He looked as powerful as his horse.

The giant wasted no time. “I’m looking for hire as a fighting man.”

Gozzi wasn’t surprised. His eyes had noted the line of sword callus on the man’s right hand, like a ridge of horn from thumb to the end of the index finger, better developed than he had ever seen before. As for scars, he wore an ugly one on his left thigh, probably from an arrow, plus a trivial crease on the right bicep, but nothing more. Either he was inexperienced or very good, and the merchant was willing to bet that he was very good indeed.

“I’ve never heard that accent before,” Gozzi said. “Where are you from?”

“From Svealann, a country of broad forests and great fighters.” He grinned when he said it.

Gozzi sucked his upper lip thoughtfully. “Never heard of it,” he said. “Suppose I tell you I have all the men I need?”

“One seldom has too many really good men. And you have one less man than you broke camp with this morning.”

“You killed one of my men?”

The stranger shrugged. “He attacked when I only wanted to ask a question. And consider: I’ve saved you his pay and brought you a better man to replace him.”

“One of the others still should have spotted him before he got this far,” the caravan master said.

“And might have, if I’d been an armed band. But there are many low places where the grass grows tall, and my horse lies down on command. And perhaps your scouts were thinking about other things.”

“You’re hired,” Gozzi said abruptly. “But not as an outrider. Outriders must be men you trust.” He nodded to the caravan master. “He will ride beside the wagons.”

Except to water the horses, the caravan didn’t stop again until the sun was low in the west.

“Svealann? Never heard of it.” The speaker was a smallish sinewy man with a short brown beard parted on the left cheek and jaw by a scar. “They must grow them big there.”

“Some big, some small.”

“And you’re one of the little ones?”

The group of mercenaries broke into loud laughter.

Nils smiled easily. “I’m big in any company. Bigger in some than in others.”

“What do you mean by that?”

The tone was belligerent. The man who asked was almost as tall as Nils, with shoulders muscled nearly to his ears. An outrider, he’d been scowling since they had made camp and he’d first seen the newcomer. Trazja had always been the biggest, wherever he was, and the strongest, and he had always dominated, from his first service as a mercenary when he’d been but seventeen.

Nils shrugged, and his very nonchalance antagonized the big Montenegrin. “Here!” Trazja held out his waterbag. “It’s empty! Fill it!”

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.