The Ocean of Time Read Free

even for him. I tell him of my plan to travel east and he asks me why I should want to do that. Isn’t everything I need right here in Novgorod? I tell him no; I’m taking a very special cargo of goods inland with me and this single trip could make my fortune, and that with the proceeds I plan to buy an estate and a thousand serfs. That impresses him, but when I tell him that I’m taking his daughter with me, he objects strongly.
    ‘That’s no place to take a woman, Otto! There are thieves and bandits and ruffians of every kind out there!’
    ‘I know,’ I answer, ‘but there are thieves of a different kind right here in Novgorod and I am as loath to leave Katerina here as she is to let me go alone. Besides, I
am
her husband!’
    That, irrefutable as it is, settles matters. But Razumovsky still doesn’t like it. He comes up with a dozen reasons why his daughter should stay. And most of them have merit, only …
    I can’t bear to be parted from her. And this journey gives me a valid excuse to be with her every day for the next six months.
    And every night
…
    Razumovsky is saved from coming up with further reasons by the arrival of Ernst.
    Ernst, I know, has been back to Four-Oh to get the latest news, but he tells Razumovsky that he’s just come over from the Peterhof, the German Quarter of the town, where he’s struck a deal for fifty furs. Ernst wants to celebrate, and this surprises me somewhat, but I can’t ask why. Not with Razumovsky there. It’s not the ‘deal’ Ernst wants to celebrate, that I know, but there is a definite spring to his step as he calls out to Razumovsky’s servants to bring us wine.
    Razumovsky needs no encouraging. When the servants bring three flasks of wine, he sends them away for a dozen more. So it is that, as evening falls, the three of us sit drunkenly at the bench, laughing and slapping each other’s backs.
    Razumovsky’s ability to consume endless amounts of liquor without needing to excuse himself is legendary. Even so, he eventually needs to use the midden, and when he does, I lean across and ask Ernst what’s going on.
    ‘They’ve killed Shafarevich!’ he says, his eyes gleaming. ‘Freisler shot him between the eyes. Then they snipped off time behind him, neat as a sewn wound!’
    I laugh, astonished. Shafarevich is the Russians’ equivalent of Freisler, in charge of all the dirty jobs, the nasty sort that even us hardened agents want to wash our hands of, and he’s been a thorn in our side for as long as I’ve been an agent – yes, and for long before that. No wonder Ernst wants to celebrate.
    When Razumovsky returns, I call for more wine, then climb on to the table and raise a toast to my father-in-law – a toast that has the sentimental Razumovsky in tears.
    ‘You’re a good son to me, Otto,’ he says, hugging my legs, not letting me get down from the table. ‘A man could not ask for a better son.’
    Only I’m glad I’m not Razumovsky’s son, for if I was, how then could I have married Katerina?

157
    Ernst wakes before me and he’s making breakfast when I stagger out into the kitchen. There’s no sign of Katerina, and when I ask one of the servants, he says that she’s gone to the market to buy food for our trip. My head is thick and painful, my wits dulled by our prodigious bout of drinking, but just the memory of Ernst’s news makes me grin.
    ‘So the bastard’s dead,’ I say, and laugh.
    ‘Time-dead,’ Ernst says, and that special phrase sobers me, because it’s what we all fear. All of us who travel back and forth in time. Because death’s not final for us. Not until there’s no way anyone can change it. Not until Time itself is snipped off and sealed and made inaccessible to change.
    Time-dead.
    Ernst serves me breakfast: a thick slice of ham with eggs. It’s delicious, but my stomach is feeling none too good after its evening exertions and I push the platter away unfinished.
    ‘Did you put in the designs?’ Ernst asks, taking