“I must return your Divine Comedy,” Gervasse said. “Ah, thank you! Most kind! Your health, citizen… and your success.” Jerry put an arm on the mantelpiece and raised his glass, also. “Long life to you, citizen,” he said with a smile.
He was not going to ask. Dammit, he was not going to ask!
“I have been reading the learned Bishop Berkeley,” Gervasse propounded. “Yes, an excellent wine, Jerry, supple on the tongue… I must talk to Signor Ricardo. The matter of the tree that falls when there is no one to hear it— does it make a noise? You are aware of the problem?” Damnable old tease! “Of course,” Jerry said.
“I was wondering— what if there were two men present when the tree fell? One sees it and hears it. The other is deaf and has his back turned. Does that count as half a tree falling, do you suppose?” His eyes twinkled.
“Or a tree falling half way?” Jerry asked, carefully holding his relaxed pose against the fireplace.
Gervasse chuckled and then relented. “I have come, quite obviously, from the Oracle,” he said. “I was instructed to bring you a wand— and a message.” Jerry accepted the wand— a three-foot rod of ivory color, carved as though turned on a lathe. It had rings raised at intervals to help the grip and a small sphere at each end. A wand seemed an innocent and totally useless artifact, and yet when he grasped it he felt the famliar tingle of power against his palm and fingers. As always, he was surprised by its weight and its coldness; always, he wondered if it were made of stone. Alabaster? Or marble? Stone should be fragile in such a slender length, and yet he had seen a wand stop a broadsword and had himself once crushed a wolf’s skull with one.
He stared at it in silence, fighting down his excitement. Gervasse sipped his wine until finally Jerry met his eye. “A very short message,” he said.” ‘Take a wagon and a staunch friend and clothes for one.’ ”
“That’s it?”
“That, as you say, is it,” Gervasse agreed.
A rescue! Not merely Outside, but a rescue! The danger needle moved, therefore, up into an entirely different range. He was going to be playing in the First Division.
“Clothes for man or woman?”
“Didn’t say.”
It hardly mattered in Mera; half the women wore pants, and many men wore robes, and the difference was inconspicuous. Only twice had Jerry been sent a wand, and both missions had been trivial; but he had accompanied others Outside when they had carried the wand and needed companions. Three of those missions had been rescues. He suppressed the memories quickly, especially the memory of a certain fang-filled mouth opening in front of him, of demonic eyes above the fangs, and of Killer’s silver-tipped spear coming over his shoulder to slide between those massive jaws in the nick of time “And the staunch friend?” Gervasse asked, as the silence lingered.
“Killer.” Jerry answered automatically. He drained his glass, still thinking. An astonishingly brief message! The Oracle was usually more specific. And why take clothes? He had never heard of that instruction.
“Ah, yes.” Gervasse did not approve of Killer. “I saw him going into Sven’s as I was coming down.”
“Obviously he did not see you— or at least, not what you were bearing.”
“Eh, no.”
The fat man hesitated and then turned slightly pink. “I assume that he may be interrupted at Sven’s?”
Jerry laughed and went to fetch the decanter. “Certainly! He is coaching Sven in Greek wrestling. Why? Did you think he might be doing another sort of wrestling?” Gervasse enjoyed gossip like a village spinster, while professing to despise it. He turned much pinker and made incoherent noises.
“That’s all over, long ago,” Jerry said. “Killer collects scalps, that’s all.” Time did not matter. He could wait until tomorrow; he could even go on the boar hunt first. Face it— he would not sleep until he did go.
“Old friend, you will excuse me if I be about the Oracle’s business?” He laid the decanter beside his guest and accepted protestations that of course he must attend to business. Gervasse would drink half the Amontillado and take the full width of Fishermen’s Walk going home. And surely nothing in the next ten thousand years would ever persuade Gervasse to go Outside.
Jerry treated himself to a shave, using a straight razor to force steadiness back into his hand. He took a shower to show himself that he was not rushing, dragged a comb through his yellow hair. He ran up the spiral staircase to the upper room that served as his bedroom and a private retreat on the rare occasions when the library became too public for him. This, also, was large and had an even finer view of the harbor and half the city through its dormer windows. He had furnished it in a deliberate mishmash of styles and qualities as a counterpoint to the formal precision of the library, with a medieval four-poster next to a twentieth-century rosewood concert grand, and chairs from Colonial American to Louis Quinze. Yet the rare visitors admitted to this private place of his invariably commented first on the collection of helmets laid out on the piano— eight of them, from Fifth Dynasty Egyptian to Prussian, all kept well polished, and all authentic. Five had been gifts from Killer, three he had collected himself.
Tossing the wand on his bed, he rummaged at the back of the Victorian mahogany wardrobe, finding and donning his Outside clothes— khaki-green pants, less floppy and a fraction shorter than his others, and a matching cape. His shoulder bag was already packed and ready to grab. He pulled on the green cap and surveyed himself in the mirror; as usual, the outfit made him look like a tall, skinny Robin Hood. This time, though, he could see more stress lines than normal around his eyes, and that was bothersome— would Killer or the others notice those? He adjusted the cap to a jaunty angle and attempted a debonair smile… No, that made him look less scared and more terrified.
He could, he suppose, refuse the summons, but he knew of no one who ever had. He could not guess what might happen… perhaps nothing, perhaps the worst. He must ask some of the old-timers and find out if it had been done; probably the Oracle only issued orders it knew would be obeyed. Had it sensed boredom in Jerry Howard? Was that all this was— a shot of adrenaline to smarten his wits and improve his judgment? Why the hell should he have to take such risks for the sake of someone he had never met, who more than likely would spurn what he had to offer? Why— when citizens like Gervasse were left in peace?
Refuse then, coward.
He retrieved the wand and trotted down the stairs in his soft felt boots. Gervasse, glass in hand, was standing by the table, frowning into the The Scarlet Pimpernel.
He looked up, unabashed, and asked, “The Mandeville Bestiary? It’s out?” Jerry was already in his workshop. “Madame Buono, I think, or Guil-lamo— check the register.” He returned, shut the double doors, and stuck a note on them: GONE OUTSIDE— MAKE YOURSELF AT HOME— JERRY.
“Thanks, Gervasse.” He paused at the door. “If I’m more than a couple of days— see to the shelving for me, will you?” He hated to come back and find hundreds of homeless books waiting for him.
“Of course, dear boy,” Gervasse said. “Glad to. And good luck.” He blinked a few times and sent a concerned frown after Jerry as he vanished through the front door and padded down the steps to Fishermen’s Walk.
Sven’s house was a barnlike hall, dimly lit by high-set windows, smelling always of wood smoke from the great fireplace. It was filled with long tables and benches for feasting; his collection of swords, shields, and axes almost covered the walls. Large, smelly dogs snored happily in the corners, and there was always food piled on sideboards in case of unexpected famine— a model Valhalla.