Way Too Many Sorcerers

Chapter Seven in Which a Third Option is Unexpectedly Found, 10

10

Jacques was standing in the center of the lab, at the desk.

"Enough," he said, calm and tired. "You're a fantasist. And you're a suicide. I can't let you, Peter, waste our time looking for something that isn't there. And I can't let you, Aslan, risk our lives hoping for a chance that doesn't exist. I'm opening the door."

"You don't have the—" Aslan slapped his pocket just the moment Jacques showed him the key card Noni had given them—as if he had pulled it out of thin air.

"You're inattentive, Aslan," Jacques said sadly, spinning the card in his fingers. "Like all suicides. You would've been stripped on your first day in Clichy."

Subsequent events showed Aslan was not only inattentive but also rather arrogant. Keeping his wounded leg in the air, using the beds' side rails as his crutches, in three huge strides he reached the door to block Jacques on his way. Jacques watched him curiously, no trying to stop him, which made the Muslim think the former supervisor was not that serious. Looking formidable, Aslan stood a little between the door and Jacques and made a step toward him with a peaceful smile, reaching out for the key, thinking the issue was settled. The financier was waiting just for that. He grabbed the evacuator's shoulder with one hand and lightly stroke his wrist with the other; gasping with surprise and pain, abruptly, Aslan went down on the knee of his good leg and then fell face down to the floor, his arm twisted up high behind his back, Jacques holding onto his finger. The triumph was short-lived. Aslan twisted and kicked him in the legs; when Jacques fell backward, the evacuator grabbed him by the belt and by the collar and threw him deep into the lab so hard that the financier slid on the parquetry, going under the desk, knocking over a stool, and running his head into a shelving, knocking down a variety of glass. Something hissed, and a stream of bluish-purple smoke went up to the ceiling.

Aslan shook his wrist, grimacing.

"You, bastard," Jacques said, a bit surprised. "Take this, you scumbag."

"Jacques!" Peter shouted, to no avail of course. The financier darted toward Aslan, the stool in his hands to bring it down on his opponent's head. The Muslim only had time to block it with his hands. The wood cracked—Peter hoped it was wood—Aslan, unable to keep his balance, dropped his hands, swaying backward, and Jacques used the moment to kick him directly in the solar plexus. Peter felt nauseous; it was a monstrous blow, native to the Parisian suburbs, where many lost their health and lives in fights to the shouts of "savat!"

"It's fighting that got me in," Jacques said, breathing heavily. "Not stealing."

Aslan was lying, curled up. Jacques watched him for a while. Then his face hardened completely, and he walked over to the door, and inserted the card.

The panel blinked, and the door moved.

And then—nothing.

The evacuator coughed, and stood up, holding onto his stomach. Then he drew out his saber and cut the ropes that tied Peter. He said with a crooked smile: "Remember the fight we gave under the chapel?"

Peter sat up and nodded, stretching his wrists, his throat tightened. It was less than a year ago... The dungeon, the dead, Jean Legris, the nasty old woman—all being so long ago, as if in another, someone else's, life. That life was much simpler and much more comprehensible, and he could never have it back. Peter clenched his eyelids and swallowed back the perfidious tears; he took his scabbard and began to belt himself.

Jacques was standing in front of the door, the key in the lock, the panel lit up with "Open."

The door was still locked.