Odikweos fought not to gasp in astonishment at the exotic loveliness. The other was short, with skin the color of fine amber and hair raven-dark. Above a tiny nose and impossibly high cheekbones her eyes slanted, with a fold at their outer tips. Who had ever seen the like?

And a wisewoman as well. She washed her hands in water and some sharp-smelling liquid that her attendants brought, examined the wound, then spoke in a sharp, nasal-sounding foreign language.

"Speak Achaean, Alice," Walkeearh said. "We have a guest."

"That needs some stitches," she said, then bent to examine the warrior with the wounded leg. "I'll have to debride this-that'll take a while. Kylefra, Missora"-that to two young woman who looked alike enough to be sisters-"get him to the infirmary, and prep him, stat."

Walkeearh stifled a gasp when she swabbed out his wound, then set his teeth and ignored it as she brought out a curved needle and thread and began sewing the wound together, as if it were cloth.

"Sit, be at ease," he said tightly. "This is my captain of guards, Ohotolarix son of Telenthaur." A big yellow-haired man, young but tough-looking. "And my wives Ekhnonpa"-the fair woman-"and Alice Hong. Ladies, here's Odikweos son of Laertes, who probably saved my life tonight."

Odikweos bowed his head politely. Ekhnonpa spoke to Ohotolarix in a strange, almost-familiar language, then thanked him in slow, accented Achaean.

Hong kept at her work. Strange name, he thought. Is she human? Perhaps she was a dryad, something of that sort-certainly this Walkeearh was otherwordly enough to wed an Otherworlder. When the wound was closed, she painted more of the clear liquid on it and then bandaged it, securing the pad with a roll of linen around her man's chest and over a shoulder.

"Don't strain it," she said. "I'll go look at Velararax now, after I touch up that ear of your friend's."

Odikweos made himself sit still as she came up beside him. "This is going to hurt a little," she said. No, human enough, he thought; she smelled like a well-washed woman roused from her bed. The fingers touched his ear, and then something stung like liquid fire.

"Here, Lord Odikweos," she said. "That will heal cleanly."

When the women had left, a grave housekeeper brought basins of water to wash their hands and trays of food, bread and sliced meats, olives and dried figs. While she mixed the wine half-and-half with water and poured it into fine gold cups, Walkeearh shrugged into another tunic, moving cautiously.

"My thanks again," he said. "The gods witness"-

He poured a libation, but-curiously-not on the floor. Instead he used a pottery bowl with a rush mat inside it. Courteous, Odikweos did the same; it was always best to honor a man's household customs.

– "that I and mine are in your debt."

"May we fight again side by side someday," Odikweos said. That wasn't unlikely, given the coming war. "Who were your foes? Men sent by some rival?"

Walker smiled. "I have enough of those," he said.

"True, you've risen far among us in only one winter," he replied. "Far and fast, for an outland man." He looked around the curiously altered hall.

"And where one man rises, other men envy and hate," Walkeearh said. Odikweos nodded; that went without saying. "You're in Mycenae for the muster against Sicily?"

He tossed his head in affirmation. "My men and horses are camped outside the city," he said. "We came by sea to Tiryns. I've a guest-friend here and sought his dwelling, but he has blood-kin sleeping like the ribs of a sheep on the floor of his hall, and I was leaving again to seek my tent."

"Stay here," Walkeearh said. "There's room in plenty, despite the war."

Odikweos nodded, smiling. That was just what he'd hoped. "I will take the hospitality you offer gratefully," he said. Curious to see how this Walkeearh would react, he went on, "Although I'd be even gladder to be sleeping beside my own wife, at home. If this was a war against other Achaeans, I would have found some way to refuse the summons."

Walkeearh smiled, an odd lopsided expression. "Pretending to be mad, perhaps?"

Odikweos laughed. "You have a godlike wit. Perhaps so, perhaps so. Well, there may be plunder in this war, at least."

You had to be more careful when the hegemon called his vassals for aid against a foe or rebel, of course; dodging that call looked too much like rebellion itself. He had no desire to see the black hulls of a hundred hollow ships drawn up on the beach before his home.

The foreigner didn't bluster about glory. Instead he nodded thoughtfully. "Spoken like a man of cunning mind," he said. "When men who should be vassals of the same high king war with each other, the realm is weakened."

Odikweos blinked; that hadn't been exactly what he meant… although when you thought about it, the idea made some sense in an odd, twisty way. "Certainly the king of men won't get much tribute from the dead," he agreed. "And besieging a strong city-well, the arrow of far-shooting Paiwon Apollo rain down on such a camp." There was always sickness when too men stayed in one spot for long.

"Leaving the realm weaker if outsiders attack, as I said."

Ah. A real thought. "I know of none such who threaten the Achaean lands," Odikweos said. "Although the Narrow Sea north of my holdings swarms with pirates these days. Many more than in my grand-sire's time; of course, we do more trade there, too."

"And the savages hear of the wealth of the Achaeans," Walker pointed out. He yawned, then winced. "It's time for sleep."

"It is good to yield to drowsy night," Odikweos agreed.

The housekeeper showed Odikweos to a room, offering to have a bath drawn first if he wished.

"Tomorrow," he said, looking instead at the lamp she carried.

It lit the dark corridor off the megaron well; a tall wax candle in a bronze holder with a handle, with another bulb of the beautiful crystal-like substance around it. The bulb keeps a draught from making the flame flicker or blowing it out, he thought. Clever, very clever.

"What is that called, that crystal?" he asked.

"It is called glass, lord," she said, looking surprised at his curiosity. "I know little of these things, but I heard the master say it was made from sand, in fire."

This man must be beloved of Hephaistos, the Achaean thought. He'd seen beads of glass, from the eastern lands, but nothing like this. Nor is he shunned by Ares Enuwarios, either. An odd combination, the gods of craftsmen and of war.

They came to a bedchamber; unusually, it had a door of wood rather than an embroidered curtain. Another candle on a table beside the bed gave light. The girl waiting within turned down the blankets… another new thing, Odikweos thought. Over the mattress was a sheath of linen fine enough for a lady's undergown, and another atop it, beneath the blankets and sheepskins.

The mixer and wine cup beside the bed were usual enough. He filled the cup as he stripped and sat on the bedside. The girl unbuttoned the shoulders of her gown, stepped out of it, and waited with her hands clasped and eyes cast down; young and comely, with good breasts and hips. He patted the bedside, and instead of mounting her at once gave her unwatered wine.

"Tell me your name, little dove," he said.

She gave him a grateful smile and sipped. He smiled back at her. Odikweos son of Laertes was a man of medium height, his hair black with reddish glints and his eyes hazel, his face still unlined despite a weathered bronze tan.

"I am called Alexandra, master," she said shyly. With an accent, so that was probably not the name she'd been born with.

"I don't think you are a repeller of men, though," he said, punning on her name, for that was its strict meaning. The male form, Alexandras, made more sense.

She laughed, and he spent some time soothing her before he put his hands to her waist and urged her back, which made her ready to welcome him. Afterward they talked more, and it was easy to lead her mind.