by Adrian Speed
“The same,” he nodded. “Genesis should not have been able to lie to us like that.”
“You said it was possible it was mistaken.”
“Possible, but unlikely.” Sir Reginald took out his pocket-watch and watched the second hand tick. “I have a theory of how to test whether it was lying. It involves creating a paradox, to my eternal ire, but this mystery has created so many paradoxes I think the space–time continuum can take one more for the team.”
“One thing Actis mentioned,” I paused as I drove the shovel into the coal. “Is that he said the pearl was sold. Genesis said Julius Caesar acquired it on campaign.”
“That may not be Genesis lying.” Sir Reginald waved a hand to dispel my doubts. “The Persians may have lost the pearl in war and pretended it was sold to preserve national pride, or the records Genesis read might have been inaccurate in the first case. Genesis may appear omnipotent my dear, but it is only a construction of humankind. It has no better knowledge of history than any other historian, save for access to the totality of the archaeological record.” He licked his teeth. “Genesis sending us to 150 Spring Gardens was definitely a lie. Innumerable records of the twenty-first century survive to the ninety-ninth. I know that for certain.” He stood up. “But we can put it to the test nonetheless.”
A tiny bell rang to tell us the boiler was up to pressure. His hands moved over the controls, laying in a new destination. I followed it carefully, noting the space–time coordinates looked quite similar to those for the ninety-ninth century.
“Whoever took the pearl from Albert on the Livingstone has to be part of the Order of the Pearl.” Sir Reginald paused after he locked the course into place. He turned to me. “Don't you think?”
“Yes."
“Then I propose after we have conducted my test we head to 1335 again where we know for certain the Order of the Pearl resides.” I felt a twinge in my chest, as if my body was only aware of my scars when they were mentioned.
“Sounds sensible.”
“Capital.” Sir Reginald hauled on the time-travel lever. I braced myself against the tinder-box. If we were heading close to the ninety-ninth century this could be a painful jump in time.
Around them sparks burst into lightning, a maelstrom in a single ball of light, and with a puff of smoke the time-machine disappeared.
x1π17 stood at the entrance of Chuluurkhag Mountain Depository 122. Better known as the Rocky Mountains, those words hadn't been heard in four thousand years. x1π17 twitched in irritation. She was aware of the contents of twenty-two million, seven hundred thousand books; one hundred and eighteen thousand eight hundred films and thirteen thousand video games but she could still not prevent her meat body from getting bored. Her mind linked with the entire depository, keeping it running, keeping it pristine, making sure the catalogue was secure, accurate and undisturbed, but the meat body, the human body, sat on a chair and drummed its fingers out of boredom.
It did this every day. The meat didn't understand the beauty, the perfection of the machine. Shrinking her mind back into the meat at the end of a shift was always the worst part of x1π17's job. To go from near infinite awareness to a mere two eyes, two ears, a nose and a mouth…The worst part of it was the meat body didn't even like being the depository. It was depressed by it. It wanted to do more with itself; it was tired of being an anchor for the machine. It wanted to paint. Stupid meat.
“Good evening, I require the services of the archive,” Sir Reginald greeted the librarian with a smile. He spoke Neo-Modern-Amero-Fusion, the language of the ninety-third century. x1π17 saw him enter through eighteen cameras, in every radiographic spectrum. This was a job for the meat.
“Hello sir, before you can access the depository I need your brain's exterior storage access codes,” x1π17's meat body spoke in the same language. It was attractive, young, not long out of university, with pink and purple hair grown with genetic engineering. Her eyes were Asian in appearance but no other features could be placed to a particular racial heritage. A slim metal antenna emerged from her neck that formed a connection to the archive.
“Sorry, I don't have an access port to my brain,” Sir Reginald shook his head. “But I do have a deposit to make. I am something of a scholar and I recently discovered this lost book.” Sir Reginald held up the AtoZ Guide to London. The year 2007 was clearly emblazoned on it. x1π17's meat eyes looked at it without being able to read it; they were symbols that hadn't been used for four thousand years. The machine told her what it was.
Carefully x1π17 lowered a metal arm to take the book from Sir Reginald. She looked it over with the electroscope. Every single word pressed into her memory in an instant.
“The Chuluurkhag Mountain Depository does not have a copy of this edition,” x1π17's meat body said. “Do you wish to donate it to the archive?”
“Indeed, most astute,” Sir Reginald nodded. “This is the correct building, isn't it? This has the cartography section.”
“This is the correct building,” x1π17 replied. The meat body had a desire to hold the book, she indulged it. The meat picked it out of the depository's robotic arms and ran its fingers across it. The feeling of paper on the skin was pleasing to the touch. “Where was it found?”
“Old London town,” Sir Reginald said, in a white lie. Technically it was old Westminster.
“Why did you bring us the physical book?” x1π17's meat body had been behind that question. “You could have digitised it and sent us the file.”
“Because if something is worth doing it is worth doing correctly,” Sir Reginald said. “I want that book to last for the posterity of mankind. The best chance is as a physical copy in the mountain archive. So, if you would.”
At his insistence x1π17 passed the book from her meat hands to the metal arms of her depository. x1π17 transported the book down into the depths of the archive, miles below the surface of the earth.
Rather than teleporting away the moment his business was concluded as x1π17 expected, Sir Reginald tipped his hat to the meat body and walked out of the depository. Huge steel doors parted to let him through. Now x1π17 thought about it, she had never seen anyone use the doors since she had started working in the depository. The meat body had something stuck in its head, the same words echoing around its skull, clogging up the neurons with a repeated phrase. “If something is worth doing, it's worth doing correctly.”
Sir Reginald stepped out of the depository into the mountain air. The time-machine and I stood on an old road, cracked and warped like an ancient leather belt. Trees were growing in it. No-one had bothered driving anywhere in a thousand years.
“Any luck?” I asked as Sir Reginald arrived.
“I am irritatingly headache free,” he announced. “And I know for a fact that the Chuluurkhag Mountain Depository forms the core of Genesis's database.” Sir Reginald frowned at the distance. Chickadees were flitting between the trees and chattering to each other. Beyond them, crystal glass buildings sat between the plain and the sky, almost as though they dangled from the clouds themselves. “No paradox. Genesis lied to us.”
He flicked the time coordinates for Bar-le-Duc, 1335, into the machine and locked them in place. He looked weary to me and, as his hand rested on the time-travel lever, filled with trepidation.
“Genesis should not be capable of lying,” he said after a few moments pause. “That is not how it was built. It gives you everything you desire and it knows I desired the truth.”
“Maybe the Order of the Pearl will be able to shed some light,” I suggested.
“Maybe,” he sighed and hauled on the time-travel lever.
*****
Bar-Le-Duc's castle courtyard bustled with activity. Grooms brushed down horses, their coats flecked with mud and blood. Knights celebrated their victory, or oversaw the care of their armour by squires. It had been an easy fight that morning but it was still worth talking about. Afternoon was shading to evening and the air was chill, as was its wont in May.
&nbs
p; Then, amid the jubilations, sparks began to appear in one corner of the courtyard. A ball of lightning forks burst into life, sending servants scattering, until with a faint poof the time-machine appeared and dominated the courtyard. Smoke poured out of the chimney and steam whistled in pistons.
“Henri!” Sir Reginald called out, stepping off the time-machine. “Hello gentlemen.” He tipped his hat to the men-at-arms gawping at him.
“In the name of God,” one of the knights murmured.
“Sorry, only me. Where is Henri?”
“Reginald!” Henri's head appeared out of a window. “And Hannah! So good to see you are safe!”
“And you Henri!” Sir Reginald called back.
“Don't tarry down there; come up to the Great Hall! We're having a feast this evening!”
We swept through the corridors of the castle. The men-at-arms watched us go.
Sir Reginald took his hat off to save it scraping the top of the low corridors, but Henri took it as a gesture of respect. He sat with his wife Yolanda and his most respected knights. He immediately leapt to his feet and drew Sir Reginald into a great bear hug as if to prove that Sir Reginald was really alive.
“You are well, my lady?” Henri turned to me and took my hand.
“Fit as a f– er – ever,” I said. I would have said fiddle if the idiom had translated into Middle French.
“Thank the saints! I saw you cut clean through.” Henri's eyes danced as he looked me up and down, as if trying to find some flaw in my claim. “Come. Sit and take your ease. I shall have brandied cherries brought up before the feast. It was a small victory but victory nonetheless!”
“I am afraid Hannah and I cannot feast yet, Henri,” Sir Reginald replaced his hat. “We need to talk to the Order of the Pearl. Did you take prisoners?”
“Of course, I cannot kill the priests. I'll turn them over to the cathedral after a night in my cells has reminded them not to consort with such men,” Henri said. “You can spare no time?”
“I have a great and terrible crime to solve, Henri,” Sir Reginald smiled by way of apology. “But do remember, I have a time-machine. I will return in time to feast with you, but now I must talk with your prisoners.”
“Well, if you insist.” Henri jerked his head at a servant who brought forth a lantern and opened a door. “They're in the north tower, I'll take you there.”
The north tower vault was dank and dark. Pale afternoon light fell through a shaft fifteen feet up in the ceiling. Even if you could climb up to it you'd have to crush yourself thinner than a pizza to fit through it. The smell of mouldering stone mixed with the sickly sweet stench of rats.
The priests of the Order of the Pearl sat in the dark, their vestments coated in mud and some with blood. They had no blankets and many were shivering. A hushed voice recited the Lord's Prayer in Latin. Only Bishop Franz seemed unconcerned by his predicament. He sat perfectly still, crumpled mitre and all, staring into the middle distance.
Sir Reginald and I were led into the prison vault, the dim glow of the servant's lamp illuminating the darkness little better than a glow worm. Henri stayed by Sir Reginald, hand on sword hilt, but Sir Reginald walked in without fear. Then again, I thought, by holding his cane Sir Reginald was always holding the hilt of a sword.
“Come to gloat, have you, Dark One?” Bishop Franz didn't move, or even turn to look at them. “Once again you have foiled our quest.”
“I am not the Dark One,” Sir Reginald said, “and have never fought you before today.”
“You were there, Dark One, at the founding of our order,” Bishop Franz glowered.
“I have never visited the ninth century,” Sir Reginald said coolly. Then he inclined his head. “Well, Tang dynasty Peking in 842 is hardly close enough to be there at your order's founding.”
“You were there right at the start,” Bishop Franz took a deep breath, “Regulus.”
I felt my blood run cold.
“Regulus, the prince. Such a vain affectation,” Bishop Franz continued. “And now you take the name Reginald, the wise ruler. Is that how you view yourself? Are we all nothing but play pieces in your terrible game?”
Sir Reginald ignored the bishop. “Your order was founded in the ninth century. That is the earliest known record of the Order of the Pearl.”
“As a knighthood, perhaps,” Bishop Franz tapped the side of his head. “The secret knowledge is all locked away in here, Dark One, and you will never get it out.”
“You're an organisation founded by Vologases IV of Parthia to return the Purple Pearl to him, as the pearl's 'rightful' owner, in his eyes,” I said. “As Vologases is dead, I imagine you have to return it to his direct heir, which would currently be the Shah of Persia,” I pulled out my phone as I said this, I'd made a note of it... “Mubariz al-Din Muhammad. Right?”
“A Christian bishop working for the Saracens?” Henri covered his mouth in horror.
“The Purple Pearl is a crown jewel of the Persian emperor. It is his property by right!” Bishop Franz leapt to his feet, frothing at the mouth. “Marcus Aurelius the pagan refused to give it back! Marcus Aurelius the torturer of Christians refused to sell it back! The Muslims might reject Christ but at least they worship God! The Purple Pearl was within our grasp! We could have returned it to be rewarded with an alliance between Persia and Christendom! The Holy Land could have been ours again!”
“You had the Purple Pearl with you?” Sir Reginald said. I thought back to the reliquary box the procession had carried with them. The last time I'd seen it, it had been smashed open on the roadside.
“Had,” Bishop Franz shouted. “And now thanks to you, Dark One, the Holy Land is lost to our grasp. The pearl is lost to who knows where and half the order is dead. It's all your fault Dark One!"
“I think I've heard enough,” Sir Reginald shook his head in despair and turned away from the prisoners.
“The Purple Pearl will be returned to the rightful heir of Vologases!” Bishop Franz called after them. “The Order of the Pearl will never die!”
He kept shouting, getting more and more incoherent, slipping from French into German and Latin. It only stopped when the heavy oak door of the vaults closed tight, the horsehair seal shutting out the noise.
“A strong hypothesis, Hannah,” Sir Reginald nodded to me. “Well done.”
“I should have those men executed,” Henri paced in anger, his hands open and closing into fists. “Consorting with Saracens...they should...I should, argh. The church would have my head if I hang them, but I…argh.”
“I knew Actis would have to have had an accomplice to squirrel the pearl away,” Sir Reginald ignored Henri's angry mutterings. “But I did not consider it would be as organised as this.”
“But if Actis gave the pearl to another member of the Order of the Pearl, why didn't it go back to Vologases immediately?” I rested my head in my hand.
“The Purple Pearl is a near priceless artefact, my dear. Greed, I think, prevented it reaching its destination. Either a thief found the pearl and took it for himself, or greed overcame duty. A pearl like the Purple Pearl could buy a man a villa, a hundred acres and a hundred slaves to work it and still have money in the vaults. I think as I was known to investigate the situation, the Order blamed me.”
“But the order kept searching,” I nodded. “Until eventually, over a thousand years later, they found it again, only to have you return and ruin it for them a second time.”
“Henri,” Sir Reginald put a hand on his friend's shoulder, putting an end to his pacing. “Did you find a pearl on the battlefield?”
“A pearl?” Henri's eyebrows knotted together. “No. Why is everyone suddenly so concerned about a damn oyster's stone excrement?”
“Would any of your men have picked it up?”
“If they did they'd have told me, they're trustworthy men,” Henri said, looking a little hurt.
“Then we must assume that it is either still on the battlefield,” Sir Reginald mused. “Or by
now some scavenger has plucked it from its resting place.”
“The pearl did become part of the French Crown jewels,” I suggested.
“My dear, there is only one place we're going to find any answers,” Sir Reginald said with a heavy heart. “Much as it pains me.” He tapped the end of his shoe with his cane and resigned himself to it. “We're going to have to go back to Genesis. It is the only one who knows why it lied.”
“Genesis?” Henri's eyes goggled. “You're going back to creation?”
“No, my dear Henri. We're going forward.”
Chapter XXXI
The time-machine arrived in the ninety-ninth century and I braced for the nausea. There was no way of telling the passage of time in the mists that shrouded the sky and the earth alike but Sir Reginald assured me we had been gone only an hour.
Sir Reginald charged out into the mists, uncaring about getting lost, too angry to head for the access centre.
“Genesis!” Sir Reginald yelled. “Tell me why you lied! Tell me why there was no 150 Spring Gardens!” I felt a shiver run down my spine and I subconsciously backed away. I hadn't realised how much anger was building up inside him, and now it erupted like Vesuvius.
“Why did you lie?” Sir Reginald screamed.
“Because I didn't want to have to kill you,” a hologram emerged from the mists – Sir Steven, the knight of the Order we'd first met. “I wanted you to go back to the twenty-first century you are so fond of. I couldn't trust myself. If you stayed, if you came back, I would have to kill you.”
“Why would you have to kill me?” Sir Reginald span wildly to face down the hologram. “I've been here a dozen times over!”
“Until you asked about the pearl I could not be certain you were he.” Actis, the Parthian scribe said this. “But it is you, isn't it Sir Reginald? The Dark One.”
“Why would you have to kill me?” Sir Reginald repeated. His anger grew stronger.
“My architect.” A callow youth in a school uniform sat on the ground next to Sir Reginald playing with grass cuttings as so many schoolboys did. But it was just the image of grass, not the substance or the smell. “My architect was a member of the Order of the Pearl; the last human member of the Order. For nine thousand years they had searched for the pearl.”