by Rachel Ford
Alfred stood there for a long minute, wondering if he would be within his rights to simply abandon this quest. He knew there’d be hardships going in. Winthrop had warned that the mission might be difficult. But no one had warned him about this.
It was one thing to be thrown overboard, or to have to fly in an airship. But to dress like a clown while smelling like a gumdrop?
The taxman was not unsympathetic to the fate of the people of Atupal and Inbalibrab. On the other hand, survival of the fittest was a thing. And if a species was determined to off itself, well, wasn’t it presumptuous for humankind to interfere?
These thoughts were playing out in Alfred’s mind when Nance entered. “Babe! I was wondering where you were. I…” She drew up as she neared him, her nose wrinkling. “Good God, what did they do? Drown you in healing auras?”
“Nevermind that, Nance: look what they expect me to wear.” She was, he saw, outfitted in a similarly ridiculous jacket and waistcoat, with colorful breeches and dark boots. But she was Nance: she could have worn a burlap bag, and somehow made it look gorgeous. He, on the other hand, possessed no such magical abilities. If he was dressed like a clown, well, a clown is what he’d look like.
She, though, laughed. “Well, I like the jacket and waistcoat.”
“Nance,” he reproached, “this is serious.”
“The, uh, stripes are a bit much,” she conceded.
“A bit much? I’m going to look like an escaped convict.”
She laughed again, but shook her head. “They’re running the wrong way for that: prison stripes are horizontal.” He frowned, and she added, eyes twinkling, “You’re going to look like a very angry bumblebee.”
“Bumblebee stripes are horizontal too.”
She considered this, then nodded. “You’re right: a very confused and angry bumblebee.”
He sighed. It was obvious that she was going to be no help. “And how in hummus am I supposed to even put these things on? Look at all the buttons on this thing. And the buckles.” He shivered. Yellow and black stripes apparently not being busy enough for the madman who designed these trousers, they’d been constructed with three sets of buckles on either side near the hem. There were buckles at the sides near the waist, too, and buckles on his boots as well.
Nance, though, was enjoying all of it. “It does look a little like one of those puzzle boxes. But come on. We’ll figure it out.”
Grumbling that he wasn’t sure he wanted to figure it out, Alfred complied. And, eventually, they did manage to get him into the mortifying ensemble. “I’m not sure I’m going to be able to get out, on the other hand.”
Nancy laughed again, taking his arm and saying, “Come on, where’s my optimistic Alfred? The one who kept telling me to cheer up all day?”
He snorted. “He suffocated under brocades and stripes.”
“Let’s go, Mister Favero: the king awaits. And then, we can get back in our regular clothes.”
He nodded, but suddenly froze. “Sugar cookies.”
“What?”
“My clothes. Where are they?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. They took mine off to be cleaned.”
“Sugar cookies,” he said again.
“Why, what’s wrong?”
Nancy’s engagement ring was in the pocket of those trousers. Which, of course, he couldn’t tell her – both because he hadn’t proposed yet, and also because, well, losing her ring would hardly inspire her to say yes when he did. “Um…no reason. Just…I need to find out what they’re doing with those.”
“Darling, I know you hate the outfit, but I don’t think they’re going to steal your Indiana Jones cosplay.”
“It’s not that, Nance.”
“Then what?”
“I, uh, left something in the pocket.”
“What, you mean from back home?”
He nodded. The ring was, technically, from back home, so it wasn’t a full lie.
Her brow creased. “Oh, that’s not good. Winthrop told us not to bring stuff with us. Just the supplies, so we didn’t cross-contaminate the timeline.”
“Yeah, I know. I forgot.” He wasn’t worried about contaminating the timeline. This era had plenty of jewelry. One ring would hardly stand out. But this particular ring had been a gift from dear friends, specifically for Alfred and Nancy. He couldn’t lose it, but nor could he tell her his reason for his anxiety. “I’ve just got to get it back.”
She nodded. “Alright. Let’s find someone, and ask.”
They were just heading to the door in search of an attendant when it opened. The Angel of Death stepped through, this time without his retinue. “Mister Favero, I found something that I believe-” He cut off at the sight of Nancy, and said, “Oh. You must be Miss Abbot.”
“I am.”
“I am Apollo Antonius Adonis Antilien, priest of the palace and minister of science, master of flame and servant of air.”
Alfred blinked. The priest’s title had seemed long enough the first time he’d heard it. He wondered vaguely how many other variations there might be. “Forgive me, your reverence,” he said, “but we’re pressed for time.”
“Yes, so Lord Adrian tells me. But this will only take a moment. Miss Abbot, if I may speak to your friend in private?”
Nancy blinked, surprised by this dismissal. But she recovered herself and said, “Uh, sure. I’ll be outside, Alfred.”
The taxman frowned, no less surprised but more annoyed than she was. “We really do have to go,” he told the priest once Nancy disappeared.
Apollo nodded. “I know. But…” He slipped his hand into his pocket, and withdrew a ring – the ring. “We were purging your garments of evil vapors before the wash could commence. And I found this.”
Alfred gasped. “The ring.”
The priest, now, smiled. “Forgive me for asking your friend to leave, but it didn’t look like your style. I assume it’s meant for her.”
The taxman blinked. This was at once a keen observation, and a tactful save – neither of which he expected from the man who sprinkled him in plant oils not half an hour ago. “That’s right, actually.”
“She doesn’t know yet?”
“No.”
Apollo’s smile broadened. “Ah. Well, young love: such a beautiful thing. You should have told me. We have aetherolea that channels lucky energies through your person.”
Alfred politely demurred, but thanked the priest for his assistance.
“Of course. The science of love is a fascinating topic of study. I am always eager to do what I can to facilitate a healthy experiment.”
The taxman overlooked the weirdness of the statement, and, thanking the priest again, took his leave. Nancy was waiting for him outside his temporary rooms. “Well? What was that about?”
“Oh, nothing. Just…healing auras.”
“Didn’t he say he found something?”
“Yes, some, uh, aetherolea for luck or something. He wanted to know if I wanted it. Before we met Trajan.”
“Ah.” She nodded. “Well, we better go find those clothes.”
Here, Alfred shook his head. “No need.”
She frowned. “But…I thought…?”
“Oh, I was wrong. I thought about it, and I remember leaving my wallet in the locker.”
Her brow remained creased. “Are you sure?”
He nodded briskly. “Quite. Let’s go find that king, Nance.”
They did. Or, more aptly, they found Lord Adrian, who gave them a thorough looking – and smelling – over. Then, once he was satisfied that he could “no longer detect the dust or stench of Inbalibrab” on the pair, he led them to Trajan.
Trajan was a big man, tall, broad shouldered, and heavyset around the middle. Lord Adrian took Alfred and Nancy into a large, comfortably furnished room. The king was at one end, his attention absorbed by some manner of tabletop game. He was, the taxman noted, alone in this vast room, save for them.
“Your majesty,” Adrian called, bowing
low, “I bring visitors from the mainland.”
But Trajan waved the greeting away. “Not now, Adrian. Can’t you see? I’m losing.”
“Most regrettable, Majesty. But these guests come with news of the academy.”
This, now, got Trajan’s attention, and his eyes flashed. “Those vagabonds. What are they about now?”
Alfred and Nancy exchanged glances, and the taxman, clearing his throat and bowing in imitation of Lord Adrian’s greeting, said, “We believe we may have intelligence of interest, Majesty, from a mutual acquaintance: a Mister Winthrop.”
The fire in the other man’s eyes was immediately replaced with a sparkle. “Ah, Winthrop. Cleverest man I’ve ever met, by half. And what a sense of humor.”
Again, they exchanged glances, but they offered half-hearted agreement. “Oh, certainly.”
“Such a sense of humor.”
“So how is Winthrop these days?” Trajan got to his feet now, beckoning them forward. “Come, come. Tell me all about it.”
“Do you desire that I stay, my lord?” Adrian asked.
“No, no. But have refreshments brought for our guests. And a room made ready. Any friend of Winthrop’s – well, they’re friends of mine, and that’s for sure.”
Chapter Fourteen
The king, Alfred concluded, was a very silly man. The first half hour of their acquaintance was consumed with discussion of Agent Winthrop. Trajan seemed positively disappointed that their acquaintance was so brief, so they could answer only a handful of questions. “It’s too bad he couldn’t come himself. I know he’s a busy man. Galaxies don’t save themselves, and all that.
“Still, too bad. It would have been nice to see him again. Not that I don’t appreciate your time, of course. Of course.”
Nancy tried once or twice to change the topic, but with little success. “Forgive me, your majesty: I couldn’t help but notice you were playing a game when we came in. What is it?”
“Oh, it’s a variation of your world’s chess. It can be played solo.”
“Really?” Chess was a favorite pastime of the taxman’s, and his ears perked up at this.
Right up until, that is, Trajan said, “Yes. Your Winthrop taught me it. His own invention, you know. The man’s bloody brilliant.”
Eventually, though, Trajan came back to the topic at hand, and forgot the alleged brilliance of Agent Winthrop. “So, those fools at the science academy…what are they up to now?”
“Well, err, we rather hoped you might be able to tell us,” Alfred admitted. “The IBTI believes they’re weeks away from time travel capabilities.”
The king nodded. “That’d be Winthrop’s reconnaissance, I’d reckon.”
He’d deliberately avoided the other man’s name, to prevent any relapses into prior topics. But he had to admit, “Yes, I suppose so.”
Trajan nodded. “Damned clever man. Well, if Winthrop says they’re weeks away, by Jove, they’re weeks away.”
“So…you don’t have any independent verification, then?” Nancy wondered. “Like, no spies in the Science Academy, or anything like that?”
“Spies?” Trajan surveyed her with upraised eyebrows. “You mean, send one of my men or women to live on Inbalibrab, in Katar? Under the thumb of that autocratic Chancellor? I’d as soon ask them to throw themselves off the island altogether. It would be quicker and less painful.” The king’s frown eased a pinch. “Although, it would be rather exciting to pull one over on old Irma, wouldn’t it?”
Alfred and Nancy exchanged dismayed glances. “Right,” he managed.
The king’s eyes, meanwhile, were sparkling. “What a load of fun, actually. I’m surprised Winthrop didn’t suggest it. Imagine getting one over on the old bat: planting one of our people in her precious Science Academy, and her never being the wiser?” He chortled at the idea.
“Well, we probably don’t have time for that now,” Nance said. “Not if they’re that close to time travel. We couldn’t get someone into the academy, much less in a position to find out about sensitive projects.”
“No,” Trajan mused. “It’s a pity, really. It would have been quite a lark. Even if they got caught, it would have been good fun seeing Irma sputter away.”
“Not for the spy, I would think,” Alfred offered dryly. He was trying – he really was – to hold his tongue, but this childish level of enthusiasm was too much even for his diplomatic powers.
“Well, I wouldn’t have sent anyone I liked. Maybe Lord Edgar. He’s a prat, and frankly it wouldn’t be the worst thing if he got himself offed. But with any luck, he would have fooled Chancellor Irma, and the whole thing would have been good fun.” Now, he spread his hands and sighed. “Oh well. What’s done is done.”
The taxman wasn’t entirely sure of how to respond to that. The casual way with which Trajan described this stranger offing himself was a bit startling.
Fortunately, Nance recovered herself first. “Well, um, quite. But Winthrop thought you might have some ideas on how we can stop the Science Academy – how we can prevent them inventing time travel?”
“Oh, that’s easy.”
“It is?” Alfred blinked.
Trajan nodded sagely. “All you’ve got to do is destroy the time crystal.”
“The time…crystal?”
Alfred wasn’t even looking at her, and he could hear the skepticism in Nancy’s tone. He was surprised by that. It sounded a little crazy, but, then, so did time travel. He accepted the one, so he saw no reason to be skeptical about the other.
“Yes. Not entirely sure how the blackguards got their hands on one, but they did. They’re kept for safekeeping, you know, on Atupal. It is forbidden to study them, because of the dangers inherent to time manipulation.”
“A sensible policy,” the taxman had to concede.
“Yes. But the mainlanders have no respect for sensible policy. They’re driven by ambition and greed. They’ll stop at nothing to destroy Atupal, Alfred. And they’re too blind to see the ends of their own ambition. They see only what technology can do. They worship it. They worship science, as if to know is an end in and of itself. There are no questions they won’t answer, whether they’ve any business being answered or not.”
Trajan was shaking his head, and sounding considerably less silly than a few moments ago. “It’s a bad business, and the truth is, if not for your friend Mister Winthrop, I’m not sure what I’d do – or we could do.”
“Well,” Nancy said placatingly, “that’s why we’re here, King Trajan: to stop them, before they hurt anyone.”
“Then Winthrop sent you to destroy the time crystal?”
Nance and he exchanged glances, and Alfred shrugged, “I guess so. If that’s the only way to stop them.”
Trajan was delighted with their willingness to assist. “Winthrop was right to send such courageous heroes, my friends. Atupal will forever sing your praises.”
Alfred was less concerned with being praised than he was with figuring out how to survive the mission. “Well, that will depend on your ability to get by the sentries undetected,” the king said.
“How are we going to do that?”
Here, Trajan had no ready answers. “Let’s give the old thinkers a rest, and come back to it tomorrow. I’m sure you’re tired, and gods know, I am. I’ve been losing at chess for the last three hours. I’m sure there’s foul vapors settled onto my brain from so much thinking. A good purge and some sleep, and I’ll be right as rain.”
As eager as Alfred was to figure out a plan, he couldn’t deny that his own brain and body were exhausted. It had been a very long day, and while he needed no more vapor purging, sleep would certainly be welcome.
Their room was ready, and wishing them “a most pleasing repose,” Trajan took his own leave.
It was a beautiful room, with an enormous bed and exquisite furnishings, a painted ceiling and gilded trim. But Alfred was too tired to do more than cast a cursory glance around. Nancy helped him out of his ridiculous ensemble, giggling at
his frustration, and they collapsed into bed.
But she did not sleep. And, as was often the case when Nance was restless, by consequence, neither did he. She tossed and turned, and every time the taxman was about to drift off, she’d toss again, or sigh, or change positions.
Finally, bleary-eyed and annoyed, he flipped on a light switch. “Nance, darling, for the love of heaven, why aren’t you sleeping?”
She blinked into the light with surprised eyes. “Sorry, babe…was I waking you up?”
He bit down on the urge to reply, a little sharply, in the affirmative. Instead, he asked, “What’s wrong?”
She sat up now, and seemed about to answer. But, then, she asked, “Are you sure you want to talk about it now?”
He didn’t, but it was clear that it was keeping her from sleeping. And since that also meant he wasn’t going to, he answered, “Yes. Let’s get it out there, so we can both get sleep.”
She nodded. “Sorry, Alfred. I didn’t mean to wake you up.”
“I know,” he said. He did, but it was more than that. Nance was something of a night owl when something was on her mind, and though it drove him batty at times, she never tortured him with these late hours without reason. “So what is it?”
She sighed. “I don’t know…just…doesn’t something feel wrong about this?”
Alfred’s mind went immediately to the outfit he’d been wearing earlier, and the lemon-scented crazy he’d endured. But he suspected that wasn’t what she meant. “What do you mean? Like what?”
“Well…the thing Trajan said earlier, about that Lord Edgar or whatever his name was, dying.”
He nodded. “That was a little…weird. But maybe he was joking.”
“He didn’t sound like he was joking.”
“No,” Alfred admitted. “He didn’t. But, then again, he is a king. Kings, at least on Earth, spent most of history lopping off heads and boiling people in oil and burning people alive.” Nancy frowned, and he shrugged. “My point is, as a type, they’re not nice.”
