The River of No Return

been his faithful guide, leading him forward, warning him of the dangers. Maybe the old buzzard was right. Maybe Mibbs was just a guy in a crazy outfit. “All right,” Nick said. “I’m ready to put my shoulder to the wheel. But I don’t know anything about the Guild in this time. How am I supposed to recognize Ofan? And what do I do with them when I find them?”
    “My priest.” Arkady put his arm around Nick’s shoulder, and his voice was tender. “Your job is not so big. You are not the James Bond, who knows everything and has the fancy car and the license to kill. No. You have a very small, very precise job to do for us.”
    Uneasiness tingled along Nick’s spine.
    “You are attending this party because you are a young lord with a taste for women.” Arkady squeezed Nick against him. “You have heard that a certain woman will be here, at this party. And you come because you are looking for a mistress.”
    Nick stopped in his tracks. “No!”
    Arkady’s starlit eyes sparkled. “But yes, my priest! For this we have dragged you back in time!” He put his head back and laughed.
    “You’re kidding me.”
    Arkady released Nick’s shoulder and wiped his eyes. “No, no I am not! It is funny, yes?” He took a moment to collect himself. “But it is still very serious, this job you do for us. The war with the Ofan must soon start, and we must gather the information. One of the guests tonight? Her name is Alva Blomgren. She is a traitor to the Guild. A Swedish spy. A great courtesan—who has recently lost her lover. You are here to replace him in her affections.”
    “That is . . .” Nick struggled to find words. “It’s bullshit. That’s what it is. I won’t do it.”
    Arkady seemed genuinely puzzled. “Do you pout because you are not here to kill, after all? You are such a little boy that you choose a toy gun over a girl? I told you on that evening, when we jumped. I told you why we want you.”
    “You most certainly did not.”
    “I did. We want you for your charmingness. I said so. We know all about how you are the tomcat in New York and Vermont, but of course we do. So many lovely women. What is the thing your Nelson said with the flags? ‘England expects . . . expects . . .’”
    “‘England expects that every man will do his duty,’” Nick muttered.
    “Yes.” Arkady smiled his approval. “It is the same with the Guild.”
    Nick stared at the Russian, then turned aside and deliberately spat. “I will not be your lightskirt.” He turned on his heel. “I bid you good night, Arkady.”
    “Don’t be ridiculous—look, we are here now.” Arkady nipped Nick to his side with an iron grip and knocked precipitously on a huge, black door set directly onto Ludgate Hill. It opened immediately, and a butler who must have been seven feet tall ushered them into a hallway filled to overflowing with men and women. Through an open door Nick could see a sunken ballroom lit by hundreds of candles, aswirl with sumptuous ball gowns.
    “I won’t do it,” Nick said as they handed over their hats and coats.
    Arkady steered him into the crowd. “Your newfound purity is charming, of course.” He smiled beatifically. “But you must not be afraid. She will be gentle with you.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
    T he receiving line moved slowly. By the time Nick and Arkady had made their way through the grand double doors and stood at the top of the steps leading down into the ballroom, Nick was in a searing rage. Arkady had a tight, lordly smile tucked up neatly under his nose, and Nick knew he ought to have just such a sour-lemon expression pinned to his own face. They were, after all, noblemen condescending to join commoners. Well, the commoners would have to make do with his terrible scowl.
    So the Guild had chosen him to be their stud, their boar, their bull, their goddamn rooster in the henhouse. Now Nick felt like killing. He had a tiepin. He could take it out and stick it into Arkady’s jugular. As for this Ofan whore he was supposed to tup for the good of the Guild . . . Nick’s imagination failed him. Never in his life, either before or after his jump, had anyone had the stunning nerve to frame him as a gigolo. Sold, and sold as a prostitute, to a prostitute.
    A few weeks ago Nick might have thought this assignment would be fun. Maybe. He couldn’t really even recall who he had been a few weeks ago, and two hundred years in the future.
    It was John Donne’s fault. He should leave