Time Trap

by Deborah Chester

  “Impossible!” he said sharply. “I’ve asked you that question before, and you have return time and destination codes. Scan safety-chain program and verify.”

  The LOC hummed while Noel wiped the perspiration from his face and put his hand on the back of his neck, tilting back his head to ease tension.

  “Verified,” said the LOC. “Time and destination codes for return in place.”

  “That’s better,” said Noel. “How about self-repairs?”

  “Some repair possible.”

  The last time he’d asked this question, the LOC had said no repair was possible. Now, hope hit him like a skyrocket.

  “Sufficient?” he asked eagerly.

  “Unknown.”

  “Continue scan of safety-chain program. How much time remaining?”

  “Running…program ends in twenty-two hours, fifty-two minutes—”

  “Stop,” said Noel, sweating. This was down to the wire. “Is there anyone on the other end? I wonder. Have the anarchists blown up the old TI?”

  “I am not able to scan this material,” said the LOC.

  “I know. You can’t get me back. You can’t tell me how to fix you so we can get back. You can’t even open a direct communications line to them because for all we know they don’t even exist as history stands right now. So what good are you?”

  “Rhetorical question,” said the LOC.

  “Yeah,” said Noel bitterly. “What about it?”

  “Rhetorical—”

  “Stop!” He shoved his fingers through his hair several times until he regained control of his emotions. Stressing out wouldn’t help. Besides, he needed to think how to ask his next series of questions without running the LOC straight into a malfunction warning. “Okay. Run hypothesis.”

  “Ready.”

  “If I succeed in restoring Theodore to power at any point within my time margin, will my recall back to the Time Institute function? Can I afford to wait until the last minute with this?”

  The LOC hummed to itself a long time. “Affirmative.”

  Noel grinned. “Continue hypothesis. Question. If I return, what will happen to Leon?”

  The LOC did not reply.

  “Will he die?” asked Noel sharply. “Will he cease to exist?”

  “Unknown.”

  “Can he be brought through with me?”

  “Possibility figures are seventy-eight percent.”

  Noel stared awhile into the night. He didn’t like Leon, but he didn’t want to be the cause of his duplicate’s death either. However, judging from the LOC’s scanty answers, Leon might just be forced to tag along in the return to the twenty-sixth century. Then the Time Institute could decide what was to be done with him.

  All Noel had to do was make it through one more day, take care of his duplicate, and make certain Theodore won the joust. Right then he had no doubt of success. The pieces of his plan were all falling into place.

  “Deactivate,” he said and stood up to return to camp.

  A figure detached itself from the shadows and leapt into the gully ahead of him, blocking his path.

  Startled, Noel stumbled back and reached for his sword.

  “I have an arrow trained on you,” said familiar, husky tones. “Do not draw your weapon.”

  Noel swallowed and left his sword in its scabbard. “Elena,” he said quickly. “This is—”

  “Say nothing! There is a reward on your head. I want it.”

  Noel frowned. Sir Geoffrey must have been imagining things. Elena was no zombie. In fact, she sounded hornet mad.

  “Elena,” he said, “you don’t really want to turn me in—”

  He heard the dull twang of the bowstring a split second before the arrow hit him high in the left shoulder. It was either a remarkable display of skill in the darkness or a damned lucky shot. Either way, the impetus of the arrow fired at such close range drove him backward. He slammed into the side of the gully. The pain came then, hot and intense and deep. He gripped the shaft with his right hand and pulled himself upright although he had to lean against the bank for support.

  His strength drained rapidly. If he was bleeding he couldn’t tell. The very thought of tugging out the arrow made him sweat.

  Elena ran to his side and turned him to face her. His knees buckled, and he slid down against the bank.

  “Why?” His voice was a weak thread. He battled back the pain and shock, aware that he needed his wits about him.

  She said nothing. There was brisk purpose in her hands as she felt along his chest and shoulders. She bumped the arrow with her wrist, and he felt as though all the cartilage in his shoulder was being twisted like spaghetti on a spoon.

  “For God’s sake!” he said, gasping. He caught her hand. “Don’t pull it out yet.”

  She drew her hand from his and felt down his arm. Her hair, rough and smelling of grass and woodsmoke, swung against his face. She knelt before him, and her fingers found his left wrist.

  He was going numb in his arm. Maybe that meant nerves were torn. Maybe that meant shock or blood loss. He didn’t know or care. Right now, the absence of feeling was a relief.

  She tugged at his arm. Thinking she wanted him to stand up, he pushed her weakly away.

  “Let me rest,” he said.

  She tugged again, harder. Dimly he realized the bracelet was slipping on his wrist. She was trying to take his LOC.

  “Hey!” he said sharply. He shoved her back. “Leave that alone.”

  She reached for it again, as silent and as determined as an android programmed to perform a task.

  Leon, he thought.

  The puzzle pieces fit together with a snap. Somehow Leon had planted the suggestion in her to steal the LOC. If he got the computer in his possession, there would be no going home for Noel.

  “No!” he shouted.

  Her fingers slid beneath the copper band. The light shock administered did not deter her. Noel drew back his right fist and socked her in the jaw. She toppled over and he nearly fell with her. He pushed himself up, out of breath and shivery. The fletched end of the arrow raked the ground, and the corresponding agony made him groan. He had to get the thing out, but not now. She might wake up at any moment, and in this condition he was no match for her.

  With effort, he made it to his feet and stumbled downhill toward camp. The stars overhead that had sparkled so beautifully upon the velvet sky now spun and swooped at him, making him dizzy. He staggered into a bush, and its sturdy branches swayed beneath his weight but kept him from falling.

  He had to get to camp…had to hide…price on him…bounty collectors…Leon searching…

  Somehow he kept going. Sweat poured into his eyes. He paused, swaying, to wipe it away.

  The tent loomed ahead of him, the d’Angelier pennon hanging limply from its top. He remembered then that Frederick had gone, but someone would be there to guard the horses and possessions. A measure of hope sent him staggering forward. His hand stretched out to touch the white expanse of canvas.

  Someone tackled him from behind, pitching him forward on his face. He barely had time to register that his attacker was Elena before the ground drove the arrow clean through his shoulder and snapped the shaft.

  If he screamed he did not know it. Blinding agony convulsed him, and he was helpless against it.

  It took an eternity for the terrible pain to recede. He found himself lying exhausted and limp. He was alone.

  Elena had gone, and the sounds of a piping flute in the distance floated shrilly above the laughter and noise of the crowd. He heard the wheedling calls of peddlers. He heard a woman’s voice raised angrily after a cutpurse, calling on people to stop the thief. He heard a groom crooning softly to a horse, which rumbled and snorted in response. Help was close, so close, yet he could not find the strength to call out.

  Possessed, Sir Geoffrey had said. Noel hadn’t believed it. He should have taken it as a warning. He shouldn’t have let his attraction to her distract him.

  Easy to
say now what he should or shouldn’t have done. Easy to say next time he would be more careful.

  He blinked, conscious of the ground pressing into his cheek, and thought he’d better move a bit. Squirming about finally enabled him to roll over onto his right side. He rested, clutching his left elbow for support. There was blood now, the smell of it thick in his nostrils. He could feel it, wet and unpleasant, sticking his tunic to his skin.

  Elena must have gone to alert the guards. After all, she had a reward to collect. But it seemed odd that she should have attacked him like a cougar stalking its prey, then left him here unfinished like this.

  A sudden sense of foreboding filled him. Noel swept his hand down his left forearm. The bracelet was gone. Disguised as a cheap band of copper, it was a trinket of little worth to the local merchants. The idea of Elena selling it to a pawnbroker made him ill. He struggled to sit up, carried more on fear than strength. The LOC was all the lifeline he had left. He had to get it back.

  “Slow down,” he whispered aloud, sweat pouring off his face. The pain in his shoulder was brutal. His senses swam from the effort he was expending. “Think. You’ve got to think.”

  She wasn’t going to sell the bracelet; she was taking it to Leon.

  Come tomorrow night, Leon would wink back to the twenty-­sixth century. He could take Noel’s place, and no one would ever know. He could travel again in time if he chose. He could wreak havoc elsewhere in history if he failed to do so here. He would be gone, and Noel would be trapped here forever.

  “No,” said Noel, scooting himself along.

  He reached one of the tall tent stakes and gripped it, groaning loudly with the effort of pulling himself to his feet. The ground swirled around him. His head felt as though it floated miles above his body. None of that mattered, however. He had to find Leon, and he had to do it now before Leon accessed the data banks and learned how to really cause harm. The isomorphic design of the controls mightn’t stop him; after all, he was a duplicate.

  Straightening his body took all the strength reserves Noel still possessed. He stared up the hill at the castle, its black crenellations outlined against the starry sky. An owl hooted nearby in the darkness, making a low mournful sound like an omen beneath the sounds of merriment and dancing from the town.

  Noel told himself he could do it. He had to do it. But first he had to get his shoulder bound. “Cleope,” he said, thinking of Lady Sophia’s handmaid who had known about herbs and healing potions. “I’ll find Cleope.”

  “Noel!” called Frederick from beyond the tents. “Where are you? Do come! I have found the most wondrous—there you are! Come and see the amusements offered. There is a knife juggler you must see, and a man who swallows flaming swords, and a…Noel? Is something wrong?”

  He came closer, his footsteps hesitant, then quickening across the trampled grass. “Noel? Are you unwell?”

  Noel realized that he’d started leaning over although he still clutched the waist-high tent stake for support. As long as he held on to it, he knew he could not fall. But having started leaning, he could not seem to stop. His chest hit the top of the stake like a pile driver, driving the breath from him. Then he slipped sideways and sank to the ground.

  “Noel!” Frederick caught him and pulled him up against his knees. The boy’s strong hands gripped him hard. “What’s amiss with you? What’s happened?”

  “I—”

  “Tobin! Armand! Fetch a torch, someone. Quickly!”

  Others rushed to join them. The torchlight spread across Noel, blinding him as he squinted up into Frederick’s face. He clutched the boy’s arm and saw the bloody smears he was making on Frederick’s sleeve.

  “Deus juva me,” whispered Frederick. He swallowed visibly, sorrow plain in his face. “You’ve been shot. Who—”

  “Find it,” whispered Noel. The torchlight was growing dimmer. He struggled to see. “Promise me you’ll find it.”

  “Find what?” asked Frederick in bewilderment. “Noel?”

  But the torchlight went completely out for Noel, and he could not answer.

  Chapter 14

  There was a lot of pain somewhere, and if he woke up he was going to feel it. Nevertheless, something compelled Noel to open his eyes. He saw nothing but dazzling brightness. Swiftly he shut his eyes again, but it was too late. A myriad of unpleasant sensations made themselves known, chief of which was a general state of sweaty, shivery weakness. He whimpered softly, shifting himself as though to escape the pain. Cool hands soothed him, and a soft melodic voice murmured in a language he could not understand.

  He squinted against filtered sunlight, finding it less bright this time, and tried to sort things out. The hurt came entirely from his shoulder. He put up an exploratory hand and touched a smooth expanse of bandage. The aromatic scents of crushed herbs had an underlay of scorched flesh.

  Cauterized? he wondered.

  The cool hands caught his probing fingers and pulled them away. The voice murmured to him—gentle, female, and incomprehensible. He turned his head slightly to look at her and recognized those gentle features with pleased surprise.

  “Cleope,” he said.

  As though his own voice unlocked a barrier, the world came into sharper focus, and he could understand her.

  She smiled. “Noel, it is good to see you awake. We have been much worried about you.”

  He shook his head, too restless to listen. It was all wrong: his surroundings, the sunlight, her. It made no sense to him to be lying here on a cot under a pergola shaded by grape vines and roses. A walled garden about him gave the illusion of sanctuary. Birds sang from the delicate branches of blooming almond trees. Bees buzzed in the vibrant spill of pink bougainvillea. In a stone fountain warmed by the sun, water chuckled and burbled. The scent from pink and white flowers overflowing ancient stone urns nearby enchanted the air.

  “Where—”

  “Hush,” she said. “You must not tire yourself. We are in the garden of Joseph the Moneylender.” She paused, blushing. “My uncle.”

  “How did you—”

  “Frederick d’Angelier sent word to me and I slipped away from the palace.” She lifted his head and put a cup of water flavored with honey and lemon to his lips. Conscious of excessive thirst, he gulped it down and felt a little better. Cleope smiled and set the cup aside. “I would do anything for the man who rescued my mistress from that beast.”

  “Frederick,” he said slowly, feeling tired yet certain he must sort it all out before he could rest.

  “He is a good boy,” she said. “Sir Magnin and that horrible Leon have men searching for you. They made all sorts of accusations, but Frederick was not frightened, and until they find you they have proof of nothing. We brought you here, where they are unlikely to search. They were very angry when they did not find you in Frederick’s tent, but it availed them not.”

  Leon…men searching for him…Noel lifted his head with a jerk and tried to raise his left arm. The pain in his shoulder flared, and he sank back gasping.

  “No, no,” said Cleope worriedly. “Lie still, I beg you.”

  She wrung a cloth from a bowl of water scented with lavender and laid it across his brow. Its coolness felt marvelous on his hot forehead, but his distress was too great for him to care.

  He pushed fretfully at the blanket. “It’s gone. I’ve got to get it back.”

  “Lie still or you’ll reopen the wound. Noel, no!”

  She did her best to hold him down, but Noel gripped her arm and slowly pulled himself up to a sitting position. The garden spun crazily, and he thought he would fall off the cot. She held him tightly and called out for help.

  “Lie down, please,” she said. “You have lost blood. You are weak with fever.”

  “No.” He pushed her away and lifted the blanket, only to realize he was naked beneath it. It was his turn to blush. “Uh, my clothes please.”

  “No, you cannot have your clothes,” she said.

  Frederick and two servants in li
very emerged from the house and came down the shallow flagstone steps to join them.

  “He’s trying to get up,” said Cleope. “Help me with him.”

  Frederick’s curly hair was uncombed, and he looked as though he had not slept. He moved her aside and put his hand on Noel’s uninjured shoulder. “You should rest,” he said, “and give thanks to God you are not dead.”

  “I can’t rest until I have my LOC back,” said Noel angrily. He tried to shove Frederick’s hand away. “Damnit, I must have my LOC!”

  Frederick and Cleope exchanged glances. “And what do you want to lock away?” asked Frederick.

  “Don’t patronize me,” snapped Noel. He rubbed his forehead fretfully, feeling as though his skull was going to roast. “You know very well that my bracelet is gone. She took it to Leon. You promised to help get it back.”

  Frederick and Cleope looked at each other again.

  “The fever is affecting his mind,” she said. “He needs to rest.”

  “My friend,” said Frederick in concern, “it is impossible to find your trinket in this crowd. We can get you another one later—”

  “There is no later!” cried Noel. “There is only today, and half of it is gone. If I don’t get that bracelet away from Leon before dark, I am—”

  He paused, breathing raggedly, too upset to go on. While he was trying to gather himself, they pushed him down on the cot and covered him. Cleope wiped his face with a damp cloth, and Frederick knelt beside her with a sigh.

  “I don’t know what to do,” he said to her.

  Closing his eyes, Noel fought off his exhaustion and listened.

  “Have they not yet come?”

  “No, and it’s nigh until noon. The jousting is half-done, and I don’t know what can have befallen them on the road. Turks, bandits, horses going lame…I think I should take the men and look for them. But Noel is in a bad way—”

  “He will sleep soon,” she said. “You do what you must. He is safe here.”

  “Yes, I suppose.” Frederick rose to his feet with a faint scuffing of his cloth shoes upon the flagstones. “You,” he said to one of the servants, “have my horse saddled. Nom de Dieu, but this is a bad business. Everything has gone wrong—”