by Simon Hawke
"And then you won't be seeing us again," said Taylor.
Now a week had passed. It had been a maddening week. Each day, the man called Taylor came to her. He brought her all her meals and he would stay a while to talk with her. They would talk about the most meaningless of things, the weather, what fashions were popular at court, what her favorite foods were, what she liked, what she disliked, whom she had had affairs with…
Taylor seemed to know almost as much about her as she knew herself. That frightened her. How could he know such intimate details of her private life? How could he know that she had once been a nun and that she had seduced a priest at the convent of the Benedictines of Templemar? How had he known about the fleur-de-lis, with which the executioner of Lille had branded her? Who was this man, who seemed to know her almost as well as she knew herself?
She could get nothing out of him. On several occasions, he had come with a slightly older man, another stranger to her. This man would gaze at her strangely, then approach her. He would study her intently. Sometimes, he would touch her face, running his hands along her jawbone, touching her nose, the corners of her eyes, her lips. Once, when he had done so, she had softly kissed his finger, licking it lightly with her tongue. His hands shook slightly after that.
"Think you can do it, Doctor?" Taylor had said at one such time.
"I–I can do it."
"You'd damn well better be sure," said Taylor.
"I won't let you down, Adrian."
"It's not just me, Doc. You know what's riding on this."
"Yes, I know," said the one called Doc. "I know only too well." He had sounded frightened.
She had no idea what any of it meant. Sooner or later, she knew, they would have to make their purpose clear. She would bide her time and wait.
A week and two days had passed when she received yet another visitor. This one was a lady. The door to her room opened and the man called Doc entered, along with the lady and two other men. The lady hid her face behind a fan. Milady was certain that now she would find out the reason for her abduction, the purpose behind all this intrigue. She stood up, giving her jailors a haughty look.
"Well," she said. "It appears that at last I will-"
The words caught in her throat as the lady dropped her fan, revealing her face. It was the Countess's own face. Milady stared at her living reflection, struck speechless at the sight.
"You see," said the woman, in Milady's own voice, "I told you that we would only keep you for a week or so."
Milady backed away from the woman who was her twin in every way. She had her face, she had her voice, she had her manner…
"Who- who are you?" she whispered.
Her double laughed and it was her own laugh, exactly. Then she spoke in a completely different voice. A voice Milady had come to know only too well. "Why, Milady, don't you recognize me?"
"Taylor! In God's name, how is this possible? How-"
"Why don't you ask Him when you see Him?" Taylor said. He pointed a slim tubelike instrument at her. A bright, pencil-thin light stabbed out from it as Taylor quickly flicked his wrist.
Milady's head, severed by the laser, fell upon the floor and rolled grotesquely into a corner of the room.
The man called Doc turned his head away and made a whimpering sound.
"Jesus, Taylor!" He leaned against the door jamb for support.
"Weak stomach, Doc?"
"You didn't have to kill her," Doc said, his voice quivering.
"Oh, I did, indeed. We're playing for high stakes, my friend. It wouldn't do to have two Milady de Winters running around now, would it? Besides, I did her a favor. I spared her from the headsman's axe."
"By beheading her yourself," said Doc. "You didn't tell me you were going to kill her."
"She would have done the same to me, Doc, or to you or any one of us. This was one very nasty lady. Besides, if you want to salve your conscience, think of all the lives that will be saved when we bring the time wars to a halt."
"I agree that the time wars should be stopped," said Doc, "but I can't believe that your end justifies your means."
"You went into this with your eyes wide open, Doc," said Taylor. "It's a bit late for second thoughts now, don't you think?"
"Yes, I'm afraid it is." He took a deep breath, refusing to look at the headless body on the floor. "Well, I've done all that you asked. You don't need me anymore. Am I free to go, or am I going to end up like her?"
"Why, Doc," said Taylor, gently placing his hand alongside the man's cheek, "what makes you say a thing like that?" His voice was a perfect mimicry of de Winter's voice. Doc jerked away.
"Let him go," said Taylor.
The man was led away.
"You think he's going to be a problem?" said one of the others.
"I doubt it," Taylor said. "We've got his chronoplate. What harm can he do? Still, I don't suppose that it would hurt to keep an eye on him." He walked up to the mirror in the room and examined his reflection. He smiled de Winter's smile. "He did a hell of a good job, wouldn't you say? Amazing what just a little cosmetic surgery can do. Damn, look at me. I'm beautiful."
The other man cleared his throat uneasily.
Taylor grinned. "Sort of gets to you, doesn't it? What do you think, Jimmy? You think Richelieu will know the difference?"
Taylor threw back his head and gave a startlingly feminine laugh. Jimmy left the room.
Their instructions were to proceed to the tavern in Meung, and from there to make their way to Paris. Somewhere along the way, they would be contacted by an agent code-named "Mongoose."
"Are they all named after animals?" Finn had asked Darrow.
"Yes, why do you ask?"
"Oh, I was just wondering if there was an agent Jackass or an agent Baboon, you know. Just curious."
Darrow had not appreciated Finn's sense of humor.
"What is it you've got against these people, anyway?" Lucas asked him as they rode their horses at a walk on the road to Meung.
"They're sly," said Finn. "I don't like people who are sly. They're always sneaking around like weasels-wonder if there's an agent Weasel? — and they're totally untrustworthy. I prefer to work with people I can depend on. I wouldn't turn my back on a TIA agent for one second."
"You don't really think we have anything to worry about, do you?" Lucas said.
"Who knows, kid? Who knows what this mission really is? They say it's the Timekeepers, but it could be the Daughters of the American Revolution for all I know. They don't even tell each other everything."
They conversed in French, a language they spoke as easily as English, thanks to their implant programming. Anyone seeing them upon the road would have taken them for nothing more than what they appeared to be, cavaliers, soldiers of fortune, comrades in arms. Finn's normally red hair was now an auburn shade, Lucas's was a chestnut brown. Both men wore their hair down to their shoulders, in the style of gallants of the time. Lucas wore a waxed moustache, Finn wore a moustache and a goatee, a style that would one day be known as a Van Dyke. Both men wore high boots and leather baldricks, both carried daggers and rapiers. Their apparel did not lend an air of wealth or fashion to them. Both their cloaks were brown and well worn. Finn's doublet was yellow, cut from inexpensive cloth; Lucas's was brown. Neither man wore lace anywhere about his person; both wore simple sashes of green silk and white shirts that were in need of laundering. Their hats were plumed, but the feathers had seen better days.
"I hate this cloak-and-dagger stuff," said Finn, then chuckled at the thought that both of them actually had real cloaks and daggers. "I don't like the idea of not even knowing what our contact is supposed to look like. I'm not even sure what we're supposed to do."
"My impression was that we were to act as a sort of back-up team to the TIA boys," Lucas said. "Look, it might not be so bad. They might not even need us. This mission could turn into a Minus Time vacation."
"You wouldn't want to place a little bet on that, would you?" said Finn.<
br />
"Actually, no. Not really."
"I didn't think so."
"What do you think about this idea of someone in the underground going in with these Timekeepers?" Lucas said.
"I don't know. Why, you thinking about Hunter?"
"How'd you guess?"
"Wasn't too hard."
"I just can't see it, somehow. I couldn't see someone like Hunter going along with that kind of insanity. No one appreciates the potential dangers of a split more than a soldier, even a deserter. Why would someone who has gone to all the trouble of going over the hill and stealing a plate place himself at the disposal of a bunch of terrorists? It just doesn't make sense. What could they possibly have that he would want?"
"They wouldn't have anything that Hunter would want," said Finn, "but not all deserters are like Hunter. Think about all the things that would make a man desert. This character is probably someone who couldn't take it anymore or some maladjusted individual who just couldn't make it in Plus Time. Maybe it's some fanatic who joined the service with some idea of subverting it from within, who knows? Whoever he is, he's got to be just as crazy as the Timekeepers. No one in their right mind would set out to cause a split."
"I can't believe anyone would really go that far," said Lucas.
"Darrow may have a point on that one," Finn said. "They may hope that they won't have to, but if they get pushed, if their bluff gets called, they'll have no choice. Nobody knows what sort of an effect a split will have. Maybe they think that that's what it will take to bring the war machine to a grinding halt. It might at that. But I'd just as soon not have to find out just what a split would do. Just researching it made Mensinger a nervous wreck. And the whole idea of this mission isn't doing my nerves any good."
They reached the inn at Meung without being contacted by anyone. They took a room and ordered dinner in the tavern. The wine was passable and it felt pleasant after their journey. The innkeeper, although he had been somewhat wary of their well-traveled and rough appearance at the beginning, had warmed up considerably at the prospect of entertaining two customers who paid as they were served. He had been stiffed so many times by gallant cavaliers that he fussed over Finn and Lucas like a mother hen, ever solicitous of their satisfaction and trotting out from the kitchen constantly to see if they were enjoying their meal. Finn was on his second roasted chicken and Lucas was enjoying the innkeeper's best wine, a pleasant Bordeaux, when a young man almost completely covered with dust entered the establishment. Once inside the door, he began pounding at his clothing, so that within seconds he became almost completely obscured by a dust cloud.
"Some more wine, Monsieur?" said the innkeeper, bringing yet another bottle to their table.
"With pleasure," Finn said. "And pour a glass for young Lochinvar over there, he looks as though he could do with some refreshment."
At this, the young man looked up. He was scarcely more than a boy, perhaps eighteen years of age. He had a thick shock of disheveled blond hair and his clothes looked like hand-me-downs.
"I beg your pardon, sir," he said, "were you speaking of me?"
"Do you see anyone else in here besides ourselves?" said Finn, smiling.
"I fear you have taken me for someone else, sir," the young man said. "My name is not Lochinvar."
Finn chuckled. "It was just a figure of speech, lad. Lochinvar was the hero in a tale I heard once."
The young man frowned. "You seek to mock me, sir?"
"Don't get your feathers ruffled, son," said Finn. "I'm only offering you a drink. You look like you could do with some refreshment."
"And what, may I ask, is there in my appearance that leads you to believe I am in need of charity?" the young man said.
"Look, let's try this again," said Finn. "We've been traveling a long way ourselves, my friend and I. You came in, looking all dusty and bedraggled and I thought-"
The young man stiffened. "My clothing may not be quite so fine as your own, Monsieur, but nevertheless, it is not good manners for a gentleman to remark upon the difference."
"Leave him alone, Finn," Lucas said.
"Forget it, kid," said Finn. "Buy your own damn wine." He went back to eating his chicken, shaking his head in resignation. "Try to be a nice guy," he told Lucas.
"Monsieur," said the young man.
"Yes, what is it now?"
"I am not in the habit of being dismissed so cavalierly."
Finn raised his eyebrows. "Excuse me," he said. "I was not aware that I was dismissing a cavalier."
"Finn-" Lucas said.
The innkeeper backed away from the table.
"Then I will make you aware of whom you are dealing with, Monsieur. D'Artagnan suffers slights from no one." He drew his rapier. " 'Guarde, Monsieur!"
"Oh, Christ," said Finn. The innkeeper dove under a table.
"Monsieur D'Artagnan," Lucas began, "allow me to-"
"I will deal with you presently, sir," D'Artagnan said, "after I have done with your unruly friend. That is, unless you wish to increase the odds against me. I will not shrink from crossing swords with both of you at once." He swished his rapier back and forth a couple of times.
"Put that thing away," said Finn. "It's almost as big as you are."
"Nevertheless, its size will not impede my use of it," D'Artagnan said. "Now, 'guarde!"
"Oh, sit down," said Finn.
"You will stand, Monsieur, and draw your sword!"
"I will sit, my friend, and finish my dinner. And you would be wise to do the same."
D'Artagnan's sword stabbed out and lanced Finn's chicken off his plate. With a flick of the wrist, he sent the bird flying into a corner of the room.
"You appear to have finished your dinner, Monsieur."
"That does it," Finn said. "I'm going to take that pigsticker away from you and spank you with it." He started to stand.
Lucas took hold of his arm. "Finn, sit down. Don't be an idiot."
Delaney stood. "Look," he said to D'Artagnan, "can't we just forget the whole thing? I'm willing to overlook the chicken, but-"
"But I am not willing to overlook your insults, sir," D'Artagnan said.
"What insults?"
"Your sword, Monsieur!"
"No."
"You refuse to draw your sword?"
"That's right, I refuse."
"Then you are a base coward and no gentleman!"
"Listen here, you-"
"Finn…"said Lucas.
Delaney took a deep breath. "AH right. I am a base coward and I'm not a gentleman. Does that satisfy you?"
D'Artagnan looked disappointed. "Well, then, in that case, I must demand an apology."
"For what?"
"Finn, will you for Christ's sake apologize and have done with it?" said Lucas.
"Well now what the hell should I apologize for?"
"It doesn't matter, just apologize, if it will make him happy."
"Sir, I will not be condescended to," D'Artagnan said.
"Just stay out of this," said Lucas. "Finn, say you're sorry, all right?"
"All right, I'm sorry. I apologize."
"I do not think you are sincere in your apology," D'Artagnan said.
"Please accept his apology, Monsieur," said Lucas. "It will bring this entire affair to a close and do wonders for my digestion."
"This is most perplexing," said D'Artagnan. "Your friend clearly does not wish to apologize, yet he apologizes. And although he is not sincere in his apology, he will do as you wish to spare himself from dueling with me. It appears that there is no way I can gain satisfaction in this affair. You place me in a most disadvantageous situation, Monsieur."
"I only wish to avoid unnecessary bloodshed," Lucas said. "It was all a misunderstanding, nothing more. No offense was meant."
"And yet offense was given. And I cannot attack a man who will not draw his rapier. It would be unseemly and dishonorable. Yet honor must be satisfied."
The innkeeper peeked out from beneath the table.
"Would honor be satisfied if we were to fight with our fists?" said Finn.
"It would be most irregular," said D'Artagnan, "but I can think of no other way out of this predicament."
"Then it's settled," Finn said. "We duel with fists."
"Done," said D'Artagnan. He started to remove his bald-rick and Finn walloped him right between the eyes.
The blow knocked him back several feet and he sat down hard upon the floor. The innkeeper ducked back beneath the table. D'Artagnan shook his head, stunned.
"For such a little squirt, he takes a punch pretty good," said Finn. "I've laid out guys twice his size with that shot."
"That was most unsporting of you, sir," D'Artagnan said, getting to his feet.
"Fighting's not a sport, son," Finn said. "At least not where I come from. You either win or you lose and I prefer to win."
"Yes, clearly you are not a gentleman," D'Artagnan said. "In Gascony, we do not hit a man when he isn't looking."
"Well, I'm looking now," said Finn. "Take your best shot."
"Prepare yourself, my friend. Though you be twice my size, I'm going to teach you manners."
"Are you going to talk or fight?" said Finn.
Lucas rolled his eyes. "You know, Forrester was right," he said. "You are a ten-year-old."
D'Artagnan swung at Finn wildly. Finn easily ducked beneath his swing and gave him a hard uppercut to the jaw. D'Artagnan went down again.
"And that's that," said Finn.
D'Artagnan started to get up. His mouth was bloody.
"I thought you said that was that," said Lucas.
"Stubborn little bastard, isn't he?" said Finn.
D'Artagnan came at him again. Finn blocked his punch and gave him a right cross. D'Artagnan fell again.
"That ought to satisfy his honor," Finn said.
Slowly, D'Artagnan rose to his feet.
"I think you're losing your touch," said Lucas. "He keeps getting up."
"We'll fix that," said Finn.
D'Artagnan swung again, only this time it was a feint and he caught Finn off guard. As a result, Finn caught a left hook and fell back into a table.
"You fixed that real good," said Lucas.
"All right, enough's enough," said Finn. This time, when D'Artagnan came at him, Finn used karate. He stopped him cold with a front kick to the chest, then dropped him with a side kick and a roundhouse to the temple, both delivered off the same foot with lightning speed.
