“Tomasso, is it not sinful to swindle any man, even a Tatar, so completely?”

“Peace, brother. The foreigner was well satisfied with the exchange.”

A single candle guttered on the small wooden table separating the two men, casting uncertain shadows on plaster walls. Dusk was falling, but the two clerks would be up for several more hours pouring over their account books.

“Brother, only a fool would be satisfied. Such quantities of spice for women’s clothes, a cassock, three bottles of indifferent wine, a wooden rosary, and coinage I would have otherwise thrown to the beggars outside St. Mark’s.”

“Truly, what is sinful is lying to your own kin. You have never given coin to a pauper even once in your life.”

A deep rumble of laughter erupted from the first man, a bearded, thickset figure in a well-made tunic of muted burgundy. The second man was similarly dressed but thinner and clean shaven.

“Truth. And yet are you not worried, or at least curious, about this strange visitor? A man arrives from the distant East, unknown to the city authorities, and approaches two modest clerks for trade. Not a senator, not a grand seigneur, not a factor at one of the great houses. And his wants were, to put it mildly, astonishing. No Saracen ever sought such an exchange.”

“Yet he was from Far Tatary, brother. He took pains to distinguish himself from the Saracens.

Such goods are highly prized in the distant East, he said.”

“And you believe such nonsense?”

“I know nothing of the Far East, save that it is home to monsters, demons, fearful magics, and perhaps Prester John. In such a strange land, our notions of value may be inverted, so that gold, silks, and spices, being plentiful there, are of little worth, whereas objects that are common here are highly prized.”

“What nonsense. There is no land men inhabit where women’s undergarments are prized over good pepper.”

“Brother, I am well satisfied with the result and so, by his expression, was the counterparty.

Instead of probing the unknowable mind of a Tatar, let us count our blessings.”

“Very well, but I must go to confession. Such a one-sided agreement is surely a grave sin.”

“This exchange is remarkable indeed, to have inspired a pious act in a heathen such as yourself. But have a care, brother. Do not speak of this encounter to that infamous gossip Father Carlo. The Tatar promised that he would return next year, but only if we keep our mouths shut.”

Night fell outside the second floor window of the counting house. The brothers, deep in their account books, did not look up to catch a glimpse of a galleas sweeping into the lagoon, the lion of St.

Mark’s fluttering uncertainly at her masthead.

—

Elsewhere in the lagoon, far from the canals and palazzos and factories, a small oared boat deposited its passenger on a barren islet. Like the brothers, the oarsman was curious about his commission, but he stayed quiet, having been paid handsomely to deliver the foreigner to a small island without asking questions. Anywhere remote and undisturbed by other men would do, the passenger had explained in his barbarous Sicilian accent. He meant to fast and pray in solitude for three days.

A profoundly reverential act, the oarsman had said. It would be my honor to assist you, signorri.

However, the man had not asked him to return after three days. Perhaps he had made other arrangements.

The passenger stepped off the boat uncertainly. After regaining his balance and collecting a heavy satchel, he nodded politely to the oarsman and strode to the center of the islet, barely 10 meters distant from the shore. There he put down the satchel, folded his hands, and knelt on the damp sandy ground. The oarsman made an obeisance and shoved off, well satisfied with the gold coins in his purse and the prospect of a hearty meal when he returned to the city. The stranger did not look up until the boat was out of sight and the rhythmic sounds of the oar strokes had faded into the darkness.

The passenger had taken great pains to speak only to men who would never meet. In two months, the boatman would be dead of the plague. The brothers were fated to be killed in a pirate attack off Ragusa within the year. The three men would never have a chance to discuss their dealings with a dark foreigner who spoke their tongue in a precise yet curious accent.

Once he was sure the boatman was out of sight, the stranger stood up and counted silently to one hundred. He counted to one hundred again. Then he removed a pair of primitive spectacles from his cloak. To anyone watching, the man’s spectacles would have seemed unremarkable, but they illuminated the lagoon as soon as he put them on. The stranger walked around the islet, scanning his surroundings. After he had satisfied himself that he was completely alone, he returned to the satchel and removed a ceramic bracelet from inside his cloak. This item was dangerous – no artifice could disguise its alien origins from even the most ignorant fisherman. The stranger put the bracelet on his left wrist, touched a few keys, and winked into nothingness. The satchel disappeared along with him.

—

The man behind the podium was tan and lanky. He had the look of a successful middle-aged professional with an interest in some unusual sport; windsurfing, perhaps, or low-g handball. He was speaking in front of a small group seated behind a long table. Unusually for such meetings, everyone was physically present.

“In sum, the Observational Study Group has exceeded our wildest expectations,” the man said. “Thanks to our team members, we’ve developed an incredibly granular understanding of late-medieval trade networks. We’ve also recovered a treasure trove of artifacts.”

“It’s time to expand our footprint, both geographically and temporally,” he continued. “I know several other area specialists are chomping at the bit to insert observation teams.”

He had expected resistance from the committee, but the uniform skepticism of the members’ expressions came as an unpleasant surprise. Professor Rhee looked up from her screen.

“Pete, do the risks of discovery outweigh the academic benefits here? The incident report from April 23rd jumps out at me. A couple of teenagers playing hanky-panky nearly stumbled onto your observation team.”

The man clasped his hands behind the podium and unconsciously rubbed the dark ceramic bracelet concealed under his left shirtsleeve. From the back of the room, Kay stared at him intently. She had thought that she should be the one to present their findings to the committee, but Pete had insisted on speaking.

“Professor, I think you’re overstating the risk of an encounter with an indigenous person. The observation team strayed too close to a population center and forgot to keep an eye out for locals. They won’t make that mistake again.”

“Maybe so, but the risk increases with every insertion,” said Ramsurrun. He was a paleo-archaeologist, and Pete had hoped that the prospect of recovering intact artifacts would entice him. “No matter how extensive our theoretical knowledge of this period is, we can’t predict the movement of indigenous populations.”

Pete leaned forward eagerly. “Actually, we can. I’d encourage everyone to read the report’s appendix on precautionary measures. Before insertion, we blanket the target area with miniaturized drones. The AI collates that surveillance data with everything we know about the period – agricultural practices, annual festivals, patterns of religious observance, weather – to predict the locals’ movements. For communities under 500 people, the model can actually predict individual movement with astonishing accuracy.”

Ramsurrun sank back into his chair. “Yet two horny kids nearly blew the whole thing. And what about the incident with the bee sting?”

“Nobody could have anticipated an allergic reaction –”

“Exactly. Your observation team made enough noise to wake the dead. What if they had been closer to one of the target villages? And what if that grad student hadn’t made it back in time to receive medical attention?”

“He thumb printed the waivers, professor,” said Pete, an edge creeping into his voice. “And respectfully, I think you’re missing the bigger picture. We have an unprecedented opportunity to enrich our knowledge of past societies. Are we going to throw that away on the off chance of a momentary encounter with an indigenous person? Even if a local stumbled across one of our observation groups, they would be dismissed as a fool or a crackpot or someone in the throes of a religious experience.”

“We don’t know what one villager telling tales might do, Pete.” Northridge, the theoretical physicist, had always been a skeptic. He was also the only person on the committee who understood the science of temporal displacement. “There’s a reason we’ve restricted this technology to strategic ecological interventions. This was a pilot program. Based on the data, I think it’s clear that the risks outweigh the benefits.”

Pete fought to keep his voice from rising. “I don’t think a physicist is qualified to make that judgment.” He looked around the room. “I’m appealing to you as a historian. Our Mediterranean findings have been astonishing, and that’s for a period of time when we already had significant archaeological and textual evidence. Imagine what this program could do for historical eras we know little to nothing about prehistory, the late Bronze Age collapse, the Polynesian diaspora, the Warring States period. Are we going to throw that all away?”

Kay flashed a warning sign but he kept going.

“What if we sat down and actually talked to a medieval peasant? Can you imagine what we’d learn? We’re on the verge of moving the entire historical discipline from the realm of conjecture and speculation into the realm of facts.”

“Jesus Christ, Pete, you want to interview an indigenous person?” Muttered discussions had broken out among the committee members. Snatches of conversation drifted up towards the podium:

“Unprofessional,” “exceeded his authority,” “too risky,” “damned foolish.”

The committee’s vote was unanimous. He looked up but Kay had already left the room.

—

“Next time, I’m giving the presentation.”

“You think it would have made a difference with those dinosaurs? A ‘fuck you’ is a ‘fuck you’, no matter how politely they phrase it.”

Kay surrendered herself to the folds of a too-soft easy chair. The plush red cushions were an odd contrast to her pale, angular face and the severe lines of her torso and limbs. Middle age and academia had ironed out her curves. Now she was all right angles.

Her partner continued pacing. Pete rarely sat. He was a fitness obsessive before the insertions, but the program had made him even more conscious of physical appearance. “Body composition is camouflage,” he had explained to her. “Medieval people just look different than us moderns.”

“I’m guessing you’re going back,” she said.

“You’re damn right I am. We have another month of access. We’re going to milk this until they cut the power off.”

“And the oversight committee?”

“They’ve approved insertions for cleanup and recovery. I’ll make the most of those last few trips.

Are you in?”

“Yeah,” Kay sighed. “Fuck ‘em.”

“That’s my girl. Who’s our next candidate?”

“Guynemer the Frisian, in Rheims. A modest local burgher. We can insert you three weeks before he’s killed in a tavern brawl. The background work is already done. It should be a clean operation.”

“Anyone else?” Pete’s pacing had quickened.

“William Templeton, a cloth merchant in Nottingham. Still working on the background, but it’s a promising lead. You’d be posing as a Moor in the retinue of the Aragonese envoy to the Court of Saint

James. We’re putting the finishing touches on the language imprint now.”

“Why do I never get to be a Syrian? It would make my mother so proud.”

Kay rolled her eyes. “After we persuade these fogeys to restart the program, we can discuss your preferred cover stories.”

“Okay,” Pete said. “I’ll start prepping for Guynemer. We’ll insert in 72 hours.”

—

The tall figure paused briefly at the intersection of the old Roman road and the cattle path. After hesitating for a moment, he left the road and began walking down the uneven trail. He stopped a second time to put on a pair of crude spectacles. When he started walking again, his pace was quicker and more

assured.

Pete hadn’t wanted to use the glasses. He told himself it was because they were unusual in 14th century England. No need to invite sidelong glances or questions, especially if you are a stranger walking alone in the countryside at night.

In truth, he resented the fact that he had to rely on the glasses’ heads-up display to get his bearings. He was familiar with an array of neurological studies on premodern peoples’ sensory perception. A medieval person of average intelligence would naturally develop better woodcraft than any modern. But after months of dealing with peasants, tinkerers, and tradesmen – their grasping, acquisitive eyes, the covert glances they exchanged when they thought he wasn’t looking, their utter ingratitude for his largesse, their wretched hovels and taverns and inns – he could barely accept that they were members of his species.

Pete sometimes fantasized about a one-way trip to the past. He would carefully pick the place and date, of course, and make sure to take a battery of immuno-boosters and antiviral nanites before going back. No sense in having a glorious career cut short by disease. But he would otherwise leave technology to the present. His wits would be sufficient to establish himself as a powerbroker.

For a brief moment, he reveled in the possibilities. With his knowledge of the medieval economy, trade was the obvious starting point. He could outstrip the Medicis in the space of a few years. Other ideas kept presenting themselves. He had always been fascinated by military history. Why not become a warlord who seizes land and titles at sword point? Perhaps a prince of the church, rising from a modest, out-of-the-way bishopric to become a cardinal, or even the pope. He suppressed a chuckle – he’d have to brush up on his theology.

Could he become a king? Any kingdom would do, really. Usurpers usually had short and bloody careers, but a few survived to found dynasties. Perhaps seizing a throne in the span of a single lifetime was too ambitious. But his son . . .

Of course, a one-way trip would wreak havoc on his era’s temporal integrity. He could almost hear Northridge, the pompous ass, chiding him for such impious thoughts. But what does the future matter to a medieval dynast? If the resulting disruption rubbed those fools on the committee out of existence, so much the better.

The heads-up display on his glasses told him that the clearing was about two kilometers distant through heavy forest. He could continue on the cattle path for several more kilometers to skirt the worst of it, but that would take time. He plunged into the underbrush, confident he could find his way to the extraction point with the help of the glasses. What about local wildlife? He fingered the stun gun inside

his cloak. The lab tech had assured him that it would level a mastodon. Point and shoot, man. Pretty sure you could single-handedly win the Battle of Agincourt with that thing. Pete grinned wolfishly and quickened his pace.

His thoughts drifted back to the Roman Road he had followed out of Nottingham. The paving stones had shown considerable signs of wear. He remembered a journal article on medieval English commerce, something about the correlation between urban growth and access to the old Roman network. How much faster did travelers, carts, and domesticated animals move on those roads, anyway? A strategically-placed observation team could answer these questions in a matter of days, but no, the committee wouldn’t be budged.

He continued striding through the forest, heedless of the noise.

—

The poacher had been tracking the stranger from the time the man entered the forest. It was pure chance he had been close to the cattle path when he felt the disturbance. The hart’s trail had gone cold and the hunter was about to return to camp empty-handed, but suddenly he heard what sounded like a wounded ox. He let the man pass, about three hundred paces distant, before picking up the trail. Even without the noise, a child could have followed the trail of debris strewn in the man’s wake. At first he had carefully kept his distance, but the stranger never looked back or slowed his pace. The woodsman gradually closed the gap.

By royal decree, the poacher was a wanted man, but the peasants liked fresh meat in their stewpots and the local baron was not a particularly energetic or scrupulous enforcer of the law. So long as the poacher avoided outright banditry, he was reasonably sure of his continued welcome at farmhouses and taverns. “‘Tis the greenwood life for me, lads,” he would tell the farmers over foamy tankards of ale. They would laugh and grumble good-naturedly about his indolent life and toast the continued success of his hunts.

The man he was following was uncommonly strange. He was no woodsman, but he moved without hesitation in the dark, stumbling only occasionally. His clothes were foreign and he carried a large satchel over his right shoulder. Aside from a small dagger on his belt, he was unarmed. He also wore spectacles, something the poacher had never seen before, though he recognized them from a ballad he had heard once from a traveling minstrel.

Two days ago, an old farmer had related a story about a traveling Saracen. He had journeyed far in search of strange commerce, the farmer had told him. The Saracen was rumored to be fabulously rich.

The poacher was not an imaginative man, but an idea had gradually taken root inside his head. The Saracen would not be missed by anyone in Nottingham. His kinsmen lived far away and would likely never travel to England to seek justice, and even if they did, such journeys were long and perilous. The baron, he had heard, was away at court. The peasants cared nothing for a foreigner’s fate. And the stranger carried himself with the easy assurance of a rich man. Besides, was it even a sin to kill a heathen?

The stranger blundered out of the trees and stopped in the middle of a small clearing. The poacher froze instantly, but his quarry was completely engrossed in the satchel and a strange object on his left wrist. The poacher crept closer to the edge of the clearing. At thirty paces, he slowly stood up and notched an arrow to his bow. He had already strung his bowstring while following the stranger’s trail, a hunter’s

instinct.

—

Pete stumbled into the clearing, sweaty and heaving for breath. Even with perfectly clear vision, walking through a forest in the middle of the night was hard work. He grinned silently to himself.

Something to keep in mind for future military maneuvers.

He caught his breath and once again found himself thinking about the oversight committee’s astonishing stupidity. The pilot program had been hamstrung from the beginning by rules and red tape. No contact, no communication, no exposure. Just low-risk observation and reporting. Now even that was coming to an end.

He opened the satchel to admire his inventory. Trading peppercorns had been a stroke of genius. Kay’s idea, he had to admit. Minting large numbers of imitation florins and guilders would have attracted too much attention from the committee. But pepper? Easy to buy, easy to transport, and immensely coveted by any medieval merchant worth his salt. Pete grinned again. Maybe he’d bring a few packets back with him on his one way trip.

He was fingering the bracelet when it occurred to him that he should probably scan the clearing before his return journey. As he turned around, he saw something upright in his peripheral vision. A bear, maybe? He fumbled for the stun gun inside his cloak.

The arrow whistled out from the trees and caught him straight in the throat. He slumped noiselessly over the satchel, dead before he hit the ground.