Wagers of Sin: Time Scout II (40 page)

"We'll have a separate trial for him, of course. Seems he and another rich gentleman, on whom we have not a shred of evidence beyond Mr. Hunter's statements, had several years ago engaged in a little wager as to which of them could smuggle uptime for their private collections the most, ah, aforementioned artwork We've already seized one collection and will be turning it over to an IFARTS office as soon as the trials are completed. No one expects either trial to be long. I thought you should know, as you went far beyond the extra mile, and citizens, not law enforcement, at that-to bring this temporal criminal to justice. Good luck to you and thank you most sincerely for your incalculable help in cracking this illegal wager wide open."

The signature block caused even Margo's eyes to pop. "Wow! The actual justice Minister, not one of his flunkies!"

Malcolm chortled and folded up the slip of paper, sliding it back into the envelope. "I'd like to have seen old Chuckie's face when they caught him with the goods. He'll get life for the illegal trafficking alone and probably a death sentence for the people he killed along the way." He sighed slightly. "I always did fancy happy endings," he mused, smiling down at Margo.

She leaned up and kissed him, not caring who was watching, then breathed against his mouth, "Let's go make a few copies, eh? Give one to what's left of Benson's carcass, another to Bull Morgan, maybe even one to that horrid Montgomery Wilkes. Tax evasion is, after all, in his jurisdiction."

Malcolm laughed hard enough to draw stares, then brushed a kiss across her lips. "Sounds good to me, fire-eater."

"Huh. Fire-eater. You just wait until I get you alone, you prudish, staid old Brit, you."

They set out toward Bull Morgan's aerie of an office, grinning like a couple of Cheshire Cats.

Wandering aimlessly, Skeeter finally ended up inside the Down Time Bar & Grill, where-of all people, Marcus was on duty at the bar. He flushed and nearly walked out again, but Marcus was pouring his favorite brew and saying, "Skeeter, have a beer with me, eh?"

He halted, then turned. "No money, Marcus."

"So what?" Marcus said a shade too seriously. He came around the end of the bar, handed Skeeter a foaming mug, then sat down with his own. They drank in silence for a few minutes, popping peanuts in between sips and longer pulls at the beer.

"Been wanting to thank you," Marcus said quietly.

"Huh. Been wanting to do the same."

Another long silence reigned, filled with peanuts and beer.

"Just returning the favor," Marcus said at last. "Isn't nearly enough, but it's a start."

"Now look here, Marcus, I'm not going to put up with any more of your honor is sacred bullshi-"

Goldie Morran appeared at the entrance.

Marcus winked once at Skeeter and resumed his place behind the bar. Goldie walked over and, to Skeeter's dismay, took a chair at his table. "Marcus, good to see you back," she, said, with every evidence of sincerity. He just nodded his thanks. "Would you get me a tall bourbon with a touch of soda, please?"

Back in his bartender role, Marcus made the drink to Goldie's specifications, then delivered it on a tray with another beer for Skeeter.

"Well," Goldie said. "You have been through it, haven't you? I didn't expect you to survive."

Skeeter narrowed his eyes. "Not survive?" he asked, his tone low and dangerous. "Five years in the yurt of Genghis Khan's father, and you didn't think I'd survive?"

Goldie's eyes widened innocently; then, for some reason, the mask shattered and fell away, leaving her old, tired, and oddly vulnerable. She snatched at her drink the way Skeeter had snatched at that hunting spear in the stinking sands of the Circus.

He wondered which of them would say it first.

Before either of them could summon up the nerve, Mike Benson-both eyes blacked, limping a little, entered the bar a bit gingerly and sat down very carefully at their table. He looked from one to the other, then said, "Got a copy of a communique from the Minister of justice today." Skeeter's belly hollowed. "I, uh, just wanted to ask for the record if either of you had run into a professional antiquities thief by the name of William Hunter during these last few weeks? He's one of the best in the world. Steals ancient pornography for an uptime collector as part of a wager with another collector. Oh, by the way, one of his aliases was Farley. Chuck Farley."

Skeeter and Goldie exchanged glances. Neither of them spoke.

"Well, do let me know if either of you've seen the bastard. They'll be needing witnesses for the trial next month."

With that, Benson left them.

Goldie glanced at her drink, then at Skeeter. "Professional, huh? Guess we were a couple of damned amateurs, compared to that."

"Yeah." Skeeter pulled at his beer while Goldie gulped numbing bourbon. "Funny, isn't it? We were trying to win our stupid little wager and he cleaned us both out to win his boss's wager. Feel a little like a heel, you know?"

Very quietly, Goldie said, "Yes, I know" She stared into her drink for several seconds, then met his gaze, her eyes troubled and dark. "I, uh, I thought I really needed to apologize. I told that gladiator where to find you."

Skeeter snorted. "Thanks, Goldie. But I already knew."

Goldie's eyes widened.

"Marcus told me, right before I went into the arena to fight Lupus Mortiferus."

Goldie paled. "I never meant things to go so far."

"Me, neither," Skeeter muttered. "You should feel what I feel every time I move my back and shoulders.

Got a bottle of pain pills this big." He measured the length and diameter of the prescription bottle. "Not to mention the antibiotics, the muscle relaxants, and whatever it is Rachel shoots into my butt every few hours. Feel like a goddamned pincushion. One that's been run over by all twelve racing chariots in a match."

Goldie cleared her throat. "I don't suppose ..." She stopped, visibly searching for the right words and the courage to say them. "That stupid wager of ours" She gulped a little bourbon for bravery. " I think we ought to call it off, seeing as how it's done nothing but hurt a lot of people." Her eyes flickered to Marcus, then back. "Some of them good people."

Skeeter just nodded. "Terms accepted, Goldie."

They shook hands on it, with Marcus a silent witness.

"Suppose we ought to go tell Brian," Skeeter muttered.

"Yes. Let's do that, shall we, before I run out of bourbon courage."

Skeeter slid his chair back and took Goldie's chair, assisting her up. She shot a startled glance into his face, then fumbled for money.

"Goldie," Marcus called from the bar, "forget it. You're money's no good for that one."

She stared at the young former slave for a long time. Then turned abruptly and headed for the door.

"Thanks, Marcus," Skeeter said.

"Any time, friend."

Skeeter followed Goldie out into Urbs Romae where workmen were busy patching broken mosaics. They stepped past as carefully as possible, then headed for the library.

Word traveled far faster than they did. Telephones, word-of-mouth, however it happened, the alchemy proved itself once again, because by the time they reached Brian Hendrickson's desk, an enormous crowd of 'eighty-sixers and newsies holding their vidcams aloft and trying to shove closer, all but filled the library. Goldie faltered. Skeeter muttered, "Hey, it's only 'eighty-sixers and some lousy newsies. Isn't like you're facing a champion gladiator or anything."

The color came back into her face, two bright, hot spots of it on her cheekbones. She strode into the crowd, muttering imperiously, "Get out of the way, clod. Move over, idiot."

Skeeter grinned to himself and followed her through the path she plowed. When he caught sight of Kit Carson, Kit's grin and wink shook him badly enough he stumbled a couple of steps. But he was glad Kit was there, on his side for once.

Then, too soon, they both faced Brian Hendrickson. Voice flat, Goldie said, "We're calling off the bet, Brian."

A complete hush fell as every eye and vidcam lens focused on Skeeter. He shrugged. "Yeah. Stupid wager in the first place. We're calling it quits."

A wave of sound rolled over them as minor wagers were paid off, vidcam reporters talked into their microphones, and everyone pondered the reason. Skeeter didn't care. He signed the paper Brian shoved at him, watched while Goldie signed it, too, then collected his earnings, stuffed them into every pocket he possessed, borrowed an envelope from Brian to hold the arena coins, then moved woodenly through the crowd, holding mute as questions were hurled in his direction. Let Goldie cope with it, he thought emptily. I don't want any part of it.

A fair percentage of the crowd followed him up to Commons and down its length, whispering wagers as to what he'd do next. He ignored the mob, including at least two persistent newsies, and stalked through Castletown, Frontier Town, and into Urbs Romae.

The only warning he received was the flash of light on a sharp metal blade. Then Lupus Mortiferus--how the hell did he slip though the gate again?-charged, sword and dagger in classic killing position. Skeeter did the only thing he could do, while unarmed. He turned, shot through the startled crowd, and ran. The coins and bills in his pockets slowed him down, but not by much. Lupus remained behind him, running flat out, but the gladiator wasn't gaining. At least, not yet. A quick over-the-shoulder glance showed Lupus and, incongruously, two newsies in hot pursuit, vidcams capturing every bit of the lethal race.

Skeeter cursed them, catskinned over a railing, and howled at the pain which made itself abruptly known all over again-then charged up a ramp, shouting at tourists to get out of the way. Startled women lunged for children or shop doorways as Skeeter pelted past. His shirt pockets were lighter by a fair percentage, having dumped money to the floor while in the middle of that catskinning move. Damn. He kept running, aware from the screams that Lupus was still back there. Doesn't this guy ever give up? Then he had to admit, C`mon Skeeter, you robbed him then humiliated him in front of the Imperator himself, never mind all his fans. Either you outrun him, or he's gonna chop you into deli-sized slices of Skeeter And you'd deserve it.

With Lupus and both panting newsies in pursuit, Skeeter whipped around a corner, grabbed an overhead girder, and swung himself up and around, then dropped to the catwalk the moment Lupus and the confused newsies rounded the corner. He sped back the way he'd come, hearing a roar of rage far behind. The next roar was much closer. Skeeter knew he was getting winded, and cramps the length of his body slowed him even further. He dropped to the Commons floor and headed for Residential, hoping to lose the man in the maze of corridors and elevators. Maybe, if he were lucky, he could grab an elevator for the gym and find a weapon. Preferably one of those fully automatic machine guns Ann kept in her little office, with a full belt of ammo in it.

Lupus charged down the corridor, shouting. obscenities at him in Latin and gaining ground. Winded, aching from wrenched muscles that hadn't quite healed yet from the arena, Skeeter didn't notice it at first. Then, as he fell against an elevator door and frantically pressed the button, a shimmer dopplered wildly and a gate opened up between him and the enraged gladiator. The gate's edges pulsed raggedly in the typical configuration of a very unstable gate. It grew, shrank to a pinhole, then engulfed the entire hallway. Through the intense vibration of his skullbones, Skeeter thought he heard a startled yell. He peered hard at the pulsing, black opening, wondering if anyone had ever studied the back side of a gate, or could see what was on the other side.

Before he could make out any details, the gate shuddered closed. Skeeter slid to the floor, panting, when he realized there was no sign of Lupus, just two gaping newsies. One of the stammered, "D-did you see what I think I saw?"

"I think I did. Our vidcams should've caught it."

They exchanged glances, ignored Skeeter completely, and dashed down the corridor the other way. Wearily, Skeeter found a stubby pencil in one pocket, and pushed himself to trembling legs, marking out the gate's position and size as best he could, dragging the pencil down walls and across the floor, with arrows pointing toward the ceiling, since he couldn't reach it.

Unstable gates were nothing to mess with. Whenever possible, their location and duration were logged. He'd call Bull Morgan as soon as he got home. Exhausted, he dug for keys that the slave master must've taken away from him at least a month ago, then remembered that Lupus had shattered his door a long time ago. He hadn't needed a key since his return. Eventually, he might even have enough money to have the door fixed. He stumbled in the direction of his apartment and found it exactly as he'd left it earlier in the day. The bottles of water he'd planned to sell as a con he'd already shoved angrily into the wastebasket. Skeeter hunted a little desperately for the pill bottle he'd described to Goldie. He shook out two tablets, reconsidered, and shook a third into his palm.

He swallowed them dry, then tumbled into bed. By some odd chance, he'd left his small television on this morning. The television, even his apartment still looked and felt alien. He was about to shut it off by remote when a newsflash came on, showing Skeeter running from Lupus, with a breathless commentary on the longstanding feud. Skeeter grunted and reached again for the remote. Then froze, hand in midair.

"This, as you can see, is a blowup of what our vidcam lenses picked up through the unstable gate. Rumor is, it has already started a heated debate among onstation scholars." Skeeter stared at the screen as Lupus, larger than life, plunged into the gate with a startled yell, then stumbled on a stone step. One of a huge number of stone steps, leading to the crest of a flat-topped pyramid. Lupus, grasping sword and knife, was staring down at an enormous crowd of featherclad Indians. They were prostrate on the ground.

"Clearly," the voiceover said as Lupus just swayed there, stupefied, "this will begin an intense scholarly debate over the legendary origins of the god-like Viracocha, who came to Central America wearing a pale skin, taught the people a great deal of knowledge they didn't possess, then vanished across the ocean to the west, vowing to return. Speculation about the classic legend should fuel debate for years to come. Whatever the truth, this tape represents a scholarly as well as journalistic victory in the search for knowledge of our past."