Now and for Never (14 page)

“Let me guess,” Clare said. “The ship with the gold on it was long gone the next morning.”

Paulinus raised an eyebrow at her. “No bigger than a toy in the distance by the time we'd commandeered a second vessel and cast off. Heading due west. I don't know how they managed it. Unless Donatus helped them take the ship.”

“I think it's more likely the scathach were hiding on board when you loaded the gold,” Allie said. “They're sneaky.”

“And dangerously psychotic,” Clare added.

Paulinus frowned. “I don't know what that word means.”

“Violent killers,” she clarified, an edge to her voice. “I'm pretty sure you know what
that
means.”

Paulinus ignored the dig. “We chased them out onto the open seas and were starting to close the distance. But on the
second day, there was a … flash of light on the horizon. That was when the first vertex opened—directly in front of the other galley—and it seemed to leap toward it across the waves like a hunting hound on a scent. The ship disappeared into it and the vertex swept on toward us, pulling us into its maw in their wake. Now we follow them through the vertices, one after another, catching only fleeting glimpses from time to time.”

As disconcerting as Paulinus's tale was, Allie thought, at least it seemed they were heading in the right direction in their quest to find both Marcus and the Snettisham Torc— assuming Dr. Jenkins's possessed utterances were on the nose and it had become part of the gold hoard heading for parts unknown.

“
Where
are they going?” the Roman governor mused, staring hard at the horizon—or what would have been a horizon under normal circumstances. “West? West to
what
? The ends of the ocean, the realms of sea monsters and oblivion … I don't understand.”

“You know, you could just stop chasing them,” Clare said.

Allie made a small noise of protest, but they both knew that wasn't an option for Paulinus. He confirmed it with a bitter laugh, waving over his shoulder at the ship's stern.

“Do you see my men steering?” he asked. “Manning the sails? Outside of the vertex, we do our best just to keep the ship afloat. Inside it, we have no say. It is as if that cursed Druid gold is a baited hook and this ship a hungry fish. So I will follow, because it seems I am meant to. I will retrieve the gold and I
will
send it home to Nero, because that is my duty as governor and as a soldier of Rome.” Paulinus sighed wearily. “And he will probably melt it down and gild his own images with it.”

Clare's mouth twisted with disgust. “That … is a horrifying thought.”

“Isn't it just.” Paulinus shrugged. He leaned on the railing
then, more like a human being than a military automaton. “Those pieces …” he mused, wonder in his voice. “The neck rings and the arm cuffs, rings and bracelets and brooches. Magnificent stuff. For a pack of barbarians, they have immeasurably skilled artisans.”

When Paulinus's glance drifted to the open hatch, it was clear that he knew Llassar was one of those artisans—although Allie suspected he had no idea of Llassar's supplementary magic skills.

When the Roman governor was silent for a moment, Clare took a step forward. “Are you the one who gave the big guy chained up in the hold those bruises on his face?”

“No. That was Junius.” Paulinus frowned faintly. “He seems convinced that the blacksmith is more than just a smith. I do not see it, but I saw nothing wrong in letting him question the man.”

“You mean torture him,” Allie said.

“Please,” Paulinus scoffed, the glimpse of humanity he'd shown them replaced by bland unconcern. A mask of casual cruelty. “Is he missing any of his admittedly skilled fingers? Are any of them even broken? He wasn't handsome to begin with. A broken nose might be an improvement.”

“Can I give you a word of advice?” Clare said quietly.

The Roman governor sighed, but stopped short of rolling his eyes. “If you must.”

“If I were you, I'd make every effort to make amends for what your goon Junius did to Llassar before this tub reaches the end of its trip. Because if you do catch up with Mallora and she sees what you've done to him, I have a feeling she might want to pay you some similar knuckle-based attention. And if she doesn't? Well … Llassar is a friend of mine.”

“Are you threatening me, little witch?”

“Nope. Promising.”

Through widened eyes, Allie saw Clare brace for the expected backhanded slap to the head, but it never came. Suetonius Paulinus just stared at her for a long moment. A probing stare that, as far as Allie could tell, left the governor more confused about Clare than he already was. Eventually he shook his head minutely and turned back to the bizarre vista enveloping this ship.

“What do we do now?”Allie asked eventually.

“There's nothing to do.” He shrugged and the leather of his armour creaked. “We can't steer, we can't stop. The vertex will take us wherever it wills. On a normal journey I would tell the men to rest and refresh themselves. But there is nothing to eat, save the few fish we've managed to catch, and nothing to drink, save the dregs in a few amphorae of sour wine and what's left in the casks of Briton beer that were to be delivered to the emperor as a novelty. The stuff's virtually undrinkable. But since it's reserved for my men—and not a pair of uncertain creatures such as yourselves—you've nothing to worry about there.”

Allie stopped herself from reaching up to pat her messenger bag, packed as it was with a water bottle and granola bars.

“Find somewhere out of the way and make yourselves unobtrusive,” Paulinus continued, restored to his Arrogant Roman Jerk-Ass persona. “Perhaps that will be enough to spare your lives. For as long as we all live. But if this goes on for much longer, I might just kill you both and see if
that
gets us out of this mess.”

“Wow. That's forward thinking.” Clare rolled her eyes. “Eliminate the newest variable in an unsolvable equation and see if that solves it. You really are a master strategist, aren't ya, buddy?”

Allie groaned, wondering just how far Clare could push it. But Paulinus just looked at her, his pale hazel gaze sharp as a blade.

“We've barely met—although in unusual circumstances on both occasions—and yet you seem to have formulated … strong opinions about me.” His tone was polite, curious. Mildly amused.

“I had friends who were Iceni. One of them was Boudicca's daughter.”

Allie winced once more. But the governor seemed almost to appreciate Clare's bravery. Or maybe just her honesty.

“I see,” he said. “Then you must think me a monster.”

“Jury's still out on that one,” she muttered.

He looked at her quizzically. So, for that matter, did Allie.

“I remain undecided on the issue,” she clarified.

“Ah.” Paulinus nodded curtly. “That … is something we have in common.”

The admission surprised Allie. Before this encounter there'd been no reason to believe the governor was anything
but
a monster. But then he'd saved Clare's life, and not by accident. He could have just cut her loose, sliced through the scarf and kept Allie to question. And even now he wasn't exactly clapping them in irons and throwing them back in the hold to rot with Llassar. It was confusing. She shook her head as, without another word, the governor turned on his hobnailed sandal and stalked away.

“He's not really what I expected,” she mused.

“Me neither.”

Clare walked up the deck to sit on a coiled pile of rope where the bow of the ship tapered to a rounded point. Allie climbed up to sit beside her, tucking in her feet and wrapping her arms around her knees. With the utter stillness of the air contrasting with the obvious speed at which the ship was travelling, everything took on a dreamtime slo-mo quality.

“Then again,” Clare continued, “none of this is what I expected.”

“Me neither.”

Allie cast about with a long, wondering gaze that scanned the weirding skies from horizon to horizon. Her hand drifted up through the air, tracing the shape of the tunnel that arced high above their heads. “Are you doing this?” she asked Clare.

Clare shook her head slowly. “I honestly don't know …”

“Because if so you've
seriously
levelled up in the magic skills department.”

“I guess. That's what Milo said about my coin trick.” She frowned. “Should I be worried?”

Allie snorted. “I think the time for worry is long gone, pal. That ship has
totally
sailed.”

“Please.” Clare put up a hand. “No nautical metaphors. I already feel like I should be stocking up on barf bags.”

When Allie saw a band of shadow race over Clare's face she turned and glanced over her shoulder. “Nautical metaphors aside, we'd better put our tray tables and seat backs in the upright locked position.” She pointed to where the vortex looked like it was contracting down around the ship, shards of time slivers gnashing like teeth in an angry mouth. “We're in for a bumpy ride.”

10

W
ith the twisting, twilight-tinged vortex having descended on the ship like a funeral shroud, blanketing the deck in dusky gloom, Marcus felt as though he was moving through a nightmare. As if he wasn't there at all, and maybe never had been. As if maybe he was still a boy, asleep on the narrow bed in his dorm room back at Cambridge, head resting on an open Latin textbook instead of his pillow. The situation certainly gave him time to indulge in flights of fancy. During vortex travel episodes, there was nothing else to do.

The first time it happened the men on the galley had been gripped by a mass panic. Two or three legionnaires had even thrown themselves over the sides to escape the demondoomed ship. One was hauled back on board by his fellows; the others had been wearing full-kit armour and sank beneath the waves before anyone could help them. That had been the second day out, the sight of land lost behind them to the east.

Now when the wavering, crackling bands of distortion wrapped the ship in spatio-temporal displacement, the soldiers of Rome, hardened to the process, simply hunkered down and waited for the ripple effects and eerily calm seas to pass. Then they'd return to the business of trying to survive in the middle of a normal sea.

Ha. Normalcy,
Marcus punned silently, giving way to a wash of giddy delirium. He wondered if Allie was the kind of girl who appreciated wordplay. He wondered if he'd ever have the chance to find out.

Marcus had been trying to decide whether to succumb to his increasingly obvious fate. The most logical outcome was that he'd die in an endless oceanscape. It would be so easy.

Just … stop,
he told himself.
Stop caring, stop trying … stop hoping …

Give up on ever seeing Allie again.

Yeah …
that's
not going to happen.

When the distortion had finally ebbed that first time it felt as though an hour or more had passed, but the terrified ship captain pointed out that the sun was farther east than it had been before. Marcus thought they must have gone forward or backward in time—he'd hoped it was the former. Desperately hoped. And he was still going with that hypothesis. Because if they were going backward …

No. I'm not going to think about it.

There had to be a reason they were out there. They were
not
mystically becalmed in the doldrums of a spatio-temporal sea. They just weren't. Because if they were, they would die. And it would be pointless and stupid and Marcus was simply not willing to accept that. Not after what Mallora had done. Not while she stood at the point of the ship's bow staring fiercely into the distance as if she willed the ship toward a destination only she could see … There had to be something there. An end. A destination.

There has to be.

Marcus tore his gaze from the Druidess and glanced over to see Stuart Morholt, perched on a coil of rope, staring at him with his mad, glittering black gaze.

“Oh, don't ask me,” Morholt said, waving a hand at Mallora's rigid, feather-clad back. “She's a great bird—heh—if all you're
looking for is a boozy roll in the hay and a line of progeny, but then it's all work, work, work. Just blood magic and temporal curses and no sense of humour to speak of. Pff.” He sniffed and muttered, “Not like I wanted undying declarations of love, you know. Just a peck on the cheek in passing once in a while …”

Marcus shook his head. Mallora was probably well in the right to avoid Morholt's cheek in its present state. The tangle of the man's beard had crept up from his jawline almost to the top of his cheekbones and his hair was a long, matted mess. He was starting to resemble a crazed medieval monk.

Fine,
Marcus thought.
He can lose his mind all he wants. It was never a far jog down that lane anyway.