Unfortunately, the smells in the tavern are much closer to the latter than the former, so I reach into my pocket and pull out my tiny savior. Pretending to cough, I cover my nose with my hand and break the capsule, releasing the chemical blend that will dull my sense of smell for the next several hours. I should’ve taken it before coming in but I always forget.
As I’m slipping the spent capsule back into my pocket, the outer door opens and in walks Richard Cahill, exactly on time. He stands just inside the room, much like I did, and surveys those present. When he spots the two men sitting together, he walks toward them.
My mission today is to confirm the small part Cahill plays in the history of the empire, giving his descendants in House Cahill the official certification they seek.
One would not think upon first seeing Richard Cahill at this time that he’d be so important. He’s nineteen and rail thin, and while he seems to be putting on a brave face, I can tell from where I sit that he’s nervous. But if the history we’ve learned is correct, he’s a linchpin — albeit a minor one — in the development of the North American portion of the empire. His actions on this very night will put a quick end to a nuisance that might have otherwise troubled the kingdom for a few more years.
At first Cahill sits quietly, far enough way from the duo to give the illusion he’s alone. While he waits for the serving woman, he looks around the room. When his gaze turns in my direction, I make sure I’m looking down so I don’t come off as a threat.
Once I sense his attention’s no longer on me, I remove a worn-looking wooden box from my pocket. If anyone were to open the top they would find tobacco and a pipe. I leave the top down, however, and instead touch the edge that activates the built-in recorder, then I position the box so that the microphone is pointing at Cahill and his friends.
It’s not until after the woman returns with my stew and leaves to get Cahill his that the larger of the two men says, “Now is not the time for nerves.”
“I’m not nervous,” Cahill answers, his voice shaky. “But this is all—”
“Calm yourself,” the big man’s partner says.
Their voices are so low that I strain to hear every word. Their caution is understandable. They are, after all, in territory largely infiltrated by the rebels. If they’re caught, they’d likely be dragged into the woods and shot. I know that won’t happen but they don’t. For them this is real, this is now. For me, it’s like the first time seeing a performance of a play I’ve read many times. Cahill is destined to die at the ripe old age of fifty-four, after being gifted land and title for his service to the king. I’ve seen this already. Today I’m seeing the making of the man.
I lift a spoonful of stew to my lips but am careful to not ingest any. I’ve received all the inoculations to protect me from parasites, but to be safe, I seldom eat anything other than food I’ve brought with me. Instead of putting the spoon back in the bowl, I move it under the table and let the contents dribble onto the floor.
“So,” the large man whispers, “did you find out?”
Cahill nods. “There’s a meeting tonight at eleven.”
“Where?”
“At the Hensons’ farm. In the barn.”
“Will you be there?” the smaller man asks.
Another nod. “I’m to be on standby in case a message needs to go out.”
“You need to get in close enough to hear what they say.”
“I’ll try.”
“No. You’ll do it,” the large man says. “We need to know their plans.”
“I…I—”
“Is there a problem?”
Though I’m not looking at him, I imagine Cahill’s lip trembling as he says, “No, sir.”
I can’t help but feel a sense of accomplishment. Not only does this confirm that Richard Cahill was indeed a British agent working undercover as a messenger for the rebels during the American incident, but this meeting at eleven has to be the same one where he learns of the traitor George Washington’s whereabouts. This he will pass on to his contacts before the sun rises, and by twenty-four hours real time from now, Washington will be dead and the ill-fated rebellion squashed. As I said, it’s but a minor point in the history of the kingdom, but it’s fascinating to witness.
The woman enters the room again, this time with Cahill’s meal. The young spy and his companions exchange few words as they eat. My work here is basically done. The only task I have left is to witness Cahill’s predawn arrival at British headquarters with news of what he’s learned. But I know from my previous observations that I don’t depart until after Cahill leaves the tavern, so I busy myself pushing my stew around and pretending to eat more.
The two men finish off their bowls first. The larger man pulls a small cloth pouch from his pocket. As he sets it in front of Cahill, I hear the distinct jangle of coins.
“As promised,” the man says.
Cahill peeks inside the bag and then looks at the men, confused. Forgetting to whisper, he says, “This isn’t all.”
“Hush,” the short one says.
I turn my head away just as he looks over his shoulder.
“You’ll get the rest after you report on the meeting,” the large man says.
“That wasn’t our agreement,” Cahill counters, anger seeping into his voice.
“I caution you, sir, to remember whom you are speaking with,” the short one tells him. “Would you rather we take you in and lock you up as a traitor?”
The tension is as thick as fog. Casually, I sweep my gaze across the room, like anyone sitting alone might do. I expect to see Cahill’s cheeks red with anger, but instead the fear is back in his eyes, and I start to think he’s not quite the willing spy my pre-mission research has led me to believe.
Do these men have something on him and he’s being coerced? If so, that would be the opposite of what the client expects to hear.
When Cahill gets up to leave, I put a coin on the table and pick up my wooden box. At the same moment, the serving woman reaches around me for the money, bumping my elbow and causing me to loose my grip on the box. It falls to the table with a loud clack.
Cahill, nearing the door, stops and looks back. When he sees what’s caused the noise, he turns to continue on his way, but the strap of his bag catches the corner of the nearby table, stopping him again. After he frees the strap, he exits the tavern. As is my habit, I reach into my pocket and push the button that will mark the time of his departure on my clock.
The woman doesn’t even give me so much as a grunt as she heads to another table. I put the box away and open the satchel just wide enough for me to see the Chaser’s screen and double-check my exit time. My attention, however, is drawn to the time marked as Cahill’s departure.
Certain I’m remembering incorrectly, I check my notebook. The time I’ve written down is 8:47:21. The problem is that the time marker on my Chaser indicates the door was opened at 8:47:33. I know I may not have hit the button at the exact moment he left, but there is no way I was twelve seconds off.
I find it suddenly hard to swallow.
I’ve caused a change.
It’s okay. It’s only twelve seconds. It won’t affect anything.
This is what I tell myself over and over as I head for the exit. I don’t even think to check my own time until I’ve already pushed the door open. I’m early. A full two minutes early.
Again, I tell myself that’s okay. I matter even less than Cahill’s discrepancy.
As I step across the threshold, I trip. Not enough to fall to the ground, but more than enough to prove that the timeline I witnessed earlier from the trees is no longer valid.