Time Scout

by Robert Asprin

  One moment he was alone beneath a steaming forest canopy. The next, he was on the ground with Portuguese shouts in his ears and hard hands on his arms and legs. Kynan heaved and broke loose. He rolled and came to a crouch with his back against a tree trunk. Then swallowed hard. He faced half a dozen snarling Portuguese, all of them armed with guns or crossbows.

  Honor demanded he fight. Duty demanded he try to escape and rescue his lost comrade and commander. A strong sense of practicality told him he could do neither, given his exhaustion and the unwavering weapons trained on him. One of the men grinned slowly and said something Kynan didn't understand. Then, in bad English: "Witch..."

  Kynan's blood ran cold.

  They'd found Margo or Koot van Beek or the raft they would torture and burn him alive-

  He groped behind the tree trunk, closed his hand around a chunk of stout deadwood. He'd rather be shot with gun and crossbow than burn. Then another, worse thought came to him. They would burn Margo, too, and the sick Afrikaaner who had taught Kynan to shoot the semi-magical rifle. If Kynan let these men kill him now, the others would have no chance of escape at all. If he let them take him alive ...

  They had to get free only long enough to gain the gate.

  Kynan caught a ragged breath.

  Then quietly surrendered

  Kit and Malcolm gained the gates in time to see the search party return with a bloodied, bruised prisoner. Vines secured his wrists behind his back. The Welsh soldier was ash-pale but he stood erect, facing his doom with all the bravery in him.

  One of the soldiers still inside the fort called out, "Looks like he put up a fight!"

  Kynan's captors grinned "Naw Looked like he might for a minute, but he surrendered quiet as a lamb."

  Kit narrowed his eyes. They'd beaten him afterward, then, badly, from the look of it. Why had he surrendered? That didn't fit the image of the Kynan Rhys Gower who'd attacked both Kit and Margo with single-minded, near-unstoppable fury. Kynan kept his gaze stonily on the ground, clearly aware that he faced his doom.

  The Portuguese were gloating.

  "Put him in the stocks,' the governor crowed.

  "No," Kit countered, allowing weariness to color his voice. "Put him in the cell with the woman. Father Xabat and I must examine him for Satan's mark."

  Kynan flinched visibly at the word "Satan." He didn't quite struggle when the Portuguese shoved him toward the stockade, but he cursed them under his breath in Welsh. One of the soldiers struck him across the mouth, splitting a barely scabbed-over lip. Kynan stumbled and glared at his captors, but made no further sound. Kit and Malcolm exchanged glances.

  "Brave man," Malcolm's look said

  Kit just nodded, then followed. Malcolm fell into step behind him. Their heavy cassocks dragged in the mud. Sergeant Braz unlocked the cell and shoved Kynan inside, then stepped aside for Kit and Malcolm. Once again, Malcolm shut the door. Margo sat in the corner, alert and silent. She took one look at Kynan and swallowed hard, but her eyes had begun to shine with hope. Kynan swayed, clearly at the end of his strength, but he said in broken English to Margo, "I ... I look you. Portuguese," he snarled, spitting blood onto the dirt floor, "find me. I-I come, no fight. We run gate. I help, yes?"

  Margo's eyes widened. She looked past Kynan to Kit, who had difficulty finding his voice. Kynan had surrendered, knowing what the Portuguese would do to them ... . What had happened during the past seven weeks, to change Kynan's opinion of her so thoroughly?

  Kit cleared his throat. "Kynan Rhys Gower."

  The Welshman jerked around. His eyes widened. His mouth worked several times before any sound came out. "YOU?"

  Then faint hope began to burn in his eyes. "Have you come to help us?" he asked quietly in his native tongue.

  Kit didn't answer the obvious. Instead he asked, "Did you really surrender to the Portuguese to help my grandchild escape?"

  Kynan flushed and dropped his gaze. "I accepted her leadership."

  Ahh...

  "Yes, but it was still uncommonly brave, duty or not. I will not forget this. Malcolm, free his hands. Do you have any idea where and when you are?"

  The Welshman paused while Malcolm untied him. "I know we are in Africa and that Africa is south of Wales," he said, rubbing his wrists. "I know those whoresons are Portuguese, a pox on them all. I think it is a hundred years after... after I left my home."

  "Yes, the year is 1542. The Portuguese think you and Margo are witches."

  Kynan lost color again. "I know. They said so when they began to kick and beat me." He winced and shrugged. "I feared for a time they would kill me without benefit of a trial."

  His smile was bitter and short-lived.

  Kit said quietly, "We are still in very serious danger. There is a chance I will die before the gate opens again. It's complicated and you haven't learned enough about the gates yet, but the simple truth is, a man can't exist in two times at once. I am going to come very, very close to doing that If I stay here too long, past the time when I exist someplace else this year, I will die."

  The Welshman's face went through a whole series of unguarded expressions. Then, to Kit's astonishment, he went down on one knee. "I offer fealty, then, liege lord. Command me, that I may finish your task should you perish in this rescue."

  Now was neither the time nor the place to try and explain that no oath of fealty was necessary. He simply accepted the pledge of vassalage. If they lived, he'd sort it out later. Margo looked on, wide-eyed.

  "Now," Kit said quietly, "what we must do is hold a mock trial for witchcraft ... ."

  Malcolm ordered that the Welshman be given food and water, then treated his injuries. Kit ordained that he should be given a night's rest before the holy examination began. When they left, Malcolm felt marginally better about abandoning Margo. At least now she wasn't alone in that wretched little room.

  They "examined" the Welshman in that same little room the next day, making a whole day affair of it and really spent the time quietly discussing their plans, coming up with alternative courses of action should something go wrong. They planned the fake trial like a Broadway production. Only this play's outcome was far more critical than any theatrical spectacular ever to hit the streets of New York. And when they finished their plans, silent looks which passed between them said everyone was aware just how easily something could still go wrong.

  The African sun was low in the summer sky when Malcolm finally stepped out of the filthy little cell and held the door for Kit. The lean time scout wouldn't look at him. Margo had clung to Malcolm before their departure, revealing her feelings so transparently a blind man would have seen how she felt. Her farewell to Kit had been far more restrained. Her demonstration had shaken Malcolm, but it hadn't done anything to heal the breach between Kit and himself. As they shut the door, Kynan moved protectively between her and the Portuguese who locked them in, bringing Malcolm's opinion of the Welshman another notch higher.

  Malcolm and Kit took the traders through Vespers before consenting to sit down to the evening meal. Dark looks and angry words between several of the men convinced Malcolm to put a plan of his own into action. If Kit wanted these men off-balance, he saw a golden opportunity to set them at one another. So at dinnertime, which the entire community had begun taking together at Kit's insistence, he lifted his hands and launched into a sermon on the evils of witchcraft in his Basqueaccented Portuguese.

  "Know you that the Evil One has demons to sniff out all your grievous sins and tempt you to even greater evil. You must be on your guard against anything that entices you to stray from God's path. If you see your neighbor shirking his duty, be assured Satan is working within that man, leading him down the path of damnation. Be harsh with your neighbor. Correct his behavior that you might guard his soul. You must help one another to find the narrow path again. If your neighbor indulges that cardinal sin of greed, you must help him to resist the error of his ways. If you stand guard at night and see the Evil One and his minions prowling about the
town, looking for ways of creating mischief, you must charge him to be gone!"

  Several of the soldiers lost color. Clearly, they'd seen something prowling the night. Monkeys, Malcolm was willing to bet, intent on raiding the garbage middens, possibly even leopards after the livestock. Tonight's watch ought to prove interesting.

  "Does your fellow man swell with insufferable pride? Teach him humility, that he might rescue his soul from damnation. Avarice, pride, gluttony. Watch for these deadly sins. You must root them out!"

  He delivered a final benediction. The whole cadre of soldiers, artisans, farmers, and landlocked sailors sat speechless, eyeing one another with growing suspicion and fear. The governor crossed himself and began to eat but slowly, to avoid the impression that he had fallen prey to the sin of gluttony. The other men followed his example, eyeing one another uneasily while they ate. Which of you, Malcolm could practically read their thoughts, summoned the Evil One with his wickedness

  Later, alone, Kit eyed him coldly. "Hope to hell you know what you're doing."

  "You wanted them off balance. Next couple of days ought to be interesting."

  Kit just grunted and stomped off to bed. Kit's plan to keep the men unsettled and tired was certainly working on Malcolm. He was numb with exhaustion.

  "Good night," Malcolm said quietly.

  Kit's only reply was a brusque, "Hope you sleep like hell, buddy."

  Malcolm held his tongue: He'd take Kit's anger and swallow it raw. Consider it penance, Father Xabat. Malcolm did manage to fall asleep eventually; but his dreams were violent, waking him well before midnight. He rolled over in the darkness and stared at the invisible wooden ceiling.

  How could he ever patch his friendship with Kit? Malcolm owed the retired scout more favors than he could ever repay, not the least of which was the trust Kit had placed in him to guard Margo. The knowledge that she huddled in the darkness, locked into a filthy cell with nothing more than a coarse shirt and a flea ridden blanket to cover her, when she needed medical treatment... He closed his fists in his own coarse blanket. Those wretched traders could have given her venereal diseases, could've gotten her pregnant

  Malcolm turned onto his side and clenched his teeth. He could have gotten her pregnant. He couldn't blame Kit one jot for the cold, murderous looks. Malcolm couldn't help the way he felt about Margo, but he could've restrained that wild, drunken impulse on a street in Rome. That, he could have prevented it make it up somehow, he promised. Somehow. He hadn't yet figured out how when a wild scream and gunshots shattered the silence. Another man screamed in mortal agony.

  Then the alarm bell clanged wildly.

  Kit rolled out of bed, one hand going for the push daggers in his ATLS bag. Then he blinked and said, "What the hell?"

  "My plans coming to fruition, I think," Malcolm said dryly.

  Thudding footsteps ran toward their door. Then a frantic knock shook it on its hinges. Malcolm struggled to his feet and threw the door wide. "What is it?" he asked worriedly. "We heard the shots and the bell-"

  "Oh, Father, come quickly, please ..." It was Francisco, one of the soldiers. His voice shook.

  Malcolm followed, with Kit hurrying in his wake. They found Zadornin, the Basque sailor, lying in the mud near the fort wall. He'd been shot through the chest. Clearly, the man was dying.

  "I did see a demon, Father," the sailor gasped, "atop the wall. I screamed and the watch fired ..."

  "It was a misshapen beast," Peli, one of the soldiers quavered. "It had the likeness of a man and it cried out with Zadornin's voice. We fired and it vanished with a screech, leaving poor Zadornin to die in its place."

  The sailor was fainting from shock and blood loss. The hole in his chest was at least eighty caliber. Malcolm took his hand and spoke last rites while he died. The sailor's death shook him badly, but Malcolm steeled himself with the thought that these men had permitted Koot van Beek to die and planned to kill Margo and Kynan using the hideous methods reserved for witches. He crossed himself in time to hear a fight break out among the soldiers of the watch.

  "If you hadn't been asleep, God curse you"

  "If you could shoot an arquebus as well as you shirk your duty-"

  The fist fight was brutal and short. Malcolm and Kit watched wordlessly. Malcolm, at any rate, had no intention of soothing the shaken soldiers. When it was over, Amaro sported a broken nose and Lorenco spat out a couple of teeth.

  "I suggest," Kit said coldly, "that you bury the man you have murdered. Do so at once. When you have finished, we will begin Matins."

  The soldiers grumbled into the stubble of their beards and went in search of shovels to dig the grave.

  Margo sat in her prison until nearly mid-morning, overhearing the sound of violent quarrels between her captors. Whatever Kit and Malcolm were doing, it was creating havoc. Good! The gunshots the previous night had jolted her out of nightmares. She had no idea what had happened, but hoped neither Malcolm nor Kit had been directly involved. Her greatest terror was that Kit would die before they could make good their escape, leaving Malcolm alone in a hostile camp of abruptly suspicious Portuguese.

  The soldiers came for her shortly before mid-morning. She was clad only in a rough shirt that covered her to her thighs. Margo snatched the blanket and wrapped it around her waist as a skirt. When that hideous Sergeant Braz seized her wrists, Margo spat in his face. He backhanded her into the wall. She slid to the floor, weeping and holding her face. Dimly, she heard Kit's voice, speaking angrily in Portuguese.

  Then Malcolm appeared out of the blur. She retained just enough sense not to throw her arms around him. He helped her to her feet, then escorted her outside. A table and chairs had been set up in the fort's open courtyard. The military governor-Margo shuddered at the memory–sat in the front row of seats. His soldiers stood guard, looking like they'd been in a fist fight half the night. Other men squatted on the ground or stood in uneasy clusters, watching the proceedings.

  Kit seated himself behind the table and dipped a quill pen into an inkwell, writing something meticulous on thick sheets of parchment. He glanced up and gestured Malcolm to the front of the table. Malcolm led Margo to the open space between table and audience. Kit sat back and looked up at her. Margo felt a chill. If she hadn't known he was playing a part, she would have despaired.

  He spoke in Portuguese. Malcolm said in English, "You are on trial for witchcraft, girl. What is your name?"

  There was at least one man in that audience who understood a little English. Margo lifted her head. "Margo Smith."

  "And you are English?"

  "I am."

  Malcolm spoke briefly to Kit in Portuguese. Kit scribbled something onto his parchment. Then he began to speak. Malcolm translated a list of charges, which began with "You are accused of consorting with the devil to make yourself and others fly through the air by means of foul magic" and ended nearly half an hour later with "and lastly, you are accused of summoning storms by the combing of your hair, which did cause the wreckage of a Portuguese ship and the loss of all hands but two." They even threw in summoning demons to make the sheep bleat at the wrong hour of the night.

  "How do you plead to these serious charges of witchcraft?"

  Margo turned her head just far enough to stare directly into the military governor's eyes. She curled her lip.. "Even if I were a witch, I would not waste such powerful magic on these men. They are not worthy of it. I am innocent and they are liars, murderers, and rapists."

  Malcolm translated her reply. The governor came to his feet with a roar and threatened Margo with the back of his hand. Malcolm snapped something that caused him to resume his seat.

  The "trial" was the most amazing thing Margo had ever witnessed. She was required to repeat phrases in Latin. Every syllable she stumbled over was duly noted on Kit's parchment and commented on by the sullen audience. She was stripped naked and searched. Birthmarks and a tiny mole were pointed out and recorded. She glared at Kit, who returned her gaze coldly.

&nb
sp; Malcolm said, "Put on your clothes, English. You offend God."

  "Not as much as you do!" she snapped.

  Kit glanced up reproachfully.

  Then they escorted her down to the bay. Two soldiers picked her up bodily and heaved her into the water. Margo squealed in shock and landed with a heavy splash. The water was deep. She swam for the surface, gasped, and glared at the soldiers. The men were muttering worriedly. When Malcolm fished her out, she snapped, "What are you trying to do? Drown me?"

  "Witches," Malcolm said coldly, "float. The innocent sink."

  "Huh!" Great way to get rid of a problem. Drown 'em or burn 'em.

  By the time they dragged her back to the fort, it was nearing noon. Kit asked her questions which made absolutely no sense at all. Most of them she couldn't begin to answer. Kit shook his head mournfully and wrote its his parchment. It was nearly dark when they finally escorted her back to her cell and gave her bread soup, and wine.

  If Kit hadn't made clear yesterday that he intended to find her "guilty" she would have been terrified. Margo shivered as it was. What if something went wrong? What if they began the execution and Kit simply vanished, having shadowed himself? Not only would Kit die, so would she, and most likely Kynan and Malcolm, too. The idea of burning to death left her sweating into her coarse, filthy shirt. She clenched her hands and tried to pray, then paced the little cell. Surely they would pull it off. Kit knew what he was doing.

  But as Kit had admonished her time and again, even trained scouts ran into fatal trouble sometimes.

  The next morning, they took Kynan away. He was gone all day, put through the same ordeals she'd been through. When the lock finally grated open and Kynan was thrust bodily inside, he was pale. In his bad English, he said, "Is not good. Portuguese scared. Mad Not good."

  "No. It isn't good. I'm..." She hesitated, then said it anyway. "I'm scared."

  He took her hand, holding it gently. "Yes. Margo is brave. Brave have fear. Is true."

  She swallowed hard. "Yes. Very true."

  He managed a rueful smile. "In Orleans, Kynan fear. Fear French. Fear Margo. True."