The Master of Time: Roads to Moscow: Book Three

by David Wingrove

  I feel a shiver pass through me.

  How does she know …?

  And yet she does.

  Impossible, I think. But then again, why so? Why should this not be here? Maybe so, I tell myself, but then whose game is it that we’re playing now? For I know the room from where that light spills out. Know it for a certainty. Remember how I had my fortune read that time.

  The gypsy woman …

  Two steps back, I think, and one to the side. That’s the pattern of things. Only why hasn’t he killed me? Why hasn’t he sent in a pair of his ‘brothers’ – one to hold me down while the other parts the flesh of my throat with his stiletto? Because that’s what I would have done. And yet might do. If that’s at all possible. If he doesn’t, as usual, slip away an instant before I act.

  But why here? And why repeat this strand? Unless the purpose is to change it subtly.

  Only now, as I step out from the dark, I see how she smiles and holds her arms out to me, and know I have no choice but to follow this through. To see just where in this strangest of universes this leads.

  And see once more how the cards fall.

  ‘Otto,’ she says softly, as she takes me in her arms, embracing me. ‘I knew you’d come.’

  481

  As the night watchman calls the hour, so, like a figure from a dream, Shakespeare steps from the darkness and approaches me.

  ‘Otto?’

  I take his hand briefly, then turn to follow, as he takes a heavy key from his belt and fits it to the lock.

  The door swings back, revealing the interior of the theatre, lit faintly now by moonlight. The stage, the pit, the balconies: all as I recall them from a future time. The one time that I came here. Back when I was learning my trade. Before I was Reisende proper.

  Ten thousand jumps through Time ago. But now I’m back. Where I began. And maybe that’s why.

  He locks the door behind him, then, as I follow him across the dirt floor, Shakespeare glances back at me.

  ‘Sleep well?’

  ‘Well enough,’ I say, thinking it best to say nothing of the night’s events.

  Then, because it’s been troubling me, I ask him why we’ve met so early.

  ‘Because.’

  And stops at the edge of the pit, beneath the overhanging stage, in the shadow of which is a tiny door that might have been made for a dwarf. Stopping, he searches at his belt again, and finds another key – longer, thinner than the other – and opens it.

  And in we go, ducking beneath the lintel to get in.

  Inside, he lights a lamp and holds it high. And as he makes a cursory search, I wonder what exactly’s going on. He finishes his search and, content that no one’s there, seems to relax, though there’s still something about him that makes me think that there’s something he’s keeping to himself.

  ‘Are you all right?’ I ask, pre-empting him. ‘You seem … troubled.’

  ‘As well I might,’ he says, then sighs. ‘Today’s the day.’

  ‘The day?’

  ‘That’s right. Today’s the day I have to repay them. By midday latest.’

  ‘And you have no means?’

  ‘Not for the amount I owe them, no.’

  ‘They being?’

  ‘A violent, brutish fellow and his crew.’

  ‘Why did—?’

  ‘Why did I borrow it in the first place from such a man? Because others would not help. No, not one of my so-called friends would aid me. Not so much as a bean. Why, you would almost think there was a conspiracy against me. First that business with the land documents up in Stratford, and then—’

  ‘Whoa, whoa there, friend. Slow down now. Begin at the beginning.’

  ‘At the beginning …’ And he laughs, as if what I’ve just said is absurd. And I’m not sure why. I know he had money troubles. Our agents had established that. But nothing like as bad as what he tells me.

  ‘Christ, Will,’ I say, when he has finished. ‘If I were you I’d have stayed in Stratford.’

  ‘And have his men find me there? No. Here I’ve at least a slender chance of borrowing something. Back there, in Stratford, no one would give me the time of day.’

  ‘I see …’ And I wonder, as I say it, whether this isn’t Kolya’s doing. Isn’t a means of drawing me into this man’s fate.

  Because I could solve Will’s problem in an instant.

  ‘The worst thing,’ he says, ‘is that it keeps me from writing.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘My plays have been very successful, up until recently. But now … well … I’ve just lost it, Otto. It’s all a blank … up here.’

  And he touches his forehead.

  ‘I guess the two must be connected somehow …’

  ‘What makes it worse,’ he says, speaking over me, ‘is what that bastard Thorpe has been up to. Stealing my poems … my sonnets … and publishing them as if he had the right!’

  ‘No …’ I say, as if horrified by the thought. As if I’d never heard of it before that moment. ‘Couldn’t you get some money from him?’

  ‘He’d just laugh in my face. The man’s a total crook.’

  ‘Then you are well and truly—’

  ‘—fucked.’ And he laughs. ‘Jesus, Otto. How did I get in such a mess?’

  It’s light now. Church bells are sounding seven.

  He looks at the keys in his hand, then throws them to me. I catch them.

  ‘And?’ I ask.

  ‘Do what you can here to make things tidy. Open up the shutters, then sweep the floor. Help should come sometime soon.’

  ‘And you, Will?’

  ‘I’ll be gone an hour or two …’ He smiles wistfully. ‘I’ve got to see a man about a dog.’

  ‘A man …’ And I laugh, wondering if that’s the first time anyone’s ever used that term. ‘It’s okay,’ I say. ‘I’ll make sure everything’s spick and span …’

  To which he smiles and then is gone, leaving me to look about myself, wondering how this is going to pan out.

  482

  There are five of us, busy cleaning up that big, wonderful wooden theatre when Will returns. If he looked bad before, he looks dreadful now. A man in deep trouble.

  I go over to him. ‘Do you want …?’

  ‘Not now,’ he says, brushing past.

  I turn away, looking towards the big outer wooden door of the Globe, then walk across. Out there, just across the road from the theatre, three pugnacious-looking men are huddled together, talking.

  Seeing me, their faces take on a scowling expression.

  In trouble … You can say that again.

  So what exactly am I going to do? Am I going to help him out, or just ignore his fate and get on with the task of locating Kolya?

  Instinct tells me that things here are connected somehow. That it’s no accident that I’m here in Stuart England, in 1609. Kolya is here because it’s important to him, and if it’s important to him …

  … then it’s important to me.

  All right. Then I’m going to have to play it by ear.

  Shakespeare finishes talking to the others and, without a glance back, heads off. I watch him go; watch the three rogues turn to follow. And then follow myself, not knowing where this will end; some strange shadowy memory of past events coming to mind.

  I have been this – done this – once before. But once again my recollection is of the vaguest sort. Even so, I use all of my experience to keep the three rogues from noticing me. On through the maze of ancient London Town, until we come to the centre of it all.

  Saint Paul’s …

  Yes. I have been here before. Many times. And yet remember nothing.

  I shake my head, trying to clear it, but each step now seems to lead me further into a place I’ve been a hundred times, back in some other timeline. He and I. Younger, much younger than we are.

  Before Krasnogorsk …

  I stagger and nearly fall, my hand going to the cold stone of the cathedral wall, steadying mysel
f, noting, as vision returns, how the three have now surrounded him.

  Fearful, I make to shout out, to warn him, only in that instant I see something that surprises me. See the three men turn as one and, facing outward, knives drawn, form a defensive circle about our Shakespeare, even as a dozen men – Kolya’s – rush in to try and settle matters.

  I look on, admiringly, seeing how skilled, how ferociously efficient, the three men are with their weapons, and know – without a doubt – that these are agents, Russians at a guess, placed there to protect Shakespeare.

  Only why? Why is this poet and playwright so important to us? It’s not as if he were a Frederick or a Peter, a Napoleon or a Hitler. No. He’s just a writer.

  I withdraw into the shadows, making sure that I’m not seen, even as the last of Kolya’s men – if that is what they are – fall to our agents.

  What’s going on? For Urd’s sake, what’s happening here?

  And even as I turn to make my hurried way away from there, so the great church’s bells begin to toll … And there, right there, immediately in front of me, is a stall, and on that stall are books, and those books are all one and the same.

  Sonnets, by William Shakespeare.

  And I realise something. That this really is his time, his age. But what has any of this to do with us? With Kolya and myself?

  I jump back. To Moscow. To find Albrecht awaiting me on the platform.

  ‘Come,’ he says, taking my hand. ‘I’ve something to show you!’

  483

  It is as before. Only different.

  Which is to say that the Haven seems unchanged. Unchanged not from where we saw it last, but from the time beyond that, when Katerina and I first visited it, back when Master Hecht was still alive and the Neanderthal camp …

  Well, there it is. Right there, before my eyes. Their huts have not been burned down – not in this reality.

  And Albrecht …?

  I turn and look at him …

  Albrecht seems younger than he was. Unchanged yet younger.

  And I realise that something has happened here. Some profound change. One step backward, to when things were different. To when they were better.

  Or is that so?

  Albrecht is clearly happy with this. It was the more recent change he hated. The change that scattered the Neanderthals and brought about his brother’s death.

  But Change is Change. And even when we agents – and Masters – of Time seem to return, it is never ever the same.

  It might look so, even to the most skilful of observers, but there is always something.

  And so here.

  ‘Have you been there, Albrecht?’ I ask. ‘To the Archives? Has it all been preserved?’

  But I know, even before I hear his reply, that something has been altered. For the rest of it to have reverted, something must have been given in exchange.

  Or been taken away.

  We go and look.

  The door is barred. It opens only to Albrecht’s code. And inside …

  Albrecht stands there in the doorway, sniffing.

  Damp. It reeks of dampness. Only how can that be so? The Archives are a sealed unit, designed to be damp-free.

  ‘1609, London,’ I say, seeing how subdued Albrecht suddenly is. ‘List the files.’

  He sits and does as I ask, then sits back, letting me see the screen.

  I catch my breath. There are a hundred files at the very least – each one representing a single timeline – whereas before …

  ‘There should be six,’ Albrecht says.

  ‘You know that for a fact?’

  He nods. ‘They were training exercises. You were in two of them.’

  ‘And now?’

  Albrecht leans in again. For a time there is nothing but the tap of his fingers on the keys. Then he straightens.

  ‘Look,’ he says, and sits back so I can see again.

  I pull up a chair beside his and look.

  Albrecht has opened three of the files and, from the summarised notes, each one is different. Yes. These are very different Londons. Only one thing is consistent in them all – Kolya and I.

  ‘It isn’t possible,’ he says. ‘It really isn’t …’

  Only it is. For the last two hundred years the Haven has concealed these files, hiding them away, even from those – Albrecht and his brother, the Meister – who thought they had a firm grip on it all.

  Only now, for some reason, they have reappeared.

  ‘Can you …?’ I begin, not sure quite what I want Albrecht to do.

  ‘I can provide a summary document for each of them,’ he says, answering what I haven’t asked. ‘In fact, I could probably get that printed up straight away.’

  ‘All right … then let’s do that … And, Albrecht …’

  ‘Yes, Meister?’

  ‘Put them in chronological order if you can. The clue to all of this is there, in what happened between Kolya and I to create all of these timelines.’

  Only, as he turns away to begin his work, I wonder just what gargantuan event set off this hidden chain. More than a hundred. No, that doesn’t seem possible. And yet it’s true. For it to exist at all it must be true.

  A hundred 1609s. A hundred Londons. Just how was that possible, and we not knowing it?

  And just why is Kolya showing us this now?

  Most frightening of all, perhaps, is the fact that all this has already happened to me. Is in my past. And I remember none of it. No. It has all been erased. And now he gives it back to me. For what possible purpose?

  I turn, even as Albrecht gives a surprised laugh.

  ‘It’s Kolya, Otto. He’s left you a message.’

  484

  I am returned to the playhouse, to the Globe, as midday falls and the bells of London ring out, drowning the nearby cry of gulls.

  Spotting me, Shakespeare comes across. ‘Otto … Where have you been?’

  In the deep past. Only I’m not going to say that to him. Instead I duck the issue and turn it round. ‘Something’s happened, hasn’t it?’

  He hesitates, then nods. ‘I was attacked … in St Paul’s.’

  ‘Attacked?’

  ‘Yes … only there were three men … these Russians, and …’

  And so he tells me what I’ve already witnessed. But there’s more to it than that. It seems he was on his way to meet a potential patron. Someone who might, if not resolve, at least ease his problems.

  ‘I gave him my play.’

  ‘Your …?’

  But before I can query it, he turns and calls one of his players over.

  Play? He has no play. That was the problem. Unless things have changed dramatically in the hour I was gone.

  The player leaves hurriedly. Shakespeare turns, looking to me again, and, seeing my expression, laughs.

  ‘Oh, I know. There is no play. Nothing finished, anyway. But he’s not to know.’

  ‘Then this is …?’

  ‘A delay,’ he answers me. ‘It buys me time.’

  ‘And he’s taken you on trust?’

  His face clouds. ‘Ah, well … That’s the only problem. He wants to see it. This afternoon, at two …’

  ‘And?’

  ‘They’re rehearsing it right now.’

  I look at him, incredulous. ‘So you actually have something? Something new?’

  ‘Not new exactly. More like fragments. Scenes I left out. Early drafts. That kind of thing. I’ve told him it’s a work in progress.’

  ‘But when he sees it …’

  Will looks away. ‘Let’s hope he’s not discerning …’

  Only I know he will be. Else why buy Will’s work when you could buy some minor playwright’s work for half the price?

  No. He needs a completely new angle if this is to work, not the patchwork he’s suggesting. Only dare I suggest it?

  ‘I’ve an idea,’ I say.

  Will looks at me uncertainly.

  ‘For your play.’ And, as I say it, so I see his expressio
n change.

  ‘Forgive me, Otto, but … have you ever actually written anything?’

  ‘No, but I—’

  ‘But nothing. Writing plays … it’s … well, it’s a complex skill. Few can do it well. And those that can have spent long decades honing that skill.’

  ‘Maybe so,’ I say. ‘Only what you’re suggesting …’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry about that. We’ll bluff our way. Tell the man that it’s always like this. That the first draft’s there to be built upon. He’ll know no better, and …’

  Only I know he’s beginning to doubt whether he can pull this off.

  I place my hand on his arm. ‘Will, please. Just hear me out. Over a beer, yes?’

  He stares at me a moment, his eyes doubting me. ‘This idea …’

  ‘In the tavern,’ I say.

  485

  ‘So … fire away!’ Will says, wiping the ale’s foam from his top lip. ‘Let me have it, both barrels.’

  I look to him, frowning. Was that an anachronism I’ve just heard coming from his lips?

  ‘Will … I’ve a confession to make.’

  ‘A confession?’

  ‘Yes. What I told you … none of it was true. I was a soldier, you understand. A mercenary.’

  Shakespeare laughs. ‘You … a mercenary?’

  ‘In the European wars. As a young man I fought for Wallenstein, and, lately for Maurice of Orange.’

  ‘A mercenary? You?’

  I nod. Then, standing, unbutton my shirt and show him the scars I’ve accumulated over the years. Some of which killed me, that is, before they brought me back again.

  Will takes in the sight, then nods, his whole manner changed. ‘So why …?’

  ‘Why the deception? Because I’d heard of you. Heard you were in trouble.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And I think I can help you out. The things I’ve heard. The things I’ve seen. I know for a fact that someone like you could use them. Mould them. Give them shape and living motion.’

  He nods. Only I can see he’s not totally convinced.

  ‘These things …’ he begins, hesitantly. ‘You mean battles?’

  ‘And assassinations. Yes, and secret deals and betrayals. And in the midst of all a poignant love story, between rival families, rival races.’