Debt of Ages (6 page)

Sarnac nodded. He was still readjusting to the consequences of time travel. And he noted that Artorius seemed no older than he remembered.
Well, with the kind of medical science Tylar's people must have . . . and of course anybody looks younger clean-shaven than with a beard. . . .

"It must have been a hell of an adjustment for you," he suggested to the former High King of the Britons.

"It was all of that," Artorius agreed with the emphatic nod that Sarnac recalled. The shadow of a wind-blown cloud seemed to cross the strongly marked features. "At first it was like a continuation of the delirium. Afterwards . . . I can't tell you what it was like, because I can't clearly remember myself. It would have been worse, I think, if I'd been taken directly into
your
world. There would have been just enough that was, if not familiar, at least comprehensible, to make the rest seem
wrong
. And the wrongness might have driven me mad. But in
his
world, where
everything
is beyond dreams, I could just . . . let go, and accept things as I found them."

"Yes," Tylar nodded. "
You
could. Not everyone would have been so resilient. In this, too, you lived up to our expectations. I for one wasn't surprised in the least at your subsequent success in the field."

"Well," Artorius said easily, "I've tried to do well by you, for I owe you a debt. Not just for saving my life, but for giving me a new one, one which is . . ." For the first time since Sarnac had known him—in any century—he was at a loss for words. "The things I've seen," he finally half-whispered.

"I can certainly vouch for how good you are," Sarnac said. "Your performance as my ops officer . . . well!" He paused for a moment while they all partook of the wine. "Satisfy my curiosity about something. When did you tumble to me?"

Artorius raised one dark brow. "Tumble . . . ?"

"Maybe you don't remember it clearly, but at the end you told me you knew I wasn't just a simple merc. How long had you known? And what gave me away?"

For a moment their eyes held each other, and Sarnac remembered those same eyes staring out of a blood-stained face while the dying High King whispered,
"Bedwyr, I know you're not what you claim to be, though I know not what you really are—nor do I wish to know, for I believe that knowledge lies beyond the proper ken of mortals."

"There had been a lot of little things," Artorius finally answered. "But what finally convinced me was the exchange we had just before the army set out from Bourges. It was obvious that you knew more than you were telling. You wanted to persuade me not to advance into Berry without waiting for reinforcements from Soissons, but you couldn't say so openly. It kept nagging at me. And, of course, when your unspoken prophecy came true . . ." He let his voice trail off with a shrug.

Sarnac remembered very well that spring morning in Bourges, looking up into the face of the man he must watch be destroyed as history required. The forbidden hint had been out of his mouth before he could shut it.

"Artorius," he asked softly, "have you ever wished, in the years since then, that you could just say to hell with history and go back to that morning and act on my not-quite-advice? Wait inside the walls of Bourges for the Romans and Franks, then go out and kick the Visigoths' butts . . ."

"No!" The vehemence rocked Sarnac physically back in his chair, and he saw in that face what many others had seen above a shield-rim across a battlefield, though far fewer had lived to remember seeing it. And then Artorius's smile was like the sun breaking through thunderclouds. "Sorry, old man, but you're talking about things that mustn't even be spoken of. Besides, I've learned a lot about history since then, and I know what a calamity it would have been if I had succeeded."

"Yes," Sarnac nodded. "Tylar explained it to me and Tiraena. In defeat you bequeathed the emerging Western culture a legend that helped give it shape. If you had won . . ."

"It wasn't comfortable knowledge, I can tell you! But Tylar helped me to become reconciled to it, to realize that all I had done hadn't been in vain or worse." Artorius smiled again. "I understand you tried to do the same for Kai. Good old Kai! That's something else I meant to thank you for."

"Well," Sarnac said uncomfortably, "he was a friend. It was the least I could do. I imagine I broke some rules," he added with a glance at Tylar, "but it didn't matter. I doubt if he understood a word I was saying."

"That's usually the way it is," Tylar acknowledged. "He took the parts he
did
grasp back to Britain with him, and they entered into the legend as was intended. That, too, is usually the way it is. However, I'm glad you've raised the point, because it's closely related to the reason I've brought you here again and restored your memories."

"Oh, yeah; I'd almost forgotten, in all this . . ." Sarnac waved vaguely in Artorius's direction. "So tell me about this 'obligation' or 'debt' of mine."

"Well, it's rather complicated . . ."

"Things generally are, with you," Sarnac interjected drily.

". . . so let me begin at the beginning. You recall my little lecture to you and Tiraena on my people's experiences with time travel and the various theories we'd developed and then discarded concerning the nature of reality and the potential effect of time travellers upon it?" Sarnac nodded, and Tylar resumed, clearly uncomfortable. "Well, it turns out that our most recent theory still needs some fine-tuning."

* * *

An awkward moment passed as Sarnac waited for an explanation of that statement, so fraught with disturbing implications. When none was forthcoming, he broke the silence. "You mean that time travellers can't affect history at certain critical times after all? But Tylar, that would invalidate the whole rationale for your people's policing of the past. . . ."

"Oh, no," the time traveller cut in emphatically, seeming to look around for something to mop his brow with as he waved away Sarnac's near-obscene suggestion. "Absolutely not! That's not what I mean.
That
aspect of the theory is still good. As I explained to you and Tiraena, throughout most of history reality possesses a very strong 'fabric,' impervious to being 'torn' even by seemingly brutal applications of force." He shifted into discursive mode. "Remember I mentioned that we have research tools beyond your understanding, whereby we can extrapolate the outcomes of theoretical interventions in history? Well, we used these methods to plot out one of the favorite daydreams of early time-travel theorists: going back and killing Adolph Hitler in his cradle. You'd be surprised how little would have changed. The Germans of the post-World War I era would have found somebody else like him. Likewise, doing the same to the infant Christopher Columbus would accomplish little except to satisfy certain American Indian revanchists. The European discovery of America around that time was inevitable. Oh, some unimportant things would have been different; the Spanish language might have become less widespread, Portuguese and Dutch perhaps more so. But the Native American societies were doomed."

"At the same time," Sarnac said, in an effort to get Tylar back on track, "you told us that at certain points history has a weak, frayed 'fabric' that can be torn with minimum effort. You indicated that Artorius's Gallic campaign that we were mixed up in was one of those points in history."

"Indeed it was. History was at a turning point, and its momentum could have been deflected by the lightest touch and sent careening off onto a whole new course."

"But it
wasn't
," Sarnac stated. "Your policing operation was a complete success, wasn't it? You told us as much. So what's the big deal?"

"Well, it seems that some areas of 'weak fabric' in the historical tapestry are even weaker than others, and that your conversation with Artorius in Bourges represented a moment of extraordinary—perhaps unique—weakness. Our theorists don't understand why—there's
so
much we don't understand!—but evidently reality can only tolerate that degree of instability for the briefest instant; it only lasted a few seconds after you spoke to Artorius, while he wavered. But for that moment in time, the future teetered on a knife-edge!"

"Scary," Sarnac admitted. "But, again, so what? The moment passed, Artorius decided as history said he did, and that was that. 'God's in his heaven, all's right with the world.' "

"Well . . . yes and no. You see, the discovery of that area of unprecedentedly weak 'fabric' led us to the realization that our theories held the flaw to which I alluded earlier." He seemed to gather himself. "Remember my mentioning that 'branches of time' are fantasy, and that any given act can have but one outcome?"

"Yeah. Too bad; no 'parallel universes' with 'alternate histories.' I've always been a science-fiction fan—the classic stuff from the twentieth century—and they used to dream up some . . ." His voice came to a horrified halt. "Wait a minute, Tylar! Are you about to tell me that . . ."

"Oh, the theory is still good—under almost all circumstances. But it turns out that truly extreme weakness in the 'fabric' of reality does, after all, allow the same event to have multiple outcomes, all of equal mathematical validity. We'd never had occasion to become aware of this fact because we'd never encountered such conditions before. That moment with you and Artorius in Bourges may have been unique. I devoutly hope so." This time Tylar did mop his brow, using his sleeve.

"So you're saying," Sarnac continued faintly, "that there's an alternate reality in which Artorius decided, at that moment, not to deploy his forces into Berry? And that . . . ?"

"Yes." Tylar nodded. "And the resulting changes in history were at least as momentous as I had speculated."

"But," Sarnac continued, head spinning, "in that case there must be alternate versions of me and Tiraena! Or were, in the fifth century of this alternate universe, with God knows what happening to them!"

"By no means. The two of you, and I, ceased to exist in the alternate universe at the instant it branched off from our own. For in
that
universe, my people can never come into existence; the history that culminates in us is stillborn. Hence, there are no Raehaniv; we weren't there, thirty thousand years before your time, to plant their ancestors on Raehan."

"I imagine," Artorius put in, "the alternate Artorius wondered what had become of you."

Sarnac's head was starting to ache. "But, Tylar, how can you be sure of all this? How can you know about this alternate universe?"

"Because," Tylar answered gravely, "we've received a visitor from it. Or we
will
, that is, in the twenty-ninth century. He will come from the twenty-ninth century of his universe seeking help—for, to repeat, my fears concerning the consequences of a victory by our friend here turn out to have erred on the conservative side."

"Seeking help? You mean . . . ?" Sarnac didn't finish the question because he didn't really want to hear the answer. Tylar supplied it anyway.

"Yes. The Korvaasha. Remember, in the alternate universe there are no Raehaniv. Hence no Varien hle'Morna—and no technologically advanced civilization on twenty-first century Earth for him to have found even if he
had
existed."

Sarnac's head felt as though someone was driving a railroad spike upward between his left eyeball and the frontal bone. "Tylar, I think I can see where this is heading. You're going to say that
I'm
responsible for the existence of this alternate reality because I shot off my mouth to Artorius . . ."

"Not altogether. Not even primarily. As I admitted earlier, the principal fault is mine. If not for me, you wouldn't have been there in the fifth century at all. Nevertheless, to a certain extent you share my responsibility. Therefore," he continued, the inexplicable look of self-satisfaction back at full force, "instead of simply proceeding on my own—with Artorius's help, of course—to set things right, I came to this era first, to make you aware of your debt and enable you to pay it."

Sarnac wasn't even fully aware of his headache as he groped for a handihold on reality. "Uh, Tylar, let me make sure I'm clear on the situation. Our own history, in our own universe, came out okay, right?"

"Oh, certainly! As I explained . . ."

"Then," Sarnac pressed on, "whatever has happened, or is happening, or will happen in this alternate universe isn't
real
from our standpoint, is it? So, why should you or I feel this moral obligation? I mean, so what?"

The time traveller spoke in the puzzled tones of a man encountering unexpected difficulties in explaining the obvious. "You don't seem to understand, my dear fellow. In the context of its own metrical frame, the alternate universe is as 'real'—however one chooses to define the term—as our own. The historical development it has followed is an . . . abomination. A
wrongness
. The ethical responsibility borne by those who—however unwittingly—called it into being is, of course, intuitively clear to anyone of moral sensibility, regardless of cultural background." Artorius gave Sarnac a covert wink of commiseration. "So surely," Tylar continued, "you can see . . . can't you?" He seemed to deflate. "Well, perhaps it isn't as self-evident as I supposed. But surely you can at least see that the people of the alternate universe are as human as you or I, as capable of feeling pain. Surely you can grasp the reality of their tragedy. If nothing else, the one who has visited us should make their common humanity obvious."

"Oh, yeah," Sarnac temporized. "This visitor you mentioned. How can it be possible for him to be in our reality?"

"Why don't we let him explain that?" Tylar beamed.

"Huh? You mean he's here now?"

"Quite. I thought a little preparation would be in order before letting you meet him, so I asked him to wait." He drained his wineglass and rose to his feet. "Shall we go?"

Andreas Ducas was thirtyish, olive-complexioned, regular-featured, solidly-built, clad in a utilitarian one-piece garment on loan from Tylar. As he rose to greet them in the lakeside pavilion, Sarnac couldn't avoid the irrational feeling that someone from the future of an alternate timeline ought to have something just a little bit out of the ordinary in his appearance. But Andreas didn't.