Now everyone noticed the transformation— there were screams and shouts. Carlo had his eyes open, looking dazed and confused, but unwounded and unbloody. The onlookers fell into an uneasy silence.
“Helga?” Jerry said. “You have some spare clothes? Clio? See if you can find some water.” He knelt down beside Carlo. “Relax,” he said. “You’ll be okay in a minute.”
“The gate is open!” Tig exclaimed, pointing.
Not only was North Gate open, but a stream of citizens was pouring out of it, too far off to recognize, but obviously preparing to welcome the hero.
Killer was scowling down at Carlo. “Hades!” he muttered. “I can’t have him skinned now, can I?” He glanced around and spoke loudly to regain his friends’ attention. “Who shall ride beside me when we make our entry? Jerry! You shall have the honor!” Jerry rose and shook his head. “I’m in disgrace. Ariadne, obviously.” Killer frowned like a thunderstorm.
“Not me, thanks,” Ariadne said. She looked over at the growing crowd. “No, Killer, let Clio ride beside you.” He was astonished. “Clio?” he said scornfully. “What’s she done? Why Clio?”
“Because she’s your wife,” Ariadne shouted, “and no decent man would think twice!” Nobody spoke to Killer like that.
“She has a point!” Jerry said hastily, moving to put himself between her and the deadly raised wand, the clenched fist. The fiery glare swung on him, and he braced himself for the shattering impacts, knowing he could never be fast enough to block them. Then, astonishingly, Killer spun on his heel and stalked away— hopefully to get dressed. The onlookers relaxed with an audible sigh like the sound of wind in straw.
Jerry knelt by Carlo again to hide his trembling.
Ariadne crouched down beside him. “Jerry… thanks! But he wouldn’t have… would he?”
“Why don’t you ask Clio?” he muttered, and helped Carlo sit up.
More surprise— Killer did order Clio up to the driver’s bench beside him, and her youthful face glowed with the joy of summer dawns.
A double line of citizens cheered them to the gate, with Killer standing up, holding reins in one hand and the wand in the other, accepting the applause with juvenile glee, and taking his time.
Even inside the city, the jubilation continued. There were, usually, only two real wagon roads in Mera— Wall Road, which ran around the perimeter, and Main Street, which spiraled up the hill to the house of the Oracle. It was this way they followed, rumbling along slowly while citizens came running alongside to cheer. Jerry had returned to his former seat at the back, with Ariadne close beside him, and he was astonished at the number of people who wanted to welcome him back also, trotting by the wagon and reaching up to shake his hand, standing on their doorsteps or in their storefronts to lift their caps in greeting and call his name. He was kept busy, for at the same time he was trying to keep up a commentary for Ariadne, aware that he was babbling with excitement, taking as much pride as if he had created Mera all by himself, and also seeing a little of it freshly through her eyes.
“Notice how old it is?” he said. “Ancient, in some parts, a terrible jumble really, and yet it all seems so bright and new, as though it had just been put together by a planning commission.”
“Not a committee!” she answered, smiling. “By a great artist, perhaps. It’s beautiful. Who cleans the streets?”
“They clean themselves, I think, like the clothes,” he said. “But if I think Fishermen’s Walk needs a polish, I go out with a broom, and others do the same. There’s the Concert Plaza— we don’t go in for halls in Mera, because of the weather— recitals and ballet and plays. I had a part in a Sophocles Festival that Clio organized, and Shakespeare is much better here, where you can get all the shades of meaning…” He pointed out the art stores, most of them run by the artists, the cafes run by the good chefs, and some of his closer friends. “Look, Maisie, there’s Father Julius that I told you about.” He commented on some of the houses and the people who lived in them, noticing for the first time in decades that among the crowds of all races, the old, the middle-aged, and the young— them were no children. Then…
“There! There, in the sidewalk cafe!” He lifted his cap in greeting, and the man rose and responded with a smile. “I told you you would recognize him.” She went pale, nodded, and whispered, “Mozart!”
“We don’t have many celebrities,” he said. “I think you’ll get on well with him— he doesn’t suffer fools. There’s old N’bana, my favorite witch doctor; Ali Al’iza — he used to be a slaver— and that woman was a priestess of the sun…” They passed Jewelers’ Lane, Farmers’ Market, and Poets’ Corner, and at last the crowds thinned out. They came to Hospital Court, where the road ended, and they all climbed down from the wagon, laughing and thanking Killer for the ride. Here they stood high above the city, on an open area flanked by great cypresses and the final little rocky crest of the hill, and he pointed out the low, airy building of the Hospital to her.
“It’s not needed, of course,” Jerry said, “except for people like Killer, who more or less has his own bed there; but healing is fastest up here, close to the Oracle and the center of faerie. No doctors, but a wonderful old couple look after the patients…” Ariadne took a deep breath of the fragrant air, the gentle breeze stirring her honey-colored hair and making it gleam in the sunshine. “And now we go to the Oracle?”
“Yes,” he said, “… in a little while.” Sven took the reins and turned the wagon. The other Merans wished them good luck and wandered back down the hill, following the jingling, creaking wagon, leaving Jerry and Killer and their four rescued mortals. Killer stood clutching his wand, putting on the brave front of a returning hero without being very convincing; Jerry was holding his boars’ tusk helmet.
Gillis seemed strangely good-humored, although looking absurdly out of place in his battered suit with his tie knotted loosely and his coat over his arm. Maisie clutched her husband with one arm and a shapeless bundle of pants and sweaters under the other and was obviously upset and worried. Carlo was slouching even more than usual and had apparently not bothered to recover his Outside garments.
“Let’s go see this Oracle of yours, then!” Gillis said. “I think I am owed some explantions and apologies and I am obviously not going to get them from you.” Jerry led the way to the steps. Ariadne held his arm and peered at him curiously as they went.
“You’re not looking forward to this, are you?” she asked.
Be honest. “No. A visit to the Oracle can be a very trying experience anytime,” he said. “And I did screw up badly.” They wandered up the gentle stairs until they reached the wide, flat expanse at the very top of Mera. Over in the center was a raised platform, supporting a high circle of huge rectangular slabs of pink granite, topped by a circle of similar slabs— Stonehenge. The pavement inside was empty. Ariadne, he supposed, was seeing polished columns, Maisie a red chapel “Let me show you the view first,” he suggested. “People come up here often, to sit and look and gossip, and if the Oracle wants to send a message, it calls one of them in.” There were indeed about a dozen people scattered around, some of them standing and leaning on the stone balustrade which ran all the way around, others sitting on the raised benches. They nodded politely and did not interfere— they could tell that these newcomers had come on business, and one thing which never failed in Mera was good manners. Except in a few people like Killer, of course.