John Schettler - Touchstone

“We had quite a start at first,” LeGrand continued, leading them into the outer court of the inn. “We couldn’t figure out why you would want to get involved in the assassination plot against Napoleon.” He lowered his voice, checking to see if any locals overheard him, but the innkeeper was not at his desk and the courtyard was empty.

“Assassination plot?” Nordhausen was aghast. “Why, we had no such idea, I can assure you.”

“Oh? Then what, pray tell, were you doing there?”

“If you must know, it was a simple error. We never had any intention of manifesting on those coordinates. It was all a mistake.”

“Indeed? How enlightening,” LeGrand smiled. “Here we thought it was all carefully planned—one of your master strokes, if I may. You’re telling me it was an error? How quaint! We never did have good data on that incident. If your manifestation was by chance or accident, then there must be a ripe little Pushpoint out there somewhere that we have yet to find.” He clasped his hands together heartily. “But then again, that’s what makes this business so interesting, eh professor?”

“Riveting,” said Nordhausen, still not over the flare of indignation that had raised his anger. “And just what were you doing there, with the pleasure of riding in the van as Napoleon entered the city? Tell me that, sir.”

“Observation, my dear professor. We suspected something was afoot with that incident. It had all the makings of an Ismaili plot. But I overreach myself. Perhaps we should begin with a better introduction. Come, follow me to my quarters. It will be more secure there, and we can speak without constantly looking over our shoulder.”

He led the way, pointing out a low arch that took them to a narrow hallway lit by guttering oil lamps. “Accommodations are rather dingy here,” he apologized, but I’ve already had the porters lug in some additional bedding—that is if you plan on sleeping before your retraction. Frankly, I can hardly close an eye on a short term mission. Too edgy, I suppose.”

They entered a moderate sized room, the windows covered by loosely woven burlap shades admitting a pale light. It smelled of straw and, strangely, tobacco. There were several threadbare mattresses, little more than rumpled sacks, spread out flat on the earthen floor, and a few low stools for sitting.

“Be my guests,” LeGrand gestured to a small table where a steaming pot of hot water sat next to three porcelain cups. Oh, it’s not the Royal London, but it will have to do for now. I do have some fairly good tea, however. Filched it from the supply wagons used by the Savants. No honey to sweeten the brew, I’m afraid.”

“It will do just fine,” said Maeve, though Nordhausen only glowered, with a look on his face that approached sulking. It was clear to Maeve that he was very suspicious of this interloper, watching him closely.

LeGrand removed his riding cape and hat, shaking out a full head of curly hair. They seated themselves on the low stools and he poured three cups of tea, raising the last in a toast.

“Allow me to introduce myself formally,” he beamed. “I am Jean LeGrand, local Sergeant for this particular milieu.”

“Sergeant?” Nordhausen sniffed his cup, tentatively. “You are in the army?”

“Sergeant of Arms,” LeGrand corrected. “It’s more of an administrative title than anything else, but the Order has military proclivities in times such as these, eh?”

“The Order?” The professor had heard that before—from Paul, who had been grilled by the keepers of Castle Massiaf on his inadvertent mission through the Well of Souls.

“The Order of Temporal Knights—the Knights Temporal, if you like that better. If you haven’t figured all this out by now, you will. No harm in discussing it, I suppose, we’re all in a Nexus Point now, and things will work out one way or another.“

Maeve took a moment to digest that, sipping her tea and nodding appreciation to their host. She looked at Nordhausen, as if to chide him for his bad manners. “Well,” she said at last. “It seems we have a lot to discuss, Doctor LeGrand. To answer your assumption, yes, we were beginning to come to some understanding of all this. I’m sure you will be kind enough to convey the details. This Order you speak of, you are engaged in the business of time travel?”

“Business? That’s one way of looking at it, I suppose. I’m not in the financial wing of the Order—you know, the folks that get to go back and make all the right investments to insure funding for future operations. Too dull for my blood. No, I’m on to a different business. I suppose you’d call it intelligence gathering in the parlance of your day. I’m an agent in place, permanently assigned to this milieu.”

“You mean to say you’re a spy?” Nordhausen did not mince words. “For who?”

“Why, for the Order, of course. And if I may ask without offering any insult, what were you about on this mission? Reconnaissance? Oh—I believe the term you used was ‘Spook Job,’ but I suppose that, too, could be considered a bit of a spy job as well. Yes?”

“We have our reasons,” the Professor folded his arms again, still guarded in his dealings with this stranger.

“Don’t we all,” said LeGrand. “You’re here for the discovery, of course. Well, I’ve just got word to be especially alert over the next few days. It seems that something is amiss and they want me to look into it as well. The French are going to start work on the embattlements of Fort Julien tomorrow. We can all go together! It’s not far from here, and I can assure you a safe vantage point for your observation.”

Nordhausen frowned. “You mean to say you’re here for the discovery of… of the stone?”

“Well, not exactly. I’m here all the time—permanent assignment to Napoleon’s mission. It’s what we like to call a rough spot in the timeline as it concerns our general operations—one of those nasty little points of interface between the Muslim world and the West. I came over with the fleet when it first set sail from Italy. I’m one of the Savants, you see.”

“You manifested over a year ago? You can stay here that long?”

“My friend, you can stay anywhere you please, for as long as you like, if you know how to go about it. You have to find someone whose Meridian is abruptly cut short in the milieu you are targeting, and then assume that identity—why, just like those unfortunate Americans on the Perla . You get the idea. In fact, we got it from you, Miss Lindford. You set a fine example for us indeed.”

“You are too kind,” said Maeve.

“Yes. In my case I have assumed the identity of a scholar taken by brigands on the road as he made his way to the mustering of the fleet. It took some doing to find a spot for me. There were only three candidates, and this one, LeGrand, was the only one that offered good prospects. He was an only son, orphaned from an early age; a bit of a recluse, and someone whose last close tie on earth is about to pass away. His aunt has a touch of the fever, and it will claim her life in another week or so. In fact, he was set on this mission because his life in Europe had come to dismal ends—no friends, too many enemies, that sort of thing. He was on the run from bill collectors as much as anything else. In any case, it worked out perfectly. I can take on his identity, enjoy the harrowing sea journey as the French fleet plays cat and mouse with Nelson on the way over. I can arrive in Aboukir Bay on that glorious morning when Napoleon first lands, and join his triumphant entry into Alexandria.”

“Amazing,” said Nordhausen.

“Oh, it’s a wonderful assignment. Yes, it has it’s dull moments, and you certainly have to keep your wits about you. The march across the desert is a nasty experience for the soldiers. I went that way the first time and nearly died of thirst and heat. Then I got wise and stayed with the river flotilla on the Nile my second time through. There’s danger on that route as well. We have a run in with Murad Bey and his bloodthirsty Mamluks, but that’s nothing compared to the trek across the desert.”