be demanding that Javin close the dig, and if they had to leave, Cheyne knew he would never get back here again. He hurried through the vacant streets and quickly came to the address written on the small square of vellum.
"The Arcanum* read the painfully elaborate gold lettering on the sign. Hie little shop was built up against the Citadel's wall and as closely to the gate leading to the Inner Ring as it could be. Cheyne pulled the chime and waited impatiently for several long minutes while the peephole slid open, then several more until the door was unbarred to admit him. Apparently, the Arcanum served a rather exclusive clientele.
Inside the foyer, Cheyne was assaulted by the pungent odors of cinnamon, clove, and shirrir smoke, an illegal narcotic spice, probably smuggled in on one of the few remaining caravans, which traveled irregularly and eastward only. He stood in near darkness for a moment, his eyes adjusting, until he was able to see the woman who had admitted him.
"Hello. I have come to-" he began, but the woman held up a plump, razor-nailed hand to silence him.
"Yes, I know why you have come. Vinzo sent a runner the minute you left his shop. Please enter my counting room, where there is more light," the woman replied in a cultured accent, her voice an unpleasant rasp.
Cheyne felt a marked uneasiness, but allowed himself to be swept forward through a purple beaded curtain and into a well-lit room. Lining the white plaster walls of the room were stacks of books and scrolls, and on every flat surface rested some kind of clock or timepiece. No wonder the scruffy clockmaker had this connection. He had probably supplied most of these objects.
A steward spread a cloth on the red velvet chair Cheyne was offered while the woman settled herself directly opposite him, a small glass-topped table between them. On it, half a freshly cut blood orange