A/N—I own nothing.
Oh, and this is also purely friendship!
Many thanks to Elycia-of-Arc and Cedargirl for their reviews!
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"Mr. Shakespeare?"
The man who stood before couldn't be the Bard. It didn't seem possible. Every image of William Shakespeare that Machiavelli had ever seen was flashing in his head like a neon sign. And the pictures weren't lining up.
The man before him was short and slim, with large glasses and too large jeans and a shirt advertising GERMAIN—THE ULTIMATE TECHNO EXPERIENCE!. The sleeves were pushed up on his arms. If not for the wispy mustache, Machiavelli wouldn't even had considered the option of his being William Shakespeare.
"Yes?" the man asked in a clipped British voice.
"You are Mr. Shakespeare?"
"Yes. You are Signor Machiavelli, correct?"
Machiavelli nodded, and the screen shook as the tablet trembled in his hand. He was speaking to William Shakespeare.
And selfish memories of imcomplete files and empty spaces waiting to be filled with answers intruded on the moment.
He could get those answers, perhaps, from William Shakespeare himself.
"You wished to speak with me?" Shakespeare asked.
"Yes. And a few questions, if time allows."
"Perhaps…" Shakespeare grew reticent, and he glanced over his shoulder at something or someone Machiavelli could not see. "But for now, what do you want?"
Machiavelli took a deep breath, feeling it shake in his chest. "You performed a conjugation in London, yes?"
"Yes…"
"The properties of conjugations do not apply to time and space, yes?"
Shakespeare shook his head. "No, but they do affect the power of the conjugation."
"Could you do it again?"
There was silence.
No one spoke. Behind Machiavelli, Billy shifted, peering over the Italian immortal's shoulder and whistling. "Is that William Shakespeare? The Bard?"
"Yes," Machiavelli said softly. "It is."
"Whoa…no offense, Mr. Shakespeare, but your plays are the worst thing to ever hit students."
"Billy!" Machiavelli snapped. Shakespeare smiled and shook his head.
"I'm not offended."
Someone behind him muttered something unintelligible in an ancient language, and Shakespeare turned to exchange a few words with the unseen person, laughing and joking. Machiavelli thought he heard a snatch of a Shakespeare quote, but he wasn't fluent enough in the language—which he thought might be some twisted form of the speech of Danu Talis—to know.
Machiavelli cleared his throat. "Could you do it again?"
"I could," Shakespeare said. "But it would be dangerous…"
"It would be suicide."
A dark shadow shimmered green. Machiavelli's breath caught in his throat. It wasn't hard to guess the identity of the rumbling Babylonian voice. Yet it hadn't occurred to him that he might meet the Saracen Knight.
"Sir Palamedes—"
"We don't have much of a choice," Shakespeare replied tensely.
The Saracen Knight turned to face Machiavelli. "What you are asking is nothing short of Will's suicide."
Will?...For a moment the knight's glare shook Machiavelli, and he couldn't recognize the name. And then he remembered: William…Will.
"Will—"
"I can't do it alone, Palamedes. I would need help."
Palamedes twisted the hilt of his sword in his hand. His dark eyes were hateful when he glanced at Machiavelli.
"Who's that?" Billy asked. "I don't know him."
"You wouldn't. He's Palamedes, the Saracen Knight. Very old, very dangerous."
Shakespeare laughed. "He refers to you like you are some rare animal or plant, Pally."
The nickname hung in the air for a moment, and Shakespeare rubbed a hand against his face, realizing his slip. "Oops. You hate that, don't you?"
Palamedes cursed in Babylonian. "Fine. But if you go to far, I'll withdraw my aura. You must promise that you'll stop the moment I do."
Shakespeare nodded. "I will."
"I want your promise, Will. No lying, no loopholes."
"I promise, Palamedes."
"Alright." Palamedes shot a sharp look at Machiavelli. "You'll have to take whatever he can give you." He turned back to Will. "I hold myself personally responsible for your personal welfare. So don't kill yourself."
