Nils said nothing, and did not reach to take it. The command combined insult and threat, and there was something eerie about his utter lack of reaction to either. His smile did not fade nor widen nor go stiff; he seemed truly as relaxed as before.
“I am the overman here,” Trazja insisted, and shook the waterbag for emphasis.
“The caravan master is boss,” Nils answered. “He said nothing to me about any other.”
Trazja’s lips pursed with anger and his eyes became slits. “I am the overman among us by my strength, not by the say of some master. Ask any of these.” He motioned slightly with his head. “Ask any of them to deny I am the overman.”
The men watched bright-eyed with anticipation, saying nothing.
“Then tell one of them to bring your water.”
With an angry snarl, Trazja flung the leather bag at Nils’s chest. “Fill it!”
Nils’s posture changed slightly and his head moved with a small deliberate negative. When Trazja pounced, the blow that met him was quick but heavy; he dropped to the ground and did not move. The others stared, stunned at the sudden totality of it.
Nils bent, picked up the waterbag and held it out to another man. “Fill it for him,” he ordered. The man took it and trotted away toward the creek.
“You’d better kill him,” said the smallish man with the brown beard, nodding toward Trazja. “He’ll knife you now if he gets the chance.”
Nils shook his head. “Not him. He’d never knife a man from behind or in his sleep. If he tries to knife me it will be from the front, and with warning. That’s the kind of man he is.”
The caravan park was at the west edge of the City. Drivers and mercenaries stretched awnings beside the wagons, cursed the lack of other shade, and waited for Gozzi to find out whether or not they would be allowed to go into the City. They’d all heard how merchants were entertained there, and while none seriously imagined such things would happen to them, they hoped to find taverns and houses where exceptional experiences might be met.
They watched the merchants talking with two orc officers and their accountants, and cursed the waiting and the thirst. Finally they saw the bulk of Gozzi walking toward them, the caravan master at his side.
Gozzi knew mercenaries and did not deny them needlessly. So he told them the simple truth and let the orc reputation do the rest. They were free, he reported, to walk about the City as they wished.
But there were no taverns, none at all, and they were to enter no building. Also, they were forbidden to carry weapons. A foreigner found with even a small knife would be arrested, and there was nothing anyone could do for him then except to wish him a quick death. If they chose to enter the City they would have to depend on the street patrols for protection. But the orc officers had said frankly there was a good chance they’d be attacked by playful soldiers when no patrol was nearby.
Gozzi promised, however, to see if liquor and girls could be sent to them. He did not actually intend to ask about liquor. Alcohol and idle mercenaries were an imprudent mixture in a place like this.
Nils awoke when he’d intended. The lopsided moon had descended to about twenty degrees above the horizon. He rolled out of the light sleeping robe, rose, and walked casually but silently toward one of the enclosed sleeping wagons used by the merchants, parked somewhat away from the freight wagons.
Ottoro, companion and clerk to one of the merchants, slept alone tonight while his master was in the City. He awoke in near blackness to a large hand over his mouth, and his eyes bulged with fright until he remembered his promise. He nodded, was released, sat up and felt for his ink pot and quill, then ducked through the rear door. The giant mercenary squatted in the edge of the shadow, moonlight on his calm face, and carefully Ottoro inked five numerals on the man’s forehead.
When it was done the man stood, gripped the clerk’s thin shoulders in silent thanks, and left.
Ottoro watched him out of sight among the shadowed freight wagons, and shivered. He didn’t know what the giant had in mind but sensed it was dangerous. And he didn’t want him to die-that magnificent animal body, those calm eyes. He was the only one of the mercenaries that Ottoro wasn’t afraid of, the only one that neither leered nor sneered. The man had spoken to him but once, to ask this favor, yet Ottoro felt stricken at the thought he might never see him again.
Nils took a small bundle from his kit, strode quietly to the nearby latrine and sat cross-legged in the shadow behind it until the moon had set. Then silently he slipped through the blackness, out of the area and through a night-filled street to a nearby warehouse. Beneath a ramp he lay down. He’d waken again at dawn, or sooner if there was need.
In the warehouse district Nils was less conspicuous than might be expected; many warehouse slaves were large powerful men. In other respects they resembled most male slaves, with shaven scalps, tattooed foreheads, and unbleached cotton tunics. Slump-shouldered, expressionless, he had passed or circled every warehouse and granary on the riverfront before midmorning. Eyes, ears, and telepathic sense had been alert for any clue that Alpha was concealed in one of them. She wasn’t, and he felt she hadn’t been.
The arena seemed a possibility. Some of the beast pens might be large enough to hide a pinnace. If it wasn’t there, he would try the warehouses at the harbor.
Nils walked faster now, and before long glimpsed the palace through a cross street. The pinnace might also lie beneath an awning on one of its numerous roofs. He remained intent, scanning for clues.
The four orcs had just turned a corner when they noticed him ahead.
“Look at that,” one said pointing. “No slave ought to be that big. There’s no one in the whole cohort that big.”
“Yeah. Maybe we ought to shorten him.”
“Which end?”
“How about the middle?”
They laughed.
“Now listen, you dog robbers,” one of them warned, “take it easy. The brass has been getting mean about crippling slaves.”
“That’s right,” said another. “Don’t cut off anything that’s any good to anyone.”
They laughed again.
Although they were forty meters behind him, Nils had sensed their attention, and in a general way their intentions. He started diagonally across the broad street, not speeding up but heading now for the palace. Soldiers were unlikely to make a disturbance on the palace grounds. But the orcs had no reason to keep their pace slow, and they gained on him, grinning, their strides eager.
“Doesn’t look like a eunuch.”
“Not yet.”
Their laughter was husky with anticipation. Nils sensed how near they’d drawn. He’d never reach the palace without running, and running would draw deadly attention. He turned through a doorway. Had it been a barracks, he might possibly have been safe, for no one might have been there, and his pursuers would not have invaded the territory of a different cohort. But they recognized it as a building housing female slaves! It was unbelievable that the big bastard would do that; only orcs had freedom of entry.
The first two followed him in quickly. Nils, standing against the wall beside the door, struck the second, his heavy-bladed knife entering below the ear. There was a choking gasp, and the man’s partner, turning, had his ribs stove in by a calloused heel. A third orc blocked the doorway, pulling at his sword, then pitched backward, doubled, down the low steps. Nils emerged after him, with a sword now, and the fourth orc roared to see the slave cleave the fallen man. Very briefly they fought. When the man went down, Nils fled, while other shouting orcs ran toward him. Two blocked his way, then jumped aside when he didn’t stop, following in pursuit when he was past. He turned a corner and the palace lay across a square. Tossing the sword away he sprinted hard, dodged between two groups of slaves, then stopped abruptly in their lee.
Before him stood a street patrol, staring, nocking arrows or leveling pikes. The hard-faced officer with the small deadly smile was a telepath. His eyes were intent on Nils’s sweaty face with its numbers blurred and running as black rivulets down his face.