There was a shudder and they heard the telltale descending whine of a turbine. “That’s the setup man dying on the mound,” Kelly said quickly. “Somebody just singled to center field. I’ll have to bring in the closer, Paul.”
Kelly wasted no time getting the number three generator on line, but he had a worried look in his face. “How many outs can we get with this one?” He gave Paul a questioning look. “Cause there’s no one left in the bull pen.”
“I make it two hours fuel on that generator. That’s plenty of time in the altered Meridian, and I may be able to siphon some additional gas from the cars down in the garage if you can hold the Nexus steady. I could probably get another hour or two for us if I refuel one of the other two backup units.”
“I hope it’s enough time for Maeve to figure something out. As it stands now her retraction scheme is scheduled for midnight in her Meridian. So in…nine minutes now, our time, it’s going to be midnight there. The system is set up to look for her at the retraction point, and if she’s not there we’ll try pulling her out based on the tracking data we have, but it’s going to cost us fuel, both kinds, quantum and plain old petrol. We’re going to have to rev up the Arch to 100% power for a wide area retraction scheme.”
Paul sighed heavily. “So while we’ve been talking here hours have passed for her on the other Meridian. If she figured something out, and we have no idea what, then it’s very likely she would have done it by now.” At the same time the thought that they might pull Maeve out before she could take any decisive action rankled at him.
“Can we get a report from the Golems?”
“Yes, but remember there’s a time lag there. We may not see any variations until well after the deadline.”
“Can we abort at the last minute?”
“I need ninety seconds, minimum, for an abort,” said Kelly. “Otherwise I have to take the Arch up to 100% to be ready for the retraction. Yes, you can abort even then, but we lose the fuel in that instance, and get nothing for it in return. And…” He leaned on that word heavily, “there’s no guarantee I can get her out safely if we burn our candles at midnight as planed and decide to abort. We just may not have the fuel to run that kind of power again, so you can also forget your shift in to the villa to assassinate the damn bishop if I have to do a wide area search and retraction scheme. Neither one of you could do that anyway. You’re wonderful physicists and historians, but not murderers.”
“So it’s all on Maeve,” said Robert. “The whole damn history of Western civilization comes down to Maeve, on a horse, at midnight. She’s got to be the one to seal the bishop’s fate, and God only knows what she has to do, because I surely don’t have a clue…”
Chapter 20
The River Meuse, September 16, 705 ~ 11:20 P.M.
She came upon the riders an hour later. Maeve had been picking herself through the gorse and thistle at the river’s edge, careful to steer wide of the thorns. Where was that damn ferry site? She should have found it by now, but the darkness and thickening clouds overhead confounded her effort. Then she saw a tree ahead, with a low bowed branch that leaned heavily over the river, and it stirred her with a moment of recognition.
She remembered turning south to evade any pursuit by the farmer, then coming upon the ferry shortly thereafter. Then she waded into the shallows and picked her way north, hoping to obscure her tracks. This tree, she knew, was the spot where she had stooped low to avoid the branch and emerged from the water’s edge to head inland again. She was very close now.
A moment later she was startled by a sound, a tinkling of a harness fitting and the neigh of another horse. Her heart leapt, thinking that the farmer had come all this way and was still fitfully searching the river’s edge for her—or worse, that he had managed to follow her tracks after all. Up ahead she saw shadows, perceived movement, glimpsed a brief glint of fleeting moonlight reflected off metal, and heard the muffled sound of horse hooves on the loamy ground. Who was this?
She looked around, thinking to hide herself in the heavy riverside growth, when another sound relieved her fears. It was a child, fussing at the edge of tears, then a woman’s voice speaking in soft, reassuring tones. Something drew her to face the travelers, and she nudged Kuhaylan slowly forward, singing to herself as she went so as to give the other party easy warning of her close proximity. Another part of her mind screamed at her. Why? What in the world are you doing? Be on your way and leave these poor people alone! Yet she felt herself pulled, as if by some strange magnetism that was more than idle curiosity or any desire to satisfy herself that there was no danger at hand. It was as if she simply had to go to them, greet them in the night, an appointment that was fated to happen long before she was born.
“Who is there?” The voice of a man quavered. “We are well armed!” he warned.
“Fear not,” she said in her best Latin. “Just another weary traveler in the night.” She drew closer, seeing a man and two women mounted on three horses. The women each held a child, one barely a toddler, the other a young yellow haired boy, eyes wide with apprehension as he looked at her. She instinctively smiled, throwing back her hood so as not to appear so mysteriously imposing. She recognized the man’s mount, the same old gray mare she had first purchased from the blacksmith and his livery, and it seemed to her the horse knew her as well, snorting quietly, its breath fogging the still, cold air.
“A woman alone at such an hour of the night?” said the man. Then his eyes searched about, with obvious uneasiness, a look of foreboding fear plain on his face.
Maeve knew exactly who this man was, for she caught a glimpse of his robe beneath the woolen brown riding cloak, and saw also the string of beads at his waist. She knew it was foolish to say anything more. Every instinct told her to turn and get as far away from these people as she possibly could, but she stared at him, transfixed for a moment, and somewhat breathless. “Landebertus?” she breathed.
The man started, as if he had hoped not to be recognized. “From whence have you come, woman? Have you seen other riders by the river this night?”
“No others,” said Maeve. “I was riding south seeking aid. My party was fallen upon by strangers and I alone escaped. Brigands and thieves they were. They have taken everything!” She had no idea where that story had come from, but it seemed convincing enough. “I was hoping to find the road again to seek lodging. It is very cold.”
The man smiled, noting the fine stature and well muscled lines of her mount. “You must be well off to afford such a horse as that one,” he pointed. “We are very near the river ferry, journeying east. Why not ride with us, my child, it is just south now, another mile further along the river. Then you may cross over with us, and we will lead you to safe quarters—see that you are fed and given to warm yourself by the fire.“ His voice was soft and reassuring. “It is not safe here, yes, other brigands are about this night, and they may be very near. You are certain you saw no other riders?”
“No one, your grace,” Maeve said, her voice breaking slightly. She looked at the women, one obviously a sister or perhaps even the bishop’s wife, who smiled, gently rocking her youngest where the child slept at her bosom. The other was a serving maid, her plump arms wrapped tightly around the waist of the young boy. These were the people she had come here to kill. Here they met death’s prophet on her white Arabian steed, and yet could think only of offering her safe passage and comfort. She looked at their faces, speechless for a moment, her mind and heart tormented by what she must now do.
“Most gracious thanks, father,” she whispered, “yet I must go south—to the main road. My companions will be seeking me out there in the morning. I cannot cross over with you…”
“Are you certain? It is very dark, a dangerous road at night for a woman alone.” Lambert extended an open hand. “Come with us, and you may return here in the morning; thence ride safely to meet those who wait for you.”
Tears began to well in Maeve’s eyes, and she could barely speak, throwing her ridi
ng hood up and over her honey red hair, hiding herself. “I cannot…” it was all she could say, as she pulled on the reins, turning Kuhaylan about. “Go with God, my bishop,” she said softly. “And may you rest in peace this night.”
She dug her heels into the horse’s flank and he leapt away, easing up to a canter as Maeve road swiftly south. Just a mile, she thought. The ferry was very near, and she must get to it in plenty of time to do what she had come here to do. She must get there before Lambert drew nigh, where darkness and silence would be her only companions, and the river would slip quietly by, unconcerned, unaware of her inner torment, and the yawning maw of guilt that opened to consume her heart.
Maeve reached the ferry, just north of the place where she had come upon the farm. It was still tethered to the low tree stump she had seen before. The Arabian had raced south like a banshee, eating up the last mile with a steady, powerful gait, but she had little time to spare. She slipped off the horse, throwing off the encumbering gown she wore to stand there in plain trousers, with a light leather jerkin top over a simple white shirt. Better, she thought, still holding the reins as she cautiously approached the edge of the river. The pale moonlight gleamed on the waters of the Meuse, and she was struck with the thought that this was not the same river she had seen here just a few hours ago, nor was she the same person.
Then she had been thrilled to have escaped safely from the farm, with the Arabian under her, running hard, with a clear path home. The thought of what she had done never entered her mind. By simply taking this horse and riding off in the night she was changing every moment yet to come in the long river of Time. Though she knew in her bones that there were going to be major consequences for what she had done, that thought was not so easily connected to Lambert’s death as she rushed to make good her escape from the farmer. The surge of adrenalin chased those fearful thoughts from her mind. She was simply focused on getting away with the Arabian, and finding her way back to their entry point; back to the Arch complex in Berkeley; back to Kelly.
Now, however, as she stood by the low tree stump and stared at the ferry, she could clearly see the meaning of the riddle in the hieroglyphics the professor had translated. Here she stood, with the restless Kuhaylan at her side, hardly winded from the brisk ride and eager to run again. Her eyes were still glassy wet with emotion as she remembered the faces of the people she had fled from minutes ago. They were innocent, unblemished, and yet they must die this night. Each second that passed brought that moment ever closer. The man, the woman, the maid and the two children…five souls that she held now in the palm of her hand, in the hollow of her breaking heart.
Off in the distance she could already hear other riders approaching, their voices carrying in the cold night air, urgent and harried. A distant peal of thunder warned of a coming storm, drowning out the voices in the night, but she looked and spied three other horses, laden with several riders. One came in front, leading the others on with hushed encouraging whispers.
That would be Bishop Lambert, she knew. The cry of the young boy scored her heart again. They were obviously in fear for their lives, for behind them she could now discern another mounted group in the distance as they crested a hillock. Something gleamed in the moonlight, perhaps the glimmer of drawn swords, she thought. All these riders were converging on this one spot, a Nexus Point in the flow of Time that would now decide the future course of history for thousands of years to come.
So here was the place, where the horses were brought to gather, here by the river, she thought. And there before her she could clearly see the thin, weathered rope coiled about the tree stump. The barge that served as a ferry was already well floated in the shallows. She had only to loosen the twine to set the barge free and give it a strong push. The river would do the rest, heedless, unconcerned.
But now there was no doubt in her mind as to the consequences of her action. This was Lambert’s last hope of escape, and the men riding hard behind him would surely cut him down, slaying everyone they found here.
If I let slip this twine, I become an accessory to murder, she thought darkly. It was as if I held the sword myself and plunged it into that good man’s heart. But then one last thought asserted itself, pulsing hard at her temples as the seconds ticked away and the riders drew ever closer. She would most certainly become a victim here as well. Dodo would kill everyone, wanting no witness to his crime, and she would easily be perceived as just another servant of the bishop’s household.
Fear now joined the recrimination roiling in her mind, and the reflex to fight or flee hung in the suspense of this long distended moment. What should she do, remain unblemished in her own soul and accept death, yet another martyr slain on this dark night at the edge of a coming storm? Or should she loosen the twine and alter the stream of this river, and be forever changed herself by that single selfish act? She could simply flee if she wished, washing her hands of the whole matter, leaving Lambert and his family to their own fate…
What time was it? The retraction had been programmed for Midnight, though now she was miles away from the original entry point. Could Kelly and the others even find her here? Would she be doomed to live out the rest of her life in this milieu as a serving wench, a seer, a sage who claimed to know the course of fate itself, scorned as a witch when she darkly predicted all the days to come?
God’s will, she thought heavily, and decided.
Kelly was watching the time chronometer closely. “She’s moving again!” he shouted to Nordhausen. “Anything on the Golem alerts yet?”
“Nothing I can see,” said the professor.
Kelly watched the numbers change, seeing the latitude coordinates spinning away, and indicating Maeve was moving north. She had clearly reversed her course, and was now heading back towards the entry point. He called up a window and selected those original coordinates, then told the system to account for the distance between her current plotted position and the rate of change. Seconds later he had a reading that indicated her estimated time of arrival on the home coordinates.
“It’s going to be close,” he whispered. “It’s going to be very, very close.” Yet he was heartened by the thought that each moment he waited, Maeve drew nearer to a place where he could get a firm and sure hold on her, and bring her home. The closer she came to the home coordinates, the less strain it would put on the Arch as it tried to pry open the doors of eternity and bring her home.
Paul had been down in the garage, and returned, smiling with the news that he had managed to partially fill the number one backup generator with the last of the fuel from their autos.
“I lost suction on the Honda, so there’s probably another gallon or two in that tank, but the other vehicles bought us another hour if we need it.”
Robert looked up from the Alert Module, bleary eyed, and obviously needing sleep. He had a deflated look on his face, clearly unhappy.
“What?” asked Paul.
“I suppose we had better think about drawing those lots then,” he said. “Nothing seems to have changed. Maeve has reversed course. She’s heading north again, but I see no variation in the history.”
“There could be a lag in that system,” said Kelly, still watching the time closely.
“Right,” said Paul. “And remember—as long as Maeve is at large in that milieu, she’s a Free Radical. Time may be waiting on the final outcome of this mission before we see any definite effects in the data stream.”
“Well we’d better draw lots in any case,” said Nordhausen. “Just to be ready.” He looked in a desk drawer and found a box of new pencils. A moment later he had taken five out and began snapping them into various lengths. He closed his eyes, and rearranged them in his hand, extending a fist full of pencils to Paul. “Be my guest,” he said.
“Short man goes to the villa.” Paul reached out and pulled away one of the pencils, pleased to see it was a good length.
Robert still had his eyes closed, and was reaching for a pencil when a single tone sounded on Kel
ly’s board. He opened his eyes and saw Kelly shifting from one monitor to another, his hands adjusting systems in a blur. The low thrum of the Arch turbines began to build up strength.
“I’m taking the power up to 90%” Kelly shouted. You two put those silly pencils down and get busy. Maeve’s coming home!”
Paul moved quickly to take a seat next to Kelly. Robert cast a furtive glance and selected the longest pencil in his hand, tucking it into his pocket before dropping the others into a cup on the desk. Some things just should not be left to chance, he thought.
She stood in the shadows, breathless, heartbroken, tears streaking her face as she watched in agony. The cries of the bishop and his family clawed at her, and she could dimly perceive the gleam of swords in the moonlight.
Moments earlier she had set her hand upon the rope that tethered the barge, and gently loosened the twine. It had been the slightest touch, pulling at a knot that held all Time in its tortuous weave, and then letting it go. The barge had been drifting in and out with a gentle swell, held in place by this single coil of rope. Now, when the river pulled at it, there was no longer any resistance to tether it in place. She saw the knot fall away and the rope slip, falling to the sodden ground. At once the river had hold of the barge, easing it slightly away from the shore.
Would it be enough, she wondered? The ferry bumped a post set a few feet out in the river to keep it in alignment, but with the rope untethered it began to turn, and started to drift. There was another long rope, extending across the river to some unseen post on the far shore. It would be used to guide the barge and help prevent it from being swept away in the flow during the crossing, and there were several wooden poles on the weathered deck that could be pushed into the silted river bottom to assist. But the ferry was empty now, with no human hands to hold the rope or use the poles.
Anvil of Fate (Meridian Series) Page 17