Thought fragments coalesced, broke apart, then re-formed. The creature’s eyes opened, but it did not as yet see. The senses delivered no input to an unreceptive brain. A numbed coldness cocooned the creature. Coldness, emptiness, a twinge of solitude so deep it was a wound.
The warm breeze stirred across the motionless figure, ruffling the garments that had rotted to tatters and thawing a little of the pervasive coldness. The day’s heat, still trapped in the stone base of the bridge, radiated a soft warmth, diminished by the darkness, providing only the faintest trace of comfort.
It was the water he identified first, the soft steady lap of it, a constant sound, soothing and kind. Then he smelled it, a green, muddy fragrance, a wet scent of fish. He smelled other things as well—earthiness of ground beneath his cheek, horse dung, something sickly sweet and decaying.
He blinked and began to discern shadows. At first he saw inky blackness in contrast with hues of violet and gray, then a playful twinkle of moonlight across the surface of the river.
His breath rattled in his throat and caught. He panicked, thinking he couldn’t breathe. But the moment passed, and his lungs drew air steadily again. Coughing, he fought not to choke himself and pushed at the ground until he sat upright.
He felt as old and brittle as a mummy in a case. His hands reached up to explore the contours of his face. Skin, nose, eyebrows, hair.
Whose?
No answer.
No knowledge.
Whose?
A giggle of laughter on the bridge over him caught his attention. He glanced up, listening to the footsteps echo by. He focused…
Aye, she’s a tidy armful, all right, as trusting as a baby, her skin like velvet, God’s truth, how her eyes shine in the moonlight, I could eat her she looks so fair, and she’s believing everything I say, oh, sweet, sweet my reward tonight, and her father the old fool not knowing how she’s slipped out, I’ll have her soon, she’s flushed enough, the wine helped too, and I can’t believe my luck, there a good coddle of her breast, bolder than ever, and her giggling, not slapping the way she used to, aye, she’s mine, all right, I could take her in the bushes I’m so randy, but better to wait, wait and make it pretty for her, she’ll have me again if I do, and she’s worth it, ripe and juicy and all for me.
Gone then. The thoughts and the laughter, the girl’s perfume fading on the evening air like a memory.
He waited a moment longer, but all he found were his own thoughts, empty things. He struggled with them, wanting that hot, piercing clarity to return. He opened his mouth, but no sound came forth. He had forgotten how to make utterances, and yet…
“Woman,” he said.
His voice was as rusty as a gate hinge. It hurt to speak, and yet he found himself struggling again, forcing words past the inner darkness.
“Man. Lovers. Tryst. Forbidden. Lust. I—”
He stopped, his mouth working. He sensed he had come to it, come closer to finding what he sought.
“I—I—have—I am—I am—I am Leon! Leon, Leon, Leon! I—am Leon. I am—Leon. Leon. I am Leon.”
He said it once more, the words running smoothly in place. “I am Leon.”
For that instant he knew triumph, but it was followed by no other knowledge. He dropped his chin to his chest, resting, feeling frustration wash over him anew.
“I am Leon,” he whispered like a man turning a key again and again in a lock, hoping it would open. “What does that mean?”
More footsteps on the bridge, startling him this time. Other thoughts blared in his mind: One, two, one two one, two, damn the dark, I hate it, hate this damned pike, hate night sentry duty, no one about, thank God, but I’d like to ram this pike through a soft belly or two, just to
Gone.
Leon blinked, his mouth open, drawing in air like a fish, drawing in knowledge.
“Soldier,” he said. “Guard. Pike is…is weapon. Belly is target. Kill. Murder. Savage.”
He shuddered, and the gate within his mind opened suddenly to a flood of images and memories. Blood and terror, the joy of seeing victims cower, the heat of battle, the cool pleasure of intrigue, manipulating, twisting weaker minds to his will, making them play as his puppets…so that’s what he was.
He smiled, licking his lips, liking it.
“Bad,” he said. “I am Leon, and Leon is bad.”
He climbed to his feet, staggered a bit until he mastered his muscles, then zigzagged up the embankment to the street paralleling the river. Few lights shone out against the smothering darkness, but he could hear the citizens, snug in their beds, scratching fleas in their sleep, their heartbeats steady, their snores in chorus across the city.
People, lots of them. Stupid, ignorant, disease-ridden people. He stretched out his arms, reveling in his sense of them.
Time to explore.
He prowled the streets until he found a pair of men tiptoeing along in tall heels, silk doublets, and plumed hats. He followed them a moment, one shadow among many, listening to their drunken singing. Then he singled out one mind and put his thoughts into it: Dropped my purse.
“Damn,” said one of the men, lurching to a halt. He began slapping his clothing.
“Whatsamatter?”
“Hell and blazes. Dropped my purse.”
His companion giggled. “Aye, dropped it in that last wager. You were gaming deep tonight, my friend.”
“No, I’ve lost it.” He pulled away from his companion’s hand. “Must go back and look.”
“In the dark? Footpads, you know.”
“I’ve my sword.”
“You—”
“Go on a bit,” said the man impatiently. “I shan’t be long.”
“Stupid. You can’t look in the dark.”
Leon bristled with impatience. The man in his power jerked with a wince.
“Faith, sir! Are you all right?” asked the friend.
“Yes, blast you! Go on. I’ve no need of you.”
“I shall help you look, then, but it’s silly—”
“I don’t want you. Go home.”
They parted company at last with heated words on both sides. Leon’s quarry turned back and came his way, muttering angrily beneath his breath.
Leon tensed himself, waiting, then pounced and pulled the man into the shadows with him. One strong punch of his mind, and the man crumpled without a sound. Leon chuckled to himself, taking satisfaction in the ease of it, and stripped the man quickly. Bundling the stolen clothes under his arm, Leon ran.
Several minutes later, he found a house with a solitary candle burning in the window and the door unlatched. Someone was expected home. The porter who was supposed to be on guard snored in his chair. Noel drifted past him without a sound and prowled through magnificent rooms furnished with enormous tapestries, heavy, carved furniture, and fine paintings hanging in massive gilded frames.
There was a library—shadowy, firelit, and redolent of leather bindings. The cat curled near the hearth jumped up with a hiss, fuzzing itself.
Leon hissed back, and the cat ran.
Closing the door, he looked about at the tall shelves of books, the velvet cushions on the chairs, the decanter of brandy and glass waiting on the table. Tossing down the stolen clothes, Leon helped himself to a liberal glass of the brandy, then a second, smacking his lips afterward. A faint hint of smoky taste lingered on his tongue, more than he had ever tasted before.
For a moment he was puzzled, then hate filled him and he remembered the other one. The original one.
Noel.
His fists clenched and such violence filled him he nearly hurled the decanter at the wall. Barely controlling himself, he thought of that sanctimonious, sniveling coward, the thing he’d sprung from. Noel, the real one, who never stopped taunting Leon, who never stopped reminding Leon of who had the right to exist and who did not, who never stopped meddling.
Oh, for the privilege, the chance to get his hands on Noel’s throat, to silence that voice so like his forever, to gou
ge out those gray eyes so like his, to cut and maim and crush until there could be only one of them.
“Me,” he whispered.
He remembered the humiliation of being linked to Noel, of being jerked here and there, forced to travel through time with Noel regardless of his own wishes. Everything he tried to accomplish Noel destroyed.
But in the end, he’d freed himself of Noel. Noel had returned to his precious twenty-sixth century, and Leon had stayed in the seventeenth. Or so had been the bargain they struck.
Yet even then, there had been only treachery from his twin. Noel had gone back to safety and happiness in his own time. Leon was yanked once again from a chance at real existence, and imprisoned in nothing, kept nowhere, diminished to a speck between time streams. Noel had done that to him, had tricked him, had tried to lose him forever in the void.
Leon glared at the fire, his fingers crooked like claws, his breathing harsh. Slowly he calmed down and began to smile to himself.
Despite Noel’s efforts, someone had made a mistake and let the bars of the prison down. Somehow—Leon didn’t know how and he didn’t care—he had escaped. He was back, corporeal, existing in the here and now. Where he was did not matter. He could survive, flourish anywhere, if left free of Noel’s meddling.
Still smiling, he reached out and ran his fingers along the mantel’s polished wood. Freedom…how the very sound of the word gave him hope. At last he could live.
He stripped off his tattered rags and threw them on the fire. Smoke boiled from the hearth, but Leon paid no attention. Naked, he crossed the room and put on the fine linen underclothing, the stockings, drew on the satin petticoat breeches edged in French lace, reached for the linen shirt…and stopped, staring in surprise at his right wrist.
A braid of silky hair entwined with gold and fitted with a clasp circled his wrist. He dropped the shirt on the floor and touched the bracelet with a cautious fingertip, puzzled by it, half-afraid of it although he didn’t know why.
What was it?
Where had it come from?
He tried to remember the last hour of his previous reality. He had been a pirate then, on a sun-warmed island, the sea wind fragrant in his nostrils. Had he taken the braid of a lover as a keepsake?
No memories came to him.
He struggled, forcing his brain to try, but there came no images save those of Noel.
He touched the braid of hair again, fascinated in spite of his wariness. He had not stolen it tonight. That meant…it had come from nowhere with him.
It belonged to him. It was his possession.
A smile touched his lips. He examined it more closely in the firelight. Strands of the hair glimmered gold and red.
“Pretty,” he whispered aloud. His smile widened. “Mine.”
That pleased him more than anything else. He stroked the little bracelet again, his forefinger tracing the outline of the braiding, then he frowned as darkness overshadowed his mind.
Noel wore a bracelet once. Something important about it. It had been made of hammered copper…no…silver and turquoise…no…plain leather.
Leon straightened, his mind sluggishly trying to sift through the overlap of memories. There was more, so very much more, if he could just wipe the confusion from his brain and remember.
But the memory he sought stayed elusively beyond his reach.
Frustrated, he turned away from the fire and finished dressing. His uneasiness grew stronger. He let his gaze rove across the spines of the books. Restlessly he poured more brandy but did not drink it.
“Always,” he said aloud, struggling to put a finger on what worried him, “always I have come when Noel has come. I am here in this place and time. That means…he must also be here.”
Fury filled him instantly. He whirled around, half expecting Noel to appear in the library with him, yet there was nothing but the books, the fire, and the quietness. He drew in several ragged breaths, seeking to control his emotions.
He had to think.
What was wrong with him that he could not think?
Leon paced across the room, then back again. Shifting whispers of distant thoughts caught his attention. He paused and forced himself to acquire stillness. He focused, his mind trailing the thoughts upstairs to a sumptuous bedchamber.
The clock is striking three and still he does not come home, gambling or not gambling, he hurts me, he stays away, he taunts me, my marriage vows are a travesty, yet he knows I am faithful while he samples freely, yes, freely, so many mistresses, so many lovers, I could have a lover, I’m pretty still, pretty but not pretty enough for my husband, not
Leon dropped his concentration, bored with her. The contact, however, like before, strengthened him. His mind felt sharper, his thoughts more cohesive.
Was Noel nearby, present in this time?
Leon’s eyes narrowed. He’d soon find out. Gathering himself, he let his mind search across the sleeping city. Despise Noel though he might, he always had a sense of Noel’s presence, like a lingering, irritating itch in the back of his throat that couldn’t be reached.
He searched and searched, but no trace of Noel came to him.
Frowning, he paced the room and considered the problem. Why was he so uneasy?
It was hard to believe that Noel was not here.
He swept out with his thoughts once again, just to make sure.
Nothing.
He should have felt relieved. He should have been elated.
Instead he felt curiously hollow, almost disappointed.
His fingers reached beneath his cuff to touch the narrow braid of hair around his wrist.
Where had the bracelet come from?
What did it mean?
Why did he have such a thing?
“A key to the past?” he murmured aloud. “A key to unlock the past that I can’t remember?”
The braid shimmered with an unearthly radiance. Startled, Leon cried out and stumbled back. The radiance faded, leaving only the plain braid of hair. He stared at it, half afraid of it, and half exhilarated with wonder.
“Am I a witch in this time?” he whispered with growing glee. “Am I?”
A noise beyond the library door warned him that his outcry had awakened the porter. There came a soft knock as Leon stood rigid.
“Home at last, my lord?” asked the porter’s drowsy voice. “Shall I lock up?”
Leon reached into the servant’s mind and took a swift image of his master’s voice and manner. “Yes,” he said, pushing with his mind to make the porter believe he heard his master’s voice. “By all means, lock up.”
Again the braid of hair shone with an unearthly glow of light—lambent, surreal, bathing his hand and sleeve in a peculiar pale illumination. Leon stared at it a long while until the glow began to fade again.
“Lock,” he whispered, frowning.
The braid shone, and its shape shimmered and changed completely into a clear-sided bracelet filled with tiny, incredibly complicated fiber-optic circuitry. Pulsing flashes of soft white light appeared in multiple patterns.
“Working,” said a toneless voice.
He jumped, and suddenly he knew what it was. Excitement soared through him. He could have shouted aloud, but he drew his joy down into a tiny knot of caution.
“You’re a LOC,” he said.
“Affirmative.”
He hesitated, then touched its warm surface with his fingertip. Its lights pulsed steadily.
“A Light Operated Computer,” he whispered. “Fully functional this time, not like before.”
He thought of the first time he had come into existence and found himself to be a second-rate copy of Noel. He’d even had a version of a LOC, but it had been fused and twisted on his wrist, useless, mocking his own flaws.
Sucking in his breath sharply, he said, “Identify time and place.”
“September first, 1666. London.”
He smiled. It responded to him. That meant it was isomorphically designed for him alone.
&
nbsp; He said, “Deactivate.”
The LOC shimmered back into its disguise of a braid and fell silent.
“Activate.”
Immediately it flashed to life. “Working.”
“Deactivate.”
It complied.
He chuckled and held his arm aloft while he did a jig around the room. It was his, not Noel’s. He was here and Noel was not.
It meant…it all meant…
He was real.
At last, he was real. Not a copy any longer, but his own person, individual and unique.
He looked around the room, but there was no mirror to gaze into.
What did it matter? This wondrous device, this miniaturized computer with its packed data banks, represented all the reality he wanted and needed. With it in his possession, he could rule this city, this country, the world. He would be king and master of all he surveyed.
And no one could stop him from doing what he wanted.
Chapter 9
In the soft light of early morning, Noel awakened with a start on the floor. He lay there, tense and unmoving, all his senses alert, but heard nothing save ordinary sounds of the inn coming to life. Above him on the bed, Will Osborne still snored softly. Some of Noel’s tension relaxed. There was no danger, nothing to justify the rapid pounding of his heart or the sharp sense of unease that had awakened him.
Noel grimaced to himself and sat up. His body was stiff and sore from a long night on the hard floor. He had to pry himself to his feet, and straightening his back made him wince and put his hands to his sides. He could barely walk across the room for the knots in his leg muscles. He stretched and kneaded them, trying to work them loose, and after a few minutes gained himself some ease.
The ravenous, unnatural hunger of last night had faded, much to his relief. He hoped his raging metabolism had settled down, but new symptoms had appeared, small but troubling. The inside of his mouth felt numb and tingly as though a drug had been sprayed across his tongue and the lining of his cheeks. Multiple tiny nerve twitches ran down his neck into his shoulders. He kept breaking out in a full-body sweat, although the air in the room was pleasantly cool, then he grew chilled. He checked himself for fever, but his external temperature seemed all right. Worried, he pulled apart his clothes and examined his armpits and groin for a rash or pustules. He was supposed to be fully immunized against any of the local diseases, but Ellis could have made a mistake. Maybe he was coming down with the bubonic plague.
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