by Teri Mclaren
"Put that thing away," he snapped, suddenly finding the hooded man to be too much company. "The city has a thousand eyes and most of them are employed by Riolla. Or by the one who employs her."
Cheyne replaced the totem's wrapping and put it back in his pack. "How do you know Riolla Hifrata?"
"Listen, we'd better get over to the mapmaker's place," said Og, rising from his stool.
Cheyne laid a coin on the table and quickly filled his canteen with the remainder of the carafe's water. Og was already down the street when he caught up to him.
"Og, how do you know Riolla?" Cheyne asked again.
"Everyone in the Mercanto knows Riolla, boy. She owns most of it, and what she doesn't, she extracts protection money from," said Og, dodging a water-laden donkey and weaving through a crowd of market-bound housewives. Cheyne had no idea where they were going.
"It's just up the way, a couple of streets over. I know we can find what you need there," assured Og.
"Og, wait. You and I haven't struck a deal yet. I don't know if I can afford you," said Cheyne, stopping amid the tight stream of dusty traffic.
Og went on for a good twenty yards before he turned around, pushed his way back, grabbed Cheyne's hand, slapped it, shook it, bowed three times and spat on the ground, almost missing the huge, well-shod foot of a passing blacksmith.
"May your pardon be begged." Og smiled up weakly to the insulted smith and yanked on Cheyne's sleeve, pulling him through the crowd to put the donkey and the market women between them and the smith.
"We now have a deal," pronounced Og, the hand behind his back busy with the "for as long as it suits me" sign common among traders of the Barca. "I will take you where you want to go. You will pay me half of the treasure."
"Half of the treasure? But all I'm looking for is the translation of this symbol…"
"Don't try to fool a fool. You know what I'm talking about. The treasure from the Clock. And a bottle of raqa before. And a new pair of boots. Can't make that kind of a trip in these." He pointed to his sandals, their tops repaired with several different colors of cast-off rope.
"Well…"
"Deal! Now let's not waste any more time," Og pronounced, looking warily over his shoulder. The angry smith had skirted the obstacles and now bore down on them, intent on addressing Og's insult. "We have to be ready to go by tonight. Or do you want all of the people looking for you to find you first?"
Cheyne didn't get to answer. As the smith closed in, ham-sized fists waving, they rounded a corner, dove through another breach in the Mercanto wall, this one connecting to a fruit and vegetable stand to the Barca, and came out in a part of Sumifa Cheyne had never seen. In fact, it looked like a part of Sumifa that daylight had never seen.
Thousands of mangy yellow rats chittered and swarmed along the gutters, fighting for refuse dumped from the market Cheyne had just run through. Cheyne winced as Og hardly looked where he put his feet, seeming to dodge the rodents with practiced ease. Cheyne noted that the smell would have been overpowering had it not been for the blue cloud of shirrir hanging in the air. For another quarter of a mile, while Cheyne picked bits of onion skins and melon rind from his hair, Og navigated a trail through a maze of ancient garbage dumps, dice games, and shirrir parlors to bring them up to what had to be the worst-looking shop on the worst-looking side of the worst-looking back street in all of the city. Gaudy pastel paint peeled away from the walls of the stucco buildings and the high, irregular, windows had lost their glazing centuries ago. Piles of crates and other junk loomed over the alley doorway, as if garbage from all over the Barca had been deposited there for months.
In the midst of all this, Cheyne noticed a Fascini sedan, its purple fringe rippling as the Neffian slaves broke into a quick march. They pulled away from the front of the shop just as Og knocked softly in an intricate pattern on the heavy wooden back door.
Which opened somewhere in the middle of Og's percussion, a serving girl's small, irritated face appearing from behind it, much to his amazement and then to his distress.
"Where is Kalkuk?" said Og.
The young woman at the door winced, then motioned them quickly in with a bottle of linseed oil. "Dead. They just put him in the ground. You gonna be dead, too, if she finds you here."
"What's happened, Vashki? How Is Kalkuk dead? I just saw him the other day, and he was perfectly healthy, may he spend as little time as possible in the fourth purgatory," muttered Og, his voice as low as the girl's.
"He was found by the hired men working for that foreign digger out at Old Sumifa. They are trying to hush it up, but my man works out there, too, and said the boss sent them home early yesterday. Kirmah recognized Kalkuk. We all knew Kalkuk was behind with his payments to Riolla, but it was only by a few days and we thought he could come up with something. Diggers brought him in, and his kinswoman buried him this morning, early. Look, I gotta work and you gotta go. The lady's just back from an appointment and she is not happy. She's Kalkuk's niece; we worked together in here sometimes, but she's the boss now-"
"Vashki? Who are you talking to?"
Cheyne turned toward the sound of the voice. A fragrance filled the room instantly: bergamot and myrrh. The owner of the red ribbon, the woman with the prince.
"Uh-oh," said Vashki, resuming her work with practiced immediacy. "Now you get to be thrown out in style. Just like the fancy Fascini boyfriend in here before you. Young Prince Maceo himself!"
A slender woman glided into the room, the large package in her arms obscuring her face. All Cheyne could see behind the box was a tumble of black curls pinned up loosely with combs and red ribbons. She put the crate down on the counter. Cheyne's view improved. Stupendously.
Thinking about the dead man from the ruins, for surely this Kalkuk was the same man, Cheyne had said nothing up to now. He cleared his throat roughly in an attempt to introduce himself and show her the totem, thinking that she might recognize it and all the mysteries would be solved. But Og pulled at his cloak smartly, and the young man swallowed his words.
"We come in search of a map, my good lady. I have done business with your uncle for long years now. Vashki here tells me he has recently passed on. I hope it was none of the Five Fatal Fevers." Og bowed deeply, his nose all but touching the newly swept floor.
"Who are you? You both look familiar," said the woman, her eyes flashing darkly.
"My name is Ogwater Rifkin, professional guide, and this is my friend, who searches for passage across the erg to the far country. Your uncle sold the finest maps in all of Sumifa."
"You were part of my uncle's clientele?"
"Oh, yes, on many occasions. He and I did much good business together," said Og. Cheyne gave him a puzzled look, suddenly wondering if Og had had anything to do with the man's murder. "Well, at any rate, we did business," Og allowed.
Noting the lack of other customers, the woman glared at him for a moment, her eyes red and swollen, sighed deeply, and then motioned them around to the front of the counter. "Try not to touch anything, please." Her voice was tired and aloof.
"Oh, of course, of course. You have, ah, really shined things up here. I've never seen it look so… empty," said Og, searching for the stacks of brass sculpture filled with illegal Glavian shirrir, the stolen paintings waiting to be shipped on a midnight caravan, and the little piles of date pits that once littered the premises of his favorite black market. He marveled at what difference a day had made. The girl had worked fast.
"The shop, Muje Rifkin, is no longer what it once was. I am the cartographer who drew the maps-the correct ones-my uncle sold. I will ask you never to come again for the sort of business you no doubt conducted with my uncle. But today I will provide you a legitimate map for the legitimate fee in kohli."
Cheyne could no longer remain quiet. "Mujida, we are sorry for your loss, and thank you for serving us. My name is Cheyne,* he said. "May I have the honor of knowing yours?"
Ogwater frowned his displeasure, thinking they would be there far
too long now, and he really had reached his sobriety limit. His hands were beginning to shake and his mouth was dryer than the desert.
"My name is Claria. What is your final destination?" she replied, her voice a little less sharp, the first hints of a smile softening her angular face. Cheyne felt his cheeks go warm at the music in Claria's odd, lovely name. He almost forgot to answer her question.
"Uh… the Sarrazan forest, I believe," he finally sputtered out.
"The Borderlands?" she began, a strange look crossing her face. "Wait-I remember you now. Maceo almost ran you down in the street the other day. You're not from here. Don't you know-"
"He knows that's where he wants to go," Og hastily injected. Claria raised a dark brow, but said no more.
There was no way around it. He would have to see if she recognized the totem. Cheyne reached into his pack and brought out the ganzite block. Claria took it without his expected reaction, but was immediately intrigued with the carvings.
"Where…?" Claria began.
"On site. Well, in a sort of crypt, actually." He thought better of telling her that he had found it in her dead uncle's hand. "I have to find out what the glyphs say. If you can read them, then we won't have to take the journey," replied Cheyne hopefully. Og slapped his forehead in disgust. Vashki giggled from the corner.
"On site? You are a digger? You must have been there when they found Kalkuk. Do you know what happened to my uncle? You must tell me. They would say only that he had been murdered, that Riolla had it done." Claria's eyes teared up again, and all Cheyne could do was shake his head.
"I am so sorry. I know less than you. Until now, none of us even knew his name. But I will tell my father. Perhaps he will want to speak with you," he offered.
Claria nodded, holding the totem to the light, forcing her mind back on the business at hand. Cheyne found that harder to do. Her eyes were so clear, so golden, as they wandered over the crystal.
"Why is it, if you are a digger, you cannot read the language on this totem? I thought that was supposed to be a digger's particular expertise," said Claria absently, picking up a glass to magnify the symbols.
"Because archaeologists are usually not epigraphers. And our linguist, the best there is, has no skill with this tongue, either."
Claria looked up. "Neither do I. I am sorry. I cannot read this writing. It is too old. But the last character- there is something very, ah, very strange about it, almost as though I have seen it somewhere before…" Claria tapped the crystal, pondering. At length, she gave it back to Cheyne.
"No. But if you really must go to the Borderlands, I think I have something here that will do for you," she offered, ignoring both Og and Vashki, who seemed to be highly amused about something.
She looked out toward the street and, seeing no one, pulled a scroll from underneath the counter and unrolled it partway before spreading it full length on the tabletop. It was a fine rendition of Almaaz and the territories to its west, all the way to the Sarrazan forest and a little beyond.
"It's my best work. I took all the old maps I could find from caravan drivers who worked the routes before they were closed and drew this amalgam. This is the only copy. The information is years old, but nothing much ever changes in Almaaz. I hate to part with it, but I need this sale to pay for my uncle's sixteen days of requiem. Mourners are expensive."
"This must have taken months…" breathed Cheyne as he traced a finger over the gilded compass rose. Claria smiled and nodded, placed weights on each corner, then laid a piece of purple string across a possible route for them around the western erg, down through the grasslands and then over the mountains. "A long and dangerous journey, Cheyne. What you seek must be very important."
"More dangerous than you guess," mumbled Og, tracing his own route. "We'll have to go through here and there also." His dirty finger tapped first on the Wyrvil territory and then another area where Claria had skirted for a much longer, but far safer, way.
"How can you go directly through ore country, Muje Rifkin? You have chosen the old caravan route-it is illegal to travel that way now. You will surely never return," she argued, wincing at the dark smudges he had made on the clean parchment.
"We're in a hurry. I, uh, have old connections along the route. I think we can pass unharmed for the most part."
"For the most part?" Cheyne turned to Og, who continued to stare at the map. "What do you mean?"
"Don't concern yourself. We'll take it. Please pay her. We really must be going," Og decided, trying to remember where the closest raqa stall was in this part of town. Should be near the tanner's. They shared certain of the same curing processes.
Cheyne stared at the map for a long moment. The route Og had chosen looked to be weeks, if not months, shorter. Cheyne did not have the resources for an extended journey. And perhaps, if he retraced the old caravan route, something might look familiar enough to jar his memory. "The route is illegal now, you say?"
Claria considered for a moment. "It is closed for caravans. Anyone wishing to transport goods must clear passage with the Schreefa, because she gets a fee. People will not pay the fee now that the road is unsafe. Nobody wishes to brave such danger. The lost caravan was truly a frightful event. Some three hundred traders, at least half of them from Sumifa itself, were lost." She thought further for a moment. "I know of no order concerning citizens, though. But I would not bring it to the Schreefa's attention, even so." A look of pure hatred crossed Claria's face for a brief moment, but she found her composure and tallied their bill.
Og tapped his fingers in an irritating rhythm on the wooden countertop as Cheyne pretended to study the figures, all the while trying of think of something charming and gallant to say regarding the ribbon.
Toying absently with the tiny perfume bottle around her neck, thinking that she had asked too much for the map, Claria held her breath; perhaps Cheyne wouldn't buy it after all. Finally nodding, Cheyne fished around in his pack for the required sum, counted it out into Claria's hand, and rolled the parchment back into a tube. The business was done.
"You dropped this." He handed her the red ribbon. "J thought you might want it back," he said lamely. "And thank you for saving my life."
Claria smiled and took the ribbon from his hand, then tied it around the map. "Fair winds and waters, Cheyne." Cheyne's palm tingled where she had touched it and he felt his cheeks burning. He looked around for Og, but his guide had already breezed through the front door of the shop, leaving him to find his own miserable way once again.
"Ah… thank you. I hope we meet again soon. Perhaps I can call on you when I return." Cheyne bowed quickly to Claria, and then to Vashki, carefully placed the map roll into his pack, and raced after Og,
Claria watched him go, wondering if she would ever see him again. She pulled at the ring on her left hand, but it refused to come off. She smiled at the irony. Maceo had just bidden her farewell forever, but his engagement ring truly was stuck.
"Those manners didn't come from the Mercanto. Or even from the Citadel," teased Vashki as Claria found a crowbar and began to pry at the nails of the dusty crate.
"No… especially not the Citadel. But let us not pollute the air with words of Prince Maceo. He can have his well-connected, red-headed paramour and all of her money, money she robs from the pockets of the poor of this miserable city for 'protection' from the mysterious Circle. Who has even seen one of them? It is Riolla's own jackals she is protecting us from. And Maceo is a rank fool if he thinks for one moment she loves him, may she drown in her tears of happiness. She is just trying to improve her fortune. And he just needs her wealth to pay his physicians to cure him of all his imaginary diseases. But he won't need doctors pretty soon-she will kill him before ten days pass, and become queen of Sumifa. A blind man could see what she is up to. But surprise-both will get what they deserve! Ha, I am already over him!" fumed Claria, tears in her eyes as she rocked the crowbar back and forth violently on the crate's top.
"What do you suppose Uncle Kalkuk
had saved in this old box?" she grumbled. "He sold everything he ever had at least five times over."
Vashki shrugged her shoulders. She had known Kalkuk since she was a tittle girl, and the only valuables he had were always still someone else's. Perhaps it was the treasure of the Clock-though nobody ever took him seriously, Kalkuk had always said it really belonged to his family. Vashki's heart began to pound as the old crate cover finally, gave way and tore off, sticking to the crowbar. Claria tossed it down and reached into the container, raising a cloud of dust from inside it. Vashki fanned the air for a moment as Claria brought out a tightly wound ball of waxed linen cloth and unwrapped it as she recovered her breath.
Then held it again.
When she turned back the last of the linen, an exquisite little clock, its bottom a carved wooden music box, its golden overlay a series of abstract lines of some sort, lay gleaming in the folds of the cloth. Claria tipped it over carefully in her hands, feeling the smoothness of the ancient wood.
"What is it?" Vashki was clearly disappointed.
"It's a chroniclave. A musical clock. I saw one once when I was a child. They don't make them anymore, no one can carve the gears," said Claria. The music works chimed and tinkled as she turned the chroniclave upside down, looking for the maker's mark and the winding key.
There was nothing but an Old Sumifan glyph, and that was fairly scribbled-no, burned-into the wood. Like a small fingerprint. The same as the one on- Claria's thoughts raced back to the totem the handsome young man had just walked out the door with. The handsome young man bound for the Borderlands. The one she would probably never see again.