Poul Anderson - The Shield of Time

Each man carried a candle. They had blown out the rest. Raor left the room, and night possessed it.

Wait. Wait. Give them time to settle down to their fun. Those two lucky bastards — No, I’m not supposed to think like that, am I? Everard considered the stars above him.

What to do? He’d stumbled into a treasure hoard of information. Some repeated what he already knew, some merely satisfied curiosity, but some was beyond valuation. If he could communicate it to the Patrol. Which he could not. Unless he found a transmitter. Should he risk trying, or should he retreat pronto?

Slowly, as he squatted among the blossoms, doubt hardened into decision. He was on his own, isolated. Whatever he did was a gamble. Complete recklessness amounted to dereliction of duty, but he thought he dared raise the ante by a chip or two.

He judged that almost an hour had passed. Raor and her boys would be well engaged, their alertness to the outside world set aside. Alarms must be spotted throughout the house, but probably not against entry. Those would be too liable to go off unnecessarily, when slaves or visitors went in and out; and that incident would be hard to explain away to them.

He rose, flexed cramped muscles, approached the still open window. From his purse he took the flashlight. About four inches long, it bore the appearance of an Apollo figurine carved in ivory, such as people often carried. When he squeezed the ankles, a pencil beam sprang from the head. What he had heard tonight confirmed what he suspected, that detectors were set to register electric currents, or other anachronistic forces, in this vicinity. He assumed the Exaltationists bore signal receivers on their persons that would inform them. This little gadget, though, was a photonic fuel cell, its action no different in principle from his breathing.

Guided by brief flashes, he slipped over the sill, into the room, out to a corridor. Lynx-footed, he passed a pair of open entries and took glimpses. The chambers beyond were furnished with ordinary opulence. Two more had interior doors, shut. The panels of the first were wood sculpture; nymphs and satyrs seemed to leap when the light touched them. He doused it, and the muffled sounds he heard were like their gibing merriment. On the other side, clearly, was where Theonis entertained her gentlemen friends. Everard stood for a minute, Shalten by desire, before he could move on.

What the hell is it about her? Looks, behavior, or does she give off something that works like a pheromone? He forced a smile. That’d be an Exaltationist sort of trick, all right.

The other door was plain and massive. The room it led to evidently occupied the whole rear of the house. Yeah, this has got to be where their hoppers and other gadgets and weapons are. He wasn’t about to try picking the clumsy lock. It was for show. The real lock would sense him and scream.

He padded upstairs but stopped at the landing. A few flashes cast around sufficed to verify his guess that this level was everyday utilitarian. Theonis would quite naturally seal off one chamber, where she kept the costly gifts that a meretrix of her class received. Any other visible secrecy would have excited comment.

Everard returned to ground level. I’d better steal away while I can. Too bad that “away” is all I’m managing to steal. However, a gun or a communicator lying loose was more than I had a right to expect. I’ve learned the layout here, which is pretty good booty.

Not that such embryonic plans as he had involved it. But you never knew.

From the courtyard he climbed back onto the roof. At the cornice he drew his knife. With his light to see by, he carefully cut the noose until only a few fibers remained. Then he cast the rope’s end to the street, took hold, and slid earthward.

If the line parted when he was halfway down, he shouldn’t land too noisily. As was, it held, and he must give several fierce tugs before it broke. There had better be no trace of his visit. He withdrew to an alley, where he put sandals and cloak back on, recoiled the rope and again made a lariat of it.

Okay. Now to skip town. That may be less easy. The gates were barred and manned, the sentinels posted thickly on walls and turrets.

During the day he had marked the likeliest place. It was at the river, of course, the side that could not be attacked by surprise, therefore lightly held. Still, those men were nervous too, wide awake, suspicious of everything that moved, and well armed. What he had going for him was size, strength, combat skills undreamed of here, and desperation.

Plus bullheadedness. One reason I could do my caper at Raor’s was that she never looked for anything so unsubtle.

Near the target site he chose a lane opening on the pomoerium, in the murk of which he could stand and wait for an opportunity. That was a long wait. The moon rose and climbed. Twice he almost acted when somebody passed by, but assessed the situation and decided against it. He didn’t mind too much, or seethe. The patience of the tiger was upon him.

His chance arrived at last, a soldier walking along the pavement, alone, on his way to report for his watch, and nobody else in sight. Doubtless he’d sneaked from barracks to be with a girl or whomever till a clepsydra, or the stars, or an innate time sense that clockless folk sometimes developed, told him he’d better get going. His hobnails rang on the flags. Moonlight tinged helmet and mail. Everard surged forth after him.

The boy never saw or heard. From behind, great hands closed on his neck and fingers bore down on his carotids. For a moment he struggled, unable to cry out. His heels drummed. He slumped, and Everard dragged him back to the alley.

The Patrolman poised, tense for escape. Nobody came running, nobody shouted. He’d pulled it off. The boy stirred, moaned, sucked in air, groped back toward consciousness.

The sensible thing was to stick the knife in him. But moonlight fell on his face, and he was quite young, and whatever his age, Everard bore him no grudge. The blade gleamed before his eyes. “Behave yourself and you’ll live,” he heard.

Luckily for him and for Everard’s conscience, he did. In the morning he’d be discovered, lying bound with pieces of rope and gagged with pieces of his kilt. He might be whipped, or might be given pack drill—no matter. As for the robbery, that was an incident his superiors would not want publicized.

Without its coif, his helmet went onto the robber’s head, just barely. His mail would never fit, but Everard didn’t intend getting near enough to anyone else for that to be noticed. If it happened anyway, come worst to worst, a sword was now at his hip.

In the event, he went unchallenged up the stairs to the top of the wall and along it till he reached a suitable spot. Others saw him glimpsewise by poor light, and he stepped briskly, a man on some special errand who should not be hindered. The point at which he stopped lay between two sentry posts, both sufficiently far off that he was a shadow which, maybe, neither guard observed. A patrol on its rounds was farther yet.

The lariat had been around his shoulder. In a single swift movement he secured it to a merlon and cast the end free. Plenty remained to reach the strip of ground between wall and wharf. Immediately he swung himself over the edge and went down. They’d find the rope and wonder whether it was a spy or a hunted criminal who’d exited, but the news was unlikely to reach Theonis.

On the way, he cast his glance about. Dwellings and countryside reached into night-gray that became black, save where houses that had been torched still smoldered red. Elsewhere were brighter points of light, enemy campfires. From the opposite side of the city he would have seen many, many, hemming Bactra in against its river.