Time Scout

by Robert Asprin

Oh, no...

  "I, uh..." Margo tried frantically to recall what Malcolm had taught her during their visit to Goldie Morran, one of TT-86's money changers. "The basic unit's the pound. It's abbreviated with that little `L'; thing."

  "And a pound is made up of ..."

  She cast back through the confusion of foreign terms. "Twenty shillings."

  Twenty-one shillings being called?"

  Oh, God, it was some sort of bird..."A hen?"

  Malcolm sat back and covered his eyes, stricken with helpless laughter. "The association," he wheezed, "is flawlessly logical, I'll have to credit you that much. A guinea, Margo. A guinea."

  "A guinea," she repeated grimly. "Twenty-one shillings is a guinea."

  "Now, what else do we call twenty shillings, other than a pound?"

  Margo screwed shut her eyes and tried to remember. Not a king, there was a queen on the throne. "A sovereign."

  "Or quid, in slang terms. What's it made of?"

  "Gold. So's a half-sovereign!" she finished triumphantly.

  "And half of that?"

  Something else to do with royalty. But what, she couldn't remember. She lifted her hands helplessly.

  "A crown. Five shillings is a crown, or a `bull' in slang usage."

  Margo took a deep breath. "A crown. A quarter sovereign is a crown. Then there's the half-crown, or two-and-a-half shillings." Her head hurt.

  "Two shillings is ..."

  "I don't know," Margo wailed. "My head aches!"

  Malcolm produced a card from his waistcoat pocket, handwritten with what was clearly a period ink pen. "Study this. If you forget and must refer to this, please explain that you're a recently orphaned American with a British benefactor and you just can't keep all this straight, then bat your eyelashes and look helpless and the shopkeepers will probably fall over themselves trying to assist you."

  Margo couldn't help it. She burst out laughing at the ludicrous face Malcolm presented He grinned and handed over the card. Margo settled herself to study the rest of the currency – florins, pence, groats, pennies, farthings, and all the rest-with a much improved frame of mind.

  Horses, Margo learned, were tricky beasts.

  Changing clothing in the cramped carriage was easy compared to managing an animal that weighed half a ton and scared her to death every time it blew quietly at the front of her shirt.

  "All right," Malcolm said patiently when she succeeded in bridling the hack without losing a thumb or fingers, "do it again."

  She shut her eyes, summoned up every erg of patience she possessed, and unbuckled the bridle. Then performed the whole terrifying procedure again. They did this an hour and she still hadn't even saddled the horse, much less gotten on its back. The "riding" lesson had begun with a bewildering new set of terms

  to learn: withers, fetlocks, gaits, snaffles, cinches, leathers, headstalls ...

  Oh, God, why did I ever think time scouting would be easier than college?

  But even she could see the practical necessity of learning to control the mode of transportation from prehistory right down to the invention of the mass-produced automobile.

  Margo finally mastered haltering and bridling, moved on to saddling, then spent twenty minutes exercising her hack on a lunge line to learn the difference in its gaits and learned to judge what it took to control a horse from the ground. By the time she passed muster, she was exhausted Her toes, fingertips, and nose were numb with cold. .

  "Shall we break for lunch," Malcolm suggested, "then try our first ride afterward?"

  Oh, thank God.

  "Cool out your horse by walking him up and down the lane for about five minutes while John spreads out a blanket Then we'll water him and rest a bit ourselves."

  At least Malcolm accompanied her on the walk. The horse's hooves clopped softly behind them. Margo had begun to feel less nervous asking questions. "Why do we have to cool him out? It's freezing out here!"

  "Any time you work a horse, cool him out. Particularly in cold weather. An overheated horse can catch a fatal chill if he's not properly cooled down afterward. Horses are remarkably delicate creatures, prone to all sorts of illness and accident. Your life literally depends on the care you give your horse. Treat him with better care than you treat yourself. Your horse is fed and watered before you even think of resting or eating your own meal. Otherwise, you may not have a horse afterward."

  It made sense. It also sounded remarkably similar to Ann Vinh Mulhaneys lecture on caring for one's firearms: "Keep them clean. Particularly if you're using a black powder weapon. Clean it every time you use it. Black powder and early priming compounds are corrosive. Clean your gun thoroughly or it'll be useless and that can happen fast. Don't ever bet your life on a dirty weapon."

  "Mal– Mr. Moore," she amended hastily, "are you carrying a firearm?"

  He glanced swiftly at her. "Whatever brought on that question?"

  "You just sounded like Ms. Mulhaney, about keeping firearms clean or losing the use of them. So then I wondered."

  "One generally doesn't ask a gentlemen, `Sir, are you armed? As it happens, I am. I never travel to London, never mind outside it, without a good revolver on my person."

  "Isn't that illegal"

  His lips twitched faintly. "Not yet."

  Oh.

  "There are a few things about down-time cultures," Malcolm said with a sigh, "that are vastly preferable to up-time nonsense. Self-defense attitudes being one of them. Let's turn about, shall we? I believe he's cooling out nicely."

  Margo turned the horse and they returned to the hired carriage, where she tied the reins and draped a warm blanket over his back. She then watered the animal from a pail John produced

  "Thank you, John," she smiled

  "Me pleasure, miss."

  Margo grinned, but refrained from comment, since they were supposed to stay "in character" as much as possible to avoid slip-ups.

  Lunch was simple but good: slices of beef and cheese on crusted rolls and red wine in sturdy mugs. John had built a warm fire and spread out a blanket for them.

  Margo relaxed, draping her heavy cape around her shoulders and leaning close to the fire to keep from catching a chill. Clouds raced past through a lacing of barren branches above their little fire. She couldn't identify the tall tree but sunlit filtering down through the spiderwork of twigs and branches was wonderful.

  "Nice."

  Birdsong twittered through the silence. One of the horses blew quietly and let a hind leg go slack as it dozed. Tired as she was, it would have been incredibly easy just to close her eyes and fall asleep to the hush of birdsong and the profound silence behind it Far, far away Margo heard voices, the words indistinguishable with distance. And beyond the voices, the faint hoot of a train.

  Margo hadn't realized the world before automobiles and jet aircraft could be so quiet.

  "Ready for that riding lesson?"

  Margo opened her eyes and found Malcolm smiling down at her.

  "Yes, Mr. Moore, I believe I am."

  "Good." He offered her a hand up.

  Margo scrambled to her feet, refreshed and ready to tackle anything. Today, she told herself, I become a horsewoman.

  The horse-of course-had other ideas.

  Margo learned the first critical lesson about horseback riding within five minutes. When you fall off, you get back on. Heart in her mouth, she tried again. This time, she rechecked the cinch first, as Malcolm had told her before lunch-and which she'd forgotten in the interim then clambered back aboard.

  This time, the saddle held She started breathing again and relaxed her death grip on the mane. "Okay, I'm on. Now what?"

  Malcolm was busy mounting his own horse. Mar discovered an intense envy of the ease with which he floated into the saddle and found a seat. "Follow me and copy what I do."

  He set off by thumping heels sharply against the horse's belly. Margo tried it Her hack moved off sedately with a placid "I have a novice on my back" air about him.

  "It wo
rks!"

  "Well, of course it works," Malcolm laughed. He reined in to let her pass. "Heels down, toes in."

  "Ow! That hurts!"

  "And don't forget to grip with your thighs. But leave your hands relaxed. You don't want to bruise his mouth with the bit."

  What about my bruises?

  Concentrating on heels, toes, thighs, and hands all at the same time while steering and not falling off was nerve-racking. For the first ten minutes, Margo sweat into her clothes and was thoroughly miserable. The horse didn't seem to mind, however.

  "Keep right on," Malcolm said over his shoulder. "I'll follow you for a bit."

  He reined around behind her. Margo's horse tried to follow. She hauled on the reins, overcorrected, and sent her horse straight toward a hedgerow. She straightened him out after wandering back and forth across the lane several times. Eventually she mastered the knack of keeping a fairly steady course.

  "You're doing fine," Malcolm said from behind her. "Sit up a little straighter. That's good Toes in. Heels down. Better. Elbows relaxed, wrists relaxed. Good. Gather up the reins slightly. If he bolts now, he'll have the bit in his teeth and there'll be no stopping him. Firm but relaxed."

  "If he bolts?" Margo asked. "Why would he do that?"

  "Horses just do. It's called shying. Anything can scare a horse. A leaf rustling the wrong way. A noise. An unexpected movement or color. Or a particular item. A parasol. A train. A lawn chair."

  "Great. I'm stuck way up here on something likely to jump at a shadow?"

  "Precisely. Tighten your thighs. Heels down."

  After half an hour, Malcolm let her trot. That was worse: The gait jolted her from top to bottom. Learning to post a trot put cramps in her thigh muscles. He brought her back down to a walk again to let her rest.

  "I hate this!"

  "That's because we haven't tried the canter yet," Malcolm smiled.

  "And when we get to do that? Next week?"

  Malcolm laughed. "Patience, Miss Smythe. Patience. You can't fly until you've learned to flap your wings properly. Now, the post again."

  Margo held back a groan and kicked her horse into the posting trot that jolted everything that could be jolted. She missed her timing, rising on the wrong swing of the horse's withers, and discovered that was worse. She jolted along for a couple of paces before she got it right again. Eventually, Margo mastered it.

  "All right," Malcolm said, drawing up beside her, "let's see if the nag will canter."

  Malcolm clucked once and urged his horse forward with thighs, knees, and heels. He leaned forward.

  And shot away in a thunder of hoof beats. Belatedly Margo licked her own horse to greater speed. One moment they were jolting through a horrendous trot. The next, Margo was flying.

  "Oh!"

  It was wonderful.

  She found herself grinning like an idiot as her horse caught up with Malcolm's horse.

  He glanced over and grinned. "Better?"

  "Wow!"

  "Thought you'd like that!"

  "It's ...it's terrific!" She felt alive all over, even down to her toes. The horse moved under her in a smoothly bunched rhythm, while hedgerows whipped past to a glorious, stinging wind in her face.

  "Better pull up," Malcolm warned, "before we come to the crossroad."

  Margo didn't want to pull up and go back. Greatly daring, she kicked her horse to greater speed. He burst into a gallop that tore the breath from her lungs and left her ecstatic. Eyes shining, she tore down the country lane and shot into the crossroad-

  And nearly ran down a heavy coach and four sweating horses. Margo screamed. Her own horse shied, nearly tossing her out of the saddle. Then the nag plunged into a watery meadow at full gallop. Margo hauled on the reins. The horse didn't slow down. She pulled harder, still to no avail. Freezing spray from the wet meadow soaked her legs. Patches of ice shattered under her horse's flying hooves. Then Malcolm thundered up and leaned over. He seized the reins in an iron grip. Her horse tossed its head, trying to rear, then settled down to a trot. They finally halted.

  Malcolm sat panting on his own horse, literally white with rage. "OUT OF THE SADDLE! Walk him back!"

  Margo slid to the ground. Rubbery legs nearly dumped her headlong into muddy, half-frozen water. She wanted to cry. Instead she snatched the reins and led the horse back toward the crossroad. Malcolm sent his own mount back at a hard gallop, spattering her with mud from head to foot. That did it. She started crying, silently. She was furious and miserable and consumed with embarrassment. Malcolm had stopped far ahead, where he was talking with the driver of the coach. The carriage had careered off the road.

  "Oh, no," she wailed. What if someone had been hurt?

  I'm an idiot ....

  She couldn't bear even to look at the coach as she slunk past, leading the horse back down the lane. When Malcolm passed her, back in the saddle, he was moving at a slow walk, but he didn't even acknowledge her presence. When she finally regained the carriage, Malcolm was waiting.

  "Fortunately," he said in a tone as icy as the water in her shoes, "no one was injured. Now get back on that horse and do as I tell you this time."

  She scrubbed mud and tears with the back-of one hand. "M-my feet are wet. And freezing."

  Malcolm produced dry stockings. She changed, then wearily hauled herself back into the saddle. The rest of the afternoon passed in frigid silence, broken only by Malcolm's barked instructions. Margo learned to control her horse at the canter and the gallop. By twilight she was able to stay with him when Malcolm deliberately spooked the hack into rearing, shying, and bolting with her.

  It was a hard-won accomplishment and she should have been proud of it. All she felt was miserable, bruised, and exhausted. Whatever wasn't numb from the cold ached mercilessly, John solicitously filled a basin for her to wash off the mud. He'd heated the water over the fire. Her fingers stung like fire when she dunked them into the hot water. She finally struggled back into the hateful undergarments, the charity gown and Knafore Then she had to take another ATLS and star reading and update her personal log. When Malcolm finally allowed her to climb into the carriage for the return to town, she hid her face in the side cushions and pretended to sleep.

  Malcolm settled beside her while John loaded the luggage and lit the carriage lanterns, then they set out through the dark. As a first day down time, it had been a mixed success at best. They rattled along in utter silence for nearly half an hour. Then Malcolm said quietly, "Miss- Margo. Are you awake?"

  She made some strangled sound that was meant to be a "Yes" and came out sounding more like a cat caught in a vacuum cleaner.

  Malcolm hesitated in the dark, then settled an arm around her shoulders. She turned toward him and gave in, wetting his tweed coat thoroughly between hiccoughs.

  "Shh..."

  With the release of tension and the sure knowledge that he'd forgiven her-crushing exhaustion overtook Margo. She fell asleep to the jolt of carriage wheels on the rutted lane, the warmth of Malcolms arm around her, and the thump of his heartbeat under her ear. The last, whispery sensation to come to her in the darkness was the scent of his skin as he bent and softly kissed her hair.

  Nothing in Margo's experience prepared her for the East End.

  Not an abusive father, not the crime and violence of New York, not even the barrage of televised images of starving, ragged third worlders, brandished like meat cleavers by charities desperately trying to stave off global disaster.

  "My God," Margo kept whispering. "My God.–"

  They set out very early in the morning. Malcolm thrust a pistol into a holster under his jacket and pocketed a tin wrapped with waxed cord, then asked John to drive them to Lower Thames Street

  , near the famous London Docks.

  The Docks had been cut out of the earth in Wapping to form a deep, rectangular "harbor" filled with river water. The city surrounded it on all sides. Steamers and sailing ships were literally parked at the end of narrow, filthy streets.

>   They picked up an empty pushcart cart John had procure and began walking through the pre-dawn chill. Margo's old boots and woolen, uncreased trousers chafed. Her ragged shirt and threadbare pea jacket barely kept out the chill. Swing docks afforded occasional glimpses of the river as they passed the stinking, bow-windowed taverns of Wapping. Sailors accosted everything female with such gusto Margo huddled more deeply into her boy's garments, desperately grateful for the disguise.

  Okay, so they were right. She didn't have to be happy about it, but she could disguise herself. Fortunately, none of the sailors so much as glanced at her twice. Malcolm steered them toward the riverbank, where the stench of tidal mudflats was overwhelming. They watched young kids, mostly barefooted, picking through the freezing mud.

  "Mudlarks," he explained quietly. "They scavenge bits of iron or coal, anything they can sell for a few pence. Most children are suppose to be in school, but the poorest often dodge it, as you see. There used to be much fiercer competition down there, before mandatory schooling laws were passed. On Saturdays, the riverbanks are alive with starving mudlarks."

  One romantic illusion after another shattered into slivers on the cold road.

  "What are those?" she asked, pointing to a boat midriver with large nets out. "Fishermen?"

  "No. Draggers. They look for dropped valuables, including bodies they can loot for money and other sellable items."

  "Corpses!" Margo gasped. "My God, Malcolm – " She bit her tongue. "Sorry."

  "Dressed as a boy, it's not such a grave error, but I'd still prefer you said Mr. Moore. People will take you for my apprentice. You've seen enough here. We have to get to Billingsgate before the worst of the crowds do."

  "Billingsgate?"

  "Billingsgate Market," Malcolm explained as they neared a maelstrom of carts, wagons, barrels, boats, and human beings. "Royal Charter gives Billingsgate a monopoly on fish."

  The stench and noise were unbelievable. Margo wanted to cover her ears and hold her breath. They shoved in cheek-to-jowl with hundreds of other costermongers buying their day's wares to peddle. Liveried servants from fine houses, ordinary lower class wives, and buyers for restaurants as well as shippers who would take loads of fish inland for sale, all fought one another for the day's catch.