“Riveting,” said Nordhausen, still not over the flare of indignation that had raised his anger. “And just what were you doing there, with the pleasure of riding in the van as Napoleon entered the city? Tell me that, sir.”
“Observation, my dear professor. We suspected something was afoot with that incident. It had all the makings of an Ismaili plot. But I overreach myself. Perhaps we should begin with a better introduction. Come, follow me to my quarters. It will be more secure there, and we can speak without constantly looking over our shoulder.”
He led the way, pointing out a low arch that took them to a narrow hallway lit by guttering oil lamps. “Accommodations are rather dingy here,” he apologized, but I’ve already had the porters lug in some additional bedding—that is if you plan on sleeping before your retraction. Frankly, I can hardly close an eye on a short term mission. Too edgy, I suppose.”
They entered a moderate sized room, the windows covered by loosely woven burlap shades admitting a pale light. It smelled of straw and, strangely, tobacco. There were several threadbare mattresses, little more than rumpled sacks, spread out flat on the earthen floor, and a few low stools for sitting.
“Be my guests,” LeGrand gestured to a small table where a steaming pot of hot water sat next to three porcelain cups. Oh, it’s not the Royal London, but it will have to do for now. I do have some fairly good tea, however. Filched it from the supply wagons used by the Savants. No honey to sweeten the brew, I’m afraid.”
“It will do just fine,” said Maeve, though Nordhausen only glowered, with a look on his face that approached sulking. It was clear to Maeve that he was very suspicious of this interloper, watching him closely.
LeGrand removed his riding cape and hat, shaking out a full head of curly hair. They seated themselves on the low stools and he poured three cups of tea, raising the last in a toast.
“Allow me to introduce myself formally,” he beamed. “I am Jean LeGrand, local Sergeant for this particular milieu.”
“Sergeant?” Nordhausen sniffed his cup, tentatively. “You are in the army?”
“Sergeant of Arms,” LeGrand corrected. “It’s more of an administrative title than anything else, but the Order has military proclivities in times such as these, eh?”
“The Order?” The professor had heard that before—from Paul, who had been grilled by the keepers of Castle Massiaf on his inadvertent mission through the Well of Souls.
“The Order of Temporal Knights—the Knights Temporal, if you like that better. If you haven’t figured all this out by now, you will. No harm in discussing it, I suppose, we’re all in a Nexus Point now, and things will work out one way or another.“
Maeve took a moment to digest that, sipping her tea and nodding appreciation to their host. She looked at Nordhausen, as if to chide him for his bad manners. “Well,” she said at last. “It seems we have a lot to discuss, Doctor LeGrand. To answer your assumption, yes, we were beginning to come to some understanding of all this. I’m sure you will be kind enough to convey the details. This Order you speak of, you are engaged in the business of time travel?”
“Business? That’s one way of looking at it, I suppose. I’m not in the financial wing of the Order—you know, the folks that get to go back and make all the right investments to insure funding for future operations. Too dull for my blood. No, I’m on to a different business. I suppose you’d call it intelligence gathering in the parlance of your day. I’m an agent in place, permanently assigned to this milieu.”
“You mean to say you’re a spy?” Nordhausen did not mince words. “For who?”
“Why, for the Order, of course. And if I may ask without offering any insult, what were you about on this mission? Reconnaissance? Oh—I believe the term you used was ‘Spook Job,’ but I suppose that, too, could be considered a bit of a spy job as well. Yes?”
“We have our reasons,” the Professor folded his arms again, still guarded in his dealings with this stranger.
“Don’t we all,” said LeGrand. “You’re here for the discovery, of course. Well, I’ve just got word to be especially alert over the next few days. It seems that something is amiss and they want me to look into it as well. The French are going to start work on the embattlements of Fort Julien tomorrow. We can all go together! It’s not far from here, and I can assure you a safe vantage point for your observation.”
Nordhausen frowned. “You mean to say you’re here for the discovery of… of the stone?”
“Well, not exactly. I’m here all the time—permanent assignment to Napoleon’s mission. It’s what we like to call a rough spot in the timeline as it concerns our general operations—one of those nasty little points of interface between the Muslim world and the West. I came over with the fleet when it first set sail from Italy. I’m one of the Savants, you see.”
“You manifested over a year ago? You can stay here that long?”
“My friend, you can stay anywhere you please, for as long as you like, if you know how to go about it. You have to find someone whose Meridian is abruptly cut short in the milieu you are targeting, and then assume that identity—why, just like those unfortunate Americans on the Perla. You get the idea. In fact, we got it from you, Miss Lindford. You set a fine example for us indeed.”
“You are too kind,” said Maeve.
“Yes. In my case I have assumed the identity of a scholar taken by brigands on the road as he made his way to the mustering of the fleet. It took some doing to find a spot for me. There were only three candidates, and this one, LeGrand, was the only one that offered good prospects. He was an only son, orphaned from an early age; a bit of a recluse, and someone whose last close tie on earth is about to pass away. His aunt has a touch of the fever, and it will claim her life in another week or so. In fact, he was set on this mission because his life in Europe had come to dismal ends—no friends, too many enemies, that sort of thing. He was on the run from bill collectors as much as anything else. In any case, it worked out perfectly. I can take on his identity, enjoy the harrowing sea journey as the French fleet plays cat and mouse with Nelson on the way over. I can arrive in Aboukir Bay on that glorious morning when Napoleon first lands, and join his triumphant entry into Alexandria.”
“Amazing,” said Nordhausen.
“Oh, it’s a wonderful assignment. Yes, it has it’s dull moments, and you certainly have to keep your wits about you. The march across the desert is a nasty experience for the soldiers. I went that way the first time and nearly died of thirst and heat. Then I got wise and stayed with the river flotilla on the Nile my second time through. There’s danger on that route as well. We have a run in with Murad Bey and his bloodthirsty Mamluks, but that’s nothing compared to the trek across the desert.”
“You make it sound as if you’ve been here before,” said Nordhausen.
“Before? Yes. I’ve done the whole tour three times. I’ve seen it all: the battle of the Nile, the first look at the great pyramids, that marvelous engagement with the Mamluks there, and the insurrection in Cairo. That first year is full of excitement. Then Napoleon gets this idea about driving through to cut the British Empire in half and isolate their operations in India. He’s such a rogue, that one. I don’t really enjoy that part of the tour. There’s that long march across Sinai, the nasty engagements along the way. The shooting of the prisoners and the siege of Acre are particularly unpleasant. When you throw the plague into the mix, you can see that it becomes rather trying. But I have to go along. It’s part of the duty. You never know when something will come up that you don’t really expect. The second assassination attempt on Napoleon took place just a few weeks ago on the retreat.”
“Yes!” Nordhausen latched on to that. “Paul pulled me aside and gave me an earful about that before we left. He said there was a man who shot at Napoleon on the road. Four guides cornered him and put their carbines to the man’s belly—but all four misfired.”
“That was quite a scene!” LeGrand slapped his thick knee to accent the profess
or’s remark. “Would that be Mr. Dorland you are referring to?”
“What? You mean Paul? Yes, of course.”
“Ah, what a genius the man must be. I must say, this is quite an honor to meet the two of you this way. It’s a perfect example of what I was just describing. You weren’t here on my first two tours, you see. At least I was unaware of your presence if you were. That incident in Alexandria was the breadcrumb that put us on the right trail.”
“Alexandria?” Nordhausen was now building up an excited curiosity, his suspicions melting as LeGrand unraveled his story.
“Of course! You see, the first two times we thought it was a local Arab—a dissident, or perhaps even an agent, who fired the shot from that alley window in Alexandria. We found the room, the discharged musket, the prayer rug, washing bowl and a copy of the Koran opened to a particularly telling passage. Imagine my surprise this last tour when I happened across that purse! I sent it back at once, of course—note and all. They put the full resources of the research department on it. Outcomes and Consequences went round and round, and the upshot of the lowdown is that I get a message to be particularly alert on the morning of July 14th. I’m told to look for two Americans on the road to Alexandria—given precise coordinates in fact. Lo and behold, I am graced by the arrival of Nordhausen and Lindford! Imagine my surprise and delight!”
“You say you sent the purse back?” Now it was Maeve’s turn to take up the questioning.
“Of course. Any evidence of temporal contamination must be removed from the Meridian at once. It’s a rule we have. I sent it back for analysis, and it was returned, via special courier, only last night. I was told to look for two Americans on the road west of the town. Research must have found trace indicators linking your arrival here to the incident last year in Alexandria. Apparently the decision was made to restore the purse to its rightful owner for proper disposition. I was to present it to the lady on the road, and so I have.” He made a graceful bow, smiling as he finished.
“Ingenious,” Nordhausen breathed. “You were aware of our mission all along?”
“Not exactly. As I say, this is something new. The discovery of the purse did indeed lead us to a Founder’s mission. That’s what we call you, if you don’t mind the burden of history. We were not quite sure what to make of it at first but, if they sent in a special courier, the situation must be developing to something very significant. I don’t know what they’ve determined back home in operations, but it seems certain they now believe a Nexus is forming, deepening by the minute, and it appears to be centered here, on the discovery of the Rosetta Stone.”
“Then you know of it?” Nordhausen was getting somewhat agitated.
“Yes, I know of it: the discovery that leads to the decipherment of the hieroglyphics.”
“How strange,” Nordhausen started, then caught himself. “But that makes sense. You’ve been here since Napoleon landed. The variation shouldn’t have had any effect on your recollection. Can you read them?” The professor’s cheeks bore the heat of his excitement now.
“Read them? No. I was never that astute. I’ll leave that to the linguists. It’s just my job to keep watch here and look in on situations that might be… problematic. The last courier told me we got a variation alarm on the incident, and so now I have to be especially vigilant. Our touchstone bank indicated we were missing some vital data, and that’s enough to get alert flags flying all across the continuum.”
Maeve smiled. “I see Kelly’s RAM bank idea took hold.”
“Mr. Ramer? Oh my, there’s another genius. Why, if not for him the whole course of history would play out differently. He’s a Prima Majór, that’s what we call the really indispensable figures of history. It all comes from him, you see. Yes, Mr. Dorland was the initiator, and both of you are absolutely vital to the whole endeavor as well, but Mr. Ramer is the real lynchpin. It all rested on his shoulders. The Ramer Loop, the RAM bank as you call it, all came out of his head, and he set the template down that guides our operations even now. Why, without him it never even happens. In fact—it was never supposed to happen. It was his life that gave birth to this entire Meridian, and everything in it.”
Maeve had an admiring smile on her face. “You’re speaking of that first night now, aren’t you. You’re associated with Mr. Graves, and the people who sent him back the night of the Palma event.”
“Of course,” said LeGrand. “Graves was one of our Grand Masters. His research identified Mr. Ramer as the key to the whole operation. We had to preserve his integrity in the Meridian, or else none of this would have ever taken place.”
Nordhausen seemed deep in thought. “I’m not entirely sure I understand you,” he said. “You’re speaking of the final briefing on Memorial Day weekend before our planned mission to see The Tempest.”
“A fateful night, if I may say so,” LeGrand confirmed.
“Well… I may be a dolt when it comes to this time theory but, if I understand it correctly, Kelly was supposed to die that night—sorry Maeve.” He noticed the twinge in her face as he said that. “Kelly was to be killed in a senseless car accident, and we never had our first time mission. What I don’t understand is this: if that is so, then how was it you were able to send Mr. Graves back? If we never tested the theory, how did you travel in time? Is that a Paradox?”
“Paradox?” LeGrand’s jovial expression darkened at the word, and he cast a reflexive glance at the window. “No, that is not what we understand Paradox to be, but let us not speak of that just now. On the other hand… we are in a Nexus Point, and that does give us a bit of latitude until it resolves. I may be taking a risk in saying this but—“
“You found our research.” Maeve interrupted, matter of factly, and LeGrand breathed a sigh of relief.
“Yes! Exactly! Now that you’ve hit upon the answer yourself, I can explain the whole, if you like. You are quite shrewd, Miss Lindford. I should never underestimate you, my lady.”
Maeve smiled. “Do go on, Doctor LeGrand.”
“Of course. To put it plainly, Palma happened… Yes, I lived in that generation—the last generation of Western sires, or so we thought. We were desperate. The wave sets that destroyed the Eastern Seaboard set off a chain of events that would make your Hollywood movie moguls quite jealous. Suffice it to say that we were at our wit’s end, until we found Mr. Dorland’s research in the memorial site for Mr. Ramer. It was Graves who found it. That’s not his real name, but we have called him that because of his discovery at the cemetery. He hit on the idea that time travel was a possibility, and he was digging into every avenue of research on the subject he could find. Imagine his surprise when he literally dug up the whole of Mr. Dorland’s theory and project data where you had buried it with Mr. Ramer that first terrible week.”
“Buried it?” Nordhausen looked at Maeve, as if she had something to do with the events LeGrand was describing.
“That is what you did—in the previous Meridian—the original time line we now call the Prime Meridian. Mr. Ramer died that night and the grief was too heavy on the three of you to continue the project. It was buried, along with your friend’s body, and the whole matter was laid to rest. Then you all went about the business of trying to survive the horrors that followed. I will not speak any further of that…” His voice trailed off, his eyes now devoid of the mirthful light that had animated them before. LeGrand leaned in, speaking in a near whisper as he continued.
“So it was all found in a graveyard, buried for centuries, and Graves has borne that name with us ever since. He argued that we should attempt the project. We used all your research, and built an Arch with the last of our resources. It was very dangerous for us, you understand. The world bore little resemblance to the days of Western dominance and the reign of Democracy. Sharia was the order of the day. Islam ruled the earth with an iron fist of Koranic discipline. Christianity was all but eradicated. A few of us banded together, in secret, a hidden order struggling to survive in a world where the crucifix was
deemed a blasphemy and a certain death mark for any who carried one.”
“Amazing,” said Nordhausen.
“Truly. But Mr. Graves was our own reincarnation of the savior, if I may speak metaphorically. He tested the Arch and found it would work. He created the Order in which we all now serve, and it was his research and determination that set us on a crusade to reverse Palma. It took us years to isolate the vectors and define a plan. The whole project was nearly uncovered three times by the Islamic Fedayeen, but, by some miracle, we preserved our cover. It was Palma… that was the key. But we could not get through the shadow that event cast upon the Prime Meridian. Then Graves had his second epiphany. There was a fully functioning Arch in place before Palma. We did not have to go back through the Shadow to a time well before to the target date to try and alter the event. If we could just reach the Arch in Berkeley, on the night of your final briefing, then we could take action from there, or at least enlist your support. The shadow was not yet formed. It offered us our only prospect for success.”
“Well,” said Nordhausen, “we were certainly happy to be of service but, quite frankly, I can’t think of a single thing we did on that mission to change the course of events. Paul will say the same.”
“Oh really?” LeGrand raised his eyebrows. “Here I was hoping you could enlighten me a bit on that question.”
“Sorry,” said Nordhausen. “We were just stumbling about, trying to find our way through the desert. The whole matter was nothing more than a fit of chance, I suppose. We never even laid eyes on this man we were looking for.” He looked at Maeve, the name escaping him.
“Masaui,” she offered.
“Yes,” said Robert. “Perhaps you could answer one other thing for me, Doctor: What was it that was so special about that man?”
“Masaui?” LeGrand tilted his head to one side, thinking. “Well, nothing, really. He was just a simple farmer and herder of sheep, from a humdrum village in the middle of Turkish occupied nowhere. But you see, that’s exactly the sort you have to look out for. He was the seed of our disaster, to be sure. Oh, it wasn’t Masaui, but his daughter Ada. She was the real problem. If Masaui lived out that train ride, then he goes on to have a daughter, Ada, born some years after the war, in 1922. She was a particularly fetching lady, it seems, and caught the eye of an Arab Emir, one Abu Abas al Sabar. They married in 1942, right in the middle of the second great war, and they had a daughter instead of a son. Now the grand terrorist, Ra’id Husan al Din, was supposed to be born of this Emir but, after the outcome at Minifir was altered, he never comes into being. In the Prime Meridian, time line that led to Palma, the Emir married… someone else. That was the marriage that gave birth to the terrorist, but it was prevented by the beauty and simplicity of Masaui’s daughter, Ada. Once the Emir laid eyes on her, he would have no other woman. Call it love, call it obsession—but whatever it was, it saves the Western world.”
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