As Jerry pushed through the door from bright sunlight into cool dimness, he saw that the tables had been pushed aside. Two large, naked, and oiled men stood locked together, straining, heaving, and grunting like some monumental sculpture wired for sound— Sven and Marcus. Six or seven others stood around them, cheering, jeering, and commenting; some dressed, some not. The lessons in Greek wrestling were still underway, then, and surprisingly, Killer had his clothes on.
Then the newcomer was spotted. “Wand!” shouted a voice. Sven went hurtling through the air and crashed to the floor; Marcus yelled in triumph; everyone else raced over to Jerry and surrounded him.
Inevitably Killer was first and for just a moment he stood on his toes with his hands out, eyes shining, ready to grab the wand. Then he noted Jerry’s battle costume and the gleam in his eye and the shoulder bag. So this was not merely a messenger from the Oracle; the wand was not for him. His eager expression became guarded, his fingers relaxed, and he settled back on his heels, looking then, as he usually did, as though he had been built on the spot by the people who did Stonehenge.
Killer was broad and thick, easily the shortest man present, as well as the youngest. His curly black hair flopped loosely above a face boyishly smooth, yet clouded by a perpetual blue beard-shadow and marred by a red scar on his right temple. At present it also showed a fading black eye and a badly crushed nose. He folded his hands to indicate calmness— the wrists showing below the hem of his cloak were as thick as boots— and he grinned hugely, revealing a ragged collection of broken, missing, and half-grown teeth.
“How many?” he demanded.
“One,” Jerry said cautiously. “You were limping.”
He sensed the surge of disappointment all around him, but he also noted the wary flicker in Killer’s eye.
“Twisted my ankle,” Killer said. “I got to you first, didn’t I?” It was rare to see him on the defensive. Certainly he had reached Jerry first— but he had been facing the door, and, while his morals, ethics, motives, and sanity were frequent subjects of debate in his absence, no one ever questioned his reflexes. Jerry glanced thoughtfully around the other faces, trying vainly to read their opinions, then turned his attention back to Killer.
“A very short message,” he said. ” ‘Take a wagon and a staunch friend and clothes for one.’ “
Surprise.
“So?” Killer demanded. No one else spoke. Shortest and youngest, yet the undisputed leader.
Jerry made his decision— not that he had ever doubted what it would be— and shrugged. “You interested?” he asked. Killer rattled the armor collection with a titanic whoop, grabbed him in a life-threatening hug, and kissed him.
Killer was like that.
The others prized the winded Jerry loose and shook his hand warmly, their grips all gritty from the sand used in Greek wrestling. They smelled of sweat and oil and somehow of disappointment, but their concern and their good wishes were sincere, and the unfamiliar attention made him squirm.
Killer squeezed Sven’s massive, oiled, hairy arm. “Put off the game till I get back?” he demanded.
Sven nodded and grinned. Because of his size he looked much more ferocious than Killer, but in his case a little of it was bluff. His monstrous red-gold beard opened in a grin. “Get you then,” he said.
Killer’s hand settled on Jerry’s shoulder. “Planning a game of mayhem. Want you on my team.” Jerry tried to suppress a shudder and a sickening feeling in his stomach. “Sure,” he said… and saw Killer’s amusement. “Something to look forward to,” he added; Marcus and Tig both laughed. Probably no one but Killer truly enjoyed mayhem, but to refuse would be to resign from his friendship. A boar hunt would be a cocktail party compared to mayhem.
“Ivan?” Killer said, wheeling around. “Tell Will and Aku I’ve gone? Sven, you handle the fencing, will you? And, Tig, get some tusks for me?” Tiglath’s white teeth gleamed in the middle of the biggest, darkest mass of hair in Mera; normally only his bullet-hole eyes and hooked nose showed in that Ninevehian jungle. “You catch your own,” he said.
Killer laughed and turned his own motley tooth-collection on Jerry again. “Let’s move!”
“You need to go home first?” Jerry asked. “Anything you need?” Killer shook his head. Jerry should have known— Killer would shave with a dagger if necessary and either help himself to Jerry’s toothbrush or use a twig. He wore unobtrusive gray-green colors on principle, and no one traveled lighter.
“How about your wife?” Marcus asked gruffly.
Killer shrugged. “One of you tell her,” he said and led the way to the door.
Two
A walk through Mera was normally a leisurely sequence of conversations. The streets were mostly walkways paved in red granite, liberally furnished with benches and shade trees and planters. They wound casually among stores and houses and outdoor cafes, between walls of the same granite or red brick or pink marble. They jogged unexpectedly up or down staircases and they constantly offered up familiar faces as a mountain stream throws out logs.
Although Killer was a head shorter than Jerry, he now chose to set a murderous pace— obviously to demonstrate that there was nothing wrong with his ankle— and the other pedestrians, observing the speed, the wand which Jerry carried, and the sweat which Killer’s agony was pouring down his face, all contrived to reduce their greetings. They nodded or smiled to Jerry, grinned or frowned at Killer.
In the bright sunshine, Killer’s curls were unmistakably midnight-blue. Taking him on as an assistant, Jerry discovered, was like hiring a hurricane to clean a fireplace. He behaved himself moderately well in the haberdashers’, not interfering as Jerry obtained a middle-size suit of clothes from the loquacious, gracious Madame Chi— preferring, rather, to corner the little Hittite assistant with the unpronounceable name, reduce her to brilliant blushes and shrill giggles by reminiscing loudly on what the two of them had been doing three nights back, and extract a promise that they would do it all again, and more, as soon as he returned.
But then their path led down Jeweler’s Lane to West Gate and the stables, and that was another matter. He began by enrolling the farrier and two grooms for his mayhem team, which would surely leave the place shorthanded for several days afterward. He rejected with obscenities several geldings suggested by Wat the Hostler, insisting that they had all been overworked that morning, and without consulting Jerry at all, he demanded to see a certain little bay mare which he well knew was Wat’s current favorite.
“That one’s reserved!” Wat snapped. Killer pointed at the horse trough.
Wat glanced around in the vain hope that his men would interfere. “You take good care of her, then,” he growled— rumor claimed that Killer had once held him underwater for fifteen minutes.
Killer ordered Rab the stableboy to lead out the mare and went over her like an art expert examining a suspect da Vinci, from teeth to tail, from ears to shoes, ending by feeling her legs very carefully, also fondling Rab’s legs in passing. Finally he announced that the mare would pass and he would take the mare then, and Rab when he got back. Rab smirked as though that were an honor.
Killer then turned his attention to the problem of transport, mocking Jerry’s choice, insulting Wat’s, and making a halfhearted, semihumorous attempt to convince Jerry that a Roman racing chariot would qualify as a wagon. He quickly made his own selection and attended to the harnessing himself. Jerry had only to jump aboard as Killer drove the vehicle out of the yard, with the best wishes of the hands ringing in their ears.