Time's Children

by D. B. Jackson

  Tobias held his tongue, but couldn’t help wrinkling his nose.

  “You disagree?” She sounded delighted rather than offended.

  “I don’t know nearly as much–”

  “Stop,” she said. “I’m asking your opinion. Colleague to colleague.”

  All right. “I think Muul’s an idiot.”

  The minister clapped her hands, her delight evident. “Excellent! Why?”

  “War is a symptom,” he said. “Extreme, yes, but not different in kind from any other diplomatic conflict. In the end, it all comes down to commerce, the quest for gold.”

  “Talk about fusty! You sound just like Fetgarth.”

  Tobias lifted a shoulder. “Even an Oaqamaran gets something right now and then.”

  Her smile tightened. “You’re right, of course.” Her voice dropped. “But that’s dangerous talk around here these days.”

  “Forgive me.”

  “Nothing to forgive. Just beware.”

  Tobias glanced past her to the far end of the table, where the discussion droned on. The Seer eyed his companions, but appeared to add nothing to the debate.

  “What can you tell me about the Seer?” Tobias asked.

  The minister looked that way as well. “What do you want to know?”

  “He strikes me as… odd. I almost had the impression that he’d been drinking before he arrived.”

  “Well, that’s the Tincture, isn’t it?”

  As soon as she said this, Tobias realized how foolish he must have sounded asking the question. Of course he knew of Tincture, just as he knew about Seers. He had never met one of the Magi before this night, and so had never been assailed by the smell of the drug they used to induce their powers. Still, he should have worked this out for himself.

  Just as every major court between the oceans had Travelers, so did they have Seers, men and women of varying talents. Some could recall word for word all that they read and heard. Others could divine the future, or discern truth or lies in the words they heard.

  “I should have known,” he said. “Forgive me for asking.”

  She raised a shoulder. “There’s nothing to forgive. Still, I’m surprised. Were there no Magi in Windhome? No one to teach you and the other Travelers about Seer magick?”

  “No, none.”

  “Let me guess,” she said. “The chancellor of Windhome is a devout follower of the Two.”

  “Well… Yes.”

  “Naturally.” Seeing the confusion on Tobias’s face, she added, “The Temples, especially their most fervent adherents, have long been uncomfortable with the Magi’s particular brand of magick. Traveling through time, or instantaneously across great distances, doesn’t seem to trouble them. But the knowledge that Seers bring – somehow that’s more than they can tolerate.”

  “What I do isn’t magick,” Tobias said. Even as he said this, though, he thought of the Belvora. He had been hunted by a magick demon.

  “Isn’t it?” She raised her eyebrows. “I can’t do it. No one at this table can, except for you.”

  “Without my chronofor–”

  “The chronofor is an instrument, nothing more. The magick resides within you. You have a power possessed by few. You can call it science, or craft, or even artifice, as some call the Seers’ abilities. In the end, it’s magick.”

  He wanted to argue, but he heard in her words an echo of what Wansi had told him before he left Trevynisle.

  He would need time to consider this. “We were talking about Tincture.”

  Her smile deepened, conveying an understanding of his thoughts that made him uncomfortable. “Yes, we were. What do you care to know?”

  “Does it always smell so strong?”

  “I don’t even notice it anymore. And it’s not as though the smell would keep any Seer from using it.”

  Tobias frowned at this.

  “It’s terribly addicting. More so than drink.” Amusement flitted across her square face. “More so even than love. And it leaves him much as you see him: withdrawn, contemplative, clouded in a way. It’s essentially a narcotic, but it enhances his innate abilities, just as the chronofor enables yours.”

  “And the Temples object to the drug?”

  “You’d have to ask your chancellor,” she said. “But no, I don’t think it’s the narcotic.” She paused, eyeing her wine. “I believe it’s the knowledge. What you and other Travelers do is physical. You go places, or to different times. Binders and healers – their abilities are different as well. With the Tincture, diviners like our Osten Cavensol, or any other sort of Magi, gain access to knowledge only the Two are supposed to possess. I think the Temples view the Seers as a threat to the primacy of Kheraya and Sipar. If mere mortals can know such things, what use have we for the God and Goddess? More to the point, what use do we have for those who serve them?”

  “What nonsense are you spouting now, minister?”

  They both turned to the sovereign, who apparently had abandoned the argument about weapons.

  “Nothing of consequence, my liege,” she said smoothly.

  “Now, why do I doubt that?” He shifted his gaze to Tobias. “I hope your meal was satisfactory, and the conversation to your liking.”

  “Yes, my liege. It’s been a fascinating evening.”

  Mearlan eyed the minister again, though only for an instant. “I’m sure. But it grows late, and you and I have much to discuss come the morning.”

  Tobias heard a dismissal in the words. He stood. “Yes, my liege.”

  “Goodnight, Walker.”

  He bowed to the sovereign, nodded once to the minister, and left the hall. He hadn’t taken two steps into the courtyard when he heard a light footfall behind him. He spun, recognized the slight form of the page, Grig.

  “You startled me.”

  “Forgive me, my lord.”

  Tobias walked on and the boy fell in step a pace behind him. Despite having drunk more wine than he intended, Tobias remembered the way back to the inner ward and his quarters. As he approached the arched entrance to the stairway, he spotted another figure standing in the darkness.

  The princess.

  Seeing her, he thought of Mara standing in the moonlight the night before he left Windhome. He recalled as well his reaction to seeing Sofya, and he endured a pang of profound guilt. Droë might have been amused. Mostly, though, he wondered why now two girls had waited for him in the darkness. Wansi had called him handsome. Was he really?

  “I know my way from here, Grig. Thank you.”

  “Do you need anything else, my lord?” the boy asked, his eyes on the princess.

  “No. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  He didn’t wait for the page’s reply before approaching Sofya, who stared up at the sky, a dark cape around her shoulders.

  “Are the stars the same in Trevynisle as they are here?” she asked as he drew near.

  “Some are, your highness. Others…” He gestured at the sky. “Others are unfamiliar to me.”

  He halted a short distance from her and gazed up at the moon, a half disc in the western sky. A few clouds scudded overhead, but otherwise the night was clear.

  “How old are you?” Sofya asked.

  “I’ve just had my fifteenth birthday. And you?”

  She glared at him. “That is a presumption,” she said, her voice as cold as the Southern Sea. “My asking a question of you does not convey permission for you to do the same of me.”

  “Yes, your highness. Please forgive me.”

  She tipped her face to the night sky once more. “I’ll be sixteen in a little more than a turn. The fourth day of Kheraya’s Descent.”

  Not knowing what to say, he decided it was safer to say nothing at all.

  “It will be a grand celebration, this year especially. Father imports skybombs from Kantaad just for the occasion.”

  “I look forward to it.”

  She sidled closer to him. The air around them was redolent with her perfume. “Can you keep
a secret?”

  “You have my word, your highness.”

  “The night of my birthday, Willem of Ysendyr intends to ask my father for permission to court me.”

  He wasn’t certain how to respond to this either. Fortunately she didn’t pause for long.

  “He’s heir to the house; one day he’ll be duke. Our fathers haven’t yet worked out the details, what with me not being of age, and all. But Willem and I have spoken of it often. Our houses have always been close; Ysendyr has supported us against Sheraigh insurgents in the past, and would again, I’m sure. Willem loves me very much. He’s seventeen, you know.” She gave him a sly look. “Do you have a girl? Back in Trevynisle, perhaps?”

  Was Mara his girl? He pondered the question for the span of a single breath and decided she was. “Yes, I do.”

  Sofya arched an eyebrow. “Really? What’s her name?”

  “Mara. She’s still a novitiate, though she’s nearly sixteen. Someday she’ll be Spanner in a court.” He nearly mentioned her desire to come to Daerjen, but decided that might be impolitic.

  “Have you kissed?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you love her?”

  He felt his color rise and was glad for the darkness. The Tirribin had asked him the same question, and he found it no easier to answer the princess. “I miss her,” he said, knowing it wasn’t the same.

  Sofya didn’t seem to mind. “Of course you do.” She put a hand to her heart. “Star-crossed loves are the most romantic, don’t you think? I do.” She let out a small gasp. “Wouldn’t it be wonderful if she could come here? I mean, old Mikel can’t live forever, can he?”

  Tobias laughed. “I’m not sure your father would appreciate the sentiment.”

  She dismissed this with a wave of that same hand. “He’ll never know. This will be our cause, yours and mine. Agreed?” She held out a hand, which he grasped. Her skin was cool and smooth. “I wasn’t sure about you, Walker,” she said, dropping his hand. “The last thing I wanted was another moon-eyed boy following after me all the time. But you’re more than that, aren’t you? Yes, I think you and I shall be good friends. You with your secret about Mara, and mine about Willem.”

  “I’d like that, your highness.”

  She started away from him. “Goodnight.”

  “Were you out here waiting for me?”

  He regretted asking the question as soon as the words crossed his lips. He was sure Sofya would take offense again and renounce the friendship she had only just bestowed. She surprised him.

  “It’s possible,” she said, a coy smile on her lips. “As I say, there are too many boys in this palace who stare after me, no doubt hoping that I’ll declare my undying love, or some such foolishness. I hoped you might be different. After all, it’s not every day that a Traveler comes to Hayncalde, particularly one who’s nearly my age.” She flipped her hair off her shoulder. “In other words, I was curious.” She cocked an eyebrow, and walked away.

  Tobias watched her go before entering the tower. With every step on the stairway and through the corridor he grew wearier, until he could barely drag himself through the door of his chamber. He would have liked to throw himself onto his pallet, but the finery he wore didn’t really belong to him. He undressed, hanging the robe and folding the breeches and shirt with care, and opened the shutters on his window to allow in the cool night air. Only then did he fall onto his bed.

  It had been as full a day as any he could recall. Tomorrow promised to be much the same.

  Tobias drifted into a deep, dreamless slumber that might have carried him all the way to morning. Instead, he jerked awake some time later, to a velvet black sky and the tolling of a bell in the courtyard. The moon had set and stars burned like white fire. A second bell echoed the first. Or were more ringing? He couldn’t tell for sure. He forced himself up, his thoughts thick, too tired to do much more than sit and wonder why bells would peal in the middle of the night.

  It can’t be anything good.

  The thought came to him in Saffern’s voice. It drove him to his feet and across the chamber’s cold stone floor to the wardrobe.

  His sack rested on the floor in the back. He couldn’t see much, but he didn’t think it wise to light a candle. Rather, he rummaged through his things until he found the pistol the weapons master had given him. He hadn’t fired it on the morning the Oaqamarans boarded the Skate, so it remained loaded. He primed the pan again, a process made only somewhat harder by the inky dark.

  When he had the weapon full-cocked, he stood, intending to check the window again. As an afterthought, he grabbed his dagger as well.

  The bells still echoed, and now he heard shouts, footsteps, and the jangle of armor and weapons. Guards converged on the sovereign’s courtyard, as he would have expected.

  Tobias also heard the echo of a door opening and closing nearby. He crossed to his own door and, with the care of a burglar, opened the latch and peered out into the passage.

  Two men, both dressed in black, cloths obscuring their faces up to their eyes, prowled the darkened corridor. They carried swords, with narrow curved blades, and wore daggers on their belts.

  They advanced along the marble floor in near silence, each careful step bringing them nearer to Tobias’s chamber.

  He ducked back into his quarters, closed the door soundlessly, and backed toward the window. He had few good choices. He could call for help, but the two men would reach him before any guards did. He could run, but he doubted he’d get far. He could wait for them to reach his chamber and fight them off, but even if he managed to kill one with the pistol, he had little confidence that he could fight off the other. He was better with a blade than Delvin and Nat, but he was no match for trained killers.

  Another door opened and closed. They were close.

  The chronofor.

  He felt for it on his desk, his shaking hand skimming over the wood with increasing desperation. His heart hammered in his chest; he couldn’t imagine how the men didn’t hear it.

  Had someone taken the device? Had he lost it already?

  No! He’d folded his new breeches and stowed them in the wardrobe. But he had forgotten to remove the chronofor from his pocket. He hid his pistol and dagger under his pillow, crept back to the wardrobe, and fished in the pocket of his breeches for the device.

  Upon finding it, he shrugged off his clothes, and set the left-most stem back a single click. One bell.

  The door latch clicked.

  Tobias shoved his clothes into the wardrobe, and depressed the top stem. The invisible hook tugged him backwards into that frenzy of light and sound and smell. This time, though, it was over as quickly as it began. He emerged from the between in his own chamber, still hunched on the floor in the darkness. The palace bells were silent; no raised voices disturbed the night. Against his own better judgment he cast a quick gaze at the pallet. A bulky form lay curled up beneath a dark blanket. He looked away again.

  It was said among Walkers that those who encountered themselves in their journeys back in time went insane. He hoped the sleeping Tobias didn’t wake before he left the chamber. He took clothes from the wardrobe, feeling like he was stealing, and dressed in haste. After letting himself out into the corridor, he hurried down to the courtyard and across to the nearest gate. The guards there didn’t recognize him, but after showing them the chronofor and telling them what was about to happen, he convinced them to wake the sovereign.

  They escorted him to Mearlan’s private quarters. After a few tencounts in the antechamber, they ushered him in to see the sovereign. Mearlan wore a red and white dressing gown. His hair was disheveled, his eyes swelled with sleep.

  “What is all this, Walker? I don’t know how the chancellor ran his palace, but I’m not accustomed to being woken at this time.”

  “Forgive me, my liege. I wouldn’t have come had it not been a matter of greatest urgency.”

  Mearlan thinned his lips and waved off the apology. “Explain.”

 
; “I’m here by virtue of the chronofor, my liege. I’ve come back a single bell. Men – assassins from the look of them – are about to infiltrate the palace. Most of the guards will come here to protect you, as is proper. But these men will check rooms on my corridor. If I hadn’t Walked back when I did, I believe they would have killed me.”

  If the sovereign found it surprising that assassins would target Tobias, he didn’t show it. “Do you know who they are?”

  “No, my liege. They’re dressed in black, well-armed, and capable of moving with great stealth.”

  “All right. I’ll alert the minister of arms. You should remain here. You’ll be safer.”

  “I can’t,” Tobias said. “Right now the other me – the one who belongs in this time – is sleeping. He’ll wake soon enough, and I can’t still be here. Having two of me awake at the same time can be… dangerous, not to mention confusing.”

  “So you have to go back… forward, I mean?” Mearlan scowled. “You’ve been here less than a day, and already I find your talent confounding.”

  “I understand. And yes, I must go back. Once I’m in my own time, there will be only one of me.”

  “Very well. Do it here. Anywhere else, and we’ll have a harder time keeping you safe, assuming that you are their target.”

  He indicated a dressing screen before leaving the chamber. Tobias took off his clothes, adjusted the chronofor for the return to his true time, and activated the device. That imaginary hook jerked him forward into the between and then out of it once more. He stumbled, righted himself.

  “Is that you, Walker?” The sovereign’s voice.

  “Yes, my liege.”

  “Put on your clothes and get out here.”

  Tobias dressed and stepped from behind the screen.

  Mearlan stood in the center of the chamber, clad now in simple battle garb: breeches, a dark shirt, boots. A sword hung from his belt, as did a holstered pistol.

  Half a dozen guards stood in a tight arc behind two kneeling figures: the men Tobias had seen in the corridor. Both of them bore bruises and bloody wounds. One man’s eyes were swollen shut, his lip split. He held his shoulder at an odd angle, and grimaced with every breath. His companion looked no better. Blood from a gash on his forehead covered his features and he bled from a stab wound high on his chest. Their hands had been bound behind them.