The River of No Return

creatures in the gloom.
    It was, Nick thought, one of the ugliest rooms he’d ever seen, for all that each individual part of it was refined and rare.
    People were emerging from the shadows to greet him. Arkady—Nick could tell him by his great height and shock of white hair. And that was Alice Gacoki the Russian had tucked in by his side; she was dressed in a twenty-first-century business suit: black slacks and jacket, and white shirt. The other two were unknown to him: a middle-aged Asian man dressed in a shimmery gold fabric that seemed to move almost as a liquid, and a woman in a farthingale and stomacher embroidered all over with Tudor roses.
    “Nick.” Alice hugged him and began to introduce him around. “Arkady and Bertrand you know already, of course.” She grasped the fingers of the man in gold. “This is Alderman Ahn Jun-suh, from the mid-twenty-second century.”
    “Call me Ahn,” the man said, disengaging from Alice and shaking Nick’s hand.
    “Nick Davenant.”
    “Great to meet you.”
    “And this,” Alice said, putting a hand on the footman’s shoulder, “is Mürsel Saatçi. He is playing the part of a servant tonight. In fact, he is Bertrand’s secretary and the cornerstone of the Guild in this era.”
    “Davenant.” Saatçi gripped Nick’s hand; he had an eager, friendly air.
    Alice turned last to the other woman in the room. “This is my friend Marjory Northway. She is our head of intelligence for the mid-fifteenth century in Britain, though she sometimes works farther afield. In fact, she made a three-month case study of you, Nick, leading up to your Summons. She gave you a glowing recommendation.”
    This woman with a ruff the size of a hubcap had spied on him? Nick peered at her, but it was impossible to see past the Elizabethan costume. Her face was painted as white as paper; her lips and cheeks were cherry red. A heavy rose scent wafted from her.
    Her eyes glittered and her mask cracked open in a smile, revealing a set of startlingly perfect white teeth. “Hi, England,” she said, her southern drawl exaggerated. “How’s them cheeses hanging?”
    The awful truth yawned beneath him like a trapdoor. When he’d last seen this woman, she’d been dressed in jeans, her brown hair pulled back in a ponytail. She had been waving out the open window of her BMW as she pulled away down his driveway, early in the morning. Out of his life forever. Or so he’d thought.
    The cheese inspector.
    Those straight white teeth, shining in that red, red mouth. He had taken her to bed, for God’s sake, to keep himself and Tom Feely out of the FDA’s leg manacles. Did everyone in the room know that? He glanced at their audience. They were watching as if this were a play. Very well then. If they wanted a play, they would get one.
    He quirked a smile at Marjory, letting her see he knew she knew he knew, and that he was mildly amused. He took her hand. “I hope I rewarded your months of hard work,” he said. “Tailing a farmer around Vermont. I’m sure the fifteenth century is much more exciting.”
    She sank down in a graceful bob. “I was amply rewarded, thank you.” Her accent faded back to its original twang, which he now heard as quaintly English. She had never really been in disguise; indeed, her half-rusted old car had even been a BMW. He caught a glimpse of those white teeth again as she flashed him a coy smile from the bottom of her curtsy.
    He raised her up. “I’m so glad.” He turned to the others, Marjory’s hand still in his. “I’m delighted to meet you all,” he said to their expectant faces. “But especially my lovely spy.” He bowed to her, wishing that he had a hat to sweep from his head. “I am flattered that I passed your inspection.”
    “With flying colors.”
    He kissed her hand.
    The group laughed; apparently the scene had pleased them. Nick laughed with them, but he was really laughing at himself and his own internal contradictions. Why was he so enraged at being asked to whore himself out to Alva, who was lovely and compassionate? He had quite happily serviced the cheese inspector to save Tom Feely’s farm, and the cheese inspector was much less charming.
    Nick turned to Penture, a self-deprecating smile still haunting his lips. “Now then, Alderman. Miss Northway has decided that I make the grade. Tell me what you want of me.”
    “But of course,” Penture said, and opened his hands to encompass everyone in the room. “Shall we sit?”
    They all