Arnstein sputtered. "Captain Alston! Would you buy a used car from-"

"You told me who he reminded you of, Professor, but we need him. Learning languages without one both sides can understand is just too slow, and he speaks how many?"

"Iraiina, several related dialects, the thing the Earth Folk speak, Greek, Tartessian, Egyptian, and some Semitic language I'm pretty sure is ancestral to Hebrew and probably to Phoenician as well. Plus a smattering of others." Part of the cost of doing business for a Tartessian merchant, evidently. "But Captain, impressions aside, I'm certain he's a slave trader and pretty sure he's a part-time pirate."

She shrugged slightly. "It's a calculated risk. I'm afraid I must insist."

The words were polite, and so was the tone. Behind it was a will ready to grind like millstones. He sighed and spread his hands.

The shouting crowd fell silent as the American approached. William Walker craned his head a little, looking over the tops of theirs; he was a tall man even by twentieth-century standards and he'd seen only one or two men bigger here. Two Iraiina warriors had been wrestling in a circle of yelling, cheering onlookers. They were stripped to their kilts, chests heaving and eyes glaring as they backed off warily, looking at him out of the corners of their eyes, panting amid a strong smell of sweat and dust.

Well, not exactly wrestling, Walker thought. One of them-it was the wog they'd picked up at sea, Ohotolarix- was bleeding slightly where a handful of his sparse young beard had been pulled out. The other man looked roughly handled, too. More like catch-as-catch-can.

Everyone was looking at him, one of the mysterious, magical strangers from across the sea. A little fear in the eyes of the men, in the women fear and… Well, well, he thought, smiling at one bold-eyed girl. She was probably not very respectable by local standards; the collar and short dress that showed her ankles indicated that, he thought. But he'd never let that bother him.

"Go ahead," he said, backing up with an urging gesture. "Don't let me stop the fun."

Tentative smiles met his. He nodded and looked at the two contestants. The other warrior was black-haired, more densely bearded than Ohotolarix, and more heavily built, a few years older and sporting a couple of missing teeth. He spat something at the young blond and lunged with hairy arms spread.

Ohotolarix met him chest to chest. Catch-as-catch-can, all right, Walker thought. Butting, biting and… yup, attempted gouging allowed. Pathetic.

They were fast and strong, but neither man seemed to have any idea what to do with his fists and feet-wild haymakers like something out of a 1930s movie, and they didn't even attempt to kick. At last they closed again, and grappled at each other's heavy padded belts, straining and grunting. The older man lifted Ohotolarix bodily into the air and slammed him down again on the hard-packed ground. Blood was running from his mouth and nose now too, but he doggedly began to get up. The victor waited panting until he was on his hands and knees, then delivered a solid moccasined foot to the ribs-evidently kicking wasn't against the rules, they just didn't know how to do it effectively.

Ohotolarix collapsed, wheezing. His opponent dropped on him and grabbed him by the braid, pounding his head on the clay. When the younger man went limp he rose, dusted himself off, and walked toward the girl who'd smiled at Walker. He collected some trinkets from the bystanders, grabbed her wrist, and began to jerk her away; all around him men were laughing or scowling as they exchanged small items, knives or ornaments.

Bets, Walker realized. Girlie there's the main stake. Ohotolarix was hauling himself up, wheezing and snarling as he clutched at his ribs. Tsk. Not fair; he must still be weak. On the other hand, life isn't fair. On the other hand…

"Wait," Walker said easily, putting out a hand. "Hold it, Mr. Macho. Why don't we discuss this?"

The Iraiina flinched a little, then visibly gathered himself and began to brush past.

Maybe that was a mistake, Walker thought. On the third hand, the guy just dissed me.

He put a hand on the man's face and pushed, moving his foot in a simple heel hook. The Iraiina landed on his backside in a puff of dust. There was an amazed buzz from the crowd, then a rising note of excitement as Walker stripped off his jacket and shirt, holding them out with one hand. The girl took them, moving back to the edge of the reforming circle.

"No sense in prolonging this," Walker said easily, suddenly feeling alive. Feeling like I'm really here, not watching it.

He made a gesture that he'd seen among the locals, one that evidently hadn't changed its meaning in three thousand years.

"Mithair," he said. It was a pity he didn't know the word for "your" as well as "mother" yet, but the motion of arm and finger was unmistakable. The victorious warrior screamed at him and leaped.

"Well, maybe they take motherhood more seriously here," Walker said.

He swayed aside, grabbed arm and belt, set his feet in stance, and turned with a snapping flex of his waist and shoulders. Momentum turned into velocity, and the leap turned into a windmilling arc that ended in a crowd of laughing spectators. They broke his fall, and he came up shaking his head. Eyes fixed and pupils wide to swallow the color, lips curled back from teeth, a trail of mixed drool and blood coming from one corner of his mouth.

"Uh-oh," Walker said. I don't think this is a sporting contest anymore.

The Iraiina snatched a long bronze dagger from the belt of a man next to him and charged, shrieking something high-pitched. Walker's reaction was automatic: one hand slashed upward and cracked the edge of his palm into the knifeman's wrist. The blade flew free, twinkling in the evening sun as it spun end over end. A continuation of the same motion sent the American's hand around the Iraiina's arm, locking it under his armpit and torquing it up with the elbow locked against its natural bend. Walker's other arm slammed forward, fingers curled back to present the heel of his right hand as the striking hammer on the anvil of his opponent's breastbone.

"Disssaaa!" he shouted, deep and loud, the focusing kia.

He had just enough control left to pull the blow as it rammed into the Iraiina's chest over the heart. Bone bounced it back at him, and the other man dropped, limp, rasping for breath, and clawing at his chest while his face turned purple.

Walker wheeled, crouching and dropping into stance before he realized that the crowd weren't attacking. Instead they were cheering; men pressed forward to slap him on the shoulders and back, pressing things on him-gold bracelets, worked bronze rings, even the knife the fallen man had used to attack him. The girl handed him back his clothes and made shooing motions at the others as he dressed. He straightened, wary, then grinned and held his hands over his head.

"I've got to control these chivalrous impulses," he muttered to himself.

Ohotolarix was on his feet, smiling wryly-either that or his mouth was too sore to do more. He limped over to the American and started to speak. Then he sighed, shook his head, and took the girl's hand, laying it in Walker's. She looked at him with another smile, this one broader and more appraising, before she cast her eyes down modestly.

"Oh, God damn the captain and her fucking floating Sunday school," Walker groaned.

He took the hand and put it back in Ohotolarix's. The Iraiina looked puzzled, then the beginnings of anger showed on his puffy, dust-and-blood smeared face.

"Uh-oh again," Walker muttered. Think, dude.

He mimed fighting, then stood by Ohotolarix and held a protecting arm above him. Then he stepped behind the Iraiina, taking his arm and raising it in fighting position as if to shield Walker; last of all he pulled the bronze knife he'd tucked through his belt and held it out to the warrior, hilt first.