“So you're deeper into the banking business,” Mom said to Dad.
“Looks that way,” he agreed.
“Anything else in the pouch? Hope, maybe? “ Liz had been studying Greek mythology, and it rubbed off.
“I'll find out.” Her father reached inside. He pulled out a folded sheet of paper. It was modern, not from the Old Time. Ironically, that meant it would last better. It wasn't cheap wood pulp that started turning brown the day it got made. Instead, it came from old rags, the way paper had when it was just invented.
As Dad turned it over, Liz saw a wax seal and some upside-down writing on the other side. “What does it say?” she asked.
“ 'Open only if you know I'm dead,'“ Dad answered.
“Are you going to pay attention to that?” Mom asked.
He thought about it, then nodded. He didn't look very happy, though. “I guess I am,” he said. “ Cal might come back and get his stuff.”
“Yeah, and then you wake up.” Mom wasn't sarcastic very often, but she could be dangerous when she let fly.
As if to underscore what she said, bursts of gunfire came from the north-from not nearly far enough away. Screams said somebody'd been wounded. Running feet and galloping hooves added to the racket outside. As far as Liz could tell, they were all going from north to south. If those weren't more Westsiders getting out while the getting was good, Liz would have been amazed.
“See?” Mom said.
Dad spread his hands, palms up. “This is now. Who knows what things will look like next year, or even next week? Maybe the Valley's machine gun will break down. Maybe it'll run out of ammo. Or maybe the Westsiders will scrounge one of their own. Cal won't be happy if he comes back and finds out we've been snooping.”
“You're no fun,” Liz 's mother said. “Besides, can't we match the seal and put it back so he never finds out we peeked?”
“It's not as simple as you make it sound,” Dad answered. Liz happened to know he was right. Sealing wax was low-tech, which didn't make it a bad security device. Oh, you could beat it. If you took a mold of the existing seal before you broke it, you could replace it with one that looked the same. If you didn't put the replacement in just the same spot, though, somebody with sharp eyes or a suspicious nature could tell what you'd been up to.
“Hold it!” Somebody out there yelled. Was that the nasal whine of a Valley accent? The man went on, “Don't you move, or you'll be sorry!”
Somebody must have moved, because a musket boomed a second later. And an anguished cry from right in front of the house said whoever had moved was sorry now.
“Search that man!” ordered the fellow who'd warned against moving.
“For sure, Sergeant!” That had to be a Valley soldier talking. They were here in Westwood Village, then. Cal had got out just in time. A moment later, the soldier said, “He's got silver!”
“Well, save me my share,” the sergeant said.
“I wouldn't hold out on you-honest.” The soldier sounded offended.
“Okay, Dan. Keep your shirt on.” The sergeant, by contrast, seemed to be doing his best not to laugh. He went on, “That guy need a doctor?”
“Nope,” Dan answered. “You got him in the neck, and he's dead. Nice shot.”
“Thanks.”
They both seemed casual about death. How much of it had they seen before? How much had they dealt out? Liz 's stomach did a slow lurch as she thought about that.
And then her heart leaped into her mouth, because the soldier- Dan -was banging on the front door and yelling, “Open up! Open up in the name of King Zev!”
Four
“Open up!” Dan shouted. “Open up in the name of King Zev!”
He didn't know what he would do if the people inside didn't. He couldn't shoot through the door, not with a bow and arrows. The windows were narrow, shuttered slits. Like most modern houses, this one rejected the street. It would have a courtyard inside from which to draw light and air.
He might start a fire if the people inside proved stubborn. That would fix them. Trouble was, it might fix them too well- them and all their neighbors, and maybe the Valley soldiers, too. Starting fires was easy. Putting them out once they got going… That was a different story.
Back in the Old Time, there'd been underground pipes full of water. The pipes were still there. The water wasn't. You couldn't fight fires with buckets and cisterns, not if you expected to win. Everybody dreaded them.
And so Dan dropped any thought of arson, even if he was in the enemy's country. He banged on the door again, louder this time. “Open up!”
Sergeant Chuck had a gun. He could fire through the door if he felt like it. Would he? Dan doubted it. Why should this house be more important than any of the others around here?
Then, to Dan 's surprise, the door opened. A middle-aged man with glasses-not common these days, but not unknown- looked out at him. “Yes?” the fellow said in a mild voice. “What do you want?”
“Uh-” Dan felt foolish, which was putting it mildly. He'd been making noise and acting tough-that was all.
Chuck knew what was what. He pointed his musket at the local and growled, “Who are you? What have you got in there?”
“My name is Mendoza,” the man with the glasses answered. “I'm a trader. I'm a peaceable man. I don't want any trouble. All kinds of things are here. If you want them, take them. Things are just-things. They aren't worth getting killed over. I won't try to fight you.”
“Like you could,” Dan said scornfully.
But Sergeant Chuck was thoughtful. “He might cause trouble if he felt like it, Dan,” he said. Then he spoke straight to the trader: “You've seen the elephant once or twice, I expect.”
“Could be,” Mendoza said. “I've fought bandits. Not a lot of traders who haven't. But only a fool or a desperate man takes on soldiers.”
“Especially after they've won,” Chuck said.
“Yes, especially then,” the trader agreed. “So come in-you would anyhow.” He stepped aside. “Take what you want-you'd do that anyhow, too.”
His voice still easy and calm, the sergeant went on, “Suppose we don't just feel like plundering? Suppose we still feel like killing?” Dan didn't, and looked at Chuck in surprise. He'd had his fill of killing for a long time, maybe forever. But if the sergeant hadn't…
“I hope you won't, not in cold blood,” Mendoza replied, a certain bleak calm in his voice. “But if you do, well, if that wouldn't make me a desperate man, I don't know what would.”
How dangerous would he be in a fight? Maybe more dangerous than he seemed at first glance. He was worried, plainly. He might well be afraid. But he wasn't panicked-that seemed obvious. And anybody who could keep his head in a tight spot could cause a lot of trouble.
Was Sergeant Chuck making the same calculation? If he brought up his musket now, what would Mendoza do? What could the trader do?
Two or three more soldiers from the Valley pushed up behind Dan and Chuck. That made everybody relax. The trader might have had some chance against two men. Against so many more? Not a prayer, and he had to know it.
He did. With a sigh, he said, “Well, come on. Here's what I've got. I hope you'll leave me something when you're through.”
“You stay here, Jerry,” Chuck told one of the new arrivals. “Guard the door. Don't let anybody else in.” Jerry didn't look happy. Chuck slapped him on the back. “Don't get all bent out of shape, man. We'll share with you, and you won't get any less than these guys.” He didn't say anything about what he would get himself. He was a sergeant, so he was entitled to more. If you didn't believe it, you just had to ask him.
But his promise did make Jerry happy-or happier, anyhow. “Okay, Sarge. I guess that's fair,” he said.