Og shook his head, looking the object over as best

he could in the dimness of the shabby drinking house. The barkeep moved away from the doorway just then, and a ray of strong morning light caught the edge of the totem, sending forth a long bright ribbon of colors across the cracked plaster walls of the shop. The hooded man stirred slightly at his table as the rainbow washed over him and danced in the corner of the room. Og's eyes lit up as well.

"That's the second most beautiful thing I've ever seen," he gasped.

Cheyne bent forward, equally mesmerized, trying to see the woman's handprint the prism had shown him on the dunes, but it did not appear. "Yes. It is beautiful. What do you think?"

Cheyne could hardly believe he was asking the linguistic opinion of a beggar, but Og only shook his head again, as though he were completely accustomed to such queries.

"I think the symbols are from the old tongue. Most of the old totems use it. But the shape is odd, and I can't tell you what the last glyph says."

"No one can. Not here, anyway. That's why I need to go to the Sarrazan forest. The elves there still use these symbols to decorate their pottery work. They are the only hope I have of deciphering this totem," said Cheyne, his voice carefully lowered.

"Why is that so important? This is just an old totem. Except for its peculiar cut, there are thousands like it, more being made-and made up, I might add-every day. Half of the Fascini can't even read theirs. They just invent something they like, tell it to their equally ignorant friends, and it becomes the truth for all time. Why do you care what this really says? It's not your family totem, is it?" asked Og, a note of mock disdain coloring his voice. "This isn't some slog over the desert to find your name or anything, is it?"

Cheyne looked at him levelly. "I don't know. What if it were?"

"Well, I guess I'd need a map, then," said Og dryly. /

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have gone soft, he thought, giving in to the remains of his moral code. / cannot rob him. Yet, anyway. The totem clearly showed a royal lineage-the boy could actually be someone. And he was a trained digger.

An idea formed in Og's raqa-deprived mind. This also might be the chance he'd waited for since Riolla had taken his ring and left him alone and almost powerless. If the lad were going to the Sarrazan forest, Og could wrangle a way to take them through all of the kingdoms where he stood a chance to steal back the ring's magical gemstones. Though it could be dangerous-Riolla had already sent her best henchman to kill the boy, and Saelin had a honed viciousness about him when he was satisfied; what must he have thought when the lad had gotten away from him? This totem must mean something pretty special to the Schreefa. Og pondered that for a moment.

The only thing that had ever driven Riolla to such lengths was her hunger for wealth. And the only treasure around Sumifa had to do with the Armageddon Clock fables… the old Collector and his vast, lost fortune. Now Og recalled how the ballads he had sung at the royal court about the mythical beast had fascinated Riolla long ago. While the young princess had fallen asleep during those songs, her companion Riolla had listened keenly, her eyes wide with wonder and belief. It figured. Only the Clock and the possibility of finding it would drive her to such desperation. Usually, the Mercanto's current Schreefa didn't dirty her manicured hands or her reputation with killing inside the city. Breaking hearts was more her style.

"Put that thing away," he snapped, suddenly finding the hooded man to be too much company. "The city has a thousand eyes and most of them are employed by Riolla. Or by the one who employs her."

Cheyne replaced the totem's wrapping and put it back in his pack. "How do you know Riolla Hifrata?"

"Listen, we'd better get over to the mapmaker's place," said Og, rising from his stool.

Cheyne laid a coin on the table and quickly filled his canteen with the remainder of the carafe's water. Og was already down the street when he caught up to him.

"Og, how do you know Riolla?" Cheyne asked again.

"Everyone in the Mercanto knows Riolla, boy. She owns most of it, and what she doesn't, she extracts protection money from," said Og, dodging a water-laden donkey and weaving through a crowd of market-bound housewives. Cheyne had no idea where they were going.

"It's just up the way, a couple of streets over. I know we can find what you need there," assured Og.

"Og, wait. You and I haven't struck a deal yet. I don't know if I can afford you," said Cheyne, stopping amid the tight stream of dusty traffic.

Og went on for a good twenty yards before he turned around, pushed his way back, grabbed Cheyne's hand, slapped it, shook it, bowed three times and spat on the ground, almost missing the huge, well-shod foot of a passing blacksmith.

"May your pardon be begged." Og smiled up weakly to the insulted smith and yanked on Cheyne's sleeve, pulling him through the crowd to put the donkey and the market women between them and the smith.

"We now have a deal," pronounced Og, the hand behind his back busy with the "for as long as it suits me" sign common among traders of the Barca. "I will take you where you want to go. You will pay me half of the treasure."

"Half of the treasure? But all I'm looking for is the translation of this symbol…"

"Don't try to fool a fool. You know what I'm talking about. The treasure from the Clock. And a bottle of raqa before. And a new pair of boots. Can't make that kind of a trip in these." He pointed to his sandals, their

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tops repaired with several different colors of cast-off rope.

"Well…"

"Deal! Now let's not waste any more time," Og pronounced, looking warily over his shoulder. The angry smith had skirted the obstacles and now bore down on them, intent on addressing Og's insult. "We have to be ready to go by tonight. Or do you want all of the people looking for you to find you first?"

Cheyne didn't get to answer. As the smith closed in, ham-sized fists waving, they rounded a corner, dove through another breach in the Mercanto wall, this one connecting to a fruit and vegetable stand to the Barca, and came out in a part of Sumifa Cheyne had never seen. In fact, it looked like a part of Sumifa that daylight had never seen.

Thousands of mangy yellow rats chittered and swarmed along the gutters, fighting for refuse dumped from the market Cheyne had just run through. Cheyne winced as Og hardly looked where he put his feet, seeming to dodge the rodents with practiced ease. Cheyne noted that the smell would have been overpowering had it not been for the blue cloud of shirrir hanging in the air. For another quarter of a mile, while Cheyne picked bits of onion skins and melon rind from his hair, Og navigated a trail through a maze of ancient garbage dumps, dice games, and shirrir parlors to bring them up to what had to be the worst-looking shop on the worst-looking side of the worst-looking back street in all of the city. Gaudy pastel paint peeled away from the walls of the stucco buildings and the high, irregular, windows had lost their glazing centuries ago. Piles of crates and other junk loomed over the alley doorway, as if garbage from all over the Barca had been deposited there for months.

In the midst of all this, Cheyne noticed a Fascini sedan, its purple fringe rippling as the Neffian slaves broke into a quick march. They pulled away from the front of the shop just as Og knocked softly in an intricate pattern on the heavy wooden back door.