Wagers of Sin: Time Scout II (29 page)

They tried, without success, to interview him where he knelt hip deep at one edge of the miniature mountain, blood all over his expensive three-piece suit and previously immaculate white silk shirt. Despite his absolute, categorical refusals-"I'm busy, can't you see? Talk to someone else."-they hovered around him like hornets, vidcams whirring with the sound of hornets' wings.

Ignoring the newsies as best he could, he continued shoveling bodies into the Pest Control hoppers: While most of the lemmings had landed on concrete, several hundred had splattered against expensive, exquisite mosaics funded by the Urbs Romae merchants and built by a downtimer artisan who had designed and placed mosaics in his native time. Now the beautiful, tiled pictures of grapevines, gods and goddesses, even the portraits of Imperial family members done with astonishing accuracy from memory, had not only to be cleaned, but cleaned with painstaking care to get the blood out of the grout between colored tiles no larger than Kit's pinkie fingernail.

A voice he'd know anywhere growled, "Goddamn mess."

He glanced up into Bull Morgan's face. "Yes, it is."

"Those tiles under there cracked?"

Kit used his hated necktie to scrub away enough blood and intestines to see. " 'Fraid so. Some cracked, some shattered to bits. Damn."

Bull echoed him. Then he shouted, "Sue!"

Sue Fritchey slewed around, then began walking toward him. When she arrived, covered in even more blood than Kit, Bull said, "Show her, Kit."

He pointed out the damage done to the mosaic. Sue groaned. Already news was spreading to the Urbs Romae shopkeepers, hoteliers, and restaurateurs, mostly thanks to newsies who rushed at them to "get their reactions on record." Bull narrowed his eyes. "Sue, when the worst of this mess is gone, get your people to digitally map each damaged mosaic. Station Manager's office will foot the bill for any repairs. Spread the news to 'em and fast, before they start mobbing your people." Sue hurried off to spread the word and instruct her crews to spread it farther-the faster, the better.

Bull grinned abruptly, looking very much like a fireplug riveted to living human arms, legs, and head. Kit, his shoulders aching almost worse than his knees, took in Bull's grin and muttered, "Want to share the joke? I could use a laugh. Goddamned newsies crawling across me like flies ..." He shivered. Bull's laugh only deepened as he thumped the taller, slighter man's back. "Never heard of Kit Carson giving in to a newsie."

"And you won't, either," Kit muttered, "unless they doctor the tapes, in which case I can sue. And lose my fortune, my reputation, and my case, all in one fell swoop."

"Yeah," Bull said through narrowed eyes as he watched them pestering anyone they could for a story. "Can't win a case against a newsie, that's for goddamned sure. Gotta think up a reason to toss 'em all up Primary and keep any more from coming in."

Kit's full, blazing grin was seen so rarely, even the stolid Bull Morgan blinked. "And what, exactly, are you thinking, Kenneth Carson?"

"Oh, nothing too mischievous. I was just thinking you might want to plant a little bug in someone's ear, you know, just a hint about courageous newsies coming to the rescue in a Station Crisis. Get their flunkies to film 'em scooping up busted-open lemmings. Ought to be good for, what, fifteen points on the Nielsons just for the gore content alone?"

Bull Morgan slowly pulled a cigar from one pocket and lit it, sucking until it created clouds of obnoxious bluegrey smoke. His eyes crinkled. "Yeah," he said around the cigar, starting to smile. "Yeah, that's a good, solid idea you got there, Kit. Keep 'em out of our crews' hair, away from the shopowners, 'til they've had their fill and leave to shower someplace where the water's endless and hot enough to wash away the blood, the stink, and their own puke."

Kit chuckled. "You, Bull Morgan, are a wicked judge of human character."

"Hell, Kit, thought you'd figured it out by now: all human character is wicked. Just varies in degree is all."

Leaving Kit to ponder that odd, un-Bull-like bit of philosophy, Bull Morgan waded through the slop and bent to murmur into the ear of the nearest newsie. She looked startled, then delighted. Soon, every newsie in the place was down on hands and knees, scooping up dead rodents alongside the Pest Control crews and 'eighty-sixers who'd seen, done, and been through everything. Or at least enough to know that a mountain of dead lemmings wasn't exactly a dire crisis, just a massive pain in the butt.

True to Bull's prediction-Kit was glad he hadn't wagered-the newsies didn't last long. They retreated to their hotel rooms with their vidcams and flunkies and were not seen again until much later that evening, when La-La Land's very own in-house TV network ran various tapes and commentaries. Kit didn't bother to watch the broadcast. If it contained anything truly terrible, friends of his would let him know-and probably hand him a recorded copy or six.

Once the dead lemmings had all been carted away, and the blood scrubbed away with toothbrushes and ammonia, Pest Control filmed every cracked or shattered tile in every single mosaic affected. Bull's generous offer settled several upset merchants. Sly cuss, their station manager. He had to be, or he'd watch La-La Land's artificial world crumble apart like dry cake left outside too long in brittle, harsh sunlight, slowly turning to dust.

Yeah, Bull Morgan was just the right man for the job, a man who found the law useful in how far it could occasionally be bent to save a friend. He chuckled aloud, drawing startled stares from the Pest Control crews still filming damaged mosaics. He didn't care. This would make a great story, full of places for artistic embellishment-and Kit Carson knew he could spin a very good yarn. He laughed again, anticipating the reactions of his granddaughter and his closest friend, soon-to-be his grandson-in-law.

He grinned like a fool and didn't care about that, either. For the first time in years, Kit Carson realized he was genuinely happy. The last of the hummer-trains groaned into motion, then Kit glanced down at himself. His three-piece suit from the same designer who'd fashioned clothes for that idiotic quintet of rich, empty-headed women-was soaked in blood and thick with yellow-brown fur. And the smell was even worse. No wonder Bull had smiled. He sighed. Maybe the suit and silk shirt could be salvaged.

Kit returned to the Neo Edo, managed to sneak past the still-in-progress hoteliers' meeting, and took the elevator to his office. He didn't feel like going home and he did feel like putting on the kimono left in the office for the sole purpose of comfort during work. There was a shower, too, hidden away behind a screen that had once been the pride of some ancient Edo nobleman's house.

He stripped, showered, toweled off, then found the kimono. Ahh ... much better. He left the suit on the shower floor, unwilling to touch it; this kimono had cost him a small fortune. More, actually, than the suit. He telephoned the front desk for a runner and soon heard the breathless knock of one of his employees.

"C'mon in, it's not locked!"

"Sir?" the wide-eyed runner gasped, trying to appear that he was not staring, awestruck, at Kit's office.

Kit chuckled and said, "Come on in. Stare all you like. It is a bit different for an office."

The boy, a downtimer Kit had rescued and employed, stepped into the office.

The boy's gaze drank in Kit's eclectic office, with its wall of television screens, some of which played tapes of views uptime and some of which showed views of various parts of the Neo Edo and the Commons. The sand-and-stone garden, with its artificial skylight, drew his attention so powerfully, he actually bumped right into Kit, who had paused at the edge of the screen hiding his bathroom.

The boy reddened clear down into the neckline of his green-and-gold Neo Edo tunic. "Oh, sir, please forgive me-"

Before the apology could turn into an avalanche thick as those lemmings, Kit smiled and said, "It is rather impressive, isn't it? I remember the first time I saw it, after Homako Tani vanished and left this white elephant on my hands. I think I dropped my teeth clear onto the floor."

A hesitant smile passed over the boy's face, revealing as clearly as though his face were made of mountainstream water, rather than flesh and blood, how unsure he was that he might be taking liberties.

"Through here," Kit smiled. "I, er, rather made a mess of that suit scooping up dead lemmings."

The boy brightened. "I heard about that, sir. Were there really millions and millions of 'em?"

Kit laughed. "No, but sometimes it seemed like it. There were probably at least two or three thousand, though."

The boy had gone round-eyed with wonder. "That many? That's a big number, isn't it, sir?"

Kit reminded himself to be sure this youngster was included in orientation and education sessions he held at the Neo Edo for downtimer employees and their families. Many had profited enough from the lessons to leave the Neo Edo and drudgery work behind forever, finding or even making better jobs for themselves. Kit prided himself that none of his downtimer employees, current or former-had walked through a gate and shadowed him- or herself, vanishing forever the moment they crossed to the other side.

The boy took the ruined suit and promised he'd take it to the best drycleaner in the station-there were only two-then bowed and ran for the elevator.

Kit chuckled, then sighed and decided he might as well tackle the four stacks of triple-damned government paperwork every shop owner on TT-86 was required to file weekly. Sometimes, he pondered as he sat down and began on the first tedious document, Kit wondered if Bull Morgan was seen so rarely because he had locked himself into his office to cope with his mountains of paperwork.

The pain in Skeeter's head registered first. The next sensation to impinge on his awareness was his nakedness. Except for a cloth at his loins, he'd been stripped clean as a Mongolian sky. He blinked and stirred. That's when he discovered the chains. Skeeter moaned softly, head throbbing savagely, then blinked and focused once again on his wrists. Iron manacles and a short length of chain bound them together. A circlet of iron around his throat caught his adam's apple when he swallowed nausea and fear. Further exploration revealed chains and manacles around his ankles, hobbling him and locking him to an iron ring in a stone wall.

He was alone in a dim, tiny stone cell, iron bars forming a sort of door-cum-fourth wall. Beyond, he could hear distant voices: shouts, cries of pain, screams of terror, pleas for mercy. He managed to sit up. The unmistakable snarl of caged cats-big cats, somewhere nearby brought a shiver to his naked back. He'd seen snow leopards and Mongolian tigers during Yesukai's famous hunt drives. He didn't care to go one-on-one with anything feline that even remotely approached that size. The claws and teeth would be far too sharp and his death would be far too slow ...

Despite the iron ring around his throat, Skeeter gagged and voided the contents of his belly onto the cold stone floor.

Footsteps approached. his cell with a clatter of hobnailed boots. Skeeter looked up, still feeling sick and dull of mind, and gradually focused on two men grinning in at him. One of them he'd never seen in his life. The other was Lupus Mortiferus. The fear and nausea in his belly turned to sour ice.

"Hello, odds maker," Lupus smiled. "Feeling comfortable?"

Skeeter didn't bother to answer.

"This," Lupus gestured to the other man, a thickset individual with arms big around as Skeeter's thighs, "is your lanista." My trainer? "Thieves are condemned men, you know, but you will have a chance." Lupus' eyes twinkled as though this were hilariously funny. "If you survive, you will remain the property of the Emperor and fight for his glory" At least, that's what Skeeter thought he'd said. His Latin wasn't very good. "You and I," Lupus laughed, "will meet again, thief."

That's what I'm afraid of, he groaned silently.

Lupus strode off, a wicked chuckle echoing off stone walls.

The other man smiled coldly and unlocked the door.

Skeeter wanted to fight, to break free and run

But not only was he chained and hobbled, the lanista who unlocked his chains from the wall dragged him around as though he were a mere babe to be dandled in one hand. Skeeter held back a groan of pain and allowed the man to drag him through a confusing maze of corridors. Then, past a set of heavy, iron-bound doors, bright sunlight blinded him. He blinked, overwhelmed by harsh light, the odd clack of what sounded like two-by-fours smashing together, and the screams of wounded men. He balked instinctively and received a terrible buffet to the side of his aching head.

Reeling, Skeeter found himself dragged forward into the middle of a practice session on a sandy floor.

High iron fences and armed soldiers surrounded the area. Gladiators in armor, wielding wooden swords, practiced what looked like set-piece moves, as carefully choreographed as a ballet, while "trainers" called out moves to them. Other men were engaged in calisthenics, jumping low hurdles, wrestling, practicing hand springs and tucked rolls, hacking at straw men or thick wooden posts. Still others sighted along javelins and hurled their weapons at..."

Skeeter stumbled as a mortal scream tore the air.

A slave tied to a post at the far edge of the practice ground sagged, a javelin embedded in his bowels. A nearby soldier grunted, stalked over, and yanked the weapon out again, then slit the suffering man's throat with a neat slice from a dagger. Skeeter had seen such casual cruelty before, many times, in Yesukai's camp, but that had been a long time ago. He'd grown more civilized than he'd thought during the intervening years.

Skeeter's lanista dragged him past and thrust him into the group doing calisthenics. He was unchained and forcibly prodded into movement with the tip of a long spear. Sweating, head spinning uselessly, Skeeter did what he was forced to do, vaulting low hurdles awkwardly and going through the motions of the calisthenics. Then he was handed a dull-edged wooden sword and a shield and found himself facing his trainer. He swallowed again, dizzy and terrified.

"Shield up!" the man shouted-and lunged with a short wooden sword.

Skeeter's reaction time, dulled by pain and shock, was slow. The wooden sword caught him in the gut, doubling him over with a retching pain. His trainer waited until he'd caught his breath, then dragged him up again and shouted, "Shield up!"

This time, Skeeter managed to drag his arm up to catch the blow across the wooden shield. The smack and force of the blow drove him to his knees.

"Thrust!"

Over the next two miserable, wretched weeks, his trainer beat the drills into him, until he could at least follow the instructions. He learned the various methods of fighting, tried to use the various types of weapons different classes of gladiators used. His lanista spent a great deal of time grumbling, while Lupus Mortiferus stalked the training-arena like a god and laughed at him, besting every opponent sent against him with lazy ease.

Disheartened, bruised, Skeeter slept in chains, too exhausted to move once allowed to collapse on his hard bed. He ate the gruel he was given as fast as he could shovel it in. It tasted faintly of beer; barley gone a little too far toward fermentation, perhaps? Occasionally Lupus Mortiferus would visit his cell, grinning and taunting him from beyond the iron bars of his cage. Skeeter returned his gaze steadily and coldly, while his insides quaked with deeper terror than he had ever known, deeper even than his terror at falling through the unstable gate into Yesukai the Valiant's life.

Each night as he drifted into bruised sleep, Skeeter dredged up from memory everything Yesukai had ever taught him, every trick and dirty move he'd ever learned on the plains of Mongolia. Then it occurred to him that perhaps he was reviewing the wrong memories. And he thought of his time on the broken, filthy streets of depraved New York, where a boy, even a grown man, could find himself fatally trapped before he knew anything had gone wrong. Certain areas of New York were said to be as deadly as the ancient Roman gladiatorial combats. Looked like he was about to find out.

At the moment, Skeeter would take the concrete-and-glass canyons of New York, even the washed-out ruins of New Orleans, over this. He just prayed he had time to come up with some sort of escape plan before Lupus Mortiferus killed him in the arena. Given the diligence of the guards, he didn't hold out much hope.

"QUIET!"

Brian Hendrickson had sufficient command presence to be heard-and obeyed-when he wanted The babble in the library sliced off like a dagger cut. He glared at Goldie Morran, whose nostrils flared unpleasantly as she breathed hard. Ianira Cassondra, clutching her pretty little children close, glared at Goldie, hatred and possibly even murder in her dark, ancient eyes. This had to be defused, and fast.

"Goldie,- he said, speaking as gently as possible, considering her recent release from the infirmary-and the reasons for it, "I know as well as you do the terms of the bet. The most cash at the end of a month. But this evidence about Skeeter's disappearance. complicates matters. Considerably."

He glanced at Ianira. "You will swear by all you hold sacred," he asked her gently--in archaic Greek-"that Skeeter Jackson was trying to rescue Marcus when he crashed the Porta Romae?"

"I swear it," she hissed out, with another murderous glance at Goldie.

"Do you have any way to prove that?"

"Dr. Mundy! I spoke with him on the telephone! He arranged for Skeeter to pick up money to pay that man Farley. He will speak the truth for me! And my `acolytes' were following me. Someone must have taped it!"

"All right." He glanced across the growing crowd, many of them the loons who followed Ianira wherever she went. "Any of you catch on vid Skeeter Jackson crashing the Porta Romae?"

One timid, mousy little man near the back cleared his throat five times, casting awestruck, terrified glances at Ianira, then managed, "I-I did

Brian nodded. "Cue it up, would you, while I place a call?"

The loon began fiddling with his camera as Brian picked up the telephone behind the library counter, placidly ignoring the crowd which grew by fives and tens as word of the argument over the wager's terms spread through La-La Land. The telephone was answered testily by Nally Mundy.

"I'm in the middle of a session, here, so if you'd please call back-"

"Dr. Mundy, Brian Hendrickson here."

"Oh. Yes, Brian? what is it?"

"Ianira Cassondra tells me you offered Skeeter Jackson money to help Marcus the bartender pay off a debt.

A long silence at the other end of the line caused Brian to sigh. Skeeter had ripped off the old man, after all, and vanished downtime

"Yes, I did. But he never picked up the money. Odd, you know. Heard about that ruckus at the gate. I'd say Ianira's telling the truth. If Skeeter'd had time, he'd have picked up that money and something tells me young Marcus would still be with us. Don't trust that dratted Jackson much, blast him, but he didn't take the money. If I could just get one decent session taped with that boy, the mysteries about Temujin that we could solve-"

"Yes, I know," Brian hastened to interrupt. "You've been very helpful, Dr. Mundy. I know you're busy, so I'll let you get back to your session."

The historian hurrumphed into the phone, which then clicked dead. Brian cradled the receiver. "Well. Have you cued up that camera?"

The little man pushed his way through the crowd and handed over the camera, then knelt and kissed the hem of Ianira's gown. "May my humble camera bring you comfort and victory Lady."

Brian watched the whole thing unfold, from Lupus Mortiferus kicking down Skeeter's door to Skeeter's desperate lunge up onto the ramp, the hoarse cry he'd uttered for Marcus to wait, the man with Marcus bodily snatching him through-and, finally, Skeeter vanishing through the gate after them. He clicked off the camera thoughtfully, wondering what in the world had possessed Skeeter to such altruistic rashness. Then he roused himself slightly and handed the camera to Ianira, who returned it to the man at her feet. He uttered a tiny cry and pressed lips to her hand, then snatched the camera and scuttled more than a yard away before rising to his feet again, face alight as though he really had touched the hand of Deity.

Odd bunch of folks, Ianira's followers.

Brian cleared his throat. "It seems Ianira is telling the truth. Nally Mundy and that videotape prove it, beyond any question in my mind." When he glanced up, he wasn't surprised to find a crowd of nearly a hundred 'eighty-sixers; pressed as close to the reference desk as they could get, with more peering in through the door.

"Well. As I said, this unexpected gesture of altruism by Skeeter changes everything. I'm afraid, Goldie, I can't declare you winner by default on the grounds that Skeeter will be gone for at least two weeks downtime. Your wager stipulated a month, true, but that doesn't mean the month has to run straight through, uninterrupted. I declare this wager on hold until Skeeter returns. If he returns."

Ianira blanched and blinked back sudden tears. She clutched her children more closely to her breast. Alerted by their mother's sudden fear, communicated in that mysterious way between mothers and their offspring, the two little girls began to whimper.

Goldie sniffed. "If he returns, indeed. That maniac who's been chasing him has probably carved out his entrails by now. And it would serve him right!"

A tiny sound broke from Ianira's throat.

Brian caught Goldie's eye. "In the interim, you are hereby barred from scamming, scheming, or accumulating any stolen funds toward this bet. I wouldn't dream of interfering with legitimate business, particularly considering your recent loss, but in the interest of fairness, I would suggest placing an impartial witness with you at all times until Skeeter's return."

Goldie let out a sound like an enraged parrot and turned purple. "A guard! You'd set a guard on me? Damn you, Brian

"Oh, shut up, Goldie," he said tiredly. "You agreed to this idiotic wager and dragged me into refereeing it. Now live by my decisions or default in favor of Skeeter."

She opened and closed her mouth several times, although no sound emerged, then she compressed white lips. "Very well!"

"That's decided, then. Now. Goldie, I have it on good authority you've been selling lemming-fur cloaks down near the Viking Gate."

"And if I have?" Her chin came a several notches.

"Calling them blond mink, I think it was?"

"It seemed appropriate." Her eyes, were dark and watchful as a vulture's.

"Yes. Well, that constitutes a scam. All proceeds you've earned up to now and haven't logged in yet, you will hand over in the next fifteen minutes. Oh, and bring along the cloaks. You can sell 'em to your heart's content -- after this wager is officially over."

"Curse you," Goldie hissed. "And what am I supposed to live on?"

"You got into this, Goldie. You're going to have to get yourself out of it. That's it, then, folks. Now, if you all would kindly get the hell out of my library so I can get on with my work?"

Chuckles in the crowd drifted to him, then people began ambling out the door. Brian saw money exchanging hands as multiple, impromptu bets on the outcome of his decision were settled. Brian sighed. What a mess. Then, before the fellow could leave, Brian high-signed Kynan Rhys Gower, who hovered near the edge of the crowd.

"Kynan,- he said gently in the man's native Welsh, "I know your integrity is beyond question and I am also aware," he allowed himself a small smile, "that Goldie Morran cannot possibly bribe you. Would you agree to stay with her during the next two weeks, watching to be sure she does not cheat, until the Porta Romae cycles again?"

Kynan's wind-tanned cheeks crinkled into a broad, twinkle-eyed grin. "It would be my honor, should my liege lord give his permission."