The Ocean of Time (40 page)

And yet I don’t want any trouble. Not if I can help it.

‘What do you want?’ I say, keeping my voice hard.

Their chief turns, looking about him, assessing what he can sting us for. I know now that he doesn’t recognise me, and though it may be a fault in his memory, it is probably because our meeting happened elsewhen, in another timeline.

I have met him, but he has never met me. Until today.

When he turns back, he finds me smiling, and that clearly puzzles him. Maybe he thinks I plan to cheat him, for there’s a little movement in his eyes – a moment’s recalculation – and then he names his price.

‘Two thousand kopeks.’

There is a collective murmur from behind me: part astonishment, part anger. The figure is exactly what we’ve paid already.

My smile remains fixed. ‘That sounds very reasonable … if you are a
thief
, or a Tartar-lover!’

Anger flares in his eyes. He draws his sword and kicks the grey forward, yet as he swings the sword, I duck beneath it and effortlessly ease him from his horse’s back, bringing him down on to the grass with a bump.

It’s a manoeuvre meant to hurt his pride more than his body, and as he gets up, so I move back slightly, circling him. I am unarmed, but I don’t need to be, not against this one.

He picks up his sword and faces me. His men hold back, watching to see what happens. If I’d attacked him – hurt him, or disabled him – they’d have been on me in an instant, but this is now a matter of pride – of face – and so they wait to intervene, expecting him to punish me for my impudence.

But he’s more wary now. The fall has bruised his confidence. Even so he has the sword and I’m unarmed. There can only be one end to this. This time he doesn’t swing indiscriminately, but jabs. Only, to his amazement, I reach past him and, putting my hand over his sword hand, twist it sharply, snapping the wrist.

He cries out as the sword falls away, and as he does, so two of his men spur their horses forward only to fall from their mounts, dead, heavy arrowheads buried between their shoulder blades.

I look past them to where Alexander and three of his apprentices stand, bows in hand, then to the fallen captain.

‘Take your little gang of thieves and go! And tell Nevsky that the next time he tries to rob honest men, he had better bring an army, not a gang of bungling fools!’

He glares at me through the pain, then, shrugging off the helping hand of one of his men, hauls himself to his feet. ‘You do not know what you have done.’

‘No?’ I smile. ‘Novgorod is a long way from Moscow. Tell your master that. And tell him … tell him I shall have vengeance for what he did at Krasnogorsk.’

That puzzles him, but his puzzlement lasts only a moment. If he could, he’d kill me where I stand, yes, and burn the estate, even if it meant not collecting the
tamga
. But he can see this is no ordinary situation, and now that two of his men are dead …

He has the two corpses lifted back on to their horses and secured there, then, ignoring his own pain, clambers back on to his own, holding the rein in his left hand, his right pressed against his chest.

He snarls at me. ‘Next time I see you I will kill you.’

I am silent, but from behind the horsemen, Alexander’s voice rings out. ‘Shall I kill him, Meister? Shall I put an arrow through his eye?’

I could order it. I could have them all slaughtered, right here and now, only …

Only what?
I ask myself, realising that for once I’m not thinking. If I let them go they
will
come back, without question, and maybe Nevsky too at the head of his little army. Whereas if we kill them now, maybe someone will think they were waylaid, by a robber band maybe or …

Or whatever. The point is that it would take Nevsky some while to find out what happened to his little band, even if he asked in Novgorod. And by then …

I turn and look to Katerina and my girls, then give the order.

‘Kill him, Alexander. Kill them all!’

We take care of our wounded, then ‘bury’ the strangers in the deepest part of the lake, their bodies weighed down with stones, their horses with them. That upsets the peasants more than the killing of the men, for the horses were fine animals.

‘Maybe so,’ I say, sharing their unease, ‘but if anyone from town should see us riding such fine beasts, word would quickly get back to the Prince, no?’

I say that, but word will get back somehow, at some time, for it’s not easy keeping such a big secret – not when there are so many of you, and many of those weak-minded and loose-tongued. But that’s not the point. The point is to make it hard for Nevsky, to give me time to prepare for his coming. For I know for a certainty he’ll come.

I expect the girls to be shocked, but only the two youngest seem affected.

‘They’ve seen worse,’ Katerina says, her eyes reassuring me, letting me know she doesn’t blame me for what happened.

‘Yes, but you know what will happen now?’

‘Nevsky will come, with
all
his men.’

‘Then we must be prepared.’

She nods, a half smile on her lips.

‘Good,’ I say. ‘Then gather all the
bol’shak
. We have much to discuss.’

I have Alexander make a map, and on it I mark what needs to be done: where to build the stockades and watchtowers, where to make the water traps and conceal the secret caches of weapons. I mark where we need to place angled stakes, to defend against Nevsky’s cavalry, and where to construct stone walls. And more, much more.

It’s a lot of work, especially with the harvest to be brought in, but there’s ample time before Nevsky comes from his base in Moscow. It will be spring at best before he can get here. Besides, there’s no lack of commitment from the men. They’ve seen what Nevsky’s men are capable of, and they know the choice facing them. It’s stay here and fight or run away, and they have invested far too much of themselves into this place to run.

It’s a matter of pride.

The feeling that I woke with has returned, as if the weather is about to change. But the day remains hot, the sky a perfect blue, and as the evening falls, I put my mood down to the day’s events: to the visit from Nevsky’s men, and the return of Jamil’s twin. That last particularly disturbs me, and when we’re finally alone in bed, Katerina asks me what I think is going on.

I reach out, touching the copper ash leaf that hangs about her neck that I had made for her that time by the smith in Belyj, then shrug. I’d like to have an answer, only I don’t, because the more I think about it, the less I understand.

‘Are you
sure
she’s an agent?’ she asks.

‘Yes.’

‘Then why hasn’t she struck before now? What is she waiting for?’

Good question. And I can only keep returning to my first thought. To weaken me. To undermine me. Only she could do that just as well by making a move, by attacking one of my children.

I get up and walk through, looking in at their doors, checking on them for the fifth time that evening.

As I return Katerina looks up at me, her dark eyes seriously concerned. ‘What can we do?’

‘Nothing,’ I say, feeling sick at the thought. ‘Until something happens. Then …’

‘Go on,’ she says quietly, reaching out to take my hand as I sit beside her on the bed.

‘Then I’ll jump back. I’ll see Hecht. Explain things.’

And get his permission to act
, I want to say, only I’m not half as confident as I’d like to be that he’d give it. That he’d understand. That’s why I keep hesitating. That’s why I’ve not laid it bare before him. Because I’m not sure what his response would be. And it matters. More than anything I’ve ever done.

We make love, and afterwards we sleep. And then, somewhere in the night, I wake to find a shadowed figure standing at the foot of our bed, looking down at me. Yet even as I sit up and cry out, it vanishes. But I know it was there.

Katerina sleeps on, sated, oblivious.

I get up and walk over to the window, then sit there on the sill, looking out across the moonlit fields. A cold sweat covers my body, and my heart is hammering wildly in my chest. It’s an awful feeling. Truly awful. For I was never taught how to cope with something like this; never bred to feel this much. And I realise I am frightened. For the first time in my life, I am scared stiff, because I don’t know what to do or how to act to preserve this life I’ve carved from Time.

Stolen
, Hecht would say.

But why not? Why
can’t
I have this? What harm am I doing anyone?

Only I know Hecht’s answers without asking for them. I am changing things. Muddying the timestream. People are dead who should not be dead, while others are alive who never should have lived. And then, of course, there’s Nevsky. For what we’ve done here today will affect what Nevsky does, and Nevsky’s central to it all.

As ever, I have made too many ripples. I have been noticed. Just as when I fired the
staritskii
that time and blew a hole right through Krylenko’s forehead.

The memory of it sobers me. Hecht won’t be pleased. How could he understand?

I’ve broken every rule, after all. And me his
Eizelkind
…

Katerina stirs, then wakes. Seeing me at the window, she sits up and rubs her eyes. ‘Otto?’ she asks wearily. ‘What is it?’

I want to explain to her. To tell her what a mess I’ve made of things, and that none of this was
meant
, only even as I make to form the words, it hits me like a sudden storm centred on my chest, and the whole world dissolves about me. The last thing I recall is her eyes and the sweet roundness of her mouth as she stares at me in shock.

Back. Back to Four-Oh.

The room’s familiar, the shadows known from other days. Above Meister Hecht, the Tree of Worlds glows brightly in the dark, as his long fingers dance across the keyboard.

My hand goes to my neck, feeling for something that’s no longer there. Only I don’t know what.

Hecht is brusque, as if there’s too much playing on his mind for him to worry about
my
state of mind. Not that I really feel anything
,
unless this emotional numbness counts, this absence of feeling.

He looks up and his grey eyes narrow, noting my sunburned skin, the thick growth of beard.

‘I’ve a job for you, Otto. Mid-thirteenth century. You know the period and you know most of the major players, so that’s not a problem. As far as strategy’s concerned, it’s a simple infiltration, for reconnaissance purposes. Here.’

He hands me a file. I flick it open and read the opening paragraph, then look to him.

I find it hard to speak. For some reason my head is full of dialect Russian. Even so I frame the words with care, for all that the German feels strange on my tongue.

‘You want me to become a knight? A Teuton Knight?’

Hecht meets my eyes. ‘A Brother, yes. I thought it was time. Have you a problem with that?’

‘No, Master …’

‘Then go to.’

Zarah is waiting for me in my room. As I step through, she comes across and, taking my arm, looks deep into my eyes, like she’s a doctor, examining me.

‘Are you okay?’

I hesitate. ‘I’m not sure, I … What you gave me …’

‘Was just a blocker. To ease the transition. You had a hard time in there. I felt, well, I felt you needed a little help. To get over it.’

‘Over it?’

It’s all very vague. As I said, I feel numb. Not physically numb, but like there’s something I ought to remember, only I can’t.

‘How long will it last?’

‘A while. It’ll wear off, eventually. We’ve not erased anything, if that’s what’s worrying you.’

It wasn’t. In fact, right now pretty much nothing worries me. Even the thought of becoming a Knight-Brother, which at any other time would excite me is just, well,
information
.

Zarah smiles, then pats my shoulder. She’s looking at me strangely, and I don’t know why, but I let it pass.

‘Okay,’ she says. ‘I’ll help you get ready. Only listen … When it does come back …’

There’s a strange movement in her face, a hesitation, such that, even in my state of numbness I ask her, ‘What?’

‘Just that there are reasons. Explanations …’

I don’t know what she’s talking about. Reasons? Reasons for what? Only I’m not motivated enough to ask.

Blockers, eh?
I think vaguely, as Zarah begins to help me dress. But that’s the beauty of blockers, they screen out everything, even the need to question what in Urd’s name I should want to forget.

‘Their view; it is cosmic. Not a man here, a child there, but an abstraction: race, land.
Volk. Land. Blut. Ehre
. Not of honourable men but of
Ehre
itself, honour; the abstract is real, the actual is invisible to them.
Die Gute
, but not good men, this good man. It is their sense of space and time. They see through the here, the now, into the vast black deep beyond, the unchanging. And that is fatal to life. Because eventually there will be no life; there was once only the dust particles in space, the hot hydrogen gases, nothing more, and it will come again. This is an interval,
ein Augenblick
. The cosmic process is hurrying on, crushing life back into the granite and methane; the wheel turns for all life. It is all temporary. And these – these madmen – respond to the granite the dust, the longing of the inanimate; they want to aid
Natur
.’

– Philip K. Dick,
The Man In The High Castle

SMOKE DRIFTS ACROSS
the battlefield, temporarily obscuring the scenes of carnage. For that briefest of instants only the sounds remain: the awful, hideous screaming; the pitiless roar of the cannons; the sound of metal clashing against metal, the shouts and the whinnied shrieks of horses.

Zorndorf. I am on the battlefield of Zorndorf, the scene of Frederick’s most disastrous defeat. But Frederick himself is safe. Thanks to us, the great man lives, and Nemtsov, Dankevich and Bobrov – Russian agents, sent in to prevent us saving him – are dead. Only Gruber now remains. Gruber, one of our own. A traitor.