Poul Anderson - The Shield of Time

Oh, oh, sounded in Everard’s head. School’s out. “Why, Sir Giacomo.” He remembered, barely in time, to use German. “To what do we owe this honor?”

“Hold!” commanded the knight. He was fluent in the language. His blade slanted forward, ready for thrust or slash. “Stir not, either of you, or you’re dead.”

We naturally left our weapons with the palace armorer. We have our table steel And wits? “What is this, sir?” Everard blustered. “We’re guests of his Grace. Have you forgotten?”

“Quiet. Keep your hands before you. Come out in the corridor.”

It gave room for shaft weapons. The point of a halberd hovered close to Everard’s throat. A jab would kill him as effectively as a pistol shot, and much less noisily. Giacomo stepped back a few paces. “Sinibaldo, Hermann.” His voice held soft, nonetheless carried down the stone space. “Go behind them, each taking one. Remove those medallions they wear around their necks, beneath their clothes.” To the prisoners: “Resist, and you die.”

“Our communicators,” Novak whispered in Temporal. “Hall won’t know where we are or, or anything.”

“None of your secret tongues,” Giacomo snapped. With a grin whose stiffness might bespeak tightly controlled fear: “We’ll be hearing secrets aplenty from you erelong.”

“Those are reliquaries,” Everard said desperately. “Would you rob us of our sacred things? Beware God’s wrath, sir.”

“Sacred to a heresy, or to witchcraft?” Giacomo retorted. “I’ve had you watched closer than you know. You’ve been seen muttering at them, not in any way a man would pray to a saint. What were you invoking?”

“It’s an Icelandic custom.” Everard felt a hand at his neck. He felt the object slide upward across his chest, the chain pass over his head. The guardsman took his knife as well and immediately withdrew.

“We’ll find out. Come along, now. Quietly.”

“By what right do you violate the emperor’s hospitality toward us?” Everard demanded.

“You are spies, belike sorcerers. You lie about whence you came.” Giacomo lifted his free hand. “No, silence, I say.” He must, though, want to try breaking down resistance at once, by a showdown. “I had my suspicions from the first. Your tale did not quite ring true. I know somewhat about those parts you claim to be from, you who call yourself Munan. You are sly, clever enough to hoodwink Piero della Vigna, unless you are in his pay. So I called your companion to me, and from him coaxed what he knows.” A low, triumphant laugh. “What he claims he knows. You landed in Denmark, you say, Munan, and found him there, where he had been for some time. Yet he spoke of strife between the king and his brother, the king and the bishops.”

“Oh, God, sir,” Novak moaned in Temporal, “I didn’t know any better, and I tried to play ignorant, but—” Before Giacomo could tell him to shut up, he steadied himself and said in German: “Sir, I’m a plain soldier. What do I know of these things?”

“You would know whether or not there was war in the air.”

We’re so few left in the Patrol, tumbled through Everard. We couldn’t think of everything. Karel was given a rough knowledge of Danish history in this period, but it was our history, where the sons of Valdemar II fell out with each other, and the king antagonized the bishops by wanting to tax the churches to raise money for the fight. In this world, yeah, I guess Frederick, making Germany into more than an unwieldy, unstable coalition, scared the Danes so they’re hanging together.

Tears stood in Novak’s eyes. “I’m sorry, sir,” he mumbled.

“Not your fault,” Everard answered. You couldn’t help it that a smart, knowledgeable man trapped you. You were never recruited or trained for intelligence-type work.

“I arrest you at once, lest you work your evil,” Giacomo said. “His Grace is busied, I hear, but he shall be informed at the first opportunity, and will surely himself wish to know whom you serve and why … and if that be a foreigner.”

Piero della Vigna, Everard realized. This guy’s bitter rival. Sure, Giacomo would love to get something incriminating on Piero. And maybe his notions aren’t altogether paranoid. In the end, in my world, Frederick did decide that Piero had betrayed him.

A knowledge more chilling struck home: Giacomo, Lorenzo’s descendant. It’s as if this warped continuum were defending its existence — reaching through Lorenzo, who begot it, beyond his grave to us. He looked into Giacomo’s eyes and saw death.

“You’ve delayed overmuch,” the nobleman said. “Move!”

Everard’s shoulders slumped. “We’re innocent, sir. Let me speak with the emperor.” Fat lot of use that’ll be, except to bring on another round of torture. Where’ll we go afterward, to the gallows, the block, or the stake?

Giacomo turned and started for the stairs. Everard shambled behind, next to a more resolutely walking Novak. The two men with falchions flanked them, the halberdiers took the rear.

Everard swung his arm up. He brought the edge of that palm down in a karate chop on his right-hand guard’s neck.

At once he whirled. The halberdier at his back shouted and lowered his Weapon. Everard’s arm parried the shaft. It cost him a bruise, but then he was at close quarters. He drove the heel of his hand under the man’s nose. He felt bone splinter, driven into the brain.

Surprise, and martial arts that wouldn’t be known even in Asia for a long time to come. They weren’t sufficient by themselves. Two men-at-arms sprawled dead, dying, knocked out, whatever. The other two, and Giacomo, had bounded clear. Novak grabbed the dropped falchion. Everard went for the halberd. The second pole arm chopped. It could have taken his hand off. He jerked clear. Sparks flashed where steel hit stone.

“Help!” Giacomo shouted. “Murder! Treason! Help!” Never mind confidentiality any more. These were outlanders, commoners, who had stricken two of the emperor’s men. His remaining followers took up the cry.

Everard and Novak pelted toward the landing. Giacomo slipped aside. Along the corridor in either direction, people were emerging from rooms. “We’ll never make it like this,” Everard got out between breaths.

“You go on,” Novak rasped. “I’ll keep them busy.”

They were at the head of the stairs. He stopped, turned about, brandished his blade. “You’ll be killed,” Everard protested.

“We’ll both be if you don’t run while you have the chance, you fool. You know how to end this damned world. I don’t.” Sweat runneled over Novak’s cheeks and made his hair lank, but he grinned.

“Then it’ll never have been. You won’t exist anymore.”

“How’s that different from the usual death? Run, I tell you!” Novak crouched where he stood. His sword flickered to and fro. Giacomo harangued the men who were appearing. Others must also hear a little, on the lower level. They’d hesitate, uncertain, for a minute or two, no longer.

“God bless,” Everard choked, and sprang down the stairs. I’m not abandoning him, he pleaded before his heart. He’s right, we’ve each of us a special duty, me to bring this knowledge to the Patrol and make use of it

Knowledge smote: No! We should’ve thought of this right away, but the hurry — Once I’ve gotten to Jack, we should be able to rescue Karel. If he stays alive for the next five minutes or so. I can’t reappear any sooner, or I’d risk upsetting my own escape, and God damn it, I do have this duty.

Hang in there, Karel.

Out the rear door, into the garden. Uproar loudened behind him. He passed a young man and woman in the twilight, maybe the minnesinger and his sweetie. “Call the guards,” he told them in Italian as he pounded by. “A riot yonder. I’m off for help.” Multiply the confusion.