Wagers of Sin

by Robert Asprin

  Margo went beet-red again. "Didn't know Kit'd told you about the books," she mumbled, noticeably not apologetic about trying to mop up the gym with the instructor who'd given her multiple bruises every single night.

  His eyes softened. "Hey, Margo. It's okay. We all got out in time and you're doing wonderfully well, now that you're into your studies so deeply."

  Margo just nodded, afraid to try her voice.

  Ianira, who had taken in the entire exchange silently, began to chuckle. "You will do well, the pair of you." Two heads whipped around guiltily. Ianira laughed aloud. "Oh, yes. Fire of Youth and Caution of Experience—with streaks of childlike play and frightened love in you both. Yes," she smiled, "you will do well together." Before either of them could speak, Ianira stretched slightly. "Oh, what a relief to get away from those hounds." She pointed silently with her glance toward the window where her acolytes stood with despairing expressions, then said something low in ancient Greek, something that sounded holy and apologetic.

  When she'd finished, and Margo was sure she'd finished, she asked curiously, "Don't they drive you crazy? Do they follow you around like that all the time?"

  "Very nearly, and yes." Expressive eyes went suddenly tired. "It does get a bit wearing at times. Still, a few of them are actually teachable. I am told, for I will never be allowed uptime, that I have sparked an entire revival of Artemis worship. You heard those women. Simply by being here and occasionally speaking directly to a few of them," again, she nodded very slightly to the window, "I have accidentally begun something that even I do not know where the ending will lie."

  "Yeah, you have. Believe me, have you ever. There are no less than three Artemis temples just on campus, because response was so high they had to build another and then a third one to hold all the students attending the ceremonies. How many are in town, I don't think anyone knows."

  Ianira pondered that in silence—and judging by her eyes—sorrow.

  "Hey, Ianira, don't feel so terrible. I mean everything we do or don't do, say or don't say has an impact on something or someone else. And none of us know even half, never mind most of the endings. I mean, look at the Church of Elvis The Everlasting."

  "El-vis?" Ianira asked uncertainly. "I do not know this god."

  Margo giggled. A genuinely delighted, little-girl giggle. "Yeah. Elvis Presley, singing star. Here's an aging rock 'n' roll legend found dead on the toilet, for God's sake, with a whole bunch of chemicals in his blood. That was back in 1976. Wasn't too long before folks started writing songs about him, or claiming they'd seen The Everlasting Elvis at some grocery store or in their living rooms, or maybe hitchhiking some interstate and a trucker lets him in, talks to him for a while, then he'd say something like, 'Gotta go, now friend. Good talkin' to you. See you at Graceland some day.' Then he just vanishes."

  Ianira was laughing so hard, there were tears in her eyes. "Please, Margo, what is a 'rock 'n' roll' singer? Why was this El-vis so popular?"

  Surprising them both speechless, Malcolm shoved back his chair, ran impromptu fingers through his hair so it looked more or less appropriate, then in an astonishingly good imitation of Elvis' voice, sang a stirring, blood-pounding rendition of "Heartbreak Hotel." Complete with world-famous hip thrusts. He grabbed up the vase from their table and sang into the pink carnation as though it were a microphone and crooned the chorus to applause, whistles, and feminine shrieks. Then with a single movement, he whipped the dripping carnation and tossed it—straight at Margo. She let out a sound somewhere between scream and fainting ecstasy while the transformed Malcolm bowed to the thunderous applause all through the Delight. He bowed to every corner in turn, saying, "I wanna thank you for comin' and sharin' my show. I love you all, baby. Gotta go, now. My 'nanner sandwich is waitin'."

  He sat down to another thunderous round of applause, shrieks for "MORE!" and an entire hailstorm of carnations. All three ducked, finding themselves covered in no time with dripping wet flowers.

  "See," Malcolm grinned, coming up for air—with a red carnation stuck sideways in his hair—"no sequined suit, no fancy guitar—in fact, no guitar at all, and I'm not nearly as good an imitator as lots of guys are. But you saw the response from the people in here." They were still brushing off carnations. Malcolm signalled for a waiter. "They went completely nuts. That's the definition of the ultimate rock 'n' roll star: being so good at what they do, their audiences go crazy. Happened with the Beatles, too; but they called Elvis 'The King of Rock' long before he died and got himself apotheosized."

  Margo took up the rest of the explanation as best she could. "Pretty soon, there was a single 'Church of Elvis the Everlasting.' The main temple was—is—his estate at Graceland, Elvis' mansion near Nashville, Tennessee. Trouble was, while lots of folks made the pilgrimage, lots more couldn't afford it. So before you know what's happening, there are thousands of Churches of Elvis the Everlasting, all over the country. And all of 'em mail their cash tithes overnight express to the High Temple at Graceland."

  Margo grinned. "Man, you should see that place! There was a documentary on it one Friday night a few weeks back, and since I didn't have much to do, I watched it." She rolled her eyes. "A real king would be jealous. There's an altarpiece, must be twenty-four feet of black velvet, with another piece coming down the pulpit to the floor. Believers who can sew are still working on it. The Everlasting Elvis on the pulpit is finished—gold and silver threads, diamonds, rubies, emeralds, you name it, they used it to decorate that drop of cloth.

  "And no cheap, synthetic velvet, either, but the real stuff that would cost me, let's see, at least seven weeks of saving up every bit of my allowance, just to buy a piece of real velvet as big as the altar piece, never mind the twenty-four-foot runner. That is supposed to illustrate the entire life of the Everlasting Elvis."

  Margo giggled. "I can't help wondering if they're going to show him ascending as the Elvis Everlasting, rising into grace from that toilet seat he died on? Oh, that whole place is crazy. The whole fad is crazy. Worshipping a dead rock 'n' roll singer? Puh-leeze."

  Ianira was still wiping tears of hilarity from the corners of her eyes. "Your whole uptime world, I think, is just as crazy as worshipping a dead man. You have a gift, Margo, for telling a story." Ianira's smile was brilliant. "You could go into training, fire-haired one. So few see so clearly at your age."

  Margo flounced in place. "Humph. It ain't the age, it's the mileage," she muttered, paying tribute to one of her favorite last-century classics.

  "You see what I mean?" Ianira said softly. "You just did it again. You should get training before you go scouting on your own. You may well have need of it someday."

  Margo couldn't say anything. Once again, Malcolm came to her rescue. He passed menus around and said lightly, "Ianira, who has accumulated quite a bit of 'mileage' for her age, has become something of a celebrity uptime, as you mentioned with all those temples on your campus. Right after The Accident, there was a group of kooks, I forget what they called themselves—"

  Margo supplied the answer: "The Endtime Saviors."

  "Yes," Malcolm said with a "thank you" and a kiss both pantomimed, "these Endtime Saviors decided right after The Accident that the End was upon us. They kept looking for a sign. A prophet who would usher in the next age of mankind. Or should I say 'womankind'? Unfortunately, they've decided Ianira is that sign. She's regarded as a prophetess, the Voice of the Goddess on Earth."

  Margo rubbed the tip of her nose. "Well, if she can say to everyone what she said about me and my poor, checkered past, I can understand why."

  "No," Ianira laughed softly. "It is just that you and I resonate so closely. Our experiences, different as they are, have enough similarity to feel the resonance and understand clearly its source."

  Margo shook her head. "I dunno. I guess if that's how you do it . . ."

  Ianira smiled slightly. "It is part of my training in the Mysteries of Artemis, you see, in the great Temple at Ephesus, where I was born. Oh, how I miss Ep
hesus!" Her exotic eyes misted for just a moment and it came to Margo with a jolt just how terribly homesick most downtimers must be, torn away from everything they knew and loved, never allowed to go home, wandering at best from menial job to menial job, maybe even switching stations in the hopes of improving their situation—

  Margo thereby swore a sacred oath to treat all downtimers, not just Kynan Rhys Gower, a great deal more courteously.

  Ianira was still speaking. "After marriage, when my husband carried me across the Aegean Sea to Athens, pride of Greece, I vowed to study as best I could the Mysteries of the majestic Athene who guarded his city. Not even he could deny me that, not with my stature from Ephesus. So I learned—and learned to hate my life outside the Temple, inside his gyneceum."

  Margo, round-eyed, could only reply, "Oh. I—I'm sorry."

  Malcolm chuckled. "Hits most people that way. Ianira's name means the Enchantress, you know. She's what you might call an international, temporal treasure, locked away safe and sound inside TT-86's concrete walls."

  Ianira flushed and made a small sound of disagreement.

  "Say what you will," Malcolm said mildly, "an international, temporal treasure is exactly what you are. Dr. Mundy—a professor of history who interviews the downtimers," he added for Margo's benefit, "—says it constantly. Best information he's found in all his life, he says, and he's getting it all in glorious detail from you, Ianira. Besides," he winked, "being an international, temporal treasure does pays the bills, doesn't it?"

  Ianira laughed aloud. "You are impossible, Malcolm Moore, but yes. It does, handsomely. It was a good idea Marcus had, to put up such a booth when crassly miseducated, uptimer fools began to seek me out. We're almost out of debt to the Infirmary, now."

  "That's great, Ianira. I've very happy for you. I know how close it was with your little girl."

  Ianira gave him a sad, sweet smile. "Thank you. It was in the hands of the gods—and Rachel Eisenstein, may the Lady bless her eternally—but she is now healthy enough to return to the Station Babysitting Service and School. I would dearly love to get my hands on the tourist who brought that fever back to the Station with him! Malcolm, after lunch, perhaps you would care to join me? I always go there after lunch to check on my babies. And I have an idea which may help relieve a bit of the strain on poor Harriet Banks. She tries so hard and it is just not fair."

  Malcolm just said, "Yeah. I know. I'll be happy to come along. Got a few ideas of my own, I do. We'll compare notes after lunch. Margo?"

  She shook her head, eyes apologizing to Ianira as best she could. "I have to get in some weapons practice before we go to Denver. I'm a little rusty and even if I weren't, I'd still practice because my scores just weren't all that good before my, uh, adventure. So I thought I'd try out a couple of period rifles, a few handguns, see how I do with them."

  "You are wise," Ianira smiled that archaic, mysterious smile. "A woman who thinks herself without limits is a dangerous fool—and I have seen so very many of them." The acolytes were still outside, filming and scribbling notes. Ianira glanced their way with the merest flick of her gaze, but managed to convey utter contempt for the lot of them. Margo blinked, having no earthly idea how she'd just done that, but wanting to learn the secret of it for herself.

  Ianira reached out and covered Margo's shocked hand. "You have begun to understand that you have limits, Margo, even as all humanity has limits. What I find even more astonishing—and delightful—for a girl your age, you have already discovered what many of them," she nodded toward the window, "will never discover." Then once more, the offer came, causing even Malcolm to stare.

  "It would be my great joy to train you, Margo, for there is such a fire in your soul as I have not seen since my childhood, when my own dear instructor, the sister of my mother, was chosen as High Priestess. Light would dance from her hair, her fingertips, there was so much fire inside her. She did many great things and was everywhere honored as a great and shrewd leader during times when leadership was desperately needed.

  "You look nothing like her, Margo, yet you could be her. And, youthful as you are, you have already taken the first steps on your own journey to wisdom." Then, letting go Margo's hand, which tingled as though live electricity had poured through it, Ianira fished under the table and slid the brown-paper packet over toward Margo. When Margo gave her a puzzled look, Ianira said softly, "Your Malcolm is a man with a beautiful soul. He is dear to us, to the Council of Seven, to the whole community of downtimers, The Found Ones. Consider the contents of the package a wedding gift from all of us, so that you might please Malcolm even more than you do now, and so that Malcolm will not just love you, but worship you, for that is what you both need and deserve. Nothing less will do. I can only hope this offering of silly trinkets will help."

  "Uhm," Margo cleared her throat. "Do I open it now? Or save it for the wedding night?"

  Ianira laughed. "That is your decision. But the way Malcolm is staring from you to that package and back, with such speculation in his eyes, I would suggest you open it now."

  Margo glanced over and saw the intense hunger in Malcolm's face, which turned bright red when he realized he'd been caught out. Hastily he cleared his throat and said, "I was only curious, after all."

  Both women laughed. Margo dipped into an across-the-shoulder purse no bigger than a diskette box and pulled out a small but useful Swiss Army knife. She made quick work of the string, then turned the carefully tucked package onto its back, took a deep breath, and opened it.

  Inside lay the most exquisite gown from Ianira's rack and jewelry nestled in its fold: not the cheap stuff, but the stuff that had the look and feel of genuine antiquity.

  "Oh!—My God! Oh, my God! Ianira, you shouldn't have—I can't possibly accept—"

  Ianira stopped her attempted refusal by leaning forward and placing soft fingertips across Margo's lips. "Just accept. As a friend."

  Margo's eyes filled. "Why are you doing this? I just met you—"

  "Oh, no, child. We have known each other through many lifetimes. Wear it and please each other, that you also may be together for many lifetimes."

  Margo didn't hear much through the next few seconds. She kept staring at the lines of sparkling embroidery, the heavy silver necklace, bracelets, earrings, with all the stones in them prepared in the ancient way: simple, round-topped cabochons, even the diamonds. It was beyond beautiful. Margo could find no words to say how beautiful it was.

  Ianira and Malcolm were speaking again, forcibly yanking Margo out of uncustomarily deep thoughts. "—firearms practice schedule on her own, same with the martial arts. And she studies, my God, the girl studies!"

  Ianira laughed softly. "Would you have her any other way?

  Malcolm said without hesitation, "No."

  Ianira glanced over to Margo. "I will ask the Lady's blessing on your practice."

  "Hear, hear," Malcolm agreed. "After lunch, you go play with guns. I'll come down later and see how you're doing, get in a little practice, myself. Then we'll get clean, eat in, and try on that," he nudged the half-opened package, "before bedtime. Well before bedtime."

  Margo smiled her best, heart-stopping smile. One elderly gentleman—well, he was hardly a gentleman—at finding himself the focus of that smile, had literally collapsed on the street, leaving strangers to hunt his pockets for the nitroglycerin and to call the ambulance. After that experience, Margo was careful just how far she turned on that particular smile—and then realized with a jolt that she and Ianira weren't so different, after all. It startled her into meeting the other woman's gaze.

  Ianira knew. Somehow, she knew exactly what Margo had just discovered. Moreover, she approved, eyes twinkling merrily. Margo swallowed hard as the silent invitation passed over Malcolm's bent head. Someday, Margo attempted to convey with eyes and tiny gestures. Someday I will seek you out for training. I have the funniest feeling I'm supposed to study with you, that I am going to need to learn what you teach me.

  Ianira
merely nodded and smiled again, a mysterious little smile full of knowledge and agreement. Margo smiled back her acceptance.

  Malcolm the Ever-Vigilant (missing the exchange entirely) glanced up from his menu and smiled at them both. "Well, then, what shall we order for lunch?"

  Chapter Ten

  One look at the firing line and Margo's gut muscles tightened in dismay.

  Please, anyone but that bunch!

  Maybe they were just finishing up their session?

  Margo's nostrils pinched tight, causing her upper lip to curl in a completely unconscious expression of disgust. The group of five intent paleontologists she'd met at the uptime station in New York, where Shangri-La's Primary opened, were just beginning to unpack a luggage cart, laying out their sundry gun cases for a private lesson.

  Aw, rats. Some of Ann's lessons took hours to complete.

  She didn't dislike the paleontologists, exactly. Well, not the woman, anyway. But three of the four men had spent their entire time in Primary's uptime waiting lounge all but drooling while they stared directly at her. Or, rather, at her chest. It was a reaction she was more than accustomed to, but she still didn't like it.

  Chalk up another change, Margo. You don't like being stared at anymore.

  Already, the group had noticed her and the renewed stares made her feel like a sleazy 42nd Street hooker. Margo began to consider—seriously—buying some of the uglier but more fully concealing peasant clothing in Connie Logan's Clothes & Stuff.

  Paleontologists, hah!

  The only truly interesting thing Margo had discovered about them was where and when, exactly, they were heading. Cope and Marsh had fought over a huge chunk of territory. She shook her head slightly.

  The damned fools were deliberately walking right into the middle of the fight, hoping to rescue one of the new-species fossil skeletons that one side or the other had smashed up into tiny, useless fragments, so that it had been lost to science forever. The girl, one of three graduate students selected for this trip, had explained; at least, she'd mentioned something about a diary one of their professors had stumbled on in a used bookstore, written by one of the actual field agents charged with bringing back as many intact new specimens as possible.