God, I Pity the Violins by StarSpray

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Chapter 14

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The next morning Quynh was startled over breakfast by the ringing of her new cell phone, hurriedly pressed into her hands by Joe before his departure, and evidently without a single instruction on how to answer it. Maglor answered for her, and heard Andromache on the other end. "Just put it to your ear like this," he said, holding it up to her face. "And talk into it—Andromache will hear you."

"But what am I talking into?" Quynh asked, bewildered. "Oh! Andromache?"

Maglor couldn't help but chuckle as he started to clear away the dishes. Poor Quynh was tossed into the deep end of twenty-first century technology, and she did not even have the advantage of familiarity with its previous incarnations. Quynh lapsed into a very old dialect indeed, one that he did not know. He caught a few modern words sprinkled here and there, including the country Colombia, but the rest was incomprehensible. But finally she lowered the phone from her ear, looking at the screen in confusion before, presumably, Andromache ended the call and the screen reverted to its usual state. "I take back what I said," she said.

"Take back what?" Maglor asked.

"I'm not sure I like this new world," she said. "How can I talk to Andromache though this—thing?"

"I think," said Maglor, "that when we come back tonight I am going to pull up YouTube and let you watch someone more informed explain the history of aviation and of the telephone."

"How are you not informed?" Quynh wanted to know, as Maglor wrestled Norindo back onto his leash. "You have been alive through it all, have you not?"

"Oh, and are you personally and thoroughly acquainted with all major technological advancements from your time?" Maglor laughed. "I did not see the Wright brothers first take flight, nor was the first phone call made to me. I know how to use them but I don't particularly care about the details." In the back of his mind Maglor could almost hear his father making incredulous noises. He would be fascinated by all of the things Men had made and accomplished. If someone put a smart phone into Fëanor's hands he would have it in pieces in moments, determined to find out exactly how it all worked when it went together.

"Where are we going to look today?" Quynh asked.

"Where do you want to look?"

"I don't know where any of them are," she said, gesturing at the paper of addresses. One was crossed out. "Or how to get there."

"Nor do I. But that is what maps are for."

The first address was not far from a metro station. Quynh balked at taking the metro and grumbled the entire time, and after they emerged from the station. "It's the quickest and easiest way to get around," said Maglor.

"We have the car," Quynh said.

"I hate to drive in cities."

"We could walk."

"Quynh, nearly every major city in the world has a metro system, and thousands of people ride them without incident every day."

The bickering continued until they came to the address on the note. It was not empty, but home instead to a young couple, who seemed very happy together and neither of whom could possibly be Booker, since they were clearly young professionals and both women who liked bright colors, had a tiny but thriving garden in a cluster of pots on their kitchen windowsill, and evidently enjoyed daytime soap operas, judging by the dramatic and tinny voices drifting out of their open windows.

The third address (after another grumbling ride on the metro) was much the same as the first, which left one more place to look. "If he isn't there," said Maglor as they crossed a narrow street and turned down another lined with narrow houses tucked up and leaning against each other like old drunken friends, "If he isn't there, I suppose we'll just wander around until you find a place that seems familiar."

But Quynh shook her head. "This does look familiar," she said. "I have seen that place before." She pointed at a liquor store.

"Oh. Good."

The house was at the end of the street, as unassuming as the rest. The door was locked, but not particularly securely, and it was easy enough to jostle open. Maglor paused a moment, half-expecting an alarm to begin blaring, or perhaps Booker himself to emerge with some sort of weapon. He was like Quynh and the others—that meant he was a fighter. But nothing happened. The house was empty.

"I suppose he is out buying…liquor," Quynh said as she stood in the kitchen, regarding the state of it with a wrinkled nose. "Ugh."

Maglor picked up an empty bottle from the floor; there were half a dozen others strewn about the counters and the small table by the dirty window. "Probably at the shop down the street," he agreed, eying the trash can, which was overflowing with take-out containers. The sink had only one dish in it, but he did not think that was because Booker was in the habit of washing up regularly.

Quynh got herself a glass of water while they waited, and Maglor tidied up most of the liquor bottles, and emptied the kitchen trash. "Did they ever tell you what exactly Booker did to get himself exiled?" he asked after a while.

"Andromache did. The thing with Merrick—Booker helped Copley trap the others. He shot Andromache, because she hadn't told them that her immortality was gone, because she is an idiot." Maglor snorted. "That is one reason I want to see him—aside from making the dreams stop. I want to ask him why."

"Well, you'll get your chance now," said Maglor, hearing footsteps outside approaching the door. He bent to scoop up Norindo, who had been nosing around the trash can. There was a pause as Booker presumably noticed how the lock had been forced, and then in the blink of an eye he was in the kitchen doorway with his gun out. He pointed it at Quynh first; she took a calm sip of water as Maglor took a large step away from her. Booker then trained the gun on him, only to switch it back to Quynh almost immediately. His eyes darted between them, lingering once or twice on Norindo, as though he'd never seen a dog before.

"Hello, Booker," said Quynh. "It's good to finally meet you."

"It would be better if there were no guns," Maglor added.

Booker looked terrible; his eyes were sunken and bloodshot, his skin sallow and pale, as though he spent as little time outside as possible, which Maglor suspected was true. But aside from his physical state, the look in his eyes was like looking in a mirror and back in time. Maglor knew that look.

"What do you want?" Booker croaked finally, his words only slurring a little bit.

"I was tired of dreaming about your hangovers," said Quynh. Booker had the grace to blush at this. "Also, Andromache says hello." At this Booker averted his gaze. But he did holster his gun, allowing Maglor to breathe a little easier. "I also want to hear your version of the story," Quynh went on.

Booker opened his mouth, closed it, and then retreated to the hallway to get the bag he'd dropped. At first Maglor thought it might actually contain groceries, but it was only from the liquor store down the street. He sighed. "You two catch up," he said. "I'll be back soon."

"Where are you going?" Quynh asked.

"I'm hungry, and even the thought of watching someone drink on an empty stomach makes me feel ill." This earned him a glower from Booker, which he cheerfully ignored.

It was a relief to escape onto the street, where the tension dissipated in the breeze that had sprung up. It had also brought clouds, so Maglor quickened his stride as he went in search of groceries; he felt a prickling on the back of his neck as he turned a corner, but when he looked over his shoulder there was no one there. Norindo trotted along beside him cheerfully, having adjusted remarkably well to the leash, and apparently sensing no danger, so Maglor put it from his mind. As they returned to Booker's house with two bags of groceries the clouds thickened and darkened. Norindo kept stopping to sniff at things, and they made it inside Booker's doorway mere seconds before the skies opened with a downpour. "Norindo, don't you dare," Maglor warned as Norindo turned to look back out, halfway through the threshold. He slunk inside, tangling the leash around Maglor's legs, as he juggled with the door and the bags.

"Maglor, is that you?"

"Yes. Please come unhook Norindo before I fall and break something else."

Quynh came and unhooked the leash, laughing all the time, and Norindo dashed into the kitchen. This was followed by a surprised yelp and a loud crash. Maglor stepped into the room to find Booker having fallen out of a kitchen chair and submitting, bemusedly, to a thorough face-licking from Norindo. "Well, you can't be all that bad, if Norindo likes you," Maglor remarked.

"Who are you?" Booker asked.

"I told you, this is Maglor," said Quynh, coming in on Maglor's heels.

"But he's not—one of us."

"The main difference between us," Maglor said, "is that I was born into immortality, and that if you shoot me in the head I will, in fact, die." He smiled at Booker. "I am also much older than any of you."

"That's bullshit," said Booker. "You're not older than Andy."

"I think you're either not drunk enough or too drunk to completely grasp who and how old I am," said Maglor. "Anyway it isn't important. Norindo, leave the poor man alone." Maglor moved to the counter to start unpacking the things he'd brought for dinner—it would be a simple enough pasta meal, but probably better by far than whatever Booker had been living off of.

"I don't think I'm drunk enough for any of this," Booker muttered. When Maglor looked back at him, though, he was scratching Norindo behind the years, his tumbler sitting untouched above his head on the table.

Maglor looked at Quynh, who had come to lean against the counter and watch him cook, apparently. "Did you say what you wanted to say?" he asked softly.

She nodded. "He has been very unhappy with his lot for many years. He had a family, before. A wife and children." Maglor winced. "I don't think one hundred years of exile will make things better."

"No," Maglor agreed.

"But I don't know what would be better. He did do a terrible thing."

It was too bad, Maglor thought as he set a pot of water on the stove to boil, that there was no place left like Rivendell, where there was welcome and good food and cheer and healing for any who needed or wanted it. But perhaps…Maglor opened his mouth but closed it again, squinting out of the window set above the sink. It overlooked a small courtyard, and another street beyond, and though it was difficult to tell through the driving rain, it seemed to him that there was a figure out there, standing very still, and watching him. He had to turn away to unpack some tomatoes, and when he turned back the figure was gone. But the prickling feeling at the back of his neck remained.

Quynh had gone back to sit with Booker, soon drawing him into reminisces about his time with the others, about missions they had gone on both successful and decidedly not. It seemed to cheer him up a little, and the food worked even better. But Maglor ate distractedly, still thinking of the figure in the rain. It was not one of Newman's men, surely—even if they were up to the task, they could not have tracked him back to Paris. As he ate his mind kept going back to the attack on his seaside cottage—and of that last attempt with the poisoned dart. In no other instance had Turralba attempted anything like that.

"Excuse me," he said, "I need to make a phone call."

"What's wrong?" Quynh asked.

"Nothing. I just remembered something." Maglor escaped to the bathroom before Quynh could press him farther, and dialed Copley.

"What can I do for you, Max?" Copley asked. If he was surprised to hear from Maglor, his voice did not betray it.

"You recall when my cottage was attacked," Maglor began.

"Vividly," Copley said.

"And as we were leaving there was one more person there—they shot me with a dart or something."

"Yes, I also remember that."

"That wasn't someone from Turralba, was it?"

"No, it wasn't. Turralba has not, historically, used drugged darts. I've been trying to track down the actual party; I didn't want to worry you unnecessarily while you were dealing with Turralba, since they were the larger threat."

"I think there is someone following me here in Paris," said Maglor. "I would appreciate some necessary worry."

"I believe it was a government agent," Copley said, "but I'm not yet one hundred percent sure, and I can't say whether it was actually sanctioned or not—or whether they came after you based on their own intelligence or whether they were shadowing Turralba's people. Turralba, by the way, just filed for bankruptcy this morning, and is under federal investigation concerning stolen artifacts from Iraq and Syria. Actually, it looks like they've been under investigation for some time, it's just now that public filings are being made."

"That is excellent news," said Maglor, "but does not really help me in the moment."

"No, I'm sorry. I do think that shadowing is all they're going to do for now. And if it's a foreign government they won't want to make a scene, especially in the French capital."

That was somewhat comforting, but what happened when he left France? "If you learn anything more, please let me know," he said. "I don't like being hunted."

"Of course."

"How's the job in Colombia, by the way?"

"It's crossed over into Venezuela somehow. Cell reception is scarce, but I think it's going well."

"Good."

"Is everything all right?" Quynh asked when Maglor returned to the kitchen.

"Yes, of course." He glanced out of the window; the downpour had ceased, and only a hazy mist remained. "It's getting late," he said. "I'm going to head back to my flat. It was nice to meet you, Booker."

"It was, uh. My pleasure," said Booker, though he sounded unsure about it. He'd spent most of their visit looking a bit dazed, as though whatever he had expected of Quynh, she was not living up to it, and Maglor's presence wasn't helping. But he also did not seem unhappy, so Maglor thought that overall it had been a successful visit. Quynh remained behind, promising that she remembered how to use the metro, so Maglor departed into the mists with Norindo.

The streets were quiet, what with the rain, and as he walked down the street he strained his ears, listening for footsteps that started and stopped with his own. He heard nothing, but he could feel eyes on him. Whoever it was, was good at their job—but they had to follow him onto the metro. If the car Maglor chose hadn't been otherwise empty, he supposed they would have gotten away with it, but they—a man who, sadly, looked like a government spy, trench coat and all—made the mistake of joining him there, looking far too casual and too deliberately not looking in Maglor's direction. Maglor waited a few minutes as the train began to move, and then he got up and sat directly beside his follower. "I am curious," he said, as the man looked up from his phone, eyes going wide, "who do you work for?"

"I—beg your pardon?" the man stammered in badly accented French.

"You've been following me," Maglor said, and he put just a touch of Power into his voice when he continued, "Please, preserve both our dignities and don't try to deny it. Who are you and why are you so interested in me?"

The man opened his mouth, shut it, met Maglor's gaze, quickly averted his own, and huffed a sigh. "I've been trying to find out what your connection to Turralba is," he said, falling into his native English.

"You work for the CIA, then?"

"...I work for the federal government."

"And what is your name?"

There was a slight pause. "John Smith."

Maglor had to smile. "Fair enough. Since you're curious: I have no connection to Turralba, aside from possessing something Dennis Newman wanted to get his hands on. He failed, and it remains out of his reach—it doesn't matter what it is. It belongs to me, and your government has no claim upon it." He leaned forward. "And I shall have no qualms about doing to your agency what I did to Turralba, should anyone so much as think of abducting me or anyone of my acquaintance."

John Smith went very white. "What did you do to Turralba?" he asked, the question coming out more as a squeak than anything.

"I'm sure you've been appraised of what happened to its headquarters in New York. It would be such a shame if the same happened at, say, Langley."

"You can't—"

"Make terroristic threats? It's not a threat. I would very much like never to set foot in America again. But if I am pursued any further I will defend myself, and I'm afraid I've never been very good at small gestures."

John Smith stared at him. "Who—who are you?"

Maglor smiled at him, all teeth. "Maximilian Smith, naught but a humble musician." The train came to a stop, and he got to his feet. "Goodbye, Mr. Smith. I wish you a pleasant journey back to your own country." On the platform he paused, glancing back into the car, and seeing John Smith on his phone already, talking almost frantically. Satisfied that at least for that evening he would be left in peace, Maglor scooped up Norindo and made his way home.