Sokollu watched Stanislaus Grey lean against the inside of the door way that led from the entrance hall into his front sitting room while his peculiar servant, a figure dressed in rags and made of sticks with a painted gourd head, carried the casket and cask down a flight of stairs that receded into Grey’s laboratory.

"And to think," Grey forced himself to laugh, "during the day he frightens crows away from my herbs."

Grey looked like the wizard in Tripoli who had conjured the hell broth they poured into the wax figure in the casket; spent and wrung out and useless. He would need to rest before he would be capable of putting the magic contained in the wax into motion, and Sokollu’s leg needed medical attention.

Still, Sokollu decided he should become more acquainted with the mind of the man he had paid a king’s ransom to kill a president, "Who was that demon trapped in the form of a woman?"

Grey limped to a book case that held a jeroboam of brandy and four glasses. "She is a woman, or was a woman before Grimes slaughtered her."

Sokollu watched the wizard pour himself a drink. "And why does she seek to foil your plans."

The sorcerer drained the glass of brandy in two gulps and poured himself another and tried to convince him self that his hands weren’t shaking. "For the most part the governments of these United States refuse to believe that we exist."

"You mean sorcerers."

"Practitioners of the Arcane," Grey poured himself another glass of brandy and this time forced himself to sip at it, "but a few open minded people in the highest reaches of the government study us and fear us. The people they hire to follow us and wreck our plans are called the Thaumaturgical Society. The woman you saw tonight is one of these people."

Sokollu’s eyes narrowed to slits, "And how would these people know of our plans."

Grey raised an eyebrow as if that thought had never occurred to him; "Well I don’t suppose they would..." he began.

Then his eyes widened when he understood the Saracen’s meaning, "Oh bloody Hell. You don’t think that I’ve let the world know that the Pasha of Tripoli has designs on the life of the President of the United States do you?"

Sokollu felt another sharp pain sizzle down his leg and lowered himself into a chair, "Not the whole world, just this Thaumaturgical Society."

"You can rest assured I’ve acquainted no one with our correspondence."

"Then how did the woman know that we would meet in the cove south of town?"

"She didn’t," Grey poured Abdul Sokollu a drink and took it to him, "she had no idea who you were. She was at that cove because she was following me, and quite well I might add. Grimes and I were on the look out for her, but she followed us nonetheless."

"Then the woman does not know of my plan?" Abdul Sokollu found it all too coincidental to believe.

The wizard chuckled, "Our plan. If you will recall I have garnished the original since we began our correspondence. I added the flourish that includes Napoleon and Theopolis Pirelli, our Italian disgusted with French rule. "

Abdul Sokollu took the drink, and silently cursed the wizard in Tripoli who had provided him with letters of introduction to this man.

"Besides," Grey returned to the book case and poured himself another drink, "if she knew your plans she would have brought reinforcements."

"If she is any indication of their strength I can only say that they would not have needed many more."

"You over estimate them." Apparently this pale man was one of those warriors that derided his enemy’s strength when he was safe in his own camp. "She was quite formidable but the rest of them can’t be as good."

"I would have remained so that we could be certain of her passing."

"Now that you mention it I would have enjoyed watching her die, but I am tired. Besides, we still have work to do. I must attend to your leg, and the form in the casket must still be inscribed if it is to do its work."

"When shall the doppelganger meet its other half?"

"I shall issue an invitation in the morning. I would wager that he will be here before the following night."

Abdul Sokollu distrusted this man and his arrogance, "How can you be sure he will attend?"

"His is a politician. I am a rich man. In this country the former is never far removed from the latter. He will accept the invitation," Grey finished his drink, "Now let me take a look at your leg."

"You are a doctor?"

"No, but in three centuries of existence one learns a bit about everything."

***

Cezanne had retrieved her pistols and would have reloaded them save for the fact her swim in the Atlantic had rendered her powder quite useless.

Still, she had shoved each pistol into the waistband of her pants before she returned to her horse and turned him for King’s Town and the house of Stanislaus Grey.

A part of her wished she could return home and enjoy a hot bath and few hours rest before she challenged Grey again, but that was totally impracticable.

When Grimes did not return Grey would assume that she was still alive and a threat. A forewarned sorcerer was a dangerous thing.

No, if she were to succeed she would need to strike now while Grey thought her dead.

That decided, Cezanne reviewed what she had heard, and pondered what she could deduce from it.

The officer was a Saracen, and had traveled here from the Barbary States. Whatever his purpose it was not good.

The payment for the wizard’s services had been the gold. The lever that would turn their plan lay inside the casket, and would require more work before it would play its role, but what would that role be?

Cezanne let the machinations work against one another inside of her head a moment before she laughed, "All of this scheming," she whispered, "is this what it is like to be a white man?"

The answer nearly knocked her from her horse, but not for the reason she had supposed.

Because the question was rooted in a lie her Indian half told her to make her feel better.

In Europe the English kill the Irish and the Scots. The French kill the English and the Italians. The Germans kill the French and the Germans. The Russians kill the Germans and the French.

In the east the Mongols kill the Chinese and the Japanese, and the Japanese and the Chinese kill the Mongols.

In the land the Saracen came from the Ottomans kill the Mameluks and the Tartars kill the Ottomans.

On this continent, the Souix kill the Illini. While the Iriquios kill the Shawnee and the Kickapoo, and make prisoners of those they do not kill.

The world wasn’t unsafe because it was filled with white men. It was unsafe because it was filled with men.

None of us, if our histories are examined closely enough, have arrived where we are without spilling our neighbor’s blood. We are all equally reprehensible, and our best nature flies in the face of all our instincts.

Europeans were more troublesome at the moment because they happened to be stronger than the rest, but that wouldn’t last forever.

Sooner or later another race would supplant them and millions would die when it fought the wars necessary to dominate the globe.

Civilization, all civilization no matter how noble or necessary, was been built upon the broken bodies of conquered peoples.

That wasn’t something priests mentioned in their sermons but it was the truth. If one pretended other wise one lied to oneself, and Cezanne though competent at any number of things had never been much of a liar. Funny when she had discussed these things with her father he had told her that her theory was proof positive that man needed to find itself a better civilization. She didn’t agree, "Civilization needs to find better men."

She had not whispered that last, but had spoken it aloud with all the conviction of a Priest exorcising demons.

She stopped her horse and let the words ricochet about the orderly homes and muddy streets of King’s Town. Then she waited for a reply.

There was none. Perhaps the town slept. Perhaps it agreed with her. Either way, it left her undisturbed and watched her make her way to the house of Stanislaus Grey.

It was built of wood, and was two stories tall and painted white. It stood on a bluff over looking King’s Town’s harbor on the Saint Mary’s River.

The wagon that Grey had driven from the beach while Roosevelt Grimes pounded the stuffing out of her was parked in the front yard. The horses had not been unharnessed but the cask and the casket had been removed from the back of the wagon.

Cezanne climbed off of her horse and wrapped its reins about the trunk of a young peach tree.

Then she turned to the house. All of the windows were dark. It was as quiet as a tomb, but Grey was in there somewhere preparing a magic she must stop.

She hefted her club and strode onto Grey’s porch. Then she reached for his door and turned its knob.

***

After the Saracen had finished his drink Grey summoned his scare crow servant from the room where it had stored the casket and the gold.

It gripped at his Sokollu’s arms while Grey cut his trousers and studied the displaced bone in his injured leg.

"You’re in luck, the skin is unbroken and only one of the bones below the knee is shattered. It will be a simple thing to set, but it will not be painless.

"I do not feel lucky."

"No," Grey gave Sokollu a hard look, "Are you ready?"

The Saracen swallowed and gripped at the scare crows stick arms. Then he nodded and clenched his teeth.

The sorcerer hauled back on the injured leg and Sokollu felt the ragged edges of the shattered bone grate against one another. Then white hot agony rose up about him and threw him down into blackness.

There was another grinding popping noise and then more pain, more horrible than the last. After that there was silence and the agony drained away to be replaced by a misery that could be endured.

Sokollu took several deep breaths. He could feel the cold sweat on his brow and his chest. In the distance he could hear the voice of the sorcerer. He forced himself to open his eyes.

He was stared down at the sorcerer who was splinting his leg with two pieces of wood and strips of cloth that had been cut from his ruined trousers leg.

Another wave of pain broke over him when Grey finished the splint and Abdul Sokollu winced, "Allah, the cure is worse than the injury."

"You’re still awake?" Grey did not bother to hide his surprise, "You’re made of stern stuff."

"How long before I am able to travel."

"A few days."

"Nonsense, I can travel now."

"Still," Grey finished the splint, "Our time table is something of a shambles isn’t it? Unless, of course, you are willing to let the doppelganger and I complete the task with out you."

"No," Abdul Sokollu shook his head furiously, "That is not acceptable."

Grey pushed himself to his feet on shaky knees and strode back to the decanter of brandy and poured the Saracen a glass, "You had the look of a stubborn man the moment you stepped out of that bloody boat."

"Stubborn," Abdul Sokollu frowned, "what is stubborn?"

"Hard headed, like a mule."

Abdul Sokollu chuckled, "That I am sorcerer, and I will not allow this," he searched a moment for the correct word, "mishap to delay me."

"You have no choice," Grey poured himself another glass and crossed back to Abdul Sokollu and handed it to him, "If you move about to much the set might slip. If it does you will walk with a limp the rest of your life."

Sokollu took the brandy, "Then perhaps you could fashion some charm that would speed my recovery."

Grey looked as though Sokollu had asked him to topple the Pillars of Hercules with his bare hands, "I have cast too many spells this night as it is. I must rest and replenish myself before we continue."

"You will not finish the preparation of the doppelganger?"

"No, I think not. I need rest. You need rest. We will wait a day perhaps two before we carry on. You will of course be my guest here, and will be well cared for. After all, you have payed me an exorbitant sum of money and you have helped me pluck a trouble some thorn from my side."

"No, we must proceed with the plan and with all possible speed."

"I won’t hear of it," Grey shook his head, "You will rest here and Grimes, once he returns, will look after you."

"Impossible," Sokollu’s temper frayed. He said that last more harshly than he had intended.

"Are you refusing the hospitality of my house?" Grey’s eyes narrowed and his own temper kindled.

"Can’t you see," the sorcerers temper be damned Sokollu saw his meticulous plan unraveling before his eyes and he wasn’t about to allow that to happen, "Your Parliament..."

"Congress," Grey interrupted him.

"Congress," Sokollu nodded, "will convene in mid October. It will take this politician three weeks to travel to the seat of your government. He must leave immediately. If we do not have him in hand immediately we will miss him perhaps for all time."

"My God," Grey was a man unaccustomed to being wrong. It embarrassed him, "You’re right. I should have remembered that. You’ve planned all of this very carefully."

The Saracen thought of the energy he had spent collecting information about the most powerful men in this young nation. Then he added to that the hours he had spent studying their strengths and weaknesses, their likes and dislikes, their virtues and their vices.

The he added all of that to the time he had spent hatching and nurturing his plan, "I have."

"Still," Grey finished his brandy and staggered back to the book case and laid the empty glass next to the decanter and noted that he was pleasantly light headed, "You won’t be able to travel with the doppelganger when he leaves for Washington. You won’t be strong enough."

"I will worry about my strength, Stanislaus Grey. You make certain that the doppelganger is functional."

"Don’t doubt my skill;" there was the sorcerer’s prickly side once more, "The doppelganger will be quite serviceable."

"Then you will finish your work tonight and summon the congress man tomorrow?"

Grey’s eyes grew wide as if he were frightened, "I have cast a half dozen spells. I am wrung out. I cannot risk more work. In the morning after Grimes has returned I will send him to summon the congressman and will finish the doppelganger during the course of the day."

Abdul Sokollu again felt his hold on the plan he had lovingly constructed slipping away, but the practical side of his nature reined in his temper. Screaming at the sorcerer would accomplish nothing. Grey was just drunk enough to turn on him.

Grey was proud though...proud and drunk...He would use these things to his advantage, "My leg still troubles me Sorcerer. Perhaps we could have another glass?"

Grey nodded, "I don’t see as it would do any harm," he poured more brandy and handed a glass to Sokollu, "To the Death of Tina Cezanne."

Abdul Sokollu thought drinking to the death of a woman was a cowardly thing, but held his tongue, "You know Grey when the seeds of this plan first sprouted in my mind I had assumed that I would use a sorcerer from my own land."

"Did you?"

"And so I did, for the initial stages, but the preparation of the body spent the sorcerer I hired almost completely. I was forced to seek a sorcerer here in the United States. One of your colleagues on the continent referred me to you, and thus we corresponded."

Grey nodded, "And you have made me a rich man."

"Your payment is fair for the work that you will do," Sokollu wrinkled his brow, "When I was recommended to you I was informed that you were a sorcerer of great stamina."

"I am," Grey had finished his brandy and poured another.

"Forgive me, but I am not so sure," Abdul Sokollu shook his head, "You fought the woman well and powerfully, but since you have retreated to your lair and have spoken of nothing but delays. I know that you are giving me the best that you have..."

"You don’t think I can complete the damned job," Grey threw down another brandy viciously.

Sokollu hid his smile, "I did not say that."

"But it’s what you think. Isn’t it you Saracen bastard. You think I am too bloody weak to finish your job."

Sokollu shrugged and Grey fired his glass into the wall and shattered it. When he turned back to the Saracen his face was as hard as iron, "Follow me to my laboratory if you can walk. I’ll show you strength."

Sokollu pushed himself to his feet gingerly, threw one arm over the scare crow’s shoulder and followed Grey into his laboratory, "If you insist."

***

Cezanne pulled the door aside and strode into Grey’s front parlor. The room was barely lit by half spent candles and filled with fine furniture imported from England. It was also quite empty.

She smiled humorlessly. Chasing a wizard into his own lair was chancy thing. Few who had tried survived the effort, but if she had wished to live into her dotage she would never have taken this job in the first place.

Cezanne pushed all thought of her demise out of her head and concentrated on the here and now, and padded through the front parlor into a hallway where a yellow light spread beneath a door like butter.

Cezanne took a deep breath and felt her heart pound against the inside of her chest. She pulled the door open.

Behind it was a narrow staircase lit by candles and descending into a well lit room. Below her she could hear a rhythmic muttering rise and fall only to rise once more.

The source of the chant was hidden from her view but she recognized the voice of Stanislaus Grey. She had found him. Now she would hope he did not kill her.