“You are too kind,” said Maeve. “We have a hundred questions, Doctor LeGrand, not the least of which is this purse.”
“Ah, yes, the purse. I thought that would tickle your imagination. Let me see… How did I come by it, and how in blazes would I know it was yours, let alone that you would be here, this very morning, on the road to Alexandria?”
“Precisely,” said Nordhausen, somewhat annoyed with the man’s flippant manner.
“Well, the lady left it behind. You really should be more careful, I suppose. But, seeing as though you are still relatively new to this business, I can understand.”
“Left it behind?” Nordhausen pressed him. “What do you mean? You found it on the road, yes?” He put forward his hypotheses, hoping that LeGrand would confirm his guess and relieve them of their worst fears.
“On the road? Not exactly,” said LeGrand. “If you must know, I found it a year ago, in Alexandria. You see, I had the pleasure of riding in the van with Napoleon’s guard when he entered the city that day. Imagine my surprise when someone took a pot shot at the man from a window overlooking the alley.”
Nordhausen gaped at the remark, looking at Maeve in amazement.
“Yes,” LeGrand pressed on. “No one was hurt, thank goodness. The soldiers were very efficient. They searched every house on the street and found a recently discharged musket. But the assailant—the assailants I should say, had vanished. Witnesses claim they saw a man and a woman at the window when the shot was fired. It was very strange… until I found the purse, of course.”
“I don’t understand,” said Maeve.
“Well it was clearly European in style, beaded in the fashion of 19th century France. By the way, your costuming is very good, my lady. The professor’s wig is a tad small for his face, but I think it lends him an air of credibility, wouldn’t you say?”
Nordhausen resisted the instinct to straighten his wig, folded his arms, and glared at the man. “See here… speak plainly now. Just who are you and how do you know us? How did you know we would be here on this road?”
“Well the purse, of course. It was all written down. Really, Miss Lindford, you should be a bit more cautious. Using a ball point pen to make notations is one thing, but taking the note with you through the Arch is quite another. Tisk, tisk.”
That last remark swept away any notion that this man might be a local. Maeve looked at Robert and the two of them quickly recalibrated their thinking to the proposition that LeGrand was indeed a fellow traveler in time.
“Oh, it was all in your notes,” LeGrand continued. “You penned the target date you were trying to reconnoiter, the premise of your entry, details about the Perla, the missing Americans lost at sea, your idea in assuming their identity—quite clever, really. But then again, I should expect nothing less from the redoubtable Maeve Lindford.” There was a special fire in his eyes as he said that, and Maeve was warmed enough to return a half smile.
“You wrote all that down and brought it with you?” Now it was Nordhausen’s turn to raise eyebrows over abuse of protocol. “I distinctly remember you chiding me: No PDAs, cell phones, wrist watches, Parker Pens and all. Then you go and slip a note like that into your purse?” Maeve merely squinted in his direction, her thoughts and attention focused entirely on LeGrand for the moment, her mind running down a hundred corridors.
“We had quite a start at first,” LeGrand continued, leading them into the outer court of the inn. “We couldn’t figure out why you would want to get involved in the assassination plot against Napoleon.” He lowered his voice, checking to see if any locals overheard him, but the innkeeper was not at his desk and the courtyard was empty.
“Assassination plot?” Nordhausen was aghast. “Why, we had no such idea, I can assure you.”
“Oh? Then what, pray tell, were you doing there?”
“If you must know, it was a simple error. We never had any intention of manifesting on those coordinates. It was all a mistake.”
“Indeed? How enlightening,” LeGrand smiled. “Here we thought it was all carefully planned—one of your master strokes, if I may. You’re telling me it was an error? How quaint! We never did have good data on that incident. If your manifestation was by chance or accident, then there must be a ripe little Pushpoint out there somewhere that we have yet to find.” He clasped his hands together heartily. “But then again, that’s what makes this business so interesting, eh professor?”
“Riveting,” said Nordhausen, still not over the flare of indignation that had raised his anger. “And just what were you doing there, with the pleasure of riding in the van as Napoleon entered the city? Tell me that, sir.”
“Observation, my dear professor. We suspected something was afoot with that incident. It had all the makings of an Ismaili plot. But I overreach myself. Perhaps we should begin with a better introduction. Come, follow me to my quarters. It will be more secure there, and we can speak without constantly looking over our shoulder.”
He led the way, pointing out a low arch that took them to a narrow hallway lit by guttering oil lamps. “Accommodations are rather dingy here,” he apologized, but I’ve already had the porters lug in some additional bedding—that is if you plan on sleeping before your retraction. Frankly, I can hardly close an eye on a short term mission. Too edgy, I suppose.”
They entered a moderate sized room, the windows covered by loosely woven burlap shades admitting a pale light. It smelled of straw and, strangely, tobacco. There were several threadbare mattresses, little more than rumpled sacks, spread out flat on the earthen floor, and a few low stools for sitting.
“Be my guests,” LeGrand gestured to a small table where a steaming pot of hot water sat next to three porcelain cups. Oh, it’s not the Royal London, but it will have to do for now. I do have some fairly good tea, however. Filched it from the supply wagons used by the Savants. No honey to sweeten the brew, I’m afraid.”
“It will do just fine,” said Maeve, though Nordhausen only glowered, with a look on his face that approached sulking. It was clear to Maeve that he was very suspicious of this interloper, watching him closely.
LeGrand removed his riding cape and hat, shaking out a full head of curly hair. They seated themselves on the low stools and he poured three cups of tea, raising the last in a toast.
“Allow me to introduce myself formally,” he beamed. “I am Jean LeGrand, local Sergeant for this particular milieu.”
“Sergeant?” Nordhausen sniffed his cup, tentatively. “You are in the army?”
“Sergeant of Arms,” LeGrand corrected. “It’s more of an administrative title than anything else, but the Order has military proclivities in times such as these, eh?”
“The Order?” The professor had heard that before—from Paul, who had been grilled by the keepers of Castle Massiaf on his inadvertent mission through the Well of Souls.
“The Order of Temporal Knights—the Knights Temporal, if you like that better. If you haven’t figured all this out by now, you will. No harm in discussing it, I suppose, we’re all in a Nexus Point now, and things will work out one way or another.“
Maeve took a moment to digest that, sipping her tea and nodding appreciation to their host. She looked at Nordhausen, as if to chide him for his bad manners. “Well,” she said at last. “It seems we have a lot to discuss, Doctor LeGrand. To answer your assumption, yes, we were beginning to come to some understanding of all this. I’m sure you will be kind enough to convey the details. This Order you speak of, you are engaged in the business of time travel?”