Mistra made merry with fairgoers and revelry the night before the tournament. Red and white pennons fluttered over the steep, narrow streets. Faces peered down from garden walls, pointing and calling out at the processionals winding past with Sir Magnin’s effigy atop a cart festooned with flowers and richly embroidered cloths. A varlet in livery beat upon a huge drum, and people streamed into the church where the competing knights had left their helmets on display. Ladies laughingly pointed out the helmets of those who had offended them in the past year, and those knights were struck from competition until they had righted the wrong. Comfits and sweetmeats were offered for sale at every corner. Peddlers sold strings of amber beads to blushing maidens hanging upon the arms of their stalwart swains.
Sir Magnin had opened his purse in lavish offerings of food and entertainment to win the townspeople to his side. Great feasting tables groaning with generosity filled the town square, and upon a crudely built stage a company of mummers performed busily to the delight of the crowd.
From the looks of the wine-flushed, happy faces that Noel saw as he rode through the crowded streets, Sir Magnin’s plan was succeeding. Besides, thought Noel cynically, the man could always make back his expenditures later by raising taxes.
“Will you never lose your sour looks?” asked Frederick.
The boy rode beside him on a massive brown destrier that pranced and snorted with excitement. Beneath his cap with its jaunty feather, Frederick’s face was alight. His eyes darted, and his head swiveled back and forth constantly.
“Mistra is a wondrous place,” he said. “I have heard about it all my life, and now to see it… Noel! Look yon at that! Did you ever see so many people? Is that the palace over there? They say it took a thousand men to build it. Do you think that is true? How far is it to the ramparts at the top of the hill? Look! A pie seller. Let us buy our dinner. I am fair famished. Are you?”
“We should make our camp first and settle the horses,” said Noel, keeping a sharp watch around him. He had long since given up trying to answer Frederick’s constant barrage of questions. “Then we can explore the town.”
Frederick turned around in the saddle to look behind him. “I vow I saw a fortune-teller back there.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised.”
“Should I have my fortune told?” asked Frederick. “Father Thomas says it is wicked to seek to know God’s plan ahead of time, but I think we should be prepared for what may happen on the morrow. Since it is so important, I mean.”
Despite the fact that his nerves were stretched taut, Noel had to smile at the boy’s eager naivete. “Save your pennies, Frederick. Tomorrow will be here soon enough. It’s Sir Magnin who should be consulting his horoscope tonight, not us.”
“Even so-”
“No, Frederick,” said Noel sharply. “We’ve enough trouble on our plate without getting in the clutches of gypsies and charlatans.”
Frederick glared at him, looking sulky and mutinous. “You need not speak to me as though I am your dog, monsieur.”
Noel closed his eyes a moment and counted to three. Blowing out a breath, he forced himself to adopt a conciliatory tone. “Sorry. I don’t mean to yell at you, but if I’m recognized here it’s-”
“You need not worry,” said Frederick. “I am keeping sharp watch for Sir Geoffrey although there is no sign of his self-righteous face yet. Perhaps he’s too pious to leave his prie-dieu at night and come down to the fair among the common folk.”
In the face of the boy’s ready optimism it seemed pointless to remind Frederick that Sir Geoffrey was not the only enemy.
Leon walked these streets as well. Noel couldn’t tell if he actually sensed his duplicate’s nearness or if it was just his imagination working overtime. But he dreaded meeting his twin again with an intensity that increased with every forward step of his horse.
Torches set on tall poles or in sconces bolted to the walls of houses kept the labyrinth of streets lit with a ruddy, surrealistic glow. Figures streamed from shadow into the irregular pools of light, only to vanish again. Faces, concealed by hoods and mail coifs, were only shadowed blurs. The pageant of heraldry, men and women in festive garments, jewels glittering from collar chains and fingers, silver trappings on horse bridles, the constant jingle of spurs, the mingled stench of horses, gutter dung, and pomanders filled Noel’s senses. In other circumstances he would have drunk it all in like wine.
At the moment, however, he felt detached and far away as though he floated through their midst without substance. The old worry surged back, filling his throat, and he clamped his free hand over his bracelet to calm himself. He badly needed to consult his LOC for reassurance. With only twenty-four hours remaining until his time ran out, he still didn’t know whether he could set everything right. Even if he succeeded, he wasn’t certain the safety-chain feature would work. Only one traveler had ever experienced it.
Tolence O’Brien had been observing the Battle of Waterloo and making splendid recordings of the event when he was struck by a stray cannonball. Delirious in a field hospital, the screams of wounded men around him, filthy overworked doctors who had no awareness of germs or how infections were spread bleeding him regularly, Tolence had crawled from his filthy cot and searched the jumble of personal effects in the surgeon’s desk until he found his LOC. The safety chain had snapped him home as soon as he held his LOC in his hand.
He later described the experience as madness, as being jerked backward through a tunnel where everything else hurtled in the opposite direction. When he returned in one piece, intact, and finished his debriefing, Tolence O’Brien resigned.
“Wise man,” muttered Noel aloud. “But it couldn’t be worse than how I got here.”
“You said something?‘ asked Frederick.
Noel shook his head. He had to stop talking to himself, or the d’Angeliers were going to think he was nuts.
Although the tournament field had been set up across the river in the valley, the competitors pitched their tents within the secure walls of Mistra. To Noel, it felt more like a trap than a place of safety. He and Frederick followed another knight’s entourage along a short lane to a rocky space where tents stood precariously upon every available foothold.
Frederick nudged Noel in the ribs. “We shall sleep vertically tonight.”
Noel could not bring himself to smile at the joke. “Looks that way.”
He glanced ahead, where a guard in Sir Magnin’s livery was questioning the knight in line before them. The handful of d’Angelier knights behind Noel fidgeted and talked among themselves. They were along to spread word among the competitors that Lord Theodore was free. Tired mounts pawed restlessly, eager to be stabled for the night and fed.
The dread in Noel resurfaced. He glanced around, wondering if he dared slip off between the walls of the last house and the tent enclosure.
A squire walked by, water pails sloshing from each hand. He was puffing audibly. The guard did not even glance at him.
That’s it, thought Noel. Carry a bucket and you can go anywhere.
He shifted in his saddle, loosening his right foot in the stirrup so he could swing down. His muscles-unused after seven months’ layoff to spending long hours in the saddle-protested with enough soreness to make him wince.
“Ride on!” said the guard.
The entourage of destriers and baggage mules ahead moved on, and Noel’s chance to slip away went with them.
“Damn,” he breathed. His fingers tightened on the reins, and his horse tossed its head restively.
“Do not fear,” said Frederick as they approached the guard. “Father coached me in what to say.”
Noel felt no reassurance. He pulled his cloak hood forward to cast his face in shadow and halted his mount where the guard’s torchlight came no farther than his hands and forearms.
“I am Frederick d’Angelier. With me are knights under fealty oath to my father’s service, their horses, and servants. We come ahead of my father, Sir Olin, who will arrive tomorrow for the competition.”
The guard said something to a scrawny boy in a herald’s tabard. The herald consulted a list on parchment and made several rapid notations. Noel watched without blinking until his eyes felt on fire. He dared not breathe.
The guard laughed. “Your father is getting too old for jousting. Why don’t you take his place in the lists and give the crowd a better spectacle?”
“Ride on!” said the guard and slapped the flank of Noel’s mount to jolt it forward. “Go to the left and set your camp there.” He pointed vaguely at the darkness.
The d’Angelier train trotted into the tent enclosure, where all was purposeful bustle as knights and their squires made ready for tomorrow’s contest.
“Impudent lackey,” said Frederick, fuming. “As soon as I receive my spurs, I shall represent my family, but Father is not too old. He could outride that-”
“Easy,” said Noel, aware of the silence falling ahead of them like a carpet unrolling. Squires looked up from polishing weapons. Grooms paused in brushing horses. Knights in long surcoats who stood in companionable clusters glanced up, and those at the chessboard stopped their play. Noel’s instincts went on alert.
“I don’t like this,” he said softly.
Frederick’s eyes were wide, but he kept his head high. His hand went to the hilt of his sword. “If they want trouble, I vow they will have it.”
“Keep your head,” said Noel harshly. He glanced back at the other knights and saw they were looking somber and watchful.
“D’Angelier,” called a man in a blue surcoat embellished with brown chevrons, “you travel light this year. Is that your sorcerer with you?”
A sense of cold dismay crawled straight to Noel’s bones. He shot a grim look in Frederick’s direction and saw anger and worry mingled in the boy’s expression. Noel swallowed. During the council of war in Sir Olin’s chambers, they had argued over whether Frederick could handle this situation. Sir Olin and Noel had said yes, and Lord Theodore had said no. At the moment it looked like Theodore might be proven right.
“I keep no sorcerer for a pet, Mathieu Phrangopoulos,” said Frederick. His voice rang out too loudly perhaps and held a hint of a quaver, but it was stronger than Noel expected. “I trust in God, rather than my horoscope.”
Some of the onlookers chuckled, and the tension loosened noticeably. Noel realized Frederick referred to an inside joke at this knight’s expense. It was gutsy of the kid. Noel smiled to himself.
“No,” said Sir Mathieu, swaggering forward. He was a thin whippet of a man, bearded, with intense dark eyes. ‘Talk says that your father has fallen under a spell. He does not travel with you tonight, boy. Is Sir Olin indisposed?“
“He is well,” retorted Frederick. “He arrives tomorrow with the rest of his train, and you may tell your brother so.”
The knights laughed loudly at this, and one said, “The banty has fire. Hell’s teeth, he ought to join the lists.”
Frederick puffed up with visible pride. “And I will,” he boasted, “once I am knighted. I’ll-”
“Does Sir Olin’s coming mean he will swear fealty to my brother?” asked Sir Mathieu.
Noel tensed again, furious at the man’s insistence.
“My father is coming,” said Frederick, cocky and insolent now. “He could have stayed home.”
“But if he-”
“Politics are for Sir Magnin to discuss with my father,” interrupted Frederick. “I have horses to feed and a camp to set up. Excuse me, sir.”
He spurred his mount to a trot and Noel jounced along beside him. They held silence, not looking at each other, until they were out of earshot. Frederick wheeled into their campsite and jumped down. Only then did he crow merrily and slap Noel on the leg while Noel was still dismounting.
They looked at each other in the shadows and burst into laughter.
“I put him in his place, did I not?” said Frederick. “I would love to use him for a quintain. How he enjoys sneering at Father every chance he gets. Calls us country bumpkins and puts on his fine court airs. Oh, it felt good, Noel, to speak to him sharply and get away with it. Father will never stoop to reply to his barbs, but I say that-”
“He isn’t the relative that we’re trying to get on our side, is he?” asked Noel worriedly.
“Oh, no, not him. Sir Magnin has four sisters, and Peter Phrantzes married the eldest,” said Frederick. “Did you see Sir Mathieu’s face when I-”
“Yes, yes, Frederick,” said Noel with a smile. “You did great. I’ll leave you to this, all right? It’s time I looked around.”
“But you said we would explore the town together,” said Frederick, his maturity falling from him in an instant. “I want to go to the fair.”
Noel curbed his impatience with difficulty. “You’ll see the fair. I won’t be long.”
He turned away, but Frederick caught his arm. “I do not think you should go off by yourself. Sir Mathieu can cause you mischief if your paths cross. Father said we should all stick together for safety.”
Gently Noel took Frederick’s hand from his sleeve. “Your father is wise. But I won’t stray far. I’ll be fine. And if I don’t get back quick enough to suit you, start the fair without me.”
“But, Noel-”
“I’ll be all right.”
With a smile, Noel moved into the darkness and made his way hastily behind a row of tents, avoiding the torchlight as much as possible. He found a shallow gully and dropped into it, threading his way through brush and stumping his toes on rocks unseen in the starlight. He winced, hating cloth shoes, and limped on until he felt far enough away from people.
Crouching in the bottom of the gully, he listened a moment to the crickets and the sound of his own breathing. Above him on the hill, the dark shape of the palace walls loomed against the night sky. Below him, torchlight twinkled and the lively sound of lutes twanging out dance music floated on the air.
“LOC, activate,” he said.
His copper bracelet shimmered, and the real shape of the LOC appeared, its clear sides pulsing with the light circuitry operating inside.
“Acknowledged,” it replied.
“LOC,” he said, “scan internal diagnostics. Is return possible?”
“Specify.”
“Voluntary return, dammit!” he said. “Come on. You know what I’m talking about. Chicago. Time Institute. Monday, May 14, 2503 A.D. You still have that destination code, don’t you?”
“Negative.”
His head felt cold and light as though someone had lopped it off and sent it spinning through the air. For a moment he simply sat there, then he blinked and was able to think again.
“Impossible!” he said sharply. “I’ve asked you that question before, and you have ‘return time and destination codes. Scan safety-chain program and verify.”
The LOC hummed while Noel wiped the perspiration from his face and put his hand on the back of his neck, tilting back his head to ease tension.
“Verified,” said the LOC. “Time and destination codes for return in place.”
“That’s better,” said Noel. “How about self-repairs?”
“Some repair possible.”
The last time he’d asked this question, the LOC had said no repair was possible. Now, hope hit him like a skyrocket.
“Sufficient?” he asked eagerly.
“Unknown.”
“Continue scan of safety-chain program. How much time remaining?”
“Running… program ends in twenty-two hours, fifty-two minutes-”
“Stop,” said Noel, sweating. This was down to the wire. “Is there anyone on the other end? I wonder. Have the anarchists blown up the old TI?”
“I am not able to scan this material,” said the LOC.
“I know. You can’t get me back. You can’t tell me how to fix you so we can get back. You can’t even open a direct communications line to them because for all we know they don’t even exist as history stands right now. So what good are you?”
“Rhetorical question,” said the LOC.
“Yeah,” said Noel bitterly. “What about it?”
“Rhetorical-”
“Stop!” He shoved his fingers through his hair several times until he regained control of his emotions. Stressing out wouldn’t help. Besides, he needed to think how to ask his next series of questions without running the LOC straight into a malfunction warning. “Okay. Run hypothesis.”
“Ready.”
“If I succeed in restoring Theodore to power at any point within my time margin, will recall function? Can I afford to wait until the last minute with this?”
The LOC hummed to itself a long time. “Affirmative.”
Noel grinned. “Continue hypothesis. Question. If I return, what will happen to Leon?”
The LOC did not reply.
“Will he die?” asked Noel sharply. “Will he cease to exist?”
“Unknown.”
“Can he be brought through with me?”
“Possibility figures are seventy-eight percent.”
Noel stared awhile into the night. He didn’t like Leon, but he didn’t want to be the cause of his duplicate’s death either. However, judging from the LOC’s scanty answers, Leon might just be forced to tag along in the return to the twenty-sixth century. Then the Time Institute could decide what was to be done with him.
All Noel had to do was make it through one more day, take care of his duplicate, and make certain Theodore won the joust. Right then he had no doubt of success. The pieces of his plan were all falling into place.
“Deactivate,” he said and stood up to return to camp.
A figure detached itself from the shadows and leapt into the gully ahead of him, blocking his path.
Startled, Noel stumbled back and reached for his sword.
“I have an arrow trained on you,” said familiar, husky tones. “Do not draw your weapon.”
Noel swallowed and left his sword in its scabbard. “Elena,” he said quickly. ‘This is-“
“Say nothing! There is a reward on your head. I want it.”
Noel frowned. Sir Geoffrey must have been imagining things. Elena was no zombie. In fact, she sounded hornet mad.
“Elena,” he said, “you don’t really want to turn me in-”
He heard the dull twang of the bowstring a split second before the arrow hit him high in the left shoulder. It was either a remarkable display of skill in the darkness or a damned lucky shot. Either way, the impetus of the arrow fired at such close range drove him backward. He slammed into the side of the gully. The pain came then, hot and intense and deep. He gripped the shaft with his right hand and pulled himself upright although he had to lean against the bank for support.
His strength drained rapidly. If he was bleeding he couldn’t tell. The very thought of tugging out the arrow made him sweat.
Elena ran to his side and turned him to face her. His knees buckled, and he slid down against the bank.
“Why?” His voice was a weak thread. He battled back the pain and shock, aware that he needed his wits about him.
She said nothing. There was brisk purpose in her hands as she felt along his chest and shoulders. She bumped the arrow with her wrist, and he felt as though all the cartilage in his shoulder was being twisted like spaghetti on a spoon.
“For God’s sake!” he said, gasping. He caught her hand. “Don’t pull it out yet.”
She drew her hand from his and felt down his arm. Her hair, rough and smelling of grass and woodsmoke, swung against his face. She knelt before him, and her fingers found his left wrist.
He was going numb in his arm. Maybe that meant nerves were torn. Maybe that meant shock or blood loss. He didn’t know or care. Right now, the absence of feeling was a relief.
She tugged at his arm. Thinking she wanted him to stand up, he pushed her weakly away.
“Let me rest,” he said.
She tugged again, harder. Dimly he realized the bracelet was slipping on his wrist. She was trying to take his LOC.
“Hey!” he said sharply. He shoved her back. “Leave that alone.”
She reached for it again, as silent and as determined as an android programmed to perform a task.
Leon, he thought.
The puzzle pieces fit together with a snap. Somehow Leon had planted the suggestion in her to steal the LOC. If he got the computer in his possession, there would be no going home for Noel.
“No!” he shouted.
Her fingers slid beneath the copper band. The light shock administered did not deter her. Noel drew back his right fist and socked her in the jaw. She toppled over and he nearly fell with her. He pushed himself up, out of breath and shivery. The fletched end of the arrow raked the ground, and the corresponding agony made him groan. He had to get the thing out, but not now. She might wake up at any moment, and in this condition he was no match for her.
With effort, he made it to his feet and stumbled downhill toward camp. The stars overhead that had sparkled so beautifully upon the velvet sky now spun and swooped at him, making him dizzy. He staggered into a bush, and its sturdy branches swayed beneath his weight but kept him from falling.
He had to get to camp… had to hide… price on him… bounty collectors… Leon searching…
Somehow he kept going. Sweat poured into his eyes. He paused, swaying, to wipe it away.
The tent loomed ahead of him, the d’Angelier pennon hanging limply from its top. He remembered then that Frederick had gone, but someone would be there to guard the horses and possessions. A measure of hope sent him staggering forward. His hand stretched out to touch the white expanse of canvas.
Someone tackled him from behind, pitching him forward on his face. He barely had time to register that his attacker was Elena before the ground drove the arrow clean through his shoulder and snapped the shaft.
If he screamed he did not know it. Blinding agony convulsed him, and he was helpless against it.
It took an eternity for the terrible pain to recede. He found himself lying exhausted and limp. He was alone.
Elena had gone, and the sounds of a piping flute in the distance floated shrilly above the laughter and noise of the crowd. He heard the wheedling calls of peddlers. He heard a woman’s voice raised angrily after a cutpurse, calling on people to stop the thief. He heard a groom crooning softly to a horse, which rumbled and snorted in response. Help was close, so close, yet he could not find the strength to call out.
Possessed, Sir Geoffrey had said. Noel hadn’t believed it. He should have taken it as a warning. He shouldn’t have let his attraction to her distract him.
Easy to say now what he should or shouldn’t have done. Easy to say next time he would be more careful.
He blinked, conscious of the ground pressing into his cheek, and thought he’d better move a bit. Squirming about finally enabled him to roll over onto his right side. He rested, clutching his left elbow for support. There was blood now, the smell of it thick in his nostrils. He could feel it, wet and unpleasant, sticking his tunic to his skin.
Elena must have gone to alert the guards. After all, she had a reward to collect. But it seemed odd that she should have attacked him like a cougar stalking its prey, then left him here unfinished like this.
A sudden sense of foreboding filled him. Noel swept his hand down his left forearm. The bracelet was gone. Disguised as a cheap band of copper, it was a trinket of little worth to the local merchants. The idea of Elena selling it to a pawnbroker made him ill. He struggled to sit up, carried more on fear than strength. The LOC was all the lifeline he had left. He had to get it back.
“Slow down,” he whispered aloud, sweat pouring off his face. The pain in his shoulder was brutal. His senses swam from the effort he was expending. “Think. You’ve got to think.”
She wasn’t going to sell the bracelet; she was taking it to Leon.
Come tomorrow night, Leon would wink back to the twenty-sixth century. He could take Noel’s place, and no one would ever know. He could travel again in time if he chose. He could wreak havoc elsewhere in history if he failed to do so here. He would be gone, and Noel would be trapped here forever.
‘ No,“ said Noel, scooting himself along.
He reached one of the tall tent stakes and gripped it, groaning loudly with the effort of pulling himself to his feet. The ground swirled around him. His head felt as though it floated miles above his body. None of that mattered, however. He had to find Leon, and he had to do it now before Leon accessed the data banks and learned how to really cause harm. The isomorphic design of the controls mightn’t stop him; after all, he was a duplicate.
Straightening his body took all the strength reserves Noel still possessed. He stared up the hill at the castle, its black crenellations outlined against the starry sky. An owl hooted nearby in the darkness, making a low mournful sound like an omen beneath the sounds of merriment and dancing from the town.
Noel told himself he could do it. He had to do it. But first he had to get his shoulder bound. “Cleope,” he said, thinking of Lady Sophia’s handmaid who had known about herbs and healing potions. “I’ll find Cleope.”
“Noel!” called Frederick from beyond the tents. “Where are you? Do come! I have found the most wondrous-there you are! Come and see the amusements offered. There is a knife juggler you must see, and a man who swallows flaming swords, and a… Noel? Is something wrong?”
He came closer, his footsteps hesitant, then quickening across the trampled grass. “Noel? Are you unwell?”
Noel realized that he’d started leaning over although he still clutched the waist-high tent stake for support. As long as he held on to it, he knew he could not fall. But having started leaning, he could not seem to stop. His chest hit the top of the stake like a pile driver, driving the breath from him. Then he slipped sideways and sank to the ground.
“Noel!” Frederick caught him and pulled him up against his knees. The boy’s strong hands gripped him hard. “What’s amiss with you? What’s happened?”
“Tobin! Armand! Fetch a torch, someone. Quickly!” Others rushed to join them. The torchlight spread across Noel, blinding him as he squinted up into Frederick’s face. He clutched the boy’s arm and saw the bloody smears he was making on Frederick’s sleeve.
“ Deus juva me,” whispered Frederick. He swallowed visibly, sorrow plain in his face. “You’ve been shot. Who-”
“Find it,” whispered Noel. The torchlight was growing dimmer. He struggled to see. “Promise me you’ll find it.”
“Find what?” asked Frederick in bewilderment. “ Noel?”
But the torchlight went completely out for Noel, and he could not answer.