Time's Children

by D. B. Jackson

  Mearlan dipped his chin a second time. “You should be on your way. I did some calculations after our last conversation. You need to go back fourteen years, three turns. At that time I was still contemplating how to respond to Caltha’s overtures and the intransigence of the autarch. I hadn’t yet committed us to any action.”

  Fourteen years, three turns. The very thought made Tobias light-headed.

  “I can be more precise if that would help,” Mearlan said, misinterpreting his silence.

  “That’s not necessary, my liege. With so much time… The chronofor is only so exact, and that accuracy decreases as the interval grows. Walking back a day, I can’t choose the exact spirecount. If I walk back several days, I can’t arrive at a precise bell. Walking back years…” He shrugged.

  “I understand.” He stood, forcing Tobias to do the same. “Shall I leave you, let you do this in private?”

  Tobias blinked back tears, his throat tight. “That might be best, yes.”

  “Very well.” He stepped out from behind the desk, and proffered a hand. When Tobias gripped it, the sovereign placed his other hand on top. “May the Two guide you, and protect you, and bring you back to us. Go with His glory and Her grace.”

  “Thank you, my liege. May the Two watch over this house in all times.”

  The sovereign nodded once, maintaining his grip on Tobias’s hand. Then he released him and strode from the chamber.

  Once he was alone, Tobias removed his clothing, taking care to fold each item and place it on the chair. For several fivecounts after he had finished, he stared at the pile, naked in the chamber, shivering slightly, though the air wasn’t cold. The clothes probably wouldn’t fit him after. Had the sovereign thought of that? Would he have Lars make new ones for him? No, he’d have to wait until Tobias Walked back. How would any of them know how tall or short, narrow or broad he would be?

  Go. These thoughts gain you nothing.

  He retrieved the chronofor from the pocket of his breeches, hands unsteady. After pulling out the turns stem to set the device, he had to pause. Fourteen years, times twelve turns, plus three. One hundred and seventy-one turns. Somehow that sounded longer, more final. If ever there were a sign that Walkers weren’t meant to go back so far, this was it. One hundred and seventy-one turns. He began to twist the stem, slowly, methodically, counting with care. Better, he thought, to err on the high side, rather than find himself forced to Walk back still farther. Best to get the count right this time.

  By the time he finished, his fingers had started to cramp. This struck him as funny, though he couldn’t say why. Maybe it was the ridiculousness of scale. I’m about to lose fourteen years of my life, and I’m whinging about sore fingers.

  He had delayed long enough. With one last glance around the sovereign’s chamber, one last deep breath, he thumbed the central stem, and depressed it.

  It caught with a faint click. The hook took him.

  Chapter 13

  18th Day of Kheraya’s Ascent, Year 647

  He had lost two good men. Someone in his position, in his profession, couldn’t afford to grow attached to those with whom he worked, but the truth was, he had also lost two friends. Hovas especially had been a valued companion: competent and quick-witted, quiet, but willing to offer suggestions and insights.

  It had never occurred to him that they would fail, much less that they would be killed. Yes, the assignment was dangerous, but they were talented, smart.

  Blood and bone.

  The men who would take their places were skilled as well, like all his men. But he hated to lose any of them.

  That, though, was the least of his concerns.

  The Span to Qaifin Palace seemed to take longer, the wind of the gap to sting more, the assault on his senses to sap more of his strength and will. When they reached the seat of the autarchy, and were confronted by yet another of Pemin’s commanders and a unit of well-armed guards, Orzili and his men surrendered their weapons and tri-sextants without argument.

  The guards accompanied them to the autarch’s chambers. Was it Orzili’s imagination, or did the Oaqamarans walk in a tighter formation than usual? Were the gazes of the autarch’s soldiers always so dour, or were these guards particularly grim?

  Orzili entered Pemin’s chamber alone. He turned slightly at the click of the door closing behind him. A sound like the cock of a flintlock.

  Pemin stood at the window, framed by sunlight, tension in his shoulders, his back, his neck. He held his hands behind him, one fisted, the other massaging his wrist.

  The autarch would know from Orzili’s arrival that the boy still lived. Orzili would have conveyed word of success with more subtlety, and without the urgency of another Span across so many leagues. Pemin’s rage would be fresh, unbridled. Orzili would be fortunate to walk away from this encounter.

  “Your excellency,” he said.

  He bowed, though Pemin didn’t bother to look his way.

  The ensuing silence lasted a tencount, more. Then, “Mearlan’s Walker is still alive. You failed.”

  The words filled the space between them, as flat and hard as roof tile. Nothing about the men lost. No acknowledgment of the risks Hovas and Bregg had taken. Orzili expected this, but he bristled nevertheless. Only a supreme assertion of self-control allowed him to reply evenly.

  “Yes, your excellency. We failed.”

  Pemin half-pivoted, their eyes meeting for an instant. Then the autarch faced the window again.

  “I suppose that evens the tally between us. My misjudgment with the demon, yours with this attempt.”

  It would have been dangerous to agree, more so to argue. Orzili left the words hanging between them.

  “This makes everything harder. You understand that.”

  “I do.”

  “Mearlan’s people will be watching for any more attempts. And even in the past, the boy will know to be on his guard. You’ve made a mess of things.”

  Orzili bit his tongue, tasting blood.

  The autarch peered back at him again, brown and silver hair lit by daylight. “You disagree?”

  “My thoughts on the matter are irrelevant, your excellency. I’ve failed you and you’re displeased. Nothing else matters.”

  “Yet I would hear your thoughts.”

  Orzili’s gaze darted away, but he made himself look the man in the eye again.

  “No matter the time,” he said, “this was going to be difficult and dangerous. No one regrets the loss of my men more than I do.” He refused to say anything about them failing. “But none of this was ever going to be easy.”

  Pemin glowered. “I’m not used to hearing you make excuses.”

  “I don’t believe you did, your excellency,” he said, the words clipped.

  Too much so, it seemed.

  “You will send my Walker back. As soon as you know how far the boy has gone, you will send her back as far. Farther. Give her an extra turn if you must. Or two. I don’t care. Just make certain she has plenty of time to locate you in whatever past Mearlan seeks to alter. The two of you will plan and execute an assassination of Mearlan, his family, and the Walker. I want all of them dead.”

  Orzili opened his mouth, closed it again, unable to think of anything to say. My Walker. A reminder of yesterday’s encounter. Lenna. His Walker, but Orzili’s wife. Of course, Orzili didn’t dare correct the man, or refer to her in any other way.

  “She will Walk back with tri-devices,” the autarch added, compounding Orzili’s shock. “Enough to enable you to do whatever you must to follow these orders.”

  “Those devices… your excellency, that is…”

  “Spit it out, Orzili.”

  “You’re playing a dangerous game with history, your excellency. We’ve gone to great lengths to keep these devices hidden. We’ve taken every precaution, because we know that if other Binders learn of their existence, our advantage will be lost. Now you want to send them back. That will change the course of history in any number of ways. Not l
east among them the… forgive me, but the squandering of that advantage.”

  Pemin shook his head, a faint, sardonic grin on his lips. “You’re a clever man – as clever as anyone who serves me – but your thinking in this regard is remarkably limited. Don’t you see? That advantage is already compromised. Not completely, of course. But enough. People in Windhome know of the devices; you said so yourself just yesterday. That knowledge remains vague for now, but it won’t for long. And even vague, awareness of the devices serves as a warning to our enemies, which blunts the devices’ effectiveness.

  “On the other hand, if she goes back as I have instructed, and can equip you – a younger you – with tri-sextants, the advantage will be magnified tenfold. More. No one will stand against you. Mearlan will be destroyed. His attempt to alter the past will be crushed. And I will have won these wars, perhaps before they even begin. The world will be changed, and this autarchy will be unassailable.”

  It was an audacious plan, bolder than anything Orzili would have dared. Which was why Pemin, and his father before him, had built Oaqamar into the most powerful isle between the oceans.

  “I know you begrudge the time she will lose,” Pemin said, ending a brief silence. “I’m not insensitive to her sacrifice, or to yours. It could be a year or more. If Mearlan is as desperate as I believe him to be, it could be far more than that.” He pointed to something on his desk. A large purse, swollen with coins.

  “There are sixty rounds in there. Even after you pay your men, that will leave you with a handsome sum.”

  Orzili eyed the purse, but made no move to pick it up.

  The autarch’s eyebrows rose fractionally. “You want more?”

  “No, your excellency. I just…”

  Twice as many rounds wouldn’t have been enough to compensate them for what they were about to lose. How did one value a year? Two? Ten?

  Again, he knew better than to give voice to his thoughts.

  “You’re most generous, your excellency.” He crossed to the desk on leaden legs and hefted the purse, which weighed as much as a small artillery ball.

  “Mearlan will send him back soon,” Pemin said. “You’d best return to Daerjen. Our contact knows to send word as soon as the boy Walks?”

  “Yes, your excellency. Before he Walks if possible. As soon as Mearlan decides how far to send the lad, we’ll know.”

  “Good.” Pemin returned to the window, showing Orzili his back. “Don’t fail me again, Orzili. As I said, the scales are balanced between us. Disappoint me a second time, and I will be far less forgiving than I’ve been today. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Perfectly, your excellency.”

  He bowed again and left, the purse like an anchor in his hand.

  He was halfway through a bottle of Miejan red when Lenna returned to their flat. She came through the door, hair tangled by the wind, cheeks glowing with the exertions of her day, oblivious of what awaited her. Or perhaps just braver than he.

  Seeing him, she faltered, her smile slipping.

  She glanced around the flat, approached him, her steps deliberate.

  “You were thirsty,” she said, dark eyes flicking to the blue bottle.

  “It’s a long way to Qaifin and back.” He kept his voice low, tried hard to keep his diction clear.

  She retrieved a goblet, sat opposite him, and splashed some wine into her cup.

  “What are we drinking to?”

  “Pemin,” he said without delay. “May he live a long life filled with misery and loneliness.”

  Lenna sighed and regarded him, lips thin. She drained her goblet and poured herself more.

  “He wants me to go back,” she said.

  “As soon as we know how far.” He emptied his goblet in turn and refilled it. Soon they would need another bottle. Or he would. She wasn’t likely to be here much longer.

  “Maybe I should have gone with you to Daerjen, as he said.”

  He shook his head. “When you go back, I want you to find me, no matter how far, no matter where we were at the time. If you’re going to spend these years, I want to be sure we find that other Walker and kill him. Going with me to Daerjen would have been a needless risk.”

  She didn’t argue. Instead she asked, “Do you have any idea how far it will be?”

  He had long admired her courage. Even when they were children, novitiates in the palace at Windhome, she had been the brave one. Clever, too. And always lovely. She deserved the truth.

  “It will be a long way. Years, I expect.”

  She raised her cup to her lips again, but this time took only a sip.

  “I’ve said all along that you prefer older women.”

  “Don’t.” It came out sharper than he intended.

  She set her cup on the table and took one of his hands in both of hers. “You’re torturing yourself.”

  He nodded, lips quivering. He refused to cry.

  “I’ve told you before, this is what I do. You Span, I Walk. We both kill. I was going to lose the years eventually. Why should it matter whether I lose them in a trickle, or all at once?”

  “Because it does, and you know it. It’s all the difference in the world.”

  She didn’t argue the point.

  “I’m not ready to–” He broke off. He’d intended to say “to lose you,” but that wasn’t quite right.

  “To be wed to an old woman?”

  How old was too old? Did he love her because she was young and beautiful, or because she was Lenna? Did the years matter? After a moment’s consideration he realized these questions missed the point. What he loved was their life together. He didn’t want that foreshortened by Pemin’s scheming.

  “We can run,” he said, voice dropping further. “Leave this place now and make our way north, or out to the Knot. Pemin’s reach is long, but–”

  “His reach is long. Too long. I don’t want to live my life watching for his assassins, for younger, stronger versions of us. That’s…” She shook her head. “That’s not us, and it’s no way to live.”

  She was right, which pained him as much as anything the autarch had said earlier in the day.

  They sat thus for some time, his hand in hers, the goblets and mostly-empty bottle between them.

  The flutter of wings made both of them jump. They turned their heads as one. A gray and white dove sat in their open window, cooing softly, ruffling its feathers. A small, folded piece of parchment had been tied to the creature’s leg.

  For a tencount neither of them moved. At last Lenna stood, crossed to the window, and stroked the feathers on the back of the dove’s neck. As she untied the parchment, the bird raised its wings to keep its balance.

  Lenna faced him, their eyes locking.

  “Do you want me to open it?” he asked.

  “No.” She stared at the parchment a fivecount more, then unfolded it.

  Her eyes widened and she braced herself on the window frame with an unsteady hand.

  “Lenna?”

  She breathed through her mouth, saying nothing. The hand that held the paper shook.

  In two strides he was beside her. He put one arm around her and with the other took the scrap of parchment.

  Even after staring at it for a tencount, he couldn’t make sense of it. Surely this wasn’t possible. It had to be a mistake, the answer to a different question. They couldn’t expect her to go back so far.

  14 years, had been scrawled on the parchment in a neat, slanted hand. The same hand that had written so many missives before. Never in error.

  She would be old when she reached that past. Too old to return to him in this time.

  “You can’t do this,” he said.

  “I have to. He’ll kill us otherwise.”

  “Running would be better. It would have to be.”

  She eased her grip on the window frame, stood straighter, and stepped away to look him in the eye.

  “No, it wouldn’t,” she said. “We went to Pemin because he could do as much for us as
we do for him. That’s why we worked so hard to build the facility at Sholiss. I’m not going back for him. I’m going back for us, for what we’ve been working for. This could allow us to weaken Windhome years sooner.”

  As she spoke, she retrieved a small scrap of parchment from beside their dove cage. On it she wrote in black ink, Recvd. She tied this to the leg of the dove, lifted the bird, and tossed it gently out the window. After watching it fly off, she turned to him once more.

  He couldn’t move, couldn’t find the words to argue. She was right in all she had said. On top of everything else, she was brilliant. And he was on the verge of losing her forever.

  She smiled, a rare tear slipping down her cheek.

  “My poor love,” she whispered, brushing his lips with the back of her fingers. “Come with me to bed. Make love to me. And then let me go.”

  Mute, forlorn, helpless against his love for her, he followed her to their room.

  By the light of the gibbous moon low in the eastern sky, they made their way to the clearing from which he had Spanned to Qaifin. She undressed and set her chronofor, winding back the turns until the clicking of her device felt like the final beats of some metallic heart.

  When she had finished, he handed her the three tri-sextants they had carried with them from the city. He kissed her on the lips and stepped back. Moonlight shone in her hair, on her bare shoulders, on the devices in her hand. She appeared otherworldly, a creature of light and magick and gold.

  “Come back to me,” he said. “As soon as you’re done.”

  Her smile caught the glow of the moon. “You don’t mean that. I’ll be seventy. You won’t want me when I’m so old.”

  He didn’t know how to answer. Already she seemed to be gone from him and he wanted her back. Desperately. But he feared meeting that older version of her.

  “I love you,” he said after a fivecount. Because everything came back to that.

  “And I love you.”

  He saw her thumb move on the chronofor, heard one final click.

  Without another sound, without light or a change in the air or any kind of warning, she jerked back away from him, vanishing from sight, as if tugged into nothing.