He said simply, "Because for whatever foolish reason, I have come to trust you again, Skeeter. My life is literally in your hands. If we are caught, they will take you back to the gladiatorial school. You have become famous in the Circus, so you are valuable. I am only a scribe. I've grown too old for the other, thank all gods and goddesses, but even as a scribe, I am worth little compared to you. If we are caught, our faces will be branded with the F of a fugitive. That's all that will happen to me, if I'm lucky. My so-called master could well cripple me to keep me from running again, or turn me over to the state for execution, or sell me to the bestiary masters, to be torn apart by ravening wild animals." He drew a deep breath. "So, I stay with you, Skeeter, as my only hope of survival until the gate opens. And . . . I wish to ease your pain because you are my friend, and you acquired that pain saving me from the arena master's ownership. I knew that was wrong, but not another man in Rome would have questioned it, never mind defended me."
"Hey, I wasn't just helping you. As I recall, I had some pretty selfish reasons to get the hell out of that arena, too, you know."
"Yes, but . . ." He gave up with a sigh, and said instead, "What I said at the Neo Edo, Skeeter . . . I had no right to say it. Any of it. The truth of what happened between you and Lupus Mortiferus I will never know, for I was not present, and I know now the kind of professional killer he is. So . . . who am I to judge?"
"Huh." Skeeter remained silent a moment. "Well, just to set the record straight," he couldn't keep a bitter hoarseness from creeping into his voice as, for once, he told the gods' own truth about what he had done, "I swindled and pickpocketed every bit of the money I brought back from that profitable little trip. Right down to the little copper asses and their fractions."
Marcus was silent a long time, kneading muscles along Skeeter's back until they felt like pudding.
"There are many ways of growing up, Skeeter, and I have no right to judge when I, of all people, know your truth—the way you were brought up. Your childhood, Skeeter, was far worse than mine."
"Huh? How the hell do you figure that—?"
Marcus wasn't listening. He gave out a little, wan laugh just this side of anguish. "Believe me, Skeeter, when I say mine was hell. But yours was far worse. I was every kind of fool for judging you so cruelly."
"The hell you were." Silence fell between them, both of them stilled to the point that the sound of an unknown voice outside their hideaway would have drawn indrawn, ragged screams from them both. Skeeter finally broke the silence with a sigh. "No judging, huh? Is that how your Found Ones operate their business?"
"First," Marcus dug into a muscle under Skeeter's shoulder blade with enough force to wring a yelp of pain from him, "we are not a 'business.' We are a survival necessity for those of us ripped from time and left stranded at TT-86. We serve as what Buddy would call a 'support group.' And we have to accommodate the religious and political beliefs of many, many differing times and nations and kinds of men and women. It is not easy to be a leader of that group."
"And you are?"
"Me?" Honest shock filled his voice. "Great Gods, no! I am neither talented nor patient enough for such demands." A brief pause. "I did say that the right way, did I not? It is 'either/or' and 'neither/nor' is it not?"
Skeeter knew far better than to chuckle. Marcus was a man with little but battered pride left and Skeeter didn't want to make more mistakes than he felt he already had. "Yes," he said quietly, "you got it right, Marcus. But if you're not a leader, who is? You've adapted better than almost anyone else, you're smart and driven to improve yourself—"
"Skeeter! Please . . . it is some other man you must be speaking of, not I." He drew a deep breath and let it out. "It is Ianira who leads us, with a few others who take responsibility for certain tasks. Things like making sure no downtimer goes hungry." He chuckled, then, clearly over his embarrassment. "Do you have any idea how long it took to convince Kynan Rhys Gower that we were not devil-worshippers damned for all time? Yet now he comes to our meetings and speaks up with ideas that are good."
"Humph. I didn't know you were that organized, or even if you were organized, but I figured you needed help. I gamble away most of my money, anyway, you know, a habit I picked up in Yesukai's yurt, so I just take some out first and send it to you, so I can tell myself I'd done something decent as judged by this world."
His voice caught slightly on the word. Surprising himself immensely, he found himself saying, "Do you have any idea how my two worlds tug at me? Some days . . . some days they come near to ripping me apart. In my most secret heart, I still yearn for the honor of riding on raids as a Yakka warrior. But I lived in the squalor and deadly dangers under which they live, Marcus—lived in it for five years. It is a perilous life, usually brutally short; yet I still want it. And another part of me is pulled the other way, into the now in which I was born. The now where I hated my father so much for not caring, that I became an accomplished thief and swindler by the age of eight. In that same heart, I know Yesukai would have been proud of me, these past years. But here I am tolerated only because I don't steal from 'eighty-sixers. They don't seem ever to understand they're the only family I have left." It was Skeeter's turn to suffer hot, stinging eyes. "What you said, about my lying to myself? Maybe you were right. I just don't know, any more."
Marcus said nothing, just moved magical hands down his spine, kneading burning muscles as he went. "Those were harsh words, I know," Marcus finally said, "and I am sorry I said them the way I did. But I worry about you, Skeeter. If you are caught often enough, Bull Morgan will have you sent uptime for trial and I would lose a friend . . . and not merely a dear friend, but also a Lost One."
Skeeter, puzzled, stopped feeling sorry for himself long enough to ask, "Lost one? That's silly, when you know my apartment number, my phone number—"
"No, Skeeter, you do not understand. A Lost One is a downtimer in need of help, but from fear or terror of being discovered, disguises himself or hides until starvation drives him to action. Until we find them, we cannot help. They are lost to us, to the whole universe, until they make themselves known. And even then, it may take weeks, months, sometimes years before such a one trusts us enough to become a Found One.
"You remember, Skeeter, the Welshman I spoke of, Kynan Rhys Gower? He was such a one. Weeks it took to convince him we were not after his soul. Fortunately, one of us was a Christian—an early Christian, true, who had come through the Porta Romae—but he managed to convince Kynan that it would be safe—no, that it would be God's will—to join us." Marcus sighed. "It always brings great pain to know there is a Lost One amongst us and be unable to reach him, through word or action."
Vast astonishment like light pouring into his soul, drove away the vestiges of lingering self-pity. "Are you talking about me, Marcus?"
The answer was very soft in the darkness. "Who else?"
It was too much to take in that fast, all at once. Retreat was literally the only course he could take in that moment. "Huh. Well, thanks for the backrub, anyway. I don't think I could move now if I had to. Felt good, Marcus. I'm glad you're my friend again. It gets awful lonely when a man loses his only friend."
And with that statement, he drifted to sleep.
Marcus sat up in his own bedding for a long time, gazing blindly in the direction of Skeeter's sleeping breaths. At least he is willing to become a friend again. Marcus was struck with such pain he could scarcely breathe. The words, " . . . only friend" kept battering at him. He didn't know quite how, but if they did manage to get back through the Porta Romae, Marcus would do everything in his power to give Skeeter more than one friend in the world. He swallowed hard, recalling the terms of the wager with Goldie Morran. They might step through to find Goldie declared the winner in the face of Skeeter's long absence. To go through what Skeeter had gone through already and then be thrown off the station, bag and baggage . . . it was simply not to be borne. Should that happen, Marcus and the other downtimers would make very certai
n that Goldie lost her entire business and was driven, bankrupted, back uptime to the world Marcus would never know first-hand. Somehow, the Council of Found Ones (a very great many of whom were capable of very long-lived blood wars, indeed) would find a way.
Marcus smiled bitterly in the darkness. Very few uptimers took any downtimer seriously. Tourists considered them unmannered savages with just brains enough to carry luggage through the time gates. Uptimers didn't even seem to mind that more than a few had vanished through shadowing themselves because no one had thought to warn them of the danger. Time Tours, Inc. took great measures to protect their customers, but no measures at all to protect the men who hauled baggage for them.
Such uptimers were in for a rude shock, very soon, if Marcus had anything to say about it.
If he and Skeeter got back safely through the gate.
If . . .
Well, he told himself prosaically, there is not a thing you can do stuck in this inn, waiting for the Porta Romae to cycle. Better get some sleep while you can. Tomorrow may find us in the hands of the slave-catchers, or worse, the Praetorian Guard. He shivered involuntarily, having heard the tales of what happened to runaways caught by the elite Praetorians. Marcus settled down in his hard bedding—far superior, of course, to the slave cots he'd grown reaccustomed to, but a miserable bed, indeed, compared to the wonderful one in his apartment on TT-86, where Ianira waited with no word of his fate.
Marcus drifted into sleep planning his reunion with his family and plotting either Skeeter's salvation or Goldie's ruin.
One or the other would come to pass as surely as the sun rose and set on a blazing hot Roman day or a crisp and lovely one in Gaul.
One or the other . . .
Marcus finally slept.
When the Wild West Gate dilated open at the back of a Time Tours livery stable, Malcolm and Margo stumbled under the weight of their luggage. Both had managed to get digitized video of Farley burying his Denver haul on their scouting logs. Farley had, as predicted, chosen a site just a few yards away from the original site they'd already dug up and camouflaged. They shot more video with their scout logs when Farley emerged from his hotel sporting blond hair going grey at the temples, a different nose, and an enormous moustache which matched the color of his hair. He carried with him almost no baggage at all.
If they hadn't been tailing him for a week, neither would have known him. This guy was good. Too good. A whole lot of uptime money had to be paying for a professional of this caliber. Farley stepped through the Wild West Gate ahead of them, a new man (doubtless with new ID forged to perfection in New York, right down to the retinal scans and med records). Fortunately for Malcolm and Margo, he did not suspect a thing was amiss, even though Malcolm staggered under the weight of the fortune in antiquities they had so carefully unearthed. Margo was having an even worse time. She stumbled and staggered like a teenager who'd drunk one too many beers. Margo was stone cold sober, but even her luggage was enormously heavy, despite the fact that Malcolm had packed the heaviest items in his own bags.
Mike Benson, Chief of Station Security, was nearby, scrutinizing returning tourists when they emerged, clearly watching for any signs of illegal activities. Someone must've tipped him off. Goldie? Couldn't have been Skeeter—he'd been gone nearly a month, now. When Benson caught sight of them, his eyes widened, then narrowed again into angry slits.
"Mike!" Malcolm hissed, aware that Farley was still near enough to hear. "Need your help! Official help."
Benson, whose biggest excitement came when an unstable gate broke open inside the station, or when kids left behind with the station's babysitter got loose and went on a rampage, clearly recognized An Important Event about to unfold. His expression moved through vast, sudden relief to deep curiosity and a cold anger that built in his eyes. He motioned curtly for Kit Carson, who'd come to see his granddaughter and almost son-in-law return. Kit was looking puzzled, as well, and murmured in Mike's ear. The relief on Kit's face was actually comical. Both men waited until they'd descended the ramp all the way, passing their timecards through the automatic reader at the bottom of the ramp, to be updated in a Time Tours effort to keep its customers from shadowing themselves.
"What is it?" Benson asked quietly.
"See that guy up there, greying blond hair, protruding nose, huge moustache?"
Benson squinted through the crowd. "Yeah, I've got him. What's so special about him?"
Kit put in quietly, "If I'm not mistaken we've just seen Chuck Farley in a new face."
Benson glanced sharply at Kit, eyes a bit wide, then nodded abruptly. "Yeah, I expect you're right."
Kit laughed quietly, puzzled eyes still studying their massively heavy luggage. "Mike, you should know by now, I am always right." He let that sink in, then forestalled any outburst by adding, "Unless I'm wrong, of course. That's actually happened, oh, eight or nine times, and most of them"—he tickled Margo's chin—"were over this little fire-eater."
Margo blushed to the roots of her hair.
Malcolm broke through their levity with a low-voiced, "Mike, I really think you should have someone tail him until Primary cycles, but not so close that he bolts the second he's gone through."
Mike nodded. "My men are very, very good. Most of 'em got dumped on the street after The Accident when the DEA was torn down and its employees let go. They're good, Malcolm."
He nodded his trusting acquiescence. "I've got this plan, you see, Mike, to catch a member of that gang of notorious 'antiquities acquisition specialists.' A really slick one. We'd appreciate your escort to the IFARTS office. We'll tell you the entire story there."
Kit put in wistfully, "I know this is police business, but could I come, too? After all, my only relative is involved."
Mike Benson snorted. "Kit Carson, you could wheedle your way into Buckingham Palace."
Kit laughed. "I already have, Mike. Long story." His eyes twinkled.
"Oh, you're impossible. Suit yourself. Hell, you probably know almost as much about antiquities as Robert Li does."
With that, Benson plucked off his belt the in-station radio unit all TT-86 security wore and efficiently set up the undercover tail.
"There. Now lets go find Li, shall we?"
They started toward Robert Li's antiquities shop, which also served as the IFARTS office in La-La Land. Every station had an IFARTS facility, staffed by at least one thoroughly trained expert, and sometimes more than one for the really big stations with twenty or thirty active gates. Since carbon dating was now useless, experts had to be relied upon to judge fake from genuine, to assign an approximate date as well as detailed descriptions, photos, the whole bit. Mike noticed Margo's red-faced struggle with her baggage only a few feet closer to their goal. Evidently, so did Kit, because before Mike could call for a baggage cart, Kit took the heaviest bag, earning a dazzling smile from his granddaughter.
Mike sighed, jealous of Malcolm Moore because he'd found her first—and because Kit had asked him to help train her. Given the looks that passed between the two lovebirds, each was as smitten with the other just as surely as Goliath had been smitten by little David. He shook his head over mixed metaphors and quietly herded them toward the IFARTS office.
They were approximately a third of the way there when Kit changed the suitcase to his other hand—again. "Thundering—" Kit cut off the oath midsentence, shaking out his cramped hand. "What the living hell is in this thing? Solid gold?"
Margo grinned up at him. "Yep. Mostly. Our Mr. Farley had expensive if disgusting taste in collectibles."
Mike gave her a long, measuring look, but all she did was wink at him. Damn that lucky bastard, Moore. That one smile had seriously interfered with the transfer of oxygen-laden blood from his brain to a spot somewhat considerably lower. Grumbling, he grabbed one of Malcolm's bags to hide it, and actually staggered under the weight.
"Warned you," Malcolm laughed. "You're not gonna believe what that rat buried. And we even left the other motherlode intact, so upti
me authorities can nail him digging it back up."
"That's . . . great . . . can we just . . . get a move on, please?"
In minutes, he was as red-faced as they were. Margo laughed, Kit chuckled, and Malcolm gave him that irritating smirk-smile that was uniquely his own. From necessity, they stopped chatting and speeded up. Thank God. He wasn't as young as he'd once been and the strain was telling in his heart-rate, painful spasms in arms, shoulders, and bone-deep pain down his back from an old gunshot wound sustained while still working as a cop. This had better be worth it, Moore, or you're going to find yourself in deep, deep trouble whenever I'm around.
But when they opened the cases and spread the contents (except dirty clothes) across Robert Li's counter, Li gave out a strangled sound like a cat in orgasm, Kit Carson's eyes widened until his whole face was little more than luminous, shocked eyes, and Mike Benson forgave Malcolm with a low whistle. He glanced from one glittering figurine to the next, open-mouthed, unable to believe he had a chance to catch an international thief of this magnitude.
Malcolm explained their whole story, recording it on his guide/scout's log, then sighed and added, "He was really angry that some of the pieces had vanished, obviously because the gold on them or in them was destined for something important. He made quite a haul in Denver's cathouses, too, and buried that a few yards from the hole he'd dug for these." He gestured carelessly at what amounted to an entire room's worth of display cases in some museum that didn't mind putting erotic devices of antiquity on display.
"Well," Robert Li rubbed his hands in anticipation, "shall we begin?"
It took several hours, with Kit occasionally arguing over a date for some weird little piece made of gold or wood where gold inlay hadn't survived stepping through the Porta Romae. Malcolm drew up a stool and watched quietly. Margo leaned against the counter, chin resting on elbows, drinking in every word, every date assigned. She was charming, leaning there like that, still in her Denver getup, so absorbed in the cataloging he doubted she would hear her own name if he said it.
Wagers of Sin Page 35
