“Mute phone. Henry, we have to move. Now.” He touched the younger man on the upper arm and they set off down the walkway. “Stay out of the street if you can. Some of those puddles are over your shoes. Phone on. Who is this?”
“Donneval! Thank God. Where are you?”
“Who
is this?”
“Oh! Morton Sollivar. I met you at a conference at the University a few years ago. Danel Tarson said I should call you. He brought us out here after the shooting started and he left and he hasn’t come back!”
“Ah. Who else is in your party? And where are you?”
“We’re in a stable, or a barn. Some big building with animals. It’s dark.” The voice named a half-dozen people. Allison’s head twitched at the last one: “Professor Jorum Tenbaald.”
“Mute. Henry, do you know any of these people? Phone, call Tarson on separate link.”
“Tenbaald is a parachrono-physicist at New Thebes University. I took some classes there, not from him, but he’s well thought of in the discipline. Who are Danel Tarson and Morton Sollivar?”
“Tarson is an agent for American operations; he works for me. Quiet, competent. He’s not answering his phone. Sollivar? Never heard of him; don’t know why he thinks I know him. Cross the street here. Keep moving – not hurried, but purposeful. Head down – tip your hat to the lady. Here we go. Phone on. Sollivar, you need to hold on. Be quiet and wait for Tarson to come back.”
“He said to call you for help! Where are you!”
“On my way to the party. We’re a mile or two from Preston Hall, coming up the River Road.”
Allison threw him a puzzled look. They rounded a corner and crossed another street to the livery stable. “Mute. Disconnect. This smells bad, Henry. Very bad. Use your stunner on the upper floor while I open the doors. We need horses immediately and I’ve no time to rouse the stable master.”
“We’re going up to Preston Hall?”
“Freya’s furry tits, no. We’re getting out of Charleston before Frost figures out where we are and sets the Masons after us.”
Allison stopped waving his stunner over the upper floor and dropped his arm. “Not going! Phillip, they’re calling for help! Those are our Brothers in danger!”
“More likely a trap, Henry; I’ve never heard of any of those people except Tarson. It would be different if I could speak to Tarson. If he isn’t answering it’s because he can’t. And my nose itches.”
“That means you smell a trap?”
“No, it means I’m allergic to hay… get a move on, damn you! Horses, there! Saddles, there! Harness, there! I’ll leave some money by the box…”
“I don’t understand what’s going on, Phillip! Why can’t go help those people? Or take a room here and work out what’s happening!”
“I don’t know what’s going on either, but… listen. You’ve never heard of Kierianne Frost? Don’t stop working, just listen. She’s a Sword, as I am. Every organization has an executive committee. The Swords are the action arm of the Brotherhood. We watch for unethical behavior among the Brothers and Sisters. You know, using small changes for personal gain, or using outline technology. But we also watch over our Brothers and Sisters for more serious lapses. Kierianne is one of the agents who would be called in to solve a serious problem… ‘No man, no problem’ as Stalin said. Stalin? Never mind. I’ll explain later.
“A few years ago she went over the line on the Edwardian World War line. Part of her rehabilitation involved settling on this line and living as a low-level agent-in-place. Plus we hoped if we watched her she would lead us to her fellow plotters. That’s part of the reason I’m here. Now I don’t know why physics professors from New Thebes would be here – I don’t even know if they really are at Preston Hall. Maybe the whole thing is her idea of a joke. But I don’t think it’s funny and I’m not going to go riding off in the dark into what could be a very tricky situation. We can look up a friend of mine instead. He’ll know what’s going on, or he can call someone outline who does. Hey, we have time travel, remember? Odds are the help has already arrived.”
“But why can’t we just stay here in the city? And… can’t she locate your phone?”
“The Masons could find us, especially at that tavern. Secret society. We start some variation on every timeline. Invaluable for intelligence-gathering and low-level work. Cheaper in this case than starting a new religion… didn’t you take ‘Employment and Co-option of Contemporary Organizations’? I swear I don’t know what they’re teaching agents these days. Don’t worry about our phones. There’s only one satellite in each hemisphere and they can’t get a good fix on us through those. Now lead those horses out… we’ve got to get on the road!”
He swung up to the saddle and turned to motion Allison to the other. A zipping whiz past his face was followed by a crack of splintered wood and the sharp report of a rifle. With a shout he put his head down, dug his heels into the horse’s flanks and rocketed down the street, Allison right behind, splattering mud on the screaming pedestrians as they went past.
Portraits of Charlotte and Charles Ravenal
The room is large, high-ceilinged and sparsely furnished. The floor is hardwood, polished to a high gloss and suitable for dancing. A few settees and occasional tables line the cream-colored walls on two sides. A third wall is set with imported and expensive mirrors and the fourth is formed of French doors paneled in glass, no less expensive a luxury than the mirrors. The doors are shut against the night chill and low fires burn in fireplaces on opposite walls. Warm light spills from oil lamps on tables built around the mirrored columns that support the upper stories of the house. The floor of the room is littered with bodies.
A lady stands before the mirrored wall, apparently studying her reflection. Her hair is a rich auburn, her eyes an uncertain color in the low light. Her gown is shimmering blue-gray satin, heavily brocaded and cut a bit daringly for a married woman, even one as young as she appears to be. One would have to know the woman very well to see the anger beneath her placid face. She turns to face the opening door.
A man steps through. Behind him the hallway is dark. He is also dark of hair and eye, slim in figure and sporting a moustache that frames red, pouting lips. Coat, trousers, hat: all black. A dove-gray brocaded vest overlays a sharp splash of orange fabric. His true name is Temic Messoune, but he is currently known as Charles Ravenal.
“He isn’t coming,” he says, and closes the door with no wasted effort. He waits, perfectly still.
“That
fool Sollivar. We coached him through his lines and the fool tried to improvise anyway.”
Messoune glances down at a figure on the floor. “He paid for his mistake. Makhearne must have sensed something was amiss. Certainly he is not riding up the River Road tonight.”
She nods, reluctantly. “Donneval Makhearne is nobody’s fool. He will expect to be contacted by a response team of Swords. For now he will wait. When he realizes there will be no help coming from outline, he will react. Post guards and set the sensor wards for tonight, just for certainty. Tomorrow we will pack what we need and burn the house.” She lifts her chin in a gesture that includes the dead. “That will leave a cold trail for him to follow, and take care of this carrion besides.”
Messoune smiles, a small cruel flash of white teeth beneath a curve of lip. “Tenbaald was right, it seems. His device does jam parachronic travel. He would be gratified.” They both look down at the body of a thin blond man, sprawled on his back with a look of agonized surprise on his face.
“The Swords would already be here if they could,” she says.
“We’ll never be able to leave this timeline,” he cautions.
“One world is enough for me,” she responds, and smiles.