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Simon shifted uncomfortably on the tatami mat. He couldn't believe he let Dogen talk him into visiting this bizarre, backwoods town. The whole place made him feel uncomfortable, and not just because he was breaking his parole to be there.
"Are you nervous, Mr. Keyes?" The woman who sat across from him was dressed to the nines in some ridiculous traditional garb, but had an easy demeanor about her that calmed him a bit, even though he knew better. Naturally, a con artist would be charismatic.
"A little," he admitted, playing the old, familiar role of the shy monkey. "I haven't seen him in a long time, among other things." Many, many other things.
"That's totally normal," she replied. "Most people get nervous to see their loved ones again. He's probably just as excited to see you."
Loved ones. Not the terminology he would have used, but the part about nervousness was spot on. And she was probably right; if he could still feel, then Horace surely would have felt the same apprehension.
"What's that you brought?" the Kurain Master asked, and it took Simon a moment to realize she was pointing to the small box under his arm.
"Oh, this — it's a portable chess set. It belonged to Knightley when he was alive. I figured he might like to play a quick game." More importantly, it would serve as an excellent proof that this was all just a scam. Even on the off chance the woman could play chess, he knew Horace's style well and had no doubt he'd be able to call her out as a fraud. "Is that okay?"
"Of course it is." She had a warm smile, one he could see all the way in her eyes. A smile like that seemed like it might be useful, if one could get the hang of it. He made an idle mental note to try and mimic it later. "Are you ready?"
No. "Yes."
Out of respect for the old assassin, Simon had tried to enter Kurain with an open mind. Of course, what he actually came with was his usual heaping dose of cynicism and just enough faith to prepare for the possibility that Horace would want to enact a bloody revenge upon him. But even if he had believed, nothing could have prepared him for seeing the face of his former friend appear before his eyes.
"The knight has become a re-entrant," said Horace, and that was that. There could be no mistake. It was him.
Knowing that it was all real did not make Simon feel better. On the contrary, it filled him with a whole new level of dread. For once he had no sharp barbs or smug comebacks. He clutched the chessboard, head dizzy and heart pounding.
"Come on, Simon, say something. Don't tell me you're going to miss the chance to gloat."
"I don't really feel like gloating." Back before Horace died, Simon used to imagine that he would gloat once he'd finally won out against their false friendship. He'd fantasized for years and years, but when the moment came for him to enact his plan, the fantasy fell apart. Back then, as now, it was all he could do to keep himself together.
"You've gotta want to say something if you went through all this trouble. So what is it? Spit it out already."
Horace had a point, but if there had in fact been something Simon needed to say, it had fled from his mind. He shrugged uncomfortably and asked the first thing that popped into his head: "What's it like? Being dead."
"Cold," said Horace. "And lonely."
"So it's not much different than being alive." Simon snorted. "I don't know whether to be relieved or disappointed."
"Come on, Simon. What did you really want to say?"
What did he want to say? Nothing. He was never supposed to see that face again. But there it was, and there he was, and what it all boiled down to was that he had nothing to lose. So for once in his life, he spoke the truth: "It was a mistake. I never should have done that to you."
"You think?" Horace replied dryly.
"Why did you hide your inheritance from me? If I'd known about our fathers…"
"Because you had money issues and daddy issues. I wasn't going to rub it in."
Simon scowled, but he couldn't really deny it. "You've always treated me like a child."
"Don't you act like that wasn't exactly what you wanted."
He couldn't deny that, either. His weak act had always been fully deliberate. "…I miss you, you know. That's pathetic, isn't it? To miss a guy you had killed."
Horace shrugged. "About as pathetic as missing the guy who had you killed."
With an unpleasant chuckle, Simon hung his head. "Coming here was a terrible idea. I don't know what I thought would come of it."
"That's because you're beating around the bush. Just say what you need to say."
"There was something I wanted to ask you," said Simon. "Something that's bothered me ever since you died. When Patricia took you in for interrogation… you knew what I'd done to you then, didn't you?"
"Do you think I'm stupid?"
Simon neglected to answer the question. "Weren't you angry?"
"Of course I was. I was so pissed off I could have killed you myself."
"Then why didn't you say anything? It wasn't you she wanted. If you'd just named my name, you probably could have saved yourself."
"I was so mad that I could have killed you," replied Horace, in a tone of voice that implied this ought to be obvious. "I wasn't about to let that bitch do it."
"Oh," said Simon, and a tremendous guilt overwhelmed him. He should never have left Horace to Patricia like that. A good friend really would have done the deed himself. "So... is there anything I can do for you? To help you move on or… whatever." He gestured vaguely. Having not believed in the afterlife until that very moment, he was not exactly an expert on the subject.
"I'm waiting on you," said Horace, and while a note of bitterness was unmistakable, for the most part he simply sounded resigned. "I'm not going anywhere until you're ready to come with me."
It was strange. Simon hadn't cried sincerely in years. He didn't even bother to fake it at Horace's funeral. But hearing that the man still brimmed with all that needless, undeserved loyalty broke something inside of him, and the tears began to well up.
"Damnit, Horace, just forget about me already. I was never your friend to begin with."
"Come on, Simon. We both know that's not true."
"Yes it is! I haven't even apologized. And I'm not going to! I'm not sorry!" It might have been more convincing had it not come out in a sob.
The medium had been sitting cross-legged on the floor when she summoned Horace, and he got up to his knee, reaching out as if to comfort Simon. But that very motion broke the spell; in a flash Simon had scrambled away and yanked out the gun that he'd placed in the chessboard's hidden compartment, training it on Horace's head. "Stop right there," he ordered, wiping away his tears with his spare hand. "Maybe I'm not as good a shot as you were, but I won't miss at this range."
"Is that mine? Sheesh. Nothing stings like your best friend running off with your lady," Horace joked. When it failed to lighten the mood, he too put on a grim face. "Seriously, Simon. That can't do anything to me now."
"Obviously not. But if you force me to kill that woman, you'll never be able to speak to me again."
"I wasn't going to do anything," Horace muttered, but sat back down. "Even if I was, do you really enjoy your life that much? Seems to me it must be pretty empty if you're coming back to play games with someone you hate so much."
"Got me there," Simon admitted. He sat down again, lowering the gun. It seemed a little heavier, but he felt no compulsion to touch the safety, no reason to move his finger anywhere near the trigger. "But all the same, I'm going to keep living it. I didn't fight to get this far for nothing."
"A performer doesn't give in until the final curtain call, huh?"
"Something like that."
Horace seemed to accept that answer. He smiled sadly. "Well, I'll be waiting for you. I've got nothing left but time now."
"Then you'll be waiting a long time." Instead of putting it back into the board, Simon slipped the gun into his jacket. The board he set down on the floor, opening it and letting the pieces spill out. "Now. How about that game?"