Time Rider Ch. 03

"Correct me if I am wrong," interjected his host. "But did you not tell me, early on in our association, that your current self is from three months in the future of the Miss Rebecca that I know."

Mark nodded.

"And you plan to add another layer of temporal travel on top of that wedding cake of disaster?" Chester mused. "Rebecca could be subtly altering the timelines in Paris now with her very presence, involuntary as it might be. Your oh-so-carefully laid plan could simply not work because of a slight temporal consideration."

"So you're saying no time machine." Mark stated flatly, not impressed.

"I'm saying the idea is bad. Atari Jaguar bad," Chester replied. "If you intend to do this hare-brained thing, allow me to assist you in what moderate ways I can."

"What, you've got some funky tech or weapons you can loan me?"

"We'll see about that, but more importantly, I guess I'll call in a favour. A certain person who moves in the circle of the royal court owes me a small boon, and I can use it to assist you. They happen to be an accomplished master of intrigue and getting out of sticky situations, with a blade if necessary."

Mark's eyes lit up. "Is it D'Artagnan?"

"Only if you want to get Clock-Hammered out of existence," Chester laughed, shaking his head. "Everybody wants to meet Charles de Batz, thinking they're going to see D'Artagnan of Three Mustkeers fame, and then it just turns out he's a bad-tempered Gascon who loves to punch people who bother him. He's punched more time-travellers than Jesus, I'm pretty sure."

Chester then went over to a drawer and rummaged around inside it, finally pulling out a yellowing envelope that was sealed with wax. "I assure you, the agent I am referring you to will be much more effective than D'Artagnan. I will send you with instructions about where in Paris to meet them and offer them this envelope. Warning, though, if they see it is opened, they will simply refuse to help and go away to where you cannot find them. Are you strong enough to keep from opening the letter?"

Mark nodded.

"Well, then," Chester announced, opening a bottle of wine and pouring two cups. "Shall we drink a toast to your success, o Macro del Strade of Seville?"

***

Mark was sitting on the back of a hay wagon, wondering if he could really pull this insane plan off. In addition to the letter, Chester Edgeworth had indeed furnished him with a few small devices and curious that hopefully would help him, though it cost him almost all the rest of his money. Chester pointed out he was a businessman and didn't intend to take a loss just because some idiot created a time crisis for himself.

Fair enough.

Mark tried not to play with the little bud that sat deep in his ear- Chester had sold it to him, saying that it could translate languages, speaking into Mark's ear whatever he was focusing on. It could also possibly formulate phrases- if he spoke in English, it could tell him the closest translation to what he was saying.

This model was old, though, and only spoke the French of this period. Chester didn't want him getting any clever ideas with a more powered-up version, since if something bad happened, it might come back on him.

The reasoning initially annoyed Mark, but the more he thought about it, he reminded himself that he was here to rescue Becky. Nothing else.

He thought about the conversation he'd had with their host while drinking wine and planning his initial move, heading to Paris.

"So why did you begin time-travelling at all?" the man had asked.

"Well, I..." Mark started saying, unsure of how to answer. "I found a time machine. Seems perfectly logical to use it."

"Granted, but what's your personal motivation, Mark?" he asked. "Is it to see glorious historical events, are you a treasure hunter, a thrill-seeker who wants to run with the Dromaesaurs?"

Mark blushed now. "Honest? I thought it'd be cool to have sex with women from history."

To his amazement, Chester didn't laugh uproariously, he simply smiled and shrugged. "More common than you would think, especially amongst men your age, who are full of hormones. Let me ask, then- was getting laid in your own time-period difficult?"

"Not really, no."

"Well it's not any easier in the timestream, just so you know," Chester pointed out. "In some periods of history, it can be even harder, where religious fervour runs rampant and sexual repression is the law of the land. I assume you wouldn't go as far as to rape a girl."

Mark shook his head.

"Lots of men do when they find out that having sex in the past is harder than they anticipated," Chester said almost sadly, shaking his head. "You're one of the better ones. But for all that, the problem remains- getting into bed or a rug with Cleopatra is pretty much next to impossible. You might as well hope to seduce Scarlett Johansson when you're no one in particular."

"Hey, I got Becky, didn't I?" Mark had protested.

"Dumb luck, really, and she's a remarkable woman. Have you had sex with any women aside from Becky since you came to the Sun King's France?"

He shrugged. "A few, I shared 'em with Becky."

"Peasants, I assume?"

"Mostly, yeah," Mark admitted. "There was one sophisto girl, but Becky did the talking and charmed the knickers off her for us."

"If it weren't for Becky, you'd be completely out of your league here, boyo," Chester said simply. "And trust me, it won't get easier. Even history buffs who think they know everything get caught and pay the price. There's the history you know, the history you don't know, and the history that you don't know that you don't know."

"What?"

"What year did World War Two end?" Chester asked.

"Simple. 1945."

"So you know that. What year did the Crimean War start?"

"I've heard of it, but I don't know anything about it."

"Something you know that you don't know. Okay, tell me about the League of Ages Twelfth Nicean Temporal Council."

"The what?"

"Exactly," Chester had said emphatically, leaning forward and pointing with his wine glass to make a point. "An incredibly important historic event that you've never even heard of, but it happened all the same. Can you imagine trying to do something that conflicted with that? You wouldn't even know what clock-hammered you or why, because only a practiced temporal traveller would be aware of the event at all. Time travel can be tedious."

"It's certainly becoming less and less fun by the moment." Mark grumbled.

"Probably the smartest thing you've said since you found that Holmes-Field Device," Chester agreed. "Life would be a lot easier if casual nitwits like yourself walked the other way when a time machine appeared in their path."

"But don't you make a living selling to people like me?" Mark asked.

"Hardly," Chester almost snorted. "Nitwits like you rarely have anything to even pay me with and usually require drastic amounts of assistance. "No, my friend, the majority of my income is derived from customers who hail from the far future where time travel is an established industry and carefully regulated. Now those people are my bread and butter."

"Did Becky and I really stand out?" Mark asked somewhat dully.

"More and more with each passing moment," Chester answered. "You're too tall, too healthy, you have all your teeth, and your accents are absurd."

Mark said nothing.

"And by the way," added his host. "Those little packets of Airborne that you both carry in your pockets? The little Vitamin C boost things to ward off the sniffles? I can guarantee you that those will in no way, shape or form protect you from illnesses in this era. Only thing it'll do is turn your piss such a bright yellow that people will think you're possessed and the Inquisition will burn you."

Mark ended up leaving the packets as a curio that Chester could sell to people from the future who wanted to snicker at how dumb people from the turn-of-the-millennium were.

He had arranged transport to Paris with the wagon he was now on, making sure the farmer put some extra perk in his horse's step by offering him twice as many sou as was normal. The journey, which would normally take a week, with good weather, was promised to six days because of the extra money.

Whatever the difference was between six-day speed and seven-day speed, Mark sure couldn't tell it. His communication with the farmer had been sluggish, certainly, mostly on his end, because he would try to say exactly what his little translator bud told him and he probably sounded like he'd had a stroke when he was speaking. The farmer laughed at his speech, but still did as he was asked.

Mostly they slept at the side of the road in the piled hay, but one night they stayed in a roadside inn. Mark's funds were running out fast, even though the food he ate was paltry and rather unappetizing. He had to reach Paris.

They then trundled through the town Mark and Becky had first come to and Mark hid himself in the straw, figuring it was best to not be seen by people whom he might be familiar with. Even if the inkeeper's two daughters would no doubt readily fuck him again. He fought the temptation to ignore Chester's instructions and simply go get his Holmes-Field Device and use it to rescue his teacher. But he disciplined himself and refrained, he was in enough trouble as it is.

Known knowns.

Known unknowns.

Unknown unknowns.

Fuck.

The days and nights passed with Mark trying to keep himself from growing crazy by practicing his French and thinking of his plan. He had no idea whatsoever about what to do once he reached Paris. Get inside the royal palace? He couldn't exactly Google the plans for it, could he?

"Regardez la!" the farmer said finally, calling back to mark and pointing toward the west. As the sun was rising behind them, he could make out a sprawling sea of darkness in the distance, the silhouette of which prickled the sky. Endless plumes of smoke hung over the city as deep grey gave way to dawn behind them. He thought it might actually be pretty.

And then the wind wafted over them from the west, bringing the unique scent of fabled Paris.

"Jesus!" Mark croaked as he turned green, leaning over the side of the wagon and puking his guts out while the farmer roared with laughter.

***

Mark wandered through the choking maze of streets, gaping at the chaos of architecture around him- houses seemed to almost be built on top of houses, to the place where some of them were leaning over almost drunkenly. The cobblestones of the road were wet and sticky with effluence, there was no way to avoid it. The stench was beyond belief. How had people ever lived like this?

He had asked on repeated occasions where he could find La Rue de Grenuie, the place Chester had told him he would find the agent he'd referred to. Mark was reasonably certain most people were being helpful, even if they stared at him like he was an alien. He might as well have been, he was a head taller than just about everyone, clearly well-fed and had all his teeth. Mark had seen jack-o-lanterns with more teeth than most of the denizens of Paris' infamous streets.

He took many wrong turns, because where he thought people had told him to go was often a dead end. Eventually, by divine providence, he found himself on the street he'd been asking for, evidenced by an ancient, worn rectangle of wood that said the name in faded green letters. Certain he was on the right track, he headed down the crowded street, stuffing his purse into the front of his breeches, since Chester had told him Paris was home to countless scoundrels who could remove his wealth without him even noticing.

The crowds began to thin out somewhat, and the street got narrower, as if that was possible. The cobblestones were also surprisingly dry, not sticky or running with the sewage of the city behind him. Before long, it was barely wide enough to accommodate one person and he felt very uneasy about the rickety buildings that loomed over his head, almost blocking the sky. He then stopped in front of a black iron fence, pitted with age and with a chain wrapped around it. He tilted his head and unwrapped the chain, finding that the gate now swung open freely and with decidedly little noise. He stepped in, closed it behind himself and then fixed the chain back in place as best he could.

He found himself walking through a tunnel, the buildings about him now made of stone. Dank and foreboding, he resisted the urge to run, not knowing what lay ahead. Eventually, he came to a small, bare courtyard. It might have been thirty feet by thirty feet and was devoid of almost all decoration. High brick and stone walls concealed it from the chaos of Paris. It was surprisingly quiet, as if the city dared not disturb the austere serenity.

There was a single, grey stone bench in the middle of the courtyard. Facing away from him, clad in a great cloak, was a person, the hood thrown over their head to keep the merciless sun off them.

Mark swallowed and took a deep breath before beginning to move forward. Was this Chester's agent? If he was, Mark had to be careful, because he'd been told the man was dangerous. He approached slowly, finally coming to a stop some five paces away, still facing the stranger's back.

"Hello," he said faltering French. "My name is Mark. I have... sent... to you... today... for big help. I is need big help."

"That you do, my friend," replied the person in a strangely lyrical voice. They closed a small book of devotionals they had clearly been reading and stood, still facing away. "That much is obvious, because your French is painful."

Mark blushed in embarrassment as the translator bud told him what the person had said. Still concealed beneath their voluminous midnight-blue cloak, the person turned around and approached him. He resisted the urge to take a step back as they stood right in front of him. He couldn't help but notice the person was on the taller side, strange for a Parisian.

Gloved hands pulled down the hood and Mark's eyes widened in amazement. Shining golden hair spilled in luxurious tresses down the person's back. The eyes were a dazzling blue, glinting with intelligence. The smile was serene, the teeth within white and perfect.

"Je m'appelle Alexandra D'Assaut," the woman said warmly, her voice sending chills through him. "And I am lady-in-waiting to her royal majesty, Queen Anne of wide fame across Christendom."

Mark's lips moved soundlessly as he gaped down at her. He didn't think it was possible, but she might have been even more beautiful than Becky. He'd never seen such an angelic face in his life. Deep from within, he summoned the will to speak.

"J-je m'appelle... uhhh, Mark."

The woman tilted her head slightly and then reached up hand touched his ear. Her touch was almost electric, but a split second later, his ear felt empty as she withdrew her hand and gazed at the translator bud she had removed from his ear canal.

"What is your native language?" she asked curiously. "Anglais? Espanol? Allemand?"

"Oh, uh... English." Mark replied, rubbing the back of his head.

"And you are not from around here, either." Alexandra said in perfect English with an erection-causing accent as she put the translator bud back in his hand and looked up at him. "More than that, you are not from my era."

"That obvious, eh?" Mark said, beginning to feel like a total flop at time travel.

"Your accent is not that of the English throne, so you either come from the New World with an accent I have not heard yet, or you are from days yet untold, my friend. That and you are ridiculously tall. I know of only three men who exceed you in height, one of the them being my elder brother, another that lout Porthos of Les Mousquetaires Gris, and the Duke of Buckingham. You are none of these three."

"Yeah, uh, guilty." Mark said somewhat sheepishly. He hadn't been this tongue-tied since he'd invaded Becky's home and she'd threatened to kill him a lot. At least this woman hadn't yet.

"So, what brings you to my little sanctuary?" she asked, observing him.

He thought about that for a moment and then fumbled about hastily in his pants while she looked on in amusement. He finally fished out the envelope from Chester and handed it to Alexandra. She examined it curiously for a moment and then broke the wax seal, taking out the small folded bit of paper and reading it. Her eyes betrayed nothing, but she sighed.

"Merde," she muttered as she folded the paper up and slipped it into a pocket of her great cloak and clasped it shut. She then looked up at him. "Very well, then, I am indebted to assist you with whatever your quandary is, since my friend Chester Edgeworth has asked for the boon. Shall we retire to my apartments?"

She turned and walked toward another tunnel in a swish of cloak. Mark looked around as he followed her.

"Y'said this is your sanctuary?" he asked.

"It is."

"No offence, but... kinda dull for a lady-in-waiting, isn't it?"

"The way it should be, as long as the people of Paris suffer in their untold thousands at the hands of the nobility." Alexandra replied grimly, her blue eyes glinting in the darkness of the tunnel that swallowed them.

***

The network of tunnels and narrow alleys had bewildered Mark, but his guide navigated them with ease, seeming to glide over the stone pavement. This place also had little or none of the stench he had quickly come to associate with Paris. She moved swiftly and she seemed confident he'd keep up, although sometimes he momentarily lost track of her in the darkness because of the midnight blue she was wearing.

Their sojourn took them slowly up, as in on a winding incline. With the houses and buildings sagging overhead, Mark had rapidly lost track of which direction they were headed in. He almost felt claustrophobic, something he never did. Turn after turn, up a short flight of stone steps, more alleyways, more steps and more turns. Eventually, they reached a large, solid wooden door, bolted with iron. She fished out an almost comically-oversized key and inserted it into the lock, which opened with a 'clank!'. She then led him into a dark foyer, where she removed her cloak, hanging it on a peg after removing his letter and her devotional book. In the almost near dark, it was difficult to tell what she was wearing.

"Come!" she said simply as she began to climb a flight of stairs. He followed behind her while the staircase wound upward. Finally, another door, much simpler and smaller in design, but still having a strong lock. She opened the door and whisked into the room beyond, moving around to several tables and lighting candles to give them some illumination. Finally, she turned to him and he got to see what she actually looked like when she wasn't wrapped in enough velvet to cover a cathedral.

He'd been right. She was utterly glorious. Tall for a woman of the day, easily Becky's height, with alabaster skin, a large, first bust, a tiny waist and statuesque legs. She was, oddly enough, wearing tan breeches and had a crème-coloured blouse on top that did nothing to hide the size of her chest. She saw him gaping and smirked.

"Do not worry, Mark, I get this reaction from men all the time." Alexandra said, her voice kind.

"You sure don't look like anyone else I've seen in Paris," he breathed. "No lie."