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“About a hundred and sixty years ago, in London,” Duncan answered as he opened the case and took out the weapon, a shortened broadsword with a jeweled handle. “I think this will suit you,” he said, then unsheathed the blade and held it out for her inspection. “Try it before we leave.”
Cassandra did not reach for it. “How much do I owe you?”
“How much?” She had accepted too much from him already.
Duncan shrugged. “It didn’t cost me anything.”
Cassandra knew better. “Not even blood?” she asked sharply. “Pain?”
He winced, then lowered the sword.
“How much?” she demanded. “How much could you sell this for?”
“About five thousand dollars,” he admitted finally. “Look, Cassandra, why don’t you just use it for now, and then give it back to me when you get another sword? Think of it as a loan.”
“A loan.” A gift with strings. Cassandra shook her head.
“A loan,” Duncan repeated evenly. “And I won’t even charge interest,” he added, smiling, trying to make her smile, too. It did not work. “Use it to defeat the Horsemen,” Duncan said, “and I’ll consider myself well paid.” When she continued to hesitate, he said patiently, “You need a sword now. Tonight.”
He was right. Swords weren’t all that easy to find, and they needed to leave. “All right,” Cassandra finally agreed. “A loan, until the Horsemen are defeated.” She would give it back to him then. If she were still alive.
He nodded, then presented the sword to her formally, the blade lying flat against his palms, a faint smile on his face. “Your weapon.”
She had said the same to him once, many years ago, in just this way. She smiled in return and bowed slightly, then took the sword from Duncan’s hands. She stepped back and held it high to the light. Her reflection shimmered in the polished metal, a blurred miniature version of her face, tattooed by the patterning on the blade. Cassandra did a few lunges, a few practice moves. Duncan had a good eye. It was just the right size for her. She nodded to him, then sheathed the sword and closed the case. She picked up her bag again, ready to go. She hated swords.
She hated waiting. Kronos and Methos disappeared after the fight at the power-station, and she and Duncan had no idea where the Horsemen had gone. Dawson didn’t know, either. Cassandra was thoroughly irritated with this whole Watcher nonsense. What was the point of Watchers if they didn’t watch? She had a Watcher. Duncan had a Watcher. But did Kronos have a Watcher? Did Methos have a Watcher? Oh, no! The Watchers never knew what you needed them to know.
Methos was too devious to have a Watcher. In fact, he was a Watcher. That was hardly a surprise, for he had started the Watchers, even before he had started the Horsemen. She wondered if Methos had told Roland where she was over the centuries, if Methos had helped Roland track her down again and again. Probably. Methos had done it the first time.
Cassandra and Duncan sparred in the mornings in the dojo, and spent the rest of the entire weekend searching Seacouver, going to abandoned warehouses and madhouses and lighthouses, to forlorn amusement parks and deserted train stations and more unused power plants. They searched for some clue, some connection, something. Anything.
“Where could they have gone?” Duncan asked in frustration, pacing back and forth in the living room of Methos’s apartment. They had watched the building for a short time this afternoon, then Cassandra had used the Voice to ask the building manager for the key to the apartment, and to ask the neighbors for information. No one had seen Methos since at least last Thursday. Or had it been Friday?
The apartment was sparsely neat. Just some clothes and some books left behind, and a copy of TV Guide on the television. There was beer in the refrigerator, and a half-empty box of take-out pizza. He might have left for a long weekend, a holiday. A rampage. A rape.
“They could have gone anywhere,” Cassandra answered, staring out the window to the parking lot below. The Horsemen had the whole world to choose from. What could have induced them to leave Seacouver so quickly, to run from a fight? She turned and said softly, “But more importantly, why did they go?”
At Duncan’s puzzled look, she added, “For a long time, I thought all of the Horsemen were dead. But Kronos wasn’t dead, and Methos wasn’t dead.” She let Duncan state the conclusion; it would make him feel good.
Duncan was nodding grimly. “And the other two aren’t dead, either, and Methos was a Watcher. He knows where to find them. They’re reuniting the Horsemen.”
Cassandra shuddered at his words, imagining all four of those men together again.
“Come on,” Duncan said quickly. “We’re going to Joe’s.”
But Joe was not at the bar, or at his home. They had to wait even longer. Cassandra paced in the hotel room, unable to sit. “I’m going running,” she said abruptly. She ran through the streets to the park, wanting to feel the earth beneath her feet and see the trees overhead. The autumn day was overcast and chill, and a slight drizzle was falling. It reminded her of Scotland, except this part of the city was too flat. She wanted to run hills. She wanted to run and not think and not remember and not feel, and then run some more.

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