No . . . whoever he was, his attention was focused directly on Brian. For some reason he couldn't explain, that very fact sent a chill racing up Malcolm's spine. He wondered if he should speak, then thought better of it. If Brian Hendrickson had a profitable side deal going with someone, it was none of his business. But he did use it as an excuse to leave, now they'd discovered what they'd wanted.
Malcolm nudged Kit with an elbow. "I think there's someone waiting to talk to Brian. Why don't we grab a bite of lunch. I'll fill you in on my plans for Margo's visit."
Brian's expression cheered immensely. "Miss Margo is returning? Capital! Have her come by and say hello, would you?"
Kit laughed. "Count on it. Malcolm's taking her to Denver. Even with her studies at school, she'll have timescout-type research to do before they step through the Wild West Gate."
Brian chuckled. "It's a date, then."
Malcolm cast a last, uneasy glance at the man in cowboy getup standing in the shadows, then shrugged the whole thing off. He had better things to look forward to: like Margo's kisses. He grinned in anticipation. The ring he'd had made from the sample diamond she'd sent was ready and waiting. All she had to do was say yes. Counting the hours and minutes until Primary cycled and brought her back into his life again, Malcolm strolled out of the library with his hopefully future grandfather-in-law and suggested the Epicurean Delight for lunch.
"We haven't been in a while. And I understand Ianira Cassondra's been selling Arley some ancient Greek cheesecake recipes—long lost delicacies and confections."
Kit nodded. "The Greeks were so fond of cheesecake, we have written complaints from a Greek, a married man who asked for cheesecake for his dinner and was, um, to put it delicately, irate when he didn't get it. Weren't there supposed to be dozens of different flavors?
Malcolm nodded. "Yeah. And from what I've heard, just one slice of whatever type of cheesecake he's made for the day is enough to make a California billionaire pay a thousand or more just to get the whole thing!"
Kit laughed, an easy, relaxed sound that reassured his friend. "Sounds great," Kit agreed—vehemently. "I've been hearing those same rumors and I, my friend, am a cheesecake-a-holic. Let's test it out, eh?"
Malcolm chuckled and thumped his friend's wiry, granite-hard gut and said, "At least you work it off somewhere."
Kit grimaced. "Sven Bailey is a fiend from Hell. He even looks like one."
"So I'd noticed. And so Margo complained—bitterly—those first few lessons with him. And then, would you believe it, our little imp started to love having Sven kick her around the mat like a sack of squashed potatoes."
"Ah, yes; but she learned, didn't she? C'mon Malcolm, let's eat! Skimpy lunch and all the cheesecake we can hold!"
They set out, laughing like kids. The "cowboy" they'd left lurking behind in the library was so far from his thoughts, it was almost as though the man had never existed.
Ianira Cassondra was attempting to sell an amber-and-silver bracelet and necklace set to a genuine tourist through the howling idiocy of her self-proclaimed acolytes. Did uptimers have nothing better to do with their lives than hound and harass her, day and night, month after tedious, temper-provoking month? The Little Agora was seething with gossiping 'eighty-sixers when Chenzira Umi—a grey-haired, stately Egyptian merchant who'd fallen, a drunken accident, through the Philosophers' Gate not too many months after Ianira had stumbled through—elbowed and shoved his way to the side of her little booth.
In Greek, which he spoke only well enough to dicker—nobody else on station (except the Seven) spoke his ancient Egyptian (although Ianira knew well enough that Chenzira earned much of his meager living by teaching his long-dead language's proper pronunciation, including some odd inflections, to uptime scholars), Chenzira reported. "Goldie badly done. She broke attempt by Skeeter."
"What?"
Ianira paled so disastrously the tourist dickering over the jewelry actually noticed—and frowned in genuine concern.
"My dear," he said in the drawling tones of an American Texan, "what in thunderation's wrong? You're whiter'n the underbelly of a rattler what's just shed his skin. Here, honey, sit down."
"Thank you, no, please, I am fine." She fought off shock and worry and mastered both, plus her voice. "I apologize profoundly for causing you distress. Did you want the bracelet and necklace for your wife?"
He glanced from Ianira to the jewelry, the calmly waiting Chenzira, bringer of bad tidings (noticeable in any language), then up at the surrounding vultures. He scowled impartially, evidently not liking his face and voice recorded without his permission any more than she did.
"How long these nosy bastards—uh—vultures been after you, honey?"
"Too long," Ianira said, half under her breath.
His pop-up grin startled her. "Hell, yeah, I'll take 'em, and throw in some of those funny-lookin' scarves there. Marty, my wife, she's nuts about stuff like that—yeah, those, right there—and what's this little doo-hicky here for? Love charm? Well, hell, gal, gimme a dozen of those!"
His friendly grin—despite Ianira's inner turmoil—was infectious. She rang up the bill, bagged everything into velvet bags she'd sewn herself—ending with one large easy-to-carry parcel with a secure drawstring, and handed him the itemized bill she'd written out in a somewhat shaky hand.
He handed back double the price listed on every item, gave her a jaunty wink and an, "It'll be fine, honey, don't you fret, now, hear?" and vanished into the crowd before she could protest or give back the extra money. She stood trembling for a moment, the sounds and bright sights of the Commons washing over her like a dim, color-puddled dream, while she stared at money she and the father of her children so desperately needed, while on all sides, six to seven deep, her maddening acolytes Minicammed, voice-recorded, and jotted notes on every single second of that interchange. She wanted to scream at them all, but knew from experience any action other than business as usual would bring twice as many watchers who'd stay another week hoping a revelation would be near.
Chenzira leaned closer, his disgusted tone of voice helping bring her whirling mind back on track. "If I your beauty and charms had, Ianira, I, too, such deals make would. You demon are—under soft skin!" Gentle, deep laughter took any possible accusation from Chenzira's words. Along with the other downtimers in The Found Ones community—not to mention being elected to The Council of Seven almost from his first few weeks here—Chenzira was a born haggler, as many an unfortunate downtimer had discovered to his or her woe.
And since Chenzira Umi was as shrewd a man as Ianira had ever met, she, too, merely smiled. "And had I your canny wits," she countered calmly, "I would not be a huckster of this junk."
Chenzira smiled; but said nothing, in that mysterious Egyptian way of his. Ianira received the impression—a strong one—he still deferred to her as Head of the Seven. Then he leaned close again and said very quietly in his own language, which all of The Seven now had to learn, "You must convene the Council. The Seven must decide what is best and summon a general Council immediately afterwards to vote on it. This atrocity, this interference must stop."
"Yes," she agreed, already somewhat proficient in Chenzira's native language. A smile tugged at her lips as she imagined the idiotic, eavesdropping throng trying to translate this conversation!
She asked—also in Egyptian—"Could you watch my shop a little?"
He nodded.
Ianira bolted from the booth, outrunning her merciless followers by a few staggering strides to a nearby hotel lobby. "Private in-house phone?" she gasped, damning the fact that women's clothing from her own time was not designed for an all-out, freedom-winning dash.
The desk clerk, who knew Ianira's reputation—and pitied her for the never-ending madness of her enthralled seekers—stepped back and all but shoved her into the hotel office, muttering, "Lock the door and I'll hold 'em at bay."
She gave him a startled glance of thanks, then banged shut the door and snapped the lock. It was coo
l and quiet inside the hotel office. She lifted the receiver and dialed a trustworthy in-house line. One phone call, she knew, would lead to others. Many others.
Having set things in motion, she returned to her stand, having to push her way through angry Seekers, all of whom were taller than she was, and forced on a bright smile for a couple of genuine customers who'd stopped to "window-shop."
"Thank you, Chenzira Umi," she said formally. "You have been of great help."
Chenzira's unexpected grin (as the Seekers took up their disgruntled positions, furious they'd missed even those few, short moments of The Great One's words) startled Ianira.
"What?" she asked.
Chenzira nodded at the man and woman peering at her stock. "Your previous customer knows them. They lost no time seeking out this 'find of the year' if I remember the words. I am not yet so good at English."
"Thank you, Chenzira Umi," she breathed as she turned toward her customers with a bright smile.
Chenzira Umi was long gone, faded into the crowd as nondescript as any other bald tourist, before Ianira noticed the new price markers. Her eyes widened ever so slightly: in her absence, he had doubled the price on everything she sold. And the customers were buying: jewelry, Greek-style clothing for both men and women (in a matching pattern she'd sewn lovingly), scarves, and charms of all sorts.
Even all the copies she had in stock of a little, hand-done booklet Dr. Mundy had helped her write, print, and bind, which they'd titled, There I Lived: Athens in Its Golden Age and Ephesus, 5th Century b.c. Trading Center and Home to The Great Temple of Artemis, Seventh Wonder of the Ancient World. The booklet was nothing, of course, to the scholarly work he was building from the sessions she spent with him, but it was a decently scripted, informal "chatty" little booklet full of odd little facts and anecdotes, some previously unknown until Ianira's arrival. It was a popular item, even outside the sales to maddening Seekers.
One of her long-term plans as First of the Seven was to assist other downtimers in writing similar booklets, which she would then sell and pass along the money to the authors, taking no commission, for this would be Found Ones' business, not her own.
By the time La-La Land's first-shift "business day" was over, that single phone call made from the cool, quiet hotel office—she must remember to reward that wonderful, understanding clerk with some little trinket of thanks—had borne its intended fruit. Ianira made her way to the madhouse of La-La Land's School and Day-Care Center where her daughters played with the other children. She picked them up, then took back-station staircases down into the bowels of Time Terminal Eighty-Six for a secret meeting of The Found Ones.
Since this was an informal meeting, no ceremonial garb was needed nor were her daughters a nuisance to anyone. Others of the Seven who had arrived ahead of her were already discussing the news. The day after Skeeter Jackson's gift to Marcus, Ianira had passed word of his true standing to other women in the downtimer community and they, in turn, had passed it to their men. Word had traveled through the entire community before bedtime. For the first time since their arrival, the downtimers of La-La Land knew that, alone of the uptimers, they had found someone who understood.
Many who had looked on him with disgust as a simple thief had immediately begun to cheer on his exploits. Anything to punish the uptimers who used them for grunt labor, without a single thought for their welfare, was worth a cheer or ten. Astoundingly, in a few short days Skeeter had rapidly taken on the status—thanks to Ianira's judicious meddling—of their champion and hero for causing uptimers to suffer monetary losses and public humiliations.
Also thanks to Ianira, it became unwritten law that Skeeter's past was a private secret to be kept from all uptimers on the station. Parents warned children—and those children held their tongues.
Word of the wager between Skeeter and Goldie Morran, at first simply an affair between uptimers, had abruptly taken on new significance. Fear like the shock-waves of an earthquake travelled through their community. If Skeeter Jackson lost his bet, they would lose their spirit-champion. So when Ianira placed that phone call and word spread that Goldie Morran had deliberately spoiled one of Skeeter's attempts, and that a general session would follow a meeting of the Seven, narrow-eyed men and women gathered in the depths of Shangri-La Station to discuss what should be done about it, while wide-eyed children listened in silence to the anger in their elders' voices.
"We could slide a knife between her ribs," one grey-haired man muttered.
"Poison would be better," a younger man countered. "She would suffer longer."
"No, we don't need to kill her," Ianira said over the babble of voices as she joined the other Six on the low dais. Silence fell as abruptly as night fog rolled over the wharves of Ephesus. The Seven had previously decided the only course they could safely take. Now it was up to the Seven to convince the others.
She held her daughters close, partly from protective love she could scarcely give coherent tongue to, and partly because she was—as a former high-ranking Priestess of Artemis—aware of the symbolism their stance of togetherness roused. Those who stood nearest to her saw not only a mother and her children, but looked at her little girls and understood in their viscera that the children's father owed more than anyone on this station to Skeeter Jackson.
Which was precisely what she wanted them to think.
Had she been born uptime rather than down, she'd have been running the government inside two years.
Although most of the gathered Found Ones came from times and places where women were expected to remain silent on pain of beating, even men who had grown to grey-beard stature had learned to respect Ianira—and in this matter, she had the right of a mother whose children were threatened. That right was so universal, even those men who had found the adjustment to TT-86 and—in particular—the status of women in TT-86, held their tongues and listened in respectful silence.
She looked from face to silent face and nodded slowly, understanding their message without the need for words. "We don't need to kill her," Ianira repeated. "All we need to do is ensure she loses her bet."
The smiles that lit multiple eyes—dark eyes and light ones, black and grey and brown and blue ones, and the occasional clear amber or green ones—all were smiling, cold as Siberian ice.
"Yes," someone on the edge of the crowd murmured, "the gems dealer must lose that bet. Which would be the better strategy, Council? Help Skeeter with his work? Or plot to destroy the money-changer's schemes?"
Ianira laughed, tossing thick, black hair across one pale shoulder. "Destroy the money-changer's schemes, of course. Skeeter can hold his own when it comes to stealing from the uptimers who kick and rob so many of us. All we have to do is make sure the money changer steals less. Much less. It ought to be fun, don't you think?"
Laughter rippled through a group which moments before had been grim enough to contemplate violent murder, consequences be damned—just the thing the Seven had feared. Agreements were made to watch the money-changer's every move. Assignments were given to those best suited to the task of foiling Goldie Morran's schemes—or, if necessary—stealing her winnings before she could "log" them with Brian, as the rules of the wager demanded.
Ianira kissed her daughters' hair and smiled softly.
Goldie Morran would rue the day she had dared interfere with Marcus' patron and champion. Rue it as bitter as wormwood and never once guess why she failed in her every effort. Ianira pledged silent sacrifices to her patron Goddess Artemis of moon-pale hunting dogs and silver arrows notched through eternity to her moon-wrought bow, as well as pledges to her adopted Goddess, Pallas Athena of spear and shield, Athenian war helmet and above all Justice, should they secure victory for Skeeter Jackson.
She left the meeting with her own assignment and returned home to put supper into Artemisia and Gelasia, then put both girls into their little beds. She worked on Council business, while waiting with great anticipation for Marcus to finish his shift at the Down Time Bar & Grill
.
She hummed an old tune as she worked, one her grandmother had taught her as a child, all the while quietly hugging to herself the secret of the astonishing money she'd made at the booth today—thanks to wise, old, mercenary Chenzira's meddling with her prices. In the all-but-silent backdrop of their apartment, the dinner she'd prepared for her love bubbled and simmered its way toward perfection in the endlessly miraculous oven.
Goldie was cashing out money for tourists returning uptime from a tour when she spotted them: three small, innocent-looking coins that were worth several thousand dollars each, they were so rare. Avarice warred with caution. She wasn't supposed to make use of her knowledge to obtain them. She couldn't buy them at a fraction of their value and claim the collector's price or Brian would disallow them completely. So she smiled in her cold heart and simply short-changed the tourists. Stealing the coins should certainly count. She waited until the batch of tourists had gone before putting up her "Out to Tea" sign and locking up the shop.
She could hardly wait to gloat to Skeeter about the day's success. Goldie headed for the library at full tilt, a battleship plowing through seas of disgruntled tourists, and cornered Brian behind his counter.
"Brian! Just take a look at these! Stole 'em fair and square!"
Brian examined the coins with care. "Very nice. Mmm . . . Yes, very nice, indeed. Let's see, now." He glanced up, a frosty look in his dark eyes. "Valuing these is really quite simple. This one, that'll give you a bet credit of twenty-five cents, this one's face value is what, thirty-five cents? Hmm . . . The silver content of this one's a little thin. I'd say about a buck thirty for the three."
Goldie stared, mouth agape and not caring who saw it. She honestly couldn't find her voice for whole seconds. When she finally did find it, heads turned the length of the library.
"What? Brian Hendrickson, you know perfectly well what those three—"
"Yes," the librarian said repressively, interrupting her before the tirade could build momentum. "Their collector's value is probably in excess of five thousand dollars. But I can't give you that kind of credit for them and you know it. Rules of the bet. You stole a couple of coins. Face value—or metals value, whichever is higher. That's it. Feel free to sell them for what they're really worth, but you won't get credit for that on the bet."
Wagers of Sin Page 11
