Teri McLaren
low over their eyes and their sun-darkened hands avidly punctuating stories of recent adventures.
One fellow loudly extolled how his last fare had lost his shoe to a hungry drom, how the beast sickened and died on the spot from eating such a horrible meal, and how the man had limped home, leaning on the arm of his miserable guide the whole way. The next guide's fare had demanded to be taken to hunt the wild goats, a couple of miles off the regular route, where his feet were trampled and severed from his body in the goats' subsequent attack, and he had to be carried home on his miserable guide's back. The third guide's fare had asked to hunt in the cork forest, truly off the regular trail, had encountered a rutting canista and been stuck to a tree, driven through with the beast's horn, then devoured by the whole herd on the spot, before the very eyes of his guide and six esteemed persons of rank. So completely consumed by the beast was this last poor tourist that the miserable guide could find only his moneybag to carry home.
Amid the chorus of laughter the last story had provoked among the men at the stall, Cheyne stepped up and smiled, beginning to state his case. "Good morning, gentlemen, fine day. May the Twelve Blessings abound in your lives. Would any of you be interested in taking me over the western erg to the Borderlands?
The guides grew silent instantly and each wandered off to a different part of the street, the fellow whose story had won the day staring daggers at Cheyne's forehead. Cheyne shrugged and moved past them, up the winding cobblestone pavement toward the center of the Mercanto. After several hours and an equal number of encounters ending almost exactly like the first one, he came to a small raqa stall and sat down in the shade to rest. When the smiling attendant came with a small cup and a large bottle, he waved her away, taking a long pull on his water skin.
"No, no, no! You cannot sit there. You don't buy, you don't sit. No. Go away." The raqa server bellowed
SONG OF TIME s 9
in his ear, her friendliness suddenly transformed into a toothless snarl.
Cheyne escaped the good-sized club she produced from under her counter by ducking through another stall, and then another, until he found himself turned completely around and, worse, out in the Barca again, still with no guide.
He wandered the dirty, narrow alleys of the south side for awhile, its ruby-lipped, green-lidded courtesans beckoning to him from shirrir-scented clouds and raqa-induced stupors. He smiled back at the girls, but they reminded him of the glittering lizards he had seen on the rocks by the river: pretty, but poisonous. He walked until he needed to refill his canteen, but the only place he could do so without paying was at the public well, famous among the workers at the dig for its unsavory contents. When he found the well, he hung his head under its covering, a huge flat rock supported by three smaller ones, a dolmen of sorts, for both shade and a look at what might be floating in there today.
"Oh, hello, there. We meet again," said a voice coming from somewhere behind what looked like an over-large net bobber. Cheyne had seen that nose before.
"You? How did you get-?" Cheyne gestured at the dolmen.
"In the well? Fell. Must have. Say, could you lower the bucket down here and help me out? I'm nearly sober now, and I really don't want to experience this situation in that frame of mind," said the vagrant, the corners of a smile appearing on either side of the nose.
"Of course. Just wait there." Cheyne backed away from the edge of the well and then reappeared instantly. "Sorry. Where would you be going, after all?" he added, embarrassed.
The vagrant beamed up at him tolerantly. Cheyne turned away again, this time returning with a bucket and rope. Within moments, the beggar stood dripping in the street, waterlogged, but no worse for his baptism.