The Zenith laughed and released Mark. They were ringing him again, tighter now so that he couldn't duck through them.
"Look, I'm going to tell you what, punk," Griggs said. "I don't like cute boys, and I'll bet you don't like real men. So I'm going to let you punch me, just as hard as you can. And then I'm going to punch you. That seem fair?"
Mark slipped the hypnagogue into a side pocket. This isn't really happening… But of course it was.
"Sir, can't I buy you a drink?" Mark said, praying that his voice was steady.
"He had his chance, boss," a Zenith said. "Slug him."
Mark grimaced and with all his strength punched Griggs on the jaw. The shock went all the way to Mark's shoulder. His hand hurt as if he'd slammed it in a car door.
Griggs shook his head. All four Zeniths laughed uproariously.
"Your turn, Griggsie!" a rough said gleefully.
Mark stood stiff, his hands at his sides. His eyes were open, though nothing they saw was penetrating to his brain. All Mark had left was his dignity as a gentleman of Quelhagen. Griggs would take that from him at any moment, but Mark wasn't going to give it up by screaming or flailing uselessly at the Zeniths.
"Let's see what the little guy had for breakfast, hey fellers?" Griggs said. He drew back a big scarred fist to swing at Mark's belly.
"Let's not," Yerby Bannock said from behind Griggs. Mark's eyes focused. Bannock grabbed the two bigger Zeniths by the neck and slammed their heads together.
The impact sounded like a maul hitting a tree trunk. The men dropped. They couldn't have been more limp if Bannock had sucked all the bones from their bodies.
One of the remaining Zeniths put his hand into his jacket pocket. Bannock caught his wrist, then reached into the pocket himself. He came out with a shiny pistol. He dropped it on the floor while the rough punched vainly at him.
For illumination at night, the caravansary mounted light sconces above the doorways of alternate pairs of rooms. Bannock transferred his grip to the scruff of the would-be gunman's neck and carried him toward the nearest sconce.
The fourth Zenith snatched at the fallen pistol. Mark hit him over the head with the metal bucket. It rang echoingly in the big domed room.
Bannock hung the back of his man's jacket over the light sconce, then stepped away. The fellow squalled and kicked violently, seven feet in the air. He could get free easily enough by slipping his arms out of the sleeves, but he'd be very lucky not to land on his head when he dropped.
The man Mark had hit turned slowly toward him. He held the pistol, but his eyes were glazed. Mark stepped back and with all his strength swung the bucket overhead. It bonged and bounced from the fellow's skull. The Zenith remained standing.
"Better hit him again, kid," Bannock suggested. "They don't give no points for neatness in a brawl."
"No," Mark gasped. He was exhausted. His right hand throbbed so fiercely from punching Griggs that he had to let go of the bucket's vibrating handle. "I can't."
I won't. The Zenith bled from a cut scalp. His face streamed blood. It made Mark sick to look at him.
"Well, it's your choice," Bannock said. He took off his poncho. Bannock didn't look particularly worked up, but he'd popped all the buttons of his leather vest.
The Zenith's eyes rolled up. He dropped the pistol and fell over beside it.
Mark set the bucket on the floor. He had to brace himself on it before he could straighten up. Rage and fear had wrung more of the strength out of him than physical effort had, though he'd swung the bucket with everything he had. The thick metal was dished in as though a vehicle had driven over it.
"Know where this lot bunks, lad?" Bannock said as he lifted Griggs and the other big man by their collars.
"They're in thirty-seven, sir," Mark said. He took a deep breath. "Beside me."
Bannock walked toward Room 37, dragging the unconscious Zeniths. "You've learned a valuable lesson, lad," he said. "Don't you never hit a man with your bare hand unless your feet are nailed to the floor of an empty room."
He looked over his shoulder, smiled, and added, "And particularly don't hit him on the jaw. You can hurt yourself bad that way."
"I think I did," Mark muttered. He could still flex his right hand, though. It hurt like blazes and had already started to swell, but he guessed he hadn't actually broken anything.
Bannock dropped the roughs in front of their door and looked at the lock. "Just the sort of trash you'd figure no-hopers from Zenith to be using," he sneered.
He gripped the padlock with one huge hand and twisted. A piece of the hasp flew off with a snap and pinged nervously on the floor.
Bannock tossed the remainder of the lock after it. Mark gaped. A force of nature, all right.
Bannock pulled the door open, reached down, and threw Griggs inside. He tossed the other big man after the first, then sauntered over to where Mark's victim lay. The door stood wide behind him.
"I used to be real good at this," Bannock said regretfully. He lifted the flaccid Zenith by the belt, his center of balance. "I've slowed down, though, and I don't know when the last time I cleaned out a tavern was."
Bannock lofted the unconscious man ten feet through the air. He vanished into Room 37, landing with a crash among his fellows and the Mayor's baggage.
The remaining Zenith stopped struggling. He hung rigid from the light sconce, obviously terrified of drawing further attention to himself.
"Thank you very much, Mr. Bannock," Mark said. He didn't have his voice quite under control. There were too many hormones surging through his bloodstream. "Your help was a, a godsend."
"Tsk," said Bannock, slamming the door of Room 37. "I appreciate the chance to bring dirt from Zenith to a better understanding of their place in the universe."
He looked around and murmured, "Now, what'll we-yeah, that'll do nicely."
The corner of a heavy cart had cracked the doorpost of a nearby room. Over the years, further impacts and water seeping into the weak places had flaked off most of the concrete covering a reinforcing rod. Bannock scuffed the rod with his boot heel to twist it out from the wall. He bent, gripped the end of the three-eighths-inch steel, and jerked it fiercely back and forth until a foot of it snapped off in his hand.
"Whooee!" Bannock said, juggling the rod one palm to the other. "Tell me that don't heat metal up, working that way!"
He thrust the rod over Room 37's strap and through the staple, then bent the rod into a loop. The room was sealed until somebody cut the rod. Or somebody as strong as Yerby Bannock straightened the steel out again, which seemed about as likely as a sunny day on Dittersdorf Major.
Bannock dusted his hands together. He grinned up at the man on the light sconce. The Zenith pretended to be catatonic, squeezing his eyes more tightly shut.
"Sir, you're amazingly strong!" Mark blurted.
"Ah, but you're the one who opened the dishes so I didn't have to tear the box apart, lad," Bannock said, though he was obviously pleased at the compliment. "Amy couldn't have been happier to see the plates, neither. Said she'd heard of such but never thought she'd see it for herself."
Mark saw the pistol glittering on the concrete. He picked it up and looked at it curiously. The short barrel ended in a needle spike.
Bannock shook his head. "Nerve scrambler," he said. "Not supposed to kill you, but this one likely would anyhow seeing's it's such a piss-poor piece of junk. Don't you mess with it, lad."
He took the scrambler from Mark, held it momentarily in both hands, and twisted. Bits of the weapon showered to the floor.
"How did you do that?" Mark said.
Bannock shrugged. "Well," he said, "you want to make sure you don't have your hand over the barrel because sometimes they go off. Time or two I was too drunk to remember that."