Ripping Time

by Robert Asprin

  “Thank you,” Marcus said with an exhausted, grateful smile.

  So the girls moved into Julius’ protective custody and Marcus and Noah watched the killer sent to stalk them, tracking him during their every waking moment, and Paula Booker followed them silently with her gaze, biting her lip now and again, clearly wanting to approach him and fearing to jeopardize his life, or perhaps her own, by doing so, while all of them, killer included, waited for the chance to strike. The man stalking them was too clever to wander off alone, where one or more of them could have sent him back to whatever gods had created him. They couldn’t strike in front of witnesses any more than he could, but the chance everyone was waiting for came all too soon, during the endurance phase of the shooting games.

  Marcus, burned to lobster red by the sun, was assigned the job of riding shadow on Julius’ heels for this portion of the competition. The “endurance round” involved riding a looping, multiple-mile trail through the sun-baked mountains around the dusty gold-mining camp. The competitors were to pause at predetermined intervals to fire at pop-up targets placed along the trail like ambushes. Noah, deeply wary of Julius riding alone through the wild countryside, told Marcus quietly, “I want you to trail him, just far enough behind to stay in earshot. I’ll trail you, same way.”

  Marcus, heart in his throat, just nodded. He couldn’t keep his hands from trembling as he mounted his stolid plug of a horse and urged the animal into a shambling trot. He set a course that took him away from camp on a tangent, allowing him to loop back around and pick up Julius’ trail just beyond the first ridge outside camp.

  The sun blazed down despite the earliness of the hour. At least Julius’ persona, Cassie Coventina, had drawn one of the early slots for riding the endurance course, so it wasn’t too unbearably hot, yet. Dust rose in puffs where Marcus’ horse plodded along the narrow, twisting trail. He urged the nag to a slightly faster shamble until he caught sight of “Miss Coventina” ahead, riding awkwardly in a high-pommeled side saddle. Marcus eased back, cocking his head to listen, reassured when Julius began to whistle, leaving him an audible trail to follow. Marcus glanced back several times and thought he caught a glimpse of “Joey Tyrolin” once or twice through the heat haze behind him.

  Saddle leather squeaked and groaned under his thighs. Marcus began to sweat into his cotton shirt. He worried about the girls, back at camp, even though they were surrounded by fifteen adoring women who weren’t riding the endurance trail until later in the afternoon, or who were part of the wedding and weren’t competing at all. The mingled scent of dust and sweating horse rose like a cloud, enveloping his senses and drawing his mind inexorably back to the years he’d spent as a slave working for the master of the chariot races and gladiatorial games and bestiaries at the great Circus Maximus. The scent of excited, sweating race horses and dust clogged his memory as thoroughly as the scream of dying animals and men—

  The sharp animal scream that ripped through the hot morning was no memory.

  Marcus jerked in his saddle. Blood drained from his face as the scream came again, a horse in mortal agony. Then a high, ragged shriek of pain, a human shriek, tore the air . . . and the booming report of a gun firing shook the dusty air . . .

  Marcus kicked his horse into a startled canter. He wrenched at the gun on his hip. From behind him, a clatter of hooves rattled in a sudden burst of speed. Noah Armstrong swept past as though Marcus’ horse were plodding along at a sedate walk. Another gunshot split the morning air. Then Marcus was around the bend in the trail and the disaster spread out in front of him.

  Julius was down.

  His horse was down, mortally wounded.

  Dust rose in a cloud along the trail, where Noah pursued whoever had shot down Marcus’ friend. He hauled his own horse to a slithering halt and slid out of the saddle, then flung himself to the young Roman’s side. Julius was still alive, ashen and grey-lipped, but thank the gods, still alive . . .

  “Don’t move!” Marcus was tearing at the boy’s clothing, ripping open the dress he wore as disguise. The calico cotton was drenched with dark stains that weren’t sweat. The bullet had gone in low, missing the heart, plowing instead through the gut. The boy moaned, gritted his teeth, whimpered. Marcus was already stripping off his own shirt, tearing it into strips, placing compresses to staunch the bleeding. In the distance, a sharp report floated back over the rocky hills, followed by three more cracking gunshots. Then hoofbeats crashed back toward them. Marcus snatched up his pistol again. Noah Armstrong appeared, riding hell for leather toward them. Marcus dropped the gun from shaking hands and tied the compresses tighter.

  The detective slithered out of a sweaty saddle and crouched beside the fallen teenager. “Hold on, Julius, do you hear me? We’ll get you back to camp. To that surgeon, Paula Booker.”

  “No . . .” The boy was clawing at Noah’s arm. “They’ll just kill you . . . and Marcus . . . the girls . . . he’ll kill you . . .”

  “Not that one,” Noah said roughly. “He’s dead. Shot the bastard out of his saddle. Left him for the buzzards.”

  “Then they’ll send someone else!”

  If they hadn’t already . . .

  The unspoken words hung in the air, as hot and terrifying as the coppery smell of Julius’ blood. “Please . . .” Julius was choking out the words, “you can’t afford to take me back. I’ll only slow you down. Just get the girls and run, please. . . .” Marcus tried to hush the frantic boy. Guilt ripped through him. He’d allowed Julius to help—this was his fault. “Please, Julius, do not speak! You have not the strength. Here, can you swallow a little water?” He held his canteen to the boy’s lips.

  “Just a sip,” Noah cautioned. “There, that’s enough. Here, help me get him up. No, Julius, we have to go back to camp anyway, to rescue the kids. You’re coming with us, so don’t argue. Marcus, we’ll put him on your horse.” The detective glanced up, met Marcus’ gaze. “He’s right, you know. They will send someone else. And someone after that.”

  “What can we do?” Marcus felt helpless, bitterly afraid, furious with himself for bringing his young friend into this.

  “We leave Julius with the camp surgeon, that’s what. As soon as we get back to camp, you get the girls and take them back to the livery stable with you. During the confusion, you and I will leave camp with the kids. Take our horses and our gear and ride out. By the time they figure out we’re gone, we’ll be far enough away to catch a train out of the territory.”

  Marcus swallowed exactly once. “And go where?” he whispered.

  “East. Way East. To New York.” Noah held Marcus’s gaze carefully, reluctance and regret brilliant in those enigmatic eyes. “And eventually,” the detective added softly, “to London. Jenna and your wife will be there. We’ll meet them.”

  Three years from now . . .

  Marcus looked down into his young friend’s ashen face, his pain-racked eyes, and knew they didn’t have any choice. Three years in hiding . . . or this. When next Ianira saw their children, just hours after dropping them off at daycare, from her perspective, Artemisia would be nearly seven, Gelasia almost four. Gelasia might not even remember her mother. Ianira might well never forgive him. But he had no choice. They couldn’t risk going back to the station, not even long enough to crash through the Britannia Gate. And crashing it was the only way they could get through the Britannia, because there wasn’t a single ticket available for months, not until after the Ripper Season closed. Marcus bowed his head, squeezed shut his eyes. Then nodded, scarcely recognizing his own voice. “Yes. We will go to London. And wait.” Three entire years. . .

  Wordlessly, he helped the detective lift Julius to Marcus’ saddle. Wordlessly, he climbed on behind his dying friend, steadied him and kept the boy from falling. Then turned his horse on the dusty, blood-spattered trail and left Julius’ groaning, gut-shot mount sprawled obscenely across the path. A sharp report behind him, from Noah’s gun, sent his pulse shuddering; but the agonized sounds tearing from the woun
ded horse cut off with that brief act of mercy. He tightened his hands around the sweaty wet leather of his reins.

  And swore vengeance.

  * * *

  Jenna woke to the sensation of movement and the deep shock that she was still alive to waken at all. For a moment, the only thing in her mind was euphoria that she was still among the breathing. Then the pain hit, sharp and throbbing all along the side of her skull, and the nausea struck an instant later. She moaned and clenched her teeth against the pain—which only tightened the muscles of her scalp and sent the pain mushrooming off the scale. Jenna choked down bile, felt herself swoop and fall . . .

  Then she lay propped across something hard, while she was thoroughly sick onto the street. Someone was holding her up, kept her from falling while she vomited. Memory struck hard, of the gun aimed at her face, of the roar and gout of flame, the agony of the gunshot striking her. She struggled, convinced she was in the hands of that madman, that he’d carried her off to finish her or interrogate her . . .

  “Easy, there.”

  Whoever held her was far stronger than Jenna; hard hands kept her from moving away. Jenna shuddered and got the heaves under control, then gulped down terror and slowly raised her gaze from the filthy cobblestones. She lay propped across someone’s thigh, resting against rough woolen cloth and a slim torso. Then she met the eyes of a woman whose face was shadowed by a broad-brimmed bonnet which nearly obscured her face in the darkness. Through the nausea and pain and terror, Jenna realized the woman was exceedingly poor. Her dress and coat were raggedy, patched things, the bonnet bedraggled by the night’s rain. Gaslight from a nearby street lamp caught a glint of the woman’s eyes, then she spoke, in a voice that sounded as poor and ragged as she was.

  “Cor, luv,” the woman said softly, “if you ain’t just a sight, now. I’ve ‘ad me quite a jolly time, so I ‘ave, tryin’ t’ foller you all the way ‘ere, an’ you bent on getting yourself that lost and killed.”

  Jenna stared, wondering whether or not the woman had lost her mind, or if perhaps Jenna might be losing hers. Mad, merry eyes twinkled in the gaslight as a sharp wind picked up and pelted them with debris from the street. The shabby woman glanced at the clouds, where lightning flared, threatening more rain, then frowned. “Goin’ t’catch yer death, wivout no coat on, and I gots t’find a bloody surgeon what can see to that head of yours. It’s bled a fright, but in’t as bad as it seems or likely feels. Just a scrape along above the ear. Bloody lucky, you are, bloody lucky.” When Jenna stared at her, torn by nausea and pain and the conviction that she was in the hands of yet another down-time lunatic, the madwoman leaned closer still and said in a totally different voice, “Good God, kid, you really don’t know me, do you?”

  Jenna’s mouth fell open. “Noah?”

  The detective’s low chuckle shocked her. Jenna had never heard Noah Armstrong laugh. They hadn’t found much to laugh about, since their brutal introduction three days previously. Then she blinked slowly through the fog in her mind. Three days? But Noah and Marcus had gone down Denver’s Wild West Gate. Or rather, would be going down the Wild West Gate. Tomorrow morning, on the station’s timeline. Noah Armstrong shouldn’t be here at all, on the night of Jenna’s arrival. The night before Noah and Marcus were due to leave the station for Denver . . .

  Mind whirling, Jenna asked blankly, “Where did you come from? How did you get here?”

  The detective was pulling off a shabby black coat, which served to protect Jenna’s head from the cold, damp wind. When Jenna touched gingerly, she found rough, torn cloth tied as makeshift bandages. They were wet and sticky. Noah said, “Let me carry you again, kid. You’re just about done in from exhaustion and shock. I’ll get you someplace safe and warm as soon as I can.”

  Jenna lay in a daze as Noah gently lifted her and started walking steadily eastward. “But—how—?”

  “We came across from New York, of course. Hopped a train in Colorado and lost ourselves nice and thoroughly in Chicago and points east.” The detective’s voice darkened. “That down-timer kid from the station, Julius? He was disguised as you, Jenna, dressed in a calico skirt, wearing a wig.” Noah paused, eyes stricken in the light streaming from a nearby house window. “They shot him. My fault, dammit, I shouldn’t have let that kid out of my sight! I knew Sarnoff would follow us, I just didn’t figure he’d slip ahead and ambush the kid so fast. We got him back to the camp surgeon, but . . .”

  “No . . .” Jenna whimpered, not wanting to hear.

  “I’m sorry, Jenna. He didn’t make it. Poor bastard died before we could slip out of camp. I had a helluva time getting us out in the middle of the uproar, with Time Tours guides and the surgeon demanding to know exactly what had happened.”

  Jenna’s vision wavered. “Oh, God . . .” She didn’t want to accept the truth. Not that nice kid, the down-timer she’d met in the basement under the Neo Edo hotel. Julius was younger than she was. . . . Her eyes burned and she nearly brought up more acid from her stomach as she fought not to sob aloud. How many people were going to die, trying to keep her alive?

  Then she remembered Ianira. “Oh, God! Ianira!”

  Noah’s stride faltered for just a moment. “I know.” The detective’s voice was rough. “I tried to follow him, the instant I knew you weren’t critically wounded. But he disappeared into that rat’s maze of streets down in SoHo. Which, coincidentally, is exactly the same thing we did. I had to get us out of there fast, after all the shooting left that hit-man dead in front of the Opera House. The door man and some people in a passing carriage went shouting for a constable.”

  “But—but Noah, he’s got her—“

  “Do you have any idea who he was?”

  She gulped down terror, tried to think past the memory of that gun levelled at her face, that mad, calm voice telling her it was nothing personal. “He said he was a doctor. Ianira found him, while I was struggling with that killer. I think he was down by those columns.”

  Noah nodded. “That’d be the Opera House, it’s just down the way from where you were attacked.”

  “He took Ianira’s pulse and she . . . she went into shock. Tried to get away from him, starting ranting something that sounded awful. In ancient Greek. Whatever she said, he understood it and his face . . . he snarled at her. I’ve never seen such hatred, such murderous fury . . .”

  Noah’s quiet voice intruded. “That’s damned odd, don’t you think?”

  Jenna just shivered and huddled closer to the detective’s warmth. “He looked at me. Just looked at me and said, ‘Sorry, old chap, nothing personal,’ and shot me.”

  “Damned odd,” Noah muttered. “Doesn’t sound like an up-time hit at all.”

  “No.” Then, voice breaking, “We have to find her! I let him . . . let him take her away . . .”

  “No, you didn’t. Don’t argue! For Christ sake, Jenna, you’ve been on the run for three solid days, in shock from the murders in New York, and the shock of being pregnant and shooting a man to death in TT-86, and you damned near got shot at the Picadilly Hotel, then almost knifed to death in front of the Opera, then some lunatic down-timer shot you in the head, and you blame yourself? After all that? Kid, you did one helluva job. And you’re not even a pro. I am. And I screwed up royally. I didn’t manage to grab you aside at Spaldergate House, damn near got caught stealing a horse to follow the carriage you took, and still arrived at the Picadilly Hotel too damned late to do you any good. And by the time the shooting started outside the hotel, I’d tied that damned horse up a block down the street and had to chase after you on foot, in these heavy, damned wet skirts. Kid, I fucked up, plain and simple, and ended up letting that guy shoot you and kidnap Ianira. Don’t you dare blame yourself, Jenna Caddrick. You did one helluva job getting her out of that hotel in one piece.”

  Very quietly and very messily, Jenna began to cry down the front of Noah’s rough woolen dress.

  “Aw, shit . . .” Noah muttered, then speeded up. “I gotta get you out of this raw
air.” Noah braced her head against a solid shoulder, easing the coat to protect her face from the cold, and hurried through the darkened city. Occasional carriages rattled past, a greyed-out blur to Jenna’s overtaxed senses. Pain, dull and endless, throbbed through her head. Nausea bit the back of her throat, without letup. God, if I really am pregnant, please let the baby be all right . . .

  At least half-an-hour later, Noah Armstrong carried Jenna into a snug little house near Christ Church, Spitalfields. Marcus, who seemed to have aged terribly since the last time she’d seen him, greeted them with a cry of fear. “What has happened? Where is Ianira?”

  Noah spoke curtly. “Jenna ran into bad trouble, getting away from the gatehouse. I’ve got to carry her upstairs to bed. Heat a water bottle and bring up some extra blankets, then go out and ask Dr. Mindel to come. Jenna’s been shot, not seriously, but she needs medical attention and she’s in shock.”

  “Ianira?” Marcus whispered again.

  The detective paused. “She’s alive. Somewhere. It’s complicated. A man helped them, shot one of the hit-men. But when he touched her, she went into prophetic trance and whatever she said, it really upset him. He shot Jenna without warning and was about to finish her off when I finally caught up. He took a potshot at me and I fired back, but missed, dammit, and he grabbed Ianira and took off down Drury Lane. I’m sorry, Marcus. We’ll find her. I swear it, we will find her.”

  The ex-slave had gone ashen, stood trembling in the shabby house they’d rented, eyes wet and lips unsteady. At a slight sound behind him, he turned his shaken gaze downward.

  “Daddy?” A beautiful little girl of about seven had appeared in the doorway from the back of the house. “Daddy, did Noah bring Mama?”