The Art of Stealing Time: A Time Thief Novel

by Katie MacAlister

  “His . . . oh. His girlfriend? Before Holly, I assume.”

  “Yes. Your mothers have been making plentiful spells, and Lord Ethan is very happy because he has witches and Lord Aaron does not.”

  “What kind of spells?” I asked suspiciously.

  “All sorts,” she answered, waving a hand. “Spells to turn baked goods into other baked goods—”

  “Ah, the infamous plain doughnut to frosted chocolate doughnut spell. I know it well.” I was relieved. If my moms were doing only minor magic, then they couldn’t get themselves into trouble.

  “Yes, those are most popular. And spells to sweeten the smell of the latrine.”

  “Fresh-air spells are always useful.”

  “Especially on days when the cooks make chili,” she agreed. “And then there’s the spell to increase the prowess of the manly arts.”

  “Just between you and me, that one owes any success to the belief in the man using it rather than any actual magic,” I told her. “Even my moms are the first ones to admit that there’s no way they can beef up a man’s . . . er . . . bits with magic. But the silly men think they can, and that makes them feel better about themselves, and everyone’s happy.”

  “Is the old woman who is with your mothers also a relation?”

  “Mrs. Vanilla? Not really. I assume she’s staying with my moms?”

  “Yes. She is knitting a coat for Lord Ethan’s horse.”

  “A horse blanket, you mean?”

  “No,” she said blithely. “A coat. It has lapels and pockets.”

  I let that go, feeling that the less comment about Mrs. Vanilla, the better. We chatted for a few more minutes, but Peaseblossom had nothing to say that gave me cause for concern. So it was that I spent the next hour and forty minutes teaching the pleasant Peaseblossom everything I’d learned a few hours before.

  Master Hamo would have been proud.

  “It was a pleasure meeting you,” I told her, shaking her hand once our time was officially over.

  “Likewise. I will see you tomorrow night. Perhaps there will be more you can teach me?” The last was said so wistfully that I knew I’d have no problem talking her out of fighting again.

  “I’m sure I can. See you then.”

  I made my way back to the center of the camp, where Aaron’s men had arranged a bunch of wooden tables around a huge bonfire. The light from the latter danced along the front of Doug’s big tent, casting long shadows as my fellow warriors and all the support members of the camp ate, drank, laughed, and sang in the way that people do when they’re out camping.

  “Lady Gwen. I am pleased to say that we’ve found you a squire. Seith, come forward and meet your lady and take her sword.” Doug strolled out of his tent to greet me, waving toward the bonfire and the accompanying crowd. One small, dark form scurried out.

  A boy of about eleven or twelve considered me with large pale gray eyes that were startling against his swarthy skin and the shock of black hair that hung down over his forehead in spikes. He reminded me of an anime character come to life.

  “Seith?” I repeated. It meant “seven” in Welsh. “Are you a seventh son?”

  “Of a sixth son,” he said with a nod.

  “Missed being special by just one son,” Doug commented in an aside to me. “Seith is actually my child. Stop staring at the lady and take her sword, lad, lest she lose her temper with you.”

  “Whoa now,” I said when the kid hurried forward to take the Nightingale from me. “I do not lose my temper with children. And even if I did, I’m not going to hit him or anything. I don’t believe in violence.”

  “You are a warrior of Aaron,” Doug pointed out, making a gesture that had his son hurrying off with my sword.

  “Aside from that, I’m just here for a week. You have six other sons?”

  “Ten sons, fourteen daughters,” Doug answered, taking me by the elbow and escorting me to the fire.

  “You must have an amazing wife.” I put a little extra emphasis on that last word to remind him that he should be ashamed of hitting on me when he had a family already.

  “Wives plural. I’ve had eight of them. The last one divorced me two years ago. I am currently sans spouse.” He looked steadily at me.

  “Wow. That’s a hell of a record to have going against you. Ooh, is that salmon?”

  It was salmon, and I managed to get a plate of it and accompanying rice and veggies without Doug making any more overt references to something that just wasn’t going to happen. I settled down at a table to enjoy my dinner.

  “Ah, here comes the entertainment,” Doug said from behind me.

  I turned, my mouth full of delicious planked salmon, and almost choked when a troupe of about ten women in a pornographer’s idea of harem outfits flitted into the camp, nipples flashing, silken scarves flying, and catcalls from my fellow warriors filling the night air.

  “Holy sh— That’s the entertainment?” I had to grab my plate to save it when one of the nearly naked women leaped onto the table and began to undulate her way down it, much to the pleasure of the men around me.

  Doug reached out and caressed the woman’s (mostly bare) breast. “Yes, indeed.” He stopped fondling her to glance down at me with a leer. “You prefer male company instead?”

  “For the last time, I am not interested in you—”

  “We have dancing boys, as well as girls,” Doug interrupted, waving a hand to my left, his attention elsewhere as one of the women began a move that I can only describe as using his leg as a stripper pole.

  I looked away. “Wow. So you do. I don’t think I’ve ever seen an actual dancing boy before. They really can dance, can’t they?”

  “I’m told their buttocks are divine,” Doug said, smiling down at the woman who was twining her slightly clad self around him. “I have no interest in male buttocks, so I couldn’t judge, but I trust you will come to a decision on that matter.”

  I considered the well-oiled specimens of male dancers’ behinds, clearly visible since they wore basically G-strings and not a lot else, and decided that interesting though the subject was, I had probably better take myself off before things got too rowdy.

  “Would madam care for a prostitute?” A soft voice next to me asked as I picked up my cup and plate. A small, balding man held a notebook, with pen poised over the paper. “Male or female? The rates are the same for both sexes, if that makes a difference.”

  “It doesn’t, and, no, thank you.”

  “Perhaps madam would like a complimentary ten-minute preview? We allow those for very important persons. You may use your ten minutes as you like, either in flogging your prostitute, having him (or her, if madam swings that way) engage in acts of an oral nature, or even trying out a sample of the prostitute’s sexual methodology—”

  I escaped before the man could go any further. I felt oily just by association, and hurried back to my tent with my plate, where I found Seith sitting outside.

  “Hungry?” I asked him.

  He nodded. I gave him my plate.

  “Doesn’t your dad feed you?”

  “Aye, but I’m always hungry. Dad says I’d eat his horse if he let me.” The boy shrugged, then scarfed down the salmon and veggies.

  “Well, enjoy. You wouldn’t happen to know where I can take a bath, would you?” I rubbed my arms. Even through the mail, my skin felt dirty.

  “Ladies have baths in their tents. The men use the stream.” He got to his feet, cheeks stuffed, chipmunk-style, with food. Little bits of rice flew out as he said indistinctly, “I’ll fetch it for you.”

  “That would be lovely, thank you.” I entered the tent and began to unhook all the armor and mail strapped to my body, wondering where Gregory was and whether he would manage to find me before the night was over.

  I certainly hoped so. I had many things to tell him . . . and more things to do to him.

  THIRTEEN

  Gregory Faa was a man annoyed. Again.

  “Faugh,” he said as he sh
ook his cell phone, then swore under his breath. He’d never been the sort of man who said “faugh,” and yet there he was, standing in the middle of the Welsh afterlife, saying not only words like “faugh,” but coming perilously close to adding a tch!

  “And I’ll be damned if I turn into the sort of man who tches at the drop of the hat,” he growled to his phone, and shook it again as if that would make it function. “Connect, damn you!”

  The notification across the screen remained NO SIGNAL for most of the time, but once in a while, CONNECTING TO NETWORK would tantalize him, only to immediately return to the previous state. Damn it, he had hoped the king had been exaggerating the isolation of Anwyn from modern computer networks. Reluctantly, he gave up the idea of trying to contact his cousin to find out what was going on in the real world.

  “Peter’ll have me drawn and quartered for staying here,” he muttered to himself, guilt making his skin itch in an irritating manner. He emerged from the edge of a forest to consider the scene spread out in front of him. To the left, across the stream, lay Aaron’s encampment. Even now Gwen was probably busily being kitted out to do her warrior thing.

  He smiled at the thought of her reluctance to fight anyone, then became distracted—and aroused—at the idea of stripping armor off her one piece at a time. When he was down to nothing but her bikini underwear, he shook himself, told his erection to relax and hold on until that evening when he could allow it free rein with Gwen’s lady parts, and tried to make a plan of action.

  He sat down with his back against a tree while he planned, and woke up some time later to find the sun slanting across the sky at an angle that indicated early-evening hours.

  “That’s what I get for staying awake the night before watching over Gwen,” he told himself sternly, and deciding that he’d wasted enough time, he marched into the camp of Aaron’s enemy.

  “I’m looking for Amaethon,” he said, stopping the first person he saw.

  “Lord Ethan always swims before supper,” the young woman told him, nodding to his right. Through the tents, he could see a glimmer of water, probably a pond.

  He thought of Gwen in the lake and had to once again mentally chastise his penis. That done, he made his way through the dogs, people, and tents to what was indeed a smallish pond. It was lined with irises and daffodils, and Gregory thought to himself how much Gwen would enjoy the location. Two women walked along one edge of the shoreline, while about fifteen feet out, water splashed in a rhythm that indicated a swimmer.

  “—care what he says, I can’t possibly have that volume done before Samhain. I’ve yet to tackle my angsty teenage years, and volume twelve follows that. Make a note that I still need a title for that,” the swimmer called out, pausing to add, “Here, who’s that next to you?”

  “My name is Gregory Faa. I take it you’re Ethan?”

  “Faa? Faa? Do I know a Faa, Pervanche?”

  “No, m’lord,” one of the two women answered, barely giving Gregory a glance. “You know a Fern, though.”

  Ethan began to emerge from the water. He was nude, and Gregory noted that the water must be very cold indeed.

  “What title would you give a book about your angsty teenage years?” Ethan asked him, accepting a towel from the woman named Pervanche.

  “I don’t believe those years were particularly angst-riddled. At least, not in my case.”

  “Bah. That’s not going to help me. I need something emotional. Portentous. Meaningful.” He dried his hair brusquely with a second towel, and with the first one wrapped around his waist, started toward the tents. “What are you doing here if you’re not going to help me with titles?”

  Gregory decided that the direct approach was the best. “I’m here to collect the king’s dog, roebuck, and lapwing.”

  To his utter and complete surprise, Ethan made a rude gesture. Before Gregory could react, Ethan grabbed the hand that was flipping Gregory off and held on to the wrist, saying as he did so, “You’re welcome to ’em, the whole lot if you can find them. The dog’s dead, but you can have one of her approximately eight hundred descendants. They’re all over the camp. Had to make a rule that everyone owned one, just so the bulk of them would have care.”

  Gregory eyed him. Ethan appeared to be fighting with his own arm. “And the roebuck and lapwing? Where are they?”

  “No idea. Pervanche, strap. Diego is being obstinate again. Consuela!”

  They stopped as Pervanche slipped a black leather strap over his shoulder, angling it across his chest like a sling. Gregory watched in silence as, with a slight battle, Pervanche and Ethan managed to get his wrist bound, effectively strapping his arm to his torso.

  “Er . . . Diego?”

  “My hand. It’s always stroppy in the afternoon. It gets that way until it’s had a little nap. Ah, there you are.”

  A lovely woman with long golden hair popped up beside them. “Yes, my lord?”

  “Bring supper to my tent. I have to prepare for the photographer. I need several new author photos.”

  “As you will, my lord.”

  Gregory, feeling a bit bemused, was convinced that despite appearances, Ethan had more information than what he was telling. He followed as Ethan went straight to the largest tent. The inside looked like something out of the Arabian Nights, what with the silken hangings, scattered pillows, and low beds (three) that dotted the massive interior. There were also a handful of desks, one of which Ethan sat down at, flipping open the lid to a laptop. He looked up when Gregory stopped beside him. “You still here?”

  “I am.”

  “Speak quietly, then. Diego is sleeping, and I don’t want him woken up early. He’s hell the rest of the night if he doesn’t get his proper nap.”

  Gregory glanced at the arm. “I hesitate to ask . . .”

  “Then don’t.”

  Gregory thought about that a minute and decided that the advice was sound. Who was he to point out just how odd it was to treat one’s own arm as if it was a cranky toddler? “I was sent to find the lapwing and roebuck. I’d appreciate help in finding them.”

  Ethan sighed, and leaned sidewise to peer around Gregory. “Consuela!”

  The woman entered the tent, followed by three men bearing platters of food and drink. “You bellowed, my lord?”

  “Where’s the deer?”

  She gestured for the men to set down their trays, waiting until they’d done so and left before asking, “What deer would that be?”

  “This man”—Ethan gestured at Gregory—“keeps going on about a deer. You must know where I put it.”

  “Would that be Lord Aaron’s deer, the one you stole from him almost a millennium ago?” Consuela asked, giving Gregory a look that didn’t contain so much as one iota of curiosity.

  “That would be the one,” Gregory answered.

  She pursed her lips and thought. “I’m not sure. I haven’t seen it since . . . I would say approximately the year 1415. I can have one of the boys look for it, if it’s important.”

  “It’s very important,” Gregory said before Ethan could say otherwise. He needn’t have worried. Ethan was pecking away at the laptop’s keyboard with one finger. “And the lapwing?”

  “What’s that?” Consuela asked.

  “A bird.”

  “Ah. My lord?”

  “Eh?”

  “This gentleman wishes to know where is the bird that you stole along with Lord Aaron’s dog and roebuck.”

  “Gone,” Ethan said without looking up from the screen.

  “Dead?” Gregory asked, his spirits sinking. Perhaps, like the dogs, there was a descendant that he could bring Aaron.

  “No. Just gone. Flew the coop, so to speak. Ha! Pun. What do you know about angsty teen poetry? It shouldn’t be too difficult to write, should it? I mean, it’s mostly just all dreck, isn’t it? Lots of bad imagery, and depressing self-examination, and a morbid fascination with death and destruction, yes?”

  “Unfortunately, I’m unfamiliar with angsty poetry
, teen or otherwise. You have no idea where the bird escaped to? Did it have any distinguishing marks?”

  “Would ‘My soul was like a one-legged eagle, brought to the harsh, dying earth by the willful, unending ignorance of those around me’ be a metaphor or a simile?”

  “It’s a simile. A bad one. Do you even remember the bird?”

  Ethan looked up, obviously catching the harsh edge in Gregory’s voice. “Of course I remember her. Aaron let her have free run of the castle. I remember that most distinctly, because he doted on the little thing, ignoring important visitors in order to feed her succulent bits of food when he should have been offering them to me.”

  “You were at Aaron’s castle?”

  Ethan looked down his nose at him. “Who are you that you are so ignorant of my past? I am the slayer of many beasts! The ruler of all of Wales! I am the bringer of war to Anwyn! I lead an army that my brother raised from the trees and shrubs and plants across the breadth of my realm! Can you doubt that when I entered Anwyn, Aaron groveled at my feet in an attempt to placate me?”

  Given his (admittedly slight) knowledge of Aaron, Gregory did actually doubt that, but he knew better than to express that thought. “I don’t believe I ever learned why you did steal the dog, deer, and bird from Aaron.”

  “Oh, that.” Ethan sniffed, and focused his attention on his laptop screen again. “I fancied the bird, and Aaron wouldn’t let me have her. So I stole her, and the dog followed me.”

  “And the deer?”

  “My brother liked deer.” He made an odd sort of face. “A little too well, if you know what I mean.”

  Gregory decided that he preferred ignorance on that subject. “There’s nothing you can tell me to help me find the bird and roebuck? Nothing at all?”

  “The deer’s around here somewhere. Bound to be. Gideon never could throw anything away. The bird, as I’ve said, has long since left. Does a sonnet have fourteen or sixteen lines?”

  Gregory murmured the answer and left the tent before he was caught in any more of Ethan’s self-absorption. He almost bumped into the woman Consuela as he exited, apologizing when she jumped back.