Time Patrol

by Poul Anderson

  Not that it was ever easy, even in Harfleur. Since first Boniface Reynaud came here from his birthtime nine hundred years futureward, he had spent two decades creating the career of Reinault Bodel, who worked his way from youthful obscurity to the status of a respectable dealer in wool. He did it so well that nobody wondered much about a dockside shed that he kept locked. Suffice it that he had freely shown the proper officials it was empty; if it stood idle, that was his affair, and indeed he talked about someday expanding his business. Nor did anybody grow unduly suspicious of the outsiders who came and went, conferring alone with him. He had chosen his servants, laborers, apprentices, and wife most carefully. To his children he was a kindly father, as medieval fathers went.

  Everard's timecycle appeared in the secret space about 9 A.M. He let himself out with a Patrol key and walked to the merchant's place. Big in his own era, gigantic in this, he left a wake of stares. However, his rough garb suggested he was a mariner, likeliest English, not one to mess with. He had sent a dispatch capsule ahead and was admitted immediately to Maistre Bodel's upstairs parlor. Its door closed behind him.

  In one corner were a high stool and a table cluttered with things pertaining to business and religion or personal items—ledgers, quills, an inkwell, assorted knives, a fanciful map, a small image of the Virgin, on and on. Otherwise the chamber was rather stately. A single window admitted sufficient light but no real view of the outside, for the glass in the cames, although reasonably clear, was blurringly wavy. It was noise that seeped through, Asianlike clamor of the street below, mumble and bustle of work within, once bell-thunder from the cathedral nearby. Smells were of wool, smoke, bodies, and clothes not washed very often. Yet, beneath everything, Everard had a sense of crackling energy. Harfleur—Hareflot, they still called it, as had its Norman founders—was a rookery of merchant adventurers. From harbors like this, a few lifetimes hence, men would set sail for the New World.

  He took a chair across the table from Reynaud's. They had backs, armrests, and cushions, an unusual luxury. After a few hasty courtesies, he snapped in Temporal, "What can you tell me about Marlow and his situation?"

  "When last he called, the situation appeared unchanged," replied the portly man in the fur-trimmed robe. "He is confined to the strongroom. It has a pallet for him to sleep on. His guards bring him food and water twice a day, and at such times a boy empties his chamber pot for him. They speak to him no more than is barely necessary. I think my message described the neighbors as being wary of the Templars and therefore leaving them strictly alone."

  "M-hm. But what about Marlow? Has he told you how much information he let slip, and in what style he did it?"

  "That is our main concern, of course. Correct?" Reynaud rubbed his chin. Everard heard the bristles scratching; contemporary razors didn't shave smooth. "He dares not speak to us at length or often. A listener at the door could too easily realize that he isn't actually at prayer, and so may be talking to a familiar spirit or casting a spell or the like. From what he has said, and what he earlier entered in his periodic reports—until recently, he was careful. You know he had leave to make a few predictions, describe a few events in distant places, et cetera. He explained this to the Templars partly as dreams and visions, partly as astrology. Both are everywhere taken seriously; and the Templars are especially disposed to occultism."

  Everard raised his brows. "You mean they are, in fact, doing forbidden things?"

  Reynaud shook his head. "No. At least, not to any great degree. Everybody nowadays is superstitious. Heresy is widespread, if mostly covert; likewise witchcraft and other pagan survivals. Heterodoxy in a thousand different forms is almost universal among the illiterate majority, ignorant of orthodox theology. The Templars have long been exposed to Islam, not always in a hostile fashion, and the Muslim world is full of magicians. It is no surprise that their leaders, their intellectuals, developed certain ideas and practices that they feel are legitimate but had better not be made public. Marlow's accounts of these are fascinating."

  Everard couldn't resist. "Okay"—American word—"what is this idol Baphomet they'll be accused of worshiping?"

  "'Baphomet' is merely a corruption of 'Mahomet,' a smear by their enemies. It's true that the object has the shape of a head, but it is a reliquary. The relic, acquired long ago in the Holy Land, is believed to be the jawbone of Abraham."

  Everard whistled. "Heterodox for sure. Dangerous. Inquisitors might recall that the ancient Greeks kept the jawbones of heroes for oracles. But still, yes, inner-circle Templars could well imagine they can venerate this while staying Christian. . . .

  He sat straight. "Let's stick to our work." Wincing, he muttered out of an irrational need, "Sure, it's unpleasant. A lot of men, mostly simple, harmless rank-and-file, are going to be jailed, terrorized, tortured, some burned, the rest left with their lives wrecked, just to glut that son-of-a-bitch Philip. But he is the government, and governments are like that, and this is the history that produced us"—and everybody and everything they cared for. Their task was to safeguard it. Louder, harshly: "What did Marlow tell his knightly friend, and why?"

  "More than a friend," Reynaud said. "They became lovers. He admits now, he could no longer endure the thought of what would happen to Fulk de Buchy."

  "Hmm! So the allegations of homosexuality aren't false?"

  "Not entirely." Reynaud shrugged. "What do you expect in an organization supposed to be celibate? I don't imagine more goes on than does in the average monastery. And how many kings and nobles keep favorites?"

  "Oh, I'm not passing moral judgments. On the contrary." Everard thought of the lengths to which he might go were Wanda so threatened. "People's bedrooms are none of my business. But hereabouts, the state makes them its business, and may put you to the stake because you loved the wrong person." He scowled. "I'm just trying to understand what we're up against. How much did Marlow let out, and how convinced is Fulk?"

  "Marlow told him in general terms that the king plans an attack on the Templars and it will be soon. He begged Fulk to make an excuse to leave France. Kings elsewhere won't follow suit at once, and in such countries as Scotland and Portugal the Templars never will be persecuted. The warning was plausible. As you doubtless know, accusations have been circulating for several years, and an investigation, officially impartial, is in progress. Fulk took Marlow seriously enough to send a letter to a cousin of his, who commands the Templar fleet, urging him to keep his crews alert for trouble."

  "Hey!" Everard exclaimed. "I remember—but my briefing only said it's a historical mystery what became of the fleet. It was never seized, nor heard of again, as far as the chronicles go. . . . What will happen?"

  Reynaud was, naturally, kept informed about future developments, as the Patrol's field scientists traced them out. "When the arrests begin, the ships will put to sea," he answered. "Most will go to the Moors, like many individual Templars ashore, the men feeling betrayed and disgusted. The Moors will, quite wisely, disperse them among the naval forces of various emirs."

  "So already Marlow has had a real impact," said Everard bleakly. "What else might Fulk do, even at this late hour? Once we've rescued Marlow, we'll have to deal with that gentleman . . . somehow."

  "What is your plan for Marlow?" Reynaud asked.

  "That's what I'm here to discuss and arrange," Everard replied. "We'll have to work out fail-safe tactics. Nothing that'll smack of the supernatural or anything else extraordinary. God knows what that could lead to."

  "I expect you have ideas," Reynaud said. An unattached agent was bound to.

  Everard nodded. "Can you find me a few bully boys who know their way around? My notion is that, tonight, we break into the house in Paris. Evidently nobody's staying there but the prisoner, two guards, and a scullion—a novice, I suppose. A robber gang could hear about that and decide to take advantage of it. We'll steal whatever portable goods we find and carry Marlow off with us, presumably to hold him for ransom. What with everything that's about to
take place, who'll give him further thought? The robbers figured they couldn't get a ransom after all, cut his throat, and dumped him in the Seine." He paused. "I hope we won't hurt any innocent bystanders too badly."

  Sometimes the Patrol must be as ruthless as history itself.

  PARIS, WEDNESDAY, 11 OCTOBER 1307

  After curfew, when the city gates had closed, none went abroad without necessity, save for the watch and the underworld. The timecycle appeared in a street wholly deserted. An outsize machine bearing saddles for eight, it settled onto the cobblestones with a squelp of mire that seemed loud in the silence.

  Everard and his men sprang off. Narrow between high walls and elevated galleries, the street lay blacker than any open field, its air foul and cold. Glow from two small windows well up in one housefront merely deepened the dark. The raiders saw clearly. Their light-amplifying goggles ought to be taken for grotesque masks. Otherwise they wore the patched and dirty garments of the poor. All bore knives; two carried hatchets, one a cudgel, one a quarterstaff; Everard's belt upheld a falchion, short, its blade broad and curved—plausible weapons for bandits.

  He squinted at the dim windows. "Damn!" he growled in English. "Somebody awake in there? Maybe just a night lamp. Well, in we go." He switched to Temporal. His team had birthdays scattered through several future centuries and around the globe. "All right, Yan, shoot."

  Marlow had described the front door as massive. It would be barred on the inside. Speed was vital. When the racket began, neighbors probably wouldn't dare come to help, but they might send someone looking for a squad of the watch, or by itself it might attract that primitive constabulary. Everard's men must be gone before then, leaving no trace that lacked an ordinary explanation.

  Yan, who would stand by at the transporter, saluted and swiveled around a mortar mounted on the frame. Everard had suggested the design, after which its forging and testing had taken many man-hours. It boomed. A balk of hardwood sprang out. A crash resounded. The front door sagged, splinterful, half torn from its hinges, the bar snapped. The timber could be left behind, evidence that the marauders had used a battering ram. That they must have been uncommonly strong men would be cause for alarm, but the Templar sensation ought to take minds off it.

  Everard was already running. Tabarin, Rosny, Hyman, and Uhl came after. Over the threshold, through the gap and the vestibule—its own inner door open—into the workroom! There they deployed in a line, their leader at the middle, and peered about them.

  Pillared and stone-floored, the chamber reached hollow. The kitchen entrance at the far end was shut for the night. The furniture remaining here was an iron coffer, three stools, and the big sales counter, on which four tallow candles in sticks made a wavery dusk to see by. They stank. In the right wall was the door to a separate room below the stairs from the vestibule, formerly for storing valuables, now secured by an ornate built-in lock. A tough-looking man in the brown habit of the Order crouched before it, gripping a halberd and yelling.

  "Hold!" Everard cried in the Parisian gutter dialect he had acquired. "Lay down your pole and we'll spare you."

  "God's bones, no!" the Templar clamored. Had he been a common soldier before he took his vows? "Jehan! My lord! Help!"

  Everard signaled his followers. They dashed for either side of the guard.

  They didn't want to kill. Sonic stun guns were nested inside their weapons. Let them close in, distract him, give him a jolt. He'd wake up supposing he'd been whacked from behind—yes, it'd be needful to bang his head with the club, but cautiously.

  Two more men sprang out of the vestibule. They were naked, as folk wontedly slept, but armed. The shorter, grubby one likewise carried a halberd. The tall one lifted a long, straight sword. Its blade caught the wan light in a ripple as of fire. Its wielder—

  Everard knew that aquiline face. Marlow had often surreptitiously recorded it with a microscanner, to put in his reports along with other views. Did he mean to look at it, over and over, when his mission was done and he must return home?

  Fulk de Buchy, Knight of the Temple.

  "Ho!" he bayed. "Go for the watch, someone!" Laughter gibed at Everard. "They'll cart away your corpses, swine."

  Others clustered in the entry, half a dozen men and boys, unarmed, dismayed, imploring the saints, but witnesses.

  Goddamn it, Everard groaned inwardly, Fulk's spending the night, and he's recalled the household staff.

  "Careful with the stunners!" he barked in Temporal. Don't strike the opposition down with an invisible, sorcerous blow. Maybe he needn't have warned. These were Patrolmen he commanded. They weren't cops like him, though, they were simply the most promising he'd found among personnel familiar with this milieu, hastily briefed and drilled.

  They mixed it up with the halberdiers. Fulk was plunging at him.

  Too flinking much visibility here. I can't stun him unless we get so close I can fake something—or I can maneuver him in back of a pillar—and his sword's got the reach of mine, and chances are he's better. I know fencing techniques that haven't been invented yet, but they aren't a lot of use when blades like these play. Not for the first time, Everard saw that he might get killed.

  As always, he was too busy to feel scared. It was as if his inner self stood aside, watching, interested in a detached fashion, now and then offering advice. The rest of him was in action.

  The longsword flashed at his skull. He blocked with his falchion. Metal rang. Everard shoved. His was the advantage in mass and muscle. He forced Fulk's weapon up. His free fist doubled. No knight would expect an uppercut. Fulk disengaged with feline smoothness and flowed out of range.

  For an instant they glared across two yards of stone. Everard realized how the posts hemmed him in. It could prove fatal. Almost, he reversed his sword to use the gun in the pommel. He could then move quickly enough that none would notice his enemy had fallen before being struck. But while others rioted around this chamber, Fulk stepped forward. His glaive leaped.

  Everard was in karate stance. Reflex eased the tension he kept on one knee and swung him aside from the slash. It passed within an inch. Everard struck for the wrist.

  Again Fulk was too swift. Rising, his blade nearly tore the Patrolman's hilt loose from the hand. He kept his left side half toward the foe, arm slanted over breast. It was as if he bore a phantom crusader shield, cross-emblazoned. Above, he grinned with battle glee. His steel snaked forth.

  Everard had already cast himself downward. The sword whined barely above his head. He hit the floor in full control. Such martial arts were unknown here. Fulk would have slain a man who flopped while he tried to scramble erect. Everard was coiled, his torso up. He had perhaps half a second until the knight hewed. His falchion smote the thigh.

  It bit to the bone. Blood spouted. Fulk howled. He went to his sound knee. Once more he raised his sword. Once more Everard had time only to strike. Now the metal caught the belly. Momentum drove it deep and across. A loop of gut slipped out through a red torrent.

  Fulk crumpled. Everard jumped back to his feet. Both swords lay unheeded. He bent over the sprawled man. Blood had splashed him. It dripped down into what was pumping forth and spreading wide. Even as he stood, the spurt lessened, the strong heart failed.

  Teeth gleamed in Fulk's beard. A last snarl at his slayer? His right hand lifted. Shakily, he drew the Christian sign. But the words he gasped were "Hugues, O Hugues—"

  The hand fell. Eyes rolled back, mouth gaped, torn bowels went slack. Everard caught the reek of death.

  "I'm sorry," he croaked. "I didn't want that."

  But he had work to do. He looked around him. Both pikemen were down, unconscious but apparently not seriously hurt. It must have happened seconds ago, or his squad would have come to his aid. Those Templars put up a good fight, they did. Seeing him hale, the Patrolmen turned their attention to the help huddled in the entry.

  "Be off or we'll kill you, too!" they bawled.

  The attendants weren't schooled in battle. They
bolted in abrupt, trampling panic, with a backwash of moans and screams, out the vestibule and the broken door beyond.

  Stumbling through the night, they might nonetheless find city guards. "Get busy," Everard ordered. "Collect an armful of loot apiece and we'll clear out. That's as much as a gang who'd raised this kind of ruckus would stop to take." His mind couldn't keep from adding in English, If they hung around, they'd assuredly hang. A thought more real nudged him. "Try for well-made things, and handle with care if you can. They're going to museums uptime, you know."

  And so a few bits of loveliness would be saved from oblivion, for the enjoyment of a world that, possibly, this operation had also saved. He couldn't be sure. The Patrol might have managed some different corrective action. Or events might have shaped themselves to restore their long-term course; the continuum has considerable resilience. He had merely done what seemed best.

  He glanced downward at the dead man. "We had our duty," he whispered. "I think you'd've understood."

  While his team hastened upstairs, he sought the strongroom. The clumsy lock would have yielded to almost any burglar tools, but those in his pouch were special and it clicked directly over. He swung the door aside.

  Hugh Marlow lurched out of lightlessness. "Who're you?" he choked in English. "I heard—Oh, the Patrol." His gaze found the knight. He forced back a shriek. Then he went to the body and knelt beside it, heedless of the blood, shuddering with the effort not to weep. Everard came after and loomed above him. Marlow looked up.

  "Did—did you have to do this?" he stammered.