Wages of Sin

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 scents 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.

He found the nearly fatal knife and closed his hand around the hilt. Skeeter Jackson wasn't a trained fighter, he hadn't been old enough when "rescued" by an astonished time scout-but he knew a trick or two. Lupus Mortiferus might just be in for as big a surprise as Goldie Morran. He flipped the knife angrily across the room, so that it landed point-first in the soft wallboard. Nice throwing blade. Bastard. That knife was not an ancient design. Either he'd stolen it ... or someone was helping him.

Skeeter meant to find out which. And, if someone were helping him, who. The sooner he found out, the better. Neutralizing that gladiator had become imperative.

Unlike most Mongols, who learned early to place a very low value indeed on human life, Skeeter Jackson valued his most highly. He did not plan to die at the hands of a disgruntled downtimer who went around cutting out the tongues of the poor wretches he owned and gutting people for sport and coin.

Stranded as he was between the two worlds that had molded him, Skeeter Jackson listened to music in his darkened apartment, endured the thumping pain in his neck, and wrestled with the decision over whether or not to kill the gladiator outright by some devious method, or scheme some way to send him back where he belonged-permanently.

It was a measure of how deeply those two worlds tugged at him that he had not resolved the question by the time he nodded off to sleep in the early hours of the morning.

Malcolm joined Margo as she emerged from the shower, aglow in a healthy, sexy way that made his insides turn to gelatin. He managed to find his voice and keep it steady. "You always did look great in skin, Margo."

Margo just beamed and winked, then adjusted her towel invitingly to dry her back.

Malcolm groaned and seized the towel, but managed to dry her back as gently as he might a frightened fawn. "Been doing your homework, then?" He couldn't believe how husky his voice sounded.

Margo started to laugh. "You bet! Every free moment I get outside of classes. You wouldn't believe the nickname some of my friends have given me."

"Oh?" Malcolm asked, raising one brow to hide the knot of fear that some of those friends might be young and masculine enough to capture her attention.

"Yes. Mad Margo. That's what they call me. I don't go to parties or overnighters or field trips-unless they're related to something important I'm studying, and I positively never go out on a date."

"Sure about that?" Malcolm half-teased.

Green eyes that a man could get lost in turned upward and met his, quite suddenly serious and dark. "Never." She squeezed his hand. "Do you honestly think all those little boys who swill beer and brag about their conquests could possibly interest me? After what we've been through, Malcolm? It'd take an act of God, maybe more-to pry us apart."

Malcolm dropped the towel and kissed her tenderly. It didn't stay tender long. When they finally broke apart, panting and on fire, Malcolm managed, "Well. I see."

Margo's eyes laughed again, the green sparkle back where it belonged. "Just wanted to convince you, is all."

Malcolm ran the tip of his tongue over swollen lips, then grinned. "Good!" But when he bent for another go-round, Margo laughingly danced away, causing his mind and gut actual pain.

"Oh, no. I'm squeaky clean. I'd like to stay that way for at least another hour, Mr. Moore!" Then she darted into the bedroom they shared and emerged less than two minutes later, clad in very chic black jeans, a sweater that would've made an old man's eyes pop, and dark, soft boots. Malcolm realized with a jolt that her clothing had Paris stamped all over it. She didn't flaunt herself in trendy, gaudy colors but stuck by well made items that would be in style forever. "All right," she said, fluffing her hair as it dried-hair that looked like a Parisian salon had styled it "you mentioned something about lunch?"

"Mmmm. Yes. I did, at that. Very well, Margo, gentleman it shall be-for now!"

He wriggled his brows wickedly. Margo laughed, secure of him. They left the apartment and found the corridor to the nearest elevator shaft. They moved easily, hands locked. The air between them sizzled with unseen but palpable heat. When they stepped into the elevator, Margo said huskily, "Your place or mine? After lunch?"

Malcolm couldn't hold back the jolt of need that went though him, but he retained enough presence of mind to recall that Margo, while nominally on vacation, needed to spend some educational time outside Malcolm's bed. Or couch. Or dining room floor. Or...

He sighed. "Neither just yet. There's someone I think you ought to meet."

Green, expressive eyes went suddenly suspicious. "Who?"

Malcolm chuckled and tickled her chin. "Margo Smith, are you turning jealous on me? Anyway, you'll like her. Just trust me on this one. She lived here already, but hadn't set up her shop yet when you first came to La-La Land. But she's well worth meeting. Trust me."

"Okay, I'm game. So after lunch, show me!"

For a moment Margo sounded exactly as she had just a few short months ago. Nice to know not everything had grown up quite yet. He didn't ever want that part of her to change. "I'll show you, all right," he chuckled. "But before lunch. I insist."

Margo pouted while Malcolm punched the button for Commons. The elevator whirred obediently upward. Malcolm steered her into the Little Agora District, vastly different from the genuine Agora's golden era. For one thing, there were no tethered or caged animals waiting to be purchased and ridden or eaten. For another, neither Socrates nor his pupils were anywhere to be seen. Instead, there was one particular booth positively jammed with customers. Other booth vendors looked at the crowded one with expressions that ran the gamut from rage to deep sorrow. Malcolm drew Margo straight toward the jam-packed booth.

Of course.

"Are you sure whoever this is wont mind interrupting her sales? She's got a ton of business there."

Malcolm grinned. "She'll thank us. Trust me."

He shoved and elbowed his way through the crowd with shocking rudeness, until Margo found herself staring at the most exotically beautiful woman she had ever seen. Her eyes, black as velvet, were far older than the early twenties she seemed to be. Even as Margo stared, wondering what it was that was so compelling about her, the woman broke into an exquisite, somehow ancient smile. "Malcolm! Welcome!"

Margo felt herself shrink in stature and confidence. While she'd been off at college, alone, Malcolm had been free to ...

"Ianira, this is Margo. She is Kit Carson's granddaughter and the woman I plan to marry."

Another dazzling smile appeared, this time directed disconcertingly toward Margo. "I am honored to meet you, Margo," she said softly. "Malcolm is a twice-lucky man." The dark eyes seemed to pierce her very soul. "And he will take away the pain in your heart, as well, I think," she said in an even softer voice. "He will make you forget your childhood and bring you much happiness." Margo stared, unable to figure out how she could know, unless someone of the few who did know had gossiped. Which in La-La Land would be entirely in character, except the only people who knew were her father, her grandfather, and Malcolm Moore.

When she glanced around for Malcolm, she realized with a jolt that every "customer" at the booth was busy either writing furiously, holding out a tape recorder, or fiddling with the focus on a handheld vidcam. Sudden fury swept her; she made a grab at and barely hung onto her temper at the intrusion into her privacy. Margo took a deep breath, then deliberately turned back to Ianira. Margo found a smile far back in those dark eyes, a smile which understood her anger and the reasons for it. "Thank you," she said slowly, still rather confused, because she was certain neither Kit Carson nor Malcolm Moore would have told anyone. And she was utterly certain her father had never set the first toe on TT-86's floor. Ianira's return smile this time was every bit as enigmatic as the Mona Lisa's, yet reminded her of graceful white statuary recovered from lost millennia to stand, naked or artfully draped, in vast, marble museums.

Malcolm said quietly, "Ianira Cassondra came to TT-86 a few years ago. Through the Philosophers' Gate."

"You're a downtimer, then? I hadn't guessed," she added, as Ianira nodded slightly. "Your English is fabulous.

A brief smile like sunlight on cloud tops passed over Ianira's face. "You are too kind."

Nervous, Margo focused her attention on the actual booth and its contents. Exquisitely embroidered cotton and linen gowns similar to the one Ianira wore were neatly folded up amidst dress pins, hair decorations, lovely scarves, tiny bottles of God only knew what, piles of various kinds of stones and crystals-with a select few hanging on cords to catch the light-charms of some kind which looked extremely ancient, carved carefully from stone, wood, or precious gems, even little sewn velvet bags closed by drawstrings, with tiny cards on them which read, "Happiness," "Wealth," "Love," "Health," "Children" in fake "Greek-looking" letters. There were even incense sticks, expensive little burners for them, and peeking out here and there, CDs with titles like Aphrodite's Secret: The Sacred Music of Olympus.

And, topping it all off, extraordinary jewelry of an extremely ancient design, all of which looked real, and from the prices could've been.

"You have quite a booth," Margo said, hearing the hesitation in her own voice.

Ianira laughed softly, a sound like trickling, dancing water. "Yes, it is a bit ... different."

Malcolm, ignoring the crowd around them with their scribbling pens, tape recorders, and vidcams, said, "Margo, you remember young Marcus, don't you?"

"The bartender from the Down Time? Yes, very well." She could feel the heat in her cheeks as she recalled that first, humiliating meeting with Kit. The blush was innocent, as it happened, but Ianira might wonder. "Why?"

Malcolm smiled and nodded toward Ianira. `They're married. Have two beautiful little girls."

"Oh, how marvelous!" Margo cried, completely forgetting her earlier doubts. "Congratulations to you! Marcus is so... so gentle. Always so anxious to put a person at ease and treat them like royalty. You must be very happy."

Something in those fathomless dark eyes softened. "Yes," she whispered. "But it is not wise to speak of one's good fortune. The gods may be listening."

While Margo pondered that statement, Malcolm asked, "Have you had lunch, Ianira? Margo and I were just on our way. My treat, and don't give me any lame excuses. Arley Eisenstein's made enough money over the cheesecake recipes you've already given him, you might as well share the taste, if not the wealth.

Unexpectedly, Ianira laughed. "Very well, Malcolm. I will join you and your lady for lunch."

She lowered prettily painted plywood sides and locked the booth up tight with bolts shot home from the inside, then finished off with a padlock. They smiled when Ianira finally joined them. Ianira held a curious, largish package in brown paper tied up with string, which reminded Margo of a favorite musical with nuns and Nazis and narrow escapes.

"Special delivery after lunch?" Malcolm asked.

Ianira just smiled. "Something like, yes."

Margo, oblivious to that exchange, found herself envying the way Ianira walked and the way that dress moved with every step she took. She tried, with some fair success, to copy Ianira's way of moving, but something was missing. Margo vowed silently to buy one of those gowns-whatever it cost-and try out the effect on staid, British Malcolm Moore, who melted in her arms and kissed her skin with trembling lips as it was, every time they made love.

Unhappily, the entire mass of curious scribblers, tapers, and vidcammers followed close on their heels all the way down the Commons.

"Who are those people?" Margo whispered, knowing that whisper would be picked up and recorded anyway.

Ianira's lip curled as though she'd just stepped in excrement. "They are self-appointed acolytes."

"Acolytes?"

"Yes. You see, I was a high-ranking priestess in the Temple of the Holy Artemis at Ephesus before my father sold me in marriage. I was only part of the price to close a substantial business transaction with a merchant of ivory and amber. The man he gave me to was ... not kind."

Margo thought of those horrid Portuguese in South Africa-and her father-and shivered. "Yes. I understand."

Ianira glanced sharply at her, then relaxed. "Yes. You do. I am sorry for it, Margo."

Margo shrugged. "What's past is past."

The statement rewarded her with another brilliant smile. "Exactly. Here, it is easier to forget unhappiness." Then she laughed aloud. -The day the ancient ones" she pointed to the rafters, where fish-eating, crowsized pterodactyls and a small flock of toothed birds sat "came through the big unstable gate, I hid under the nearest booth and prayed someone would rescue me. When I dared peek out, I found the huge one covered in nets and the small ones flying about like vengeful harpies!"

Both Margo and Malcolm laughed softly.

Malcolm rubbed the back of his neck, while his cheeks flushed delightfully pink. "You should've seen me, that day, trying to hold that monster down and getting buffeted around like a leaf in a tornado. I finally just fell off and landed about ten feet away!"

They were still laughing when they reached the Urbs Romae section of the time terminal. Malcolm steered them into the Epicurean Delight's warm, crowded interior, toward one of the tables eternally reserved for 'eighty-sixers. Frustrated acolytes seethed outside, unable to get in without the requisite reservations or status as 'eighty-sixers. Tourists, most of whom had made reservations months in advance, stared at them with disconcerting intensity. Margo heard a woman nearby whisper, "My God! They're 'eighty-sixers! Real 'eighty-sixers! I wonder who?"

Her lunch companion gasped. "Could he be Kit Carson? Oh, I'm just dying to catch a glimpse of Kit Carson!"

"No, no, didn't you see the newsies? That's Malcolm Moore, the mysteriously wealthy time guide, and that's Margo Smith, Kit Carson's granddaughter. I remember it because it was a granddaughter he didn't even know existed. Made headline news on every network for an entire half an hour! I taped the stations I wasn't watching, just to compare versions. I can't think how you missed it. And that other woman seated with 'em? Just you take a guess as to who she is?"

"I-I'm afraid I don't recognize her-"

"You know all those Churches of the Holy Artemis that've been springing up all over the place? Well, that's Ianira Cassondra, the Living Goddess, an enchantress who knows the ancient ways. Lives here, now, to escape persecution."

The other woman's eyes had widened so far, just about all that remained of her face was eyes. "Really?"

It came out a kind of repressed squeal. "Oh, oh, where's my camera-?"

She fumbled a small, sleek camera and pointed it toward them.

Margo flushed red. Ianira looked merely annoyed. Malcolm just grinned, first at Margo, then at the ladies who'd been whispering so loudly; then he rose from his chair and bowed at the waist, tipping an imaginary tophat. The flash momentarily blinded Margo, catching Malcolm mid-hat-tip. Both women went white, beet-red, and hungry-eyed all in the space of two seconds. Then they beamed what they thought were seductive, or at least winning-smiles back at him.

"Hey," Margo said, wrapping her fingers around his, "you're took. An' don t you go 'round forgettin' it, now, or I'll hafta take a skillet to you!"

He chuckled. "Just part of the show, dear. Never know when it'll get you a rich customer. Besides, you're not allowed to hit me until after we're married." He lifted one brow, then. And just when. did you start learning Wild West lingo?"

"Oh, awhile back, I reckon."

He wrapped gentle fingers around her wrist and scowled his blackest, enraged scowl. "You two-timin' me, woman, with some no 'count cow-punchin' range rat?"

"Oh, God, that's depressing. And I thought I was actually making progress with it." She batted his hand away from her wrist. "You're terrible. Love you anyway." Then, "I didn't notice tourists doing that sort of thing last time."

"Oh, they were. You just didn't notice because you were too busy turning that alley-cat glare on everything and everyone who stood in your way-even those poor, abused books you used to read and fling across Kit's apartment whenever you got frustrated. Or attempting to toss Sven on his backside, if it killed you."

Margo went beet-red again. "Didn't know Kit'd told you about the books," she mumbled, noticeably not apologetic about trying to mop up the gym with the instructor who'd given her multiple bruises every single night.

His eyes softened. "Hey, Margo. It's okay. We all got out in time and you're doing wonderfully well, now that you're into your studies so deeply."

Margo just nodded, afraid to try her voice.

Ianira, who had taken in the entire exchange silently, began to chuckle. "You will do well, the pair of you." Two heads whipped around guiltily. Ianira laughed aloud. "Oh, yes. Fire of Youth and Caution of Experience, with streaks of childlike play and frightened love in you both. Yes," she smiled, "you will do well together." Before either of them could speak, Ianira stretched slightly. "Oh, what a relief to get away from those hounds." She pointed silently with her glance toward the window where her acolytes stood with despairing expressions, then said something low in ancient Greek, something that sounded holy and apologetic.

When she'd finished, and Margo was sure she'd finished, she asked curiously, "Don't they drive you crazy? Do they follow you around like that all the time?"

"Very nearly, and yes." Expressive eyes went suddenly tired. "It does get a bit wearing at times. Still, a few of them are actually teachable. I am told, for I will never be allowed uptime, that I have sparked an entire revival of Artemis worship. You heard those women. Simply by being here and occasionally speaking directly to a few of them," again, she nodded very slightly to the window, "I have accidentally begun something that even I do not know where the ending will lie."

"Yeah, you have. Believe me, have you ever. There are no less than three Artemis temples just on campus, because response was so high they had to build another and then a third one to hold all the students attending the ceremonies. How many are in town, I don't think anyone knows."

Ianira pondered that in silence--and judging by her eyes, sorrow.

"Hey, Ianira, don't feel so terrible. I mean everything we do or don't do, say or don't say has an impact on something or someone else. And none of us know even half, never mind most of the endings. I mean, look at the Church of Elvis The Everlasting."

"El-vis?" Ianira asked uncertainly. "I do not know this god."

Margo giggled. A genuinely delighted, little-girl giggle. "Yeah. Elvis Presley, singing star. Here's an aging rock'n' roll legend found dead on the toilet, for God's sake, with a whole bunch of chemicals in his blood. That was back in 1976. Wasn't too long before folks started writing songs about him, or claiming they'd seen The Everlasting Elvis at some grocery store or in their living rooms, or maybe hitchhiking some interstate and a trucker lets him in, talks to him for a while, then he'd say something like, 'Gotta go, now friend. Good talkin' to you. See you at Graceland some day.' Then he just vanishes."

Ianira was laughing so hard, there were tears in her eyes. "Please, Margo, what is a `rock 'n' roll' singer? Why was this El-vis so popular?"

Surprising them both speechless, Malcolm shoved back his chair, ran impromptu fingers through his hair so it looked more or less appropriate, then in an astonishingly good imitation of Elvis' voice, sang a stirring, bloodpounding rendition of "Heartbreak Hotel." Complete with world-famous hip thrusts. He grabbed up the vase from their table and sang into the pink carnation as though it were a microphone and crooned the chorus to applause, whistles, and feminine shrieks. Then with a single movement, he whipped the dripping carnation and tossed it straight at Margo. She let out a sound somewhere between scream and fainting ecstasy while the transformed Malcolm bowed to the thunderous applause all through the Delight. He bowed to every corner in turn, saying, "I wanna thank you for comin' and sharin' my show. I love you all, baby. Gotta go, now. My 'nanner sandwich is waitin'."

He sat down to another thunderous round of applause, shrieks for "MORE!" and an entire hailstorm of carnations. All three ducked, finding themselves covered in no time with dripping wet flowers.

"See," Malcolm grinned, coming up for air-with a red carnation stuck sideways in his hair-"no sequined suit, no fancy guitar in fact, no guitar at all, and I'm not nearly as good an imitator as lots of guys are. But you saw the response from the people in here." They were still brushing off carnations. Malcolm signaled for a waiter. "They went completely nuts. That's the definition of the ultimate rock 'n' roll star: being so good at what they do, their audiences go crazy. Happened with the Beatles, too; but they called Elvis `The King of Rock' long before he died and got himself apotheosized."

Margo took up the rest of the explanation as best she could. "Pretty soon, there was a single `Church of Elvis the Everlasting.' The main temple was-is-his estate at Graceland, Elvis' mansion near Nashville, Tennessee. Trouble was, while lots of folks made the pilgrimage, lots more couldn't afford it. So before you know what's happening, there are thousands of Churches of Elvis the Everlasting, all over the country.

And all of 'em mail their cash tithes overnight express to the High Temple at Graceland."

Margo grinned. "Man, you should see that place! There was a documentary on it one Friday night a few weeks back, and since I didn't have much to do, I watched it." She rolled her eyes. "A real king would be jealous. There's an altarpiece, must be twenty-four feet of black velvet, with another piece coming down the pulpit to the floor. Believers who can sew are still working, on it. The Everlasting Elvis on the pulpit is finished in gold and silver threads, diamonds, rubies, emeralds, you name it, they used it to decorate that drop of cloth.

"And no cheap, synthetic velvet, either, but the real stuff that would cost me, let's see, at least seven weeks of saving up every bit of my allowance, just to buy a piece of real velvet as big as the altar piece, never mind the twenty-four-foot runner. That is supposed to illustrate the entire life of the Everlasting Elvis."

Margo giggled. "I can't help wondering if they're going to show him ascending as the Elvis Everlasting, rising into grace from that toilet seat he died on? Oh, that whole place is crazy. The whole fad is crazy. Worshipping a dead rock 'n' roll singer? Puh-leeze."

Ianira was still wiping tears of hilarity from the corners of her eyes. "Your whole uptime world, I think, is just as crazy as worshipping a dead man. You have a gift, Margo, for telling a story." Ianira's smile was brilliant. "You could go into training, fire-haired one. So few see so clearly at your age."

Margo flounced in place. "Humph. It ain't the age, it's the mileage," she muttered, paying tribute to one of her favorite last-century classics.

"You see what I mean?" Ianira said softly. "You just did it again. You should get training before you go scouting on your own. You may well have need of it someday."

Margo couldn't say anything. Once again, Malcolm came to her rescue. He passed menus around and said lightly, "Ianira, who has accumulated quite a bit of `mileage' for her age, has become something of a celebrity uptime, as you mentioned with all those temples on your campus. Right after The Accident, there was a group of kooks, I forget what they called themselves-"

Margo supplied the answer: `The Endtime Saviors."

"Yes," Malcolm said with a "thank you" and a kiss both pantomimed, "these Endtime Saviors decided right after The Accident that the End was upon us. They kept looking for a sign. A prophet who would usher in the next age of mankind. Or should I say `womankind'? Unfortunately, they've decided Iamra is that sign. She's regarded as a prophetess, the Voice of the Goddess on Earth."

Margo rubbed the tip of her nose. "Well, if she can say to everyone what she said about me and my poor, checkered past, I can understand why."

"No," Ianira laughed softly. "It is just that you and I resonate so closely. Our experiences, different as they are, have enough similarity to feel the resonance and understand clearly its source."

Margo shook her head. "I dunno. I guess if that's how you do it..."

Ianira smiled slightly. "It is part of my training in the Mysteries of Artemis, you see, in the great Temple at Ephesus, where I was born. Oh, how I miss Ephesus!" Her exotic eyes misted for just a moment and it came to Margo with a jolt just how terribly homesick most downtimers must be, torn away from everything they knew and loved, never allowed to go home, wandering at best from menial job to menial job, maybe even switching stations in the hopes of improving their situation.

Margo thereby swore a sacred oath to treat all downtimers, not just Kynan Rhys Gower, a great deal more courteously.

Ianira was still speaking. "After marriage, when my husband carried me across the Aegean Sea to Athens, pride of Greece, I vowed to study as best I could the Mysteries of the majestic Athene who guarded his city. Not even he could deny me that, not with my stature from Ephesus. So I learned, and learned to hate my life outside the Temple, inside his gyneceum."

Margo, round-eyed, could only reply, "Oh. I-I'm sorry."

Malcolm chuckled. "Hits most people that way. Ianira's name means the Enchantress, you know. She's what you might call an international, temporal treasure, locked away safe and sound inside TT-86's concrete walls."

Ianira flushed and made a small sound of disagreement.

"Say what you will," Malcolm said mildly, "an international, temporal treasure is exactly what you are: Dr. Mundy-- a professor of history who interviews the downtimers," he added for Margo's benefit,"-says it constantly. Best information he's found in all his life, he says, and he's getting it all in glorious detail from you, Ianira. Besides," he winked, "being an international, temporal treasure does pays the bills, doesn't it?"

Ianira laughed aloud. "You are impossible, Malcolm Moore, but yes. It does, handsomely. It was a good idea Marcus had, to put up such a booth when crassly miseducated, uptimer fools began to seek me out. We're almost out of debt to the Infirmary, now."

"That's great, Ianira. I've very happy for you. I know how close it was with your little girl."

Ianira gave him a sad, sweet smile. "Thank you. It was in the hands of the gods-and Rachel Eisenstein, may the Lady bless her eternally-but she is now healthy enough to return to the Station Babysitting Service and School. I would dearly love to get my hands on the tourist who brought that fever back to the Station with him! Malcolm, after lunch, perhaps you would care to join me? I always go there after lunch to check on my babies. And I have an idea which may help relieve a bit of the strain on poor Harriet Banks. She tries so hard and it is just not fair."

Malcolm just said, "Yeah. I know. I'll be happy to come along. Got a few ideas of my own, I do. We'll compare notes after lunch. Margo?"

She shook her head, eyes apologizing to Ianira as best she could. "I have to get in some weapons practice before we go to Denver. I'm a little rusty and even if I weren't, I'd still practice because my scores just weren't all that good before my, uh, adventure. So I thought I'd try out a couple of period rifles, a few handguns, see how I do with them."

"You are wise," Ianira smiled that archaic, mysterious smile. "A woman who thinks herself without limits is a dangerous fool-and I have seen so very many of them." The acolytes were still outside, filming and scribbling notes. Ianira glanced their way with the merest flick of her gaze, but managed to convey utter contempt for the lot of them. Margo blinked, having no earthly idea how she'd just done that, but wanting to learn the secret of it for herself.

Ianira reached out and covered Margo's shocked hand. "You have begun to understand that you have limits, Margo, even as all humanity has limits. What I find even more astonishing-and delightful-for a girl your age, you have already discovered what many of them," she nodded toward the window, "will never discover." Then once more, the offer came, causing even Malcolm to stare.

"It would be my great joy to train you, Margo, for there is such a fire in your soul as I have not seen since my childhood, when my own dear instructor, the sister of my mother, was chosen as High Priestess. Light would dance from her hair, her fingertips, there was so much fire inside her. She did many great things and was everywhere honored as a great and shrewd leader during times when leadership was desperately needed.

"You look nothing like her, Margo, yet you could be her. And, youthful as you are, you have already taken the first steps on your own journey to wisdom." Then, letting go Margo's hand, which tingled as though live electricity had poured through it, Ianira fished under the table and slid the brown-paper packet over toward Margo, When Margo gave her a puzzled look, Ianira said softly, "Your Malcolm is a man with a beautiful soul. He is dear to us, to the Council of Seven, to the whole community of downtimers, The Found Ones. Consider the contents of the package a wedding gift from all of us, so that you might please Malcolm even more than you do now, and so that Malcolm will not just love you, but worship you, for that is what you both need and deserve. Nothing less will do. I can only hope this offering of silly trinkets will help."

"Uhm," Margo cleared her throat. "Do I open it now? Or save it for the wedding night?"

Ianira laughed. "That is your decision. But the way Malcolm is staring from you to that package and back, with such speculation in his eyes, I would suggest you open it now."

Margo glanced over and saw the intense hunger in Malcolm's face, which turned bright red when he realized he'd been caught out. Hastily he cleared his throat and said, "I was only curious, after all."

Both women laughed. Margo dipped into an across-the-shoulder purse no bigger than a diskette box and pulled out a small but useful Swiss Army knife. She made quick work of the string, then turned the carefully tucked package onto its back, took a deep breath, and opened it.

Inside lay the most exquisite gown from Ianira's rack and jewelry nestled in its fold: not the cheap stuff, but the stuff that had the look and feel of genuine antiquity.

"Oh!-My God! Oh, my God! Ianira, you shouldn't have-I can't possibly accept--"

Ianira stopped her attempted refusal by leaning forward and placing soft fingertips across Margo's lips. "Just accept. As a friend."

Margo's eyes filled. "Why are you doing this? I just met you-"

"Oh, no, child. We have known each other through many lifetimes. Wear it and please each other, that you also may be together for many lifetimes."

Margo didn't hear much through the next few seconds. She kept staring at the lines of sparkling embroidery, the heavy silver necklace, bracelets, earrings, with all the stones in them prepared in the ancient way: simple, round-topped cabochons, even the diamonds. It was beyond beautiful. Margo could find no words to say how beautiful it was.

Ianira and Malcolm were speaking again, forcibly yanking Margo out of uncustomarily deep thoughts. "-firearms practice schedule on her own, same with the martial arts. And she studies, my God, the girl studies!"

Ianira laughed softly. "Would you have her any other way?

Malcolm said without hesitation, "No."

Ianira glanced over to Margo. "I will ask the Lady's blessing on your practice."

"Hear, hear," Malcolm agreed. "After lunch, you go play with guns. I'll come down later and see how you're doing, get in a little practice, myself. Then well get clean, eat in, and try on that," he nudged the half-opened package, "before bedtime. Well before bedtime."

Margo smiled her best, heart-stopping smile. One elderly gentleman well, he was hardly a gentleman at finding himself the focus of that smile, had literally collapse on the street, leaving strangers to hunt his pockets for the nitroglycerin and to call the ambulance. After that experience, Margo was careful just how far she turned on that particular smile-and then realized with a jolt that she and Ianira weren't so different, after all. It startled her into meeting the other woman's gaze.

Ianira knew. Somehow, she knew exactly what Margo had just discovered. Moreover, she approved, eyes twinkling merrily. Margo swallowed hard as the silent invitation passed over Malcolm's bent head. Someday, Margo attempted to convey with eyes and tiny gestures. Someday I will seek you out for training. I have the funniest feeling I'm supposed to study with you, that I am going to need to learn what you teach me.

Iamra merely nodded and smiled again, a mysterious little smile full of knowledge and agreement. Margo smiled back her acceptance.

Malcolm the Ever-Vigilant (missing the exchange entirely) glanced up from his menu and smiled at them both. "Well, then, what shall we order for lunch?"