Chris shrugged: So?
Marek pantomimed waking up, startled, alarmed. He seemed to mean that they would cause a commotion if they went in in the middle of the night.
Chris shrugged: So?
Marek wagged a finger: Not a good idea. He mouthed, In the morning.
Chris sighed.
Marek went past the farm huts, until he came to a burned-out farmhouse — four walls, and the black remains of timbers that had supported a thatched roof. He led them inside, through an open door that had a red streak across it. Kate could barely see it in the darkness.
Inside the hut was tall grass, and some pieces of broken crockery. Marek began rummaging through the grass, until he came up with two clay pots with cracked rims. They looked like chamber pots to Kate. Marek set them out carefully on one burned windowsill. She whispered, “Where do we sleep?”
Marek pointed to the ground.
“Why can’t we go into the monastery?” she whispered, gesturing to the open sky above them. The night was cold. She was hungry. She wanted the comfort of an enclosed space.
“Not safe,” Marek whispered. “We sleep here.”
He lay on the ground and closed his eyes.
“Why isn’t it safe?” she said.
“Because somebody has an earpiece. And they know where we’re going.”
Chris said, “I wanted to talk to you about—”
“Not now,” Marek said without opening his eyes. “Go to sleep.”
Kate lay down, and Chris lay beside her. She pushed her back against his. It was just for warmth. It was so damn cold.
In the distance, she heard the rumble of thunder.
:
Sometime after midnight it began to rain. She felt the heavy drops on her cheeks, and she got to her feet just as the downpour started. She looked around and saw a small wooden lean-to, partially burned but still standing. She crawled under it, sitting upright, again huddling together with Chris, who had joined her. Marek came over, lay down nearby, and immediately went back to sleep. She saw raindrops spatter his cheeks, but he was snoring.
* * *
26:12:01
Half a dozen hot-air balloons were rising above the mesas in the morning sun. It was now almost eleven o’clock. One of the balloons had a zigzag pattern, which reminded Stern of a Navajo sandpainting.
“I’m sorry,” Gordon was saying. “But the answer is no. You can’t go back in the prototype, David. It’s just too dangerous.”
“Why? I thought this was all so safe. Safer than a car. What’s dangerous?”
“I told you we don’t have transcription errors — the errors that occur during rebuilding,” Gordon said. “But that’s not precisely accurate.”
“Ah.”
“Ordinarily, it’s true that we can’t find any evidence of errors. But they probably occur during every trip. They’re just too minor to detect. But like radiation exposure, transcription errors are cumulative. You can’t see them after one trip, but after ten or twenty trips, the signs start to be visible. Maybe you have a small seam like a scar in your skin. A small streak in your cornea. Or maybe you begin to have noticeable symptoms, like diabetes, or circulatory problems. Once that happens, you can’t go anymore. Because you can’t afford to have the problems get worse. That means you’ve reached your trip limit.”
“And that’s happened?”
“Yes. To some lab animals. And to several people. The pioneers — the ones who used this prototype machine.”
Stern hesitated. “Where are those people now?”
“Most of them are still here. Still working for us. But they don’t travel anymore. They can’t.”
“Okay,” Stern said, “but I’m only talking about one trip.”
“And we haven’t used or calibrated this machine for a long time,” Gordon said. “It may be okay, and it may not be. Look: suppose I let you go back, and after you arrive in 1357, you discover you have errors so serious, you don’t dare return. Because you couldn’t risk more accumulation.”
“You’re saying I’d have to stay back there.”
“Yes.”
Stern said, “Has that ever happened to anybody?”
Gordon paused. “Possibly.”
“You mean there’s somebody back there now?”
“Possibly,” Gordon said. “We’re not sure.”
“But this is very important to know,” Stern said, suddenly excited. “You’re telling me there might be somebody already back there who could help them.”
“I don’t know,” Gordon said, “if this particular person would help.”
“But shouldn’t we tell them? Advise them?”
“There’s no way to make contact with them.”
“Actually,” Stern said, “I think there is.”
* * *
16:12:23
Shivering and cold, Chris awoke before dawn. The sky was pale gray, the ground covered by thin mist. He was sitting under the lean-to, his knees pulled up to his chin, his back against the wall. Kate sat beside him, still asleep. He shifted his body to look out, and winced with sudden pain. All his muscles were cramped and sore — his arms, his legs, his chest, everywhere. His neck hurt when he turned his head.
He was surprised to find the shoulder of his tunic stiff with dried blood. Apparently, the arrow the night before had cut him enough to cause bleeding. Chris moved his arm experimentally, sucking in his breath with pain, but he decided that he was all right.
He shivered in the morning damp. What he wanted now was a warm fire and something to eat. His stomach was growling. He hadn’t eaten for more than twenty-four hours. And he was thirsty. Where were they going to find water? Could you drink water from the Dordogne? Or did they need to find a spring? And where were they going to find food?
He turned to ask Marek, but Marek wasn’t there. He twisted to look around the farmhouse — sharp pain, lots of pain — but Marek was gone.
He had just begun to get to his feet when he heard the sound of approaching footsteps. Marek? No, he decided: he was hearing the footsteps of more than one person. And he heard the soft clink of chain mail.
The footsteps came close, then stopped. He held his breath. To the right, barely three feet from his head, a chain-mail gauntlet appeared through the open window and rested on the windowsill. The sleeve above the gauntlet was green, trimmed in black.
Arnaut’s men.
“Hic nemo habitavit nuper,” a male voice said.
A reply came from the doorway. “Et intellego quare. Specta, porta habet signum rubrum. Estne pestilentiae?”
“Pestilentia? Certo scisne? Abeamus!”
The hand hastily withdrew, and the footsteps hurried away. His earpiece had translated none of it, because it was turned off. He had to rely on his Latin. What was pestilentia? Probably “plague.” The soldiers had seen the mark on the door and had quickly moved away.
Jesus, he thought, was this a plague house? Is that why it had been burned down? Could you still catch the plague? He was wondering about this when to his horror a black rat scuttled out of the deep grass, and away through the door. Chris shivered. Kate awoke, and yawned. “What time is—”
He pressed his finger to her lips and shook his head.
He heard the men still moving away, their voices faint in the gray morning. Chris slid out from under the lean-to, crept to the window, and looked out cautiously.
He saw at least a dozen soldiers, all around them, wearing the green and black colors of Arnaut. The soldiers were methodically checking all the thatched cottages near the monastery walls. As Chris watched, he saw Marek walking toward the soldiers. Marek was hunched over, dragging one leg. He carried some greens in his hands. The soldiers stopped him. Marek bowed obsequiously. His whole body seemed small, weak-looking. He showed the soldiers what was in his hand. The soldiers laughed and shoved him aside. Marek walked on, still hunched and deferential.
:
Kate watched Marek walk past their burned-out farmhouse and disappear behind the monastery wall. He obviously wasn’t going to come to them while the troops were still there.
Chris had crawled back under the lean-to, wincing. His shoulder seemed to be hurt; there was dried blood on the fabric. She helped him unbutton his doublet, and he screwed up his face and bit his lip. Gently, she pulled aside his loose-necked linen undershirt, and she saw that the entire left side of his chest was an ugly purple, with a yellowish black tinge at the edges. That must be where he had been hit by the lance.
Seeing the look on her face, he whispered, “Is it bad?”
“I think it’s just a bruise. Maybe some cracked ribs.”
“Hurts like hell.”
She slid the shirt over his shoulder, exposing the arrow cut. It was a slanting two-inch tear across the skin surface, caked with dried blood.
“How is it?” he said, watching her face.
“Just a cut.”
“Infected?”
“No, it looks clean.”
She pulled the doublet down farther, saw more purple bruising on his back and his side, beneath his arm. His whole body was one big bruise. It must be incredibly painful. She was amazed that he wasn’t complaining more. After all, this was the same guy who threw fits if he was served dried cèpe mushrooms instead of fresh ones in his morning omelette. Who could pout if he didn’t like the choice of wine.