“You try and break me and I’ll kill you,” Jan told the bald man angrily.
“Shut up,” he said without looking at her. “Well, Buncher, what do you say?”
Buncher shook his head. “No way, Milo. Benny gave her to me. And I’m keeping her.”
The man called Milo sighed. “Well, that’s unfortunate, because I’m taking her, Buncher. And I want to take her with your blessing.” He sat down beside him on the dirty mattress and put his arm around the big man’s shoulders. Buncher tried to pull away. He looked alarmed. “None of your tricks, Milo. I know you. …”
Milo smiled sadly at him. “I don’t think so. But don’t worry, Buncher, no tricks. Just tell anyone who asks that the amazon was too much trouble and you gave her to me.”
“No,” said Buncher. He was still trying, and failing, to dislodge the smaller man’s arm from around his shoulders.
“Be reasonable,” said Milo in the same quiet tone of voice. “Do what I say and I’ll owe you a couple of favours. And you know how useful my favours are, don’t you, Buncher? On the other hand …” Milo’s grip tightened. Buncher winced. Jan saw his face go white and then the veins stood out on the sides of his thick neck. “You’re a sorcerer, Milo!” he gasped. “Everyone hates … you. We’ll kill you one day … you’ll see. …”
“How many times has it been tried? My safety rope has been cut three times and I’m still here, aren’t I, Buncher? Even the poison in my food didn’t work, and as for that clumsy attempt by Bronski in the latrine. …” Milo shook his head in mock sorrow. “I wonder whatever did happen to good old Bronski. But enough of nostalgia, back to the matter at hand.” His grip tightened. Jan heard something go snap inside Buncher. He made a high-pitched mewling sound then he nodded frantically. Milo let him go. Buncher shrank away from him and wrapped his long arms about himself as if he was cold.
“Take her, take her …” he muttered, not looking at Milo.
Milo smiled at him, and even Jan felt a shiver of unease as she sensed the wrongness of that smile. Perhaps Buncher was right; maybe this man Milo was a sorcerer.
Milo said, “And you will say, if anyone asks you, Buncher, that you gave me the girl of your own free will?”
“Yeah, I will. I swear it.”
“Good man.” Milo gave him an approving pat on the shoulder. Buncher flinched at his touch, Milo stood up and smiled at Jan. “We can go now.”
“I’m not going anywhere with you,” Jan told him.
“You want to stay here? With him?” Milo indicated the dazed Buncher, who continued to stare at the floor, his arms still wrapped about himself.
“No,” admitted Jan. “But I certainly don’t want to go anywhere with you.”
He sighed, then asked what her name was. She told him. “Well, Jan, be reasonable. You have no choice but to trust me. I’m your only chance of survival. I’ve already saved your life once. If you’d killed Buncher here the others would have torn you into pieces. And I mean that literally.”
“Why do you want to help me?”
“Because you can help me.”
“How?”
“That we can discuss in more private circumstances. Come on.” He held out his hand to her. After a long hesitation she said, “All right, I’ll go with you, but I warn you that if you try to touch me I’ll kill you.”
He smiled at her. “Long-lasting relationships have been established on even less romantic initial understandings.” He seemed to think he’d said something amusing but Jan didn’t get the joke.
His own cubicle was almost at the end of the long room. Compared to Buncher’s hovel it seemed immaculate. It had furniture too. A bed, a small table and a chair; all made of intricate wicker-work. The straw matting on the floor was relatively clean and there was no sign of any food scraps. There was even a painting on one of the ‘walls’. It was suspended from the cane rod that supported the cloth partition. It was a strange painting. It was a swirling jumble of colours that seemed to form a specific pattern but Jan couldn’t distinguish what it was. It was like seeing something out of the corner of your eye.
Milo sat down in the wicker chair, which creaked loudly, and gestured at the bed. She sat down cautiously, keeping her eyes fixed suspiciously on him.
“Relax,” he told her. “I’m not going to spring on you and rip your clothes off.”
“I know you’re not. You’d soon be dead if you tried.” She said this with a conviction she didn’t feel. After what she’d just witnessed in Buncher’s cubicle she knew she would be powerless against him.
He was obviously thinking the same thing because he seemed amused, then he said, “Poor little amazon, you’ve certainly been through the wars by the look of you. That’s a bad gash on your head. And that bruise on your cheek. Who gave you that? It’s fresh, isn’t it?”
She told him about the Sky Warrior punching her. He made a sympathetic sound. “Any other injuries apart from the visible ones?” he asked.
“Just some cuts on my arms and legs but they’ve stopped bleeding.”
“And what about internally? Any pains or other symptoms?”
“My stomach hurts,” she admitted. “It’s been sore ever since I threw up after that man Benny touched me with that pain stick.”
Milo scowled. “He used a razzle stick on you?”
“Yes. It was horrible. How does it work? Is it magic?”
“Of a kind.” He ran one of his hands over the top of his bald head as if brushing back hair. “Look,” he said, “I know quite a lot about medical matters. I could examine you if you like.”
Her guard, which she’d lowered slightly at his display of sympathy for her, immediately went up again. “I told you you’re not going to touch me. Not for any reason.”
“All right, all right,” he said hurriedly, holding up both hands to ward off an invisible blow. “Forget I said it, okay? Let’s change the subject to food and drink. Are you thirsty? When did you last eat anything.”
She was thirsty, and very hungry. Reluctantly she admitted as much to Milo. He went to a wicker chest similar to the one in Buncher’s cubicle and unlocked it. He took out a canteen and tossed it to her. It was half full of water. She drank from it greedily.
“Nothing fresh to eat, I’m afraid,” he told her as he rooted about in the chest. “How about some dried salt beef?”
She put down the canteen. “Is that meat?”
He gave her a quizzical look. “Let me guess. You’re a vegetarian.”
“Of course I am. All Minervans are ….” She paused. For a moment she’d forgotten that Minerva no longer existed.
Again he must have sensed what she was thinking, because he said gently, “I have some biscuits here. They’re quite nourishing. No meat in them.” He tossed over a small package. Her eyes brimming with tears she undid the greasy wrapping and took out one of the biscuits. It was crudely made but tasted fine.
As she was starting on a second biscuit Milo said, “Would it bother you too much to talk about what happened?”
She shook her head. “I’d like to.”
“First tell me something about Minerva. I confess I know little about its more recent manifestations; I’m only familiar with its historical origins. I’m even surprised you still speak basic Americano. I’d have thought you would have evolved your own feminist language by now.”
She frowned at him. Little of what he said made any sense to her. In the months to come she would find this a very familiar situation. “Minerva’s historical origins …? What do you mean?”