Marcus said nothing, just moved magical hands down his spine, kneading burning muscles as he went. "Those were harsh words, I know," Marcus finally said, "and I am sorry I said them the way I did. But I worry about you, Skeeter. If you are caught often enough, Bull Morgan will have you sent uptime for trial and I would lose a friend ... and not merely a dear friend, but also a Lost One."
Skeeter, puzzled, stopped feeling sorry for himself long enough to ask, "Lost one? That's silly, when you know my apartment number, my phone number-"
"No, Skeeter, you do not understand. A Lost One is a downtimer in need of help, but from fear or terror of being discovered, disguises himself or hides until starvation drives him to action. Until we find them, we cannot help. They are lost to us, to the whole universe, until they make themselves known. And even then, it may take weeks, months, sometimes years before such a one trusts us enough to become a Found One.
"You remember, Skeeter, the Welshman I spoke of, Kynan Rhys Gower? He was such a one. Weeks it took to convince him we were not after his soul. Fortunately, one of us was a Christian-an early Christian, true, who had come through the Porta Romae-but he managed to convince Kynan that it would be safe, no, that it would be God's will-to join us." Marcus sighed. "It always brings great pain to know there is a Lost One amongst us and be unable to reach him, through word or action."
Vast astonishment like light pouring into his soul, drove away the vestiges of lingering self-pity. "Are you talking about one, Marcus?"
The answer was very soft in the darkness. "Who else?"
It was too much to take in that fast, all at once. Retreat was literally the only course he could take in that moment. "Huh. Well, thanks for the backrub, anyway. I don't think I could move now if I had to. Felt good, Marcus. I'm glad you're my friend again. It gets awful lonely when a man loses his only friend."
And with that statement, he drifted to sleep.
Marcus sat up in his own bedding for a long time, gazing blindly in the direction of Skeeter's sleeping breaths. At least he is willing to become a friend again. Marcus was struck with such pain he could scarcely breathe. The words, " ... only friend" kept battering at him. He didn't know quite how, but if they did manage to get back through the Porta Romae, Marcus would do everything in his power to give Skeeter more than one friend in the world. He swallowed hard, recalling the terms of the wager with Goldie Morran.
They might step through to find Goldie declared the winner in the face of Skeeter's long absence. To go through what Skeeter had gone through already and then be thrown off the station, bag and baggage ... it was simply not to be borne. Should that happen, Marcus and the other downtimers would make very certain that Goldie lost her entire business and was driven, bankrupted, back uptime to the world Marcus would never know first-hand. Somehow, the Council of Found Ones (a very great many of whom were capable of very long-lived blood wars, indeed) would find a way.
Marcus smiled bitterly in the darkness. Very few uptimers took any downtimer seriously. Tourists considered them unmannered savages with just brains enough to carry luggage through the time gates. Uptimers didn't even seem to mind that more than a few had vanished through shadowing themselves because no one had thought to warn them of the danger. Time Tours, Inc. took great measures to protect their customers, but no measures at all to protect the men who hauled baggage for them.
Such uptimers were in for a rude shock, very soon, if Marcus had anything to say about it.
If he and Skeeter got back safely through the gate.
If...
Well, he told himself prosaically, there is not a thing you can do stuck in this inn, waiting for the Porta Romae to cycle. Better get some sleep while you can. Tomorrow may find us in the hands of the slave-catchers, or worse, the Praetorian Guard. He shivered involuntarily, having heard the tales of what happened to runaways caught by the elite Praetorians. Marcus settled down in his hard bedding-far superior, of course, to the slave cots he'd grown re-accustomed to, but a miserable bed, indeed, compared to the wonderful one in his apartment on TT-86, where Ianira waited with no word of his fate.
Marcus drifted into sleep planning his reunion with his family and plotting either Skeeter's salvation or Goldie's ruin.
One or the other would come to pass as surely as the sun rose and set on a blazing hot Roman day or a crisp and lovely one in Gaul.
One or the other ...
Marcus finally slept.
When the Wild West Gate dilated open at the back of a Time Tours livery stable, Malcolm and Margo stumbled under the weight of their luggage. Both had managed to get digitized video of Farley burying his Denver haul on their scouting logs. Farley had, as predicted, chosen a site just a few yards away from the original site they'd already dug up and camouflaged. They shot more video with their scout logs when Farley emerged from his hotel sporting blond hair going grey at the temples, a different nose, and an enormous moustache which matched the color of his hair. He carried with him almost no baggage at all.
If they hadn't been tailing him for a week, neither would have known him. This guy was good. Too good. A whole lot of uptime money had to be paying for a professional of this caliber. Farley stepped through the Wild West Gate ahead of them, a new man (doubtless with new ID forged to perfection in New York, right down to the retinal scans and med records). Fortunately for Malcolm and Margo, he did not suspect a thing was amiss, even though Malcolm staggered under the weight of the fortune in antiquities they had so carefully unearthed. Margo was having an even worse time. She stumbled and staggered like a teenager who'd drunk one too many beers. Margo was stone cold sober, but even her luggage was enormously heavy, despite the fact that Malcolm had packed the heaviest items in his own bags.
Mike Benson, Chief of Station Security, was nearby, scrutinizing returning tourists when they emerged, clearly watching for any signs of illegal activities. Someone must've tipped him off. Goldie? Couldn't have been Skeeter-he'd been gone nearly a month, now. When Benson caught sight of them, his eyes widened, then narrowed again into angry slits.
"Mike!" Malcolm hissed, aware that Farley was still near enough to hear. "Need your help! Official help."
Benson, whose biggest excitement came when an unstable gate broke open inside the station, or when kids left behind with the station's babysitter got loose and went on a rampage, clearly recognized An Important Event about to unfold. His expression moved through vast, sudden relief to deep curiosity and a cold anger that built in his eyes. He motioned curtly for Kit Carson, who'd come to see his granddaughter and almost son-in-law return. Kit was looking puzzled, as well, and murmured in Mike's ear. The relief on Kit's face was actually comical. Both men waited until they'd descended the ramp all the way, passing their timecards through the automatic reader at the bottom of the ramp, to be updated in a Time Tours effort to keep its customers from shadowing themselves.
"What is it?" Benson asked quietly.
"See that guy up there, greying blond hair, protruding nose, huge moustache?"
Benson squinted through the crowd. "Yeah, I've got him. What's so special about him?"
Kit put in quietly, "If I'm not mistaken we've just seen Chuck Farley in a new face."
Benson glanced sharply at Kit, eyes a bit wide, then nodded abruptly. "Yeah, I expect you're right."
Kit laughed quietly, puzzled eyes still studying their massively heavy luggage. "Mike, you should know by now, I am always right." He let that sink in, then forestalled any outburst by adding, "Unless I'm wrong, of course. That's actually happened, oh, eight or nine times, and most of them"-he tickled Margo's chin "were over this little fire-eater."