The paleontologists were clearly impressed.
Kit just ruffled his granddaughter's hair, saying everything he wanted to say with that touch and the look in his eyes.
Margo cleared her throat, wishing desperately for once that they were alone and someplace private where they could just talk. She needed to tell him what had really happened to her mother, Kit's lost daughter—the one he hadn't known he possessed until Margo told him about her, the little she'd been able to tell him, except her name and that she was dead. Margo cringed at the memory of that talk by the fishpond on Commons. She'd been so inexperienced, so uneasy, so afraid of him, she literally hadn't been able to tell him what his eyes had begged to know.
This time, she wouldn't be such a coward. And she'd hold him while he cried over her mother's brutal murder, robbing him of a child he'd never met.
Whoops, getting too maudlin, Margo. You have a job to do and you can't do it snuffling goddamned tears, of all things.
So she said to her somewhat abashed students, "Oh, by the way, all of you should stop by Connie Logan's Clothes and Stuff, not just for period-appropriate clothing—she's got the best and you can rent it for much less than buying it—but also be sure to buy a good Old West dictionary, so you won't sound quite so green. Old Western speech is nearly unintelligible to anybody else from anywhere else. To Old Westerners, anybody who can't speak it is a greenhorn. Learn the language you'll need to know."
She'd picked up a little at school, but she'd have to study it like mad before she and Malcolm went to Denver.
"But," Adair MacKinnon asked, swallowing hard and sweating, "isn't it just a dialect of English?"
"No," Malcolm said quietly. "Unless you can tell me the exact Old West meanings and pronunciations—without having to think about them—of churn-twister, cienaga, a Jerusalem undertaker, the word 'jewelry' or the phrase 'jewelry chest,' then you'd better hit the library and find yourself a good Old West-English/English-Old West dictionary and start memorizing it. You're going to need it for three months in rough country, away from the more 'civilized' vicinity around Denver."
Adair stuck to his guns. "I can understand the need to speak like a native, but why so adamant about it? So-called dudes from the East wouldn't have spoken it, after all. And just exactly what do 'Jerusalem undertaker' or a perfectly normal word like 'jewelry' really mean?"
"Yes," Malcolm replied, "dudes don't speak Old West when they arrive. They're lost in an alien culture, trying to survive and blend in gradually with what they find. In short, they're intrusive greenhorns, and greenhorns are considered fair game."
"Very fair game," Kit added solemnly. "The range wars weren't quite as bad as depicted in the movies, although they were bad enough, and Dodge City had a lower per capita murder rate than, say, New York or Washington, D.C. during, oh, the mid 1990s. But attacks on dudes by a single, experienced man, or a gang of them, were very common. Even swindlers could make a killing, saying one thing that meant another altogether, which the dude would find out too late, once his money or land or horse or whatever he'd risked was long out of his possession. And having made a legal contract, there was absolutely nothing the poor sop could do about it. Except maybe hire himself a gun-hand—if he had enough money left—to hunt down the rat and kill him."
Margo took Kit's hand again, more carefully this time, realizing she was squeezing it so tightly, his fingernails were turning purple. "Grandpa pushed the Wild West Gate," she put in, eyes aglow as she gazed up at Kit.
He harrumphed and muttered, "Lots of time scouts pushed lots of gates. Nothing heroic in walking through the Wild West Gate, of that I may assure you. There were other gates that were much harder to step through."
A subtle reminder of Margo's disastrous mission into Southern Africa. She flushed, but held tight to his hand.
Dr. Rubenstein nodded. "The Roman Gate, I expect, was an extremely difficult one."
Kit laughed. "Oh, it was easy to get in. Getting out again proved a rather interesting test of wit and skill."
And that was how he dismissed one of the most dangerous, nearly lethal adventures he'd ever encountered. His involuntary fight in the Circus Maximus was legend the world over.
"Well," Margo muttered, "I, uh, guess I'd better get on with my own practice and let you take over the class, Ann."
The diminutive firearms instructor nodded gracious thanks for helping break the class the way a horse-breaker might soften up and civilize a particularly unruly horse.
Kit said very softly, "We'll wait on the benches until you're finished."
She nodded, holding in another sigh. Another bleeding test . . .
But this time she put up no arguments, no protests, no childish tantrums. She simply put on her safety gear, called out, "Line's going hot!" so everyone else donned safety gear—including Kit and Malcolm—and got busy finishing the other two boxes of .44-40's, scoring well in toward the center of the black despite her nervousness; then she switched to the heavier Centennial and did herself proud with three boxes of almost perfect nines and tens. She did throw a couple of rounds here and there from sweating palms and aching arms and eyes that burned and wouldn't focus properly, but even though she was out of practice, her scores were good and she knew it.
"Well?" she asked as she handed over the targets.
The two most important people in her life put their heads together, poring over the targets, marking each shot outside the nine ring. Finally they looked up again.
"Well, frankly," Kit began, "you could use some more practice and work on your upper arm strength, but pretty damned good for a first try after several dry months."
Margo let go her tense fear and abruptly felt like she was floating on fizzy bubbles that tickled her all the way to the ceiling.
"Hey," Malcolm called, "come down out of the clouds, will you?"
She sighed inwardly and allowed the wonderful fizzing bubbles to waft her gently toward the floor. She blinked and found herself staring into Malcolm's eyes. "Yeah?" she asked softly.
He didn't say a word. He just kissed her until those dratted, wonderful fizzing bubbles came back. When she came up for breath, she was actually dizzy.
"Wow! Where'd you learn to do that?"
Malcolm touched her cheek. "From a certain red-headed imp I know. She's very, um, motivational."
Margo blushed to her toes. Malcolm only smiled.
"Shall I, um, put everything away so we can get the heck out of here?"
"Y-e-s," Kit drawled, devilment in his eyes, "I think that would be appropriate. We'll stuff down some dinner, then if it's possible, I think I'd like to pry you away from Malcolm for a while, so it's just you and me, okay?"
"Yeah," was all she could manage.
They helped her clean the rifles, just to speed up the process, then she put away all her gear and locked up the gun room, returning the keys carefully where they belonged. That done, Margo Smith hooked arms through both Malcolm's and Kit's. They left the range aware of the still-awestruck gazes that followed them.
Once outside, beyond the soundproof glass, they all started laughing like complete idiots. But it was a healing laughter, as well, washing away awkwardness and lonely pain and leaving only the new closeness and the utterly reaffirmed love Margo felt for both of these men. It was a love she felt she didn't deserve, but was by God going to try to deserve.
"Last one to the elevator's a goose's egg!" Margo called, sprinting off like a gazelle.
Not at all surprisingly, Kit arrived just behind her, his hand covering hers just as she punched the elevator button. Malcolm wheezed up a moment later.
"Out of shape," Kit chided.
"Hah! Blame that on your insatiable granddaughter."
Kit just laughed and winked at Margo, who flushed red as a beet. But she was still laughing. The elevator carried them and their hilarity upward in efficient silence, until the doors opened again and their laughter spilled out onto the Commons. They headed for the Epicurean Delight and a dinner that
would certainly be a momentous occasion.
At least, it would if Kenneth "Kit" Carson had anything to say about it!
Chapter Twelve
Marcus was on duty in the Down Time Bar & Grill when he strolled in, casual and cool as a general surveying newly levied troops on the Campus Martius. A glass slipped from nerveless fingers and shattered on the floor behind the bar. He glanced Marcus' way, noted him briefly with a flick of disinterested gaze, then took a seat near the back as though Marcus didn't exist.
Fear and anger both ripped through him, piercing as the shockwaves of an unstable gate. The years he'd spent on TT-86 had changed him more than he'd realized, had eased the harshness of certain memories with the fair treatment he'd received here, where men like Kit Carson and Skeeter Jackson saw him as a man, not a possession. He'd come to realize over the years that he was free, that no one had the right to call him slave, but in that single, blinding instant when his one-time master's eyes had slid dismissively away from his, the memory of his slavery had crashed down around him like a cage of steel bars.
Marcus stood rooted to the floor, unable to believe he had actually forgotten that terrifying, familiar, casual dismissal of his very humanity. What it felt like in his soul to be reminded—
"Hey, Marcus, clean up that mess!"
The manager, frowning at him.
Hands shaking uncontrollably, Marcus knelt and swept up broken shards of the bar glass. When the job was done and the pieces dumped into the trash bin, Marcus washed and dried hands that refused to hold steady. He drew a deep breath for courage. He didn't want to cross that short distance of space, but knew it had to be done. He still owed a terrible sum of money to this man whose name he'd never actually known, merely calling him Domus, same as any other slave would address a master. He recalled all too clearly the cold humor in the man's eyes when he'd first laid eyes on Marcus in that stinking slave pen.
He left the relative safety of the space behind the bar and approached the dim table near the back. His glance flicked up again, studied Marcus with brutal appraisal, a herdsman judging the health of prize stock. Marcus' insides flinched.
"Your order?" he whispered, all voice control gone.
His one-time master had not changed much during the intervening years. A little leaner, a little greyer. But the eyes were the same, dark and glittering and triumphant.
"Beer. Whiskey chaser."
Marcus brought the drinks as ordered, trying desperately to still the jittering of glassware on his small, round tray. Quick eyes noted the dance and smiled.
"Very good," he purred. "That will be all."
Marcus bowed and departed. He felt the dark touch of the man's gaze on him through the next hour, watching him work as he served drinks, collected bar tabs and tips, made up sandwiches and snacks for the ebb and flow of customers, and prayed to all the gods to get him through this ordeal. Why has he come? pounded behind his eyelids. Why has he not spoken to me again? I have the gold to repay the debt of my purchase price. I have it . . .
And above all other questions, again and again, Why does he not speak? He just sits and watches. The man finally finished his beer and left money on the table, departing without a backward glance. Marcus had to brace himself against the bar to keep his feet.
"Marcus?"
He jumped so badly he nearly went to the floor. The manager braced him with a hasty arm.
"You feeling okay? You look sick."
I am sick! Marcus wanted to cry out. "I—do not feel well, I am sorry . . ."
"Hey, you got plenty of sick time coming. Go on home and take some aspirin, get some rest. I'll call Molly—she could use some overtime pay. If you don't feel better by tomorrow, call Medical."
Marcus nodded, numb to his bones. "Thank you." Very carefully, he wiped his hands on a bar towel. He hung it up with great deliberation, then crept out of the Down Time Bar & Grill into the brilliance of the Commons. His former master was nowhere to be seen. What was he to do? The man had said nothing, left no instructions to meet him, made no arrangements to turn over the notes Marcus had so carefully compiled over the years. He didn't know what to do. He didn't even know the man's name, to check the hotel registries. Perhaps he meant to save the meeting for the privacy of Marcus' little apartment?
To return to the apartment, he would have to pass Ianira's booth in Little Agora. What could he tell her, when he knew nothing, himself? Marcus half hoped he could slip past her without being seen, but Ianira spotted him straight away. Her lovely eyes widened. The next instant she'd left a customer and a whole retinue of devotees gaping after her. She flew to his side like an arrow into his heart.
"What is it? You're ill . . ." She laid a hand against his cheek.
Marcus, aware that his former master might be anywhere, watching and assessing and planning, felt himself unbearably torn between the desire to crush Ianira to him and draw comfort from her strength versus the even fiercer desire to protect her and their children.
"He came into the Down Time today," Marcus said a little unsteadily. "The—my old master." Ianira's luminous dark eyes widened; her lips, exactly the shape of Artemis' divine silver bow fully drawn to strike, parted in shock. Before she could speak, Marcus added, "Can you—can we afford it if you close up the booth?"
Worry furrowed Ianira's brow. "Why?"
Marcus had to draw an unsteady breath before he could speak. "I want you to take Artemisia and Gelasia and go someplace safe until I know what he wants. He said nothing, Ianira, just came in, watched me for an hour, and left without a word. I was once his slave, Ianira! He still thinks . . . will act as though . . . if I cannot protect you and our children, what kind of man can I be?"
The look in her eyes wounded him. He forced himself to continue. "And no downtimer has real rights in this world. I am afraid for you. He could so easily do terrible harm, make trouble with the uptimers whose laws bind us, maybe even try to take you for his own—by force!"
His hand on hers trembled. He would die to protect her and their children. He was just afraid his one-time owner would move on Ianira before Marcus could take proper precautions.
Ianira's glance darted around the brightly lit Commons as though searching for their unseen enemy. Tourists, oblivious of their terror, sauntered past, laughing and chatting about upcoming adventures downtime. Her retinue of idiotic followers had left the booth and half surrounded them. Ianira, glancing at that follow-her-come-what-may crowd, compressed soft, sensuous lips until nothing remained but a hard, white line.
"You are right to fear," she whispered, her voice so low even Marcus had a hard time catching the words. "I feel that someone watches, someone besides these people," she waved a negligent hand toward her awestruck devotees, "but I cannot find him. There are so many minds in this place, it confuses the senses. But he is here, I know it." Marcus knew she had innate gifts he could barely understand, plus training in ancient ways and rites no man could ever comprehend. Her glance into his eyes was frightened. "I will stay with friends in The Found Ones until we know. You are wise, beloved. Take great care." Then the look in her eyes shifted, hardened. "I loathe him," she whispered fiercely. "For putting that look in your eyes I hate him as much as I hate my pig of a husband!"
Her lips crushed his, all too fleetingly, then she whirled and left him. The "costume" she wore—no different from the ordinary chitons she'd worn on the other side of the Philosophers' Gate—swirled in a flutter of soft draperies and folds. Astonishingly, downtimers from all parts of the Commons, summoned only the gods knew how, appeared from nowhere and surrounded her, most forming an impenetrable barricade to keep her acolytes from following. Others formed a guard—and unless Marcus were greatly mistaken, theirs was an armed guard—to protect the Speaker of the Seven and her offspring. He knew they would be taking a swift, back-corridor route to the station's School and Day Care Center to pick up the girls. Then she vanished around a corner in Residential and was gone.
Marcus stayed where he was, making sur
e she was not followed. A few of the acolytes tried to, but that living wall managed to discourage them—forcefully for one or two insistent, insolent vidcam operators—then they, too, were gone around the same corner.
With The Found Ones, Ianira and their children ought to be safe from the monster who'd brought him here, who had then left him uptime with nothing but instructions that made no sense. That "master" had then blithely joined the line to depart TT-86, leaving Marcus—who was deep in shock from everything he heard and saw—to fend for himself. He recalled nearly every detail of that nightmare of a day. No one here had seemed to speak his native tongue.
Instead, he'd heard smatters of barbaric tongues, so many and spoken so fast he felt dizzy. He'd recognized none of them. Haphazard stairs that went nowhere had eventually led him into the arms of the "gods" who ruled this place. Eventually, he'd met the man named Buddy and after that, a group of men and women in more or less his same position, who took him in and helped him adjust through the worst of the transition.
Marcus was startled from his painful memories by a downtimer named Kynan Rhys Gower. Marcus knew this man to be a close friend of Kit Carson's. He was casually closing up Ianira's booth, setting items on the counter inside and locking the sides down, and fending off Ianira's followers with a helpless gesture and a convoluted sentence in Welsh that only the gods could probably decipher. He escaped the crowd, which settled itself around the booth as though they meant to wait forever. Kynan pushed his wheeled waste bin past Marcus' chosen place of vigil.
"Your woman and children are safe, friend," the Welshman murmured, pausing to pick up some bit of trash near Marcus' feet. He deposited the waste in his bin and moved on. Marcus closed his eyes, thanking all the gods for that miracle. Then, straightening his shoulders and drawing in a deep breath, Marcus headed resolutely for their apartment. His old master would doubtless seek him there and reveal his orders. What he would do when Marcus repaid him the price of his purchase and asked him to please take the records Marcus had compiled and never return . . .
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