Thirty-three
Peter saw the shadow cross his table and looked up.
“‘Rage Against the Machine’? A bold sentiment, Mertons, for a man clawing his way to the top of the Time-jump Accountants’ Guild.
” He shoved a chair open with his foot and gestured toward it, then, turning to the coffeehouse’s publican, called, “Barkeep, one of these marvelous coffees for my friend.”
“Dammit, Peter, the Guild is going to be furious,” Mertons said, wiping his glasses on his shirt. “You’ve gone too far.”
Peter looked at the sticklike legs extending from the shiny blue drawers his friend was wearing.
“Your calves are admirable, to be sure, but next time might I suggest slightly longer hose? Either that or a considerably warmer cloak—especially in this weather.” He nodded toward the rain sheeting down beyond the shop window that framed the dark street.
“This is no time for a joke. They’ve already issued a condemnation.”
“I reel from the blow. Speaking of blows, I hope mine did not importune you too much. It seemed the most expedient path at the time.”
Mertons grunted and brushed several drops of water from his brow. Peter hadn’t expected to see him quite so soon, though he’d already decided Mertons’s arrival would not change his plan.
“You have no idea the power they wield,” Mertons continued.
“Would you care to be reborn as an Assyrian slave? Or perhaps one of the soldiers in the Second Punic War? Or here?” Mertons gave his outfit a look of mild disgust, and when Peter didn’t respond, he added, “You’ll never paint again.
And they can ensure you remember that you did.
Peter, they can ensure you remember everything… forever.”
Peter felt the budding of a small fear. He didn’t know the full extent of the Guild’s power, though he had heard they had a tendency toward vindictiveness when crossed.
While he would sacrifice any happiness his own future might hold, there was one thing he would not risk.
“Can they touch Ursula?” he asked hesitantly.
The accountant collapsed into the chair beside him and sighed. For a long moment he said nothing.
“Mertons?”
“I don’t know, Peter. I…I am not aware of it happening before. Such an act would be quite complicated and is technically beyond the purview of the Guild.”
“But?”
“But I did hear a rumor that one of the Guild members suggested it.”
“Bloody bastards.” A cool, focused anger formed in Peter’s gut.
“Peter, you have no idea what you’ve done.
Travel to the future is not like travel to the past. The past is set.
It’s known. Changing it takes enormous effort.
Travel to the future is different. The factors are far more fluid, more susceptible to change, and a very little push can have a very large effect. ”
“Then it looks as if I’ll have to do my pushing with care.”
“Dammit, this isn’t some prank. You’re not a time-jump accountant. You have no training. You haven’t run a single simulation for this era. You haven’t the faintest idea what the parameters are to which you must adhere.”
“What impact is her book going to have? Is the Guild not concerned about that?”
“The new vector she’s started down was formed in the past, a place over which we have a modicum of control. I told you, we don’t roll dice with the future. The parameters specifically forbid—”
“Stuff the parameters. She’s writing about Ursula. I’m going to stop her.”
Mertons heaved his chest. “I’m afraid we can’t allow it.
And as far as going from here to 1673—and don’t look at me like that.
I am certainly smart enough to see you are planning to go back to Charles—you may forget it.
The Guild has shut down all time tubes indefinitely, except for one, and that one they are monitoring closely. ”
If Mertons had wanted to return Peter’s punch, he couldn’t have done better than this. How many times could Peter fail her?
“Furthermore,” Mertons said, “they will bring you back, forcibly if necessary.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, if the Guild had the power to force me to return, you’d be frog-marching me into their council room as we speak.”
Silence. Mertons looked at his feet.
Peter lifted his mug. “As I thought.”
Mertons dropped his head into his hands, and Peter considered what he could salvage from this adventure.
He sensed the small sketchbook in his pocket and thought of the letter it held, the letter he would use if all else failed.
It shamed him even to consider such an unscrupulous act—a letter that would destroy Cam’s career—but he consoled himself with the fact that an alternate plan, a plan with which Mertons might help him, should be enough to render the plan involving the letter unnecessary.
“Don’t despair, my friend,” Peter said after a moment. “I have a deal for you.”
“A deal?” Mertons looked up.
“Aye. You help me. I help you.”
Mertons covered his nose reflexively. “You’re not going to hit me again, are you?”
“No, no. Nothing like it. How would you like to be credited with negotiating my return?”
“Since I’ll lose my job if I don’t, I can honestly say I would.”
“Well, we can’t have you losing your job, now can we? ’Twill require only a few essentials. Nothing the Guild can’t afford.” Peter smiled.
Mertons looked slightly dizzy. “You’re going to blackmail the Guild?”
“Blackmail’s an ugly word. Think of it as facilitating the most efficient return possible.”
“What, pray tell, do you require?”
“You will want to make a list.”
As the publican placed a steaming mug on the table, Mertons took the pencil and piece of paper Peter offered him, all the while moving his lips silently, as if in prayer, though his expression was far from ecclesiastical.
“I’m ready.”
“Very well,” said Peter. “’Tis simple. I want a studio, a dozen bolts of canvas, and enough lead white paint to fill the Thames.”