by Melanie Rawn
Zoey would give up and go away.
No such luck.
"You must have said something perfectly lethal last night, darling," Zoey rattled on as they reached the double row of booths. "When I stopped by our hero's tent he was looking quite bleary."
"Was he?"
"It's scarcely fair," she added, pouting. "He's even appealing as a haggard insomniac—although one could wish for a more interesting reason for lack of sleep." She paused, surveying the replica of a medieval fair. "How . . . quaint. Quite the thing, if one is into rustic charm."
Someone offered a "Good morrow, my lady!" to Cynthia. Alia smiled back. The booths ranged from authentic-looking wooden structures to folding tables disguised with cloth, but all were bright and lively and crammed with goods. She paused to finger a length of handwoven wool and admire the cloaks draped on hangers for display.
"Best prices all year, Lady Cyndaria," said the dealer, who was winding nubby scarlet yarn into a ball. A small loom was set up at her side, a piece begun in vivid blues. "That lavender cloak you like hasn't sold yet."
Peering into the booth, Zoey said, "That hideous thing? Now, the hunter-green one with all the gold embroidery, that's not half bad. And just my color, too."
"I might be persuaded to knock the price down," the crafter suggested.
Alia smiled again, shaking her head, and moved on.
"Ribbons and laces!" came the call down the row. "Last chance before Harvest Fest! Ribbons, laces, and fine embroideries!"
"I don't think you're paying attention, darling."
She glanced at Zoey, brows arching, and made a small gesture with one hand to indicate the scores of shoppers around them.
"Jeweled goblets and silver tankards!" sang out another vendor. "Fine pewter loving cups!"
The hologram sighed. "Oh, very well. I suppose you have to play to the rabble. My point is that Beckett will be too exhausted to do himself much good against Mr. Muscles. So everything has the potential to work out just fine. Roger-Rannulf will get the money and the girl—neither of which he'll keep for long—Philip will drink himself into an automobile wreck, and nothing will have changed." She paused. "But that's only our worst-case scenario."
1mm," Alia responded absently. She knew very well the "best case" Zoey had in mind.
She walked on, examining leather goods, embroidery, ceramic platters, brass goblets, handwoven scarves. Beautiful work, all of it; the crafters were not only caring but talented. It was with genuine delight that she stopped at a wood-carver's booth, where his cunning little wooden toys enchanted her. There were wry-faced monkeys whose arms and legs moved, and gaily painted birds with flapping wings, and marionettes of all descriptions. What caught her fancy, though, was a white unicorn. Seeing her interest, the crafter named a price. She shook her head, but couldn't resist touching the flowing silver
mane, the delicate spiral horn painted gold.
"It looks like it belongs on a carousel," she said wistfully. "I remember when I was a little girl—"
"Unicorns," Zoey reminded her with poisonous sweetness, "are for the pure, the innocent, and the virginal."
Blindly, Alia left the booth, not even hearing the wood-carver call out a lower price.
Zoey strolled along beside her, walking with perfect unconcern through a young man strumming a mandolin. "Bearing in mind that Boy Scout Beckett is the main objective now, and not this absurd love triangle, I'm waiting to hear you explain your suggestion of this morning. And I might as well remind you again that what you're asking has never been done before."
"Pomanders!" cried a girl as she strolled the aisle. "Sweet to the nose, studded with cloves— fresh pomanders!"
Zoey was momentarily intrigued by the items on the shoulder-slung tray. Stuck on the ends of short wooden handles, some beautifully carved and some plain as popsicle sticks, were oranges, lemons, and limes sporting complex patterns of clove buds. Alia's nose twitched at the scents of citrus and spice, threatening a sneeze. She took refuge at a booth of glassware.
The sets of wind chimes, strung in a long row above the plates and bottles and goblets, looked familiar. Alia brushed fingertips across one of Cynthia's creations to set it dancing, and thereby attracted the proprietor's notice. He completed a sale and turned to her, all smiles.
"Your chimes are very popular, Lady Cyndaria. I've sold four just this morning."
"Have you?"
"And the promise of another, if Sir Guthwulf loses his bet with his lady on today's joust."
Alia didn't ask who Sir Guthwulf would be rooting for.
"By the way, Lady Godwyn asks if you'd trade for the blue set. Your choice of her embroidered purses. She does very fine work."
"Godwyn?" Zoey echoed. "How revolting."
Alia pretended to examine the blue chimes as if estimating their value in a trade. "Please tell her ladyship I'll think about it."
"As you wish." He hesitated, then said in a softer voice, "Cynthia, this thing with Phil and Roger—"
She stiffened her spine and dared him with her eyes to say more. He wisely turned to attend another customer.
"Isn't it odd?" Zoey commented. "Nobody else has asked. But I suppose they're all buzzing with it out of your hearing."
"Probably." She'd noticed some odd looks on her way through campground and Fair. Had Zoey not been a hologram invisible to everyone else, Alia would have attributed the looks to the vivid emerald jumpsuit and thigh-high purple leather boots. But it was true enough that no one had broached the subject of the joust.
She stopped for a moment at the soap-maker's at the end of the aisle. The oblongs pyramided on the counter smelled of violets and lavender and sandal-wood and cinnamon, and this time Alia did sneeze.
The vendor cast her an amused, apologetic smile.
"Watch out for the potpourri booth across the way, Lady Cyndaria. Worse on your hay fever than ragweed!"
Alia smiled back and thanked her, then crossed slowly to the other row of booths, murmuring to Zoey, "You say what I'm asking has never been done. Are you also saying it's impossible?"
"You know very well there's hardly anything Lothos can't do."
"Fresh and hot! Griddle cakes and fruit!"
Alia had eaten nothing since the previous evening. Following the voice, she ignored Zoey's rebuke in favor of potential breakfast. Pancakes sizzled in frying pans atop two small hibachis; bowls of cold sliced fruit and steaming compotes awaited on the counter.
"That smells wonderful!"
"Don't be cruel, darling, you know I love crepes!"
"I'll have one, please. Thank you, good sir." She handed over money from the purse at Cynthia's belt. Paper plate and plastic fork were presented, and a moment later a thin pancake slid into position. She piled on hot blueberries and cold peaches, folded the crepe, and sprinkled powdered sugar lightly over the top. She kept walking as she ate, emphasizing the enjoyment for the secret pleasure of irritating Zoey—who was practically salivating even as she resumed her lecture.
"I'll admit that theoretically, it's possible. We're already focused in on this place and time, so it's not a matter of searching at random. It would be a terrible strain, though."
Surprise betrayed Alia into speech; no one paid her any mind, for someone had begun to play a dulcimer in the next booth, thereby attracting a small crowd. "When has my comfort ever been a consideration?"
"A strain on Lothos, not you! He's not especially thrilled by this wild plan of yours."
Alia finished her breakfast and threw plate and fork into a trash can. "Lothos isn't here," she said, voice low and tense. "7 am. This is my assignment, Zoey. I make the plans and I take the responsibility. Does Lothos want Sam Beckett to win?"
"I take it that's a rhetorical question." Zoey blinked suddenly, then smiled in purest pleasure. "Well! Will you look at that!"
The booth was one of the more elaborate at the Fair, perhaps indicating greater prosperity. A wooden awning spread wide, sporting a carve
d sign featuring crossed silver swords above a golden anvil. All across an expanse of crimson velvet counter and slung from support struts was as impressive a collection of steel weaponry as ever was displayed in a medieval baron's great hall.
It was the real stuff, too—foot-long daggers, broadswords etched with runes, massive claymores, wood-handled pikes with blades wider than a man's spread palm, slim poniards, gleaming battle-axes, even a great curving scimitar. All the weapons were whetted to a hair-splitting edge, and all of them could kill.
A young man in ridiculous scarlet tights and a blazing yellow tunic stood several paces off, hefting a strange weapon as if to test its weight. At the
end of a wooden handle were eight inches of thick chain attached to a sphere studded with thick spikes. These were painted red, as if blooded. The man cast an eye at the watchful sword smith, then began to whirl the iron ball overhead. Around and around at the end of the chain it turned, gathering velocity with a sinister hissing sound.
"What a gorgeous little toy!" Zoey exclaimed.
"What is it?" Alia asked softly.
"A morningstar," Zoey replied, eyes alight as the spikes thudded into a tree. "Named for what's at the business end. I really was born into the wrong time, you know. . . ."
"I thought Thames was the one with the medieval fixation."
"Oh, him!" Zoey waved a dismissive hand. "Show him a torture chamber and he's perfectly blissful. Personally, I find medieval weaponry much more elegant. The modern world has forgotten so much by way of really creative killing."
The sword smith was scowling. "Daniel!" he called. "That's enough! Put that thing down before you brain somebody with it!"
"Luscious idea," Zoey sighed.
Daniel pried the star from outraged tree bark. "Sorry," he said, polishing red spikes with his fingers before replacing the weapon on the counter. Alia thought he looked a little shaken at the unexpected power of iron and wood—as well he might. Forget the damage of impact; the look and sound of the thing were threat enough.
The sword smith returned to his conversation with another customer, a man of about fifty wearing sober
brown with a heavy silver chain of office draped around his shoulders. "Now, this broadsword has an honest edge to it, Lord Duncan, as with all my wares. You may display it on your person or on your wall at home, but—"
"Don't unsheathe anywhere near the tourney field, or I'll be kicked out of the League. I know the rules, Master Padraic. I helped write them, fifteen years ago. Wrap it up."
Another morningstar lay at rest on the crimson counter. For display only . . . Alia mused, fingers tracing the smooth wooden handle, caressing the spiral carving that had been painted bright blue. The spikes looked as if they'd been dipped in gold. After a moment she met Zoey's gaze. And smiled.
"What are you—" Zoey peered more closely at Alia's face. "Why, I do believe you're looking positively fiendish, my pet."
Master Padraic and Lord Duncan were engaged in carefully swathing the broadsword in yards of black cloth. Alia kept her voice soft just the same. "When I give the word, Zoey. Make sure Lothos is ready."
"You'd better explain what for, first!"
"Later. Master Padraic?"
He turned, an impressive sheaf of bills in one hand. "Lady?"
She used Cynthia's admittedly delightful smile to excellent effect. "I don't suppose I could interest you in a set of wind chimes unless they were bound in solid gold."
He made a leg and grinned. "Silver, if the assurance of your smile came with them! I assume you're
looking for a gift for today's victor?"
"Precisely."
"Sword? Dirk? Belt knife?"
"That." She pointed.
A brief haggling session later, Master Padraic rummaged in the back of the booth for cloth to wrap her purchase in. As she untied Cynthia's purse to pay for a type of weapon last used in combat over five centuries ago, she murmured, "Have a little faith, Zoey darling."
CHAPTER
THIRTEEN
In point of fact, Sam had gotten some sleep. About fifteen minutes' worth.
B.Q.L., he'd had several methods of courting slumber. Attempting a proof of Fermat's Theorem, which had frustrated mathematicians for centuries, had been a favorite for years. After it was solved in 1993, he'd either run through the proof in his head or turned to various alternatives: calculating the probable number of Earthlike planets in the Andromeda galaxy, listing in alphabetical order every song ever recorded by the Beatles, or proposing possible solutions to the linguistic mysteries of Linear A.
Nowadays his choices were limited. Sometimes he couldn't remember the name of the theorem, let alone the proof; he usually forgot one or more of the criteria for the evolution of carbon-based life; he was never sure if the Beatles had ever recorded a song beginning with J; and recalling even the symbols of the ancient Minoan language was iffy at best.
On the night of July 11, 1987, he came damned close to counting sheep.
Considering there was another sword fight with Roger in the offing, Sunday promised to be a rerun of Saturday, only with even less rest. Whatever the Leap immediately previous to this one had been like, Sam's body was positive it had not involved a whole lot of lying down in a bed with eyes closed.
(A voice drifted past in memory—"You do so snore, Sam Beckett!"—with the impression of a riotous pillow fight; but when he reached for it there was nothing to grasp except a bewildering image of I. M. Pei's glass pyramid at the Louvre. So he'd visited Paris at some point in his life—or had it been somebody else's life? No, it had been his own, because Al had mentioned something about going to Paris "again." Whatever that meant.)
Although this particular Leap might be lacking in blissful slumber, at least the food was good. Sam was at the picnic tables in time for a breakfast that was the veritable definition of Cholesterol Heaven: scrambled eggs with Tillamook cheese, crisp fried bacon, fresh-baked biscuits slathered in butter, and home fried potatoes. Sam wolfed the meal, washing it down with honeyed tea, and finished with a bowl of sliced peaches half-crusted with sugar. He was going to need the energy, and soon; the herald had informed him that the joust with Lord Rannulf was set for just after the parade of ducal colors.
Terrific.
"Spent the whole night glowering at that diagram, didn't you?"
He didn't even glance at Al on the walk back to Philip's tent. "Not all of it."
"Huh," was the skeptical reply. "Ziggy's throwing projections at us like Orel Herschiser. If Roger wins the joust, the book gets published, but Cynthia doubts him just enough to keep from marrying him. Philip invents the Larkin Capacitor—"
"And kills himself doing it."
"Well. . ."
Sam finally looked at him. The admiral was fittingly dressed for the momentous medieval occasion: dazzling white shirt with plackets, cuffs, and collar embroidered in twining green ivy and scarlet flowers; sky-blue slacks and matching bow tie; silver mesh belt with a massive buckle cast in the shape of a rampaging dragon. Rather than the appropriate boots, however, he wore white huaraches. Sam envied him the comfort. Philip's boots were a half-size too small, and Sam's feet were killing him.
He also wore Philip's tourney gear of trousers (buttons, no zipper), shirt (more itsy-bitsy laces), and sword belt. The padded tunic and chain mail were still hanging on the rack within the tent, along with the helmet. Sam had thought about doing a few practice runs to learn how to get it all on and off, then decided he'd only get stuck in it and spend the rest of the morning sweating.
Still, as he had contemplated the gleaming steel by the light of the lantern in the wee hours, he began to understand how Philip could lose his shyness when protected by this quite literal armor. Judging by the collection of tin disks that betokened his jousting
victories, Philip was a real tiger when in his Sir Percival suit.
In a way, it was rather like what Sam did with every Leap: subsume parts of himself in someone else,
wear someone else's face and body and characteristics for a little while. Except that Philip did it by choice.
"We never chose to do it, Sam—they chose for us!" He banished Alia's voice and went inside Philip's tent. The chain mail stood patiently in a corner, waiting for Sam to fill its emptiness: Bring me to life, and I'll protect you. The crayon drawing lay on the table, also waiting for Sam: Bring me to life, and I'll take you home.
Alia waited, too. But life or home or protection were not among the things she could offer.
Sam dragged the chair out into the morning sunshine. Silently, calmly, he sat down to polish the sword. "The only advantage to staying awake all night," he told Al, "is that she didn't get the chance to sabotage anything." "But she could've gotten to Roger's stuff." "Switched swords, you mean? Given him one with an edge on it?"
"Or loused up his mail or helmet or something." That hadn't occurred to Sam. He'd been so preoccupied about Alia in relation to himself that he'd forgotten about what she might be planning for Roger. "So he'd be injured or—no," he said, abruptly certain. "He's too good a fighter not to check his equipment before every joust." He rubbed a smudge from the steel with his thumb, turning the sword this way and that to catch the sunlight. "What other
cheery news does Ziggy have?"
"If you win the joust, Cynthia will publish Roger's version anyway, he'll keep writing, and Philip and Cynthia will get married and do the happily-ever-et-cetera bit."
Sam rested the blade across his knees and plied a soft cloth down its length. It was a lovely thing, as swords went, with a pattern of oak leaves etched into the steel and a dozen seed-sized opals studding the hilt. Philip had paid a lot of money for this weapon, and knew how to use it.
"What about the Capacitor?"
"Oh, don't worry. It gets invented." Al's voice was sour with disapproval.
"When?"
He gave a shrug. "Not until '92."
Sam didn't remind him they'd bought the rights to it in '91. Installation had smoothed out a lot of difficulties, taking at least a year off the Project's completion date.