One #2
“No, there are a number of intersections in Van Dyck’s life as well, but the Guild is just about to place him in his new life, and, as you know, we cannot retrieve him once that has been done.
You, being between lives, are available.
Though perhaps when you said ‘in this particular time’ you were referring to this time in your own life?
” Mertons unclipped the mass of paper in his hand and fanned it.
“In that case, the answer is no as well. There were two intersections in your own life, each approximately equal in likelihood, but the other, you may recall—”
Peter remembered and held up a hand to stop him. “I recall. Thank you.”
The other likely intersection point had been eight years earlier, when Peter and Ursula had been happy.
While Peter hadn’t told Mertons or the Guild his reasons, he had flatly refused even to consider returning to such a time.
To live through that again burdened with the knowledge of what was to come after would destroy him.
He’d rather feel the lash of guilt and sorrow in this, the aftermath of his vanity, than to see it coming at him like a runaway carriage, about to crush him.
He gazed at the emerald on his finger as one would a malignant tumor.
Mertons was observing him closely. “Peter, is there something I should know?”
But Peter hadn’t told anyone in the Afterlife about his despair, and he wasn’t about to start. “Only that it’s been a week, and I told you I would give you two, no more.”
Mertons sighed and examined another sheet of paper. “I’ve reconfirmed the coordinates. There may have been a little trouble with our original calculation, but I can assure you the writer is within striking distance.”
Peter had no interest in Mertons’s coordinates or any of the dozens of other numbers routinely spouting from the man’s mouth. “Well, it must end soon. I can’t even take a piss without your approval.”
“My dear Peter, it’s not that I wish to constrain your freedom.
As I’ve explained, it’s that the Guild has given us a range of deviation of only plus or minus three point oh six two four seven.
That is an average for the entire trip, which means the overages we anticipate with the writer’s arrival must be balanced with something approaching zero deviation as we wait now. ”
“Hang on. Did you say three point oh six two four seven?” Peter scratched at a loose sheet with his quill in a fair imitation of a time-jump accountant. “No wonder this isn’t working. You know I can’t work at less than three point oh six two four nine two two.”
“Jest if you will,” Mertons said icily, “but the limits exist for a reason. Jumps are a risk. We must strive to ensure your days are lived exactly as they were the first time through. Unscrupulous or unthinking trippers could reorder time. We’re lucky a novice like you was allowed to attempt it.”
“I count my blessings hourly.”
“Your intercourse with the rogue will cost us at least five points of deviation, and that’s right off the top. Which means the rest of our time here must be kept below two point six.” He scribbled on his paper. “Two point seven at the most. How revealing do you intend the intercourse to be?”
Peter considered both the question and Mertons’s susceptibility to a double entendre, but abandoned his ambitions and said only, “I shall endeavor to bring it in under five.”
“Excellent.”
Peter turned his attention to a stack of mezzotints and reached for the pot of ink and his chop.
Mertons caught his sleeve. “What are you doing?”
“Placing my chop—my mark—upon them,” Peter said. “They’re for the king. Gifts for the envoy from Sicily.”
Mertons held tight. “Were these done in your original life?”
“Aye,” Peter growled. “I haven’t forgotten the proscription against new marks.”
Mertons pulled a sheet of paper from his sheath and looked at it.
“‘Eleventh of November,’” he read. “‘Mezzotints of Charles II: Eight.’” He scanned the stack of mounted prints, counting, then relaxed.
“Leaving your mark in this place—a child, a bride, your name on a painting, anything that was not marked before—will bind you here forever.”
“Aye. I remember.” Peter shook his arm free. There was no place he’d less like to be bound.
“You must stay as close to me as possible. That’s why I’m here, Peter. To be your guide.”
“Like Virgil through the circles of hell.”
“And you’re certain you recall what you’re to do when you finally meet him? Shall I review that as well?”
“No,” Peter said with exquisite politeness, “thank you.” He stretched his long legs. Now was the time. “How is my patronage looking, Mertons?”
Peter hadn’t been exactly eager to deal with his customers since returning, and the surprise showed on Mertons’s face. With a tilt of his head, the thin man peered into the long hallway.
“You have a considerable line out there.”
“Excellent,” said Peter, who, in fact, couldn’t have cared less. “But…”
“But what?”
“I admit I am concerned, most concerned, about the appropriateness of each patron as far as our limits are concerned. Might you be willing to size them up, so to speak, from a jump risk point of view?”
Mertons’s forehead creased, and he shuffled through the papers before finding one in particular. “I assume they’re the same people you saw when you lived this day in your life before.”
“Quite likely, aye.” Peter carried the prints to the storage room. “But the point is one can’t be sure. We assume the writer will be disguised, but what if there is more than one man with access to the unsecured time tube? What if there is a conspiracy to unravel the time fabric?”
Mertons paled. “You’re right. There’s a Robert de Manville on this list here whose name is giving me pause.”
“Robert de Manville.” Peter frowned. “I don’t remember him. Seems a very likely candidate, Mertons.”
Mertons sighed. “I explained you wouldn’t remember everyone.
It is just as if you were seventy, and returned to the neighborhood in which you lived when you were a child.
Some faces you’ll remember. Some you won’t.
It is not a reliable means by which to judge.
You must exercise caution and foresight at all times—all times, Peter.
Give me a moment. I shall examine the group versus the appointments you had for the day from our records and offer you my thinking. ”
“Take all the time you need.”
* * *
And Mertons, feeling more than his usual sense of trepidation, did.
Though Robert de Manville, upon rigorous cross-examination, proved unremarkable and the woman with the crimson frock and pockmarks gave him no pause, the man with the hooded eyes beside her—her husband, or at least the man who purported to be—alarmed Mertons almost enough to announce Mr. Lely was accepting no more clients for the day.
But he took down a thorough description of the man, so thorough, in fact, the elaborate chime of Peter’s Ottoman clock entered his consciousness as only a distant, barely noticed melody.
When he felt he’d observed enough to make a judgment on the security of the mission, he stepped back into the office and said, “I would like to offer a caution on—Peter?”
The desk was empty, and the door to the storage room was ajar.
“Er, I say, Peter?” He raised his voice a degree. “I would like to offer a stiff note of caution on a man named John Howell and his wife. I’m not certain, of course, but you must not take risks.”
Peter did not reply. Mertons frowned and started toward the storage room.
“Remember, this writer has enough heartless calculation to fool his readers, destroy the reputation of a gifted man, and thus far elude the Guild. I would call that more than a temporary irritant, Peter. I would call that”—in the storage room Mertons found nothing but curtains fluttering at an open window, and his warning sputtered to a close—“a cold-blooded villain.”