Word of the wager between Skeeter and Goldie Morran, at first simply an affair between uptimers, had abruptly taken on new significance. Fear like the shock-waves of an earthquake traveled through their community. If Skeeter Jackson lost his bet, they would lose their spirit-champion. So when Ianira placed that phone call and word spread that Goldie Morran had deliberately spoiled one of Skeeter's attempts, and that a general session would follow a meeting of the Seven, narrow-eyed men and women gathered in the depths of Shangri-La Station to discuss what should be done about it, while wide-eyed children listened in silence to the anger in their elders' voices.
"We could slide a knife between her ribs," one gray-haired man muttered.
"Poison would be better," a younger man countered. "She would suffer longer."
"No, we don't need to kill her," Ianira said over the babble of voices as she joined the other Six on the low dais. Silence fell as abruptly as night fog rolled over the wharves of Ephesus. The Seven had previously decided the only course they could safely take. Now it was up to the Seven to convince the others.
She held her daughters close, partly from protective love she could scarcely give coherent tongue to, and partly because she was-as a former high-ranking Priestess of Artemis-aware of the symbolism their stance of togetherness roused. Those who stood nearest to her saw not only a mother and her children, but looked at her little girls and understood in their viscera that the children's father owed more than anyone on this station to Skeeter Jackson.
Which was precisely what she wanted them to think.
Had she been born uptime rather than down, she'd have been running the government inside two years.
Although most of the gathered Found Ones came from times and places where women were expected to remain silent on pain of beating, even men who had grown to grey-beard stature had learned to respect Ianira-and in this matter, she had the right of a mother whose children were threatened. That right was so universal, even those men who had found the adjustment to TT-86 and in particular-the status of women in TT-86, held their tongues and listened in respectful silence.
She looked from face to silent face and nodded slowly, understanding their message without the need for words. "We don't need to kill her," Ianira repeated. "All we need to do is ensure she loses her bet."
The smiles that lit multiple eyes-dark eyes and light ones, black and grey and brown and blue ones, and the occasional clear amber or green ones-all were smiling, cold as Siberian ice.
"Yes," someone on the edge of the crowd murmured, "the gems dealer must lose that bet. Which would be the better strategy, Council? Help Skeeter with his work? Or plot to destroy the moneychanger's schemes?"
Ianira laughed, tossing thick, black hair across one pale shoulder. "Destroy the money-changer's schemes, of course. Skeeter can hold his own when it comes to stealing from the uptimers who kick and rob so many of us. All we have to do is make sure the money changer steals less. Much less. It ought to be fun, don't you think?"
Laughter rippled through a group which moments before had been grim enough to contemplate violent murder, consequences be damned just the thing the Seven had feared. Agreements were made to watch the money-changer's every move. Assignments were given to those best suited to the task of foiling Goldie Morran's schemes-or, if necessary-stealing her winnings before she could "log" them with Brian, as the rules of the wager demanded.
Ianira kissed her daughters' hair and smiled softly.
Goldie Morran would rue the day she had dared interfere with Marcus' patron and champion. Rue it as bitter as wormwood and never once guess why she failed in her every effort. Ianira pledged silent sacrifices to her patron Goddess Artemis of moon-pale hunting dogs and silver arrows notched through eternity to her moon-wrought bow, as well as pledges to her adopted Goddess, Pallas Athena of spear and shield, Athenian war helmet and above all Justice, should they secure victory for Skeeter Jackson.
She left the meeting with her own assignment and returned home to put supper into Artemisia and Gelasia, then put both girls into their little beds. She worked on Council business, while waiting with great anticipation for Marcus to finish his shift at the Down Time Bar & Grill.
She hummed an old tune as she worked, one her grandmother had taught her as a child, all the while quietly hugging to herself the secret of the astonishing money she'd made at the booth today-thanks to wise, old, mercenary Chenzira's meddling with her prices. In the all-but-silent backdrop of their apartment, the dinner she'd prepared for her love bubbled and simmered its way toward perfection in the endlessly miraculous oven.
Goldie was cashing out money for tourists returning uptime from a tour when she spotted them: three small, innocent-looking coins that were worth several thousand dollars each, they were so rare. Avarice warred with caution. She wasn't supposed to make use of her knowledge to obtain them. She couldn't buy them at a fraction of their value and claim the collector's price or Brian would disallow them completely. So she smiled in her cold heart and simply short-changed the tourists. Stealing the coins should certainly count. She waited until the batch of tourists had gone before putting up her "Out to Tea" sign and locking up the shop.
She could hardly wait to gloat to Skeeter about the day's success. Goldie headed for the library at full tilt, a battleship plowing through seas of disgruntled tourists, and cornered Brian behind his counter.
"Brian! Just take a look at these! Stole 'em fair and square!"
Brian examined the coins with care. "Very nice. Mmm... Yes, very nice, indeed. Let's see, now." He glanced up, a frosty look in his dark eyes. "Valuing these is really quite simple. This one, that'll give you a bet credit of twenty-five cents, this one's face value is what, thirty-five cents? Hmm ... The silver content of this one's a little thin. I'd say about a buck thirty for the three."
Goldie stared, mouth agape and not caring who saw it. She honestly couldn't find her voice for whole seconds. When she finally did find it, heads turned the length of the library.
"What? Brian Hendrickson, you know perfectly well what those three-"
"Yes," the librarian said repressively, interrupting her before the tirade could build momentum. "Their collector's value is probably in excess of five thousand dollars. But I can't give you that kind of credit for them and you know it. Rules of the bet. You stole a couple of coins. Face value-or metals value, whichever is higher. That's it. Feel free to sell them for what they're really worth, but you won't get credit for that on the bet."
He pulled out a little ledger book and made an entry. Goldie couldn't believe it. A dollar and thirty stinking cents. Then she caught sight of Skeeter's last entry in a column next to hers: zero.
That was something. Not much, but something.
Goldie stormed out of the library, determined to eat Skeeter Jackson's liver for breakfast. Chuckles behind her only rubbed salt in a raw wound. She'd pay Brian back, too, she would. Just wait and see if she didn't. A buck-thirty. Of all the humiliating, backstabbing
A feathered Ichthyornis screamed past on a powerdive into a nearby fishpond. The splash drenched Goldie from waist to knees. She screeched at the toothed bird and cursed it in language that caused mouths to drop in a fifty-foot radius. Then, catching herself, Goldie compressed her lips, glared at the people staring at her, and sniffed autocratically.
Skeeter might be behind, but a dollar and thirty cents wasn't a lead, it was an insult. She'd show that upstart little pipsqueak what an amateur he really was or her name was not Goldie Mon-an. She smiled tightly. The expression hurt the skin of her face and started a nearby toddler whimpering against its mother's skirts.