by Teri Mclaren
Cheyne dusted himself off and took the ornate, curved dagger from the assassin's hand. It was the same one he had seen on Riolla's table, the juice of the orange still sticky on its blade.
"Oh, nicely timed," congratulated the vagrant. Cheyne turned to face his benefactor.
The beggar's hood had dropped in the scuffle, and Cheyne now saw why he looked so familiar. The beggar's nose was a veritable colossus, reminding Cheyne of the twenty-foot-tall head of Nin outside the crushed wall at the dig. The eastern face and the statue's gargantuan ears had long ago weathered away or broken off, leaving the head's stem western face an unbalanced joke for all time. As if he read Cheyne's mind, the vagrant quickly pulled up his ineffective hood, his sunburned nose still protruding noticeably from it.
"Wait-you were outside the clockmaker's shop…" Cheyne began.
"Yes. And now I am about to be there again, unless you give me a better place to be…" The beggar crooked his finger toward the swinging sign on the raqa shop up the alley. "Nothing like a little rumble to work up a thirst. Would you care to buy me a drink?" Cheyne noticed that he swerved oddly, and moved to take his arm.
"Here, are you all right? Let me help you. But I can't buy you a drink. All I have left is two kohli," he apologized, searching for the coins.
Which were missing, of course. The beggar shook his head, his nose exaggerating the motion. "No, No. I'm perfectly all right," he wheezed heavily in Cheyne's face. The smell of soured raqa nearly succeeded where the assassin had failed. Cheyne realized he had discovered the apparent source of the beggar's remarkable bravery.
"Here. Please let me help you to some shade. I'll get water-" Cheyne said, fumbling.
"Water? No, I think not, my good man. What is called for now is vintage raqa, the sweet, crushed heart of the desert prickle, left at least a week in its delicious grief, and perhaps a loaf of solid bappir, probably the same age," the grinning beggar disagreed, his verbal abilities, like his bravado, seeming to rise to the occasion. "I'm fine, truly, young sirrah. A few bruises when I sober up. But then I'll never feel them now, will I? And thank you for the coins." Cheyne checked his pocket and frowned. "Now, now, a generous man will never go hungry. You can get out just the other side of that stall. Best be going now. Before that gentleman who wanted your head wakes up."
Cheyne knew he was right, but the bells had stopped ringing, and outer gates were closed by now anyway. He was stuck here overnight, and this poor soul seemed to be his only friend in the city, even if he had taken his last two kohli. He wasn't going to let him part company just yet. But when Cheyne turned to see where the man had pointed, the beggar immediately disappeared into the deepening shadows.
With no other choice left, Cheyne brushed himself off and headed for the curry stall where the vagrant had said was a way out of the city, hoping it wasn't a trick. The stallkeeper had raised a hand in a peculiar gesture when the beggar had pointed his way.
When he reached the tent, Cheyne eyed the roasting morsels with keen regret. He must have looked ready to drop with hunger, because the stallkeeper, clearing his brazier for the day, left a haunch of lamb on it and nodded to Cheyne as he seemed to melt into the wall. The young man eagerly grabbed up the meat, not minding the several grains of sand he found included. The lamb was tough and dry, stringy and oversea-,soned, but Cheyne wolfed it down.
In another moment, he stood hovering in front of the stall, ticking his fingers, still wondering how to get out of the Mercanto. Then he saw how the stallkeeper had disappeared so thoroughly-behind the flimsy tent, almost invisible in the deepening shadows, a large crack parted the stonework. Cheyne looked around, and finding no one to tell him he couldn't, took a deep breath, scuttled through the narrow passage, through a dark slaughterhouse, and out into the Barca. From the well-worn path under the wall and the cloying smell of old blood, both the butchery and the hidden entrance had probably been there since antiquity.
Exhaling, Cheyne walked through the shabby streets until he found the outer wall, and then studied it for similar openings. Behind the hanging tent cloth and lean-tos, he found dozens of such breaches, most of them seemingly natural, that had been made in the outer wall over the centuries.
It looks so solid from the outside, but it's just layers and layers of whitewash. I guess the Fascini wouldn't repair anything they didn't have to look at, Cheyne mused.
Soon he was on the flat, dusty road back to the older ruin, wondering just exactly what he would tell Javin.
3
"Do I have this story straight? you do not have your payment because… you had your mark in front of you, and you let him leave the shop? Then he got away from your man in the streets? Riolla, I am very disappointed in you. 1 thought I had taught you better than to be so careless. And such an unimaginative excuse at that." The hooded man spoke softly, but his words pierced Riolla's heart. "And why would that be? How many more like him have you let get away, hmm? Did this particular young man distract you to the point of blindness, or is your incompetence because of your new 'love'?"
"I did my best, Raptor," Riolla countered, anxiety making her words sound futile. She ignored the Raptor's mention of her newest attempt to procure the throne of Sumifa. "But Saelin, my best assassin, says he is ensorcelled. It's as though he feels you coming. Saelin reports that the digger dropped down in the street at just the instant before the silent, spinning blade would have struck him. Saelin the Butcher has never come back without the head he was sent for… perhaps there is magic here, or just very bad luck. Some people are followed by such luck, you know7 0
Teri McLaren
they move through their lives with no care at all, never bowing to our beloved Caelus Nin, forswearing the ancestors, and nothing bad ever happens to them."
Riolla caught herself chattering nervously and stopped it. No true Fascini would ever do such a thing. The Raptor would not respect it. She moved to another tactic. One she knew the Raptor could not resist.
"Perhaps we might discuss future plans concerning this young man rather than past failures. I think he could be very valuable anyway. After all, he is a digger, and diggers are always after treasure. And I think this one has found something. He has been asking about a totem with a peculiar glyph on it, written in the old language," Riolla continued, mentally shoving her fear into a bag.
In the darkness of the hot room, which seemed especially hot today, Riolla waited for the Raptor to consider her tempting words. How she longed for an open window…
The Raptor lived on the topmost floor of Sumifa's tallest building, smack in the middle of the Citadel, the central feature of Sumifa, a spectacular view at his command. But in all the many years Riolla had answered to this man, paid him for the protection he gave her several businesses, legitimate and otherwise, she had never known him to open a window, light a lamp, or leave the airless room during the daylight hours. She had never seen his face, and just now, as he paced back and forth in front of the dark stone walls, the only way she could pick out his location was by the rustle of his robes and the click of his heels on the black marble floor.
How glad I will be when I don't need you anymore, you cruel-hearted, self-absorbed, fear-mongering vulture. When I have married Prince Maceo, I will turn you out of this dark roost and clean this house. Saelin does not miss. If this digger has escaped my best assassin, then that young man may very well have the
magic to lead me to the Clock, and its hoard, and then the entire Mercanto will look to me, and I will control what is paid and when. Maceo will be invested within the month, and I shall many him upon the same day. And the Fascini will throw parties just to argue with each other about how and to which of them I am suddenly related, for I will be the queen of Sumifa. Maceo will, of course, come to an unexpected and tragic, though very sudden, death. And you, Raptor, when I have the treasure from the Clock, I will find a way to destroy even you. You will never make me feel common and unimportant again.
Riolla smiled to herself, ruby lips perking at t
he edges just a little, her eyes unfocused in the darkness. A slow trickle of sweat pooled in the hollow of her throat. Today, as always, she had removed the black pearl before her audience with the Raptor-it was the one thing she could not afford to pay him. She flicked open a flabellum made from the stiff white feathers of an extinct peacock and began to fan herself as the Raptor stopped pacing and finally spoke. His voice was hard and edged like Sumifan steel.
"Riolla, how many foreign diggers do your spies tell you work the site?"
"Three, Raptor. The leader, the linguist, and this young man." Riolla was puzzled by the question.
"And the young man… how old is he?"
"Well, I would guess him to be about his naming year, that is, if he had a name to take up," Riolla replied. Though she couldn't tell exactly why, things seemed to have taken a very bad turn here.
"And Saelin said he is ensorcelled? Magic? When, then? He must be the one. Of course I could not see him. How very, very clever of Javin… but he will pay for such boldness and such cleverness. His time, I believe, will shortly run out," the Raptor muttered to himself. Though Riolla understood none of his ram-blings, she sat listening keenly anyway. Information was information.
"By the grace of Nin, Riolla, you have escaped death at the hands of your own assassin. If Saelin had taken this head for you, he would be taking yours for me."
Stunned, Riolla put down her fan and strained to hear what he said next. "But… I could do worse than to let this particular digger lead you to his hoard, bring it to daylight, and then inform him of my prior claim on it."
The Raptor started pacing again. "Yes. You will follow him. He will probably go west, across the desert. Perhaps a good long journey is just what you need. You haven't been getting out much lately."
Riolla began to fan herself again, squirming in her fair, delicate skin at the thought of crossing the desert and sleeping on the ground… at having to speak with commoners all day long. The Raptor said nothing for several moments. Riolla felt perspiration trickle down her back, but her fan kept its steady beat, counting out the seconds. At last she answered.
"As you wish."
The Raptor moved on to another question. "Riolla, what do you know about Kalkuk?"
"Kalkuk?" She coughed, completely off her guard. "I have not seen him for a while…" If the Raptor knew she had killed the old shopkeeper, he would also want to know about how she had put him in the old crypt. The pearl…
"That is odd. He was found dead at the old city. Under very strange circumstances, from what my sources report. I wonder…" he breathed. Riolla did her best to control her fan, timing its languid sweeps to the same rhythm as before he asked his question. The Raptor said nothing.
"Perhaps the diggers did away with him themselves," she began. "Maybe he got in the way of their work, or tried to steal something they'd unearthed. That would make perfect sense. He was behind with his payment, which of course is why I myself am late," she improvised.
The Raptor laughed softly. "Or perhaps you have found a way to make it seem so. If you are lying to me, Riolla…"
"Raptor, by the broken face of Caelus Nin and my most revered ancestors, I would be a fool to lie to you. I offer only a possible explanation for the untimely death of one of my best customers. I shall miss him sadly."
"You shall miss his regular payments sadly. And your revered ancestors are bought. But you will continue to pay Kalkuk's portion anyway, Riolla. Or I shall be forced to look further into his, as you say, untimely death."
Riolla knew when to be quiet. The Raptor paced the room for a while longer, then spoke again at last. "About this lucky young man. If he is who I think he is-if he is who I hope he is-I have waited a decade to find him again. I want him alive and unharmed. Follow him. As I said, he will go west. Discover his path before he takes it, so that you do not lose him again. Again I say to you, do not hurt him: do you understand? Your assassin was trained by Drufalden. He will have his pride to avenge. You must keep Saelin from that work. You are quite capable of your own work, I believe. If he is not left alive, how would the digger find the treasure for me, do you see?"
Long in the practice of reading this particular voice, Riolla noticed the Raptor's tone had softened, as though he felt he had told her a bit too much. She felt a little more confident. He was truly interested in the digger and his treasure. It made her want it even more.
"You have dealt with the peoples along the old route before," he continued. "Only do not forget that you are my agent abroad to all those whose boundaries you must pass. Take this with you. Give it to Drufalden for the surety of your army. I will collect it later myself."
An ancient coin with image of Caelus Nin on it, the eastern face on one side, the western on the other, chimed like a silver bell on the stones and rolled to Riolla's feet.
"I expect to see this again. I will send someone to rendezvous with you before you reach the Borderlands. Trouble me no more until you present me with the trove and the healthy person of this strange, elusive, young digger."
Riolla got up to leave the airless room, knowing she was dismissed, but not breathing much easier for it. Just before she cleared the threshold, the Raptor spoke again.
"Riolla."
"Yes, Raptor?"
"Pay your dues."
"Yes, I am angry. Cheyne, there is more at stake here than you know. If you were any younger, I would send you home. As it is, listen to the facts and act like the grown man you are. First of all, you told no one where you went today. Aside from the fact that we are now very shorthanded here, that put me into a bit of a stir until you returned safely. A body was found here! And we still don't know why, except that we could be right on top of the Collector's treasure. You go and disappear-what am I supposed to think? Aside from your little excursion, there is the matter of the rumbling in the ranks of the Fascini. The old king at least had a sort of tolerance for us. So long as we didn't bother him, he didn't care what we did with this forsaken sandhill. But Maceo is another matter. I expect King Thedeso won't be cold in the ground before his irritating son is carted out here to decree our immediate dismissal."
Cheyne started to say that he'd already met the heir to the crown, but had no chance. Javin continued almost without another breath.
"There could be a fight-I must refuse to leave. It's my last chance at the Collector. I need to know where you are at all times from now on." Javin dropped his head between his hands, elbows propped on his knees. "And I need to convince the Fascini to give us at least one more season. It would help if there were money enough to buy Maceo off, I suspect. But until we find the Collector's treasure, all I can do is promise him his share of it. Things will depend on my powers of persuasion. Judging from the way those powers worked on you today, the dig is all but finished," he added miserably.
"Javin, I had to go. Because of the grown man I am," Cheyne began, certain that Javin hadn't sent anyone to the city to look for him because he probably hadn't been missed until the guard had seen him light the lamp in his tent. Javin had had too much else to think about. "You just don't understand. It's not about the treasure for me. It's about who I am. That's a question you never had to ask. You knew your parents, you knew your country, you knew your work. I don't even know what my face looks like, or what my full name is. Everywhere on this continent we have gone, people have a surname. Even the Sumifans who live in the Barca have that. There are too many mysteries for me. I won't always work on your digs, Javin. I want my own life. My own name. How can I have a future unless I have a past? I need to know where I fit."
Cheyne was about to pull the amulet from under his shirt and show favin the matching glyphs on the totem, but Javin whirled on him angrily, his patience worn away by the heat and the day's ugly discoveries.
"Cheyne! I gave you a direct order not to leave the site today. You disobeyed it. Why? Because you cannot see past your own small issues. If we-when we-find the Collector, I am sure that the answers to your questions will follow. But I n
eed you to show some concern for something besides your own petty pains. Something far larger than your need for a name is at stake."
Cheyne's face began to bum with Javin's last words and he dropped the amulet back inside his shirt, a horrible new awareness dawning on him.
What did Javin care? For that matter, what had Javin ever cared? When he'd found Cheyne, Javin had been looking for the Collector, just as he was now. All
Javin had ever told him was that Cheyne had been the only survivor of a vicious attack on a trading caravan. Cheyne had turned the story over and over in his mind, searching each detail Javin had supplied for historical consistency, for truth. There were things that just didn't seem right. For one, the ores had done a strange thing in killing off the drivers and the families traveling with the traders. Usually, ore bandits, well known for their laziness and lack of organization, just took what they could carry in a lightning strike of a raid and let the caravans go on, knowing they would return via the same, the only path, laden with more goods. It had taken some thousand years for the ores to understand that principle, and they practiced it with consuming faith. Why, then, had they destroyed their own livelihood for one haul of goods in that raid? It didn't make sense. It never had.
Apart from his first name, Cheyne had never recovered any memory of events before that day. AH his life, the questions of why he had been part of the lost caravan or who his family was gnawed at him like rats, growing bigger and more insistent with every new summer's end, the anniversary of the attack. Now it was his twenty-first year in Argive, and also here in Sumifa- that was the year a person took a name and left their father's house-and still he had no more than the amulet and Javin's shaky story to claim as his heritage.
For Cheyne, it seemed life had begun the moment Javin had shaken him awake, pulling him from an enchanted sleep, with only the strange amulet around his neck as proof of the first ten years of his life. For months afterward, he could not even talk. That's when Muni had come. Muni was the best linguist there was, and it had taken him nearly a year to get the boy to speak coherently. All the while, Cheyne awoke every night bathed hi a salty drench of sweat, shaking and terrified by indecipherable, recurring dreams-bizarre images of color and light, of a tall, sear-faced elf, of a man with no face.
