The Art of Stealing Time: A Time Thief Novel (13 page)

“—famed Velociphant,” the woman was saying as they passed her. “The king intends on using it to mow down an uprising of trees and shrubs. You will notice that in lieu of teeth, it has a set of spinning blades reminiscent of a large lawn mower. Oh, goodness, we are in luck today. Just arriving on the scene to plead for their lives are two prisoners. A little bird told me that they were getting up to some pretty racy hijinks last night as seen by our After-Hours Tour (five pounds per person, old-age pensioners two pounds fifty). Now, if you’ll come this way, we’ll have a quick peek in at the foundry to see where the Velociphant’s parts are created, and then be on our way to the gift shop, where you can buy not only a miniature reproduction of the Velociphant but also a life-sized stand-up of Lord Aaron in traditional Underworld garb. Follow me!”

“This is really the strangest place I’ve ever been in,” Gwen said in a whisper.

“It’s definitely not what one thinks of as an afterlife.”

The tour moved off with only a few people snapping photos of Gwen and Gregory. Aaron and his buddy both ignored them. A cat was draped along the former’s shoulders, its tail flicking gently as the king raised an arm and gestured toward the machine.

“M’lord, I’ve brought the prisoners what you requested.” Al made a bow, with a little flourish toward Gregory and Gwen.

“Eh? Oh, it’s you two again.” Aaron turned his head, found himself staring up the nose of the cat, and with an annoyed
tch
removed the animal. It jumped up to the nearest table, and with careful deliberation, stepped into an upturned top hat that was resting next to a cane. “The thief and the other one.”

“I would object to being referred to as ‘the other one,’ but given my options, I’ll settle for it,” Gwen said, moving a few steps away from Gregory.

Al murmured something about some tanning to be done and left them.

Gregory did not like the sense of loss he felt at the removal of Gwen’s warmth pressed to his side. He frowned at her, but she was too busy staring with wonder at the machine that loomed over them. “I, however, have no compunction in denying the term ‘thief’ as applied to me. I am a Traveller.”

“A thief, yes, that’s what I said. It’s a fine beast, isn’t it?” Aaron turned to Gwen to ask the question of her. Pride was evident in both the satisfied expression on his face and the fat note of congratulation in his voice. “It’s been seven years in the making, but at last it’s about ready to be unleashed. Behold, thief and the other one: the Piranha Mark Five.”

Gregory dragged his gaze away from Gwen and studied the machine for a few minutes. Its shape bore a vague resemblance to a giant elephant, with a thick, bulbous head, a rounded back, and four girders for legs, but unlike the actual animal, this was made up of metal struts, cogwheels, pistons, and valves. A little hiss of steam emerged from the nearest valve. The man next to Aaron shouted and pointed at it, sending a worker to scurry over and give the round control a twist.

“It’s very large,” Gregory said, since obviously the king was expecting some sort of comment. “Why do you call it a piranha when it resembles an elephant?”

“It’s bitey,” Aaron said. “Also, once it has my enemies in its dread maw, it will consume them with much gnashing of its internal shredding blades.”

“Ew,” Gwen said, giving the king a disgusted look. “That’s just mean, even for the Underworld.”

“I have been sorely grieved,” Aaron said, turning when his man said something. “Yes, yes, go attend to the lubrication of the pistons. We must have it working no later than tomorrow. Oh, no, not now.”

The man made an abbreviated move to collect his hat, now serving as a cat container, grabbing his cane instead as he trotted off to yell and gesture and assumedly order the workers about. Gregory turned to see what Aaron was frowning at. The blonde from the day before tripped lightly down the hill. She was escorted by a semicircle of cats, each of which wore a golden collar equipped with bells that tinkled gently.

“Arawn! I want to talk to you!”

“Ignore her,” Aaron said, turning his back to the approaching woman. “If you don’t speak to her, she’ll get angry and go away. That gentleman was my chief engineer,” he added, waving at the man who was now yelling at some workmen.

“Arawn!”

Aaron strolled to the second table, where he pulled out a blueprint from under two cats, both of which got up and leaped off the table to join the approaching feline guard. “A solid man, but not brilliant, if you know what I mean. We’re having a bit of a problem with one of the legs. It wants to move out of rhythm from the others.” He looked up at them. “You’re
sure
you don’t have any mechanical engineering experience?”

“None,” Gregory told him. “Nor, I believe, does Gwen.”

“My Google Fu is very strong, though,” she added. “I’m a whiz at looking up information.”

“Will you stop behaving like an infant!” Constance reached them with a swirl of cats. She glared first at Gwen, then Gregory, and finally settled on Aaron. “What are the prisoners doing out of the dungeon?”

“Hmm? Oh, it’s you.” Aaron shook his blueprints and pretended to be absorbed. “I’m busy. Go away.”

“The prisoners!” Constance snatched the blueprints from him. His resulting scowl was fierce enough that Gwen took a step closer to Gregory.

He smiled at her.

“You could have told me you were having them executed! You know how I always enjoy a good morning execution! It’s just like you to be so completely selfish as to keep it to yourself.” She glanced around, her lips a thin line. “Where’s the executioner?”

“We don’t have one,” Aaron said, and tried to reclaim his blueprints. “Release my plans, woman!”

“What did you do with him? We had one a little while ago. I remember distinctly that we had one. There was that pesky demon who infiltrated his way into Anwyn, and you gave me a grand execution of it as a birthday present.”

“That was centuries ago. Jabez, the executioner, turned out to be a first-rate blacksmith. He’s at work in the foundry now,” Aaron said through clenched teeth, still trying to wrestle the plans from Constance. “Release your hold, besom! This paper is worth more than your life!”

“Don’t be a bigger fool than you already are,” she snapped back. “If there’s no executioner, then you’ll just have to kill them yourself.”

Aaron looked horrified at the idea. “I am not a killer!”

“You’re the head of the Underworld,” she answered, releasing her hold on the blueprint. Aaron staggered back a couple of steps at the unexpected move. “Of course you’re a killer. You’ve murdered countless people over the centuries.”

“Those were during wars. Everyone kills other people in wars. It doesn’t mean you’re going to volunteer the next time a couple of prisoners need their heads lopped off.” Aaron glared at the nearest cat, which had plumped down on half of the plans that were draped across the table. “Move it or lose it, furball.”

“Fine!” Constance drew herself up and looked down her nose at Aaron. “Be that way! Ruin all my fun, just as you always do. Get an ice pick and I’ll do the job myself.”

“Whoa now!” Gwen protested. “We are not going to allow you or anyone else to execute us! We haven’t done anything wrong!” She paused a moment, slid Gregory a look from the corner of her eye, and amended that statement. “Not lately, anyway.”

“No one is going to harm us,” Gregory told her with much calmness and serenity. He didn’t like to see Gwen with that hint of fear in her eyes. He much preferred her trying to deny her attraction to him. “This woman is all bluster.”

Constance gave him an almond-eyed look. “Give me an ice pick and you’ll find out for yourself.”

Gwen gasped.

“Go!” Aaron ordered, jerking the blueprint from under the cat so that he could wave it at his ex-wife. “Leave. Begone. You are not wanted here.”

“But I want to see the ex—”

“Leave before I feed those beasts to my Piranha!” he roared.

Constance opened and closed her mouth a couple of times before leveling him with a look that Gregory felt could well have brought down an entire skyscraper. “Fine! Take all my fun, you selfish, irritating man! Come, my children. We will seek out Daddy’s shoes and piddle in them!”

“I do hope she’s talking only about the cats and not herself,” Gwen said sotto voce as Constance spun on her heel and marched off accompanied by most of the cats.

“There are days when I have my suspicions,” Aaron said darkly, then frowned at them, seeming to recollect why they were there. “Since my executioner is at present busy making a new knee strut, and also since you can’t make yourself useful to me by working on the Piranha, then you shall have to do so by other means.”

“What other means?” Gregory asked, suspicion gripping him in its sticky embrace.

“You’re a thief,” Aaron said, frowning slightly at the plans as he read them over. “You will steal for me.”

“I’ve told you: I’m not a thief. I’m a Traveller.”

“And Travellers steal time,” Aaron said without looking up. “So it should be no problem for you to take a few things that I want. After all, they were mine to begin with.”

“What things?” Gwen asked, leaning against the table, one hand stroking the nearest cat.

“My dog, my deer, and most of all, my bird.”

“Your what now?” Gwen’s nose wrinkled in a delightful manner that wholly enchanted Gregory. He wanted to kiss her nose. And her lip. And, if he was honest with himself, the rest of her.

Aaron looked up and gave her a dissatisfied look. “My bitch, my white roebuck, and my lapwing. They were stolen from me by that fiend Ethan and his trickster brother.”

A memory smote Gregory alongside his head. “Ethan? Would that be Amaethon ab Don?”

“That’s the fellow, the devil blast his hide.” Aaron’s expression turned highly incensed. He shook the blueprint at Gregory. “He stole them and then when I tried to get them back, he declared war against me.
Me!
Have you ever heard of anything so devious?”

“Yes, but I admit that I’ve also heard about this. My partner was reading me something about Anwyn before I came here, but I could have sworn he said it was mythology.”

“Bah. Where do you think the myths come from?” Aaron snorted, tossing aside the plans. “I want my things back, and you can just steal them for me.”

“I’m not a thief.”

“If you don’t get them back”—Aaron’s voice turned sly—“you’ll spend the rest of your not inconsiderable days in my dungeon. As for you—”

He turned to Gwen. She looked startled. “You said you didn’t need an alchemist.”

“I don’t, but my soldiers at the front inform me that you’re one of Ethan’s warriors who wanted out of his service. I will grant you a place with my contingent.”

Gwen looked like she was going to protest, but evidently she thought better of it, because she just looked thoughtful for a few seconds before saying something that took Gregory by surprise. “All right.”

“You can’t be serious,” Gregory said.

“Why can’t I? I’d rather be a warrior than be stuck in a dungeon.”

She had a point, damn it. He considered stealing enough time to keep them from being captured in the first place, but knew that down that path lay only grief and sorrow.

“Very well. Since Gwen doesn’t mind being forced into a role that isn’t by nature hers—”

“Hey! I could be a warrior if I wanted to!”

“—then I will do likewise. I accept your offer of an exchange for our freedom if I return to you the three items stolen.”

Aaron made a notation in a leather journal. “I don’t believe I made any mention about granting you freedom.”

“Then mention it now. Those are our terms,” Gregory said firmly. He put his arm around Gwen again in order to give her support, but mostly because he just liked the feel of her tucked up next to him. “They are not negotiable.”

Her frown was potent, but she didn’t object to the fact that he spoke for her.

Aaron’s face was stormy for a few seconds, then cleared up as he shrugged. “Very well. You will have your freedom once you return what was stolen from me and the other one has served the span of a moon in my army.”

“Two days,” Gwen countered. “I’ll be a soldier for two days.”

“A fortnight,” Aaron countered.

She narrowed her eyes at him. “A week. That’s my final offer.”

“Done. You may go to the stables and tell the grooms to give you a horse. You may leave immediately.”

He returned to making notes in his notebook, clearly dismissing them from his thoughts.

Gregory didn’t stay to argue; with a slight pressure on Gwen’s waist, he started back up the hill to the castle with her.

“One thing . . .”

They stopped as Aaron’s voice, suspiciously silky, reached them. They turned together to look back.

The king’s gaze was filled with portent. “The mortals have a saying. Perhaps you’ve heard it?
Hir yw’r dydd a hir yw’r nos, a hir yw aros Arawn.
”

“I don’t speak Welsh,” Gregory said.

“I do.” Gwen hesitated, then translated, “Long is the day and long is the night, and long is the waiting of Arawn.”

“The mortals think that refers to the events of the past, but really, it touches on the fact that I always, no matter how long it takes, have my revenge for a betrayal.” Aaron smiled. “Something to remember, yes?”

“H
ave you ever wanted to take a vacation from your own life?” I asked Gregory as we walked up the hill to the upper bailey.

“I can’t say that I have.”

“Count yourself lucky.” I couldn’t help but sigh as another orange-coated tour guide herded a group of what looked like Catholic schoolgirls, complete with matching uniforms and attendant nuns in full traditional garb, past us. Faint echoes of “The brewery is renowned for its popular From Hell Ale, made with honey gleaned from Anwyn’s happy little bees. We’ll have a sampling right after we visit the armory, where the blood-encrusted weapons of Anwyn’s brutal past are on display” followed us.

The schoolgirls cheered. The nuns murmured happily about the ale.

I wanted to alternately sit down and weep and run screaming away from the castle.

“Are you allowing that talk of execution to distress you,
dulcea mea
?”

“Dulcea mea?”
I asked, distracted from my general sense of worry, concern, and befuddlement. “What does that mean?”

“It’s Romanian for ‘my sweet.’ And before you say it—and yes, I know you were about to—I used the endearment because your kisses were very, very sweet.”

“Kiss,” I said, jerking my hand away from his. I didn’t even remember holding his hand! What on earth was going on that I could hold a man’s hand without consciously thinking about it? “We had one kiss. Just one.”

“And it was a superb one.”

It most certainly was. Just the memory of his mouth made me feel restless, like I wanted to run a marathon, or rip his clothing off. With an emphasis on the latter. “That was an error of judgment on my part. I should never have kissed you. I can only guess that I was feeling guilty about you having been beaten up and wanted to make sure that your mouth still worked.”

He laughed. “Do you really believe that explanation?”

“No,” I said miserably, and was startled to find that I was holding his hand again. His thumb rubbed against mine in a manner that was both reassuring, and arousing. Damn my libido! I firmly turned my thoughts from those concerning a naked, warm Gregory rubbing other parts of himself on me and focused on the fix we were in. “How are you going to steal a dog, a deer, and a bird from Ethan?”

“I have no idea.” He looked amused at the change of subject, but didn’t challenge me. “I’ve never had to steal anything before.”

“Except time.”

His fingers tightened on mine. “I believe I’ve mentioned already that we don’t steal time—we purchase it.”

“Without the people’s knowledge that you’re doing so. How on earth does the Watch let you get away with that?”

“They don’t. So far as mortals are concerned, that is. We may barter or outright purchase time from immortal beings, of course, but many people are touchy where the sale of their time is concerned, and few are willing to do so.”

“So what do you do in such cases?”

He shrugged. “I’m in the process of trying to find a person who is willing to sell time to me. My cousin has someone to provide time for himself and his wife, so I hope to arrange for the same accommodation.”

“Maybe your wife won’t want you to buy time for her,” I said loftily.

“That is a possibility, although marriage outside of the Traveller society is frowned upon.”

“No, I meant that perhaps she wouldn’t want you doing the he-man for her. Wait . . .” I stopped and squinted up at him. He had an inscrutable air that I didn’t buy for one moment. “Are you saying that you can only hook up with another Traveller?”

“‘Hook up with’ as in engage in a sexual relationship?” His thumb swept the back of my knuckles. “No, that is allowed. Marriage, however, is a different matter. To marry one who is mahrime—an outsider—is a grave sin to Traveller families.”

I stared at him. “Talk about insulting! You are joking, right? No one could be so ass backward in this day and age. Especially considering the double standard of it’s all right to milk the cow, but not to buy it. That alone makes me incensed, but the whole idea that a group of people won’t allow family members to marry outside of said family—for one, it’s unhealthy. You need diversity in a gene pool. For another, it’s . . . well, unhealthy mentally and emotionally as well.”

“Alas, I’m not joking.” He smiled at me, the warmth from it not only reaching his eyes but kindling something that made me feel as if I had butterflies in my stomach. “That is one reason why I am here.”

I wasn’t sure at first what he was alluding to, but then it struck me like a bolt of lightning that occasionally flashed in the distance. Dear goddess in all the good, green things! He meant me! He was defying his own people just to be with me. It boggled my mind, but it made sense. The kiss, the way he was flirting with me, the constant hand-holding . . . it was all explained if the reason for him being in Anwyn was that he had followed me here based on an instantaneous attraction.

“Gregory, I . . . I don’t know what to say. I’m flattered, naturally. I don’t think I’ve ever met someone who’s risked getting in trouble just to be with me, but I have to tell you that even though you have a really nice way of kissing, I’m not looking for a man in my life, especially a husband.”

It was his turn to look startled. “I suspect that you are under the impression that I just proposed to you. Is that so?”

I felt a blush crawl up from my neck to my face. “Well . . . yes. Didn’t you?”

“No.”

The blush deepened before I realized what that meant. I released his hand only to wallop him on the arm. “Oh, I get it! It’s just fine for you to kiss me silly, and make me spend far too long imagining just what you look like without your clothes on, and to have what amounts to an unhealthy obsession with your chin and mouth and that little spot behind your ears where your hair curls. That’s fine, but to make an honest woman out of me isn’t? You, sir, are a bastard! A great, big, hairy pustule of a bastard!”

“All that because I didn’t propose to you?” He shook his head as if in wonder.

“No, all that because evidently you believe I’m the sort of woman who goes around kissing men in dungeons, and holding their hands, and indulging in extremely smutty fantasies about them, but am not worthy so far as your family is concerned. Of all the self-righteous, bigoted—”

“Gwen,” he said, stopping me with a little laugh that had my hackles bristling. “Stop. I didn’t realize that you wanted to marry me.”

“I don’t!” I was quick to say.

“And yet you are upset that I didn’t ask you?” He put a finger under my chin and tipped my face (filled with embarrassment) up so he could better torment me by looking at me with eyes that were the color of expensive blue topazes. “I meant no insult,
dulcea mea
.”

“Stop calling me that,” I said irritably. “I’m not your sweet.”

“Ah, but you are,” he said in that complacent manner that was starting to annoy me. I’ve always hated it when people remain calm while I’m all riled up. How dare he not be emotional, too! “Or at least, I’d like you to think you are.”

I reeled back, sure that he had just insulted me again, but he grabbed my arm and pulled me out of the way of another passing herd of tourists. “Do not say whatever biting thing you are about to say. I did not mean to give insult to you. I simply meant that I would like you to be my sweetheart.”

“But not enough to marry me,” I snapped and jerked my arm from his grasp, still incensed.

He sighed. “Do you want to marry me?”

“No! Of course not! I don’t even know you, and I’m sure that when I do know you, I won’t want to because I will have found out that you’re the most irritating, frustrating, heinous man alive.”

“Heinous?” He looked thoughtful. “I suppose there are worse things to be called. No, do not flare up at me again. As it happens, I agree with you.”

I stopped thinking about punching him on his formerly abused nose. “You do?”

“Yes. I prefer having some sort of a relationship established with a woman before I engage in sexual acts. I’ve lived long enough to know the difference between a casual relationship and one that holds the promise of an eternity spent in bliss. So you see, about that we are of one mind.”

“Oh?” I eyed him. “Just how old are you that you have achieved this state of wisdom?”

“Sixty-four.”

My eyes widened. “You’re what?”

“I was born in 1949. I am the youngest of all my cousins, although not the youngest of the entire family. Several of my cousins have reproduced.”

“Great. I’m older than you.”

“Really? You look the same age as me, but admittedly that is common amongst members of the Otherworld. Would you smite me if I were to ask how old you are?”

“I was born in 1888. Lovely. Now I can’t date you even if I could get past your family’s massive prejudice against non-Travellers.”

“I see nothing that would prohibit us from having a relationship just because you were born almost fifty years before me. It matters little to our kind, after all.” He paused, looked surprised, then continued. “You are serious, are you not?”

“Yes. People would say I was a cradle robber. I’m fifty years older than you, Gregory!”

“You look like you’re age thirty at most.”

“Thank you, but the fact remains that I’m a hundred and twenty-five, and you’re just a baby!”

A roguish twinkle filled his pretty eyes. “If I told you that I liked older women—”

“I’d punch you on your nose and break it again,” I said, waving a fist at him.

He laughed and grabbed my hand, then to my utter surprise, pulled me up tight against his chest and said, “You are delightful, do you know that? You always seem to say exactly the opposite of what I’m expecting.”

I opened my mouth to tell him to unhand me in front of all the tourists and workpeople who trotted about doing their daily chores when his mouth settled on mine with a possessiveness that simultaneously annoyed me (I wasn’t an object to be possessive about!) and thrilled me to my toes (dear god and goddess, the man had to be the world’s best kisser).

His mouth teased mine, coerced mine, pleaded with mine to yield to his. And of course, it did, allowing his tongue entrance, where it swanned around the place like it owned it. I wanted to be irritated about that, but I was too busy clutching his shoulders to keep from swooning. And then when he made a little noise in the back of his throat, the softest little exhalation of pure pleasure, I melted, my fingers sliding through his golden hair as I pressed myself against him in a shameless manner that my breasts and thighs and female parts wholly embraced. I touched my tongue to his, and melted even more, uncaring that we were snogging in full view of anyone who glanced our way. The sounds of tittering and electronic beeps and clicks indicated that the tourists had returned, but not even the thought of them brought sanity to me.

“OK,” I admitted when I managed to peel my mouth from his. “You win the award for kissing.”

“Oddly, I was just thinking the same thing about you.” His eyes were soft and somewhat smoky with what I recognized was purest desire.

A rush of feminine knowledge swept over me, making me very aware of all the differences between us. “You’re so hard,” I couldn’t help but say when I swept my hands down his shoulders to his biceps.

“Extremely so, to the point that it’s going to be painful to walk.”

I couldn’t help a little wiggle that had him groaning and clutching at my hips. “And if you do that again, I may very well throw all my much-lauded manners to the wind and haul you onto the nearest bale of hay, where I will ravish you as you deserve.”

I would be lying if I said I didn’t, for at least two minutes, consider letting him do just that, but at long last, better judgment won out and I managed to get my raging hormones under control.

Gregory had used the time I was doing so to speak to a young boy who was scooping up grain and pouring it into a metal bucket. The lad disappeared into the stable and returned with a blond woman with jagged cropped hair.

“I’m Clarence, the chief groom.”

“Clarice?” Gregory asked.

She studied him. “Do I
look
like a Clarice?”

“Well—”

“My name is Clarence. Just Clarence. You are the spy Lord Aaron told me about?”

“Thief. I’m a thief, not a spy.”

She made a “same difference” sort of gesture and snapped an order at the bucket boy. “I’m to give you and your woman horses. How well do you ride?”

Gregory hesitated. “I’ve been on a horse,” he said slowly.

“
Tch.
I’ll give you Old Mabel. You’d have to be an imbecile to disturb her. And you?”

“When I was growing up, I attended all the local hunt meets,” I said with quiet pride.

“You hunted?” Gregory asked, puzzled. “You don’t strike me as the type who goes in for blood sports.”

I smiled demurely. “I rode on behalf of the foxes, actually. As an alchemist, one of the first things I learned to make was a fox scent that fooled all the hounds. After a few decades of without so much as a single fox appearing, the meet broke up.”

“A job well done,” Gregory said, approval shining in his eyes.

Clarence entered into the stable, saying over her shoulder, “As you’ve riding experience, we’ll let you have Bottom.”

Gregory and I followed her into the dark confines of the stable. The delicious odors of alfalfa, horse, and saddle soap mingled and made me think of days long gone when I’d ridden to and fro over the countryside, sending the mortals and their dogs on all sorts of wild-goose hunts. “Why on earth do you call the horse Bottom?”

A horse’s head snapped up at the nearest stall, his eyes wide, and his nostrils flared as he took in our scent. He bared his teeth and let loose with a whinny that just about deafened me.

“I have a nasty suspicion as to the identity of that horse,” I told Gregory.

He shuddered. “I can say with all honesty that I am sincerely grateful for Old Mabel.”

Clarence strode past us, unlatching the stall. Gregory and I backed up as the horse, black as midnight, charged out, hooves flashing, ears flicking forward and back, and eyes rolling in his head as Clarence caught him by the halter and cuffed him affectionately on the shoulder. “Aye, you old murderer. You’re going to have a nice long run, aren’t you?”