'It's a new career for me, but I think I'll do exceptionatly well at it.' Og smiled back, his eyes crossing momentarily over his nose. 'Got you home well enough last night, didn't I?'
Cheyne was sitting much too close for Og to actually focus on his face very well. Still, he could clearly see that from Cheyne's good-natured grin and his well-woven cloak that the young man would probably be good for a new pair of boots and maybe, if Og could work this right, a bottle or two of raqa after all. Though Og had no intention of leaving Sunrifa, the young man was worth his time and had already provided better conversation than Og had had in months. Og began to feel just a bit of remorse over his dishonest intentions. But not enough to stop having them.
'And why is your success so certain?' said Cheyne, stuffing the last of the sweet bread into his mouth.
'Because I've been made redundant in my current occupation.' Og rolled his eyes and then dropped his glance to the dirty tabletop. Cheyne smiled but did not laugh. He held Og's stare for a long time. 'All right, because I have nothing else to lose,' Og muttered, almost inaudibly. So much for evil intentions. Who could look at those piercing eyes and lie?
Cheyne sat in silence for a moment. Either Og was really good at panhandling, or he was telling some kind of hard truth. He decided to find out which. 'And how do I know you can do what you say? You are a beggar, and I hardly know you,' said Cheyne, as if he had his choice of guides.
'And you are a nameless stranger, who has yet to show another coin to me or even buy me a real drink. Well, do you want to go?' asked Og, knowing very certainly that he was Cheyne's only hope.
Cheyne poured another glass of water as he thought about it.
For an answer, he brought out the totem. 'Ever seen anything like this? Not the ganzite, of course, but the last glyph on it.'
Og shook his head, looking the object over as best he could in the dimness of the shabby drinking house. The barkeep moved away from the doorway just then, and a ray of strong morning light caught the edge of the totem, sending forth a long bright ribbon of colors across the cracked plaster walls of the shop. The hooded man stirred slightly at his table as the rainbow washed over him and danced in the corner of the room. Og's eyes lit up as well.
'That's the second most beautiful thing I've ever seen,' he gasped.
Cheyne bent forward, equally mesmerized, trying to see the woman's handprint the prism had shown him on the dunes, but it did not appear. 'Yes. It is beautiful. What do you think?'
Cheyne could hardly believe he was asking the linguistic opinion of a beggar, but Og only shook his head again, as though he were completely accustomed to such queries.
'I think the symbols are from the old tongue. Most of the old totems use it. But the shape is odd, and I can't tell you what the last glyph says.'
'No one can. Not here, anyway. That's why I need to go to the Sarrazan forest. The elves there still use these symbols to decorate their pottery work. They are the only hope I have of deciphering this totem,' said Cheyne, his voice carefully lowered.
'Why is that so important? This is just an old totem. Except for its peculiar cut, there are thousands like it, more being made-and made up, I might add-every day. Half of the Fascini can't even read theirs. They just invent something they like, tell it to their equally ignorant friends, and it becomes the truth for all time. Why do you care what this really says? It's not your family totem, is it?' asked Og, a note of mock disdain coloring his voice. 'This isn't some slog over the desert to find your name or anything, is it?'
Cheyne looked at him levelly. 'I don't know. What if it were?'
'Well, I guess I'd need a map, then,' said Og dryly. I have gone soft, he thought, giving in to the remains of his moral code. / cannot rob him. Yet, anyway. The totem clearly showed a royal lineage-the boy could actually be someone. And he was a trained digger.
An idea formed in Og's raqa-deprived mind. This also might be the chance he'd waited for since Riolla had taken his ring and left him alone and almost powerless. If the lad were going to the Sarrazan forest, Og could wrangle a way to take them through all of the kingdoms where he stood a chance to steal back the ring's magical gemstones. Though it could be dangerous-Riolla had already sent her best henchman to kill the boy, and Saelin had a honed viciousness about him when he was satisfied; what must he have thought when the lad had gotten away from him? This totem must mean something pretty special to the Schreefa. Og pondered that for a moment.
The only thing that had ever driven Riolla to such lengths was her hunger for wealth. And the only treasure around Sumifa had to do with the Armageddon Clock fables… the old Collector and his vast, lost fortune. Now Og recalled how the ballads he had sung at the royal court about the mythical beast had fascinated Riolla long ago. While the young princess had fallen asleep during those songs, her companion Riolla had listened keenly, her eyes wide with wonder and belief. It figured. Only the Clock and the possibility of finding it would drive her to such desperation. Usually, the Mercanto's current Schreefa didn't dirty her manicured hands or her reputation with killing inside the city. Breaking hearts was more her style.
'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
