The Loved and the Lost (29 page)

Parmatheon was now at the bottom of the hill and being slapped hard by the captain. The 24
^th
-century functionary fell to his knees and Hansum heard him cry out in Earth Common. He watched the younger Hansum and Lincoln look startled when they heard him talking in their native tongue and then quickly come to intervene.

‘Now what should I do?' the older Hansum thought. ‘This was supposed to be a recon mission and things have changed already.' Bile rose into his mouth, but his training kicked in and he swallowed it down. “Get to it,” he said out loud, and began jogging, out of phase, down the hill. As he did he turned toward where he knew Feltrino and his men had been hiding. Would they still attack? Were they fleeing? ‘What can go wrong next?'

By the time Hansum got to the bottom of the hill, Parmatheon was surrounded by the entire cannon crew. Lieutenant Raguso was looking down at the scene from his horse and the captain was leaning menacingly over the terrified man, screaming in Italian.

“Where are you from? The Este? Florence? Tell me or I'll flay you!” he demanded while holding a knife to the terrified man's neck. Parmatheon screamed shrilly, and the surrounding men wrinkled their noses. Their prisoner had soiled himself.

The younger Hansum, with Lincoln by his side, stepped forward and put a hand on the captain's arm.

“Allow me, Captain,” Hansum said in Italian, and he knelt down, putting his hand to his language node and touching it discreetly. “Where are you from?” he asked in Earth Common.

“Why, you're . . . I just saw you up there . . .”

The younger Lincoln, in his kettle helmet and chainmail, knelt down too. “Look how he's dressed. He's from our time,” he said in Earth Common. “Maybe they've come to rescue us.”

“Well, have you?” Hansum asked.

“I'm not supposed to tell. . . I might change the . . . oh this is more complicated than I . . . I didn't truly understand . . .”

“What's he saying?” the captain demanded in Italian. “Who's he working for?”

“He's from our home country,” Hansum lied. “I think he was alone, just lost in the woods, trying to make it from one city to the other.”

“There are signs of others in the wood,” Lieutenant Raguso said from his saddle. “My men are searching for them.”

“Alone, eh,” the captain scoffed. “Call all the men and scour the woods!” he shouted. “There are spies about. Take this one to the Podesta. We'll find out what he knows.”

Parmatheon was grabbed by several more soldiers and yelped as they started dragging him toward the manor house. The younger Lincoln took hold of the older man's arm, looking like he was helping guard him.

“Where and when are you from, pally?” Lincoln whispered in Earth Common.

Parmatheon looked at him with wide eyes.

“I . . . I can't tell,” he said pathetically. “I'm, I'm not supposed to . . . Oh dear. What are they going to do to me?”

“They're probably going to stick a pike up your . . .”

“I think this is Master Calabreezi's carriage,” Shamira said. She, Kingsley, Lincoln and Medeea had just site transported to the front of the della Cappa home. “This is when he came and we found out the Podesta had hired Devlena to poison Guil.”

“Good Gia,” Kingsley said. “I just can't get my head around poisoning someone.”

“It wasn't that uncommon among nobles,” Sideways put in, “and with their primitive knowledge of chemistry, it was hard to guard against.”

The door to the house opened and Master Calabreezi walked out, closely followed by Agistino and a younger Shamira. She was in her kitchen-girl clothes, including a veil covering her hair. A very solemn Calabreezi turned and took Master della Cappa's hand.

“Remember, my friend,” Calabreezi advised, “We must not mention the fact we have discovered Devlena is working on behalf of the Podesta, or that I was even here. The safety of both our families depends on it.”

“You have my word, Master Calabreezi,” a somber Agistino answered, crossing himself to seal his oath.

“And you, Carmella,” Calabreezi said to the younger Shamira. “If you still think it absolutely necessary, write your note to Romero and take it to the courier I suggested. And when all this settles down, I shall introduce you to some fresco masters. Your talents must be put to better use.”

“I look forward to meeting you again, Master,” the younger Shamira answered.

“Farewell then,” Calabreezi said.

The older Shamira and the others watched as Master della Cappa and the younger Shamira went back into the house.

“Amazing, Sham,” Kingsley said, “Master Calabreezi thought you were good enough to put you in the circles of church painters.”

“It was the first and last time I ever met him. He's going to die in a few hours of a heart attack.”

“Okay, back at it,” Lincoln said. “Medeea and I will check on Guil. You two, young Shamira, the Signora and Master.”

They walked through the door into the house. The younger Shamira was already sitting at the table, writing her note. Master della Cappa was almost up the steps, going to his girls.

“I'll watch here for a minute,” Shamira said while Lincoln and Medeea followed the Master.

Kingsley went over and leaned close to the younger Shamira. The older one went to the other side of herself and looked at Kingsley, who had a big grin on his face.

“When I was a kid and saw you dressed like this, I had such a crush on you.”

“You like the younger girls, do you?” Shamira teased.

“I was ten, so you were an older woman,” he replied, and then put his hand where the younger Shamira's cheek was. It went right through. She scratched an itch.

“I'm going to marry you, little girl,” Kingsley said.

Lincoln and Medeea were in the doorway to Guilietta's sickroom, watching Master della Cappa standing over his sleeping daughter. The family had just found out the truth about Guilietta being poisoned and then saved by her mother's delusion of the Archangel Michael. Agistino was standing, head bowed and face buried in his hands, reciting his Hail Marys. His hands lowered and he stared at his daughter, tears accentuating a look of wonder in his eyes. It was the look of a man appreciating something he had taken for granted — the life of his child.

“I must attend to your saintly mother,” Agistino said to his sleeping daughter. “She sleeps in the other room. I fear I have much to make up to her.” As the contrite husband turned to the door, Lincoln felt as if Agistino's eyes looked right into his.

“We're here to save them, Master,” Lincoln said, and the old man walked right through his former apprentice.

As Lincoln and Medeea turned to watch the Master go to the other bedroom, Kingsley and Shamira were coming up the stairs.

“Nothing seems to be changed here,” Lincoln said. “No anomalies, as far as I can tell.”

“My younger self just took the letter to the courier with Bembo,” Shamira reported. “That's the same as it was before too. We'll sit with the Master and Signora for a bit, to check on them.”

“If you get a chance with the Signora alone, try to take her out of phase,” Lincoln said. “If you can, that should mean we've found a nexus point. We'll do the same with Guil.”

“Right,” Shamira answered.

“Lincoln and I shall walk around the neighborhood, checking for anything untoward,” Sideways added. “Then I shall return to Master Hansum. Darn it all, this is much less efficient than having hundreds of cameras.”

“It's the best we can do,” Lincoln said pragmatically. “C'mon. Let's go.”

After walking around the neighborhood, Lincoln and Medeea returned to Guilietta's room. Sideways transported back to Hansum. The sleeping Guilietta had a small smile on her lips.

“Maybe it's because Master Calabreezi told her she'd recover,” Lincoln mused.

“I bet it's because a note's been sent to Hansum, telling him to come home right away,”
Medeea countered.

“Could be. I'll try to bring her out of phase,” Lincoln thought, and he opened up a small portal and reached through. “No luck,” he grimaced.

Guilietta became restless, running her tongue over her parched lips.

“She looks thirsty,” Lincoln said to Medeea. “Should I pour her some water, for when she wakes?”

Medeea looked over at Lincoln, her impish, sixteen-year-old face grinning at him.

“Okay. But let's put a drop of me in her too. I'd like to get to know her. And then you can be in her head too.”

“Naw. You go ahead, but don't connect me,” Lincoln replied. “Guil's like a sister to me. It would be too weird.” Lincoln tapped his node and created a small portal. Then he reached through and poured some water from the jug on the table into a wooden cup. “How can we get her to wake up and drink without seeing us?” he asked.

“Don't put me into the water.”
Medeea thought back. “
Just let a drop fall on her lips and I'll enter through the skin. I'll use my powers of suggestion to have her wake up and take a drink.”
Lincoln took out Medeea's tear vessel and held it carefully over Guilietta's mouth. As the single drop fell between her slightly parted lips, he gingerly pulled his hand back and snapped his fingers, making the portal disappear. Guilietta moved her head as the liquid touched her tongue.
“Ah,”
Medeea said, smiling as she read the sleeping girl's mind.
“She really is a sweet person. Oh, but she's tougher than she lets on. I'd love to get to know . . .”
but before she could finish the sentence, Medeea's eyes went wide.

“What is it?” Lincoln started to ask, but then he saw what Medeea did.

“Guilietta. She's . . . pregnant.”

The out-of-phase Hansum followed as the soldiers manhandled Parmatheon into the planning room and started working on him in earnest. The once-haughty bureaucrat was tied to the same chair Hansum had seen Master Bernarius trussed up in before Podesta della Scalla ordered him killed. Parmatheon's shirt was stripped off and they were about to slash his chest to make him speak. Podesta della Scalla was standing next to the captain and several other soldiers. General Chavelerio had taken over screaming in Parmatheon's face.

“Stop pretending you don't understand what we are saying,” he shouted, spittle flying on to the bound prisoner. The tip of his dagger was already pressed onto Parmatheon's chest and a trickle of blood was running down his front. The general looked to the Podesta, asking permission to proceed with the torture. Mastino nodded.

“Excellency,” the younger Hansum interrupted. “Before you do this, allow me to talk with him. We speak the same dialect.”

“Very well. General,” Mastino said.

Everyone stepped back as the young savant took another chair and sat before Parmatheon. Making like he was straightening his brown hat, he pressed the language node again. Parmatheon's jaw was trembling in terror.

“So, what are you doing here?” Hansum asked. “You'd better tell me so I can figure out a way for all of us to get back home, you with your skin.”

Parmatheon could barely get words out. When he did, he stammered. “It, it, it . . . it looked so simple . . . to make de . . . decisions . . . f, f, from, from a seat on . . . on the Council.” The captain kicked the chair and the prisoner yelped.

Hansum held up a hand to ask the captain to refrain. “What Council?” Hansum asked.

“The, the . . . the History Camp Time Travel Council.”

The younger Hansum looked confused, as did Lincoln.

The out-of-phase older Hansum realized his younger self had been sent back before the announcement that the 24
^th
-century scientists had already discovered rudimentary time travel and were secretly working with the people from the future. The younger Hansum looked back at Parmatheon.