He pulled out a little ledger book and made an entry. Goldie couldn't believe it. A dollar and thirty stinking cents. Then she caught sight of Skeeter's last entry in a column next to hers: zero.
That was something. Not much, but something.
Goldie stormed out of the library, determined to eat Skeeter Jackson's liver for breakfast. Chuckles behind her only rubbed salt in a raw wound. She'd pay Brian back, too, she would. Just wait and see if she didn't. A buck-thirty. Of all the humiliating, backstabbing—
A feathered Ichthyornis screamed past on a power-dive into a nearby fishpond. The splash drenched Goldie from waist to knees. She screeched at the toothed bird and cursed it in language that caused mouths to drop in a fifty-foot radius. Then, catching herself, Goldie compressed her lips, glared at the people staring at her, and sniffed autocratically.
Skeeter might be behind, but a dollar and thirty cents wasn't a lead, it was an insult. She'd show that upstart little pipsqueak what an amateur he really was or her name was not Goldie Morran. She smiled tightly. The expression hurt the skin of her face and started a nearby toddler whimpering against its mother's skirts.
Goldie Morran had not yet begun to scam.
Skeeter, having successfully picked several pockets in a crowded cafe, returned to the library to hand over his take for Brian to hold, per the rules of the bet. When he caught sight of Goldie's last entry, he laughed out loud.
"A buck thirty?" His laughter deepened, the primal joy of a half-wild Mongol who has pulled one over on the enemy.
Brian shrugged. "You're taking the news more cheerfully that she did."
"I'll bet!"
Brian said repressively, "You already have, Jackson. Now beat it. I have real work to do."
Skeeter laughed again, refusing to be insulted, and let his imagination linger on what Goldie's face must have looked like as she received the unpalatable news. Bet her face had gone nearly as purple as her hair! He strolled out of the library, hands in pockets and whistling cheerfully. The Commons certainly was a pretty place this time of year . . .
A heavy hand grabbed his shoulder, spinning him roughly around. His back connected with a concrete wall, driving the breath momentarily from his lungs. Skeeter blinked and focused on the face of a man he'd last seen standing on the banks of the River Tiber, cursing him for all he was worth.
Oh, shit—
Lupus Mortiferus.
In modern clothes and a towering rage. "Your entrails aren't really worth a hundred-fifty gold aurii—but they'll do!"
"Uh . . ." Skeeter said, trying to buy time before the gladiator choked and/or stabbed the life out of him. How the hell did he get onto the station? Not that it mattered. He was here—and one look into those dark, murderous eyes told Skeeter he was about to die.
Or worse.
So Skeeter did the only thing that might possibly save him. He dropped to the floor like a limp rag doll. His opponent paused just an instant too long. Skeeter rolled, kicked Lupus Mortiferus' feet out from under him, scrambled up, and ran. A bull's bellow of fury followed him. One quick glance showed the enraged gladiator in close pursuit. No river to jump into this time. No horse to steal, either. How the hell did he get into TT-86?
He wove and dodged through the dense holiday crowds, ducked past a cluster of blinking, six-foot-five decorations, and shouldered someone aside when they blocked his way. An autocratic screech and a splash were followed by Goldie Morran's voice cursing him in language almost as colorful as Yesukai at his best. He took a brief second to wish he'd had the time to enjoy the sight of Goldie dripping wet from purple hair to spike-heeled toes—but that gladiator was right on his heels. He rounded the fish pond and pounded through Edo Castletown. In his wake, men dressed like samurai shouted obscenities at his pursuer, who shoved several of them bodily to the floor in his charge.
Ooh, Yakuza, Skeeter thought with a wince as he glanced back to see tattooed men swearing at the gladiator's back. Too bad they hadn't managed to lay hands on him.
He pounded out of Edo Castletown into Frontier Town, with its Wild West Gate, bars, saloons, and show-girl halls. Frontier Town's saloons offered a confusing maze of darkened rooms where bar girls served whiskey, poker games lasted until all hours, and rinky-tink piano players hammed it up on artificially battered upright pianos. Skeeter ducked into the nearest, sliding under a series of tables in the dim-lit bar, scattering card players and whiskey glasses in his wake as men jumped back in startled surprise. Then whole tables crashed to the floor behind him. The gladiator had waded in, snarling something in Latin. A fist fight broke out somewhere to his rear. Skeeter didn't care. He dove across the bar, catching a glimpse of the barkeeper's shocked expression in the mirror, then hauled butt back for the door while Lupus Mortiferus battled his way through a mob of really pissed-off "cowboys"—including at least one wrathful time scout who knew martial arts.
Having bought himself a couple of minutes' lead, Skeeter blasted through the saloon doors into the bright Commons again and pelted back through Edo Castletown, where the first Shinto observances had begun at the new shrine. A deep bell-tone shimmered through the air as the first worshipper pulled the bell-rope to sound the gong that would catch the attention of the resident, sacred kami. A glance over his shoulder revealed the irate gladiator battling his way past a dozen really irate Yakuza thugs. Lupus Mortiferus had knocked them down on their first dash through Castletown, causing them to lose serious face in public. They were out for vengeance. He grinned, leaped the low fence marking off the new shrine, gaining traction in the expanse of white gravel, ducked under the shrine, and vaulted the fence on the other side while outraged Japanese curses poured after him in waves. One swift glance showed Lupus Mortiferus in even greater trouble as the worshippers vented righteous ire upon the gladiator.
Sorry about that, really, Skeeter told the certain-to-be-offended kami. I'll, uh, come ask your pardon later. Honest.
Skeeter cut hard into a side corridor leading toward the maze of corridors that made up Residential. A bellow in the distance told him the chase, although badly slowed for Lupus Mortiferus, was still on.
Skeeter pelted up a staircase and rounded a wicked bend at a full run, grabbing a heavy rope garland and swinging around the outside of the girder that supported a balcony platform above, using it like Tarzan's vines to whip around at maximum speed. Below him, gasps of shock and fear arose from the packed Commons floor. Great. All I need's an audience. Three changes of corridors, two more staircases, and another turn brought Skeeter out onto a wide balcony of shops and restaurants overlooking Commons.
Far back, but rounding the corner after him, Lupus Mortiferus was still coming. Cripes, doesn't anything stop that guy? Skeeter tipped over clothing racks, cafe tables, and fully-lighted Christmas trees. He kept running, providing any and all barriers he could that the gladiator would have to jump or pick up first, then skidded down a gridwork staircase, mostly sliding down the banister. A flock of roosting pterosaurs screeched and took wing in protest. They swooped and dove, knocking wreathes, plastic candy canes, and all sorts of other decorations off girders and balconies—which created panic amongst the tourists gaping in his wake.
Skeeter heard curses—but they were farther and farther behind. He hit the next balcony level still running flat out, slammed a seven-foot plastic Santa to the balcony floor behind him, and spotted an open elevator. Skeeter grinned and dove into it. He punched 5 and the doors closed. The elevator shot upward, carrying him to the upper floor of a hotel's graceful balcony. Skeeter stepped out onto lush carpet, rather than bare gridwork, hearing the very distant sounds of pursuit below, then slipped into the hotel's hallway, covered with a different color carpet, but just as luxurious as the balcony's. Skeeter jogged easily down the line of gilt-numbered doors and found an interior elevator which took him to the basement.
Under the hotel were weapons ranges and a gym. Skeeter ducked through the gym, found another elevator tucked back in the men's shower area, which had be
en placed there for the convenience of residents who wanted to head straight up after a workout. He rode it up to the third level of Residential.
When he finally stepped out into a silent corridor, there was no sign of the gladiator. Skeeter leaned against the wall and drew several deep breaths, then slowly relaxed. He couldn't help grinning. What a chase! Then reality settled over him like a blast of Mongolian snow. With Lupus Mortiferus on the station, Skeeter was in real trouble. What to do about it? Skeeter narrowed his eyes. He could always go to Bull Morgan and report the downtimer, but that would mean having to confess his downtime scam to the station manager. And that would get him into serious legal trouble with Management—with a probable eviction from TT-86 as the result. He wouldn't need to lose the wager to lose his home.
If the gladiator were reported—and questioned—the result would be the same. The damned gladiator would be given refuge, but Skeeter would be kicked uptime to fend for himself in a world he had grown to hate. And if that gladiator caught up with him, he was a dead man.
"Great," Skeeter muttered to the listening walls. "Not only do I gotta win this bet, now I gotta stay alive while doing it."
He straightened his shoulders and lifted his chin. The boy who'd survived life in Yesukai's camp wasn't a quitter. He was no professional fighter—certainly no match for someone like Lupus Mortiferus—but he knew a few tricks. He wasn't happy, but he'd cope.
He always had, no matter what life handed him.
Tired, hungry, and thirsty, Skeeter headed for his little apartment, hoping Lupus Mortiferus didn't tumble to the fact that any computer in La-La Land listed his address bold as a Mongolian sky, on an entry screen Skeeter couldn't hack into and purge—not without drawing serious attention to himself from Mike Benson's sharp-eyed gang. He thumbed open his door and retreated into his private little refuge to fret over the problem, knowing as he opened the fridge for a beer and turned on the shower that wishing would not make this particular problem vanish.
He took a long pull from his beer and made the wish anyway.
From his viewpoint, Skeeter figured the gods owed him a break or two. For once, maybe they'd listen?
Lupus Mortiferus stood panting in the middle of an empty corridor, hand on the pommel of his gladius, eyes narrowed in a rage that filled his veins until his ears roared with it. Where had that little bastard slipped away to? So close . . . and the rat had vanished into thin air.
Again.
"I will find you, odds maker," Lupus swore under his breath. "And when I do . . ."
Meanwhile, he had to find someone to communicate with. That dark-skinned man had answers Lupus needed. It took him nearly an hour of confused wandering through the mad place before he found it again, but find it he did. And the man was still there, perched comfortably behind a wooden counter. Girding on courage as though it were armor, Lupus strode up to the counter and greeted him in Latin.
The man glanced up, surprise showing in deep brown eyes. "Hello. Guide? Or scout? Don't think I've seen you before. Just in from another station? Brian Hendrickson, Station Librarian."
The man stuck out a hand.
Lupus stared at it, wondering what in the world the man was babbling about. The words were Latin, but their meaning . . . He might as well have been speaking some obscure desert tongue like Palmyrene or the incomprehensible babble of a Scythian horseman.
"Well," the man was saying, staring at him with rising curiosity, "the computers are at your full access, of course. With that getup, I'd thought you were headed down the Wild West Gate. Planning on a freelance trip to Rome? It's a lucrative gate, certainly, and thanks to Kit's leaning a little on Bax, Time Tours is giving freelancers a freer hand with the customers. You shouldn't have any problem at all making a good living if you decide to stay."
The man made no sense at all. With a rising sense of panic he couldn't control, Lupus tried to marshall a single question, but found his tongue glued to the roof of a mouth gone dry with fear. The gods make sport of me for fun. . . .
Whatever the man said next, it wasn't in Latin. His brow furrowed in open puzzlement. That was more than Lupus could take. He couldn't afford to be found out as an imposter in this place of divine madness. He bolted for the door. Mithras, help me, he prayed in growing misery. I don't know where to go or what to do. Lupus didn't quite run down the bewildering confusion of staircases, ramps, shops, ponds, and imitation streets that made up the main room of this world, but he moved fast enough to put distance between himself and the man who was most certainly coming to the conclusion that Lupus did not belong here.
He was halfway down the long, long stretch of room when he realized he was being followed. The man was younger than he, brown-haired and slender enough that Lupus could easily break him in half with bare hands. Lupus knew a jolt of fear that stabbed from heart to groin, anyway. The gods who ran this mad playground had found him out.
Then anger, pure and simple, scalded him to his bones.
I have been swindled, cheated, and dragged out of my very world. I will not submit meekly to this!
He took a side corridor that led into a quiet, private part of this world and hid in a shadowed niche. Sure enough, the young man following him took the same turn. Lupus gripped his sword and slid it sweetly out of its scabbard. Someone would give him answers or pay the consequences of their refusal.
He waited patiently for the quarry to come close enough to strike.
One moment, Marcus was completely alone in the Residential corridor, having lost sight of his quarry. The next, he was crushed painfully against the wall, sword at his throat. He gasped. Lupus Mortiferus . . .
Shock detonated in the other man's eyes. Marcus only realized he'd gasped the man's name aloud when the gladiator demanded, "You know who I am?"
"I—" Marcus thought he might well faint from terror. How many men had the Wolf of Death killed during his bloody career? The thought of leaving Ianira and little Artemisia and Gelasia alone, trying to survive without him, drove him nearly to gibber. "I know—I know you, yes. I saw you, once. Many years ago. Before a fight. At—at one of the gladiator feasts—"
The sword blade stayed pressed against his throat. "Where am I? What place is this? And why have the masters of it sent you trailing my steps?"
Marcus blinked in surprise. "Nobody sent me. I saw you earlier and thought I recognized you. I—I just wanted to ask what you were doing here. You shouldn't be here at all. Please, I beg of you, Lupus Mortiferus, don't kill me, I have children, a family—"
The blade remained at his throat, but the pressure eased up just a bit. "Kill you?" the gladiator snorted. "The only man in this mad place who speaks Latin that makes sense? Do you think the Wolf of Death a complete fool?"
Marcus began to hope he might survive. "How did you come here? The Roman gate is very well guarded—" His eyes widened. "Those boys who got sick, when the gate cycled. You must have come through during the confusion."
Lupus Mortiferus narrowed dark eyes. "Gates? Talk sense. And answer my question! Where am I?"
Marcus knew he'd once been a slave, but it had been years since anyone had used that tone with him. "The last time I saw you," he dared flare back, "you were still a slave. Where is your collar? Or have you run from the school?"
Lupus' dark eyes widened. For an instant, Marcus saw his own death reflected there. Then—shocking him beyond all reason—the Wolf of Death lowered his sword. "I bought my freedom," he said quietly. "Then the money I earned with this sword, the money I was saving to start a new life, was stolen by a black-hearted street-rat of a foreigner. I followed him here." The threat returned to his eyes. "Now tell me, where is 'here'?"
Marcus blinked several times, struggling with emotions that ran the gamut from pity to terror and back again. "If you will put away the gladius, I will tell you. In fact, if you put away the gladius, I will take you to my own rooms and try to help you as best I can. What I have to say will not be easy for you to understand. I know you are a proud man, Lupu
s Mortiferus—you have a right to be—but you will need help to survive here." Some glint in Lupus' dark eyes told Marcus he'd hit a raw nerve. "I have a woman and daughters to support, but I will do my best to help. From what I remember, you didn't begin your life in Rome either. In that, we have something in common. You have asked for answers. I offer them and more. Will you come with me?"
The gladiator paused for several heart-shattering moments, then sheathed his sword under the ridiculous cowboy chaps. The gladius snicked softly into place under the concealing leather. "I will come. I think," he said softly, "the gods have left me no choice."
The admission shocked Marcus speechless.
But he recalled all too vividly his own first days in La-La Land, with their wrenching, sick dislocation and the terror every sight and sound brought. This man had been badly wronged by someone from TT-86. Marcus would do what he could to make amends.
The Wolf of Death followed silently behind as Marcus led the way toward his small apartment. He wondered with a sinking terror in his gut what Lupus Mortiferus would do when he saw Ianira's delicate beauty. He was strong enough—and ruthless enough—to take her while Marcus watched helplessly from the floor, bloodied and dazed, perhaps even bound and gagged. Surely Lupus would adhere to guest/host laws? But Lupus was neither Roman nor predictable. Marcus had no idea what he would or wouldn't do.
But he had given his word and Lupus Mortiferus had been wronged.
And the laws here, he recalled with effort, were not those of Rome. If Lupus Mortiferus tried to hurt his beloved, he could call for help—or send her and his daughters to live with others who could and would protect them.
Afraid and torn between honor and multiple duties, Marcus led the gladiator to his little home deep in the recesses of Residential.
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