Time Scout

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Kynan Rhys Gower was trapped in hell.

Everyone here who could actually talk to him said otherwise, of course, but Kynan knew it was hell nonetheless, even if it didn't resemble anything the priests had ever described. The closest thing to a priest here, a man called "Buddy," had told him he could never escape-not to his home or even back to the accursed battle against the witch woman fighting on the side of the upstart French.

It hurt him, gnawed at him, that he was cut off forever from everything and everyone he knew and loved. A king whose laws forbade it, Kynan might have understood. But he could not understand why, if this infernal land's diabolical passageways that opened out of thin air could be made to open with the regularity of the rising and setting sun, why could the wizard or demon or hell-spawned sprite who controlled them not reopen the one passageway that would lead him home? Yet Buddy had told Kynan he would never again see the dark hills of Wales or the laughter in his son's eyes ....

At least a hundred times every day, as he struggled to understand devilish things beyond his comprehension, Kynan was tempted to do violence to something. But they'd taken away his weapons. Without them, he was less than a man. Less, even, than the commonest Welsh farm girl, who at least carried a small knife for chores.

Kynan swallowed his pain, his confusion, swallowed the demeaning status in which he found himself-a virtual slave in Satan's dominions-and worked hard to earn the scant coins he needed to pay for his tiny sleeping room and the meals of rice and strange vegetables which kept him alive. He missed meat desperately but was unable to afford it on what he earned

Several times a day, his hatred of the strange, demon birds which lived here-birds with teeth in their bills -deepened as he watched them eat colorful fish he was forbidden to take for his own meals. If he hadn't been terrified of incurring the king's wrath for killing one of the protected birds, he'd have killed and eaten one of them.

So he carried baggage for rich people whose behavior he could scarcely comprehend and whose Language he could comprehend not at all, found a second job sweeping floors in the bewildering place in which he was trapped, and quietly hugged his misery and terror and bitterness to himself. Every time he saw the grinning jackanapes who'd first told him what had happened to him, who had laughed at him while four strong men held him down...

Every time he saw the man called Kit Carson, Kynan wished to do more than violence. He wished to do murder.

But he'd watched that man practice mock fighting in the huge, lighted hall called "gym." He was a cunning, strong warrior as well as a knave. If Kynan wished to purge the stain of disgrace from his honor, it would have to come through sudden, unexpected attack. Kynan once would have sneered at any man who planned such a treacherous approach to an affair of honor, would have rightly called him blackguard. But Kynan was no longer in a land which made sense. He was in hell.

In hell, a man could be forgiven much.

So he pushed his hated broom down the hated floor, sweeping up the hated trash while trying to avoid running into hated, arrogant "tourists" and gradually filled his wheeled trash bin with little bits of refuse. Later he would have to open station trash bins along the "Commons" and empty them as we carrying the "plastic" sacks inside down to the "incinerator" and "recycling center." Even the alien, English words that somehow weren't really English made his head ache. Kynan had never spoken much English commander had translated battlefield commands -- but the so-called English spoken here ...

Even words he thought he knew made little or no sense.

He pushed his broom and wheeled cart into the area of "Commons" called "Victoria Station"-named, someone said, for a Queen of England, who had brazenly ruled in her own name despite a perfectly eligible husband who could have sat the throne in her stead, and filled another tray with dust and trash, emptying it into his bin. A spate of laughter made him grit his teeth. They weren't laughing at him, but Kynan was so lost in despair, he could scarcely endure the sound of another person's joy. It only reminded him how cruelly alone he was.

He glanced up, drawn against his will to look. A group of men in strange, long-coated suits and pretty, sweet-faced women in even stranger dresses were playing an odd game, setting out little wire hoops with weighted feet, standing up two wooden sticks painted with bright bands of color, arguing which of them would claim wooden balls banded with a matching stripe of color.

A pang ran through, him. He wondered what his wife and son might be doing now. Wondered if the village men would teach the boy to use longbow and maul-or if the French would even leave enough men alive to return to the village. What would become of his family? A sickness wrought of empty, helpless longing threatened him again, as it did many, many times each day.

Kynan straightened his back against it. He was a Welshman, a veteran soldier. He might be lost, abandoned by God and saints alike, but he would not give Satan the satisfaction of watching him buckle under the weight of fear and loss which hourly were heaped on him. Kynan watched the game players dully, wondering what these particular demons were doing.

Then he noticed the mallets.

Made of wood and banded like the balls, they were smaller than the battle mauls he was accustomed to carrying, but they were hefty wooden mallets, nonetheless. Kynan watched with mounting interest as the players began a baffling game which involved hitting the wooden balls through the wire hoops. None of them knew the first thing about using a mallet, but clearly, despite a smallish size, they would prove formidable weapons in the hands of a trained soldier. Now if he only had a proper mallet like that ...

He counted the number of players: five. Then he spotted a wooden cart on which a sixth ball and mallet rested, forgotten. None of the players paid it the slightest attention. Perhaps God had not entirely abandoned him after all? If I cannot escape hell, he thought, staring intently at that mallet, perhaps I will at least be permitted a way to restore my honor. He maneuvered his trash cart around the players, sweeping up dust and bits of paper as he went, pausing to clean up the occasional splatter of bird shit, and worked his way around to the abandoned mallet. None of the players or spectators-many of whom carried odd sticks with tautly stretched shades to protect their heads from non-existent sunshine-paid him the slightest attention.

Good.

It took half a heartbeat to lift the mallet from its resting place and slip it into his wheeled bin. Only after he had made good his escape did Kynan allow himself a long, shuddering breath. Satan's minions had not noticed the theft. If the Evil One had noticed, either he didn't care or thought it amusing to allow his latest victim a chance at vengeance. Kynan touched the hidden mallet handle with trembling fingertips. At last, he breathed silently, eyes closed, l am a man again. Soon, the knave who had laughed at him would rue the day his betters had failed to teach him manners.

If a man must die in hell, it were best to die with a weapon in hand, striking down an enemy.

Fortunately for Kit's peace of mind, Margo's injuries healed quickly and cleanly. He made certain the leg would hold the strain of a lethal encounter by sparring with her in the gym while Sven evaluated `her performance.

"You're favoring it," Sven pointed out. "Does it hurt?"

"No," she admitted. "Not really. I've just grown used to babying it."

The admission brought a scowl to Sven's lips. Kit wisely stepped aside while Sven Bailey really put her through her paces. By the time he'd finished with her, she was a limp mass of sweat and aching muscles.

"You're out of shape," Sven told her brusquely. "More practice."

Margo just nodded, too tired to protest.

"How about that dinner at the Delight?" Kit asked. "We, uh, were interrupted last time we tried."

A wan smile came and went. "Sure. No disgruntled soldiers this time?"

"We'll do our best to avoid them," Kit smiled.

The Welsh bowman had certainly avoided Kit. From what he'd heard, Kynan was busy trying to master the modern technology involved in living on a time terminal while taking on odd jobs to keep body and soul together.

"Just let me shower first," Margo said with a grimace. "I stink."

Kit laughed and headed for the showers himself.

Shortly they were back on the Commons, heading for the Delight. Urbs Romae was nearly deserted, as the major gates opening this week were in other parts of the station. A line had formed, of course, in front of the Epicurean Delight, but when Arley saw Kit and Margo standing outside, he waved them in.

"Hello, don't stand out there, your table's ready. Rachel tells me you're healing well, young lady."

Margo smiled ruefully. "Sven Bailey just proved that."

Arley laughed. "You look tired and hungry. Would you like a menu or the House Specialty?"

"A menu!" Margo said hastily.

Kit grinned "Still upset about those eels?"

Margo managed to affect a wounded dignity despite her youth and state of fatigue.

Arley winked. "I think you'll enjoy the Specialty tonight. Trust me."

"Why do I have a bad feeling about this?" Margo asked as she settled into the chair Arley held for her. "All right, l'll try it, whatever it is."

"Kit?"

"Same for me."

The Delight's owner rubbed his hands. "Good. I'll send out a bottle of something appropriate."

The wine, when it arrived, was a clear red. "Well, at least it won't be eels," Kit remarked as the waiter poured

"Thank God."

"I thought you liked that dinner." He put on his best lecture expression and said, "Ab uno disce omnes, Margo..

Margo just looked at him.

Kit frowned. "Margo, didn't you understand that?"

"uh, no?"

His frown deepened. "Just how well are you doing with your Latin?"

Her face took on a familiar, panic-stricken look.

Oh-oh.

"I am studying!" she said desperately. As though to prove it, she rattled off, "Abeunt studia in mores!"

"Quoting Ovid now, eh?" Kit said sourly. "Take that advice to heart. Study harder. Studies do turn into habits, but only if you keep up with them."

He made a mental note to check how often she'd actually been to the language lab. She should've been able to translate something as simple as "From one, learn to judge all" by now.

She tightened her lips. "I will. I am. I'm trying. Isn't there any easier way to learn all those words and those awful endings that keep changing?"

"Unfortunately, no. Brian's already installed the best language-learning programs available. But learning languages takes work. Constant, hard work."

She sighed, then tried a winning smile that didn't fool him in the slightest. "I learned an interesting thing from Sven today. There was this guy named Musashi,

a Japanese guy from the same time period as the Edo gate. He was so good at dueling, he stopped fighting with real knives. Just used a wooden practice sword whenever he was challenged. Isn't that amazing? I wonder if Sven's good enough to do that?"

"Probably," Kit said dryly. "I thought you were studying American history, not Japanese?"

"I am," she said hastily, "but Sven was telling me, you know, during our lesson today. I used to be scared of him, but he's really interesting if you can get him to. talk."

Clever little minx. Why does she keep changing the subject?

"Hmm, yes, I rather imagine Francis Marion was much the same."

Again, Margo drew an utter blank.

Kit unfolded his napkin with a little snap- "Just what period of American history did you say you were reading? It was the Revolution, wasn't it?'

Margo's whole face colored. "Well, yes, I did. I was. I am. I mean-"

"Spill it, Margo. You're not studying. Are you?"

"I study until I'm sick of studying! I learned more in one week in London than I've learned the whole time I've been stuck in that library!"

"Margo-".

"No! Don't say it! All I hear from you is 'Margo, study this, Margo, do that, Margo, pay attention, Margo, that was barely adequate'!"

He thought she might well burst into tears. "I'm only worried about you, Margo," he said quietly. "You have years of studying ahead of you before you can hope to-"

"Years?" Her lips quivered. "But I don't have--" She halted. Her chin came up defiantly. "I don't need years. I'm learning a lot and what I don't know, I can fake."

Kit rocked back. Fake it? "You can't be serious.

Her eyes flashed. "Why not? I got along just fine in London, except for not knowing that pistol, and I've fixed that problem. Just ask Ann if I haven't. I can shoot anything she hands me. Even that laser-guided blowgun she made me learn to use! Sven said my job is to avoid being seen, anyway, and I'm good at sneaking around in the dark!"

Kit held onto his temper. "Margo, you can't fake languages.

"No ... but I can fake being a deaf mute, which is just as good! I've worked so hard, dammit! I deserve a chance to prove myself."

Kit didn't know whether to be angry or scared out of his mind. "You'll get that chance. When I think you're ready."

For a moment she just sat there, breathing hard. Tears welled up and spilled down her cheeks. Then, in a low, hurt voice, she said, "I'm not hungry any more. I'll think I'll go study!"

She fled past a whole line of waiting tourists who gaped after her. Kit cursed under his breath and shoved back his chair. Arley met him halfway to the door.

"Trouble?"

Kit nodded tightly. "Cancel our orders, would you? Put it on my bill."

"She's young, Kit."

"That's no excuse. The universe doesn't give a damn when it squashes you."

Arley let him go without further attempts at sympathy. Kit headed for the library. He had to make her understand. After London-and St. Giles-he'd hoped... But all she saw was the need to study fighting techniques, not the history and languages to help avoid the fight in the first place. She clearly understood the tactical advantage of invisibility but wasn't thinking of knowledge as one way to achieve it.

Scouting was a career men spent years--sometimes decades -- preparing for, only to run into trouble anyway because they slipped up on some tiny, seemingly insignificant detail. He had to make her understand that, make her understand she simply must take the necessary time to prepare for it.

Otherwise, he'd lose her just as surely as he'd lost Sarah.

Kit was barreling around the corner past LI's Antiquities when a sixth sense lifted the hairs on the back of his neck. He jerked his gaze up -- and tracked the lethal swing of a heavy wooden croquet mallet straight toward his skull.

Kit swept his right arm upward by instinct, deflecting the blow at the expense of pain like an electric shock straight to the bone. He leaned away even as he swept the mallet aside. The thick wooden head narrowly missed his temple, lifting hair with the wind of its passage. Kit stepped forward with his left foot, turning with the sweep. He shoved the croquet mallet down and shoved his attacker's face straight into the wall. Both the mallet and someone's skull went CRACK against concrete.

A howl of pain reached him. Kit jumped clear. His arm ached, the ache becoming a relentless throb within seconds. He cradled it to his chest and felt for fractures he hoped he wouldn't find. Then his attacker staggered back from the wall.

Aw, nuts....

The Welshman.

"Coward!" Kynan Rhys Gower spat at him. "Filthy dog!"

The Welshman came at him again, mallet raised over his head in a classic attack position. Kit, one arm all but useless, saw no other choice. He threw a sidekick straight into the onrushing Welshman's hips. The blow caught him just above the pubic bone. Kynan Rhys Gower folded up with an ugly sound The mallet whistled just above Kit's back.

Kit recovered his balance while the Welshman struggled to regain his feet.

"Can't we talk about this?" Kit gasped, using Kynan's native language. Where in hell did he get a croquet mallet?

For answer, Kynan swept that damned mallet up and sideways. Kit couldn't get out of the way in time, although he twisted into a pretzel trying. He felt ribs crunch. The whole Commons greyed out for a moment while his voice did some creative sound effects.

Fortunately, Kynan Rhys Gower was still off balance and staggering from that blow to the hips. That allowed Kit to recover while the Welshman was still drawing the mallet back for the next try.

Okay, that's it ....

Time for a quick coup de grace to end this nonsense.

Kit attacked first. In one swift motion, he swept the mallet back with one arm then threw a shoulder blow into the Welshman's ribcage. His whole weight hit just below Kynan's raised arm. He felt ribs crack again, but this time they weren't his. A shock of pain jolted through his own broken ribs anyway. Kynan howled and tried to fend him off with the mallet.

Kit grabbed the heavy wooden head and pulled sharply, then slammed Kynan's straightened elbow and shoved back on the mallet. Kynan gasped in pain. Then, with a circular sweep, push, and snatch, Kit simply jerked the makeshift weapon away.

Kynan was left blinking in pain and surprise, disarmed before he quite knew what had happened.

"Now look," Kit wheezed, "I don't know what your problem is ... and I'm not a vindictive guy..."

Kynan started to spring at him, fingers curved into claws ready to gouge whatever they found.

"...ut this has got to stop...

Kit swept the croquet mallet around and hit Kynan's ankle on the "funny spot" just hard enough for the desired effect, but without the force to break it. Kynan gave out a strangled gasp and grabbed for his ankle. Kit shoved gently on his chest. He went down with a sound like a hurt child.

"Oww ..."

Kit held the mallet in an easy grip, standing near enough to strike a lethal blow if he wanted. Kynan sat on the concrete floor, holding his ankle, trying to hold his ribcage, and met his gaze. Clearly, he knew he was at Kit's mercy

Equally clearly, he expected to die.

Pity swept away Kit's rage. He drew several deep, calming breaths. "Do you yield?" he asked quietly

Surprise flickered through Kynan's eyes. He blinked uncertainly. But he didn't answer.

"I'd like to know why you tried to murder me."

That prompted an answer. "No man laughs at Kynan Rhys Gower and lives! You've taken my honor, my soul .... Curse you! Take my life and let this hell end!"

Try as he could, Kit couldn't recall anything the Welshman might have construed as being laughed at. "What are you talking about? When did I rob you of your honor? When did I laugh at you?"

Kynan's glance might have sent another man back a step. Kit held his ground, prompting Kynan to drop his gaze.

"You permitted the woman to humiliate me," he muttered. "Then you grinned like the gibbering blackguard you are when I was helpless against four!"

Kit was utterly baffled. He'd come in on the very tail end of that fight-how could he have allowed anyone to humiliate this man, when he hadn't even been there? In fact, he could identify only one instant Kynan could possibly be referring to. When realization sank home, Kit very nearly swung the mallet at his thick, medieval skull. If his ribs hadn't ached so fiercely, he might have.

"That woman," he hissed, "is my grandchild. You tried to kill her-after she was wounded trying to save a child from that damned French warhorse! I was not laughing at you! I wasn't even thinking about you! I .was smiling in sheer relief because she would not lose the use of her leg."

Kynan Rhys Gower looked suddenly doubtful, which was small consolation considering how close he'd come to killing Kit.

Kit tapped Kynan's chest with the mallet. "Is it not bad enough you attacked a lady? Now you take offense where none was given and try to murder a man who has been wronged in his own kin by you!"

"Shut up and listen! I didn't `permit' anyone to humiliate you, much less Margo. I wasn't even there when you attacked her. You had better get used to a few new ideas, Kynan Rhys Gower. And the first one is this: women here are perfectly capable of protecting themselves when knaves rush at them with war hammers."

Kynan compressed his lips. "Knave, is it?"

Kit swore under his breath. "What would you call a man who attacked a girl barely eighteen. a girl already cut so badly her leg had to be sewn together-then tried to break a man's skull rather than call him out fairly to ask satisfaction-or at least an explanation?"

Kynan didn't answer. Not that Kit actually expected him to, but Kit always tried reasoning with people whenever circumstances permitted. Unfortunately, some people simply wouldn't be reasoned with. Kit was abruptly disgusted with the whole situation, including his own anger. If he'd dared trust the Welshman, he'd have left Kynan sitting on his backside in the middle of the Commons.

Fortunately, station security arrived on the scene. Mike Benson took one look and hauled Kynan to his feet. Benson cuffed the Welshman's hands behind him, then, in a quick maneuver that was anything but gentle, put him face-down on the floor and hobbled his legs. A strangled sound of pain escaped him.

"Better have someone look at him," Kit sighed. "I think I broke some of his ribs."

Mike Benson grimaced. "Serves him right, I'd say. Where'd this bastard get a weapon?"

"Hell if I know." Kit handed over the croquet mallet. "I'd check the outfitters' stores, see if any of 'em are missing part of a set."

Robert LI spoke up from the doorway of his antiquities shop. "I think he stole it from a group of grad students practicing for the spring garden parties in London. I heard a couple of them talking about a mallet missing out of their set the other day." He glanced at Kit. "I'm sorry, Kit. I had no idea the theft would turn out so serious. I just thought it was part of a practical joke or something. You all right?"

Kit nodded. curtly. "I'm fine." Hell would freeze before he admitted to broken ribs. He'd bribe Rachel Eisenstein, if necessary, to keep it quiet.

Benson ordered his men to take Kynan to a holding cell. The Welshman looked as though he'd considered struggling, then glanced at Kit and settled down to trudge away in his hobbles.

"You're standing mighty funny, Kit." In his late fifties, Mike Benson was solidly built, with thinning grey hair and cold blue eyes that had seen everything, sometimes twice. "How're your ribs?"

Aw, held...

Without asking, Benson peeled back his shirt. "Hmm ... Better have these x-rayed. I think he broke a few."

"I'll take care of it," Kit grated

"What was that guff he was giving you when I came up?"

Kit explained.

Mike Benson ran a hand across his short hair and gazed into empty space as though considering the wisdom of speaking. He glanced at Kit's ribs and spoke anyway. "Kit, that girl's been nothing but trouble since she got here. No offense, but she's a magnet for disaster."

"Great. What else has she done I don't know about?"

"Nothing illegal, if that's worrying you. Just ... well, watch out when she's around Skeeter Jackson and the occasional drunken billionaire aren't the only hotheads panting over her."

Great. Just wonderful.

A strained smile appeared around the security chief's eyes. "At least it's been more interesting around here since she arrived Sometimes herding tourists from gate to gate is like dealing with squabbling schoolkids. If I'd wanted that, I'd have stayed on the force in Chicago when they tried retiring me to crossing guard."

Kit forced a laugh. "You'd have lasted six weeks. You thrive on La-La Land's unique brand of lunacy."

Benson sniffed "Maybe I do. Maybe I do, at that: Of course, I could say the same. You might've retired uptime a couple of years ago. What keeps you hanging around this asylum?"

Kit let his shoulders relax, which was something of a mistake. He hissed softly and adjusted his stance. "Search me. Sheer meanness, I guess. What'll you do with Kynan?"

A wicked grin came and went. "Bull told me to watch out for that one. Almost confined him when he attacked Margo. I think about a month of restricted environment"-Kit mentally translated jail -- "and community service for assault with a deadly weapon ought to change his attitude. The garbage pits are short of help just now"

Kit winced. "Poor bastard. Sometimes I think it'd be easier on the down timers if we just drugged them until their gates reopened."

Benson shrugged. "Yeah, but some never do. As you damned well know. Be sure Rachel looks at you."

"Huh. I've gone to ground in hog lots with worse than this and survived Man'd think I'd turned into a mewling baby since I retired, the way people act..."

Benson grinned. "Hog lot, eh? You must tell me that story sometime."

Kit laughed. "Sure. You buy the beer and I'll tell all."

"Deal. Stay out of trouble."

Kit watched him stroll away, then winced. His ribs smarted "Well," he quoted a very ancient comedy team, "this is another fine mess you've gotten us into, isn't it?"

He didn't feel up to tackling Margo's attitude toward education just now. Better go crawling to Rachel and deal with my injuries. With any luck, the promise of another down-time excursion would help repair this latest breach in his relationship with Margo. And the trip itself ought to go a long way toward convincing her she couldn't "fake it" down time.

"What're you coming to, Kit," he muttered on the way across the Commons, "bribing your own grandkid with expensive down-time presents?"

Kit knew-from first-hand experience--that once you gave in and paid Dane-geld, the Dane never went away.

Well, it was a little late for that now. And she did need a lesson in coping with down-time languages and customs completely alien from her own. Of La-La Land's major gates which fit that bill, Porta Romae was by far the safest.

Margo loose in Rome was an image of sufficient horror to sober even the most reckless of time guides. And Kit had never, in his entire professional career, been considered reckless. When, he wondered a little despairingly, does the worrying end and the enjoyment begin? Given the way his luck had been running of late, probably never.

"Must be Malcolm's fault," he decided. "His luck's rubbing off."

And that was the very best Kit could find to say about the whole mess.