Frederick puffed up with visible pride. “And I will,” he boasted, “once I am knighted. I’ll-”
“Does Sir Olin’s coming mean he will swear fealty to my brother?” asked Sir Mathieu.
Noel tensed again, furious at the man’s insistence.
“My father is coming,” said Frederick, cocky and insolent now. “He could have stayed home.”
“But if he-”
“Politics are for Sir Magnin to discuss with my father,” interrupted Frederick. “I have horses to feed and a camp to set up. Excuse me, sir.”
He spurred his mount to a trot and Noel jounced along beside him. They held silence, not looking at each other, until they were out of earshot. Frederick wheeled into their campsite and jumped down. Only then did he crow merrily and slap Noel on the leg while Noel was still dismounting.
They looked at each other in the shadows and burst into laughter.
“I put him in his place, did I not?” said Frederick. “I would love to use him for a quintain. How he enjoys sneering at Father every chance he gets. Calls us country bumpkins and puts on his fine court airs. Oh, it felt good, Noel, to speak to him sharply and get away with it. Father will never stoop to reply to his barbs, but I say that-”
“He isn’t the relative that we’re trying to get on our side, is he?” asked Noel worriedly.
“Oh, no, not him. Sir Magnin has four sisters, and Peter Phrantzes married the eldest,” said Frederick. “Did you see Sir Mathieu’s face when I-”
“Yes, yes, Frederick,” said Noel with a smile. “You did great. I’ll leave you to this, all right? It’s time I looked around.”
“But you said we would explore the town together,” said Frederick, his maturity falling from him in an instant. “I want to go to the fair.”
Noel curbed his impatience with difficulty. “You’ll see the fair. I won’t be long.”
He turned away, but Frederick caught his arm. “I do not think you should go off by yourself. Sir Mathieu can cause you mischief if your paths cross. Father said we should all stick together for safety.”
Gently Noel took Frederick’s hand from his sleeve. “Your father is wise. But I won’t stray far. I’ll be fine. And if I don’t get back quick enough to suit you, start the fair without me.”
“But, Noel-”
“I’ll be all right.”
With a smile, Noel moved into the darkness and made his way hastily behind a row of tents, avoiding the torchlight as much as possible. He found a shallow gully and dropped into it, threading his way through brush and stumping his toes on rocks unseen in the starlight. He winced, hating cloth shoes, and limped on until he felt far enough away from people.
Crouching in the bottom of the gully, he listened a moment to the crickets and the sound of his own breathing. Above him on the hill, the dark shape of the palace walls loomed against the night sky. Below him, torchlight twinkled and the lively sound of lutes twanging out dance music floated on the air.
“LOC, activate,” he said.
His copper bracelet shimmered, and the real shape of the LOC appeared, its clear sides pulsing with the light circuitry operating inside.
“Acknowledged,” it replied.
“LOC,” he said, “scan internal diagnostics. Is return possible?”
“Specify.”
“Voluntary return, dammit!” he said. “Come on. You know what I’m talking about. Chicago. Time Institute. Monday, May 14, 2503 A.D. You still have that destination code, don’t you?”
“Negative.”
His head felt cold and light as though someone had lopped it off and sent it spinning through the air. For a moment he simply sat there, then he blinked and was able to think again.
“Impossible!” he said sharply. “I’ve asked you that question before, and you have ‘return time and destination codes. Scan safety-chain program and verify.”
The LOC hummed while Noel wiped the perspiration from his face and put his hand on the back of his neck, tilting back his head to ease tension.
“Verified,” said the LOC. “Time and destination codes for return in place.”
“That’s better,” said Noel. “How about self-repairs?”
“Some repair possible.”
The last time he’d asked this question, the LOC had said no repair was possible. Now, hope hit him like a skyrocket.
“Sufficient?” he asked eagerly.
“Unknown.”
“Continue scan of safety-chain program. How much time remaining?”
“Running… program ends in twenty-two hours, fifty-two minutes-”
“Stop,” said Noel, sweating. This was down to the wire. “Is there anyone on the other end? I wonder. Have the anarchists blown up the old TI?”
“I am not able to scan this material,” said the LOC.
“I know. You can’t get me back. You can’t tell me how to fix you so we can get back. You can’t even open a direct communications line to them because for all we know they don’t even exist as history stands right now. So what good are you?”
“Rhetorical question,” said the LOC.
“Yeah,” said Noel bitterly. “What about it?”
“Rhetorical-”
“Stop!” He shoved his fingers through his hair several times until he regained control of his emotions. Stressing out wouldn’t help. Besides, he needed to think how to ask his next series of questions without running the LOC straight into a malfunction warning. “Okay. Run hypothesis.”
“Ready.”
“If I succeed in restoring Theodore to power at any point within my time margin, will recall function? Can I afford to wait until the last minute with this?”
The LOC hummed to itself a long time. “Affirmative.”
Noel grinned. “Continue hypothesis. Question. If I return, what will happen to Leon?”
The LOC did not reply.
“Will he die?” asked Noel sharply. “Will he cease to exist?”
“Unknown.”
“Can he be brought through with me?”
“Possibility figures are seventy-eight percent.”
Noel stared awhile into the night. He didn’t like Leon, but he didn’t want to be the cause of his duplicate’s death either. However, judging from the LOC’s scanty answers, Leon might just be forced to tag along in the return to the twenty-sixth century. Then the Time Institute could decide what was to be done with him.
All Noel had to do was make it through one more day, take care of his duplicate, and make certain Theodore won the joust. Right then he had no doubt of success. The pieces of his plan were all falling into place.
“Deactivate,” he said and stood up to return to camp.
A figure detached itself from the shadows and leapt into the gully ahead of him, blocking his path.
Startled, Noel stumbled back and reached for his sword.
“I have an arrow trained on you,” said familiar, husky tones. “Do not draw your weapon.”
Noel swallowed and left his sword in its scabbard. “Elena,” he said quickly. ‘This is-“
“Say nothing! There is a reward on your head. I want it.”
Noel frowned. Sir Geoffrey must have been imagining things. Elena was no zombie. In fact, she sounded hornet mad.
“Elena,” he said, “you don’t really want to turn me in-”
He heard the dull twang of the bowstring a split second before the arrow hit him high in the left shoulder. It was either a remarkable display of skill in the darkness or a damned lucky shot. Either way, the impetus of the arrow fired at such close range drove him backward. He slammed into the side of the gully. The pain came then, hot and intense and deep. He gripped the shaft with his right hand and pulled himself upright although he had to lean against the bank for support.
His strength drained rapidly. If he was bleeding he couldn’t tell. The very thought of tugging out the arrow made him sweat.
Elena ran to his side and turned him to face her. His knees buckled, and he slid down against the bank.
“Why?” His voice was a weak thread. He battled back the pain and shock, aware that he needed his wits about him.
She said nothing. There was brisk purpose in her hands as she felt along his chest and shoulders. She bumped the arrow with her wrist, and he felt as though all the cartilage in his shoulder was being twisted like spaghetti on a spoon.