Everard restrained himself from shaking that withered frame. “And then? Anything?”
“Aye, my feeling was right. My feelings have always been right, haven’t they, Jantin-hamu? Always. I should’ve been a priest, but too many boys were trying for what few acolytes’ berths there were… Ah, yes. That day a gale sprang up. The ship foundered. Everybody lost. I heard about that, I did, because we naturally wanted to know what’d happened to those strangers. Her figurehead and some other bits and pieces drifted onto the rocks where this city now is.”
“But—wait, gaffer—are you sure everybody drowned?”
“No, I suppose I couldn’t swear to that, no. I suppose a man or two could’ve clung to a plank and been borne ashore likewise. They’d’ve made landfall elsewhere and trudged home unremarked. Who in the palace cares about a common sailor? Certain is, the ship was lost, and the Sinim—for if they’d returned, we’d know, wouldn’t we, now?” Everard’s mind whirred. Time travelers might well have arrived here by machine, directly. The Patrol base, with instruments to detect it, wasn’t yet established. (We can’t man every instant of the millennia. At best, at need, we send agents back and forth within a milieu, out of those stations we do keep.) If they weren’t to cause a sensation that would endure, though, they would have to depart in contemporary wise, by land or sea. But surely, before embarking, they’d have checked out what the weather was going to be like. Ships in this age practically never sail during the winter; they’re too fragile.
Could this be a false scent regardless? Bomilcar’s memory may not be as clear as he claims. And the visitors could have been from one of those odd, short-lived little civilizations that history and archaeology afterward lost sight of, and time-traveling scientists discover mainly by accident. For instance, a city-state off in the Anatolian mountains somewhere, which’d learned things from the Hittites, and whose aristocracy is so inbred that its members have a unique physiognomy—
On the other hand, of course, this could be the real means of breaking the trail, this shipwreck. That would explain why enemy agents didn’t trouble to make themselves look Chinese.
How to find out, before Tyre explodes?
“When did this happen, Bomilcar?” he asked as gently as he was able.
“Why, I told you,” the old man said. “Back in the days of King Abibaal, when I worked for his steward in the palace in Usu.”
Everard felt acutely, annoyingly conscious of the family around and their eyes. He heard them breathe. The lamp guttered, shadows thickened, the air was cooling fast. “Could you tell me more closely?” he pursued. “Do you recall which year of Abibaal’s reign it was?”
“No. No. Nor anything else special. Let me think… Was it two years, or three, after Captain Rib-adi brought back such a treasure trove from—from—where was it? Somewhere beyond Tharshish… No, wasn’t that later?… My first wife died in childbed a while afterward, that I remember, but ’twas several years before I could arrange a second marriage, and meanwhile I had to make do with harlots, heh, heh.…” With the abruptness of the aged, Bomilcar’s mood changed. Tears trickled forth. “And my second wife, my Batbaal, she died too, of a fever… Crazed, she was, didn’t know me any longer… Don’t plague me, my lord, don’t plague me, leave me in peace and darkness and the gods will bless you.”
I’ll get nothing further here. What did I get? Maybe nothing.
Before he went, Everard made Jantin-hamu a present of metal which should allow the family to live in more comfort. The ancient world had some few advantages over his; it was free of gift and income taxes.
A couple of hours past sunset, Everard returned to the palace. That was late in local eyes. The sentries raised rushlights, squinted at him, and summoned their officer. When Eborix had been identified, they let him in with apologies. His indulgent laugh was better than a large tip would have been.
He didn’t really feel like laughing. Lips gone tight, he followed a lamp bearer to his room.
Bronwen lay asleep. A single flame still burned. He undressed and stood for a minute or three looking down at her through the flickery dimness. Unbound, her hair glowed across the pillow. One arm, out of the blanket, didn’t quite cover a bare young breast. It was her face he regarded, though. How innocent she looked, childlike, woundable even now, even after everything she had endured.
If only. No. We may be a little bit in love already. But no possible way could it last, could we ever really live together, unless as a mere pair of bodies. Too much time sunders us.
What shall become of her?
He started to get into bed, intending simply slumber. She roused. Slaves learn to sleep alertly. He saw joy blossom in her. “My lord! Welcome, a thousand welcomes!”
They held each other close. Just the same, he found he wanted to talk with her. “How did your day go?” he asked into the warmth where her jaw met her ear.
“What? I—O master—” She was surprised that he would ask. “Why, it was pleasant, surely because your dear magic lingered. Your servant Pummairam and I chatted a long while.” She giggled. “He’s an engaging scoundrel, isn’t he? Some of his questions struck too near the bone, but have no fear, my lord; those I refused to answer, and he backed off at once. Later I sallied forth, leaving word where I could be found should my lord return, and spent the afternoon in the nursery where my children are. They are such darlings.” She didn’t venture to inquire if he would care to meet them.
“Hm.” A thought nudged Everard. “What did Pum do meanwhile?” I can’t see him sitting idle all day, that squirrel.
“I know not. Well, I glimpsed him twice, on his errands down the corridors, but took it for given that my lord must have commanded—My lord?” Alarmed, she sat straight as Everard left the bed. He flung open the door to the cubicle. It stood empty. What in hell was Pum up to?
Perhaps nothing much. Yet a servant who got into mischief might cause trouble for his master. Standing there in a brown study, the floor cold beneath his feet, Everard grew aware of arms around his waist, and a cheek stroking across his shoulderblades, and a voice that crooned: “Is my lord overly weary? If so, let his handmaiden sing him a lullaby from her homeland. But if not—”
To hell with my worries. They’ll keep. Everard turned his attention elsewhere, and himself.
The boy was still missing when the man awoke. Discreet questions revealed that he had spent hours the day before, talking with various members of the staff. They agreed he was inquisitive and amusing. Finally he had gone out, and no one had seen him since.
Probably he got restless and flitted off to spend what I’ve given him in the wineshops and cat-houses. Too bad. In spite of his scapegrace style, I thought he was basically reliable, and meant to do something or other that’d give him a chance at a better life. Never mind. I’ve Patrol business on hand.
Everard excused himself from further activities and went alone into the city. As a hireling admitted him to the house of Zakarbaal, Yael Zorach appeared. Phoenician dress and hairdo became her charmingly well, but he was too preoccupied to appreciate it. The same strain showed on her features. “This way,” she said, unwontedly curt, and led him to the inner chambers.
Her husband sat in conference with a craggy-faced, bushy-bearded man whose costume varied in numerous ways from local male dress. “Oh, Manse,” Chaim exclaimed. “What a relief. I wondered if we’d have to send for you, or what.” He switched to Temporaclass="underline" “Agent Manson Everard, Unattached, let me present Epsilon Korten, director of Jerusalem Base.”