Copyright © 1988 by Mary Monica Pulver. All rights reserved.

Chapter 1

The door to the squad room slammed open and Tonk entered, bringing with him a knight in armor. Not shining armor, but functional looking armor, with dings and traces of rust about it; and a sweaty look to the man himself, as if he’d been arrested coming off the field of battle. The knight’s hands were fastened behind his back.

Captain Ryder had been filling his mug with coffee at the urn. He turned, stared, and demanded, somewhere between anger and amazement, “Where did you find him?”

“Nice, huh?” said Tonk, grinning, then saw Ryder was not amused and said, “He’s dusted, I think. He was on the steps in front of Tintagel, that restaurant looks like a castle? Had his tin hat on and was trying to get people to fight with him. Right, Sir Geoffrey? Or have you decided to tell me your real name?”

“On my honor as a true knight I am Geoffrey of Brixham,” said the knight. Dwarfed by Tonk, he was nevertheless a respectable six feet tall, about twenty-five, with a well-trimmed beard and dark auburn hair.

“Booking’s down the hall, Tonk,” said Ryder. His tone was tired; Tonk was a new detective and new to the Organized Crime Unit, but he had already worn out his welcome.

Tonk went behind his prisoner to uncuff him. “They’re doing a great big domestic, must be twenty people in there, all drunk. So I said I’d get a statement while I waited.”

The knight, neither frightened nor embarrassed, rubbed his freed wrists and looked around the small basement room. Like the rest of the Safety Building, it was new and offered concrete walls mercilessly lit, but the furniture consisted of four shabby wooden desks and eight chipped, green-metal filing cabinets. “Is this your dungeon?” he asked.

Tonk laughed. He was both tall and broad, genus footballus collegium, fair to the point of pinkness, with a heavy sheaf of straight blond hair cut at an angle across his broad, low forehead. He leaned close to the knight’s face to say slowly and clearly. “No, this is not a dungeon, this is a police station. You are under arrest. Do you understand?”

“Yes, m’lord,” replied the knight, but not in that way that indicates understanding. He touched a place just above his right ear.

“You gonna get sick again?” asked Tonk, his ominous tone indicating the answer wanted.

“No, m’lord,” said the knight obediently.

“Good.” Tonk explained to Ryder, “I almost had him in my car when he puked his guts out.” Tonk turned back to his prisoner, poked him with a massive forefinger and said, “Some of your stuff is in my trunk. I’m gonna go get it.” He glanced at Ryder and said, “Watch him for me?” and went out without waiting for a reply, yanking at the door so it slammed shut behind him.

“So,” said Ryder to the knight, “what’s this all about?”

The knight made a small bow in Ryder’s direction. “My lord, I was taking part in a tourney when I somehow became lost.” He again touched the place over his ear. “And I have a terrible headache. Do you have any aspirin?”

Ryder, ready to be amused, replied, “Sorry, I’m fresh out.” He thought, This man doesn’t live entirely in the Middle Ages if he knows about aspirin, Nevertheless, he approached with caution. Ryder was short for a cop, stocky, with a rumpled face under a dense crop of white hair.

“Perhaps a chirurgeon at the tourney – ” mused the knight. He asked, “Do you know where the Dragon’s Day Tournament is taking place?”

Ryder smiled despite himself, and said, “Tonk’s wrong, isn’t he? You haven’t been using angel dust; your problem is you’ve only got one oar in the water.”

Sir Geoffrey twisted his head in puzzlement. “I have no boat, nor any dust for that matter.”

“That’s just as well,” noted Ryder. “Follow me.” He walked to the desk nearest the door; the knight obediently followed, clanking as he moved. He was wearing leg and arm armor, a breastplate with jointed shoulder protection, and a brief skirt of densely woven mail. Ryder caught glimpses of a red quilted coat under the metal. “Sit down,” he said, indicating an old wooden chair beside Tonk’s desk.

“Thank you, m’lord.” The armor was so nicely made that the knight could not only sit in it, but no gaps showed at the armadillo joints of his knees when he did. It was plain and obviously heavy; the chair creaked but held.

“Do you know what today’s date is?”

The knight looked at him blankly, thought briefly, then said humbly, “I don’t know. What is today’s date?”

“April 9, nineteen eighty-eight.”

“Oh,” said the knight, but absently.

For once, Ryder wished Brichter were present. Brichter had once been a paramedic and knew everything about everything, which was only one of the reasons he was even less popular than Tonk. Right now Ryder would like an intelligent, if condescending, second opinion. But Brichter was up at the jail, questioning a dope pusher he had taken out of Chauncey’s last night – or so Ryder had been reliably informed.

The Organized Crime Unit Ryder headed was a semi-autonomous section of the Charter Police Department. Plagued by a serious infestation of organized crime and political corruption, each fed by the other, the citizens of Charter had at last roused themselves to demand action. The city government, impoverished by its problems and afraid of losing power in a real reform, authorized the Organized Crime Unit but failed to fund it sufficiently. It ended up in a converted stockroom in the basement of the Safety Building, and managed to garner enough condemned furniture that its three investigators and one supervisor could all sit down at the same time. But even with federal aid, OCU was understaffed, overworked and inadequately equipped to accomplish its mission. So it didn’t help when one of the investigators took a giddy delight in arresting people who didn’t even know there was such a thing as organized crime.

Around Sir Geoffrey’s neck was a chain of heavy gold links and about his waist was a white web belt whose long end was knotted once around the buckle so it hung straight down. Despite these decorative touches, Ryder was struck again by the functional look of the outfit. This wasn’t stage armor; this was a serious attempt at the real thing.

“You always dress like that?”

“No, m’lord,” replied Sir Geoffrey, pale and lightly perspiring. Again he touched the side of his head. “Only for tourneys, like Dragon’s Day today.” His voice was even and pleasant, though his expression was a little vacant. “I was doing all right until Sir Humphrey the Vigilant killed me.” He frowned, not at Ryder.

Ryder, also frowning, said, “He killed you?”

A wry smile appeared. “I’m not as tough as I look.”

“So, you think you’re dead.”

The smile almost became a laugh. “Nay, that was in chivalrous combat! I died twice at the last Pennsic War.”

“Pennsic War?” Ryder was wishing they hadn’t begun this conversation.

“You’ve never heard of it? You must be a mundane.” Sir Geoffrey’s grin broadened, and his bright brown eyes turned sharp as a hawk’s. “It’s a friendly little war. Loser keeps Pittsburgh.”

Ryder laughed uncertainly, and the squad room door slammed open again. Tonk was back.

The big detective came around the open door and kicked it shut. He was carrying a curved shield flat on one arm, balancing a very battered helm on it. In his other hand was a big wooden sword whose tubular blade was wrapped in silver duct tape. The tape was notched and split. I bet that’s how the armor got beat up, thought Ryder.

Tonk waved the sword. Ryder stepped back and the knight stood. “Boy, is this thing balanced!” crowed Tonk. He took a big sideways swipe – the ceiling was far too low for an overhead swing – which came close enough to Ryder’s face to make him flinch.

“Whoa!” said Ryder.

“Wouldn’t this be great for riots and – ” began Tonk, starting a second swing. But the knight was in front of him, the blade smacking hard into his palm. Ryder had not seen him move.

“I beg your pardon, m’lord,” said Sir Geoffrey courteously, “but you could hurt someone with that.”

“Put the damn thing down, Tonk!” ordered Ryder.

“Sure,” said Tonk, “But I wasn’t gonna hurt anyone with it.” He went to his desk, dropped the sword, shield and helm on it. “C’mere, you,” he said to Sir Geoffrey, indicating with a gesture that he was to sit down.

Ryder said, “I thought it was made clear that prisoners are to be questioned in the field and brought in only for booking; any subsequent questioning can be done upstairs at the jail.”

“Well, yeah, but like I told you – ”

“I don’t recall making any exceptions,” interrupted his boss. Tonk looked about to embark on one of his earnest, rambling explanations, and Ryder raised a forestalling hand. “All right, all right, try to get some kind of statement, if you can, or at least his real name and address; then take him out to County. Where you were headed in the first place. Where I told you to go, to talk to the administrator about the theft of drugs from their pharmacy.”

Tonk yanked open a drawer, pulled a yellow form from it and began inserting it in his typewriter. “You’re saying I should just skip booking.”

“Booking won’t mean a thing to this man until they’ve run a few gallons of thorazine through his system, and maybe not even then.”

Ryder went to finish filling his mug. Of his three men, he considered only one to be a solid, all-round talent. Cris McHugh was currently talking with County Attorney Jimmy Bartholomew about an upcoming trial. Unlike Tonk or Brichter, McHugh was also a personal friend; he and Ryder went back a long time together. Ryder glanced at Tonk, who was laughing at some improbable reply from his prisoner. He wished Brichter and Tonk would rub off on each other a little. Then Tonk might arrest someone who mattered for a change and Brichter might turn into a human being. He sighed and went into his little office.

The office showed signs of having been a walk-in safe, which explained its size – Ryder could nearly touch all four walls from a single spot in the center of it. He went behind his miniature desk and sat down to begin shuffling paper. He was currently filling out a federal report seven pages long, not counting attachments. All federal reports were bad, he considered, but this one was a bitch. It was three days overdue, and unless he cheated, it wouldn’t get into the mail until Monday. The Post Office closed on Saturdays at noon and it was eleven o’clock now. Ryder looked at the work beyond the report waiting to be done, and surrendered to the exigencies: He lied on the last three attachments. He made sure the lies agreed with the honest figures he’d already compiled, and gathered up the finished report. He’d make copies now, come back and get the envelope ready to mail, and hope the mail lady remembered this backwater location on her pickup list, because he wanted to at least sort and stack the maze of papers on his desk before going home.

He went through the squad room – Tonk was still amusing himself with his prisoner – climbed the stairs to two, and got in line at the photocopier. Ten minutes later he came through the door back into the basement corridor, and almost knocked over Sergeant Brichter.

“Sorry, Obie,” said Ryder.

“Any landing you can walk away from,” said Brichter and continued up the passageway.

“Wait a minute, where have you been?” asked Ryder. Because that door led in from the parking ramp, not from the upstairs jail.

“Looking for that new pimp I hear is in town,” said Brichter without stopping.

“Hold it, dammit,” said Ryder, and Brichter stopped without turning around. He was about five ten or eleven, narrow, with thinning no-color hair and a shabby brown suit. At the angle he was standing to Ryder, a slight stoop was apparent.

Ryder wanted to go on with a sharp question, but bit his tongue. Brichter was a troublesome man, and Ryder liked a peaceable squad room. His inclination was to find a way to pass this one along, as numerous other heads of departments had. But Brichter, unlike Tonk, was as bright as he was ill-tempered, and with the warnings not to pair him with anyone – Brichter was death on partners – came his reputation for building airtight cases. Ryder needed that kind of expertise, and so was holding off on acting on his inclinations until he was sure he had no other recourse. He unclenched his teeth and asked in a tone kept carefully neutral, “Did you finish your arrest report on Woodruff?”

“I didn’t arrest him.”

“McHugh saw you take him out of Chauncey’s last night.”

“And if, instead of testifying to a conclusion, he’d hoisted his leaden ass off the bar stool and followed me, he might have seen me take the man home.”

Ryder stiffened but let that go by, too. “I thought you walked in on Woodruff as he was tooting up in the john.”

“That’s right.”

Ryder was too surprised at this cool retort to respond at once, so Brichter began walking up the passageway again.

“Look,” said Ryder, hurrying to catch up, “I know I’m only your boss, so consider it mere nosiness when I ask you why you didn’t bust Woodruff. He’s connected, isn’t he?”

“Yes, he is, but he claims he can tell me a lot about the drug business in Charter in return for special handling, including not having to go to jail. He was so messed up last night I didn’t think questioning him would produce anything useful, so I took him home.”

“And you think he’ll stay there until you get ready to question him.”

Brichter turned on Ryder the coldest gray eyes in the department. “He wouldn’t let me take him to the hospital, and he knows our jail is no place to get away from drugs. I call to check on him every couple of hours and he’s always there, maybe because I heard first thing this morning that Houseman wants particularly to speak with him, which message, when I passed it along to him, about scared the pee out of him. I’m not sure what’s behind that, but so long as it makes him wish to stay at home, I’m content. He should be starting withdrawal in a few hours, and when he’s finished with that, we’ll talk some more.”

“What’s he been using?”

“Coke, mostly. A little heroin once in awhile, too.” They were nearly at the door.

“Well, all right,” grudged Ryder. “Look, Obie, I don’t see why I had to pry this information out of you. You’re forthcoming enough when it suits you, so I think you understand that I – ”

But Brichter had opened the door to the squad room and gone in. Ryder again bit his tongue and followed. He would not continue the lecture in front of witnesses.

Brichter, as usual, made a straight line for the coffee urn. If he had a fault – and he had several – it was drinking too much coffee. He lifted his orange mug from the metal tree. Illegetimi non Carborundum bristled around it in Gothic lettering. He nodded at the sentiment, filled the mug and turned, tasting. And over the top of it caught sight of the knight in armor beside Tonk’s desk.

The knight, in turn, looked back. Then, “Lord Stefan!” he said, starting to his feet.

“Sit down, you ass; that isn’t Lord Stefan!” said Tonk.

“Fat lot you know, Tonk,” remarked Brichter, putting his mug on the table and starting for them. “Geoff, what are you doing here?”

“You know this turkey?” asked Tonk.

The knight replied, “My lord, I was in a tourney and – and I got lost. I am – ” He touched the side of his head with his fingertips. “I have a terrible headache. Have you got any aspirin?” He repeated the gesture.

“In awhile, maybe,” said Brichter, still frowning, but for a different reason. He reached for Sir Geoffrey’s arm. “Come over to my desk, okay?”

“What the hell!” said Tonk. “He’s my prisoner; you leave him alone!”

“Shut up, snot-brain,” said Brichter.

“Lord Stefan, that was discourteous,” said the knight.

“Leave him alone, Obie,” said Ryder.

“That goes for you, too,” said Brichter over his shoulder, lifting Sir Geoffrey to his feet.

“God dammit – !” began Ryder.

“One minute,” interrupted Brichter, beginning to walk off, Sir Geoffrey in tow. “Just give me one minute. And pray I’m wrong, because if I’m not, I’ll kill Tonk and maybe you, too.”

In the startled silence that followed, Brichter led the knight across the room. Sir Geoffrey’s earlier athletic grace had somehow become a shamble. He half-sat, when pushed, on the edge of Brichter’s desk. Brichter put the heel of his hand on the man’s forehead, tilting it back toward the glowing ceiling. His voice became gentle, a tone Ryder had never heard from him before. “Did someone hit you on the head today, Geoff?” he asked, bending close. For a shocking instant it looked as if Brichter were going to kiss him, but he was only comparing one eye to the other. Ryder made a noise of sudden comprehension.

“I believe it was Sir Humphrey the Vigilant,” said the knight.

Brichter released the man’s head to pick up the receiver of his phone. He punched a fast seven numbers and said, “This is Sergeant Brichter, Charter Police. We need a rescue squad in the basement of the Safety Building, Room B-32, stat. We have an adult male, age twenty-five, with concussion and possible intra-cranial bleeding.” He repeated the location and hung up.

When he turned to look at the two his face was white with fury. “Who brought him in here?” he asked.

“I did,” said Tonk. “So what? Is he a friend of yours?”

“That’s not the point. How long has he been here?”

Tonk shrugged and looked away. “Not long.”

“About an hour,” said Ryder.

“An hour? You let a man with a head injury sit here for an hour?”

“What do you mean, head injury?” demanded Tonk. “You think maybe I hit him when I arrested him? I never – ”

“My lords,” said Sir Geoffrey to no one in particular, touching the side of his head, “I have a terrible headache. Does anyone have any aspirin?” He repeated the gesture.

“Have either of you given him any?”

“No,” said Ryder, half-ashamed, “I got busy and forgot.”

“And I must’ve told him a hundred times I never use the stuff,” said Tonk.

“Well, thank God! It can be a lethal error to give aspirin to people bleeding inside their skulls. Of course, stupidity is what we’ve come to expect of you, Tonk; but you, Captain, you’ve been around awhile! Don’t you know a head injury when you see one?”

Ryder’s color deepened. “You think I’ve been sitting out here laughing along with Tonk? I told him to get a statement if he could, then take your friend out to County for an evaluation.”

“And that’s what I was trying to do,” complained Tonk. “Only he’d say things like he was born in 1342 and today was Dragon’s Day. How does that add up to a head injury?”

“Look at him!” Brichter was shouting now. “How long a list do you need? He stinks of vomit, he’s cold and pale, he’s got a severe headache, he walks like a drunk, he can’t remember you already told him you’re out of aspirin, he’s got an automatic gesture and, that most classic of symptoms, the pupils of his eyes are two different sizes!”

“He walked fine when I brought him in!” said Tonk, raising his own voice. “And go ahead, look at him! The way he’s dressed, anyone would think he was crazy! You don’t get close enough to look at the pupils of a crazy man’s eyes!”

“Why is he dressed like that, Obie?” asked Ryder, more to stop the argument than because he wanted to know.

“He’s a member of the Society for Creative Anachronism.”

“Who the hell are they?” asked Tonk.

Brichter, diverted as usual by a chance to display knowledge, said, “It’s an organization like Civil War buffs, only further back. It has about twelve thousand members nationwide. The local group is holding a tourney in Riverside Park this weekend.” There came, faintly, the sound of a siren, and Brichter broke off to harken to it.

“Then he’s not crazy?” asked Ryder.

“No,” said Brichter. “He took a real blow in a real fight with a man called Sir Humphrey the Vigilant, who has a notoriously strong arm.”

“Has he got a real name?” asked Tonk.

“Geoffrey Collins.” Was the siren growing louder?

“That’s right!” said the knight, surprised to have forgotten. “I’m Geoff Collins.”

“He asked me to call Lady Anne of the Snows on my ‘farspeaker,’” said Tonk. “What’s that mean?”

“Lady Anne is the Society name of Susan Collins, his wife. I should think ‘farspeaker’ an obvious enough term even for you.”

“‘To love one only,” said Sir Geoffrey, his hand drifting to a dark blue cloth embroidered with snowflakes tied around his arm, “‘cleave to her, and worship her by years of noble deeds; for indeed I know of no more subtle master under heaven than is the maiden passion for a maid, to teach high thoughts and amiable words, and courtliness, the desire of fame and love of truth, and all that makes a man.’” He released the cloth to touch the side of his head with his fingertips. “I have a terrible headache. Does anyone have any aspirin?”

“Jesus!” whispered Brichter.

“I don’t understand why he couldn’t explain all this to us,” said Ryder.

“Because another symptom of concussion can be a form of amnesia. The victim will remember things about his surroundings at the time of the accident, but little else. So Geoff knows that he is Sir Geoffrey of Brixham, tournament fighter, but – ” He turned and asked, “Do you live near here, Geoff?”

The siren became very loud, then cut off. Sir Geoffrey looked around the room for clues, then asked humbly, “Could you tell me the name of this town?”

“Charter, Geoff. Charter, Illinois, a pleasant little city of 150,000 unindicted co-conspirators. Sometimes called the cocaine capital of the state, the false motto of its stinking police department is To Protect and to Serve.”

The phone on Brichter’s desk began to ring, and, listening for the hustle of paramedics, he picked it up. “Organized Crime Unit, Detective Sergeant Brichter.”

For a moment he thought no one was there, then a voice harshened by nerves said, “One of these days, Sergeant Brichter, you ought to take a look at that old man out at Tretower Ranch.”

“Yeah?” he said, listening half to whoever it was and half to the sound of running footsteps coming up the hall. “Who is this?”

“You want proof I know what I’m talking about?”

“That would be nice.” His tone was ironic and Ryder wondered who he was insulting now.

“You think Woodruff’s your new informant, don’t you? Well, you’re wrong!”

That got Brichter’s attention. “Hey!” he said. “Who did…” But whoever it was hung up.

The door opened and three firemen/paramedics came in with a wire stretcher. Brichter dropped the receiver into its cradle to involve himself in a discussion of symptoms, and when they took Sir Geoffrey away, he went with them.

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