The Art of Stealing Time

“Well, enjoy. You wouldn’t happen to know where I can take a bath, would you?” I rubbed my arms. Even through the mail, my skin felt dirty.

“Ladies have baths in their tents. The men use the stream.” He got to his feet, cheeks stuffed, chipmunk- style, with food. Little bits of rice flew out as he said indistinctly, “I’ll fetch it for you.”

“That would be lovely, thank you.” I entered the tent and began to unhook all the armor and mail strapped to my body, wondering where Gregory was and whether he would manage to find me before the night was over.

I certainly hoped so. I had many things to tell him . . . and more things to do to him.

THIRTEEN

Gregory Faa was a man annoyed. Again.

“Faugh,” he said as he shook his cell phone, then swore under his breath. He’d never been the sort of man who said “faugh,” and yet there he was, standing in the middle of the Welsh afterlife, saying not only words like “faugh,” but coming perilously close to adding a tch!

“And I’ll be damned if I turn into the sort of man who tches at the drop of the hat,” he growled to his phone, and shook it again as if that would make it function. “Connect, damn you!”

The notification across the screen remained NO SIGNAL for most of the time, but once in a while, CONNECTING TO NETWORK would tantalize him, only to immediately return to the previous state. Damn it, he had hoped the king had been exaggerating the isolation of Anwyn from modern computer networks. Reluctantly, he gave up the idea of trying to contact his cousin to find out what was going on in the real world.

“Peter’ll have me drawn and quartered for staying here,” he muttered to himself, guilt making his skin itch in an irritating manner. He emerged from the edge of a forest to consider the scene spread out in front of him. To the left, across the stream, lay Aaron’s encampment. Even now Gwen was probably busily being kitted out to do her warrior thing.

He smiled at the thought of her reluctance to fight anyone, then became distracted—and aroused—at the idea of stripping armor off her one piece at a time. When he was down to nothing but her bikini underwear, he shook himself, told his erection to relax and hold on until that evening when he could allow it free rein with Gwen’s lady parts, and tried to make a plan of action.

He sat down with his back against a tree while he planned, and woke up some time later to find the sun slanting across the sky at an angle that indicated early-evening hours.

“That’s what I get for staying awake the night before watching over Gwen,” he told himself sternly, and deciding that he’d wasted enough time, he marched into the camp of Aaron’s enemy.

“I’m looking for Amaethon,” he said, stopping the first person he saw.

“Lord Ethan always swims before supper,” the young woman told him, nodding to his right. Through the tents, he could see a glimmer of water, probably a pond.

He thought of Gwen in the lake and had to once again mentally chastise his penis. That done, he made his way through the dogs, people, and tents to what was indeed a smallish pond. It was lined with irises and daffodils, and Gregory thought to himself how much Gwen would enjoy the location. Two women walked along one edge of the shoreline, while about fifteen feet out, water splashed in a rhythm that indicated a swimmer.

“—care what he says, I can’t possibly have that volume done before Samhain. I’ve yet to tackle my angsty teenage years, and volume twelve follows that. Make a note that I still need a title for that,” the swimmer called out, pausing to add, “Here, who’s that next to you?”

“My name is Gregory Faa. I take it you’re Ethan?”

“Faa? Faa? Do I know a Faa, Pervanche?”

“No, m’lord,” one of the two women answered, barely giving Gregory a glance. “You know a Fern, though.”

Ethan began to emerge from the water. He was nude, and Gregory noted that the water must be very cold indeed.

“What title would you give a book about your angsty teenage years?” Ethan asked him, accepting a towel from the woman named Pervanche.

“I don’t believe those years were particularly angst-riddled. At least, not in my case.”

“Bah. That’s not going to help me. I need something emotional. Portentous. Meaningful.” He dried his hair brusquely with a second towel, and with the first one wrapped around his waist, started toward the tents. “What are you doing here if you’re not going to help me with titles?”

Gregory decided that the direct approach was the best. “I’m here to collect the king’s dog, roebuck, and lapwing.”

To his utter and complete surprise, Ethan made a rude gesture. Before Gregory could react, Ethan grabbed the hand that was flipping Gregory off and held on to the wrist, saying as he did so, “You’re welcome to ’em, the whole lot if you can find them. The dog’s dead, but you can have one of her approximately eight hundred descendants. They’re all over the camp. Had to make a rule that everyone owned one, just so the bulk of them would have care.”

Gregory eyed him. Ethan appeared to be fighting with his own arm. “And the roebuck and lapwing? Where are they?”

“No idea. Pervanche, strap. Diego is being obstinate again. Consuela!”

They stopped as Pervanche slipped a black leather strap over his shoulder, angling it across his chest like a sling. Gregory watched in silence as, with a slight battle, Pervanche and Ethan managed to get his wrist bound, effectively strapping his arm to his torso.

“Er . . . Diego?”

“My hand. It’s always stroppy in the afternoon. It gets that way until it’s had a little nap. Ah, there you are.”

A lovely woman with long golden hair popped up beside them. “Yes, my lord?”

“Bring supper to my tent. I have to prepare for the photographer. I need several new author photos.”

“As you will, my lord.”

Gregory, feeling a bit bemused, was convinced that despite appearances, Ethan had more information than what he was telling. He followed as Ethan went straight to the largest tent. The inside looked like something out of the Arabian Nights, what with the silken hangings, scattered pillows, and low beds (three) that dotted the massive interior. There were also a handful of desks, one of which Ethan sat down at, flipping open the lid to a laptop. He looked up when Gregory stopped beside him. “You still here?”

“I am.”

“Speak quietly, then. Diego is sleeping, and I don’t want him woken up early. He’s hell the rest of the night if he doesn’t get his proper nap.”

Gregory glanced at the arm. “I hesitate to ask . . .”

“Then don’t.”

Gregory thought about that a minute and decided that the advice was sound. Who was he to point out just how odd it was to treat one’s own arm as if it was a cranky toddler? “I was sent to find the lapwing and roebuck. I’d appreciate help in finding them.”

Ethan sighed, and leaned sidewise to peer around Gregory. “Consuela!”

The woman entered the tent, followed by three men bearing platters of food and drink. “You bellowed, my lord?”

“Where’s the deer?”

She gestured for the men to set down their trays, waiting until they’d done so and left before asking, “What deer would that be?”

“This man”—Ethan gestured at Gregory—“keeps going on about a deer. You must know where I put it.”

“Would that be Lord Aaron’s deer, the one you stole from him almost a millennium ago?” Consuela asked, giving Gregory a look that didn’t contain so much as one iota of curiosity.