Goldie Morran had not yet begun to scam.
Skeeter, having successfully picked several pockets in a crowded cafe, returned to the library to hand over his take for Brian to hold, per the rules of the bet. When he caught sight of Goldie's last entry, he laughed out loud.
"A buck thirty?" His laughter deepened, the primal joy of a half-wild Mongol who has pulled one over on the enemy.
Brian shrugged. "You're taking the news more cheerfully that she did."
"I'll bet!"
Brian said repressively, "You already have, Jackson. Now beat it. I have real work to do."
Skeeter laughed again, refusing to be insulted, and let his imagination linger on what Goldie's face must have looked like as she received the unpalatable news. Bet her face had gone nearly as purple as her hair! He strolled out of the library, hands in pockets and whistling cheerfully. The Commons certainly was a pretty place this time of year ...
A heavy hand grabbed his shoulder, spinning him roughly around. His back connected with a concrete wall, driving the breath momentarily from his lungs. Skeeter blinked and focused on the face of a man he'd last seen standing on the banks of the River Tiber, cursing him for all he was worth.
Oh, shit
Lupus Mortiferus.
In modern clothes and a towering rage. "Your entrails aren't really worth a hundred-fifty gold aurii-but they'll do!"
"Uh ... " Skeeter said, trying to buy time before the gladiator choked and/or stabbed the life out of him. How the hell did he get on to the station? Not that it mattered. He was here-and one look into those dark, murderous eyes told Skeeter he was about to die.
Or worse.
So Skeeter did the only thing that might possibly save him. He dropped to the floor like a limp rag doll. His opponent paused just an instant too long. Skeeter rolled, kicked Lupus Mortiferus' feet out from under him, scrambled up, and ran. A bull's bellow of fury followed him. One quick glance showed the enraged gladiator in close pursuit. No river to jump into this time. No horse to steal, either. How the hell did he get into TT-86?
He wove and dodged through the dense holiday crowds, ducked past a cluster of blinking, six-foot-five decorations, and shouldered someone aside when they blocked his way. An autocratic screech and a splash were followed by Goldie Morran's voice cursing him in language almost as colorful as Yesukai at his best. He took a brief second to wish he'd had the time to enjoy the sight of Goldie dripping wet from purple hair to spike-heeled toes-but that gladiator was right on his heels. He rounded the fish pond and pounded through Edo Castletown. In his wake, men dressed like samurai shouted obscenities at his pursuer, who shoved several of them bodily to the floor in his charge.
Ooh, Yakuza, Skeeter thought with a wince as he glanced back to see tattooed men swearing at the gladiator's back. Too bad they hadn't managed to lay hands on him.
He pounded out of Edo Castletown into Frontier Town, with its Wild West Gate, bars, saloons, and show-girl halls. Frontier Town's saloons offered a confusing maze of darkened rooms where bar girls served whiskey, poker games lasted until all hours, and rinky-tink piano players hammed it up on artificially battered upright pianos. Skeeter ducked into the nearest, sliding under a series of tables in the dim-lit bar, scattering card players and whiskey glasses in his wake as men jumped back in startled surprise. Then whole tables crashed to the floor behind him. The gladiator had waded in, snarling something in Latin. A fist fight broke out somewhere to his rear. Skeeter didn't care. He dove across the bar, catching a glimpse of the barkeeper's shocked expression in the mirror, then hauled butt back for the door while Lupus Mortiferus battled his way through a mob of really pissed-off "cowboys" including at least one wrathful time scout who knew martial arts.
Having bought himself a couple of minutes' lead, Skeeter blasted through the saloon doors into the bright Commons again and pelted back through Edo Castletown, where the first Shinto observances had begun at the new shrine. A deep bell-tone shimmered through the air as the first worshipper pulled the bellrope to sound the gong that would catch the attention of the resident, sacred kami. A glance over his shoulder revealed the irate gladiator battling his way past a dozen really irate Yakuza thugs. Lupus Mortiferus had knocked them down on their first dash through Castletown, causing them to lose serious face in public. They were out for vengeance. He grinned, leaped the low fence marking off the new shrine, gaining traction in the expanse of white gravel, ducked under the shrine, and vaulted the fence on the other side while outraged japanese curses poured after him in waves. One swift glance showed Lupus Mortiferus in even greater trouble as the worshippers vented righteous ire upon the gladiator.
Sorry about that, really, Skeeter told the certain-to-be-offended kami. I'll, uh, come ask your pardon later. Honest.
Skeeter cut hard into a side corridor leading toward the maze of corridors that made up Residential. A bellow in the distance told him the chase, although badly slowed for Lupus Mortiferus, was still on.
Skeeter pelted up a staircase and rounded a wicked bend at a full run, grabbing a heavy rope garland and swinging around the outside of the girder that supported a balcony platform above, using it like Tarzan's vines to whip around at maximum speed. Below him, gasps of shock and fear arose from the packed Commons floor. Great. All I need's an audience. Three changes of corridors, two more staircases, and another turn brought Skeeter out onto a wide balcony of shops and restaurants overlooking Commons.
Far back, but rounding the corner after him, Lupus Mortiferus was still coming. Cripes, doesn't anything stop that guy? Skeeter tipped over clothing racks, cafe tables, and fully-lighted Christmas trees. He kept running, providing any and all barriers he could that the gladiator would have to jump or pick up first, then skidded down a gridwork staircase, mostly sliding down the banister. A flock of roosting pterosaurs screeched and took wing in protest. They swooped and dove, knocking wreathes, plastic candy canes, and all sorts of other decorations off girders and balconies-which created panic amongst the tourists gaping in his wake.
Skeeter heard curses-but they were farther and farther behind. He hit the next balcony level still running flat out, slammed a seven-foot plastic Santa to the balcony floor behind him, and spotted an open elevator. Skeeter grinned and dove into it. He punched 5 and the doors closed. The elevator shot upward, carrying him to the upper floor of a hotel's graceful balcony. Skeeter stepped out onto lush carpet, rather than bare gridwork hearing the very distant sounds of pursuit below, then slipped into the hotel's hallway, covered with a different color carpet, but just as luxurious as the balcony's. Skeeter jogged easily down the line of gilt-numbered doors and found an interior elevator which took him to the basement.
Under the hotel were weapons ranges and a gym. Skeeter ducked through the gym, found another elevator tucked back in the men's shower area, which had been placed there for the convenience of residents who wanted to head straight up after a workout. He rode it up to the third level of Residential.
When he finally stepped out into a silent corridor, there was no sign of the gladiator. Skeeter leaned against the wall and drew several deep breaths, then slowly relaxed. He couldn't help grinning. What a chase! Then reality settled over him like a blast of Mongolian snow. With Lupus Mortiferus on the station, Skeeter was in real trouble. What to do about it? Skeeter narrowed his eyes. He could always go to Bull Morgan and report the downtimer, but that would mean having to confess his downtime scam to the station manager. And that would get him into serious legal trouble with Management, with a probable eviction from TT-86 as the result. He wouldn't need to lose the wager to lose his home.