The Crosstime Engineer aocs-1

by Leo Frankowski

  "You ride with thieves, you!" He sent two more whacks at my right leg.

  What the guy did have was a heavy sword and an ungodly amount of stamina and persistence.

  "Look, I don't want to hurt you!" He was bashing — at my head again. I was once the best man on campus with a saber, but I hadn't worked out in six years. Even then, I had been used to parrying a fencing saber, which weighs less than a tenth of what this guy was swinging.

  "You are Polack thief and liar like everybody you know!" He kept on swinging.

  "Can't we stop and talk about this? Don't you ever get tired?" My right arm was getting numb.

  "Bastard!" he yelled, and started chopping faster. Had it been the twentieth century. I would have known that he was on some kind of dope.

  Finally he got one by me, hitting my right shoulder. It broke neither skin nor bone, but it hurt. I knew that the defensive game could not go on forever. I had to disable him.

  When next I got an opening, I beat his blade to the left. He overcompensated, and I doubled under his sword. Then, arm out, head and body vertical and in perfect fencing form, I thrust my blade into him.

  In fencing, things happen too quickly to be controlled by rational thought. You practice for years so that the reflexes of your arms and legs do the right thing at the right time. That is how you score points.

  That is also how I put my sword through the man's neck, severing his trachea and at least two arteries. He was probably dead before he hit the ground, but he continued bleeding. Oh, God, how he bled!

  I stared at him, unable to believe what I had done.

  "Well fought, Sir Conrad! But was that really necessary?"

  "Huh?" I had never killed a man before.

  "Why did you throw him out of the saddle?" Boris gathered up the horses and dismounted.

  "You didn't see?" I said after a time. "He drew a knife behind his back. He meant to kill you."

  "And here is the knife on the ground! My apologies, Sir Conrad. You have saved my life! I am in your debt, sir." He bent over the body and was searching it.

  "Just earning my pay, and I am in your debt some three thousand pence." I was a murderer.

  "Not anymore, Sir Conrad. Look here." He showed me a pouch he had removed from the body. It must have contained a kilo of gold.

  "That amounts to eight thousand pence or I'm no judge. And look here! The man wears armor under his clothes! Had your sword struck elsewhere, it might have been stuck on his rings, and then he would have had your head!" Boris quickly stripped the body while I stood dumbly by. When he was done, the corpse was completely naked. "Haul that a long way off the road, will you? They get unsightly when they rot, and we wouldn't want to offend some good lady."

  In his thirteenth-century way, he was telling me that one should not litter. I dragged it off. When I got back, a bundle was heaped on the stranger's horse. Boris was mounted.

  "Sir Conrad, I estimate that I could sell this chancefound horse and equipment for four thousand pence. The gold is worth eight, for a total of twelve. We were together at the finding. You did the important work, but you were in my employ at the time. Therefore, I think that an even split would be equitable. Do you agree?"

  "Whatever you say." Jesus Christ. I had just killed a man. Killed him and hid the body. Now I was joining in on robbing the dead.

  Boris saw my expression. "Well, we can hardly leave this on the road for some thief to find! Now then, your half of twelve is six, but you owe me three, so here is your three thousand pence."

  I put the money into my pouch. Added to the fifty I already had, it amounted to quite a bit. Two years' pay for killing a man.

  "In addition, Sir Conrad, you saved my life. Please accept this thousand as a bonus."

  I put it in my pouch and mounted up.

  "One more thing," he said as we rode down the trail. "That man, whoever he was, did not have a deed of transfer on his person, and I think it probable that he was only an extortionist. But if he really bought the debt from Schweiburger and if he has no heirs, I would- be forgiven the debt, saving twenty-two thousand. If these unlikely events transpire, you shall have earned an additional eleven thousand pence."

  I was silent for a while. Then I said, "What is all this about your running out on your debts?"

  "Well, I wasn't exactly running out on them, but it proved to be very convenient to… shall we say defer payment for a few months. You see, last summer I located some excellent Russian furs in Cracow. I knew a family in Pest that would be most interested in them. However, since I had already overinvested in amber, I could not afford to purchase the lot of furs and pay their way to Pest."

  "Therefore, I left the amber with a German wool merchant of my acquaintance, and he lent me twenty-two thousand pence."

  "My trading went well, and I returned to Poland with copper and samples of wine purchased near Pest."

  "Wait a minute, Boris. You say you brought copper into Poland?" In the twentieth century, Poland is one of the world's largest copper exporters. Apparently, the mines near Legnica had yet to be discovered.

  "Of course. There's a fair profit in copper, though nothing outstanding. You understand that I'm not wealthy enough to get involved in the really big commodities like cloth, so the best I can do is to connect individuals with diverse needs who are not aware of one another."

  "This I did with a certain red Hungarian wine. It is not highly regarded in Hungary and is therefore inexpensive, but the Bishop of Cracow was quite taken with it. He ordered a huge amount at a price that will leave me well compensated for my services."

  "The difficulty is that the amber market is now poor, and had I repaid Schweiburger, I would not be able to deliver the bishop's order. Discreet inquiries indicated that my lender was in no immediate need of cash, so I thought it best to delay paying him until spring. It was the profitable thing to do, even though I shall have to pay him damages."

  "You mean extra interest on his money?"

  "Interest? How can you say such a thing, Sir Conrad? Don't you know that the charging of interest is usury, a crime against the Church?"

  "Oh. Then what did Schweiburger get for lending you the money in the first place?"

  "Why, nothing. Of course, he was concerned about the safety of his money and insisted that some of his men carry it over to me. I had to agree to pay them for this work. These carrying charges amounted to twelve hundred pence, but the loan of the money was free."

  "And you'll pay him no interest, but damages or other carrying charges when you pay him late."

  "To the tune of one thousand to fifteen hundred pence, depending on just how late I am. It's the way things are done."

  We rode in silence until noon, and then he said, "Sir Conrad, that blow you took to the shoulder, it isn't serious, is it?"

  "No. I'll probably have a bruise as big as my face, but the arm works all right."

  "Then why so glum? Two days in my employ and already you are a prosperous man."

  "I hate killing."

  "You are in a strange business to entertain that attitude. "

  "I seem to be good at it."

  "Indeed you are! That blow you struck was remarkable. Your blade was suddenly on the other side of his sword. Then you didn't really strike him at all! You straightened your arm and sort of pushed into him, and your blade came out of the back of his neck!"

  "That is called a beat with a double. You tap his sword, and as he moves to knock your blade away, you drop your blade under his and come up on the other side. Then I lunged, which uses the leg instead of the wrist. Much stronger." He wanted me to recap the fight the way he recapped his haggling sessions. I was surprised that he didn't order an ale.

  "Next time we're afoot, you must show me how that's done. We've lost time, and we must pass through the Moravian Gate while the weather holds. Sext already. Sext and not a drink all morning!" He unslung his leather beer sack and drank deeply. He threw the sack at me, and I found that I needed it.

  "The hor
ses were resting during the fight, Sir Conrad. What say we eat in the saddle and push on?"

  "You're the boss."

  We trotted on. When you're in a huffy on horseback, you don't gallop all the time unless you want to kill your mount. You gallop for a while, walk for a while, trot for a while, gallop again. Just then we were trotting.

  We passed the castle town of Oswiecim when it was still light.

  "We could ford the river and spend the night there, Sir Conrad, but I fear the weather. If we get snowed in before we pass the gate, the good bishop will be late in getting his wine."

  "Whatever you say, Boris, though the weather has been fair all day." I was not used to riding, and I was getting sore. My mount was excellent, but ten hours in the saddle is a lot.

  "Right, and the ground is hard enough for good riding. All the same, it feels wrong and I worry."

  So we pushed on until dark, fed and rested the horses, and rode on again with moonrise.

  Three hours later, all the horses except Anna were stumbling, and it was time to stop. I pitched camp and got some dried venison and barley stew boiling while Boris tethered and unloaded the horses.

  After we were both crammed into my dome tent, he said, "That arithmetic of the Arabs, it's interesting, and I can see that once you're used to it, it would be a lot simpler than the old Roman system. But it retains one of the disadvantages of the old system."

  "Eh?" God, I was tired.

  "It still goes by tens and hundreds. Most of what I buy and sell goes by dozens and grosses, and a dozen is a good number. I can split a dozen into two parts, or three, or four, or even six. With ten, you can split two ways, or five, but that's all."

  "There's no reason why you couldn't develop an Arabic number system to the base twelve," I said. "Just add two more symbols for ten and eleven. You'd have to memorize new multiplication tables and so on, but you haven't learned the old ones yet. I'll show you in the morning."

  That was probably one of the more useful things I did in my life. It was also one of the more painful.

  "As you like. Oh, you did something sensible with your newfound wealth, didn't you?"

  "Yes. I tied it to my ankle. " I was in the thirteenth century now, surrounded by cutthroats and thieves. I knew, because I had become — one of them.

  Chapter Eight

  The beer sack was empty and I was about talked out, when it started snowing. In the twentieth century this area would be all factories and apartment houses, but we had not seen a soul all morning. We had worked out-in our heads-the tables for addition, subtraction, multiplication, and division required for base-twelve arithmetic. Boris had them all memorized and was doing long division by noon. It was an incredible display of intelligence.

  In fact, almost all the people I had met in the thirteenth century were intelligent, way above average. They were ignorant, to be sure, but smart. Was intelligence a natural compensation for ignorance? Or was there something about modem education that destroys the mind? I had certainly been bored enough in school. Or were we just breeding for stupidity? You could see where the priesthood was encouraging that. The clergy was the only educated class here, and for a lot of peasant boys it was the only way up in the world. Making them celibate, as the new Gregorian reforms demanded, was biologically equivalent to killing them. The reforms had not been accepted in Poland yet, but they would be. The monasteries had been celibate for centuries.

  The cities attracted the bright kids who didn't join the clergy. Filthy as the cities were, they had to be cauldrons of disease. Were seven hundred years enough to make a difference? Possibly.

  I was pondering this while Anna was at her calm, steady walk. A horse is a lot like a bus in that you really don't have to pay attention to where you are going. I was thinking and sharpening my sword. Yesterday's fight had made the other guy's weapon look like a saw blade, but mine was uninjured.

  The falling snow was muffling sound, and we proceeded in silence until I heard muted hoofbeats and the jingling of armor. Bemused, I looked up absently to see an armored knight galloping toward us. He rode a massive black horse that was plunging hard, its eyes wide and bloodshot. His surcoat was red with black trim. His barrel helm was polished and had an eye slit only two centimeters wide. His shield was red with a black double-headed eagle. His lance bore a red and black pennant.

  And his shield was raised, and his lance was pointing directly at me!

  Suddenly, Anna became completely uncontrollable. This was a game she had been taught well. She took off at a full gallop, directly at the attacking knight!

  She might have known what to do, but I didn't. From what little I had seen of this type of fighting, I had to sheath my sword, get my shield out from in back, and level my lance at him. I was then to brace myself on the stirrups and prepare to take part in an imitation train wreck.

  I dropped the sharpening stone and tried to put away my sword, wasting precious seconds; at a full gallop it is not possible to sheath a sword. The sword was the only weapon that I knew how to use, and I didn't want to drop it. I looked up, and the knight was entirely too close. No time for the shield!

  With my left hand I reached across the saddle for my lance. It was riding point up with the butt in the right stirrup socket. As I swung it out, it naturally ended up with the butt forward, barely in time to beat the knight's lance away from my chest. His lance head ripped into the mail above my left elbow, but I barely felt it.

  The eye slit of his helmet was the only obvious target, so I thrust at it with my sword, our left knees bashing as the horses passed to the right.

  I felt the sword grate on bone and iron as my opponent flashed by, the blade was almost pulled out of my hand. I twisted, looking over my left shoulder, and saw his helmet turn fully 180 degrees before my sword was yanked out. By brute luck, I had stumbled onto a tactic for which the knight wasn't prepared.

  Anna stopped and turned while the knight fell from his horse, red blood gushing on white snow as his helmet bounced off. The top of his skull with half of his brain skidded in yet another direction, leaving a third scarlet smear on the snow.

  But Boris was in trouble. Two armored footmen were hacking at him with long halberds as he desperately defended himself with his sword. Without a signal from me, Anna charged to his aid.

  Someone in blue ran from the forest and grabbed at my horse's reins. I slashed with my sword, dropping my lance in the process, but apparently I missed. I saw the flash of a knife swinging toward my left leg. I managed to lift my leg high while trying awkwardly to swing my sword again.

  Then suddenly the blue bandit was gone, trampled beneath Anna's hind legs.

  We continued toward Boris, but something felt very wrong. Still firmly in the saddle, I was slowly rotating off from the back of my horse.

  The cinch strap was cut! As I tried to untangle myself from the oversized warkak, Anna turned sharply and was actually skidding sideways on the snow so that she wouldn't trample me as she had the bandit.

  I came down hard and felt the saddle crack between my legs. For a moment I was stunned. I saw Anna pulling away the saddle with her teeth. I got to my feet, shaking a bit, as an axeman landed a blow on the top of Boris's gelding's neck. Blood sprayed, and the animal suddenly froze and then started to topple.

  Sword in hand, I ran to my employer's aid. Anna, without saddle or baggage, was trotting at my left side. I blessed the man who had trained her. She acted as though she really cared about what happened to me and was staying close for my protection.

  Boris was still in the saddle when his horse fell on its side. The axemen jumped away from the crash and then were on him.

  Boris lost his sword in the fall and was pinned under his dying mount as one of the axemen prepared to deliver a death chop.

  I shouted to attract the attention of the would-be murderer, and the man turned to face me, slipping slightly on the blood-stained snow. As I ran to meet him, he swung a three-meter-long halberd down at me.

  A weapon that
big is much slower than a sword although it hits a whole lot harder. If I had tried to parry it, it would have just kept coming into me, so I chopped at it with all my might and managed to cut through the hickory shaft and its iron reinforcing strips.

  The axe head glanced off my back as I skidded, trying to stop on the slippery snow.

  I realize now that what I had accomplished was to cut my opponent's halberd down to a quarterstaff. As it turned out, he was very good with a quarterstaff.

  He took a quick step backward, found solid footing on Boris's chest, and gave me a quick jab in the solar plexus, which knocked the wind out of me but didn't break my momentum.

  Boris grabbed the man's leg as I was skidding. I slammed into them, knocking the man down and propelling myself over the motionless body of the gelding. From flat on my back, I caught a blurred image of the second axeman coming up to take me out.

  Suddenly the sky darkened and Anna's hoofs came down centimeters from my face. She had jumped entirely over our struggling bodies to bowl over the second axeman.

  I lurched to my feet to see Anna taking on the second axeman in single combat. She danced aside from his axe swipes and then delivered a kick to his left arm that I was sure broke it.

  Then a whack on the side of my helmet knocked me down yet a third time. The first axeman had kicked his way free of Boris and was putting his newly made quarterstaff to use.

  I was hit twice more, across the back and the ribs, before I regained my feet. My opponent swung his staff in a blur of figure eights and twice parried my lunges by slapping my sword aside.

  I once read that the great Japanese swordsman Musashi fought sixty duels before he was thirty years old. In most of those fights to the death, his opponents used real swords while he used a wooden stick. I put it down as a fine example of Japanese embroidery. Or perhaps Musashi's real talent was in finding incompetent opponents.

  That, of course, was before I encountered a man who really knew how to use a stick.

  My opponent was grinning at me through the open face of his helmet. Blood was running freely from my slashed left arm, I was staggering, and he knew I was beaten.