‘No.’ The colonel laughed. ‘You are apprenticed. Everything you do, you learn on the job, and we have all the time in the world to teach you, don’t we?’
Good, thought Josh, this was his kind of education.
The colonel had told Josh to take some time to relax and recuperate after the first set of training missions. He’d mentioned something about quantum dilation; that his body’s cells would take a while to get used to it — like an extreme form of jet lag. He woke late the next morning. His sleep had been disturbed by a crazy dream: headless noblemen swimming after him down the Seine, while weird ghosts stood on the bridges as he swam underneath them.
When he came downstairs, he found the house unusually peaceful, which could only mean that the colonel was out. He was one of those people who was incapable of doing anything quietly; just breathing seemed to require a cacophony of coughs and verses of song.
Josh was still getting used to the idea that the colonel could be in another century or just down the shops buying some biscuits.
After searching the kitchen cupboards for something that resembled a ‘normal’ breakfast, and there were many things that didn’t, he took some brioche and jam out into the conservatory and began to flick through one of the books the old man had given him the night before.
The colonel’s cat magically appeared on the chair next to him and began eyeing the food. Josh stroked it absent-mindedly as he read. The textbook described the properties of temporal glyphs, each symbol laid out on its own page. The text was small and he had to concentrate hard to stop the letters jumping around. He tried to find one of the those that had been tagged to the gold, but they were hard to visualise the morning after. The memory of them was fading.
Josh had finished his breakfast, or at least the part he’d managed to rescue from the cat, when he heard the first crash. It wasn’t the usual clatter of things being knocked sideways by the coat-tails of the colonel, but the sound of something being dropped from a great height and breaking into a thousand pieces, and it had come from the study and not the front door.
This was followed by a second noise, quieter than the first and more in the form of a low groan, as if someone had hurt themselves badly and hadn’t the strength to call out for help.
Josh moved stealthily towards the study door, looking for something to use as a weapon. He wanted to believe that the colonel had been working in the study the whole time and had hurt himself getting something from one of the higher shelves, but he knew that someone had probably broken in through the window and had injured themselves in the process.
He pushed the door open enough to look through the crack and saw a large man sprawled on the sofa. The coffee table looked as if he’d landed on it first: parts of model aeroplane and wood were scattered over the floor.
He was talking to himself and Josh recognised the colonel’s voice, although the robes and the shaved head made him think twice. He put down the brass poker he had been holding for purely defensive purposes and went over to the old man.
‘You’re not looking your best,’ Josh said as he spotted the blood seeping through the old man’s clothes. He was dressed in a white toga, like someone from an old Charlton Heston movie.
‘Seventeen to the fourth, Tiberian. Twenty-five. Nine. Fourth branch, ninth parallel,’ panted the colonel.
‘Where have you been? Looks like Rome or Greece maybe? You want me to call an ambulance?’
The old man coughed and lifted himself up on one elbow. He looked very odd with no beard or hair, like a well-scrubbed potato. He shook his head and repeated: ‘Seventeen to the fourth, Tiberian. Twenty-five. Nine. Fourth branch . . .’
‘Yeah, I got it.’ Josh repeated it back to him.
‘Good,’ sighed the colonel. He closed his eyes and disappeared.
‘Well, that was weird,’ muttered Josh, looking at the bloodstain on the sofa.
‘So you’re sure it was me?’ the colonel asked with a grave look on his face.
‘Yeah, you turned up with all this blood and . . .’
‘Stop. I told you not to tell me any of the details.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because it hasn’t happened to me yet. Something very bad must have occurred if I have come back into my own timeline — it’s called an intercession.’ He was stroking his beard with one hand and still holding the bag of shopping in his other.
‘But don’t you want to know what he — you said?’ Josh found it weird even saying that out loud.
‘Absolutely not! Under no circumstances can you tell me. It breaches about a hundred or so clauses of the Temporal Act.’
‘What act?’
The colonel paced around the study trying not to look at his own bloodstain on the sofa.
‘The Temporal Act is the basic tenet of all our laws. The Protectorate will come down on us like a ton of bricks. We’ll both end up in Bedlam!’
‘The Protectorate, are they like time police?’
The colonel shook his head. ‘Police no — more like secret service, the Stasi maybe. They really do make people disappear.’
‘To Bedlam?’
‘If you’re lucky. You must never mention this, ever. They aren’t particular about who they lock up in these situations.’
Josh shrugged. He had no idea what was going on and the only person who did wouldn’t tell him.
The colonel paced around for a few more minutes, and then seemed to make a decision.
‘All right, I have a plan. It was about time I introduced you to them anyway. Grab a coat. I’m going to take you to meet a few friends of mine.’
28
Others
Josh had never seen the colonel inside a car. It reminded him of one of those Russian bears imprisoned in a zoo where the cage was far too small for him.
‘The Order has a series of staging posts at key points in time,’ the colonel began as he tried and failed to get his window to go down further than an inch. ‘They are commonly known as Chapter Houses and can always be relied upon for sanctuary. Usually they’re run by a family, or at least a husband and wife, who act as hosts and can comfortably accommodate over a hundred people at any one time.’
‘And why exactly are we going there?’ asked Josh, still at a loss as to what was stressing the colonel.
‘I need to go and find out what happened, and you can’t come with me.’ He held up a hand as Josh began to protest. ‘This is for your own protection. Where I may have to go is strictly off-limits and very dangerous. This Chapter House is a safe place, and it’s run by people I trust. You can continue your training with them until I return.’
Josh didn’t like the idea of being dumped with a bunch of strangers.
‘So do I have a choice? Can’t I stay at your house?’
‘Not really. Anyway, I’m sure you’ll find some of their guests are far better company than an old codger like me.’
The cab stopped outside a decrepit second-hand bookshop. The colonel unrolled the strangest collection of banknotes, peeled away a suitable number and handed them to the driver.
‘Trouble is that the house tends to move about so the best way to get to it is through a waybook.’ He nodded toward the bookshop.
The inside of the shop was cramped and musty. Dust, disturbed by their entrance, swirled in strange and unusual eddies around the naked light bulbs that barely lit the cluttered shelves. There was no sign of a shopkeeper, even after the bell that hung over the door had rung itself out. The colonel didn’t seem to care; he knew what he was looking for. Josh followed him through the book-lined maze to a section labelled ‘special interests’ where he began to pull various books out and inspect them.
‘Books are one of the best ways to navigate back through the last couple of thousand years. Although the earlier ones are rather hard to get close to. You’ll find that most second-hand dealers and even some charity shops can get you back a good two hundred.’
He stopped when he found a small tattered copy of The Lo
ndon Guide.
‘You can tell a waybook by the author — J. K. Bartholomew — it’s like a codename. Now where is it?’ He flicked through the pages. ‘Here we are: “The Charitable House of the Hundred”, fifty-six Mendover Place, Camden. Interesting — hasn’t been situated there for over eighty years. Alixia must be working at the British Museum again.’
The Charitable House was nothing much to look at from the outside. A slightly run down, terraced Edwardian town house in a quiet side street of Camden; it didn’t really match up to the gothic mansion that the colonel had described, and its three, slightly wonky storeys certainly didn’t appear to be able to accommodate thirty — let alone a hundred people.
They climbed the worn stone steps up to the black lacquered front door. Josh noticed the circular brass knocker was shaped like a snake eating its own tail — a match for the colonel’s tattoo.
The door was opened on the third knock by a bone-white old man dressed entirely in black. He stared directly at them with dark, haunted eyes.
‘State your business!’ he snapped sharply as his nose sniffed the air. ‘We don’t take kindly to costermongers and hawkers!’
‘Arcadin, you’re in the wrong century again, you blind fool. It’s me, Rufius!’
Arcadin’s face turned sideways as if looking past Josh. ‘And the boy?’
‘Apprentice. Under my charge.’
Arcadin stood aside and waved them in. ‘You’ll have to change. We are in the middle of luncheon,’ he wheezed.
They walked into a reception area. Before them stood a large arched wooden door with the snake symbol carved into it. On the wall to his left was a smaller door marked ‘Ladies’ and to his right ‘Gentlemen’. The colonel was already making a beeline for the Gents.
Arcadin motioned to Josh to follow the old man. ‘It would be advisable to change for lunch, sir,’ he said with a sneer as his blank eyes inspected Josh’s clothes. Josh had to hold back the urge to punch the guy in the face, and he dutifully followed the colonel through the door.
The changing rooms were like something from an exclusive golf club, lined with wooden lockers and pegs. There was a row of coats hanging along the wall. Josh estimated that there were at least twenty or so, all from very different periods in time. The colonel took off his greatcoat and hung it on the next available peg and took a long cloak from the locker marked ‘Westinghouse’. Each locker had a brass plaque with names like ‘De Freis’, ‘Makepiece’ and ‘Newton’. He was about to ask about the last one when he saw one with his own name. Opening the door, he found a dark set of robes, nowhere near as grand as the ones the colonel was wearing, but, still, they seemed to fit well.
He checked himself out in the mirror — he looked like an entirely different version of himself, one that had just graduated from university.
‘I see they got my message,’ the colonel said, checking Josh’s robes to see if they fitted.
‘Why do we have to wear these?’ Josh asked, holding out his arms like wings.
‘Partly for practical reasons. The house has had a few modifications over the years, doesn’t exactly exist in any one time period, so it is advisable to wear something made from an early millennium — to cover one’s modesty, as it were.’
‘And the other part?’ Josh thought this was the most ridiculous thing he had ever seen.
‘Tradition. It is part of who we are. Our robes are a symbol of the Order’s origins, just as this’ — the colonel pointed to the symbol of the snake devouring its own tail on his breast — ‘Ouroboros. Symbolises the eternal circle of life and death.’
Arcadin was standing by the large door with an approving look on his face. The dress code now satisfied, he could let them into the house. He took out an ornate key and placed it in the lock. The metal snake released its own tail and rotated 180 degrees as the sound of heavy gears grinding echoed from behind the wood. Suddenly the door broke into two and swung away to reveal the entrance hall of a seventeenth-century mansion.
Josh had to take a moment to come to terms with the scale of the place. The hall was vast, with a grand sweeping staircase flowing down from the floors above. There were chandeliers with real candles flickering above his head and large portraits of various nobility hanging on the walls.
There was an odd sensation as they stepped through the arch, as though the floor was an inch or so lower than he expected, Josh stumbled and the colonel had to steady him.
‘As I said, the house is not actually all in one time. You get used to it after a while.’
Josh turned back to the door and went back through, much to Arcadin’s disapproval.
‘Don’t dawdle, boy!’ ordered the colonel as he walked off down the hall. ‘I don’t have time to explain. Methuselah will be able to answer all your questions later.’
‘What is that smell?’ Josh asked as the doors closed behind him with a deep resonating boom.
‘Lunch!’ the colonel said rubbing his hands together. ‘And if my nose isn’t deceiving me — the main course. I would say it’s Carpathian boar, one of Methuselah’s specialities.’
They walked quickly, passing many closed doors, each inlaid with a golden symbol. As they got nearer to the delicious aroma, Josh could feel his mouth watering. It was a mixture of herbs, spices and rich dark meats, like a thousand Christmas dinners all rolled into one.
The colonel stopped in front of the last door and motioned to Josh to go in. ‘Guests first. It’s another tradition. You’ll find we have quite a few.’
Josh could hear a murmur of voices behind the door but couldn’t make out how many there were. He was trying not to let the butterflies rise in his stomach; it was okay to be scared, he told himself, just don’t let anyone else see that you are.
The door opened on to the strangest feast Josh had ever seen. The room was like some kind of Viking banqueting hall. Stone walls were decked out with animal skins, and the wooden beams of the roof were hung with shields and axes. Running down the centre was a long table at which a dozen or more people were eating and talking at the top of their voices. At the far end of the table was an enormous hunk of roasted meat. Judging by the tusks sticking out of its snout, it was some kind of prehistoric pig.
A tall Arabian man stood carving the haunches of the boar with vicious-looking sword. He reminded Josh of a villain from a Disney movie. His beard was black and sharply pointed, and his dark hair was swept back to expose his widow peaks. He was olive-skinned: ‘Swarthy’ was how his gran would have put it. There was definitely more than a touch of the gypsy about him. To his right sat a petite woman with immaculate poise, and skin like porcelain. She held up a plate for the man to lay generous slices of meat onto and then handed it down the row of guests. Josh watched as the plate was passed along. He studied the faces of each of the eccentric-looking diners as it progressed until it came to the group of young people who had collected at the end of the table nearest to him.
They were dressed differently, but he recognised most of them from the night in the pub. Sim nodded at him as soon as their eyes met. He was sitting between a boy and a girl who, judging by their features, were obviously siblings. There was another girl with her back to Josh. As she turned to see the new arrivals, he saw that it was Caitlin. His smile dissolved at the look she gave him — she wasn’t pleased to see him. The posh boy, Dalton, was sitting next to her saying something in her ear and chuckling to himself.
‘Rufius, you old dog. Welcome!’ bellowed the Arabian man. ‘Pull up a chair and have some of this delicious boar.’ He knocked over his wine as, with a wide gold-toothed grin, he waved the sword around. The lady next to him began to fuss over the spillage and deftly took the sword off him before he did any more damage.
‘Methuselah,’ replied the colonel. ‘Alixia.’ He bowed slightly to the lady who performed the smallest of curtsies in return.
Methuselah reminded Josh of the Grand Viseer from Aladdin, replete with jewelled rings, long silk-woven robes and a hint of something magical i
n his dark eyes. He swept over to greet the colonel with a hearty handshake that turned into a bear hug.
‘So who is this young whelp you’ve brought me?’ Methuselah asked, examining Josh with a cool, calculating glance. ‘There’s hardly anything of him.’
‘This is my latest foundling. Joshua Jones. Joshua, I have the great pleasure of introducing you to one of my oldest friends, Methuselah DeFreis, and his beautiful wife, Alixia, and their family.’
Josh shook Methuselah’s hand and bowed awkwardly to his wife. Everyone had stopped talking and turned to stare at him as if expecting him to say something.
‘Hi.’ Josh was at a loss as to what to say next.
‘Man of few words. Like myself!’ Methuselah grinned as he slapped Josh on the shoulder. ‘We’re going to get on famously. Have a seat, my boy, and let’s see if we can get some meat on those bones.’ Methuselah placed Josh next to Sim and passed him a plate of food that his wife had been busily preparing.
The colonel went and sat with their host at the other end of the table, leaving Josh alone with Caitlin and her friends.
‘Good to see you again,’ Sim said, handing Josh a drink.
Josh had initially thought that they were similar ages, but now they were close he could see that Sim may be a little younger.
‘Is it true you solved the Leda and the Swan?’ Sim asked with a little too much enthusiasm.
‘Er, yeah. What the hell are you lot doing here? Are you all——’
‘Anachronists?’ Sim chuckled. ‘Yes, I guess you could say we’re all fate-shifters of one sort or another.’
Josh looked around the group as they talked and ate. Caitlin was having some kind of quiet argument with Dalton.
‘I take it Caitlin never told you before the gig?’ Sim asked as he handed Josh some cutlery.
‘Nope,’ Josh said, carving off a piece of the boar. It was delicious. He seemed to be constantly hungry these days. The incident with the other colonel had spoiled breakfast, and that had seemed like hours ago.
The Infinity Engines Books 1-3 Page 16