But we weren’t here for his curiosities and his objects of power. We were here for his weapons.
That was the only thing Jagger ever came for. When his own creations weren’t strong enough, he turned to the Merchant.
The mechanical sound of metal gears shifting was joined by a hydraulic hiss. The Merchant sat in a high-backed mechanical chair. It was bronze, or maybe gold. Who knew? The Merchant liked flash. The spokes on the wheels spun so quickly it looked like the flickering of a flame.
The device wasn’t always a chair. Sometimes, it folded in on itself and then separated to become two stands that bolstered the Merchant’s legs. Other times, it became a rolling sphere that hovered a foot above the ground, carrying him inside it like a gyrosphere. I was sure I hadn’t seen all the iterations. Usually, the Merchant sat in the chair, probably because it made him look like a king on his throne.
He maneuvered between Luvic and me, flashing us his trademark smile.
He looked about twenty—younger than me now—thin, with hollow cheekbones, wide-set brown eyes, and curly brown hair. The first time I’d met him, I was five. I’d asked him if he’d give me a ride on his chariot. He’d laughed, and then Jagger had sent pain so sharp through me that I’d dropped to the floor. But then the Merchant had reached down and picked me up and let me and Penrose cuddle together with him on the mechanical seat.
He’d said, “Would you like to hear a joke?”
I’d said yes. I loved jokes.
“This one is very funny,” he’d said.
It wasn’t. It was about a son who loved his mother and whose father was a famed warrior. Every time his father came home from war, he would drink and rage. Whenever the father went to hit the son, the mother would stand in front of him and take his abuse. One day, the son thought he was big enough to stop the warrior. When his father went to hit his mother, the son struck his father. Because the father was drunk, he fell over, hit his head on the kitchen table, and died.
“This isn’t funny,” I’d said.
The Merchant had nodded. “It gets funnier.”
When the mother saw her husband, the great warrior, was dead, she screamed and wept. The neighbors came, and the son was taken away. “Put him to death,” some said. “Cut off his hands,” others said. But the mother pleaded, “Don’t kill him. Don’t put him to death.” Then what? At that time, if you struck your father, your hands were cut off. If you killed someone, you were killed.
“What happened?” I’d asked.
“The mother said instead of cutting off his hands or killing him, they should break his legs, tear the nerves, and shrivel the muscles, so he could never walk again. Then the people could make him work for the rest of his life, and he would never be able to run or flea or escape. He would always be at their mercy.”
“Is that what they did?”
“Yes.”
“Is the son you?”
“Aren’t you smart?”
“What happened to your mother?”
He’d smiled. “That’s the joke.”
Jagger had interrupted then, and I’d never heard the punch line.
As far as I can tell, the punishment of cutting off a son’s hands for striking his father was in place in Babylon around 1750 BC. I’m sure it was around before, and for a good while after, but I’ve always wondered, was the Merchant nearly four thousand years old?
He positioned himself in front of me and grinned. Penrose was curled on his lap, pretending to sleep, and the Merchant rested a hand in his thick red fur.
“You’ll unfreeze in about thirty seconds,” he said in his cheerful radio-announcer voice. “While I find your antics amusing, this is a place of business, and I don’t want my merchandise harmed. You break it, you buy it, et cetera, et cetera. And I don’t think you’re that wealthy. Not even you, Bard. Or you, Lady Clark.” He tossed a grin over his shoulder. The Merchant was almost always in a jovial mood, as if he’d just heard the funniest joke and he was still laughing about it. “It’s funny—I never thought I’d see Bards, Clarks, and Hell Gate together. It’s almost cause for celebration. Cake? Cookies?” He snapped his fingers. “Brownies.”
I stumbled, tripping forward as my body unfroze and my muscles went lax. Luvic fell too, and we crashed into each other. He grappled with me, and I shoved him away.
I went for the door. The Merchant snapped his fingers loudly, once, and the door disappeared. Where it had been was only flat seventies-wallpapered wall.
I swung around.
He shrugged. “I wouldn’t.”
“Please.”
