Song of Time

8

"This wasn't part of the deal, Og. You were to lead me to the Sarrazan forest, not straight into a war party of ores. And you were supposed to be on watch. What happened?" Cheyne muttered under his breath as he worked at the ropes.

"I was upset. All that talk about Riolia. Every time I think of her, it seems to happen all over again. Besides, if we aren't dead right now, he's probably not feeling threatened enough to kill us. The leader is Yob, a Wyrvil underking. He has a camp not far from here. The two with the heads hanging from their belts are Rotapan's boys. See the notches in their ears? The ores' ears, not the humans'. Rotapan bites them out himself when they enter his service. Yob is wearing his full battle gear; he's too dressed up for a routine hunting party. They're probably all going to the temple… quarterly payments or something. This could work very well for us, if I can remember a song or two. They can take us exactly where we need to go."

"You mean exactly where you need to go," groused Cheyne, his large fingers fumbling with the same knot for the fourth time. Og finally turned his face as directly toward Cheyne's as he could.

"Look, my friend, here's the situation. Rotapan has the ajada. I need those stones back, or you won't get to where you want to go either, plain as you please, and don't even think about turning back, because in case you don't remember, someone is hunting your head, too. Be calm. Save your energy. Tying us up is just routine for Yob. Impresses the big boys and gives him a chance to think, though that could take all day. Anyway, I'm terribly sorry, you know. About deceiving you, that is." Og ended, exhausted from his tirade. It was more than Claria could bear.

"Oh, once again, a man apologizes and he thinks everything is all right," she fumed. "'I'm so sorry, Claria, for getting you into this mess.' 'I'm so sorry, Claria, for not watching better, and for demanding we take the most dangerous trail possible.' 'I'm so sorry, Claria, but it could never be. We are too far apart in all the important ways.' Hey. That's my hand you've got now."

"Sorry-er, sorry," Cheyne muttered.

Then he sat up straighter, took a deep breath, and caught hold of the stubborn knot. "That's the last time I apologize for apologizing. Claria, I'm just trying to get us free. The inconvenience of having to touch me or having me touch you is temporary, I assure you. Now if you will just hold that end-good. Thank you." Cheyne unraveled the nest of knots with a quick jerk. "Now sit still."

"We can get loose and you want us to sit here anyway?" she grated.

"Please. No disrespect to your considerable fighting talents, but think about this: they are twelve and we are three, one lame. They have their spears and our daggers now, too. Let Og talk to them. Just cooperate for now. Besides, any one of them is twice as big as you are, Claria. Perhaps you didn't see the heads hanging from the biggest one's belt? Here they come. Og, you know them, you do the talking. And keep us alive, do you hear?"

"Of course," said Og, practicing his best diplomatic tone. "Take your cue when I give it; do something showy, if you can."

The ore Cheyne had guessed to be the leader sauntered over and towered over them, sniffing the air. "Og. You have been gone so long. My daughter cries every night for you. You are the only thing she does not forget. You did not say good-bye, even. You are missing her, too, perhaps? This is why you have come back to my desert?"

The ore's heavy teeth clacked together when he spoke, and two or three flies wafted in and out of his mouth, seeming very much at home there. Cheyne could not tell if he was smiling or not. Claria, the tension too much for her, broke into nervous giggles at the mention of a lovestruck daughter, shifting her head to squelch them and avoid tbe ore's odor, unmistakably the same as the slaughterhouse on a busy day in the Barca.

"Womba is well, I presume." Og smiled engagingly. "I have thought of her often. To tell the truth, Yob, we are just passing through, and we will pay you due honor by letting you escort us to the Borderlands."

Cheyne had to admit there was a certain power in the little man's voice; the ore did not squeeze their heads from their bodies instantly, as might have been expected in the face of such a demand. All the same, he was wondering if letting Og speak had been such a good idea.

Yob scratched his head, trying to figure out the convolutions of Og's reply, what benefit it held for him, and just who was in charge here. "You always make my head hurt, Og. I had forgotten this thing. Now you must sing for us."

The others in the group raised their spears and shouted a deafening cheer.

"Looks like they like that idea, Og," Claria teased.

"They like any idea. That's why Yob is the leader. He has ideas," said Og miserably.

"I will bargain with you, Yob. A song for our release and safe conduct. And maybe do you have a flask-"

"Og!" warned Cheyne.

"Maybe later. But I will do some magic for you right now."

Og curled his lip at Cheyne and began to hum softly, a low-pitched, almost tuneless sound that immediately got under Cheyne's skin and made it itch. Claria seemed to be squirming also. Then Og jumped free, flipped twice in the air from a standing position, held up his hands, and smiled hugely.

Yob jerked back as though stung, his yellow eyes wide with amazement. Before the others could react, he began to laugh in great rolling guffaws, shaking the teeth and bone necklaces that hung across his chest, making a weird sort of music himself.

"Good one, Og. Loved that one. Ha!" He wound down to a spitting chuckle. "Do some more."

Og whistled a little and began to pirouette and leap, his blistered feet completely forgotten, turning back-flips and somersaults, pretending to slip and fall, then catching himself awkwardly at the last moment. He found the skull Cheyne had flicked into the underbrush, found another one and a couple of shin bones very near it, and began to juggle them. The ores dropped to the ground laughing and put down their spears.

"What's he doing now?" asked Claria, her shoulders aching from holding her arms behind her back.

"I don't know yet," replied Cheyne, laughing as heartily as the ores. "But he has them spellbound. He's as good with them as you were in the fight back in the city. And I meant to say it earlier: thanks for the help. Where did you learn those old juma moves?

"What do you know about the juma?" Claria shot back at him.

"Well, just what I learned at the university," said Cheyne, trying to figure out what he had said wrong.

"Then you would have learned that there are no more juma now," she said stonily. After a long silence, Cheyne tried a different subject.

"Tell me about Maceo."

"Maceo! Why do you want to know?" hissed Claria, suddenly angry again.

"Is he your lover? Check the ropes again," said Cheyne, leaning around her to follow Og's act.

"He was my fiance, if you must know. But not anymore. Since he's about to be invested as king, he has accepted a proposal of marriage from Riolla. He told me just before you came into the shop, may her complexion glow divinely… from the drinking of poison. And I'm already over it, thank you very much."

Claria felt around her hands for the cast-off bindings. She turned her head sharply into Cheyne's nose when she did not find them. "Ow. You mean he really can do magic? Why do you care about Maceo, anyway?" she whispered, her face jammed uncomfortably into his stubbled cheek.

Cheyne smiled, enjoying her spicy perfume and the softness of her skin. "I care because I like to know who my enemies are. My friends, too. Listen."

When his audience was thoroughly mesmerized, Og launched into a song. Or it could have been a song at one time, Cheyne decided, disappointed. Og seemed to do well enough when he wasn't trying to make musical sense, but his voice, like any fine instrument left to the merciless desert wind and weather, or submerged in raqa, had deteriorated and become tuneless. With every verse, and the song had twenty-two, Og fell further and further from pitch. By the end, there was little difference between his voice and the croaking of the tree frogs in the pool behind them. Cheyne ground his teeth; Claria had placed her head between her knees in an attempt to cover her ears.

The ores applauded rabidly; some were crying.

Og bowed deeply and touched his nose to the ground. "Now for the finale-" He glanced covertly at Cheyne, who nodded. "I will break the bonds of my friends before your very eyes. Truly a magical feat, since you tied them yourselves and know their incredible strength."

Og threw back his head and let loose a wild cry, the end of which was inaudible. Cheyne took the cue, grabbed Claria, and brought her to her feet in a grand, sweeping motion, twirling her around by the hand, her hair flying around them both in a glorious, dark swirl, rainbow ribbons dancing in the air. The ores loved it. They whooped and thumped the ground, spit at one another, and applauded. Cheyne brought Claria back to earth, thinking it would be a good time for them to try to make a run for it. But Og couldn't let go of the note. As Og clutched at his throat, trying to stop the unheard song, Yob sprouted mushrooms on his shoulders, then two of his troops turned blue from asphyxiation.

And Womba appeared.

The warriors in Yob's tattered company gave a universal sigh of delight at her sudden arrival, but Cheyne's reaction was a great, unexpected compassion for Og, just when he had managed to begin to really despise him.

Disoriented, taken from her sleep, Womba shook herself, her little yellow eyes not believing what they saw. Her huge green face was covered in flaking mud, her coarse black hair fell in chopped, uneven lengths over her eyebrow. She yawned capaciously, revealing a complete set of red-stained teeth, her upper lip catching in a delicate sneer above a crooked canine. Pointed ears, pierced along the edges and hung with teeth and bits of carved bones, framed her face. She wore a tunic of gaudy ghoma skin, its leathery scales glinting orange and purple in the bright light of day.

"Womba!" Og rasped pitifully, finally able to let go of the song. Yob's daughter perked her ears at the sound of her name, coming fully awake. Instinctively, Cheyne and Claria scrambled to push Og under a nearby bush, but Womba had already seen him. She bellowed triumphantly, ran to his side, picked him up, and clutched him to her scaly chest in a death grip.

"Put him down!" Claria shouted.

Womba blinked feebly until she could find the source of the sound. Then she turned, Og still flailing in her arms, his suffocation advancing nicely, and stomped over to Claria.

"He is mine. You cannot have him. Mine," she snorted, jabbing a grime-encrusted fingernail at the girl and shifting Og under one enormous arm.

"Put him down, my dumpling," growled Yob, raking from his arms the wilting mushrooms, perfectly nonplused at her appearance. "I think I have traded them a path across the erg to hear the song about my finest battle. I had almost lost the words from my head about how brave I was. No one sings better than Og. Besides, you are killing him. I told you to be careful, they die so easily."

Dejected, Womba slacked her grip and Og fell unconscious at her scaly, corn-studded, feet. Cheyne stepped in and propped the little man up as he regained his senses.

"What happened?" Og said hoarsely.

"Oh, I think you'll figure it out. You all right now?" asked Cheyne, picking orange scales from the top of Og's nose and eyeing the restless ores. They had found their spears again. The chance to leave was gone.

"I think we will take you to Rotapan, Og. He is smart enough to figure out your words. We leave now," said Yob, pushing his gnarled hand into his daughter's face. She had apparently already forgotten his words of a moment before. She looked at Og longingly through her father's splayed fingers and began to bray softly.

Cheyne turned resignedly to Og. "Looks like you'll get what you wanted, Og."

Og shrugged and held up his bony hands, feigning innocence, but not very well. "Just one minor detour in your journey. They can get us across the erg safely, too. Won't take long, might save some time in the end. What choice do we have anyway?"

Javin's mouth felt like cottonwool. He trudged across the erg in the darkness, the three sisters lighting his way, steering him ever westward. There had been no horse, no drom to be had in Sumifa. At least, no one would sell him one. From every livery he had tried, he received the same response: "We have nothing available today." Then silence, the attendants' eyes lowered and their voices fearful. It was as though they had expected him. The Ninnites had been there before him, of course.

Ahead of him, Riolla covered her eyes against the brilliant dawn on the western erg. It had been years-her childhood, really-since she had braved the full light of day; the Fascini never went out earlier than the late afternoon and not then without being completely covered. Sumifa's royalty were all very pale, and Riolla grimaced as she felt the sun penetrating the sedan's thin canopy.

She unrolled the map, checking for landmarks and direction, but until they passed the oasis, she had to hope that the Neffians knew where they were going. Riolla sniffed distastefully at Saelin, who drowsed in the other side of the chair, snoring softly, his long, curved knife loose in one hand and his sword resting in the other. She had had to let the assassin ride in the sedan when it became apparent that he could not keep up with the thin, wiry Neffians. She scanned the horizon, looking for Og and his friends, then checked behind, searching for any unwelcome followers.

She never saw Javin.

And Javin never saw the Neffian.

"Javin has left the ruin, presumably to find his son. He is wounded, but will not last long enough to do so. We have received a stroke of perfect luck from… from Caelus Nin himself, Raptor. The lad has fled his father and travels toward the Borderlands in the company of treasure hunters. He will search out the Clock and present himself to you without Javin's protection at the same time.™ The agitated voice fell silent.

"What you are telling me is that you have failed to kill the Circle's last mage," whispered the Raptor. "I like it not, Kifran. Such sloppiness is not what I have paid you so well for. I put Javin in his dream state- and I summoned the vermin. Was it too much for you to stay with him and make sure he was dead? Now he knows too much of me."

"Raptor, the water boy came to fill the jugs before I could make sure it was finished. I had to call for help, then; they would have killed me on the spot. The big foreman has a way with knives." Kifran scrambled for words, but found none of the right ones. The Raptor signaled to the tall, hooded guard at the door.

"Of course. So he does."

Kifran, thinking he was dismissed, bowed deeply, grateful to be leaving with his life.

"But so do others." Kifran never felt the guard's poniard as it entered his neck, pinning his tongue to the roof of his mouth.

"You know what to do, Naruq. I'll be watching," breathed the Raptor as the hooded guard reclaimed his poniard, wiped it on Kifran's cloak as the body slumped to the floor, and nodded.

The assassin replaced the blade in his silver cloakpin and strode out the door.

The sun broke over the dunes behind him as Javin drained the last of his water from his water skin. He looked up at the three sisters, almost faded from the eastern sky, and hoped his memory of the caravan route was accurate. It had been a decade, but he had once known this road well. His hand ached, the fire of

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the scorpion's sting now reaching up his arm in painful twinges, and his knuckles were swelled to rigidity. The wind had blown hard all night, but now, at least, it was at his back. The sun would be overhead soon; he would have to find the caves sooner. A mile or two more and there would be the refreshment of the spring, the cool of the date palms for the worst of the blazing day.

He collapsed fifty yards from the oasis. The Neffian caught up within seconds and hoisted him over his massive shoulders and moved into the shade of the palms with practiced stealth.

"Put me down here. Gently!" Riolla curled her bright pink lip in reprimand as the slaves let her chair down upon the thick carpet of watermoss near the little spring. She stepped into the green softness and smiled again.

"Saelin, wake up. We are here. The men have to rest. And I myself am so worn out from this rigorous journey that I must find a cool, dark place and lie down for the remainder of the day."

She picked her way over to the spring and waited for the Neffians to place her kneeling cloth on the ground. When she had finished her ablutions, Saelin had awakened and stood yawning and stretching by the chair.

"Most marvelous of maidens, you have led us to par-adise," he said chortling, eyeing a cluster of dates high in one of the palms.

"Go on up, slave, and bring me those dates. I will await you." He motioned casually to the Neffian to retrieve the fruit. The Neffian bowed his head, but did not obey.

"He goes only where I send him, Saelin. Like you. Remember that. And I hate dates," said Riolla. The Neffians had begun to break out bappir and cheese, a skin of wine, and some oranges. Riolla did not invite Saelin to join her. "You can stand guard at that rock."

"Of course, Schreefa," Saelin deferred, his smile magnificent while his left eyelid twitched with anger and his stomach growled fiercely.

He positioned himself at the edge of the oasis, looking toward the west, and settled in for the duration. But he was so hungry that he could not sleep. Instead, he began to pace the small shelf of flat rock above the spring, thinking about how he would dispatch the young digger who had so insolently escaped him the first time.

Two red-tailed parrots chattered overhead at the cluster of dates he had wanted. They busily devoured every date as Saelin eyed them contemptuously. He threw a stone at one of them, but the parrot was not of a mind to take the abuse and swooped over Saelin's head, flapping her wings and screeching in his ears, while her mate scattered him with droppings. He ducked her second pass, fell against the stone wall, and searched blindly for something else to hurl at the enraged bird. Saelin groped gingerly at a little recess in the rock behind him as the parrot continued her assault, but found nothing.

Nothing except Claria's chroniclave.

The parrots and his hunger forgotten, Saelin hunched close the stone wall and drew out the little bundle. He took his dagger to the neatly tied linen wrappings, and soon, before his astonished eyes, the little musical clock gleamed in the desert morning. Saelin grinned maliciously at the fine goldwork on the delicate hands, rewrapped the chroniclave, and stuffed it into one of the deep pockets in his robes.

Riolla would pay dearly for this little trinket. But he would have to sell at just the right time… Saelin began to count his kohli as he finally drifted off to sleep in the cool shade of the rocks, the squawk of angry parrots following him into his dreams.

Riolla finished her repast with relish, the effects of using the black pear! having finally worn off, and wandered over to the caves. Rtolla had traveled this route before, many years ago, on several caravans, but she had never taken time to explore the oasis' protective rock formations.

Not that exploration was her idea of fun. But today she was looking for a nice dark place, out of the heat, and the rock ledge above the spring offered the best chance of finding that.

"You there." She motioned to a slave, just sitting down for the first time in hours. "Go up there and look around. See if it's safe." She pointed to the caves.

The slave stood, somewhat stiffly, and, hiding his pain and fatigue behind a mask of careful blankness, climbed the rocks to the first dark opening. Riolla waited impatiently below, never noticing the well-trampled grass and the broken, yellowed ore skull just inches from her feet. The Neffian swung himself inside the narrow mouth of the cave and disappeared.

Expecting to be swallowed in total darkness, the slave instead found the cave to be brightly lit. From some other opening, some sink higher up the rock wall, a shaft of sunlight poured in, illuminating his path.

And some recent footprints.

Intrigued, he batted the torn, dusty spiderwebs out of the way and cautiously crept down the narrow, smooth-worn passage. The walls turned, and he inched around to the right, hardly breathing. He was met by a pair of gray eyes and a machete.

"Doulos!" the slave cried in alarm, then instantly lowered his voice. "You put the fear in me! Why are you here? Has you master dismissed you? Are you wanted? Does he hunt you?" The Neffian relaxed against the cool stone wall.

"Be hushed, Gahzi. Yes, I have run again. The master knows it not. Well, maybe by now. But he won't care. One less to feed, especially with the grain nearly gone. This is the last time, Gahzi. He promised to kill me if I left again." Doulos put down the knife he held. "But there is a reason beside looking for my brother Rafek this time. Look what I found." Doulos pointed to the corner, where a man lay sprawled in the darkness.

"Who?" said Gahzi, his pale eyes narrowing.

"One of the diggers. He is fevered. 1 followed him from the city and took his knife. Gahzi, he is from the Circle. He is the one. Like the juma stories say."

Gahzi shook his head in disbelief, then bent to check behind the man's ear, where the small tattoo of a blue circle showed plainly when Gahzi lifted a lock of Javin's sandy hair.

Gahzi stood dumbfounded for a long time, then finally said quietly, with great compassion, "You are imagining what we all so desperately want, my friend. The juma are all gone, Doulos. The dream is gone with them. How are you feeling these days? Does your head still give you those terrible pains? Do you still see the visions?"

Doulos sighed and held up his hands. "You see for yourself the mark and do not believe? I know what the others have always said of me, Gahzi. But here he is before you; this is no vision."

Gahzi opened his mouth to reply, but stopped when he heard Riolla calling from outside and below, demanding that he answer her.

"She calls. I think we are chasing someone, but I know not who. In our party, there is an assassin, very shoddy, and we four carriers. You know this place now belongs to the ores? A large party has passed here very recently: beware. Stay hidden. I have never seen you. Doulos, go home; leave this poor man to his own fate. It may be that Maceo will not kill you. Surely he knows of your troubles, of your pain."

Doulos shook his head, smiled, and held up his hand in the farewell. "What has the prince ever cared for another's pain? Especially a slave's. Swear to me that you will not give us away to the Schreefa."

Gahzi nodded silently, returned the gesture, then ducked out the cave. "Honored Schreefa, the caves are dusty and full of vermin," he said, his voice a careful, vacant monotone.

Inside, Doulos smiled wider, promising to return the compliment someday. Riolla screwed up her face in disgust and went back to her chair, disappearing under the canopy.

When night fell, the Neffians awakened Saelin and took their positions under the chair, pushing westward, against the rising dunes and a stiff headwind.

When he was sure he heard them no more, Doulos went to the mouth of the cave and looked out upon the peace of the evening, the three sisters already riding high in the sky. It was time to go. Doulos crept over to favin's side. Where the opening in the cave had been lit by day, stars shone down now, bringing almost as much illumination.

Something glittered beside Javin's good hand. Drawn by curiosity, Doulos reached for the shining object and discovered he had in his hand an old book. He opened it carefully, alert for the moment of Javin's waking. The old pages, pale in the starlight, stood up stiffly from the spine and wafted to and fro with his breath. They crinkled a bit under his fingers as he traced the lettering. He sighed in disappointment; the words were too blurry to read, in a language he could not fathom. Just then Javin shifted in his sleep, and Doulos quickly closed the old book and replaced it, never noticing that the last page, lighter almost than the air, lilted away in the darkness of the cave and settled invisibly in a dusty comer.

"Wake up, Muje." Doulos shook Javin's good shoulder gently, then waited for him to sit up and take the water he offered.

"Who are you? Where are we?" said Javin gruffly, his voice dry and husky. His hand had grown cool, the pain nearly gone. Beside him lay the evidence that someone had lanced the sting again. He smiled at the man-from his light, short-cropped hair and dark skin, obviously a slave-and took another long drink. "Thank you. You have saved my life. What is your name?"

The Neffian smiled back. "I am called Doulos."

"Doulos, I am Javin. My other name is Argivian," he hedged. "You are a slave?"

Doulos lowered his eyes from habit. "Yes. Muje, I have run. Please do not send me back. If I go back, my master will kill me."

"I would not take you back, Doulos. Tell me-did you follow me from the city, or take up my trail even before?" Javin smiled.

"I watched you with the woman at the surgery. I came behind you from there," Doulos admitted.

"Why?" said Javin.

Doulos looked at him and laughed, great puzzlement in his voice.

"Because, Muje-you are the true king of Sumifa, and all of Almaaz."