“As you say,” Arthur allowed, but did not reach for the cup again.
“Now then,” the Earl of Sutherland continued, “you have borne the burden of your gift alone until now. You have had to guard it jealously. I understand. Indeed, I respect you the more for it. There are not many men who, put in your place, could have resisted the impulses to power, wealth, and who knows what all else—but you have, and I commend you.” The dark man leaned forward, narrowing the distance between them. “But it seems to me that you could use a partner.”
Arthur stared at the man before him. “What sort of partnership do you have in mind?”
“I propose to supply a ship and crew to sail at your express command wherever you wish to go for as long as you have need of it. Further, I am ready to outfit an expeditionary force of any practicable size, and this also to be placed at your command. In short, any and all material assistance for the advancement of your work is to be extended to you—along with a generous stipend for your personal use, of course. All decisions concerning the disposition of support staff and use of resources would be yours and yours alone.” He seemed to be about to add something more, but paused and concluded simply, “What do you say?”
Fatigued by the sherry, the conversation, and his ordeal with the tattoo needles, Arthur felt himself to be very much at a disadvantage. “Well, sir,” he replied after a moment, “I hardly know what to say.”
“Then say me a simple ‘yes,’ and let us join forces at once and without delay.”
“You haven’t told me what you hope to receive in return for such largess.”
“Only this,” replied the earl with a modesty that had not been much in evidence before this moment, “that I may be allowed to follow in your footsteps; to walk, as it were, in your shadow; to nurture in my own small way your fabulous work.”
“I see,” said Arthur doubtfully.
“I am a very wealthy man,” Burleigh continued, parting company with his modesty. “I make no bones about it. Why should I? I am as rich as few men can ever hope to be in this lifetime. But riches of themselves bring no lasting fulfilment, a curious fact which I am certain you can appreciate. In the time I have left on this earth, I hope to use my material means to further the reach of my fellows—fellows such as Thomas and his colleagues at Mr. Bodley’s library—in the acquisition of knowledge for the improvement of our race. Nothing less.”
Arthur gazed at his host silently, considering how best to respond. “Well,” he began slowly, “I am flattered you would consider me of sufficient worth to aid you in your noble quest. However, I cannot help but think you have made rather more of me and my peculiar endeavours than is warranted. You praise me too highly. My work may one day find a practical application, but try as I might—and I have tried, mind—I cannot think what it might be. Moreover, I have no need of ships or expeditionary forces. My own wealth, though certainly less than your own, is sufficient to my needs. Add to that the fact that what I do is best done alone, and you will see that the partnership you suggest is of very little use to me.” He pushed his chair back slowly and stood. “In short, I am sorry, but I must decline your exceedingly generous offer of assistance.” Stepping away from the table, he bowed slightly. “Thank you for the excellent sherry. I will wish you a good night, and a pleasant sojourn in Macau.”
“I understand,” sighed Lord Burleigh heavily. “Yet, I must ask—is there no chance you might be persuaded to change your mind?”
“I think not,” replied Arthur, looking for the door. “Farewell, my lord earl.”
Burleigh rose then, as if to shake the hand of his departing companion, but instead he made a furtive gesture and clicked his fingers.
Out of the shadows appeared two heavy-shouldered, rough dockworkers. One carried a short, thick cudgel, and the other a long, thin knife.
“Take him!” commanded the earl, on his feet now and moving swiftly towards a shocked and alarmed Arthur Flinders-Petrie. “If he gives you any trouble, you know what to do.”
PART THREE
Black Mixen Tump
CHAPTER 14
In Which the Intrepid Travellers Are Nobbled
The road into Oxford was busy, and busier still as it dropped down Headington Hill, through the East Gate, and into the town. Draymen and their heavy horses clogged the narrow road, their great wagons heaped high with barrels, casks, and nets filled with coal, dung, and in one instance, cabbages. Around and amongst them, like small fish swimming in the protection of larger beasts, darted pushcarts and barrows and men toting wicker baskets from the ends of wooden yokes across their shoulders.
Approaching the centre of town, they passed the newly finished facade of Queens College, now recast in Cotswold limestone. The sun was low and soft, setting the honey-coloured stone alight with a warm, buttery glow. The clear autumnal air held the dry scent of falling leaves. Sir Henry directed his driver to the Golden Cross, a coaching inn off Cornmarket Street, and there he booked in for the night. Kit was relieved to learn that he would be allowed to explore the city, provided he remained in the company of either Sir Henry or his great-grandfather.
The room was large enough for two beds and a low couch, a table, two chairs, and a tallboy wardrobe; a single window opened onto the courtyard below, and there was a simple brick fireplace in one wall. Kit thought it a small space with the three of them sharing—but, as Cosimo informed him, they wouldn’t be spending much time in the room. “We’re away as soon as we’ve washed off the road dust. Follow me, Kit, old son—I hear the call of the nightjars!”
The main room of the inn was bustling with a brisk trade, but they found a table and ordered three jars of the best. When the ale came, the publican brought a bowl of roasted and salted cobnuts. Sir Henry raised a toast, and they all quaffed down the sweet ale. “As soon as we’ve finished here,” Cosimo announced, “we’re off to fetch the map.”
“And then?” wondered Kit.
“Then we shall determine the best course of action from the several that are open to us,” answered Cosimo. “If my hunch is correct, we’ll be heading off to one of the nearer leys—the Cotswolds are full of them, and there are several within striking distance.”
They drank in silence for a while, then Kit said, “Tell me, is it always the past we visit? I mean, do you ever travel to the future?”
“The absolute future?” His great-grandfather shook his head of wavy white hair. “No. Never. At least I’ve never heard that it was possible. Now, the relative future—well, that’s something else altogether.”
“Come again?” said Kit.
“See here,” Cosimo said, “the relative future is what Sir Henry would visit if he were to travel to London in, say, 1920.”
“The past for us, but the future for him. It’s relative to where you started from. I get it.”
“Precisely,” agreed his great-grandfather. “But no one—not Sir Henry, myself, you, or anyone else—can go beyond the present time of the Home World. That’s the absolute future, and no one can travel there.”
“Why not?”
Cosimo glanced at Sir Henry, who frowned. “We don’t know,” he confessed. “We’ve tried, but it does not seem at all possible. We don’t know why.” He paused, then added, “It is a question that has been troubling me for years.”
“We have theories,” prompted Sir Henry.
“Yes, and the simplest explanation is that the future hasn’t happened yet.”
“Which is why they call it the future, I suppose.”
“You must think in Home World terms,” continued Cosimo, ignoring Kit’s snide comment. “Our world, the Home World, the world you grew up in—that is the Origin World. It is the centre of all creation. For the Origin World, the future exists as a field of pure potential, where every possible outcome of any particular action occupies a separate divergent path. Until something—or someone—comes along to choose a particular path, the various pathways remain in a state of indeterminate potential and therefore do not inh
abit the realm of time.”
While Kit mulled over this explanation, Sir Henry added, “If those events which might imprint a ley on the landscape cannot have taken place, there can be no ley, hence no travel to the place indicated by that hypothetical ley.”
“I get it, I think,” said Kit. “You can’t travel somewhere if the road doesn’t yet exist.”
“Exactly,” agreed Cosimo. “And the simple human act of choosing a particular path forces the collapse of all possibilities—except the one chosen. One might say that human free will crystallizes raw, indeterminate potentiality into concrete reality.”
“Let me get this straight,” said Kit, struggling to take it all in. “Let’s say I wake up one morning with a choice—I can go to the football match, or do the weekly shopping. Both those things exist as potential events, right?”
“Yes, and many more besides—all the things you might do with your day exist as a cloud of pure potentiality.”
“But, I choose to go to the match—and that collapses all the other possibilities?”
“Yes. Because all the things you did not do cannot exist for you. Only the path that you chose exists as reality for you.”
“What happens to the other paths?” wondered Kit. “All the other possibilities, what happens to them? They simply vanish, or what?”
“I wasn’t going to go into this, but since you insist . . . try to keep up,” replied Cosimo. “There is another school of thought that argues for the continued existence of all possibilities for any given action or decision.”
“You mean—” began Kit.
Cosimo raised his hand and cut him off. “Using your example —suppose you have a choice whether to go to the match or go shopping. Well, in this other school of thought both things happened. You chose to go do the weekly shop—that was your conscious decision, and that becomes your reality. But, and this has yet to be confirmed by direct observation, there might exist a world where you went to the game instead. Both things happened, but in different worlds.”
“Wow!” breathed Kit, as the sheer magnitude of the implications went spinning beyond his feeble grasp.
“I don’t say that theory is valid, but it is an interesting thought.” Cosimo drained his cup, wiped his mouth on his cuff, and rose. “Ready, chaps? Tempus fugit!”
Leaving the Golden Cross, they walked out into the courtyard and entered Cornmarket Street. The sun was down, and though the sky still held a glimmer of light, the evening gloom cast deep shadows along the already dark streets. A few scrawny dogs stood watching them pass as they came to the crossroads where, unaccountably, Kit felt the hair on his arms prickle and rise.
“Yes,” Cosimo observed, raising an eyebrow, “we’ve passed the intersection of Oxford Leys. I got a tingle too.”
“Really? I never felt that before,” said Kit.
“Oh, you probably did,” his great-grandfather pointed out, “but I imagine you didn’t know what it was, so you ignored it.”
“This is a good sign, young Kit,” Sir Henry said with a tap of his walking stick, “inasmuch as it shows you’re growing more sensitive to your gift.”
They continued on to Christ Church a little farther down the road and presented themselves at the porter’s lodge just inside the half-closed gate. Two torches blazed in their sconces outside the booth. “Sir Henry Fayth and guests to see Bursar Cakebread, if you please,” said Cosimo by way of introduction.
The porter—a podgy man of middling age dressed in ample knee-length breeches and thick wool stockings, a long jerkin of faded red brocade, and a brimless black hat shaped like an upturned pot—took one look at the three before him, recognized the lord of Castlemain, and said, “Bless me! But of course, sir! I will take you to him straightaway.”
The man lifted one of the torches and proceeded around the corner and into the quad with its unfinished, roofless cloister to a small room at the end of the paved walk. He knocked on the door, and a voice within bade him enter. The porter stepped in, returning a few seconds later with the bursar, a short, pear-shaped man with a grey chin beard, but no moustache. His balding head was covered with a brimless round hat of soft red velvet that he whisked off as he bowed to his visitors. “Welcome, Sir Henry. It is, as always, an especial delight to see you once again. How can I be of service this fine evening?”
Sir Henry thanked the porter, took the torch, and dismissed him. Handing the torch to Cosimo, he replied, “Good evening to you, Simeon. It is good to be here again. We won’t trouble you but for the key to the crypt.”
“No trouble at all, sir. No trouble at all.” The bursar darted back inside and returned with a ring of keys. “This way, gentlemen, if you please.”
They were led to the college chapel and to a door set inside the entrance; Simeon Cakebread produced a large iron key from the ring, unlocked the door, and led them down a set of spiral stairs into the darkness below. A second door was unlocked and pushed open. As soon as Kit’s eyes adjusted, he saw that he was in a vaulted room with a narrow grate high up in one wall. The six-sided room smelled of dust and age, but was dry. Ranks of ironclad chests of assorted sizes—some no bigger than shoe boxes and others larger than tea chests—lined the perimeter wall, and in the centre of the room stood a low table with a large candle on a brass plate. “Shall I light the wick for you, my lord?”
“Thank you, Simeon, but that will not be necessary. We will fend for ourselves, if you have no objection. We intend only the briefest of visits.”
“Then I will leave you to your business, Sir Henry.” He opened the ring and removed one of the smaller keys, passed it to his lordship, then departed by the staircase.
“My friend, you do the honours,” said Sir Henry, handing the key to Cosimo. “It is your map, after all.”
Cosimo gave the torch to Kit and moved to one of the strongboxes; he bent down and fumbled with the lock for a moment. There was a chunky click and a rusty squeal as the heavy lid raised on stiff hinges. Cosimo stooped and reached down into the chest, felt around a bit, then lifted out a roll of coarse cloth. Returning to the table, he drew off the cloth covering to reveal a scroll of parchment tied with a black satin ribbon. He loosed the ribbon and carefully unrolled the scroll.
Kit moved closer and held the torch over the table.
Gazing down in the flickering light he saw an oddly shaped piece of parchment roughly five or six inches long and ten inches or so wide. The surface was covered with weird little symbols—dozens of them: small, curious shapes that owed nothing to either nature or language. At least, no language or nature Kit knew.
“Is this . . . ?” he started to ask.
“Yes,” said Cosimo. “I brought it here for safekeeping some years ago. It was Sir Henry’s idea. Cakebread is completely trustworthy and asks no questions. This crypt is virtually unknown outside of the few who use it, and is protected from the elements as well as casual observation. I keep it here because it would not do to have the map fall into the wrong hands.”
“Quite,” agreed Sir Henry as, with a fingertip, he lightly traced one of the symbols—a tiny spiral with dots along its outer rim and a jagged double line through its heart. “It has been a long time since I saw this.”
Cosimo fished in his pockets for a pencil and paper—brought from another place and time—and bent over the parchment. “Here, Kit, hold this down, will you? I need to copy this section.”
Kit put a hand on an unruly corner of the map and gazed at the meaningless scrawl and swirl and interlacing lines of the strange symbols. “They tell you where we’re going, is that it?”
“They do, and more,” answered Cosimo, busying himself with the pencil. “I shall teach you how to read them, of course, but right now . . .” He paused, gazing at the parchment before him. “Hello!”
He jerked upright, still staring at the map.
“What?” asked Kit.
Cosimo turned to him, eyes wide with shock.
“Seen a ghost?”
“Worse than t
hat,” muttered Cosimo. “Far worse.” Seizing the parchment in both hands, he brought it to his face. “More light,” he ordered.
Kit, grasping the torch, brought it as near as he dared.
“Just as I thought!” cried Cosimo, flinging the map at Sir Henry. “A fake!”
“Upon my word, sir,” gasped Sir Henry, looking at it closely. “Are you certain?”
“There is not the least shred of doubt. See here! The symbols are sloppy, poorly rendered imitations. Why, the thing is almost illegible. Obviously, whoever made this had not the slightest idea what he was copying.” He snapped the heavy parchment with an angry finger. “This is not the map. Someone has purloined the original and left an inferior copy in its place. In short, chaps, we’ve been nobbled!”
“Outrageous!” cried Sir Henry. “This trespass shall not be allowed to go unchallenged. Bursar Cakebread will know who has been down here and when. He will have a record of their names. We have only to—”
“Wait! Wait,” said Cosimo. He ran a hand through his hair and turned around in a full circle. “Forgive me, Sir Henry, but no—we will do nothing, say nothing.”
“Nothing? But surely this crime must be reported. We must—”
“We must not let on that we know anything is amiss, lest we risk warning the thief to be on his guard.” Cosimo flung the fake map onto the table. “Don’t you see? Whoever has done this must remain confident that his subterfuge remains undetected.”
“False confidence will make him careless,” declared Sir Henry, “and thereby hasten his downfall. Very wise, sir. I yield to your superior intellect.”
“What about the map?” asked Kit. “Can we still use it?”
“Sadly, no,” replied Cosimo. “I fear it is worthless. Who knows what errors it now contains? We’ll have to think of something else.” His brow creased with concentration, and then he brightened somewhat. “I have it!” he announced. “Black Mixen.”
The Skin Map Page 13
