Overtime Tom Holt

by Overtime (lit)

  'Why?'

  Blondel shrugged. 'Tax reasons.'

  'Ah,' Guy said. That, he felt, would account for it.

  'What they used to do,' Blondel said, 'and please excuse me if I get the tenses wrong, was to take money from the future and invest it in the Second Crusade; you know, King Richard's crusade. Well, don't you see?'

  'No.'

  'Oh. Well, I'm not a hundred per cent sure myself. But it occurs to me that if you start bringing lots of things - you know, gold coins, that sort of thing - back through time and depositing them in another century, then that's going to make the century they end up in rather - what's the word? -unstable. Volatile, even. You run the risk of upsetting the balance of nature, or physics, or whatever. I think that because they made rather a mess of time at about that point, they made the next bit of history go all wrong. It couldn't happen the way it was supposed to happen, because of all these influences from the future upsetting it. On the other hand, it had already happened - because, well, it did - and as a result of it happening, history's what it is today. Or then,' Blondel scratched his ear, and continued. 'Anyway, I think that because of this imbalance or instability or whatever you like to call it, the whole thing sort of blew a fuse. Since the Crusade could neither happen nor not happen, history just washed its hands of the whole thing and left a great big gap. A hole, if you like. And Richard fell into it.'

  'My God.'

  'Exactly,' Blondel finished his glass of port thoughtfully. 'Anyway,' he continued, 'that's beside the point. All I knew at the start was that my agents could take me about in time, so that's what I did. Instead of just going all round the world, I went all round time as well, looking for the King, like I'd promised I would. And that, basically, is what I'm still doing.'

  'I see.'

  Blondel lit a cigar and offered one to Guy. 'It's all right,' he said, 'we don't yet know how bad they are for you. After a while, I found out how to travel through time on my own, without any help from my agents, and it was about then that I started putting two and two together and wondering if perhaps Richard's disappearance might have been their fault. Once I'd come to that conclusion, of course, I didn't want anything more to do with them - well, you wouldn't, would you? - so I gave them the slip and set off on my own. I set up a sort of base here where I can slip back and keep a change of clothes and so on. A sort of pied à temps. Otherwise, I'm mostly on the move, I have to be,' Blondel added. 'You see, they're looking for me.'

  Guy frowned. 'Who?'

  'My agents,' Blondel replied. 'You see, they've got a contract. By the terms of it, I have to give two concerts a week for the rest of my life, and they get ninety-five per cent of the profits.'

  Guy whistled.

  'Not only that,' Blondel went on, grinning, 'but they've invested millions and millions of livres in setting up concerts -gigs, they call them - all through time and now I'm not there to sing at them. No wonder they're worried. It's not their money they're investing.'

  Guy grinned too. 'Awkward,' he said.

  'Exactly,' said Blondel, tipping a little ash into a saucer. 'But the last thing I want to do is get pinned down by them again. I've got to find the King.'

  'Er,' Guy said. 'Has it occurred to you that he might be, well...'

  'Might be what?'

  'Well,' said Guy, 'that when he disappeared, or fell through time or whatever, that he might not actually be anywhere? I mean ...'

  Blondel's face became very cold; then he relaxed.

  'Perhaps,' he said. 'But I've got to keep looking. After all, I did give my word. Now then, another bottle.'

  Blondel filled both glasses and they sat in silence for a while.

  Guy said, 'So, er, where do your sisters fit in?'

  'Sorry?'

  'Your sisters,' Guy repeated. 'Mahaud and Ysabel and, er...'

  'Oh yes,' Blondel said. 'I forgot, do forgive me. They very sweetly agreed to help out, at least to begin with. But you know what women are like. After a bit, you see, they lost interest, got the urge to settle down, that sort of thing. Mahaud and Ysabel met men they rather liked, got married, settled down. Can't blame them, of course. I find that women have this terrible urge to be normal.'

  'And Isoud?'

  'Isoud's still with me,' Blondel said, 'but probably not for much longer. She's been getting terribly restless lately, I think she wants a change. I can recognise the symptoms. Once they start redecorating the place every five minutes, getting new curtains, you can be sure there's something in the air. Oh well, never mind.'

  'So, er...' Guy said.

  'By all means,' Blondel said. 'You look a respectable enough sort of chap to me. You are, aren't you?'

  'Oh yes.'

  'Well then, that's fine,' said Blondel. 'I only ask because as head of the family I have to choose husbands for them, give my consent, dowry, all that sort of nonsense. We're a bit old-fashioned in our family, you see. Or at least,' he added, frowning, 'we will be.'

  'So...?'

  'Absolutely,' Blondel said. 'Just so long as you do this one little thing for me.'

  'Oh yes?' said Guy. 'And what's that?'

  'Are you ready?'

  'As I'll ever be.'

  'Got everything?'

  'Yes.'

  'Right. If the horse gets restive, give him a lump of sugar.'

  'Understood.'

  'You're sure you checked the rope?'

  'Positive.'

  'Right then,' Blondel said. 'Here goes.'

  A single shaft of moonlight cut through the thick clouds and, like a searchlight, picked out Blondel's hair and the silver mounts of his lute as he strolled up to the drawbridge of the castle. The drawbridge was raised, of course, but it was a narrow moat.

  Guy looked round the trunk of the large oak tree he was standing behind and tried to work out how he had got there. There was something about the cold, the darkness and the rather ominous look of the castle that made him want to go away, but since he hadn't the faintest idea of where - let alone when - he was, he decided to stay and see what would happen.

  The horse, whose bridle he was holding, lifted its head sharply and flicked its tail. Guy immediately shovelled another sugar lump between its wet, smelly lips. He disliked horses, and this one in particular. He had an uneasy feeling that it was going to cause trouble. It had been bad enough getting it here, wherever and whenever that was; it had left malodorous traces . of its presence in the corridors and had tried to pick a fight with the lift. He tried thinking of the deep blue eyes of La Beale Isoud, but somehow that didn't work.

  The moon went behind a cloud, and Guy heard Blondel clear his throat and touch the strings of his lute. He was principally worried about dogs, but that wasn't all, by a long way.

  Then Blondel drew his hand across the lute strings and began to sing:

  'L 'amours dont sui epris

  Me semont de chanter;

  Sifais con hons sopris

  Qui ne puet endurer...' A dog barked.

  'Et s'ai je tant con quis

  Que bien mepuis venter...

  A light went on. Then another.

  'Quej'aipiec' a apris

  Leaument a amer...'

  There was a flash of silver in the air, and a sound. A sort of sploshing sound. Blondel stopped singing.

  'And let that be a lesson to you,' came an angry voice from the top of the wall. 'There's people up here trying to sleep.'

  Blondel walked slowly back to the tree. He was very wet.

  'Right,' he said, 'we can cross that one off the list. Well, don't just stand there. We've got a lot more to do tonight.'

  Guy reached in the saddlebag and produced a towel. He'd wondered why Blondel had insisted on packing one; now he knew.

  'Does that happen a lot?' he asked sympathetically.

  'Quite a lot, yes,' said Blondel, drying vigorously. 'Some people, you see, have tin ears. However, that's beside the point. Ready?'

  They walked in silence for a while. Guy, who wasn't used to walking ab
out the countryside in the dark, was concentrating very hard on where he was going, while Blondel seemed to be wrapped up in his own thoughts.

  'I liked the song,' Guy said at last.

  'Sorry?'

  'The song,' Guy repeated. 'I liked it.'

  'Thank you.'

  'Not at all.'

  'Personally,' Blondel said, with a savagery that took Guy quite by surprise, 'I'm sick to the back teeth of it. If I never hear it again, I shall be extremely happy. After all,' he added, rather more calmly, 'I have been singing it now for longer than I can possibly hope to remember. No wonder I've had enough of it. In fact, all music makes me sick these days. If ever I do find the King, I'm going to spend the rest of my life not listening to music.'

  That killed the conversation stone dead for the next ten minutes, during which they walked quietly along, Guy following Blondel and hoping that he knew where he was going. An owl hooted somewhere.

  Guy was just starting to realise that he was feeling hungry when a large white shape appeared out of a bush beside the road, dashed across their path and disappeared into the darkness. As far as Guy was concerned it was one of those incidents which are best left shrouded in mystery, but Blondel suddenly seemed galvanised into action.

  'Don't just stand there,' he said. 'After it.'

  'After what?'

  'The stag, silly. Quick, you get on the horse.'

  Guy wanted to explain that he wasn't desperately efficient with horses, but by this stage Blondel was nowhere to be seen. With a despairing spurt of courage, Guy grabbed at one of the stirrups, put his foot in it and hauled himself up on to the horse. Thankfully, the horse took it quite well. He sorted out the reins, gave the horse a token kick, and was delighted to find that it seemed perfectly willing to accept that as a valid command to move. As he sped through the darkness, he tried to remember what his uncle in Norfolk had tried to teach him when he was ten about rising to the trot.

  'Blondel,' he shouted, 'where are you?'

  'Over here,' came a voice, a long way off. Blondel, it seemed, could run fast. Just as Guy had dragged out of his memory the recognised way of making a horse turn left, the horse pricked up its ears and set off towards the direction of its master's voice.

  'He's in there,' Blondel hissed. Moonlight flashed on the blade of his sword, pointing (as far as Guy was concerned) in no particular direction at all.

  'How do you stop this thing?' Guy asked.

  'Pull on the reins,' Blondel replied. 'Get down and come and help.'

  In the event, Guy found getting off the horse was quite simple, if not particularly dignified. He tied the reins to a handy bush and followed the sound of Blondel's voice. He longed for a torch.

  'In the cave,' Blondel said.

  'Which cave?'

  'There is a cave,' Blondel explained, 'just over there. The white stag just went into it. You don't seem at home in the dark.'

  'I'm not.'

  'You should eat more carrots,' Blondel said absently. 'I think we should go in after it.'

  Guy blinked. 'Do you?' he said.

  'Absolutely,' Blondel replied. 'It had a gold collar round its neck, and the points of its antlers were gilded.'

  'Escaped from a circus or something?' Guy hazarded.

  'Something like that. Look, get the rope, we can use that as a halter. Then follow me.'

  'Blondel ...'

  But Blondel had gone into the cave. As instructed, Guy fetched the rope. He took his time. No point in rushing these things.

  'Hurry up with the damn rope,' came a voice from inside the cave. Against his better judgement, Guy followed. There was a silvery light coming from inside the cave. Perhaps someone in there had a torch.

  As he entered, Guy saw that the light was coming from the antlers of the white stag; they were glowing, as if they were made of glass and had electric filaments inside them. The stag itself was milk-white, and it did indeed have a golden halter and some sort of gold leaf on the sharp bits of its antlers. It was eating sugar lumps from the palm of Blondel's hand.

  'Tie the rope to its antlers,' Blondel whispered. 'Hurry up, man, we haven't got all night.'

  Guy shrugged and edged forward, filled with the reckless courage of an elderly householder looking for burglars armed with his wife's umbrella. To his surprise and relief, the antlers were cold to the touch and the stag didn't try and stick them into him. He tied all the knots he could remember from his boy scout days and handed the other end of the rope to Blondel.

  'Well,' Blondel said, 'this is a bit of luck, don't you think?'

  Guy's eyebrows rose. 'Luck?' he said.

  'Absolutely,' Blondel replied, patting the stag's muzzle. 'Not every day you run across an enchanted stag on Wandsworth Common, now is it?'

  'Is that where we are?' Guy asked, stunned, 'Wandsworth Common?'

  'We are indeed.'

  'I've got an aunt who lives -'

  'Will live,' Blondel interrupted. 'I make it the late fourteenth century, unless my calendar's stopped again.'

  'Oh.' Guy felt suddenly wretched. 'I see.'

  'Out there,' Blondel went on, 'they're having the Black Death and the Peasant's Revolt. Which makes having an enchanted stag a distinct advantage, don't you think?'

  'Well yes,' Guy agreed. What he'd really like, he said to himself, in the circumstances stated, was a machine-gun and a gallon jar of penicillin, but he was prepared to accept any sort of edge he could get. 'Er, what do we do now?'

  'Watch,' Blondel replied. 'Gee up there, boy,' he said to the stag. The stag turned its head and looked at him.

  'My name,' said the stag, 'is Cerf le Blanc.' It said it coldly and without moving any part of its mouth. That, as far as Guy was concerned, put the tin lid on it.

  'Where are you off to in such a hurry?' Blondel asked.

  'Goodbye,' Guy explained. 'Thanks for everything.'

  'Oh well,' Blondel called after him. 'Go carefully. Mind the wolves.'

  Guy's head reappeared at the door of the cave. 'Wolves?' he enquired.

  'Wolves,' Blondel replied, 'were still common in England in the fourteenth century, I think. I'm not sure, actually.'

  'I think I'll come with you,' Guy said; then he whispered, 'Look, is that thing going to make a habit of talking?'

  'I wouldn't worry about it,' Blondel said. 'I don't think it means to hurt us. Do you?'

  'No.'

  'There,' Blondel said, 'you see? Had it from its own lips.'

  'I never mean to hurt anyone,' said Cerf le Blanc. 'Sometimes, though ... But it's always an accident. At least as far as I'm concerned, that is.'

  Blondel gave the stag a reassuring pat. 'That's all right,' he said. 'Have some Turkish Delight and then let's be getting on.' He produced a pink cube from the purse at his belt. There were bits of fluff sticking to it, but the stag didn't seem to mind. When it had finished chewing, it lifted its head, and the light of its antlers dimmed to a discreet glow. It led the way.

  Pursuivant rubbed his eyes and yawned.

  At about this time, back at the Chastel des Larmes Chaudes, the lads would be opening a few cans, passing round the dry-roasted peanuts, getting on with the night shift. On Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays they had a poker school. If the alarm rang, of course, they'd have to go and answer it, but somehow the alarm never seemed to ring any more. Not since Clarenceaux wedged a beer-mat between the bell and the clapper.

  Although the regulation cagoules are supposed to be waterproof, it was Pursuivant's experience that there were a large number of vulnerable points through which rain could penetrate them, just as it had penetrated his sandwiches and his wellington boots. There was supposed to be an umbrella, but Mordaunt Dragon of Arms had snitched it for when he went fishing. The only waxed cotton jacket in the department belonged to White Herald; and given his personal habits, nobody in his right mind would want to wear it even if White Herald was inclined to offer, which he wasn't.

  Pursuivant shivered and wiped the rain off his nose. They'd hi
red a video for tonight, too.

  He peeled back his sleeve and looked at his watch, first wiping away the moisture that obscured the dial. He was due to be relieved at six, but there was a long way to go before then. Plenty long enough to catch pneumonia. There were few crimes he wouldn't commit for a nice hot mug of tea.

  Out in the darkness, a long way off, a pale white light was glowing. Pursuivant rubbed his eyes again and stared. This was more like it, he thought. He reached for the night-glass, wiped the lenses and peered out. The light wasn't there any more. Seeing things.

  No, he wasn't. Clear as anything, a pale white light. Fumbling with numb hands, Pursuivant adjusted the glass and saw two men, very wet, leading a horse and a white stag, whose antlers were producing the light. They were a long way off still, but heading this way. Pursuivant chuckled and wound the handle of the field telephone. It rang, and rang, and rang. Nobody answered it, and no wonder. Some clown had wedged a beer-mat between the bell and the clapper.

  'Oh shit,' Pursuivant muttered under his breath.

  Still, there it was. Nothing for it but to do it himself. Thinking very bitter thoughts about the rest of the department, he groped for his shield (a mitre argent on a sable field, a bend cross keys reversed gules, attired of the second) and his pickaxe handle with big rusty nails driven through it. Chivalry was a concept familiar to the staff of the Chastel des Larmes Chaudes, but they didn't make a big thing about it.

  Feeling extremely foolish, Guy put his revolver away and came out from behind the horse.

  'Is he all right?' he said.

  Blondel looked at the body at his feet. 'Well,' he said, 'if he is then I've just been wasting my time. Thanks for your help, by the way. You meant well.' He stuck a finger through the bullet hole in his hat and spun the hat round a couple of times.

  'Like I said,' Guy muttered defensively, 'I don't see terribly well in the -'

  'Yes, well,' Blondel said, 'it's the thought that counts.' He put up his sword, gave the body a kick, and put his hat back on. 'Don't worry about him,' he said. 'He'll be right as rain in the morning.' He glanced up at the sky. 'Well, better, anyway.'