by Lory Kaufman
“I told you, I’m not supposed to say,” Elder Parmatheon Olama replied fearfully. “It’s against . . .”
“Call the others back in,” Hansum ordered Lincoln.
“He’s not in the future,” Parmatheon said quickly. “He’s hiding out of phase. Please don’t call in those murderers. I beg you.”
“What do you mean out of phase?” the young Hansum asked, not familiar with the term yet.
“He’s here, watching us,” Parmatheon admitted, looking around fearfully. “In this room, but invisible. He’s trying to save you, but there are technical problems. I can get back though. I’m here by mistake. Let me go. Please. And he’s right. I am an idiot. I messed everything up.”
“What do you mean, technical problems?”
“Something’s screwed up with time. And they’re trying to avoid other disasters.”
“What disaster?”
“Disasters,” Parmatheon corrected. “Believe me, so much has gone wrong for you already and he’s really here to help.”
“How can you get back?” Lincoln asked.
“There’s a sub-dermal on my neck. It’s an emergency return node. Please, untie me so I can press it.” Hansum and Lincoln looked at each other cautiously. “Or one of you press it. Here, right at the base,” Parmatheon said, stretching his neck and twisting it, to make the faint outline of the sub-dermal visible. Lincoln leaned forward and checked it out.
“Sure looks like one,” Lincoln said.
“And if you help me, I promise I’ll do my best to help you when I get back.” And then he said more loudly, looking around like he was talking to someone hiding in the room. “Journeyman Hansum. See, I haven’t told them anything really important. And if I get out of here, I won’t stand in your way anymore. I’ll . . . I’ll be good. I’ll help with the Council.”
The younger Hansum looked like he was thinking. He turned to Lincoln.
“If I’m really here watching,” he asked thoughtfully, “how did I get back originally and how can I be stuck here now?”
“It’s time travel,” Parmatheon said pathetically. “It doesn’t make any sense . . . at least to me.”
“And whoever this other me is, he really is trying to save us?”
“Yes, yes, he is. And I was wrong to block him. I see that now. I’ll be good, I’ll be good,” he pleaded.
“How can we explain his disappearance?” Lincoln asked.
“We’ll say he got loose and escaped. We’ll break a window.”
“They won’t believe he got away without a fight.”
The two boys, having worked together as a team, looked like they were reading each other’s minds, even without communications implants. Hansum blew out a breath. “I guess I’ll do you and you do me.”
“You better come through for us, pally,” Lincoln said, pointing a finger in Parmatheon’s face. Then the two boys looked at each other.
“This is going to hurt . . .” Hansum said, pulling back his arm and making a fist. “Make it show, but not the nose.”
“Same here,” Lincoln agreed.
They pulled back and swung. “THWACK!” They hit each her so hard, both fell to the ground.
“You two have gone native!” Parmatheon gasped, his face going whiter than it already was. Lincoln got up, rubbing a big welt under his eye. He stared menacingly at the bureaucrat, who quivered as Lincoln’s hand came toward him. “Are you going to untie me?” Parmatheon asked. “Can I clean myself up first?” and, without another word, the younger Lincoln pressed the emergency nodule. “I hope I land softly this time. Oh dear, oh . . .” and the less-developed technology caused his image to disintegrate into wavy bits before it faded out of the 14th-century.
Hansum, still on the floor, ordered, “Throw that chair through the window.”
Lincoln picked up a heavy chair, took a few steps back and ran at the lead and glass frame. It took three tries before he broke open a hole large enough for a man to get through. The noise caused the general and three of his officers to burst through the door just as the chair fell out. Lincoln was leaning on the remaining broken glass in the window and Hansum was still on the ground, a hand to his new black eye.
“He got loose and escaped,” Hansum said from the ground.
“That pants-pissing craven?” the captain challenged.
“You were right, sir. He was faking,” Lincoln said, blood dripping from his hand as he took it away from the glass. “But he fought like a demon. I think he was . . . a wizard.” Then he looked out the window and cried. “Yikers, he made it to the woods!”
“After him,” the general shouted, and all the men took off.
“We better go too,” the younger Hansum said getting up. As he and Lincoln started for the door, they turned. “You better get us out of here,” Hansum said to the air, and they left the room.
The older Hansum thought what he had just witnessed could be funny, except events were getting more out of hand every minute. But, until Sideways returned, Hansum could do nothing.
He walked over to the table and looked at his old plans on the desk, suddenly feeling a nostalgic urge to see them. However, they had been turned face down for secrecy. Hansum reached out, his hand going right through the plans and desk. Looking out the window, he saw all the soldiers running into the woods, followed by his younger self and Lincoln. He went to the door and looked up and down the hall, seeing nobody. Then he came back to the table and put his hand to one of his sub-dermals. He pushed it hard. A blue flash filled his vision and he was back fully in the 14th-century. The familiar moldy smell of an older building filled his nostrils. Then, he reached down and turned over the plans, spreading the large parchments in front of him.
Here were the advanced instructions for making saltpeter and black powder next year; large copper vats for boiling ley, and a stone building with many racks for drying finished black powder, as well as a drawing for the incorporation mill. This was the large machine for crushing saltpeter, charcoal and sulfur together. These projects were never completed. Hansum let out a tired sigh.
“Master Monticelli?” a feminine voice spoke behind him.
Hansum turned and gulped, his eyes going wide. “Lady Beatrice,” he said, trying to collect himself.
“I thought I saw you chasing after someone. A spy, I understand.”
“Yes, there was much excitement. He got away, but I think he’s harmless . . . and I’m right here, as you can see.”
She walked toward him regally, her eyes with the look of a woman asking what was taking him so long to show interest in her. Then she looked down at the plans, upon which one of his hands still lay.
“Did the spy see these or get any intelligence?” she asked.
“I don’t believe so, my lady.”
Then Beatrice looked at something else. She reached forward and touched his hand and the scar surrounding his thumb. Too late, Hansum pulled his hand away and put it in his pocket.
“I never observed that,” she said, looking up at him.
“I try to hide it, my lady. Most don’t notice.”
Then Beatrice’s gaze studied Hansum’s face.
“Most odd,” she said. “You look somehow different.”
“I can’t imagine how,” he answered. She considered.
“A bit older. More seasoned.”
“Perhaps it’s merely the dirt from working with the black powder.”
“Perhaps,” she replied, not sounding convinced. “Let me see that hand again.”
Hansum had no choice but to bring out his repaired hand. It was dirty from rambling around in the woods. Beatrice took the hand in hers, holding it and turning it over, inspecting it thoroughly. She moved one of her soft thumbs around the scar that circumscribed his thumb. She looked up at him, her delicate eyebrows knit together in a question. Then she looked down again and opened his hand flat, running the tips of her fingers along the palm and turning it this way and that.
“Your callouses are different too.
Not those of a laborer, but a soldier’s.”
Hansum forced a snicker. “Is that so? I hadn’t noticed you were so observant or interested.”
“Oh, I am. But you are obviously . . .” her sentence trailed off. Then she turned the palm up again. “You have an exceeding long life line, Signor,” she observed. “I see much travel for you and . . . much sorrow.”
“Ah, you practice the science of palmistry,” Hansum said.
“It’s more of an art,” Beatrice replied. She turned his hand and gently scraped her thumbnail along the hand’s edge, sending an erotic tickle up Hansum’s spine. “And I see children in your future, Signor.” She looked up at him, somewhat surprised. “Two?” Coming from a time when the vast majority of people only had one child, this registered with Hansum in a different way than in the medieval woman in front of him. “So few progeny during such a long life?”
“We shall see,” Hansum said, finally smiling. He took one of Beatrice’s hands. She allowed it and he spread her palm. “Let’s see what I can see in your hand, my lady.”
“Your savant knowledge knows no bounds,” she replied.
Having studied Beatrice’s life after returning home, Hansum observed, “You too will have a long and interesting life, Lady Beatrice. Here, observe, eight children.”
“Oh really, Signor. That many?”
“Very prolific,” he replied. “Ah. And your life will not be one of just a dutiful wife, although you will be that. I see you shall be a great woman of business, finance, and a commander of armies.” He ran his fingers over her palm again, splaying her fingers. “And the line that follows you, you shall be the grandmother of many famous and great kings, queens and statesmen, all of whom will change and impress the world.”
Hansum looked up and found Beatrice with a most curious look on her face. For the first time since he met her, she seemed vulnerable.
“Signor, I have a question,” she started. “No, a bold proposal, I am ashamed to say. But please vow to take it seriously and not scorn me.”
“What is it, my lady?”
“Vow first,” she said, squeezing his hand.
“I vow.”
Beatrice looked down and blushed. Then she looked up again. “All these generations of kings, queens and the other great doers I shall be grandmother to. Could you not be . . . their grandfather?”
Hansum, true to his word, smiled kindly at her. Then he held up his palm to her. “That is not in my future, dear lady.”
Just then there was a commotion in the hallway. People were returning.
Beatrice turned away from Hansum, letting go of his hand and running to the door. Just as she got there, she was blocked by people entering. She looked up in astonishment as she walked right into one. It was Hansum, the younger one, complete with his brown hat.
“But you . . .” she turned and looked behind her. All she saw was the large desk and plans. “You were just . . .” She looked back and forth several times. The younger Hansum, Lincoln, the general and her father looked back at her quizzically. “I was just talking to . . .”
“My lady?” the younger Hansum asked.
Beatrice stared at the slightly younger face. Then she grabbed one of his hands, looking for the scar, and then the other. Letting them go, she clasped her hands to her mouth, muffling a scream. Then she crossed herself and ran from the room. All the men followed.
Having gone out of phase as soon as Lady Beatrice turned away, Hansum had been standing right next to her when she couldn’t see him.
“Ahem!”
Now Hansum turned to find another out-of-phase presence. It was Sideways, his astonished face looking out from the hovering cloak.
“What in the world is going on?” the A.I. asked.
“Everything has gone wrong,” and Hansum spewed it all out. “Elder Parmatheon showed up in the woods and della Scalla’s men caught him. I helped him escape back to the future. But when Lieutenant Raguso didn’t leave the firing range, Feltrino didn’t attack. I think he’s run away.”
Sideways’s eyes went wide. “You mean the battle didn’t take place? The cannon is still intact and all those men alive? This, this could change the future irrevocably. It couldn’t be worse.”
“Yes it can. Hansum and Lincoln, the younger ones . . . they saw me. Beatrice too.”
“Worse and worse!”
“What’s happening in Verona?”
“From what I’ve seen, all is as before. I left the others there.” Sideways gritted his A.I. teeth. “Now changes will happen fast and furious.”
“I tried touching the Lincoln and other me, but couldn’t put them out of phase. So I guess the nexus point isn’t here, at least now. Should we get back to Verona and keep searching there? The changes here are bound to multiply by the time the people here get back to the city.”
“I don’t disagree, Master, but shouldn’t we check on the most likely variables that could screw things up?”
“Like what?”
“You said Feltrino didn’t attack.”
Hansum felt a rush of panic. “You’re right! We’ve got to find out what he’s up to. We’ve got to hurry!” Hansum grabbed Sideways and quickly put him on. “Let’s fly over all the roads and fields within a radius of where Feltrino could have gotten to in this time. Then we’ll go to Verona.”
Chapter 9
Feltrino Gonzaga sat on his horse in a thickly wooded area by a road, an hour away from Bella Flora. Night was falling. He and his men had stayed in the area hoping the cannon would remain in the valley and be lightly protected, but his stealthy spy had just returned and said it was taken back to the estate and now was under heavy guard.
‘Porka vacca!’ Feltrino swore to himself. His men had been primed and ready for battle. Who had della Scalla’s men seen and chased? A spy from another rival family?
“What do you want to do, Excellency?” his captain asked. “We can’t stay too long on della Scalla’s land with such a host of men as this.”
“If we don’t do something about that cannon or savant now, the next time we fight this family, we’ll be up against their new weapon.”
“True enough,” the captain answered, “but we’ve lost the advantage.”
Feltrino scowled, the foul taste of bile building in his mouth. He spat it out. “Send the men home with the lieutenant,” Feltrino ordered. “You and Testa stay here with me. We’ll poke about and make a new plan.”
As the captain gave the orders for his men to return to Mantua, Feltrino got off his horse, tied it to a tree and stretched. He had hardly slept in three days and his phantom thumb was throbbing. It always did when he thought about the lowly apprentice who had inexplicably bested him in a sword fight.
‘Why didn’t I just kill him quickly? That weapon could smash my family’s hold on Mantua. Why is God thwarting me so?’ As he thought all this, his missing thumb ached even more. ‘And how can something that doesn’t exist hurt?’
“Keep to the woods till you reach the River Po,” the captain called as his twenty knights thundered off. He and the spy, Testa, returned to Feltrino and got off their horses, waiting for the Gonzaga prince to speak.
The captain was in full armor. Testa wore the plain-spun clothes of a commoner, and a buckskin jacket. He was a local known as a woods-man, but actually worked as a Gonzaga spy, roaming the area and gathering any information he could. He was the one who had picked up on the fact that something special was happening at Bella Flora, when all the wagons of rot and waste were transported there. Then, hanging around the local church and tavern, he heard the peasants talking about how they were making something called saltpeter beds, about a young savant who wore a brown cap and then about grinding great quantities of black powder. Testa had slipped onto the property only two days ago and had seen the first enormous test explosion blowing up a donkey. He rushed to Mantua to warn his masters.
“It was ill luck that another’s poorly trained spy was seen, Excellency,” the captain said.
Feltrino spit again, looking at the two as if they were imbeciles. “We don’t have time to wait!” he shouted. “There won’t be another chance. They’re on their guard now.”
“What would you have us do then?” the captain asked.
“My father says that I must not be distracted by revenge, even though I have a rightful claim to it,” he said, holding up his thumbless hand, “and I shall honor this wisdom. But both the weapon and the savant are now well-protected. We cannot do much about the weapon, but the man, he can be . . .”
There was the rumbling of many heavy hooves on the road, coming from the direction of Bella Flora. The Gonzagas took cover, but could see who was passing. To Feltrino’s amazement he saw six della Scalla knights and soldiers riding before and after a seventh animal carrying . . . the savant and his small friend on the same horse. After they passed, Feltrino became livid.
“Curse my fortune!” he screamed to the heavens. “If I still had my twenty men we could overtake them and have the savant! Why is God being so cruel to me?” Feltrino looked hard at the captain. “Verona,” he said firmly. “He’ll be in Verona and most likely at the lens maker’s.”
“He could be going to della Scalla’s palace,” the spy suggested.
“Sooner or later he’ll be at the lens maker’s,” Feltrino retorted angrily. “And when he is, we’ll be there.”
“After last time, it will be hard enough to get you two into Verona, let alone getting you out with an unwilling prisoner,” Testa warned.
“We won’t have a prisoner,” Feltrino said, and he drove the point of his sword deep into the bark.
“But your father said it’s a sin to kill a savant,” the captain reminded him.
“Mastino cannot be allowed to have this advantage!” Feltrino yelled. “Do we still have men on their wall?” he asked Testa.
“Si, Feltrino.”
“Good. We will approach Verona and, while the captain and I hide our armor in the woods, you will go and make arrangements to get us and our swords in. We will strike and be gone before Mastino knows what has become of his prized pet.”