The Crosstime Engineer

by Leo Frankowski

  Tadaos brushed by me.

  “Thanks, Sir Conrad, but it was me they were trying to kill, so the honors are mine.” With no more concern than if he had been swatting a mosquito, the boatman put his bloody knife efficiently into the thief’s jugular vein and then carefully slit the throat open to remove his arrow for reuse without damaging the fletching.

  I was too shocked and horrified to do anything. “But shouldn’t we call the police?”

  “Police? You mean the Guard? Sir Conrad, are you absolutely out of your mind?” He searched the body and wiped his knife clean on the man’s trousers “Damn, not a penny on him.”

  He sheathed his knife, slipped the arrow under his belt, and started dragging the corpse back toward his boat . “Would you mind getting his feet? Well, I guess you would mind, judging from your expression. Can’t you understand that these cutthroats were about to rob and murder me?”

  He dragged the body until he saw the knife the man had dropped. “Now that’s a well-made thing,” he said, handling it. “Tools of his trade, as it were. Worth thirty pence easily at either of the knife shops in Cracow. I'm tempted to keep it. Still, it might be recognized. Best to play it safe.” He pitched it twenty meters into the river.

  “Stop!” I said, too late. “You’ll need that for evidence to prove that they came at you armed.”

  “Evidence? Are you still thinking about the Guard? Sir Conrad, the night must have fuddled your head. Consider our position! We are strangers here. These men are doubtless locals with dozens of friends and relatives who would swear to their honesty and good character. We’d both be in jail for six months even if they did find us innocent, which is unlikely. Personally, I have no intention of being hanged.”

  By this time he had the body into the river and was giving it a good shove into the current. The weapons and bodies of the other two men got the same watery grave.

  My God! I had spent five days in the company of a cold-blooded murderer!

  Tadaos washed his knife and arrow and said, “Well, time I got back to sleep. Thank you for calling out when you did. You probably saved my life. But what were you doing out at this time of the night?”

  “Well, uh… there were fleas in the inn, and I couldn’t sleep.”

  “You’re welcome to sleep on the boat, Sir Conrad.”

  “Uh, no… no. I’ll head back.”

  “As you like. Come to me in the spring if you need work.”

  Eventually I crawled back into bed with the priest and the poet and the fleas.

  It was a long while before I fell asleep.

  At first gray light, the priest announced his intention of finding a public bath; Roman and I followed him, scratching at our new boarders.

  The bath was another penny, although we got our clothes laundered in the bargain. Two huge wooden tubs were sunk into the floor: a warm one for scrubbing with a foul-smelling brown soap and a hot one for rinsing and soaking. I’d been more than a week without a bath, and it was glorious.

  The public bath was just that-there were a dozen other men in with us. I heard some feminine giggles, and I looked around in the smoky gloom. Everybody had moustaches.

  I eventually realized that the room and the tubs had been built twice their apparent size and that a wooden room divider had been added later. The other side was for women. There were a few knotholes in the wood.

  “A good thing, that wall,” Father Ignacy said. “The Church had to threaten the bathhouse keepers with excommunication before they put them up.”

  “You mean that bathing used to be both sexes together?”

  “Yes. A disgusting barbarism.”

  I kept my opinions to myself and turned my attention to shaving. In my mirror, I saw Roman wander with extreme casualness over to the partition and quickly peek through a knothole. Later, I sat down next to him in the hot tub.

  “I saw you at the knothole,” I whispered. “Father Ignacy might have seen you as well. Have you forgotten that you are trying to impress him with your good character so he’ll give you a job?”

  “No, sir, but temptation is a hard thing to resist.”

  “Agreed. Did you see anything worthwhile?”

  “All I saw was another eye staring back at me.”

  When we left the bathhouse, the sun was bright and the church bells were ringing.

  “Ah, tierce already,” Father Ignacy said. “I must go and report to my new abbot. Sir Conrad, I suggest that you spend the day amusing yourself in the city and then visit me at the Franciscan monastery a little after none.”

  “Tierce?” I asked. “None?”

  “When the sun is there,” he said pointing to a midafternoon position, “and you hear the bells, it will be none.” He left without mentioning Roman.

  I said, “Well, we have some time to kill. Shall we start with some food?”

  “Some food would be welcome, Sir Conrad, but then I must leave you and search for a way to make a living. I compute that my week’s wages will be gone by tomorrow morning.”

  “I thought that we’d decided that you were going to work at the monastery.”

  “We have decided, but Father Ignacy has not.”

  The dock area was incredibly sleazy, with shabby wooden huts crowding an unpaved road. The road was ankle-deep in shit. Human shit, horse shit, dog shit, pig shit, cow shit, and doubtless other varieties that did not immediately impinge on my consciousness. I tried to maintain a stoic attitude as the foul, oily stuff squished and sucked at my boots,

  “If we eat here, we’ll likely pick up a new set of fleas,” I said. “Let's go within the city walls to find our dinner; it must be cleaner there.”

  “It won’t be cleaner, Sir Conrad, but it might be drier.”

  The city walls were brick. They were only four meters high and in poor repair. They could not be of any military use, but their purpose was evident when a sleepy guard demanded a toll of us.

  After a few minutes of haggling, he let us both through for a penny.

  It was no cleaner inside the city. People threw- their garbage directly into the streets, and pigs ran loose, scavenging through it. Dogs fought each other for scraps, and chickens picked at the leavings. How people determined the ownership of the animals was beyond me.

  Yet in juxtaposition to this unbelievable filth, men and women in gorgeous finery rode tall horses through the fetid mire, ignoring the shit as they ignored those of us on foot. I soon found myself ignoring those haughty, velvet-covered visions right back.

  We found an inn that looked fairly clean, or at least cleaner than the first four we had looked into. After more dickering with the innkeeper, during which time he insisted on seeing our money, we settled on a halfpenny each for all we wanted of pork stew, bread, and ale.

  As we sat down at the table, a female voice asked, “Would you like some company?”

  She looked to be about twelve years old and underfed. Her dress was dirty and patched, and she was not clean. She was barefoot, and she was trying to smile and keep her eyes off the steaming bowl of stew in front of me.

  “Why not?” I asked. “You look hungry. Would you like some dinner?”

  “Well…”

  “Innkeeper, bring a third meal to our table!”

  “Yes, Sir Conrad!” he shouted from a back room. But when he arrived with a tray of food and drink, he saw the girl and said, “You again! How many times must I chase you out of here? Sir Conrad, surely you can’t expect me to serve beggars and prostitutes.”

  “Surely I can expect you to show a bit of Christian charity! This is a little girl who is hungry. Now, put the food on the table.”

  “But you don’t know what she is!”

  “I know that she’s hungry.”

  “But the cost-”

  “I ordered it, and I’ll pay for it. Now do as I say.”

  He left the tray on the table and walked off, grumbling. I stood and served the girl myself. “All of this haggling and argument is beginning to spoil my disposition.”<
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  “A thing to be guarded against,” Roman said. “It spoils the digestion, and that can be ill afforded when good food is available in plenty.”

  “Yes, Sir Conrad. Please, sit down,” the girl said.

  So I sat. Introductions were made. Her name was Malenka. She was an orphan and had lived in Cracow for two years. Conversation drifted in the course of the meal, and it was soon obvious that she survived by renting her body to all comers.

  “And what do you charge for this?” Roman asked.

  She looked at me, trying to smile. “I was hoping you’d ask. A day and a night for only a penny.”

  I saw Roman fumbling among his dwindling supply of coins, and I thought it best to nip this in the bud. I took three pennies from my pocket and put them in front of her. “Do you go to church?”

  “Yes, my lord. Every morning.” Her eyes were downcast. “It’s a good place to find customers.”

  “Well, next time I want you to do some praying.”

  “Yes, my lord. But I am yours for the next three days. Where shall we go?”

  I had been a long time without a woman, and I confess that I was tempted. But this brutal century had not yet deprived me of my morals, and Conrad Schwartz was not a molester of children.

  “I shall go to the Franciscan monastery, and you shall stay right here. It seems that you have offended the innkeeper somehow. You will make it up to him by working for him for three days.”

  “The innkeeper!” she cried.

  “You will wash his dishes, sweep his floors, and sleep alone.”

  “What?” Roman exploded. “Sir Conrad, this is a foul jest! If you won’t make use of her, then by the muse, I will!”

  “By God, you will not! What will you tell Father Ignacy when you next confess to him? That you took an adolescent girl by force?”

  “What force? She offered, and you paid!” Roman stood.

  “She was forced by hunger and poverty, which are more persuasive than any sword or club. And a good deal more brutal! Now, sit down and finish your beer.”

  The innkeeper came over. “Forgive me, Sir Conrad, but I couldn’t help overhearing much of what was said. What is it that you are planning?”

  “I’m going to give you a servant for three days. Put her to honest work. If she's useful, you might consider some more permanent arrangement with her. Is this acceptable to you?”

  “Well, yes. But why are you doing this?”

  “Call it an act of faith. Look, here’s the money for the meal. Come on, Roman. It's time to go.”

  Once out on the street, Roman said, “Sir Conrad, you are a very strange man.”

  We wandered through the city’s mixture of squalor and barbaric splendor for several hours, stopping to pray at Saint Andrew's Church.

  Despite its missing the familiar baroque towers, the church seemed somehow bigger than when I had visited it in the twentieth century. Perhaps it was the lack of more imposing structures around it. I looked up wistfully at the round towers of Royal Wawel Castle and the cathedral. But Roman shook his head.

  “That’s not for the likes of us, Sir Conrad.”

  “Surely they wouldn’t turn away honest visitors,” I said. “Anyway, I'm a knight.”

  “You are a knight without a horse, or armor, or even a sword. Try if you like. I’ll wait for you down here.”

  “Perhaps you’re right. Anyway, it's time we found the Franciscan monastery.”

  The monastery was austere, but it was at least clean, gloriously clean by comparison to the festering slime that surrounded it. A brown-robed monk led us to a room where we could spruce up, and I began to understand all the biblical references to the washing of feet. A few hours of walking in shit does amazing things to them.

  When we were presented to Father Ignacy, he welcomed me profusely and told me that my appointment as a copyist had been confirmed, at four pence a day. He showed us around and asked me if my cell was acceptable.

  “It’s better than some quarters I've had in the military.”

  “Excellent. Supper is just after vespers, and I will see you then.” He turned to leave.

  “Father, what about Roman?”

  “I’m sorry, Sir Conrad, but I feel that his employment here would be ill advised.”

  “But why not give him a chance, for a few days at least?”

  “That would only give him time to spread his ungodly attitudes.”

  Father Ignacy left, and Roman looked wilted.

  “Cheer up, kid. Come back tomorrow and ask him again. He’ll soften up eventually.”

  “Tomorrow I shall be penniless.”

  “Not quite.” I gave him the eight pence I had left. “I won’t be needing this. You pay me back when you can.”

  “Thank you, Sir Conrad. And bless you. But he won’t see me.”

  “Ask him to hear your confession. He can hardly deny you that. See me afterward.”

  The next day, the poet was still dejected.

  “It’s no use, Sir Conrad. He won't give in. I can't find any other work in town, either.”

  “All I can say is, try again tomorrow.”

  The next day he was again rejected, and broke as well. I’d earned a day's pay by then; I drew it from the Brother Purser and gave it to the kid.

  This went on for four more days before Father Ignacy called me to him.

  “What’s this business of your drawing your pay day and giving it to that goliard poet?”

  “Well, Father, I can hardly let the kid starve, can I?”

  “It’s embarrassing. You're outdoing the Church with your charity!”

  “There is an easy solution to your problem, Father.”

  “Yes?”

  “Hire him. Show some Christian charity yourself”

  “But…” You could see that he wanted to swear. “Very well! But if this goes wrong, I’ll hold you responsible!”

  “Thank you, Father.”

  Chapter Six

  I was not cut out to be a copyist.

  Some of the problems centered on my lack of skill. Please understand that I spent years at a drawing board. My technical drawing was good, and my engineering lettering was considered excellent. I had seventeen years of formal schooling and am quite literate.

  But I was not literate in Latin. And engineering lettering on mylar with a Japanese mechanical pencil has nothing in common with doing Gothic “Black” lettering on parchment with a goose quill and ink.

  Furthermore, parchment is a kind of leather and is hideously expensive. The only technique they had for erasing an error was to wait a week for the ink to dry and then sand it off with a stone.

  They did accept my suggestion to use a T square and triangle to lay out pages. They were thankful for this. They also considered me to be a monumental klutz.

  Then there were the working conditions. You sat on a bench in a cold, dark scriptorium. The only windows in the room were covered with oiled parchment and might as well have been bricked over. This light was supplemented by an oil lamp at your elbow that in fact burned pig fat, under protest.

  Most of my fellow copyists didn’t speak much Latin either, so the straw boss-excuse me-author-read it off one letter at a time. He said “A,” and you wrote “A.” He said “B,” you wrote “B.” He said “C”… This went on for two and a half hours, until it was time to go and ray again.

  Four such sessions made for a ten-hour day, which was not so bad by itself. In the twentieth century, I often worked longer than that when we were behind schedule. But when added to the time spent praying, it became excessive.

  I had always considered myself a religious man. Going to mass before work is not such a bad idea. But in addition, going to the chapel another eight times a day to pray is a bit much. Especially when those eight times are spread out at three-hour intervals Compline at 9 P.M., Matins at midnight, Lauds at 3 A.M., and then up again at 4:30 to catch 5 A.M. mass…

  I was not sufficiently sinful to need that much prayer. Oh, since I hadn�
��t taken any vows, I wasn't required to do all this, but they liked to wake me up anyway, just in case I wanted to beef up my soul a little.

  Actually, it had been seven weeks or so since I had touched a female human being, and I wanted to do a little sinning. I was making an allegedly excellent salary-four pence a day-but was unable to spend much of it because I only had Sunday afternoons off, when the inns were closed.

  It did not help matters that the goliard poet kid was an excellent calligrapher. Working his way through the University of Paris, he’d made his living expenses copying books. In addition, in the two weeks that he'd been at the monastery, the kid had gotten religion. He'd taken vows as a novice so that he could continue doing precisely the same job as before, but without pay.

  The overnight conversion from professed sinner to religious fanatic is a fairly common one, but I’ve never understood it.

  In any event, when I was notified right after five o’clock mass that Father Ignacy wanted to speak to me privately, I knew that I was going to be fired. I deserved to be fired, and one part of me wanted to be fired. Another part of me wanted to continue eating regularly. “Good morning, Father. I know what you have to say, so do not agonize yourself. I know that I am incompetent as a copyist.”

  “You’ve shown much improvement, my son. You would, in time, become a competent copyist. But you would never be a happy copyist, so I have found you another position. I know a merchant who requires someone skilled in keeping ledgers of purchase, sales, profits, and that sort of thing. This man travels constantly all over Europe, and you would be his companion. Do you think that you would be qualified for such a position?”

  I’d had a few basic accounting courses, double-entry bookkeeping, and so on. Seeing more of the world would be pleasant. Getting out of the monastery would be a joy. “For that I know I would be qualified.”

  “Excellent. He often carries large sums of cash, and part of your duties would be to defend him if necessary. But no man not a fool would attack a giant such as yourself, so I expect that this will be only a formality. Still acceptable?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Your salary will be doubled, to eight silver pennies per day. You will be required to provide yourself with horse, arms, and armor, but he will advance you the price of this and deduct it from your pay.”