Wagers of Sin

by Robert Asprin

  Without another word, Ianira Cassondra gathered up her beautiful little girls, both of whom looked scared, and swept out of his office like a primal force, siphoning away every erg of his willpower to continue going through the motions of his job.

  It was a long, long time before Bull Morgan answered his phone or moved a single sheet of paper on his desk from the "to do" to the "done" stack.

  If he'd been able, he'd have gone downtime himself. But he'd told her nothing except the naked, brutal truth. Manager of the time terminal he might be, but there was absolutely nothing he could do to help her, except call a few guides and scouts who were currently in and ask them for a favor they wouldn't be too wild about granting.

  Bull sighed mightily, dislodging several sheets of paper from the "to do" stack, which landed on the floor beside his massive desk. He ignored them completely and reached for the telephone. If he were going to make those calls, he'd better start making them, before Ianira did something stupidly desperate.

  As the phone rang on the other end of the line, Ianira Cassondra's ancient, bottomless eyes haunted him like a whiff of perfume diffused through his entire awareness, inescapable and unutterably damning.

  "Yeah?" a surly voice on the other end of the line said.

  Bull sighed again, dislodging more papers, and said, "Bull Morgan here. I've got a favor to ask . . ."

  Malcolm nudged his fiancee. "Margo, that young woman over there. By the exit ramp?"

  They were waiting, along with half Shangri-La station for the cycling of the Porta Romae. After Skeeter and Marcus had both disappeared downtime, Malcolm had canceled their reservations for the Wild West Gate, to wait and see if a rescue would need to be mounted.

  "Yes," Margo stood on tiptoe to see over taller heads. "Isn't that the woman you introduced me to at the Delight? The Enchantress?"

  "Yes. Ianira Cassondra. She'll be waiting to see."

  He didn't have to tell Margo what—or rather who—Ianira was waiting to see. News of Marcus' disappearance downtime with a con man so slick he'd fooled even Goldie Morran was still the talk of the station—particularly since Skeeter Jackson had crashed the gate going after the young bartender.

  "I think perhaps," Malcolm murmured, "we ought to get a little closer. Just in case."

  Margo glanced up, swallowed once, then just nodded. She'd grown up a very great deal in the past few months. Her hand closed tightly around his, tacit admission that she understood just how close she'd come to losing him forever.

  Several downtimers were standing close to Ianira but gave way with surprise when Malcolm edged through, his hand still tightly gripping Margo's.

  "Hello, Ianira," he said quietly.

  She flashed a stricken look into his eyes. "Hello, Malcolm. And Margo. It is good of you to wait with me."

  He tried to smile reassuringly. "What else are friends for?"

  Just then the klaxon sounded, drowning out further conversation as the Gate departure was announced from blaring loudspeakers the length of Commons. The message repeated in three other languages. The line of tourists stirred expectantly, while porters gathered up baggage, fathers snagged unruly sons they'd paid a ransom in extra fare to take downtime, and mothers gripped daughters' hands tightly, admonishing them to be quiet and behave. Elegantly gowned women whose appearance and carriage would have screamed money in any society sipped at the last of their wine and tossed paper cups into trash cans in the fenced-off waiting area.

  Always the same, Malcolm mused, the rich ones who've been before, the families who've scraped and saved for the family vacation of a lifetime, the millionaires out for a sightseeing jaunt, the zipper jockeys ready to go brothel hopping. Always the same, yet always different, with new wrinkles and near-disasters each time.

  Then the gate dilated slowly, causing a painful sensation in the bones of his skull as the sound that was not a sound resonated harshly at subsonic level through the station. Gate Six rumbled open, then disgorged the inevitable staggering, pallid tourists, exhausted guides, chattering women comparing their shopping sprees in the bazaars and markets of Rome, and the teenaged kids who'd drunk too much and were that peculiar shade unique to a boy about to puke.

  But there was no Marcus. And no Skeeter. Ianira scanned the departing tourists frantically, but they simply weren't there. She did hiss at one point. "Him!" she said viciously. "That's him!"

  "You're sure?" Malcolm asked quietly.

  The man Ianira pointed toward looked nothing like the man who'd gone downtime as Chuck Farley. Lightly bearded, beard and hair a different color from Farley's, even his eyes were a different shade. Contact lenses, no doubt. Malcolm wondered just how many pairs he owned, as well as how many bottles of hair dye and glue-on beards to match?

  "I swear it by Artemis! That is the man who took Marcus to Rome with him. Now I know why his face has always remained hidden to me: he changes his face every few weeks!"

  That was good enough for Malcolm. Several of the downtimers near Ianira began to mutter, most of the mutters having to do with violent, slow deaths in the bowels of the terminal.

  "No," he said aloud, cutting across bloodthirsty plans. "Let me take care of him. I understand how creatures like him think."

  "Yeah, leave it to us," Margo said darkly, watching the man who'd once been Charles Farley slide a time card through the reader and step off the ramp. She wondered just how many timecards, under how many names, the snake owned. "We'll take care of him, all right." Her eyes flashed that Irish-alleycat glare that did such deadly things to Malcolm's insides.

  Malcolm drew a quick, steadying breath. "Everyone spread out, discreetly mind, and follow him. When we've established where he's staying, we'll watch him, day and night. Ianira, you can identify him better than the rest of us, even through the disguises. How long can you hold up, watching?"

  Her eyes met his. "As long as it takes."

  He didn't pretend to know the ways of her ancient training. She might be able to stay awake for days, for all he knew. The fakirs of the Far East could do some amazing things. And if Farley's next destination were somewhere beyond the Philosophers' Gate? Malcolm was a good guide through Athens, but Ianira had spent the bulk of her young life in the fabled city of Ephesus, across the Aegean Sea on the once-beautiful coast that the Balkan Wars had pounded into rubble over the decades. He wasn't even sure if the archeological ruins still existed.

  Ephesus . . .

  Malcolm really would have to get away on a little vacation of his own, to satisfy his scholarly itch. Purchase a ticket to Athens, arrange downtime transportation on a sailing vessel, and then . . . Ephesus, in all her ancient tragedy and glory. See the city of Artemis, whose magnificent temple, finally pulled down by Christian zealots. Its magnificent porphyry pillars had been transported away to be built into the Haghia Sophia.

  He shook himself slightly, to find a faintly puzzled line between Ianira's dark brows. "You point him out and we'll take our vengeance, never you fear that, Ianira. I am not fond of people who sell my friends into slavery."

  She nodded and strode away purposefully in the wake of Charles Farley.

  Malcolm found Margo looking up at him with a glow in her eyes akin to hero-worship. He quite suddenly felt eleven feet tall and more than capable of taking on the dragon, St. George, and his horse. "Let's go," he said a bit gruffly.

  Margo, clearly as moved by what they'd just witnessed as Malcolm, simply nodded.

  As it turned out, following Farley was easier than either of them had expected. He took a modest room in the Time Tripper, then went downstairs to breakfast in the hotel restaurant. This new version of Farley was far quieter than the last. Once he returned to his room, he didn't leave it again, ordering tickets (Margo batted eyelashes and smiled at the Time Tours clerks until she got his new alias and destination) over the phone, eating only through room service—delivered by a downtimer—doing only God knew what up there by himself until the Wild West Gate departure was announced.

  Malcolm
and Margo repurchased tickets through Malcolm's computer, then scrambled into their "Wild West" duds well in advance of departure. Although the tour was full, Bull Morgan had pulled some strings at Time Tours to let Malcolm and Margo be added to the group. A few hours later, dandied up for what was to have been a celebratory vacation for their engagement, Margo and Malcolm found themselves appointed as the posse, stepping through the Wild West portal, along with the group of pre-dust-coated paleontologists carrying their assorted arsenal (they'd delayed departure to get in more practice with their firearms, one of them had explained diffidently to Margo) in correct period holsters . . . and Chuck Farley, still with blond hair and beard.

  Once through the portal, the trick was not to be spotted following him. Denver of 1885 spread out in all its nouveau riche splendor against the backdrop of snow-capped Rockies. The better streets were bricked; many were dirt. Chuck hired a horse at the livery stable, hired a second as pack animal, and tied his baggage to it, trotting away with a clatter, not even bothering to glance back.

  Cocksure bastard, Malcolm thought darkly as he paid for hacks for himself and Margo. Spreading out her riding skirt gracefully across the leathers, she gathered up the reins, gave a curt nod, and sent her mount down the street at a brisk trot, riding sidesaddle as though she'd been born in one. Malcolm followed, his heart soaring at the sight of her—and positively burning with fierce, primitive joy when he caught sight of Chuck Farley and his pack animal ahead.

  He caught up with Margo. "Not too fast, dearest. We must not let the blighter catch on to us."

  She nodded. "Quite right. Forgive me." She flashed him a brilliant smile. "In my zeal, I forgot myself."

  He wanted to crush her against him and kiss those laughing lips—

  But there was work waiting to be done.

  What sort of work would depend entirely upon Mr. Farley's activities over the next few days.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The day he returned to the great Circus was the most terrifying day of Skeeter Jackson's life. He came in a cage, like one of the big cats trapped so close to his iron box on the long barge. Their snarls of rage beat through him, making him wonder how long it had been since they'd been fed anything except prods from sharpened stakes and taunts from their keepers. Skeeter knew very much how they must feel.

  Some of the gladiators on shore walked around freely, some of them still under armed guard, not yet dressed for combat or given the weapons with which they would slaughter one another. Those not under guard were free men who'd taken up the insane game of life or death and glory; those guarded were valuable slave-gladiators who'd earned grand reputations and were proud of their skills—not condemned criminals awaiting a mockery of a fair chance at survival.

  The previous night, though he wasn't sure where they'd actually been, he and the other prisoner-gladiators had been paraded into some kind of public banquet hall and feted, given anything they cared to eat—or could hold down. More than a few men said goodbye to family members, clearly expecting never to see them again. Skeeter didn't have even that. All he had were Yesukai's lessons to get him through a last meal under the eyes of jeering, laughing, betting Romans.

  Now, with the sun high in the sky, and the races at the Circus, which took place in the mornings, just about to end, it was time for the next part of the show. Skeeter's barge halted and the cages were hauled one by one onto shore near the back of the great Circus itself, where the starting gates of the races were. Inside, the crowd was cheering so loudly it startled the raging cats—leopards, lions, sleek cheetahs—into even greater frenzy. Caged antelopes bleated their terror and hurled themselves against narrowly spaced iron bars, unable to escape.

  Some of the other prisoners near Skeeter's cage, also doomed to the arena, were crying for mercy to such men as passed, none of whom listened. Skeeter wanted to do a little crying of his own, but he didn't see the good it would do. Yesukai the Valiant had taught him endurance, tenacity. He called on those lessons now with everything in him and managed—just barely—to remain silent. But he could not stop the shakes quite so easily.

  Far down the line, some slave with a stack of wax tablets was busy making his way past each cage, noting down contents or checking off his list, something like that. Inventory clerk, Skeeter thought with a sudden, near-uncontrollable desire to laugh insanely. Those infuriatingly thorough, meticulous Romans. Keeping their records right down to the last doomed prisoner and bleating antelope.

  But when the slave got close enough to hear his voice asking questions of each caged gladiator, such as his name and fighting style, Skeeter gave a sudden start and grabbed the bars, straining to see. He knew that voice! He knew . . . but didn't quite believe it until he came face to face with Marcus through the bars of his filthy cage.

  Marcus went deathly white in a single instant.

  "Marcus, I—"

  "Skeeter, what—"

  They began, and halted again, simultaneously.

  Marcus went to one knee, to be on the same level as Skeeter. His eyes were dark with emotion. "Skeeter!" He swallowed hard, consulted his tablets as though confirming the nightmare, then slowly met Skeeter's eyes. "They have paired you with the Death Wolf." His voice broke a little as he said it.

  "Yeah. I know." Skeeter managed a sickly version of his old smile. "Nothing like justice, huh? I'm just—I never meant for this"—he gestured to Marcus' collar—"to happen. Never, ever. You . . ." He couldn't finish it. Couldn't say, "You were the only friend I ever had." The enormity of his loss was just now opening inside his mind.

  "I am sorry," Marcus whispered. "My master . . . I will be on the balustrade above the stalls, watching the fighting. I . . ." He swallowed hard, tapped the wax tablets he carried. "I have to record who wins."

  Skeeter tried, and failed, a bright smile. "Yeah. Well. Maybe I'll surprise everyone, huh? At least you can run away, get to the gate next time it opens."

  Marcus was shaking his head, 'eighty-sixer fashion rather than Roman. "No. I have an enormous debt to repay. I know, here," he touched his breast, "that no man has the right to hold me slave. But I must repay the money, Skeeter. The honor of the Taurusates is all I have left, now."

  There were tears in his eyes as he said it.

  "Taurusates? That your real name?"

  Marcus started to laugh, ended up crying. "No," he choked out. "My tribe's name. We . . . we were both betrayed, you know. The moneychanger, Goldie? With the hair of purple? The one against you in the great wager." His voice came out bitter, brittle as the hot sun beating down on them both. The stink of terrified men and the reeking musk of enraged lions engulfed their awareness.

  Skeeter narrowed his eyes, trying to drive present reality out of existence at least for the moment. Sweet memories of Time Terminal Eighty-Six were almost too much. "Yeah, Goldie Morran," he managed. "What about her?"

  "She told . . . she told Lupus about you. How to find you. This I heard her do, right before I returned to the Neo Edo to give Farley what I owed him. As much as I could of it, anyway."

  Skeeter winced, writhing inside as he recalled the tears and bitter accusation in Ianira's voice. "So she told him, did she? Too bad I won't get a chance to throttle that old witch by the throat."

  Marcus shrugged, very Gallic. "She will not be doing so very well, either. Farley stole a great deal of gold from her, just before we left. He laughed as he told me of it, after my sale. I . . . I asked him how he had brought so much gold through Primary. He said he took it from Goldie."

  Despite the genuine calamity to Goldie Morran, Skeeter found himself laughing a little too shrilly, even as tears formed in his eyes, tears of helplessness, rage, terror. "So he got her, too, eh?" Marcus' dark eyes widened. "Christ. Both of us. What a couple of suckers we were. So goddamned sure—"

  He glanced through the bars at Marcus. "I don't suppose you'd believe me, anyway, if I told you I was trying to stop you from going through the Porta Romae?" Marcus' eyes widened even further. "That's when Lupu
s crashed the Gate behind me and cracked me across the head."

  Marcus' tightly pressed lips came adrift. "But—why?"

  "I'd . . . I'd arranged to borrow some money, see, do some sessions with Dr. Mundy, to pay Farley the rest of what you owed him."

  The look in Marcus' eyes told Skeeter he should've taken pity and kept his mouth shut. Skeeter cleared his throat roughly. "You'd better get on with your job," he said, "before your master gets pissed off and thinks you're loafing."

  Marcus swallowed. "I had thought, until the moment I saw you in that cage, that I hated you, Skeeter. But now . . ." He trailed off helplessly. "May the gods fight on your side."

  He made a hasty mark on his wax tablet and hurried on to the next cage, and the one beyond it, until he was out of sight and hearing. Skeeter slumped against the bars, feeling the throb of hurt inside him turn slowly to bitter rage. Goldie Morran, curse her, had sent him to this. Skeeter deserved to be punished, that much he could at least admit, but to just sell him out, knowing he'd be murdered, in order to win that accursed wager . . .

  Skeeter owed Marcus, owed him his freedom, his family, a debt he needed to absolve himself of before he met the gods of the high Mongolian mountains, where the bite of ice in the sharp winds could kill a man in minutes. "If I get out of this alive," he vowed, "I'll get you back to Ianira and your kids. Somehow. And when I do . . ." He thought blackly of Goldie Morran. "When I do, I'll wring that scrawny old buzzard's jewelled neck!"

  Rage sustained him through the exhibition before the start of the real games. Paired off with Lupus, whose laughing eyes and grinning mouth told of supreme confidence, Skeeter went through the motions he'd been beaten into learning, doing the whole, maddening drill in slow motion to the cheering encouragement of the crowd. Lupus' shield, Skeeter noted as he studied his adversary's every move, every potential weakness, was decorated with an odd, painted motif: a coiled serpent inside a circle of feathers painted a lurid shade of green, like First Officer Spock had bled all over them. Realizing that he was thinking about a television show some fifty years old, Skeeter gave a short bark of laughter that caused shock to detonate in Lupus' eyes for just a second.