Wages of Sin

by Robert Asprin

  He stared into those bottomless green eyes, filled now with worry and even the beginnings of fear. When she reached up and brushed her lips across his, he felt something inside his soul melt. If she said no ...

  "It's okay, Malcolm. Whatever it is. Just tell me."

  No more stalling, he thought grimly. Then he fumbled in a pocket for the little velvet box. "I, uh, went uptime for a little vacation, had this made for you."

  She opened the box curiously, then went absolutely white.

  "Malcolm?" Her voice wavered. So did those luminous green eyes.

  "Will you?" he whispered.

  An agony of indecision passed across her heart-shaped face, causing Malcolm's heart to cease beating.

  "Malcolm, you know my heart-my whole soul's set on scouting," she whispered. "You, you wouldn't object?"

  He cleared his throat. "Only unless you objected to my coming along."

  Her eyes widened. "But"

  "I thought it was high time I got over being a coward."

  Margo was suddenly in his arms, crying and kissing him at the same time. "Don't ever say that! Do you hear me, Malcolm Moore? Never, ever say that!"

  An Irish alley-cat glare he knew so well transformed her adorable, heart-shaped face as the eyebrows dove together and green eyes smoldered. "He does, does he? Am I the only one on this station who didn't know I was getting married?"

  Malcolm rubbed his nose in embarrassment. "Well, uh, you know La-La Land."

  "Do I ever." But the look in her eyes softened. "Margo Moore. I like the sound of that."

  The sound of his name linked with hers did strange things to Malcolm's blood chemistry. The light in the room dimmed. "So ... How's Denver sound for the honeymoon? I've got tickets ... ."

  Margo's kisses were enough to drive a sane man over the brink. When they came up for air, Margo breathed against his lips, "Sounds perfect. Now stop stalling, Malcolm Moore, and take me to bed!"

  He carried her there, long dress trailing, without another word spoken. He was afraid the brutal violations she had suffered at the hands of those damnable Portuguese traders would somehow raise a barrier between them that neither could overcome. But the softness and passion he remembered so well from Rome redoubled in the silence of his bedroom, sending Malcolm nearly out of his mind with the need to touch and cuddle and bring joy where she had suffered so much pain. After their loving came to a shuddering, reluctant end, Margo cried again, nearly as hard as she had that terrible day in Rome. But this time instead of running, she clung to him and let him comfort her with silly, nonsensical words meant to reassure. Evidently they did, because she fell asleep cradled against the hollow of his shoulder, tear trails streaking her cheeks and his bare skin. Malcolm kissed her hair and marveled, wondering if she would ever trust enough to share her mind as she had come to trust sharing her body.

  The ring glittering softly on her left hand gave him, hope. It was a start, anyway. Just as this joining had been. Malcolm lay awake, languorous and wondering, for hours, just holding her while she slept. When she finally woke, their second coming together was even sweeter than the first. And this time, as she drifted off once more against his chest, the words he had longed to hear came like a sigh in the darkness.

  "I love you, Malcolm Moore. Hold me..."

  And so he did.

  Chapter Nine

  "HIS NAME IS CHUCK," the voice on the other end of the phone said. "Chuck Farley."

  Skeeter had no idea who the caller was, but they had his undivided attention. "Yes? What about him?"

  "He came through Primary alone. Without a tour group. He's wearing a money belt he didn't declare through ATF. Right now, he's asking around at the hotels for the best time periods to visit."

  The line went dead before Skeeter could ask who the caller was, why they'd called him, or how they'd obtained this juicy tidbit of information. Was Goldie setting him up? Or the ATF? Or was this legit? He hadn't forgotten Ianira's strange intensity on the subject of who was going to win this bet.

  Maybe he possessed more allies than he'd realized.

  Skeeter decided to hunt up Mr. Farley and see for himself what this lone uptimer might be up to. And if that money belt were for real ... then Skeeter might just win his wager in one fell swoop. All it would take was a little finesse on his part. The question was, which scheme to use in the initial approach? Rubbing his hands in anticipation, Skeeter set out to do a little snooping of his own.

  Scouting the territory in advance, Yesukai had taught him, was key to any victory. He'd find out what Chuck Farley was up to and use that to craft his plans to deprive the gentleman of that well-filled, undeclared money belt. Skeeter grinned and headed toward the Commons with a jaunty whistle.

  "Undeclared? You're sure" Goldie's voice came out sharp, excited.

  "Positive. I saw it under his shirt when he went to the can. And it's fat. Could be thousands tucked into that thing."

  Golden dreams floated before Goldie's eyes, like sugar plums and gallant Nutcracker princes, along with visions of Skeeter in handcuffs, hauled kicking and protesting through Primary by Montgomery Wilkes while she waved bye-bye like a sweet little grandmother.

  "What's his name and where is he now?"

  The voice on the other end chuckled. "Calls himself Chuck Farley. He's hotel hopping, asking questions. Like what gates are the best to visit. Doesn't seem to have any particular destination in mind. Thought that was a might odd, so I started asking around. Time Tours says he doesn't have a ticket through any of their gates and none of the little companies have him booked through the state-owned gates, either."

  "Well, well. Thank you very much, indeed."

  Goldie hung up the phone thoughtfully. Either they had a speculator on their hands, intent on making an illegal fortune, or they'd stumbled across a rich fool looking for a thrill. No telling, until she had the chance to chitchat him personally. Whichever the case, she intended for that money belt and its delightfully undeclared contents to end up in her possession. Idiot. Chuck Farley had no idea that he'd just stepped into Goldie Morran's parlor. And like the nice, gentle spider she was, she set about weaving her silken webs of deceit to pull in this fat little fly all for herself.

  Skeeter stood in the shadows of a fake marble column across from the Epicurean Delight, watching a slim, nondescript fellow with dark hair and unremarkable eyes read the posted menu. Chuck Farley wasn't much to look at, but the trained eye revealed the unmistakable presence of that money belt the anonymous tipster had telephoned about. Skeeter was about to step out into the open to join him in "perusing" the menu when Kit Carson, Malcolm Moore, and-of all people-Margo Smith showed up, chatting animatedly. Skeeter swore under his breath and kept to the shadows. Margo sported an enormous diamond on her left ring finger. Huh. What she sees in that guide is beyond me. Malcolm Moore was even more nondescript than Chuck Farley, with a notorious string of bad luck dogging him, to boot.

  Of course, he'd been a little more prosperous lately. Some scheme he and Kit had going-and the fact that Skeeter couldn't get the real dope on it was driving him crazy. Nonetheless, he kept a tight rein on his curiosity. Skeeter was even more curious than the next 'eighty-sixer, but he steered far clear of anything connected with Kit Carson. Yesukai had taught him well--Skeeter knew when he was outgunned. The clever warrior chose his prey with care. Glory was one thing; stupidity quite another. Five years in Yesukai's yurt had more than taught Skeeter the difference.

  The group paused outside the Delight, exchanging polite words with Farley as they glanced over the menu. Come on, go inside, already, before he decides to take a seat.

  Farley nodded courteously in return and joined the long line of uptime patrons waiting for a table. Unless one were a Resident, tables at the Delight were difficult to come by. Reservations were booked weeks in advance and long waits were the norm. But Residents always found a spot at one of the "reserved" tables

  Arley Eisenstein held for 'eighty-sixers. Skeeter's mouth watered. The sc
ents wafting out of the world-famous restaurant tantalized the senses, but Skeeter didn't have the kind of money to foot the bill for a meal at the Delight, not even when he wasn't saving every scrap of cash he owned to win a wager like this one.

  Of course, he had conned his way in a time or two, getting some trusting uptimer with more money than sense to buy him a gourmet meal. But that didn't happen often, and the fact that Skeeter was ravenously hungry only made matters worse. Voices from waiting patrons floated across the Commons, making it impossible to hear what Kit Carson and his party were saying. Skeeter hugged his impatience to himself. If they would just go in, he could wander over and find a reason to strike up a conversation with Chuck Farley.

  A downtimer Skeeter recognized as the Welsh bowman who'd come through that unstable gate from the Battle of Orleans a few months back pushed a wheeled dustbin past, then paused and exclaimed aloud. Margo hugged him, laughing and asking questions Skeeter couldn't quite hear. When she showed off the ring on her hand, the Welshman made deep, deferential bows to both Kit and Malcolm.

  Kynan Rhys Gower was one of the very few downtimers Skeeter didn't feel comfortable around. For one thing, the man had pledged some sort of medieval oath of fealty to Kit, which made his business very much Kit's business-and therefore very much not Skeeter's. For another, the Welshman looked murderous every time he glanced in Skeeter's direction. Skeeter had no idea what he'd done to antagonize the man, having never recalled even speaking directly with him, but then, the Welshman's temper had manifested itself in decidedly odd ways since his arrival. He was unpredictable, at the least.

  At times, he'd bordered on certifiable-like the time he'd attacked Kit with nothing but a croquet mallet, bent on murder.

  Skeeter crossed both arms over his chest and slumped against the column. Great: An impromptu welcome home party right in front of my rich little mark. Talk about luck... Maybe Malcolm Moore's was contagious? Skeeter certainly hadn't had much luck bringing any of his schemes to fruition since challenging Goldie to this stupid bet. What was I thinking, anyway? Everyone knows it's impossible to beat Goldie at anything. If anyone's certifiable, it's me. Still, the challenge she'd thrown down had stung his pride. He hadn't really had a choice and he knew it. Probably she'd known, too, blast her for the backstabbing harpy she was. At least Brian Hendrickson's records proved Goldie's lead a small one. A couple of good scams and he'd be ahead. Well ahead.

  Skeeter leaned around the column to see where his "mark" was-and heard a solid thunk next to his ear. Startled, he turned his head. A knife haft quivered in the air, the metal blade still singing where it had buried itself in the plastic sheathing of the fake column. Skeeter widened his eyes. If he hadn't leaned around just when he had ...

  He jerked around, looking through the crowd

  Oh, God.

  Lupus Mortiferus.

  The gladiator charged.

  Skeeter bolted, yanking the knife out of the column as he went, so he wouldn't be completely weaponless if the enraged Roman actually did catch up with him this time. Diners waiting patiently in line stared as he dashed past, knife in hand, with a gladiator in cowboy chaps in hot pursuit. A sting made itself felt along the side of Skeeter's neck He swore and swiped at it, then gulped. Blood on his fingertips told him just how close he'd come. A swift glance down showed a thin line of drying blood on the edge of the knife he'd snatched.

  Holy ... if that was poisoned ... then he'd be in big trouble, and soon. His legs went shaky for a couple of strides, then he dodged up a staircase and pounded down a balcony crowded with shoppers. Weaving in and out between them, Skeeter made it to an elevator. The door opened with a soft ding. He dove inside and punched the top floor. The elevator doors slid closed just as the enraged gladiator stormed past an outraged knot of shoppers.

  The car surged smoothly upward. Skeeter collapsed against the wall, pressing a hand to his neck. Damn, damn., damn! He needed to go to the Infirmary and have Rachel Eisenstein look at this. But pride-and fear-sent him plunging into the heart of Residential, instead. If he reported the injury to Rachel, he'd have to explain how he'd managed to sustain a long slice across the side of his neck. And that would lead to unpleasant confessions about profiteering from time travel ...

  Nope, a trip to the infirmary was out.

  And that blasted downtimer might have learned enough about La-La Land by now to anticipate him going to the clinic, anyway. Skeeter cursed under his breath and headed for home. By the time he made it to his apartment, Skeeter was trembling with shock and blood loss despite the hand he kept tightly pressed to the wound. Blood seeped between his fingers to drip down his shirt. He was tempted to call Bull Morgan and report the attack, consequences be damned. That gladiator scared him. Winning the wager with Goldie was one thing. Dying for it was quite another. Hand shaking, he locked the door and stumbled into the bathroom, swearing softly at the ashen cast of his face when he switched on the light.

  He dabbed gingerly at the long, shallow slice, hissing. between his teeth. "Sorry, Yesukai, but that stings." Antiseptic, antibiotic cream, and bandages made him look like the victim of a wide jawed vampire. "Turtleneck sweaters for a while," Skeeter muttered. "Just great. I really, genuinely hope that goddamned knife wasn't poisoned."

  If it had been, he'd know soon enough.

  He still wavered between calling Bull Morgan and keeping silent as he switched off the bathroom light and stumbled into his living room. He switched on the in-house TV news channel and flopped into his favorite chair, exhausted and scared and still trembling slightly. He needed food and sleep and painkillers. Food and sleep could be had without leaving the apartment. Painkillers ... well, aspirin thinned the blood, which was no good. He'd have to settle for something like ibuprofen, if he had any.

  The evening newscast's theme music swelled through the darkened little apartment. La-La Land's news program was, like the Shangri-La Gazette, more a gossip forum than a real news show. Most of the so called journalists who drifted into and out of the anchor job were muckrakers who couldn't get work uptime for one good reason or another. They tended to shift from time terminal to time terminal in the hope that some juicy tidbit worthy of a real network job would relaunch their uptime careers. They also complained perennially about the lack of budget, equipment, and studio room. Skeeter shrugged-and winced. After his return uptime as a child, he'd grown utterly disgusted with them, camping out on the lawn for a chance at a photo session and maybe even an exclusive with the kid who'd lived with Genghis Khan's father and the toddler who would become Genghis Khan, himself.

  Journalists had been a large factor in his decision to simply leave during the night and head for New York.

  In the Big Apple, rotten to its scheming, seamy core, stories like his could easily be buried under the sensationalism of expose after expose on corrupt politicians, waving crime, and the spreading violence and sin that made the City the place for one little half-wild adopted Mongol to practice hard-won skills. Skeeter sighed. Those had been rough years, rougher in many ways than living in Yesukai's camp. But he'd survived them. The thought of going back...

  "I could always walk through the Mongolian Gate again, he told himself. Temujin's out there somewhere fighting for his life against Hargoutai and his clan right about now. Temujin would take me in, might even remember the boy who used to do tricks to amuse him at night while the men were busy eating and telling stories and drinking themselves so sick they'd have to go outside and vomit. Living with Temujin'd certainly be better than going back to New York. Just about anything would be better than going back to New York.

  He wasn't sure he'd live long, if he went back, and Skeeter Jackson had become terribly fond of creature comforts, but there were fates worse than dying young in battle.

  Speaking of which ... should he call Bull Morgan or not?

  The news program he'd been waiting for had come on, flashing the familiar, sickly-sweet face of "Judy, Judy Janes!" onto the screen. She smiled at the camera, looking (as
always) every eyelash-batting bit as idiotic as she sounded. But her opening statement caught Skeeter's attention fast.

  "A disturbance this evening on the Commons just outside the Epicurean Delight has left 'eighty-sixers mystified and Security baffled. An eyewitness to the event, well-known station resident Goldie Morran, was willing to share her impressions with our viewing audience."

  The camera treated Skeeter to a close-up of The Enemy.

  Skeeter swore creatively. In Mongolian.

  "Well, I couldn't be sure, everything happened so fast, but it looked to me like Skeeter Jackson bolted from behind that column over there and ran from a man I've never laid eyes on."

  "Are you positive about that identification, Ms. Morran?"

  Skeeter's official station identification photo appeared briefly on screen, grinning at the audience. The caption read "Unemployed Confidence Artist." Skeeter saw red-several seething shades of it.

  The camera cut back to the Commons and Goldie's moment of triumph. Her eyes glittered like evil jewels. "Well, no, I couldn't swear to it, but as you know, Skeeter and I have made a rather substantial wager, so I've been at some pains to keep track of his movements. I'm afraid I wouldn't do Station Security much good as a prosecution witness, but it certainly did look like him. Of course," she laughed lightly, "we get so many scoundrels through, and so many of them look alike ..."

  The rest of the report was nothing more than innuendo and slander, none of it provable and every word of it calculated to wreck any chance he had at conning a single tourist watching that broadcast out of so much as a wooden nickel. Skeeter closed his fists in the semidarkness of his apartment. Report his injury? Hell would freeze first. He'd win this wager and kick that purple-haired harpy from here to-

  Skeeter punched savagely at the channel changer. His apartment flooded with soothing music and slowly shifting vistas taped both downtime as well as uptime. He'd deal with that pissed-off gladiator as best he could, on his own. Nothing was goin to sour this wager. Not even Lupus Mortiferus and his-fifty goddamned golden aurii.