-lamp on, the only illumination in the window-less warehouse, and yellow light spilled over the chair swiveled away just enough to allow a sitter to rise and move away. No folders left sprawled open on the desktop, just a smoothly-rolled suit bag with a card balanced on the zipper – and his name on, in Leon's handwriting.
Not even an echo from the rising shelves in the dim distance.
Arthur had no idea of Leon's system of organization, whether by type or size or individual. Maybe there was a whole shelf dedicated to his own wardrobes and accessories, any foreseeable choice of persona.
Maybe Gwen had a shelf somewhere, too.
Had orders ever come down for Leon or one of the others to begin to compile a similar collection for Merlin? Or maybe Merlin found that the regulation-camo of an infantryman suited him better, these days. Maybe the units recently returned from Aravia would enjoy some leave… and then maybe some undemanding training… and then maybe a quiet post somewhere no one minded soldiers of Camelot strolling about the countryside.
Arthur sighed, and unrolled the suit-bag, unzipping it far enough to check the contents in all the separately-zipped pouches.
Tuxedo, with all the attendant accoutrements. Cufflinks, timepiece, waistcoat, pocket square, cravat – what do you mean, a tie is newfangled and tacky – shined shoes of one designer label or another. The whole ensemble genuine in a way that few others were, for mingling with people who would know and scorn the difference, and each piece would be tailor-made for him, though he'd never seen it before.
All he needed was a half-cape and a tall-hat and a silver-knobbed cane. Actually, that would make an adequate weapon in any number of circumstances-
"Wow," MacKenzie said, slipping through the door he'd left ajar, and hanging an elbow over the high edge of the desk beside him. "You can afford something like that on our salary?"
"Upper crust," he agreed lightly. "Very posh. On occasion."
"Rented," MacKenzie reminded him with a grin.
"Not even," he countered, zipping and rolling it back up to be able to carry it by handles like a duffel. There was something else on the counter beneath the suit-bag; for a moment he thought it was the label-card Leon had written and left, but the size and color wasn't quite right.
"Make sure you use the right fork at dinner," Mackenzie teased – then affected to reconsider. "Or is it the left one? And crook your pinkie when you lift your teacup…"
Arthur picked up the half-hidden card and the whole world slowed for a momentous second.
Psych Ops ID, and a lot newer than his own. The official one they weren't really meant to show anyone – but if they had to, it was a guarantee of privilege and recognition and cooperation. This one he'd been aware of in a general sense, but surely it had been left behind in the Hotel Essential with the rest of its owner's belongings.
Maybe Leon had retrieved it. And left it here, here, to register his opinion on the matter.
Arthur had walked out in the morning with the few articles he'd packed for the detour to Camelot to investigate a murder. Acting as himself, more or less, for once.
But Merlin had left in the middle of the night, empty hands cuffed behind him and the blood-stained undershirt little protection from the chill of the night, and bloody hells, he'd deserved better from all of them. From Arthur, especially.
He slipped the card into an inside jacket pocket smoothly, and MacKenzie never took note.
"You can kill someone with a teacup," Arthur observed, hefting the suit-bag and yanking the hallway door fully open to pass through.
"Only if you have to," MacKenzie warned, laughing and striding away down the hall.
He headed the other direction toward afternoon sunshine, inhaling fresh air and initiating the next step of the mission - another train ride and probably several awkward moments washing up and changing and shaving in a station mens-room, then the trolley to the museum and the gala.
Only if I have to.
…..*…..…..*…..…..*…..
At the table by the window of the café on the corner, Gwen had an excellent, mostly unobstructed, though oblique view of the front of the Monmouth Museum. She slouched in the not-uncomfortable seat, nursing a cup of lemon-infused tea and rubbing a worn spot in the vinyl checked tablecloth.
Mostly because it was early for dinner, yet, and business being slow, the staff was curious about her sitting alone, dressed as she was.
Not, of course, because she was feeling nervous about tonight.
The gala, and what might happen, and to whom. She hadn't often been on a preventative mission - even when it was recon, a lot of waiting and watching, it was at least proactive. This was more like a protection detail, which wasn't usually Psych Ops assignment, unless it was special circumstances.
Like a known enemy psychic attending a political campaign gala on the eve of a special election.
Gwen bit the side of her lip, wondering what constituted known. If Director-in-Chief Gregory could take Gaius' word for it, hearsay evidence from agents off-mission or officially on leave…
The folks arriving at the grand museum entrance – a dozen steps up from street level, and three sets of double glass doors thrown open for the occasion – were too far away for recognition. And she'd never met Morgause Renard, personally. All she had to go on was Arthur's description of the long blonde curls, and that could easily and unintentionally be disguised in an up-do, or even shaded a darker color for vanity or variation.
"Wanna filler-up?" the attendant said at her elbow, one hand propped on her hip and carrying a carafe of steaming water, casually mindful of weight and temperature.
"Yes, thanks," Gwen decided.
"You waiting on someone?" The girl had delicate features, sleek black hair not quite contained in a long ponytail down the back of her cream-striped uniform shirt. Boredom overlaid with passing curiosity. "You're going to be late getting over there, arncha?"
"No," Gwen said, deflecting instinctively. "I'm not a guest, I'm staff. Second shift. When everyone who came early to set up gets off."
"Ah," the girl said, nodding as she glanced out the window toward the busyness at the museum down the block. "Good luck; I'm off in an hour."
"Lucky you," Gwen said ruefully, ending the encounter.
And going back to staring out the window, fingers gingerly wary of the newly-heated ceramic of her cup.
Morgause Renard, psychic - Essetirian scout, or something. Armin Rynok, Tosoldat, terrorist with ties. Or something.
If she was poised to assume a strategic role in Camelot's government with incredible access to all kinds of sensitive information, what the hell did anyone need him for?
Unless he was the point, and Morgause had only been plotting to arrange access to this many government officials in one place at one time… which was overly elaborate, in Gwen's opinion. A psychic ally could surely assist a terrorist strike against these people at their place of work, in one place at one time, without need for the theatrics that drew attention.
Unless the attention was the point. Uther Pendragon, decommissioned at his home estate. Psych Ops director Richard Gaius retired in the south. Arthur Pendragon, son of the one and scout for the other, right up the middle…
Right there.
Gwen didn't sit forward and stare intently, or jump up and rush out, knowing the staff was still observing her in the absence of anything more interesting happening. But she watched that figure in immaculate black with touches of white at cuffs and collar, the lights gleaming on fair hair. Even from the back, and every single gentleman dressed similarly, she knew it was him. She recognized his gait and bearing – and could also admit, not because she was a scout and just that good. This recognition had more to do with her heart than with her mind.
Instead she shifted, and sighed. Sipped the reheated tea – made a face to herself – checked her timekeeper, and pushed to her feet.
It was his mission, preventative or reactive or what. Gwen was backup, making sure he was free and unencumbered to do whatever it came into his head to do in the moment.
An unexpected ally, even if she was alone.
She paid, she tipped, she exited the cafe – and crossed the street headed for the near corner of the museum. Staff wouldn't enter at the front with the invited guests, of course. She'd have to figure a way to slip in and mingle with the workers, past the attention of security meant to keep anyone from doing just that.
Her best plan, the only one that didn't hinge on moment-to-moment changing details of exact time and place, was to hope that-
She stepped around the corner of the massive stone structure, just outside the pooling light, and a man's figure emerged from the deeper shadows of the alley. Breath caught in her throat for a second – he was dressed as a guest or maybe staff, mostly black with white accents – and then she recognized the too-shaggy-for-proper-military haircut, the wry grin.
"Gwaine," she said with relief. With more than relief – if he was here, and dressed like that, maybe it meant-
"Surprised to see us?" he drawled.
Other shadows shifted, and Freya's fine features peered out from beside his shoulder. More white than black visible in her attire – slacks and vest and collared shirt, rather than the jacket worn by-
"I told you she wouldn't expect us," Merlin's voice said quietly from behind them, and since they were here, and dressed like serving-staff as she was, it probably meant that he was in good condition to realize her relief at the sound of his voice. "Not that we could surprise her. Scout of Camelot, after all."
Both Gwaine and Freya turned inward in looking back at him, revealing Merlin perched on a row of stone decoratively protruding from the wall a little below hip-height. His posture read weary, and she stepped between the other two, right up to his knees. He looked up at her, and her heart was too full for words.
You're here. I'm not alone. Not in this.
He added with a trace of smirk, "You clean up nice."
Freya snorted.
Gwen had no trouble returning the dry compliment. "So do you."
"So what's our plan?" Gwaine said, shifting his weight like he was eager for action. "Since we couldn't let Pendragon face an enemy psychic knowing he had back-up."
Gwen swallowed an unexpectedly nervous giggle – relief, again, that her gamble had paid off. That she'd been understood. Explaining the general concept of protect-defend-prevent, she concluded, "But first we have to get inside…"
"I have an idea," said Gwen's best idea, pushing to his feet.
…..*…..…..*…..…..*…..
Outside the front doors of the grand museum building, the top step up from street level was several paces broad, allowing for minor casual congregation of patrons coming or going, a bit more informal than the interior would be – greetings or altercations a bit more emotional, a bit more heated. Outdoors behavior, even if everyone was dressed up.
Arthur turned in a slow circle, observing the neighboring buildings, the lights coming on in the twilight and the details disappearing into the gloom. Twenty-seven vantage points for a sniper, and he afforded each of them at least a moment's chance.
But he didn't believe that was the plan. Not before the evening began. Not before they could confront him with his loss and failure and their own victory. Gloating and rubbing it in – which was, after all, unprofessional. For their profession. One of the reasons he preferred the faster ops – do and done and gone, and success meant no one even knew.
Acclaim meant effectiveness decreased for future missions.
One of the reasons he avoided public and press – his name and face were already interesting to those who knew enough to recognize him.
"Oh, I say – Arthur Pendragon, isn't it?" a stout man with neatly-combed gray hair said with surprise.
Arthur gave the man's female companion the charming smile. "Good evening – excuse me, there is someone inside I must find…"
And leave the speculation scattering in his wake.
How long had it been since he'd visited the museum? Great banners swung ponderously from the glass ceiling five stories overhead – some polished gemstone with a nefarious history, some clumsy clay vessel demonstrating primitive artistic capability, some aged piece of hand-to-hand weaponry recently restored.
And some of the artefacts on display in glass cases bolted to the polished granite floor of the entrance chamber, conversation pieces where the gathered officials could group and comment before beginning to quarrel or criticize their fellows' persons or policies or plans during the time of crisis.
"Oh, Mr. Pendragon – I had no idea you'd be-"
"Is your sister planning to-"
"Are you here representing your father's interests, or do you have-"
"Yes, hello," he repeated, "Good evening – Well, thank you – No, I've not seen…" Drawing attention because he was at least a decade younger than the youngest of officials. Here and there a trophy-spouse or an adult child accompanying an ambitious parent.
And Morgause Renard.
When he spotted her between moving bodies, she was already watching him with a self-satisfied smirk on her face. One of the few women daring a shade of color – dark red - one of the few who'd left their hair down their back. Fierce makeup, no jewelry.
And beside her, an unostentatious man just her height – she'd be wearing heels under that blood silk hem – with opaque eyes, dark hair neatly trimmed and combed, starched collar and tailored cuffs.
Arthur could almost smell the blood and gunpowder.
"Undersecretary, I'd be glad to discuss Proposal Seventy-three with you further but just now I must excuse myself," he told a curly-haired woman strapped earnestly into black silk. "Someone I must speak to…"
"Oh yes certainly," she said, disappointment vague, and turned herself to snag another victim of discourse.
Morgause's smirk brightened as he approached. "Arthur Pendragon. I wasn't sure you were going to show your face, tonight."
"How could I say no to an invitation so… blatant?" he countered.
All the false charm. Society frosting on the knife that cuts the cake. And she understood that and he intended for her to understand that. He turned to the unassuming man at her side, whose clean shave and clipped hair revealed signs of dessert weathering that beard and sareq would protect a man from.
"Armin," he pronounced deliberately, then switched to Aravian. "I regret that I abandoned Urhavi before I encountered you."
The word abandon carried distinct and intentional connotations of let fall to ruin.
The man was less well-versed in polite politics. Dark eyes widened briefly, nostrils flared – the shot hit home, was felt, and revenge was desired the more intensely.
That was what he was here for, after all.
But not in the crowded foyer with everyone alert to who was there and talking to whom about what, before the emergency election.
Morgause put her hand on his arm – calm down – she was psychic and she was dangerous. She'd won Morgana, and through her eliminated Uther and was now poised to thrust Arthur aside to claim her prize. Political advantage – the long game. Possibly the very long game; he thought of Alice spending years in Drysell watching Camelot's enemies watch Merlin grow up, and sending covert recordings back.
The Aravian shrugged off her hand, just barely remembering to keep the reaction civil, and something flared in her glance.
Revenge could be a long game… or not. Tosoldat was here, and the rest of the Isyadi disbanded. No money, no men. And Armin Rynok was not a young man to start all over again – joining someone else's organization to gradually win recognition and appreciation and trust and power. And attracting a new following would be difficult with this magnitude of defeat on his reputation.
And he was here.
"Have you had a chance to relax at home after your recent trip abroad?" Morgause asked him pointedly. Sugar-coated fire.
However that worked.
"Perhaps I could accompany you on a visit to the estate sometime," she continued. "Standing invitation, after all."
He hadn't been to his family's home. If he'd taken the time to detour, to see for himself his father and sister's condition, situation – if he hadn't trusted that part of the op to Leon and Percival – he might have a reaction similar to Rynok's to betray.
No. Big picture.
Tosoldat sneered slightly and it carried significant, if he is able to visit family estate overtones.
"Miz Renard." He showed her another smile, more knife than frosting. "You imagine you've won. You celebrate assumed success. Perhaps in my place you'd concede defeat, you'd retreat to whatever small comfort you could scrape together and hope to exist unnoticed by triumphant enemies. Perhaps that's what you need from me here tonight – surrender."
Her gleam was brittle and becoming angry – which was also uncertainty.
Tonight wasn't completely about gloating, then.
So he was a target.
"You've been watching me," he scolded the reminder, meaning the pronoun collectively. "And don't you know me at all?"
Arthur spun – turning his back was a brief small risk; he could still react to an assault, and that would publicize his enemies' presence and intentions – and strode through the crowd toward the platform and podium, readied and waiting for the night's lineup of speakers.
She wanted advantage. Rynok wanted revenge. Not mutually exclusive, nor completely compatible and that was Arthur's in.
Divide and conquer.
…..*…..…..*…..…..*…..
Around the back of the west wing of the museum building, Merlin paused to let psychic bearings adjust to physical ones. Daylight was fading and the stirring of air was cool even wearing the black formal staff-jacket, but the whole museum glowed like a great backlit jewel. Alive with life and beauty and something like… potential danger. Dangerous potential, something.
Not unlike the hospital in Janada. Except, what had pushed him away there, seemed here to draw him in and maybe that should have given him pause.
The one he'd been looking for – a large man with a scar and a sneer - stood arms crossed over formal-security black, watching the four of them approach. Behind him, Gwaine hissed alarm and disapproval that he wasn't taking cover first to assess weaknesses and plan a surreptitious incursion.
You're psychic – I'm sure you could figure out a way to the top floor, if you had to…
The unswept grit of the rear loading area – one truck labeled for the company catering the fancy food for the event – grated under his boots and he felt almost ridiculously grateful that he wasn't having to do this in expensive patent leather. Which could be, he knew without personal experience, almost as painful for unaccustomed feet to adjust to, as military boots.
"Hold it right there," his target said, one hand out to stop them as the other caressed his service weapon – holstered, but unbuttoned. Ready as he had to be – they were dressed to attend, but needed to prove their right to enter. "Private event."
"Moreno," he said, not slowing. And then he was within the same pool of electric illumination, and could watch the officer remember him.
The dismissive initial introductions. The shock of having to hold Nelson's blood inside his body as two Psych Ops scouts went tearing after the sniper. And the relative calm of the department headquarters when it was all over and looks like he's going to be fine.
"Psych Ops," Moreno said, his eyes taking in the other three behind Merlin.
"Yes," Merlin said simply. "And we need access…" He gestured to the museum building behind the man.
Moreno wasn't done visually evaluating, deciding – but he was deciding. "We did wonder why your lot wasn't working this gig," he told Merlin, straightening and letting his hand fall away from the grip of his weapon. "Security for a last-minute government-do? Would've guessed every scout would dress up and report in."
Merlin allowed a wry smile. We would've if we'd been allowed to… and then realized that he'd included himself with that pronoun. "Events are… proceeding apace," he said vaguely, studying the higher floors of the edifice, noting the brighter glints of the gemlike sparkle-and-glow. "We expect-"
"Action?" Moreno guessed dryly, already angling his body to allow them past his position, entrance at the employee-only door he was guarding.
"And hope it won't be necessary," Gwen agreed, one professional to another. "As always."
"Are you armed?" Moreno suggested.
"When we need to be," she answered, and Merlin felt the surprised-amused appreciation from Gwaine. "How long has the building been under guard?"
"Since fifteen-hundred. We scared the pants off-" Moreno paused, considered, corrected himself, "back on, a couple of wait-staff trying to use a supply-room for privacy, but otherwise nothing of note."
Gwen made a neutral noise of gratitude, eyeing angles and heights in a way that reminded Merlin of Arthur.
"My boys will be on standby," Moreno added, shifting. "Back-up if you need us. Code's extreme entertainment."
Gwaine hummed approval at the irony.
Merlin lingered another half-second to return the nod the officer had given them at the constable's office – We owe you one – and Gwen moved past him to the practical-industrial door to take the lead.
Gwaine murmured to Freya, "Permission to enter granted… Whose idea was it to bring the psychic? Bloody good one, that."
Merlin followed them through the steel door, noting that Moreno had already turned to keep watch outward. And Gwen led them unhesitatingly down tiled corridors lined with bumpers like a hospital, smudged with the minor collisions of countless carts transporting artefacts to and fro – geological, anthropological, historical. There were others dressed similarly, carrying trays from the caterer's staging area to the gathering, but not many. Four of them together drew a few questioning looks, but casual greetings covered any curiosity.
"Do you have a plan?" Freya asked Gwen, quiet voice bouncing between the echoes of their booted footfalls. "Do we have orders? Because none of us have a weapon, and otherwise-"
Gwen's plan was to back up Arthur's plan. To body-guard against whatever Morguase Renard was planning with the lure of the invitation.
"Tosoldat," she said over her shoulder, "is not a tall man, nor muscular. Holds himself straight, has a… a watchful air. I doubt he'll be in traditional Aravian dress, and he might have cut or colored his hair to further blend in with our governmental crowd… mid-fifties. Darker hair, eyes, and skin than will be common. And he'll probably speak with an accent, if he says anything at all."
Merlin could see him clearly, standing next to one of the columns in the shining granite-and-glass foyer of the museum. Hands clasped behind his back, unassuming and yet utterly confident. Subtly pleased with himself because-
Gwen turned down another short corridor, following a stout girl in serving black-and-white through a door propped open at the end where a short flight of stairs led into the shadowy edge of an open area. Merlin's eyes took a second to adjust to seeing the space his mind was already inhabiting.
"Wait," he said, pausing with his foot still on the ground, leaning upward along the handrail as the stout girl hurried onward with her tray.
Gwen stopped and looked back, Freya and Gwaine between them. The cultured voices and faint strains of stringed music audible from the crowded entrance hall were incongruous to the reality of his warning.
He tried to smile an apology and it felt insufficient on his face. "Bomb in the basement? Room Bee-two-twenty. The four last Isyadi making sure security doesn't find it on accident."
Gwaine said something unbecoming a gentleman.
"How?" Freya said blankly. "Haven't they been watching-"
Because the election itself was short notice. And because the events leading to the election were manipulated, and this had been part of the plan since – didn't matter how long.
"Shipping crate," he said briefly. "Contained the makings, not the thing itself. Unsuspicious til assembled-"
"Doesn't matter," Gwen decided his own conclusion. "Do they mean to set it off or use the threat for leverage?"
"They can't set it off while Tosoldat and Renard are here, can they?" Gwaine argued.
Unless it wasn't planned to be comprehensive, just damaging, and Tosoldat and Renard knew where to position themselves as survivors.
"I can go disarm it?" he offered.
Gwen set her jaw, not liking the idea and very clearly, what about Morgause. Arthur. Psychic enemy ambush terrorist – she was capable of countering any move she could see coming, but he knew she hoped he'd see what she couldn't.
"We can go," Freya said suddenly, her eyes on Merlin. "Gwaine and I can go."
"I can't disarm a bomb," Gwaine said swiftly, half-incredulous at the suggestion.
"You can take out four terrorists while I disarm the bomb," Freya said, without losing Merlin's gaze. Her eyes were deep and dark and she was asking for something he didn't fully understand – more or less than he thought – but he was willing, for her. With her.
"You can't disarm-" Gwaine retorted, voice rising with pique.
Freya shushed him with a gesture, but the waiter that hurried into view with a picked-over tray from the grand museum foyer was focused on balance and the stairs. Merlin wasn't worried – they hadn't gathered any undue notice. They wouldn't, not til they wanted to. Professional scouts, after all.
"Bloody hells, just loitering about doing nothing," the waiter mumbled as he descended the stairs and entered the hall through the propped-open door behind Merlin. Resentful, not curious.
"Tolsoldat will know how to disarm it," Freya pointed out, gaze still inviting Merlin to plunge into depths unknown. "Merlin can find out, and tell me."
"How?" Gwaine said, impatiently practical. "You expect him to shout down the stairwell, past me kicking terrorist ass and I'm not doing that quietly-"
What are you doing – here? she'd said to him. In a corridor in her mind, or his, before they'd curled up together and… so on.
Merlin smiled, and drew his weight to the higher step, grabbing Gwaine's uninjured arm and stopping his protest. "Go," he told his second-sergeant, making it a suggestion with his tone. "Trust me. And her. Go."
Gwaine grumped, but didn't hesitate, leaping back down two steps at a time.
Freya touched him as she passed, sliding a hand inside the jacket lapel, past the edge of the embroidered vest, fingertips catching on shirt-buttons in a way that made him feel like she'd caressed his bare skin, offering to take it off and more – transferring body heat inside muscle, through ribs, to the center of his heart.
You're in love, Gwen's wide eyes and quirked lips said, when he looked back up at her. And I couldn't be more pleased… But not now.
He hustled to follow her up to the main level of the museum's entrance chamber. Their stairway was far to the side, an eight-foot ceiling above them forming the edge of the second floor above, and the grand foyer was open to the angled glass panels of the roof, five stories up, each floor overlooking the space with glass-protected balconies. Great banners swooped and advertised through the upper levels, the heavy material hanging from wires bolted to the frame of the glass roof and they were in the wrong place to see the depictions and messages clearly. Museum business, not government business. No time, with the last-minute gala. New attractions, exhibitions, old favorites reimagined in new settings and if he concentrated, he could probably pick out where were the pieces that Geoffrey had coached him inspecting…
But not now.
Gwen circled a support column, keeping to the shadow of the overhang, and then he could see the people, too.
Mother-of-pearl. Opal. The gleam of so many and so diverse mingling, slipping around each other – connecting, repelling… it was dazzling.
Or maybe it was more like the reflective colors on the surface of an oil slick.
Not because colors. Mostly the formal evening-wear of the socializing crowd was white-accented black, though easily outclassing the ordinary serving-wear. Here a midnight blue, there a dark burgundy. Government crowd, after all, not celebrities. No one's attire begging for attention, just not-too-subtle elegance.
"You all right?" Gwen asked him. Her voice sounded far away, though her elbow brushed his sternum when she turned to check him. "You've got this look on your face… How's your neighborhood?"
It wasn't like that. There weren't houses, just the… hundred and one points of light, gem facets. Turning, twinkling, identified and comprehended and disregarded. Felt a bit like he'd already had the champagne, and he'd never had champagne.
Optimism? But what reason did he have to feel that, facing this?
" 'M all right," he managed.
"Do you see him?" Gwen murmured, vibrating like she wanted to move out from their minimal cover – serving staff costumes with the wall at their back and everyone ignoring them as a matter of course. "I don't see him now – but I was sure he arrived…"
She didn't mean Tosoldat.
Merlin rather thought he'd also know instantly when she saw and recognized the terrorist.
She meant-
"He's here," Merlin said. The origin of the light that reflected from the points and planes and edges of everyone else. Natural brilliance? he scoffed at himself, recognizing an odd sort of nervousness he hadn't felt since Drysell and the impromptu mission to rescue his mother.
Does he need me? He probably doesn't need me, but I want to help I want to show him I can help and if he does need me…
"I don't see-"
"Give him a minute," Merlin advised, "he's gearing up for a-"
The twinkling lights spun and the oil-slick colors swirled, momentarily creating a gap of stirring surprise and Scout Arthur Pendragon strode through the crowd – impeccable, immaculate – Gwen only cared that he was unassaulted, yet.
He looked in complete and comfortable control of the situation, and stomach-flutters worried that Merlin's own sudden unexpected appearance was going to throw him off. Maybe I shouldn't've…
Toward the back of the soaring entrance chamber, to one side of a small bank of elevators, was a raised platform featuring a black-metal lectern. Speeches scheduled, later. Last-moment campaign appeals.
Arthur didn't hesitate, stepping up to claim the platform, turning to rest an elbow on the podium, casually commanding the attention of everyone who'd noticed the move, smiling confident nonchalance before calling out-
Of course-
"Ladies and gentlemen! If I could have a moment of your time and attention?..."
Gwen inhaled like someone had stuck her with a pin. "There he is."
She didn't mean Arthur, this time. Merlin immediately identified the plain focus of her intensity – not tall, not broad, not ugly, just ordinary and rather quietly forgettable.
And he could see the sareq and jacket-tunic-trousers-boots in spite of sharply-cut black tux. The beard and the sun-squint and he'd come straight here from Paris after Gwen had seen him and-
Plain-looking crate marked Pump Fan–Handle With Care. Boxy thing with sheer metal sides hiding the deadly innards, but… access panel on the back. Jumble of plastic-coated wires and it's not meant to be stopped, but-
Red wire conducts the final message.
Museum basement corridor and Freya's curls bounced as she ran – as she looked over her shoulder as if he was physically behind her, and ahead of her Gwaine twisted his whole body into a thunderous blow to knock down someone dark-haired and black-clad, turning just too late. Half a second for the whole tableau – and for her to smile-
Red wire, my love.
He blinked back to the foyer chamber, and it was actually more of a shock to realize that Tosoldat was standing next to Morgause Renard.
The blonde beauty descending the stair in the Pendragon mansion just behind the sister, the daughter. Long deliberate ringlets with sharp edges. Silk sheathe the color of an old scab, lips like fresh blood, black-rimmed eyes glaring daggers at the brother, the son.
If looks could kill, she'd have murdered Arthur right then and there.
…..*…..…..*…..…..*…..
On the platform there was sound equipment, Arthur noticed as he stepped up, not yet readied and waiting, but he didn't need it.
He turned again to face the hundred-or-so guests, another half-dozen innocuously-dressed attendants circulating fluted champagne and bite-size hors-d'oeuvres on balanced trays. Not a scout, in the moment, but every inch the son his father had always wanted him to become.
A bloody statesman.
Ruthless. And calculating. And charming. Sacrificing anonymity for success – he hoped.
"Ladies and gentlemen!" he called out above the polite chatter and subtle verbal jousting. "If I could have a moment of your time and attention?"
A gap of startled silence opened as the musicians faltered to a stop – is this planned? do we listen? is someone going to stop him?
"Good evening to all of you!" he continued, in the same confident, carrying tone. "I appreciate the trouble you've all gone to, carrying on and bearing the burden of Camelot's safety and welfare after and since my father – since the First Minister's hasty and unexpected resignation."
More sympathy than consternation. But patience was finite.
"I confess I am here tonight at the invitation of someone who has the potential to become quietly and extremely significant to the daily governance of our land," he continued, deliberately using phrasing to give the impression that he might be introducing a speaker – they'd make more allowances as an audience to his impromptu address, then. "Someone poised to assume a position vacated by the gentleman who may – depending upon tomorrow's vote – leave his office for a much higher one. You all know her name – and if you don't, you should."
He paused to bare his teeth in a grin at her between politely attentive officials and their spouses. She glared, and didn't move - beside her, Rynok looked warily intrigued – but she wasn't going to be able to do anything about his intention without proving the point he was going to make for him.
"Morgause Renard," he went on – and raised a hand to calm a smattering of tentative applause. "Born and raised in a small town on the border with our fiercest rival, Essetir." He stopped himself and cocked his head, emphasizing, "Perhaps. No record of any other Renard family member in that village, and the address on file with Camelot University is occupied by an elderly woman with memory problems inclined to burn superfluous post at the bottom of the garden."
Silence, totally uninterrupted by guilty shuffle or uncomfortable murmurs.
"A woman of cunning insight and hidden talent," he declared. "Some of you may be aware – some of you may be hearing for the first time. Because, ladies and gentleman, whatever else she is - Morgause Renard is psychic."
The word fell like a crystal goblet – soundless, then shattering. He watched realization–consideration-apprehension cross some faces. On others, there was guilt-fear-hope? Blackmail victims seeing a chance for freedom without exposure.
"I say," someone said, a weak show of protest. "You can't just-"
"She may tell you," Arthur disregarded the warning, because his time was up. The longer he spoke, now, the less they'd believe. "That I speak from jealousy and frustration because of my father's erratic behavior and voluntary surrender of status. The truth is, I'll happily shake the hand of anyone you elect to be First Minister in his place, and wish them well wholeheartedly. But if there's a chance I'm not wrong about Renard, stop and think for a minute what she'll have access to. What she's already taken, what she can use in future to advantage – and for whom."
Morgause stalked forward, elbowing her way between stunned guests – she wouldn't holler out to argue with him, but she'd definitely want a chance at damage control.
And if she convinced them she was harmless and ought to be left in place because he was crazy or incredibly vindictive – at least he'd given warning and hopefully planted enough seeds of truth that others might act to foil her, even belatedly, in the future. And her plans might have to be delayed while she calmed suspicion, that might take years.
Rynok watched her go with a look of something like detached calculation – a decision being made, in the moment. A decision being changed.
That balance between the two of them, of advantage and revenge. If Arthur took advantage from her, Rynok would lean the more heavily toward his goal… Arthur braced to cede the platform to Morgause without losing too much credibility, and still be able to contain whatever Tosoldat's plan was for the evening also.
Halfway to Arthur, Morgause faltered – like the heel of her shoe had twisted beneath her.
As she caught herself, the intensity of her gaze shifted abruptly to the side; Arthur followed her line of sight to a young male attendant – black suit, white shirt, hands in his pockets? no tray for fulls or empties? – and blinked to recognize-
Merlin.
Just inside the edge of the uncertain crowd, facing her. And he didn't break eye contact, but tilted his head and-
Arthur glanced a few paces further toward his peripheral.
Gwen. Also neat and inconspicuous in serving-black, hair smoothed into a knot behind her head, expression of determined encouragement. Her quick nod to Arthur said you're not alone, and the way she scanned the room showed…
This was the plan all along.
Oh. Oh, brilliant.
Hope surged through his chest, heart throbbing exultantly. Why in hell had he ever considered going it alone the best option? He was part of a damn team, and they had his back and they were going to win this one.
Ladies and gentlemen, my partners – Gwen Thompson, and-
Merlin Emrys.
A/N: This gave me trouble, because it's a bit all over the place, but at least it's mostly chronological…
And kind of a cliffie. Sorry. Hopefully it won't be too terribly long, b/c it'll pick up right the next second after Arthur sees that Merlin and Gwen are there at the museum gala… Or, well, sort of.