“I shall leave written directions to that effect, Rod—in your name, of course. So, then, you are positing someone removing a tribe of Neanderthals from approximately 50,000 B.C. Terra, and transporting them here?”
“Where else could they dig up Neanderthals?”
“The theory of parallel evolution…”
“Parallel lines don’t converge. Still, you never know; we’ll leave the possibility open.”
“But for the time being, we will assume they were taken from Terra. And whoever brought them here outfitted them with Viking ships, armor, and weaponry. Presumably this unidentified party also taught them navigation. But why would they have attacked you?”
Rod shrugged. “Presumably because the unidentified party told them to—but we’ll leave that one open for the moment.”
“As we must also leave open the question of the unidentified party’s identity.”
“Well, that doesn’t have to be too open.” Rod frowned. “I mean, whoever it is has got to have a time machine—and we already know two organizations so equipped who’re involved in Gramarye.”
“The futurian anarchists, and the futurian totalitarians. Yes.”
“Right. And, with two candidates like that available, I don’t see any need to posit a third.”
“Which of the two would you favor in this case?”
“Oh, I’d say the anarchists probably masterminded it,” Rod reflected. “It strikes me as being their style.”
“In what way?”
Rod shrugged. “Why Viking gear? Presumably for the same reason the Vikings used it—to strike terror into the hearts of their victims. And striking terror like that serves the general purpose of making chaos out of whatever social order is available. Besides, they like to get somebody to front for them—the ‘power behind the throne,’ and all that.”
“Or behind the pirates, in this case. Still, your point is well-taken, Rod. The totalitarians do tend toward more personal involvement. Also, they prefer careful, hidden preparation resulting in a revolution, not continual harassing that slowly disintegrates local authority. Yes, the anarchists are the logical perpetrators.”
“And if that’s logical, it’s probably also wrong.” Rod leaned forward over the chart screen again. “Which reminds me—there’s a complete difference in vegetation, depending on which side of the cliffs you’re on.”
“Totally different, Rod. Grasses exclusively.”
“What, not even a fungus amongus?”
“Well, there are a few mosses and lichens.”
“How come nothing more?”
“The vegetation would seem to indicate a small area in which the temperature is far below that of the surrounding forest. I conjecture that a cold breeze blows off the sea at that point, chilling the area around the bay. The cliff-wall prevents it from reaching the interior.”
Rod looked up. “Hey! Would that indicate a cold current?”
“In all probability, Rod.” The robot’s voice sounded a little patronizing.
“That’s the current that would go past Gramarye.”
“It would seem so,” Fess answered.
Rod smiled sourly and tossed his shot glass into the recycler. “Well, enough loafing.” He stood up, strode over to the wall, and began to loosen the clamps that held Fess’s basketball brain. “What happens after that cold current hits the shoreline, Fess?”
“It would probably be warmed by contact with the tropical mainland just south of the cliffs, Rod. Then it would be forced out to sea by the mass of the continent.”
Rod nodded. “From the mainland’s position and contour, that means the current would be sent northeast—back toward Gramarye.”
“Quite possibly, Rod—but you should not hypothesize without sufficient data.”
“All right.” Rod tucked the silver basketball under his arm. “Anything you say, Fess. Besides, it’s time for lunch.”
“You know robots do not eat, Rod.”
“That’s funny, I thought you might be in the mood for a few bytes…”
The sentry at the door to the solar stepped in and announced, “The Lord High Warlock, Majesties.”
Rod pushed past him and stopped, taking in the tall, saturnine man with the lantern jaw who stood facing Catharine and Tuan. His face was tanned and leathery. He wore a short brocaded coat, fur-trimmed, over doublet and hose, and clenched a round hat in his hands.
Then Rod remembered his manners and turned to bow.
“Your Majesties! I’ve been doing a little research.”
“I trust our new source will aid it, Lord Warlock.” Catharine nodded toward the stranger. “May I present Master Hugh Meridian, captain of a merchant ship.”
“Merchant ship?” Rod turned to the seaman, startled. “I didn’t know we had any.”
“In truth, we do, milord.” The shipmaster gave him a frosty bow. “ ‘Tis quicker, and less costly, to ship goods along the coastline than to haul them over the highways.”
“Of course; it would be. I should’ve thought of it. But how did you learn that we needed seafaring advice, Master Meridian?”
“We sent word quickly to the fisherfolk at Loguire’s estates, and those in Romanov. Each claimed they did know there were currents sweeping past the shore, farther out than they generally sailed,” Tuan answered. “Yet all claimed further that they knew naught more.”
“Of course; they couldn’t know where the currents went.” Rod frowned. “They never go out farther than they can come back, all in one day. But they did know about you, Captain?”
The captain nodded. “Ever and anon, the lords hire out their fisherfolk to be my crews, milord. They know of me, aye.”
“And you know where the currents go.” Rod started to look for a chair, then remembered it was bad form to sit in Their Majesties’ presence. Brom could; but Brom was special. “At least you know where they go, around the Isle of Gramarye.”
“I do, milord—though it might be better to say I know where the currents do not go.”
“Really? There’re currents all around the island?”
“Not quite; the western coast is bare of them.”
“Odd.” Rod frowned. “Can you show me on a map?”
“Map?” Captain Meridian looked lost for a second; then he fumbled a small book out of his belt-pouch. “Aye, I can show where I ha’ writ about it in my rudder; yet is’t not easier to hear it?”
“No, no! I want you to show me, on…” Rod let his voice trail off, remembering that medieval people didn’t have maps as he knew them; the idea of graphing out the outlines of a coast was foreign to them. Maps had had to wait for the Renaissance, with its concept of continuous, uniform space. Rod turned to the door, stuck his head out, and advised the sentry, “Parchment and pen, soldier—and quickly.” He turned back into the room. “We’ll have one in a minute, Majesties. Master Meridian, imagine yourself being a bird, flying over the Isle of Gramarye, looking down on its coasts.”
Meridian smiled. “ ‘Tis a pleasant enough conceit, Milord Warlock—but I cannot see that it serves any purpose.”
“Ah, but it does!” Rod held up a forefinger. “I’ll draw you a picture of the coasts as the bird would see them.”
The door opened, and a round-eyed page popped in with parchment, pen, and ink.
“Thank you, lad!” Rod seized the tools and marched to the solar’s table. He rolled out the parchment and began sketching. “This is the western coast, Captain Meridian.” He drew a long jagged curving line, then pointed back toward its top. “There’s the Duchy of Savoy, and here’s Hapsburg.” He turned the bottom of the line into a point, and began to draw a lateral line, full of jags and gouges. Captain Meridian followed his hand, frowning, trying to relate this ink-scrawl to the realities of rocks, tides, currents, and distant hills seen through the mist. Finally, his face lit and his finger stabbed down at the southernmost curve. “Yonder is Cape Souci! Many’s the time I’ve had to shorten sail to keep the southwesterly gale from rolling my ship over as we rounded that headland!”