'You are impossible!' Claria snarled.
Og cleared his throat. 'What exactly happened, Claria? Why were Riolla's thugs chasing you?'
She turned to him and began a long ramble about how they had burst in after he and Cheyne had left, looking for them, demanding to know their destination, then they torched the shop and chased her into the alley where they were now. Vashki had made it out the back door when Claria drew them after her. She had managed to take the clock, apparently her uncle's most prized possession, but the rest of the shop was currently going up in smoke, taking the entire street with it, right now, right over there. She ended by pointing a long finger to a large black cloud building above the Barca.
'I thought I sine I led the smoke of a burning map shop,' said Og. Cheyne marveled silently that he could distinguish that odor from all the others which continually assaulted them in the Barca. But then Og held his nose up to sniff the air again, and Cheyne remembered the beggar's outstanding advantage for such discernment.
'What, Claria, do you want me to do about all this?' asked Cheyne. 'I don't know why Riolla wants to kill me, except that I refused to sell her the totem I found out at the site. But I have need of that myself. I thank you for helping me with the assassins, and I am truly sorry for what her henchmen did to your shop and your helper. I had no idea she was still after me, or even knew I was back in the city.'
'Men! You think a little 'I'm so sorry' just fixes everything and you get to go on your fine proud way without cleaning up the mess you made. Well. I don't think so, not this time. I helped you-so you can help me. You're a digger. You're bound for the Borderlands. You can just jolly well take me with you on your journey, and we will divide the profits of your adventure as compensation for my damages. You'd think that with all this attention from Riolla that you have found the Clock.'
Cheyne's eyes went wide with surprise. 'What do you know about the Clock?'
'I know that the Schreefa of the Mercanto would never be so determined to catch you unless it had something to do with money. Since you are a digger, you must have found something valuable. Or know where it is. What else around here is valuable but the Clock?' She swept her hand upward, taking in the abundant squalor of the Barca, and narrowed her fiery golden eyes at him.
Cheyne said nothing, his face falling at the prospect of his quest becoming a full-fledged treasure hunt.
'You have found it, haven't you?' she said softly, all sarcasm gone from her voice.
'No. And I do not search for it,' Cheyne answered firmly.
Og raised a hand in immediate protest. 'Now, now, let us not speak so. We don't know that the Clock isn't within your grasp even now. But, Claria, 1 have already made an agreement with Cheyne for half of his profits. Why should we split the treasure of the Clock yet another way?'
Claria slid her bright gaze toward them and raised one side of her mouth in a sly smile.
'Because,' she motioned to Cheyne's torn pack, the parchment roll missing from its pocket, 'you may be a guide, Muje Rifkin, but I'm the only one who knows how to get there.'
7
Sketches in his good hand, his other one painful and bandaged, Javin stumbled up the dunes to the site where Cheyne and Muni had worked the night before, hoping against his suspicions to find Cheyne at work already, hoping the young man had just gone off up here alone for awhile to sort his troubles out. But when Javin mounted the last rise he saw he was alone. He sat down on the corner of the weathered marble slab, where Cheyne's familiar charcoal-smudged handprint marked the pale stone suface. Javin placed his own hand over it, wondering when time had made them equal. He sat quietly, listening to the sigh of the hot wind and the sounds of the brass sheep bells as the Sumifan shepherds brought their flocks toward the riverbanks to graze. The bells each had a particular voice; in the stunning quiet of the windblown ruins, Javin had picked out three he knew in only a moment or two.
It must have been like this during the Collector's time. When the Circle and peace had their finest hour. When it almost stopped the war, he thought, looking over toward the new city, the river road clearly visible from this height.
And clearly empty. Muni's crew should have been making their way in from town. The Fascini would be on their way, then. Javin shook his head in frustration. If Cheyne had gone back into Sumifa, he could only wait for him.
Javin took out the sheaves of paper and idly shuffled through the drawings again, for the fifth or sixth time, searching for any clue that might lead to the Collector. But Cheyne had not put much detail into these quick drawings. He'd rendered the basic lines and measurements of the room under the slab. There was one sheet with few quick sketches of pottery shards that Javin had not noticed before. Probably from last night's work, he thought, scanning the dunes in the direction of the city again-no sign of the Fascini yet.
/ might as well go down and see what he found. It will be the last chance I have.
He sighed, securing the plaited ropes to a large rock and lowering himself into the crypt. In another moment, he was out of the harness and over by the shards, matching them to the drawings.
Some Sarrazan work-older than I've ever seen, by the look of the clay. He noted the jar's grainy surface and its peculiar yellow color. After the cataclysm in the forest, the elves' clay was dark, almost red, and much smoother.
'This is before…' he muttered. The broken lugs of the jar looked very familiar, though. He ran his fingers over them, tracing the wavy lines and the intricate circles. Glyphs like the ones on the jars he had at home. Glyphs like the ones on the totem Cheyne had been polishing.
Ah, no, Cheyne! I should have known. I should have known. But I couldn't tell you any more. And now you have set forth toward the most dangerous part ofallAlmaaz with the crudest assassin in Sumifa after you, he raged silently, quickly gathering the shards, wrapping them and placing them in his bag.
His mind racing, Javin began to climb back into the harness. There was no time to lose. As he raised himself up the rope, he paused, gathering strength-the
descent into the crypt had been much easier on his hand and aching arm. As he hung there resting, panting, he twirled slowly back and forth, the new angle on the room intriguing him. From here, he could see light from behind a small crack about halfway up the wall.
He swung himself closer to the wall and caught hold of another crack to steady himself. With his bad hand, wincing, he removed his hand sweep from his belt and brushed away the dust and sand from the rift in the marble. There appeared to be something blocking light from the other side.
Something remotely the shape of a human hand, a couple of gold rings visible upon its fingers.
Excited, his heart pounding, Javin followed the line of the light and made out some kind of fabric, its purple dye still strong and dark. The juma records stated the Collector had been buried in his 'robes of purpure royal.' Javin could only hang there and stare.
By the Circle's sacred oath!
He pried as much of the wall away as he could, the marble coming out in small chunks, breaking along the main fracture line. After another moment or two, Javin had cleared an opening of about three inches at its widest point. He could see the body clearly. A stray shaft of sunlight overhung the desiccated mummy, illuminating the sunken face, the fragile, darkened skin. Thousands of years of the dry desert climate had protected the corpse so perfectly that Javin could see the man's final expression. Samor had died smiling, his face peaceful and serene, and the obvious haste of his interment had not changed it. Javin ached to get at his find, to discover the secrets of the body behind that wall.
'I have found you. Samor, I have found you! He slapped the wall mightily with his good hand, frustration and joy breaking his heart. Laughing, Javin hung swaying like a pendulum upon the plaited ropes, tears streaming down his face.
But there was nothing for it. Even if the Holy Book of the Confessors was on the other side of that wall, Cheyne was still in grave danger. Javin wiped his face upon his sleeve, drew himself up and out of the crypt, into the light and heat of the day.
'I come back for you, Samor. I will not leave you here, unmarked and unknown.
With a salute, and the Circle's prayer of benediction upon his lips, favin walked slowly to the mess tent, his
