Time Trap

by Deborah Chester

  She yanked free. “Why should I care?” she said loftily. “If he fails, then we have no Frank possessing Mistra. The Byzantines will send another foreign kephale from Constantinople, and we’ll be no better off—”

  “We can catch the next one too,” said Demetrius, still grinning, “and ransom him like this one.”

  “You should wait until you have word from Sir Magnin before you send any independent ransom demands to Constantinople,” she said sharply. “He planned this well, and it is to our advantage to help him.”

  Demetrius spat. “That gasmoule half-breed. Why should I take his orders?”

  “Because, brother,” said a youth, walking up to join Elena and Demetrius, “he is more clever than you. As long as he shares his spoils and gold, I don’t mind taking his orders. What have you found today, little Elena?”

  She gestured at Noel casually, as though he had ceased to matter. “Just a stray casualty on the battlefield, not dead, and ready to cause us trouble. I thought you would be grateful to me for finding him.”

  “Kill him,” said Demetrius. He drew his dagger and tossed it to the youth, who caught the hilt deftly. “Too many mouths to feed. And that Albanian howling every minute about ransom and consequences…enough to drive a man mad.”

  “He’s a trader,” said Elena. “A coward and a liar too. He did his best to talk us into letting him go, but we caught him easily.”

  “No talking, Yani,” said Demetrius impatiently. “Just kill him. Take him over there past the rocks where the blood won’t spook the horses.”

  Noel’s heartbeat quickened. His breath came shorter. All over, he could feel his body tense, ready to fight, ready to run. Although Demetrius had tossed Yani a dagger, the boy was wearing another thrust through his belt. If Noel could seize that…

  “Watch him,” said Thaddeus in warning. “He’s tricky. Damned near broke me leg.”

  Yani smiled, and his gaze ran briefly over the dwarf before returning to Noel. The resemblance between him and Elena was strong enough to leave no doubt they were brother and sister. He was perhaps sixteen or seventeen, built wiry and quick like the girl, with fiery red hair and a smattering of freckles across his cheekbones. There was high intelligence in his face and eyes.

  “Strange,” he said. “This man has not the look of a Byzantine.”

  “Neither does Lord Theodore,” said Elena.

  Demetrius shrugged. “Theodore is a damned Albanian. What does it matter? Kill this knave and be done with it. I want you to take a message to—”

  “That message can wait,” said Yani sharply. “We promised Sir Magnin we’d delay until nightfall. We shall keep our word.”

  “Lose a whole day waiting on him,” grumbled Demetrius. He pointed at Noel. “Be rid of him! Elena, get yourself in proper clothes. Thaddeus and George, take the goats out and stake them in good grass. Move!”

  Now, with everyone scattering, was the time. Noel spun around to run. Only then did he see the sentry crouched atop a rocky escarpment above the narrow pass leading into the camp, which was situated at the bottom of a deep ravine. With the sheer rock walls surrounding him on three sides and a bowman at the only exit, Noel hadn’t a chance.

  He hesitated, his shoulders drooping. Damn. The only option left to him was to fight the boy and get one of those daggers, since his own had been taken by George. He turned his head slightly as Yani walked around to face him again. He looked at Yani, then away, not trusting himself to keep his intentions from his face.

  Yani was no fool. He stood beyond reach, the borrowed dagger held ready in his hand. “No, no, my friend,” he said softly. “There is no escape from here, except to your Father in heaven.”

  Noel swallowed hard. It didn’t help. Nothing helped. He was as tense as wire.

  “Elena said you are a trader. Is that true?”

  Noel looked at him and shook his head.

  “Ah. I would guess you are a scribe, except you have no pouch to hold vellum, ink, and pens,” said Yani. He paused until Noel’s gaze met his. “I know how to read and write.”

  “Congratulations,” said Noel dryly.

  He said it in Latin, which he could speak on his own without the translator’s assistance. His tone was clear enough to the boy. A swift tide of color spread from Yani’s collar to his hairline. He frowned, his air of friendliness gone.

  “You are arrogant for a prisoner. Why do you speak Latin? Are you trying to insult me?”

  Noel shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

  “Your accent is deplorable,” said Yani, showing off by switching to Medieval Latin in midsentence.

  “Dead men tell no tales,” said Noel with a flippancy he did not really feel. He was tired of this cat-and-mouse game. If they wanted to kill him, then he was ready to get the whole business over and done with.

  “I do not understand this saying,” said Yani. “Is it from your country?”

  “You might say that.”

  “What is your name?”

  “What does it matter?”

  “Are you trying to provoke me into killing you?”

  Noel sighed. “Look, you have your orders. I—”

  “I don’t always do what my big brother says.” Yani’s lips curled into a brief, secretive smile.

  Noel felt a burst of hope, but he remained suspicious. “What’s the deal?” he demanded. “What do you want from me in exchange for not following your brother’s orders?”

  “You are a quick one.”

  “Let’s say I’m not stupid.”

  “Are you Albanian?”

  “No,” snapped Noel, irritated with that tangent question.

  “Your name is—”

  “Never mind what my name is. It’s irrelevant.” A rule of traveling was to avoid stating names whenever possible. A traveler was supposed to blend in with the local crowds, to observe and record, not to participate.

  Yani’s hand closed on his shoulder. “You should not—”

  Noel moved quicker than thought, stepping in close to the boy to force Yani’s knife hand up while he grabbed the second dagger from Yani’s belt. Yani shouted an alarm and swung at Noel, but Noel blocked the blow with his shoulder. Sliding one foot between Yani’s, he tripped the boy and used his impetus to flip him through the air. Whirling, his gaze taking note of the sentry who was nocking an arrow to his bow, Noel ran for the pile of rocks near the mouth of the ravine.

  They had spilled down from a past avalanche, leaving a sloped scar on the cliff face above. Noel thought he might be able to climb out that way, although his back would make a good target for the sentry.

  Right now it didn’t matter. He had to take any chance, no matter how slim. Ducking his head, he concentrated on running a fast zigzag course, ignoring the bruising pain of his bare foot upon the rocky ground.

  More shouts alerted the camp. An arrow whistled past him, missing by inches. Noel grinned to himself, sucking in air. He sprang up the rock pile, going on all fours where necessary, praying there were no snakes sunning themselves. Another arrow sliced through his cloak and bumped his side awkwardly with the fletching. Thank God for bad shots.

  Noel reached the top of the rock pile and slithered over it, making sure he kept his body as low to the rocks as possible. This was not the time to stand erect.

  He never heard it, never sensed it. There was no rush of air, no whisper of sound although there should have been something to warn him.

  The projectile hit the back of his skull with a force that felt as though the mountain had fallen on top of him. He stumbled, feeling his body go slack in midstep, feeling his arms fly up of their own volition, feeling himself fall. Glaring sheets of red and yellow flared inside his skull, blinding him. Then the pain rushed over him in a sticky, nauseating wave. Behind it came an awful blackness, one he wasn’t sure he could escape.

  He fell, and never felt the ground.

  Chapter 4

  Noel awakened by degrees, gradually becoming aware of intense, uncomfortable h
eat and overwhelming thirst. When he finally managed to drag open his eyes, he found himself lying on the ground. Sunlight beat harshly down. Heat radiated off the dusty ground and the cliff face towering above him.

  Dim noises of other voices and the sounds of activity filtered in, none of it intrusive enough to bother him. Thoughts, drifting like puff clouds in his brain, slowly came together and began to make sense.

  He remembered running. He remembered being shot in the back of the head. With effort he raised his hand and groped along the base of his throbbing skull. He touched a spot soggy with clotted blood, and his head exploded with agony.

  “Easy, my friend,” said a voice.

  A gentle hand gripped his shoulder while the clammy perspiration was wiped from his face with a cloth. Squinting, Noel fought back waves of stabbing pain, and stared up into a face silhouetted against the sun.

  “Don’t speak,” said the man. “Are you thirsty?”

  Noel’s tongue had stuck to the roof of his mouth. He peeled it loose and managed to croak out, “Yes.”

  His friend moved away, and Noel lay limp and uncaring of what happened to him. Somewhere behind the throbbing, a corner of his mind remembered that he had an emergency injection in his LOC device. Using it would give him a pain­killer, and would also send an emergency assistance call to the main time computer. All he had to do was push it.

  He rested a while longer, until the terrible pain ebbed to a bearable level.

  “Here is water,” said his friend, returning.

  Noel dragged open his eyes. Cautiously he lifted his head.

  “Wait. I want to move you to the shade. Will it hurt you too much?”

  “No,” he gasped. “Try.”

  “Very well. Have courage. I shall probably hurt you.”

  Strong hands scooped Noel up under the armpits and half lifted him. The pain came back with a vengeance, splitting jaggedly through his head until he had to close his eyes and grit his teeth to hold back a cry. He was dragged a short distance and propped against the rocks. The coolness of the shade, however, was a relief that made it worthwhile.

  Grasping his left wrist, Noel ran his fingers over the copper bracelet until he found the proper control hidden inside its circumference. Until now, although he’d been hurt once before on a mission, he’d always prided himself on his toughness in coping with anything that came his way. But this was different. He wanted out, and he wanted out now. It didn’t matter if these people around him saw him vanish into thin air.

  He pressed the emergency call, and the LOC grew slightly warm upon his wrist. Relief coursed through him because until now he wasn’t sure if his device was even functioning. A few seconds later he felt a tiny prick; numbness went through his veins.

  The man helping him gave him a cup of water. Noel found it icy cold and clean, and drank thirstily. Deadened by the drug, the pain faded in his skull. He let out his breath in relief and focused for the first time upon his new friend’s face. He had a few minutes before emergency assistance yanked him home. He did not want to think about the possibility that he might find himself trapped again between the time streams. The fear of once more facing that nightmare could not outweigh the fact that he was in serious trouble here, his mission out of control, and himself injured. Whatever the cost, he had to get out.

  “Better now?” asked his benefactor.

  Noel looked at the handsome, well-molded features beneath a rough-cut shock of thick chestnut hair. The man’s eyes were as blue as the Peloponnesian sky. He was young, perhaps twenty to twenty-five—although with these people’s short life spans that would be considered middle-aged. His face was tanned from hours in the sun, with tiny squint lines already cut into his skin at his eyes and mouth. A thick, puckered scar ran along his neck and disappeared beneath the embroidered collar of his tunic. His garb proclaimed him a rich man, for his heavy silk tunic was royal blue in color with purple lining the wide sleeves. His coat of arms was emblazoned at his collar and upon the hem of his tunic. His strong legs were encased in purple hose, and his shoes had been made from a heavy cloth that resembled tapestry. Thin, supple leather soles had been stitched to the bottoms for protection, and the points were fashionably long.

  The man smiled and extended a well-shaped hand in friendship. Jewels made dull by the shade adorned his fingers.

  “I am Theodore of Albania,” he said. His smile grew wry. “I would introduce myself as Theodore, governor of Mistra, but that, alas, seems unlikely to come true.”

  Noel’s eyes widened. “You’re the prince who was ambushed last night.”

  “Yes,” said Theodore. “Or at least I was. It seems you have caused them some confusion on the matter.”

  “I—I don’t understand.”

  “Although you handle the Frankish tongue fluently, your accent is that of a foreigner. I heard you taunt the boy in Latin, and it is of a very old-fashioned derivation that would interest my old tutor greatly. He was an antiquary and fancied himself rather an expert in Roman Latin.”

  Noel wondered if he was hallucinating. Theodore’s answer made absolutely no sense. Raising his hand to his eyes, Noel rubbed them a moment. How much longer until the recall happened? He was sweating lightly, from concussion or from nervousness he couldn’t tell.

  “I still don’t—”

  “No, of course not. I tend to ramble from my point. It is a fault of mine,” said Theodore smoothly. “These bandits are a suspicious people. From something you said, I gather they are convinced that you are me.”

  Noel frowned, feeling his headache threaten to return. “I—what?” he asked stupidly.

  “It seems that despite my finery and my good manners, they do not think I am Theodore. I suppose they wish to convince themselves that I am a servant masquerading in your place. While you, good sir, in your simple clothes and awkward tongue, are the governor. They seem to admire you for nearly escaping their clutches. I wish I had thought of the ruse.” He made a comical face that had serious frustration behind it. “I might well be to the gates of Mistra by now.”

  Noel’s hand fell to his lap. He frowned. “This is crazy.”

  “Have some more water,” said Theodore. He put the cup to Noel’s lips, his gaze watching the bandit guard who wandered close to survey them for a moment before walking on. “Now, listen, my friend,” said Theodore in a low, urgent voice as soon as the guard was beyond earshot. “It is not such a crazy idea if we can make it work.”

  Noel nearly choked on his last swallow of water. He sat upright too fast, and had to shut his eyes against a wave of dizziness. “No—”

  “Hear me, please,” said Theodore, placing a hand upon his chest. “No harm can come to you this way, for I am too valuable as a ransom prisoner for killing. Convince them that you are Theodore the Bold, and I shall make you a rich man when this is over.”

  “Why?”

  “Oh, come, man!” said Theodore impatiently. “Consider the situation. This province has gotten out of hand. Even the local Franks have sought audience with the emperor in Constantinople to request a stronger governor placed in charge over them. The tribes—these wretched bandits—are running wild, looting and preying upon weak villagers. The Greek families are feeling restive and think they can throw off the yoke of Byzantium, which is complete foolishness. The Turks are on the move again. A new wave of invaders is expected to strike the coast soon.”

  How long until I’m recalled? thought Noel wearily. He found it hard to concentrate although Theodore’s blue eyes burned into him with penetrating force.

  “I have been entrusted by Emperor Andronicus to put this province back into order. It will take a strong army and a strong sense of purpose to accomplish it. But I can’t do anything as long as I am kept a prisoner. I must gain my freedom.”

  He gripped Noel’s arm. “You can help me. You will help me. It’s very little that I ask.”

  “You ask a lot,” said Noel uneasily. “I have no political interest in Mistra. I am a traveler on my w
ay to—”

  “Hear me! They were about to kill you, were they not?”

  Noel gingerly touched the back of his head. “I’d say they nearly did. What was it?”

  “A pebble from a slingshot. A mere shepherd’s weapon,” said Theodore impatiently. “I tell you that you are expendable. Only the suspicion that you might be me in disguise has changed their minds about letting you live. All I ask you to do is bolster their suspicion into complete belief. Act like a prince for a few hours. Put on arrogance, a noble air, make demands…these actions will convince them. See how I act like your servant when they watch us?”

  Noel looked past him across the camp, where the bandits were grouped idly. Some were cleaning their weapons. Others drank from a wineskin or argued. The boy Yani, who had felled him with a pebble almost as effective as a nine-millimeter round, paced back and forth as though waiting for something that had not yet happened.

  Like my recall, thought Noel. It had been long enough. Was the signal jammed? Wasn’t it reaching back to the time computer? Didn’t they know by now that he was in trouble?

  “Look,” Noel said curtly. “There’s one aspect of your plan that maybe you haven’t considered. Like, if they start thinking I’m Theodore of Albania and you’re my servant, what’s to stop them from making you expendable and killing you?”

  “I have considered that, of course,” said Theodore. No trace of fear or self-concern showed in his eyes. “It is a risk, but I am not afraid to gamble. If you can focus their attention upon you, then less will be upon me. I shall find an opportunity to escape.”

  “I sympathize,” said Noel, “but I can’t help you.”

  “You must!”

  “No. It’s not my cause. It’s not my involvement.”

  Theodore drew back. A frown darkened his face, and Noel wondered if Theodore was going to demonstrate princely temper. “Who are you?” he asked imperiously. “Where are you from?”