by John Brunner
"Father, you are telling me that this kind of thing has already been done?"
"We have been doing it for nearly forty years."
"But this is far more dangerous than what's been done by the corrupt Licentiates!" Don Miguel cried, feeling the universe reel around him. It was known to everyone in the Society, and suspected by a few outsiders, that its upper echelons were party to unshared secrets; the incumbent Pope, for example, at the inception of his reign was now customarily taken on a trip into the period of the ministry of Jesus, a zone of history completely banned to anyone else. But to have been assured that Jesus was a historical figment could hardly have been a more terrifying blow than what Father Ramón had just announced.
The Jesuit looked at him calmly.
"There is no corruption in this matter. There is only an honest desire to explore the works of our Creator, that we may the more completely comprehend His omnipotence. Would you condemn in the same breath a thief who stole away a valuable watch in order to dispose of it for gain, and a student of horology who took it in order to inspect and copy the mechanism, so that he might improve his own abilities?"
"Naturally not," agreed Don Miguel, his mind working furiously. "But -- but if all this is true, it scarcely seems to matter whether we interfere or not! We ourselves may be only a fluid cohesion of possibilities, subject to change at the whim of someone who chooses not to obey the rule of non-interference."
"True," said Father Ramón stonily. "That is a logical consequence of there being free will; in His wisdom, God gave it not to an elect few, but to all mankind."
There was silence. Eventually Don Miguel said, "I suppose this might have been foreseen by anyone who troubled to work out in detail what kind of a future Borromeo's discovery opened up to us."
"We may give thanks that up to now few people have thought the matter through." Once more Father Ramón smiled. "Well, Don Miguel Navarro! How do you like the universe we live in?"
"I do not," said Don Miguel, and was at a loss to describe the sense of impermanence, volatility and changeability that the other's words had instilled in him.
"Nonetheless," said Father Ramón dryly, "this is how things are. Go now to Red Bear and report to him about your trip. And do not speak to anyone of what I've told you. For if this truth were to become known to those who are not ready for it -- why, the sky would fall!"
When Don Miguel turned and walked to the door, he was surprised to find the floor still firm beneath his feet.
PART TWO
The Word not Written
I
The quatrocentennial year was dying in a blaze of glory. The winter weather had been kind, and New Year's Eve proved to be fine and mild, spiced with a wind whose nip was just enough to sharpen the step to briskness and put colour in the faces of the people. Bonfires had been lit at sunset in most of the main streets of Londres, and around them nut vendors, potato bakers and kebab men with their rapier-like skewers laden with alternate lumps of meat, kidney and onion cried their hot wares.
There had been a great mock battle on the Thames as dusk fell; natives and visitors had flocked in their thousands to witness the finest reconstruction ever presented of the battle between the all-conquering Armada and the gallant but pitiful English ships four hundred years ago -- a re-enactment correct in every detail, thanks to the Society of Time.
Even so there were a few nationalist diehards in the crowd who shouted objections to the display, maintaining that it was an insult to them and their ancestors. But most of the spectators answered with jeers, for they regarded themselves as subjects of the Empire regardless of what blood happened to flow in their veins: Spanish, English, French, Mohawk, Cherokee, Sioux . . . Soon enough the civil guards quieted the disturbance, and when a golden barge hove in sight bearing His Most Catholic Majesty Philip IX, Rey y Imperador, the loyal shout which greeted its appearance echoed across all Londres.
Smiling, bowing graciously from side to side, the King was rowed over the same water that shortly before had been blood-red with the fires of mock battle. Another barge followed, bearing the Prince Imperial, his Princess, and their children, and behind that again came the barge of the Prince of New Castile. The King's barge had sixteen oars a side; those of his sons had twelve, and at one of the oars sweated and cursed Don Miguel Navarro.
Whoever the blazes had thought up this delicate tribute to the royal family, he muttered to himself, ought by simple justice to have been pulling on the oars too. But it was fairly certain that he wouldn't be. He was probably simpering and dancing attendance on the King or the Prince Imperial.
Even though they were going with the stream, they were pulling against the last surge of the tide, and it called for real work to keep up with the King's barge, as it had eight more oars and was anyway less heavily laden. As a gesture of loyalty the idea was splendid; as a job it was abominable.
It was small consolation to reflect that this ceremony was the outcome of many months of behind-the-scenes intrigue at Court, and that precisely because he was Commander of the Society of Time the Prince of New Castile was going to play host this New Year's Eve to his father, elder brother, and a gang of foreign dignitaries, chief among them the Ambassador of the Confederacy of the East. Certainly it was a great and signal honour for the Society to have been chosen as the focus for the climax of the quatrocentennial year, but like a good many royal favours it had its drawbacks. Don Miguel struggled to ignore the ache in his arms and thought of the white elephants -- sacred, hence obligatory to feed regardless of expense -- which the Kings of Siam were reputed to give to subjects they intended to ruin.
He was in no mood for merrymaking anyway, what with the aftermath of the revelations Father Ramón had recently confided to him concerning the Society's exploration of unreal branches of history. With personal friends, in a place and among company of his own choosing, he might have passed a pleasant enough New Year's Eve, but as things stood he was compelled to follow up this chore on the river with a whole evening of acting as a host to all kinds of noble idiots in the Commander's palace at Greenwich. He could tell he was not alone among the younger Licentiates on the rowers' benches in thinking that this might prove unendurable.
Probably the crowds that watched the splendid water-procession from the embankments did not even imagine that anyone could object to being involved. Probably, when the spectacle was over, they dispersed sighing with envy, thinking of the magnificence of the royal reception and wishing they were prominent enough to be invited.
In bitter contrast Don Miguel and his companions sat hauling on their oars and envied the simple folk going off to spend New Year's Eve with their families or to join the revels which would make the streets noisy and bright until dawn.
"You'd think," he growled, selecting one of the many discomforts that plagued him, "in a Prince's barge they'd at least pad the seats decently!"
His opposite number on the other side of the boat, another Licentiate of about his own age whose name was Don Felipe Basso, curled his lip. "It's clear you'd rather be anywhere else tonight, Miguel!" he answered in a low tone.
"Even Macedonia was better than this," Don Miguel agreed, invoking a reference to the field-trip into the age of Alexander the Great on which he had first made Don Felipe's acquaintance . . . and acquired the scar which, while it merely twisted his smile, nowadays rendered his scowl positively ferocious.
"Don Miguel! Keep the time!"
From his post in the stern Don Arturo Cortés rapped the order in his shrill, acid voice. Seated in his most magnificent plum-coloured cloak and snow-white velvet breeches on a high-backed gilt and plush chair, he was making the most of his assignment as overseer of the amateur rowers. He was one of the senior Licentiates of the Society below General Officer rank; he had already commanded a number of expeditions into the past, and was widely tipped to succeed Red Bear as the Director of Fieldwork. Somehow he had acquired a General Officer's wand, to which he was not yet entitled, and was employing it as a bato
n to beat time for the oarsmen. Such a presumptuous gesture was typical of his over-weening self-esteem.
Don Miguel bit back his answer -- he was altogether too close alongside the tapestry pavilion in which the Prince was sitting to speak louder than a whisper without being overheard and perhaps ticked off -- and leaned compliantly on his oar. But when Don Arturo's attention had wandered again, Don Felipe spoke softly.
"He doesn't seem to like you, Miguel!"
"Who -- Don Arturo? That makes us even. I don't like him either."
"A little faster still!" rasped Don Arturo, rising now with his wand outstretched as though he were conductor of a band of music. "We're falling too far behind!"
By the time the barge was gentled in to the wharf near the Commander's palace, Don Miguel's buttocks were bruised, his hands were rubbed sore by the oar, and his temper was close to flashpoint. Face like thunder, he remained on his bench and watched Don Arturo with his usual officiousness directing the disembarkation of the Prince. With part of his mind, however, he was wondering whether out of sheer self-interest he ought to try and counter the dislike which Felipe had referred to. It was obvious where it had its source. Everyone seemed to think he had handled the recent affair of the contraband Aztec mask rather well -- indeed, he was wearing tonight for the first time at any Society function the outward sign of the Commander's approval, the gem-encrusted collar and star of the Order of the Scythe and Hourglass which cynical old Borromeo himself had selected for the Society's emblem.
It crossed his mind that if he had played his cards right he might have used this new honour as a means of escaping duty on the rower's bench. But it was not in his nature to think of things like that at times when they might be helpful.
Don Arturo had a reputation for resenting any younger member of the Society who achieved too notable a success. The allegations were being borne out by the way he had treated Don Miguel lately. Simply for his own comfort Don Miguel reasoned, he would be well advised to play up a bit to Don Arturo.
But he wasn't going to start doing so this evening. Not after Don Arturo's performance aboard the barge.
"Are you going to sit here all night, Miguel?" Don Felipe said, clapping his friend on the shoulder. "Have you suddenly conceived a liking for that badly padded seat?"
Don Miguel sighed and roused himself, giving a rueful glance at his hands. "Why did I not think to bring leather-palmed gloves instead of my best white silk pair which the oar would have rubbed to shreds? Ah well, it's over, and I'm thankful. How long do you imagine it will be before we can find a drink?"
Companionably arm-in-arm with Felipe he made his way towards the gangplank.
The Prince was ashore by now. The wharf had been carpeted with purple, and a pathway of the same material led up over the rolling green lawn towards the main portico of the palace. Either side of the carpet, huge immobile Guinea-men stood with flaring torches to light the way; candles in coloured glass balls had been hung like fairy fruit on the branches of the trees and glowed red, yellow, blue, white among artificial leaves. Every window of the palace was ablaze with light except for the upper two floors where the servants and slaves were quartered under the eaves, and the higher windows of the great central tower where the Commander's own time apparatus was housed. Don Miguel had a sinking feeling that before the night was out at least one person would have been persuaded to take a royal or noble visitor up that tower and show off the gadgetry, involving the miserable technicians in a day's frantic work tomorrow re-adiusting the delicate settings.
The strains of a band playing the currently fashionable dance-music drifted down from the palace. There was at present a fad for the chanted melodic lines and intense drumming of the Mohawks, and as Prince of New Castile, of course, the Commander could have the finest American musicians at call.
Distantly visible through the huge windows flanking the entrance door of the main hall Don Miguel made out the General Officers of the Society waiting to greet the King who by now was almost at the threshold. Red Bear, inevitably, was the most readily identifiable, with his heavy black braids of hair -- and, also inevitably, one of the officers was absent. Father Ramón would not be here until later.
Surrounded by a gaggle of courtiers, the two royal brothers and the Princess Imperial followed the King towards the house. Their faces eloquent of their suspicion that these high-ranking amateurs might have done the valuable barges some harm, the Society's watermen were taking over the pot-bellied craft again to paddle them back to the boat-houses. Most of the temporary crew had already set off in the wake of the Princes.
"Move, you two!" Sharper than ever, Don Arturo came bustling across the wharf waving his wand. "Don't you see the mooring must be cleared? There on the river is the barge of the Ambassador of the Confederacy -- we dare not keep him waiting!"
Don Miguel might have answered back this time, now the Commander was out of earshot, but Don Felipe sensibly warned him against it by closing fingers hard on his upper arm. Together they obeyed Don Arturo's instructions, while the watermen hastily shoved off to make room for the next arrivais.
"Come on, Miguel!" Don Felipe urged. "We don't want to get fouled up in the Ambassador's train, do we?"
"No, we don't -- I'm already fouled up enough." Don Miguel tore his dull gaze away from the looming, lantern-outlined shape moving with plashing oars down the river towards them, and turned in the direction of the lawn. "Expecting to enjoy yourself this evening, are you, Felipe?"
"Me? I can enjoy myself anywhere. But you look as though the hand of doom's been laid on you."
"If so, I know exactly where," sighed Don Miguel ruefully, rubbing the seat of his breeches.
Don Felipe laughed, linked arms with his friend again, and hurried him up the slope towards the lights of the palace.
II
The main hall of the palace, the focus of the grand reception, was gorgeously decorated and remarkably warm -- a major advantage, in the opinion of most of the younger Licentiates, not because they appreciated the heat themselves but because the pretty girls who'd been invited could show off in their lightest and filmiest gowns. Already over-warm from rowing in his own uncomfortable formal attire, Don Miguel was not impressed. Moreover, his first glance inside informed him that the throng assembled was milling like a disturbed ants' nest. The chaotic comings and goings stemmed from the fact that guests were arriving from both sides of the house: from the roadway as well as from the wharf facing the river. Consequently every few moments a spearhead of Guinea-men would lead a surge of notables one way or the other across the floor so that they could greet newcomers at the door in accordance with the dictates of protocol.
Paradoxically, the sight of this swirl and bustle raised Don Miguel's spirits a trifle. With such a confusion of people it was conceivable that he might contrive to be overlooked, might slip away to a quiet anteroom and savour his mood of gloom in private with a jug of wine. He made a meaningless response to some comment of Don Felipe's concerning the quality of the women here, his eyes roving around in search of a way to escape.
And then he heard his name called.
His spirits sank again as he turned and saw Red Bear gesturing at him imperiously en route from the riverside entrance -- where the Ambassador of the Confederacy had just come in -- towards the landward door. A summons like that could hardly be ignored. He moved in Red Bear's wake, and Don Felipe, who had also been signalled to, accompanied him.
"I think we're going to enjoy this," Don Felipe said softly. "Do you see who that is who just turned up?"
The major-domo at the land entrance had a fine voice, but the babble of conversation and the noise of the band made it hard to recognise the names he called out. Don Felipe presumably was referring to the group of three -- an elderly man and two young girls -- who were pausing in the centre of the wide double doorway, but Don Miguel did not recognise any of them.
He was about to say so, when Red Bear, having greeted the trio, turned and again beckoned to them. The
y strode forward and bowed.
"Your Grace!" One had the feeling that this formality and routine appealed to Red Bear, with his Mohawk background. "I have much pleasure in presenting Don Felipe Basso, Licentiate in Ordinary of the Society of Time, and Don Miguel Navarro, Licentiate in Ordinary, Companion of the Order of the Scythe and Hourglass. Don Miguel, Don Felipe: His Grace the Duke of Scania, Ambassador of the United Kingdoms of Sweden and Norroway -- the Lady Ingeborg, the Lady Kristina."
His daughters, presumably. Bowing again, Don Miguel took a second look at them. They were very much alike, and also very much like the Duke -- tall, slender, with the shining fair hair which on their father's leonine head was turning to snow-white. Their eyes were large and blue, their complexions were like milk, and their gowns were clearly designed by a master. Without ornament or embroidery they managed to look dazzling and put the baroque finery of most of the other women to shame.