The Time Tutor (6 page)

Stan was staring up at him, and there was only a modicum of fear in his eyes, dammit. When had Dar lost the ability to be terrifying?

“Well, Stan? Are you going to answer me? Do you think I teach you because the milk of human kindness runs through my veins?”

“Yes?”

“No.” Dar sighed. “The answer is no. I don't particularly want you, Stan, Stan the Madrigal Man, hopping around like a toad between eras. I don't give a tinker's damn about your sex life. All I care about, Stan, is learning more about the talent, and keeping it going, and keeping it free, and spitting in the eye of the Guild. That's why I teach anyone who asks. That's why I keep no secrets about time travel from people with the talent. I'm sorry my pedagogy failed you.” He made his grandest, most earl-like bow, sweeping the top hat from his head. “Pray forgive me.” He replaced the hat at a cocky angle. “And now, I intend to go dancing, without you, unless you have something to teach me that I don't already know—” Dar stopped talking.

He stared at Stan.

Holy Mary, mother of God.

“What?” Stan stared back. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Something I don't already know,” Dar said musingly. “Unless you can teach me . . .”

“Are you all right, professor?”

Dar clapped his hands once, and thumped himself down next to Stan on the sphinx bench. He put his arm around the little man. “Stan,” he said, stretching his legs out and looking up at the moon, “you're a weird little nubbin of a chap. You're not the usual time traveler.” He slid his gaze from the moon to Stan's face. “Here it comes, Stan. The awful truth. You aren't empathetic.”

“I am empathetic!”

“Get up. Walk with me. I'm thinking, and I need to move my legs.” Dar was up from the bench and off down the Embankment. “Where was I?” He tossed his cane from hand to hand.

“I'm not empathetic,” Stan said, trotting at his side once again.

“That's right. You aren't empathetic. You couldn't tell that you were hurting my feelings when you criticized my teaching. You drank all my precious whiskey, given to me personally by a king.”

“You offered it to me.”

“Exactly. And you had no idea that you made an ass of yourself when you guzzled all of it. Which is fine. Most people are rude. What's weird about you is that you are rude
and
a time traveler.”

“I'd say you're the one being rude, Dar. I'm not a pick . . . a pick . . .”

“A picksome fatwit, Stan. Yes, you are. Time travelers are usually so finely tuned to human emotions that they—” Dar stopped in his tracks, and Stan bumped into him.

“They what?”

Dar stared at the Westminster Bridge and Big Ben behind it. “Finely tuned!” He turned to Stan. “Your problem is, you can only jump when you're following someone, or when you're with someone else. You can direct the jump, but you can't initiate it, is that right?”

“That's right.”

“Who's been jumping with you?”

“Gulisa, that Kurdish girl. She was singing with us tonight.”

“Oh really? Are you lovers?”

Stan's eyes flew wide. “She doesn't even like me!”

“She'll jump experimentally around in the River of Time with you, but she doesn't like you.”

“I don't know?” Stan cast a hopeful little smile up at Dar.

“Exactly. If you were the usual kind of time traveler you would know, because you would be so
finely tuned
to other people that you could practically hear her desire for you, whispering sweet little words in your ear. But you're not finely tuned at all.” Dar smiled up into the night sky. “Stan, you are a musician. And you use other time travelers like
finely tuned
instruments. You use their feelings, feelings you can't read yourself. Stan, thank you. You have opened my eyes tonight.”

“That's fine for you,” Stan muttered. “But I have no idea what you're talking about. Are you or are you not going to be able to teach me to jump?”

“My friend,” Dar said, snuggling the other man close under one arm and strolling along, “you are never going to be able to jump on your own. Just like with your music. Your forte is making other people's passions come to life. You enhance them, swell them. Let's do it together, now. I want to feel your talent. I want to finally learn something from you. Tell me how you do it with Gulisa.”

“It's just like when you jump with someone normally, except then you are just dragging them along, like baggage. This time you have to feel what I want you to do and get in tune with it.”

“Yes, I do that when I'm teaching. And then I encourage them to jump, and to take me with them.”

“But this time you're going to do the jumping, on the back of their intention,” Stan said. “Take my hand.” He was suddenly all confidence. “It's best if you're skin-to-skin. You just hold on, and when you feel me . . . Gulisa says it's like jazz. Like coming in on a syncopated rhythm and taking the solo. So when you feel my rhythm, you just . . . join in and push me forward. You add your urge.”

“That sounds a little racy, Stan, I don't know . . .” But Dar's words died in his throat. The connection between himself and the Madrigal Man stunned him. It was like an electric current through his blood. For a split second, Dar wondered what it meant to “push.” But then his talent took over, and hurled his full intention toward what he felt coming from the Madrigal Man. The force of their combined talent sent the two of them rocketing out of 1923 and into the River of Time, with a power Dar had never before dreamed possible.

 • • • 

Hannelore came toward Bertrand and Alva and gathered them up on either side of her, her arms around their waists. “My beauties,” she said, “the time has come.”

Alva and Bertrand's eyes met briefly. Bertrand looked surprisingly calm. How did he manage it? Alva was bursting with what she had learned from Ed but now could not say. And she was reeling from the knowledge that Hannelore had played her against Bertrand, and vice versa, accusing them both of spying. But Bertrand, the spy, was calm. Perhaps Bertrand was more grown-up than she had thought. She held on to that hope.

“The time has come for what?” Bertrand sounded as lighthearted as a child expecting candy.

“Why, for your test, my parrot.” Hannelore walked them over to the chairs arranged before the fire. She directed Bertrand to an armchair, and settled herself next to Alva on the settee, taking her hand and keeping it firmly in her grasp. “Several days ago I told you that there was an Ofan spy, secreted at the heart of the Guild like a worm in a bud.” She looked brightly from Bertrand to Alva. “And now I want to know. Who is he? Or she? Surely you have news for me, my brightest, highest fliers.”

Silence.

Alva found she could not speak even if she wanted to, and as for Bertrand, he was lounging in his seat, smiling as if this were nothing more than Hannelore's usual playful banter.

“Come, come,” Hannelore said. “At least tell me how you have been pursuing your leads.”

“Our leads? What leads?” Bertrand asked. “All you told us was to find a spy. We have been operating without any other information.”

“Bertrand.” Hannelore wagged a finger at him playfully. “Do not pretend to have forgotten the hint I gave, only to you.”

Bertrand opened his eyes very wide, and then he laughed. “Hannelore, you cannot be serious. About how you told each of us that the other was the spy? Why, Alva and I have been chuckling about it for days. We took it as a grand joke!”

As if from a distance, Alva heard herself join in. “Yes,” she said, in the lightest possible tone. “We thought it such a good jest. As if either of us could possibly betray you.”

Beside her, Hannelore stiffened. Alva held her breath, but kept her smile. Had she gone too far with the happy, innocent act? Time seemed to slow down, and the air seemed to thicken around them. Alva thought she would burst, but Bertrand looked as fresh as cream, his smile natural. He had one leg crossed over the other, and his foot tapped time, carefree. Alva held on to that rhythm as she waited for Hannelore's response.

When it came, it came fast. The old woman was on her feet before the fire, staring into it. Then she turned, and fixed first Bertrand and then Alva with her gaze. “You are lying,” she said. “Both of you. I heard you talking just before I came in. You only just told one another of my little trick.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “Do not lie to me again, unless you want to watch my love for you turn to cinders. Which of you is the Ofan's filthy sneak? Tell me, now!”

Alva felt something—power? confidence?—surge through her, and she found herself standing. “Neither of us,” she said, keeping her eyes steady on Hannelore. “Neither of us is spying, Hannelore, and moreover, you know it. You are asking one of us to betray the other but I don't know why you would wish to see such a thing—two people who love you so well, destroying one another.”

Bertrand chimed in, and Alva realized that he had stood, as well. “You will not see it today, Hannelore. Alva is not a spy. Neither am I. We are dedicated to you, and we are also dedicated to one another.” Alva felt him take her hand. “I want you to be the first to wish us happy. Alva has agreed to become my wife.”

Hannelore's eyebrows flew high. “Alva, is this true?”

Alva's tongue dried in her mouth. She felt Bertrand squeeze her fingers, and she had to fight to keep herself from tearing her hand from his. “Yes,” she said firmly. “Yes, I love Bertrand and I love you.” The lies slipped from her tongue, smooth as serpents. “I hope you will give us your blessing.” And she bowed her head.

A long silence, the fire crackling, and her hand growing clammy in Bertrand's. With her eyes downcast, Alva could see only the skirt of Hannelore's burgundy gown, and the ends of Hannelore's fingers. After what seemed like an endless pause, she heard Hannelore let out a long, hissing breath. “Children,” she said, and she sounded suddenly very old. “Children, come to my arms. Of course you have my blessing. Please. Please come.” Alva raised her head, and saw that tears stood in the Alderwoman's eyes. Hannelore held out her arms. Bertrand tugged on Alva's hand and the two of them stepped forward into Hannelore's embrace. She hugged them tightly to her, so that their heads were pressed on either side to her cheeks. “I am sorry to have pushed you to the edge,” she murmured. “My brave eagles! You have passed the test, my darlings. Passed it like champions. I am an old woman and I need successors. For twenty years I have searched in vain.” She held them away from her now, at arm's length, and smiled at each of them through her tears. “You have both proven yourselves worthy. And you may now—yes, this very moment—you may now begin your lessons in the great powers of time control.”

 • • • 

Dar delivered Stan back to the Transporter and to Gulisa. She was a nerdy but perfectly lovely young woman, and the smile she bent on Stan was proof of the adage of Dar's dear old nurse, wielded whenever she discussed the marriage of the sublimely elegant housekeeper to the one-eyed, stuttering head gardener: “There's someone for everyone.”

Extricating himself from the now far more boisterous atmosphere in the Transporter, he made his way through the streets of eighteenth-century London in a daze. A new manifestation of the talent, in the unprepossessing form of Stan, Stan the Madrigal Man. And a new and stunning possibility—that the talent could be made stronger if shared between two or perhaps even more people. How much stronger?

“One hundred and sixty million horsepower,” he said out loud.

“Excuse me, m'lord?”

“That's how much it will take to send the
Saturn V
to the moon in 1969.”

“Very good, sir . . . but if I may draw your attention to your attire . . .”

Dar blinked, and the face of Neville, his butler-cum-valet, swam into view. He looked around. He was home, standing in the foyer of Dar House, his Grosvenor Square mansion. “My attire? But I'm immaculate!”

Neville's eye slid with viscous judgment from Dar's face to his outstretched hand.

Dar glanced down to see that, fresh from a stroll through Georgian London, he was holding out his twentieth-century top hat and his twentieth-century tuxedo jacket to his eighteenth-century servant. “Bollocks,” he said quietly. “Big hairy bollocks on a plate.”

Neville took the hat between thumb and forefinger. “Indeed, sir.”

“But no one seemed to take alarm. Perhaps they thought I was some kind of foreign priest.”

“Let us hope so, sir. It is unlike you to make such a . . .” The man petered out.

“Such an ass of myself, Neville? Thank you. I shall take that as a compliment. Now I need bed. And brandy. And a bath. Not in that order.”

“Yes, sir.”

 • • • 

Alva had never yet entered the old guildhall, around which the sprawling Guild mansion was built. The door was one plane of smooth, bright metal. Hannelore spent a moment pressing buttons on what must have been an extremely complicated lock. After a moment something clicked, and the door swung in to reveal a dark Norman chamber dimly lit by an enormous, bulbous glass chandelier hanging from the center of the vaulted ceiling. The room was cold and entirely devoid of furniture, except for one silver chair at the far end. The sight of it made Alva's breath come quickly; Ed had already described it to her. She looked away and saw that the floor of the chamber was an intricate Roman mosaic of a naked man wrestling with serpents.

Bertrand walked forward, toward the silver chair. He lifted it, easily, with one hand. Alva gasped—it was clearly lighter even than a wooden chair. Not silver at all.

“It is made of a material called stainless steel, my dear, from the future,” Hannelore said. “And if you are very good, I may train you to go to that future.”