by Teri Mclaren
Cheyne, at ten, had seen his first and only ore, then-it was a dead one, but the thought of the creature's two-inch incisors, jutting brow, and green-tinged skin still made him uneasy. Even in death, the thing had seemed so feral and wild, more like a beast than a sentient being.
But I have grown up since then, Cheyne reasoned. Perhaps my memory is more terrible than true,
Cheyne gently closed the little book and placed it securely inside his pack.
Business began early in Sumifa: the Mercanto's gates swung open precisely as the gnomon's shadow struck the fifth mark on the sundial. Cheyne strode through and made his way to a stall he had noticed the day before. Several ex-caravan guides had gathered there already and stood waiting for other work, their hoods low over their eyes and their sun-darkened hands avidly punctuating stories of recent adventures.
One fellow loudly extolled how his last fare had lost his shoe to a hungry drom, how the beast sickened and died on the spot from eating such a horrible meal, and how the man had limped home, leaning on the arm of his miserable guide the whole way. The next guide's fare had demanded to be taken to hunt the wild goats, a couple of miles off the regular route, where his feet were trampled and severed from his body in the goats' subsequent attack, and he had to be carried home on his miserable guide's back. The third guide's fare had asked to hunt in the cork forest, truly off the regular trail, had encountered a rutting canista and been stuck to a tree, driven through with the beast's horn, then devoured by the whole herd on the spot, before the very eyes of his guide and six esteemed persons of rank. So completely consumed by the beast was this last poor tourist that the miserable guide could find only his moneybag to carry home.
Amid the chorus of laughter the last story had provoked among the men at the stall, Cheyne stepped up and smiled, beginning to state his case. "Good morning, gentlemen, fine day. May the Twelve Blessings abound in your lives. Would any of you be interested in taking me over the western erg to the Borderlands?
The guides grew silent instantly and each wandered off to a different part of the street, the fellow whose story had won the day staring daggers at Cheyne's forehead. Cheyne shrugged and moved past them, up the winding cobblestone pavement toward the center of the Mercanto. After several hours and an equal number of encounters ending almost exactly like the first one, he came to a small raqa stall and sat down in the shade to rest. When the smiling attendant came with a small cup and a large bottle, he waved her away, taking a long pull on his water skin.
"No, no, no! You cannot sit there. You don't buy, you don't sit. No. Go away." The raqa server bellowed in his ear, her friendliness suddenly transformed into a toothless snarl.
Cheyne escaped the good-sized club she produced from under her counter by ducking through another stall, and then another, until he found himself turned completely around and, worse, out in the Barca again, still with no guide.
He wandered the dirty, narrow alleys of the south side for awhile, its ruby-lipped, green-lidded courtesans beckoning to him from shirrir-scented clouds and raqa-induced stupors. He smiled back at the girls, but they reminded him of the glittering lizards he had seen on the rocks by the river: pretty, but poisonous. He walked until he needed to refill his canteen, but the only place he could do so without paying was at the public well, famous among the workers at the dig for its unsavory contents. When he found the well, he hung his head under its covering, a huge flat rock supported by three smaller ones, a dolmen of sorts, for both shade and a look at what might be floating in there today.
"Oh, hello, there. We meet again," said a voice coming from somewhere behind what looked like an over-large net bobber. Cheyne had seen that nose before.
"You? How did you get-?" Cheyne gestured at the dolmen.
"In the well? Fell. Must have. Say, could you lower the bucket down here and help me out? I'm nearly sober now, and I really don't want to experience this situation in that frame of mind," said the vagrant, the corners of a smile appearing on either side of the nose.
"Of course. Just wait there." Cheyne backed away from the edge of the well and then reappeared instantly. "Sorry. Where would you be going, after all?" he added, embarrassed.
The vagrant beamed up at him tolerantly. Cheyne turned away again, this time returning with a bucket and rope. Within moments, the beggar stood dripping in the street, waterlogged, but no worse for his baptism.
"Thanks very much, good sir. We have broken even, a life for a life. Although yours, it might seem, is worth far more to the Schreefa than mine," said the beggar, wringing out his robes.
"The least I could do," replied Cheyne, thinking he should find another place to get a drink of water.
After a moment of awkward silence, the beggar bowed gracefully, deeply, and introduced himself. "My name is Ogwater Rifkin."
" Cheyne."
Ogwater bowed again, ignoring Cheyne's lack of a surname. "Pleased. For the price of a bottle of raqa, Cheyne, I would be even more pleased. Drowning is hard and thirsty work."
Cheyne smiled bleakly. "Muje Rifkin-"
"Og." The beggar smiled hugely, revealing many perfect, very white teeth.
Cheyne began again. "Og, what money I have must go toward paying a guide and provisions. I'm sorry."
The beggar shrugged, his face falling. "No harm. A guide, you say…?"
Cheyne nodded. Og's smile slowly returned.
"Muni? You'd better come out here…"
Muni awoke thrashing again, his dreams full of the evil djinn, the voice in his ears unfamiliar. He sat up on the low cot, fumbling for a lamp before he swung his feet onto the floor, the precaution ingrained by years of habit. Before he could find the strikebox and the tamp, Kifran lifted the tent door, a torch in his hand. Muni instantly came awake when the light struck him and he focused on the guard's grim face.
"Muje Javin did not come this morning. I waited for him until first light, then came to find him. He lies ill in his bed, and he asks for you."
Kifran let the tent flap drop and waited for Muni to pull on his robes and boots. In another moment, they were both running toward Javin's tent, Muni reaching it first.
"My old friend… what happened?" Muni rasped, his voice heavy and the words coming hard. His old friend opened his gray eyes and tried to smile. Javin's face burned with fever, his flushed, sun-darkened skin drawn tautly over his angular features.
"How do you fight vermin?… They were here," he said softly, barely lifting his hand and pointing toward the corner of the tent. Muni followed the gesture to a single scorpion lying dead on the dirt floor.
"Scorpion? Javin, when? When?" Muni shook his friend back to consciousness.
"I don't know. All night, I could not move. I fought them in my dreams." He shuddered and fell silent.
Muni calmed himself, pushing down the thoughts of the irate Fascini, of the dig closing before they had found the Collector, of Javin dying here and now, and of his own helplessness to heal his old friend.
"No, no, Javin, you cannot die. We have too much to do, and you owe me a game of chess," he assured, trying to smile.
Then he turned to Kifran, who still held the torch at the door. "Where is Cheyne? Find him and go with him to fetch the doctor in the city."
Kifran bowed, lit a lamp for Muni with the torch, and disappeared.
That's not ordinary vermin, thought the linguist, who was something of an unwilling expert on the subject, as he moved to examine the creature. The dead scorpion, a large brown one, lay curled into a ring, its poisonous tail embedded in its own head.
Ah. The Ninnites. So they have found him again, Muni raged silently, understanding the symbol. The scorpion had been magically summoned, a creature from some other realm, not the kind that roamed the site, or hunched in the dark crevices of walls in the city. A creature out of its element. The Ninnites had tracked Javin from one end of Almaaz to the other, even to his home in Argive. No matter how often he moved along, no matter where he dug next, they always found him, but up unti
l now, he had always seen them coming. Javin was a careful man, but this particular dig had been too much of a distraction.
Muni moved back across the tent to his friend, who was murmuring in his sleep. He brought an earthenware cup to the fevered man's mouth, forcing the tepid water past his swollen lips, javin coughed a bit, and his eyes opened.
"I thank you. May your house be washed away in a flood of blessings." He grinned, choking again on the water.
"Be still, my friend." Muni poured some of the water onto a cloth and dabbed it to Javin's burning head. "Cheyne will soon bring the physician, and you will feel much better. Yes, you will live this time."
He found Javin's right hand, checked his pulse, relieved that it was strong. As he leaned over to place the archaeologist's hand back upon his chest, Muni also discovered the sting site: Javin's other hand lay by his side, the fingers swelled to three times their normal size, a small whitened whelp around a prick of dark blood on his ring finger. The wound appeared to be several hours old and looked horribly painful. Muni had seen a similar case before, when he had worked among the Fallaji mages-the poison would come and go, the wound would heal and fester, weakening the person until, eventually, it would sap their strength to the point that there was no more healing. Gangrene followed rapidly.
"You can recover, my friend. But listen to me, Javin: we will have to remove the finger, else the poison will spread. I'll bring more water for the fever. Just rest," he whispered.
"No, Muni, I will be all right. Already, I am feeling better. There is no need to take the finger. And I must tell you… what I saw in the dreams… The man with no face. The Raptor. I could not move; I was powerless. He meant to kill me this time. I am the last one, you see. But it's all clear now; someone has told him about Cheyne. Where is Cheyne?" He sat up in the cot.
"Save your strength, my friend. The one after your son is Saelin. Yes, he is the chiefest of the Ninnite assassins, but he has failed once already; he will fail again. He is not so good as he thinks he is," Muni said, hushing him.
"No, you don't understand…" Javin protested.
"Muni-* Kifran opened the tent flap and held up his hand, a couple of pages from Cheyne's drawing tablet in it. "Javin's son is missing. All I could find were these."
5
"Hey-ho, Og-been bathing again out of season?" the swarthy barkeeper shouted as Og and Cheyne came into the raqa bar, its lewdly painted walls a record of anatomical wonder and its sawdust floors dangerous with giant, cracked zebramussel shells and fishbones.
It was too early yet for the midday crowd; only one other customer, a hooded man smoking an ancient pipe, sat in the corner, his hand rising as slowly as his smoke when Og nodded absently to him. They found a table near the door and sat down. Cheyne blew crumbs away from his side of the well-worn oilskin tablecover, the remains of last night's repast yet to be cleared from it. Og never noticed the puddle of sour raqa he dragged his sleeve through as he raised his hand for service.
"Pay no attention to the thrull behind the counter," said Og, annoyed.
When the man came out, Og signaled for two glasses and a bottle, but Cheyne shook his head, amending the request for water and two loaves of bappir instead. The barkeep gave him a smile and boxed Og on the ears as he went to fetch the much more expensive order.
"What did he mean, 'bathing again'?" said Cheyne, smiling, his tone wary. "You weren't by chance waiting down there in the well on purpose for me, thinking you'd get that drink after all?"
Og looked mightily wounded. "By the three sisters and the Five Most Sacred Vows, I was not!" he declared, thumping the table. "I drown for no man."
"Then…"
"I'll tell you about it sometime. Later," said Og, the water carafe arriving. Apparently it was not often used- the vessel looked to be the cleanest thing in the shop. Cheyne poured for himself, but Og declined, frowning.
"Never touch the stuff. Not safe," he said, wringing his cloak out over the sawdust.
His throat now thoroughly parched, Cheyne ignored him and drank deeply, poured another glass, and drank all of it as well. He put one of the big round loaves of bread into his pack and tore into the other, offering half of it to Og, who took it eagerly, but did not eat. When Cheyne leaned forward on his low, cane stool, Og began his finest pitch.
"You seem a man of means and substance. Why is it you need to go across the western erg?" he quizzed.
"You have sobered up. How did you know that's the direction I'm going?" said Cheyne, amazed.
"You've been here in the city all morning, probably arrived before dawn. AH the hunting guides go out before six bells, and it's past ten bells now. The only reason they wouldn't have taken you wherever you desired-for an extremely inflated price, I might add- is because they refuse to go where you ask for any price. And if they would not go there, it must be someplace very dangerous and far away. That would have to be in the direction of the western erg. The guides will not go into Wyrvil territory since the massacre," Og explained succinctly, sounding like one of Cheyne's better instructors at the Argivian institute.
The young man smiled, guessing where this was leading. "And how long have you been a guide, Og?"
"It's a new career for me, but I think I'll do exceptionatly well at it." Og smiled back, his eyes crossing momentarily over his nose. "Got you home well enough last night, didn't I?"
Cheyne was sitting much too close for Og to actually focus on his face very well. Still, he could clearly see that from Cheyne's good-natured grin and his well-woven cloak that the young man would probably be good for a new pair of boots and maybe, if Og could work this right, a bottle or two of raqa after all. Though Og had no intention of leaving Sunrifa, the young man was worth his time and had already provided better conversation than Og had had in months. Og began to feel just a bit of remorse over his dishonest intentions. But not enough to stop having them.
"And why is your success so certain?" said Cheyne, stuffing the last of the sweet bread into his mouth.
"Because I've been made redundant in my current occupation." Og rolled his eyes and then dropped his glance to the dirty tabletop. Cheyne smiled but did not laugh. He held Og's stare for a long time. "All right, because I have nothing else to lose," Og muttered, almost inaudibly. So much for evil intentions. Who could look at those piercing eyes and lie?
Cheyne sat in silence for a moment. Either Og was really good at panhandling, or he was telling some kind of hard truth. He decided to find out which. "And how do I know you can do what you say? You are a beggar, and I hardly know you," said Cheyne, as if he had his choice of guides.
"And you are a nameless stranger, who has yet to show another coin to me or even buy me a real drink. Well, do you want to go?" asked Og, knowing very certainly that he was Cheyne's only hope.
Cheyne poured another glass of water as he thought about it.
For an answer, he brought out the totem. "Ever seen anything like this? Not the ganzite, of course, but the last glyph on it."
Og shook his head, looking the object over as best he could in the dimness of the shabby drinking house. The barkeep moved away from the doorway just then, and a ray of strong morning light caught the edge of the totem, sending forth a long bright ribbon of colors across the cracked plaster walls of the shop. The hooded man stirred slightly at his table as the rainbow washed over him and danced in the corner of the room. Og's eyes lit up as well.
"That's the second most beautiful thing I've ever seen," he gasped.
Cheyne bent forward, equally mesmerized, trying to see the woman's handprint the prism had shown him on the dunes, but it did not appear. "Yes. It is beautiful. What do you think?"
Cheyne could hardly believe he was asking the linguistic opinion of a beggar, but Og only shook his head again, as though he were completely accustomed to such queries.
"I think the symbols are from the old tongue. Most of the old totems use it. But the shape is odd, and I can't tell you what the last glyph says."
"No
one can. Not here, anyway. That's why I need to go to the Sarrazan forest. The elves there still use these symbols to decorate their pottery work. They are the only hope I have of deciphering this totem," said Cheyne, his voice carefully lowered.
"Why is that so important? This is just an old totem. Except for its peculiar cut, there are thousands like it, more being made-and made up, I might add-every day. Half of the Fascini can't even read theirs. They just invent something they like, tell it to their equally ignorant friends, and it becomes the truth for all time. Why do you care what this really says? It's not your family totem, is it?" asked Og, a note of mock disdain coloring his voice. "This isn't some slog over the desert to find your name or anything, is it?"
Cheyne looked at him levelly. "I don't know. What if it were?"
"Well, I guess I'd need a map, then," said Og dryly. I have gone soft, he thought, giving in to the remains of his moral code. / cannot rob him. Yet, anyway. The totem clearly showed a royal lineage-the boy could actually be someone. And he was a trained digger.
An idea formed in Og's raqa-deprived mind. This also might be the chance he'd waited for since Riolla had taken his ring and left him alone and almost powerless. If the lad were going to the Sarrazan forest, Og could wrangle a way to take them through all of the kingdoms where he stood a chance to steal back the ring's magical gemstones. Though it could be dangerous-Riolla had already sent her best henchman to kill the boy, and Saelin had a honed viciousness about him when he was satisfied; what must he have thought when the lad had gotten away from him? This totem must mean something pretty special to the Schreefa. Og pondered that for a moment.
The only thing that had ever driven Riolla to such lengths was her hunger for wealth. And the only treasure around Sumifa had to do with the Armageddon Clock fables… the old Collector and his vast, lost fortune. Now Og recalled how the ballads he had sung at the royal court about the mythical beast had fascinated Riolla long ago. While the young princess had fallen asleep during those songs, her companion Riolla had listened keenly, her eyes wide with wonder and belief. It figured. Only the Clock and the possibility of finding it would drive her to such desperation. Usually, the Mercanto's current Schreefa didn't dirty her manicured hands or her reputation with killing inside the city. Breaking hearts was more her style.
