A/N: A quick note to anybody who was on FanLib: I update the version once weekly; hence, it's behind the Legends that was posted on FanLib. Sorry for the inconvenience!
And a note to my readers: I had a bunch of short stories about Beckett, Victoria, Cat, Mercer, and the gang posted on , but since it's shutting down, I'll be moving them here. However (this is primarily for the benefit of FanLibbers) as they're part of a Fanfic 100 challenge, I'll be posting most of them as ONE fic, and I'll be posting them in timeline order - which means there will be a bunch of new ones posted before I get to the older ones on FanLib. Again, I apologize for the inconvenience.
Another sidenote: I'm not sure if the language goes by Hindu or Hindi - I think I've seen it both ways? Anyways, corrections are always appreciated.
And now, without further ado...
CHAPTER 8
Bombay was a wild, exotic city, dirty and beautiful all at once. Its wharves were filled with Company merchants and soldiers speaking English as well as people from every corner of India, moving crates and boxes into ships, hawking items to the merchants and sailors nearby, sullenly following English masters and glaring at the other European folk.
Cat was so relieved to be on land that at first she didn't even notice their glares. She had to lean rather heavily on Mercer, unused to walking on solid, unmoving ground, but he didn't seem to mind much, and anyway Cat imagined he felt much more secure in her safety with her clinging to him like a child.
She looked about the city with wide eyes as she, Mercer, and Savage moved deeper into the port. There were crowded open-air markets in the street filled with merchants selling food, jewels, and cloth; the buildings were rickety and crowded together, and there were beggars everywhere who rushed up to Savage and begged for money, having noted his uniform and assuming he would be the leader of the small group. He mercilessly shoved them from his path, but the only disapproving glare he received came from Cat; Mercer didn't seem to notice Savage's cruelty, or else didn't really care.
When Cat felt steady enough, she tried to pull back from Mercer, so that she could wander separately and take in the city by herself – but Mercer would not release her. Astonished and a bit irritated, she looked up at the much taller man and said, "I'm not going to get lost and die, David."
He cast her a glance that suggested he didn't believe that for an instant.
"David," she said a bit angrily, "I'll be fine."
"David?" Savage repeated with a laugh. "Didn't know that you even had a first name. David. Can I call you that?"
"No," Mercer said flatly.
"Too bad, David," Savage chuckled nastily. "I think I'm going to like being on first-name terms with Beckett's favorite killer."
"I think I wouldn't be so free with that first name if I were you, Ralston," Mercer growled.
Savage looked rather taken aback that Mercer knew his first name; then a cloud passed over his face. "It's Lieutenant Savage," he said vehemently.
"It's Mr. Mercer," Mercer replied coolly.
Savage growled something rude, then grumbled, "Yes, sir…"
Mercer smirked, pleased with this victory; but in the time that he was distracted by the exchange, Cat managed to slip loose from his arm and rush ahead. "CATHERINE!" Mercer shouted after her, a frantic look flickering across his face, but she ignored him, spinning excitedly in the midst of the street.
Even Savage looked a little distraught at the sight of the innocent girl so obviously in awe of the city. "Bloody hell," he growled, starting to shove passerby from his path. "The wench'll get herself kidnapped or worse if she keeps that up!"
"And if they don't kill her, then I will once we catch her," Mercer snarled, tossing people out of his path. "CATHERINE!"
Cat was too involved to pay attention the men behind her, even though the crowd was murmuring angrily as they forced their way through. She caught sight of a seller far ahead of her selling stunning golden jewelry, and with a delighted cry she pushed her way through the people around her to the stall to admire the wares there. Carelessly, she removed her hat, and her hair, which had started to grow longer in her time aboard the ship and which she had had tucked up inside the cap, fell loose over her shoulder.
The seller, an Indian man, looked curious at the sight of a woman in men's clothes, for he could certainly tell that Cat was a woman – young, little more than a girl, but still a woman. He didn't seem to object to her attire, however, and in fact spoke very politely to her. "You are English, yes?" he said to her as she lifted a golden necklace from its place.
She looked up and nodded with a bright smile. "This is beautiful," she told him.
"There is more down that way," the seller told her, pointing down the street nearest his stall. It branched off the main road between two buildings, and was somewhat shadowy and still compared to the main street.
Cat felt a tiny twinge of regret at having run ahead of Mercer. Cautiously, she set the necklace back down. "Oh, I don't have enough money for anything you're selling here," she said quickly to the seller.
"Is not very expensive," the seller said, smiling winningly at her. "I sell very low to pretty English ladies."
Cat blushed. "Thank you," she said, "But I really can't buy anything."
"Something to take home to lady friends in England, maybe?" the seller suggested, holding up a pair of earrings that Cat knew Victoria would adore.
Cat bit her lip and looked longingly at the earrings. "Well…" she said hesitantly.
The seller grinned. "There are better ones at my shop down there," he said, pointing down the street. "I keep my items there. You come look, yes?"
There was a click of a pistol being cocked, and someone laid his hand very firmly on her waist. "No, she won't," Mercer growled from behind her.
The seller's smile seemed to melt into an expression of terror. "Is just jewelry," he said, holding up his hands nervously.
"And if you keep offering to show her more of it, I'll shoot you," Mercer threatened darkly.
"He will," Savage said from Cat's other side, casually spinning his own pistol in his fingers. "He's not afraid to. I've seen him do it more than once."
The seller swallowed hard. "I leave her alone," he promised, nodding rapidly and forcing a smile to pretend he was at ease.
"Smart little sod," Savage remarked, putting his pistol back into his belt.
Mercer was not nearly so ready to trust the man. He kept his pistol out and pointed at the man as he spun Cat about and turned her away. "I'm watching you," he warned the Indian with cold, narrowed eyes. When they were far enough away from the small stand, he finally turned away, keeping his pistol firmly in hand as they moved down the street. "Don't ever do that again," Mercer hissed at Cat, keeping a firm hold on her waist as she tripped along beside him. "Why the hell did you take your hat off? You can at least pass as a boy when you're wearing it."
"It was hot, and I couldn't see," Cat said petulantly.
"I don't give a damn," Mercer spat. "As soon as you took it off he knew you were a woman, and he probably would have brought you into some dank little room, stolen all your money, and then raped and killed you – or else he would've had some compatriots do it for him."
Cat stared up at Mercer disbelievingly. "Why?" she asked, bewildered.
Mercer looked at her almost pityingly and sighed. "Cat," he said with a shake of his head, and then surprisingly he bent down and kissed her.
He pulled back rapidly, as though embarrassed, and started walking again, but Cat still smiled brightly at the show of affection.
After a moment of silence, he grumbled somewhat good-naturedly, "I swear to God, Catherine Whitlock, there is no woman as blindly stupid as you."
"Stupid?" Cat repeated, wounded.
"All right, perhaps that was a bit harsh," he amended. "Naïve might be a better way to describe it."
"I am not!" Cat exclaimed
Mercer and Savage both rolled their eyes simultaneously. "Cat, love, please tell me honestly: were you going to follow that nasty little git into the alley to look at the rest of his merchandise?" Savage asked.
She pouted slightly. "I was thinking about it," she said sullenly.
"There you are, then," Savage said triumphantly; "Proof that you are ridiculously innocent and shouldn't be let loose anywhere except a ballroom."
"I can't go into ballrooms anymore," Cat reminded him. "I'm a ruined woman, in case you'd forgotten."
Savage glanced somewhat enviously at Mercer. "It's rather difficult to forget when the cause of said ruination is hanging onto you in such an unseemly and sickening display of affection," he said.
"Just keeping her from certain death," Mercer said evenly, completely unruffled, but Cat thought she saw the tiniest hint of a smirk playing across his lips.
"Well, that's very convenient for you, isn't it?" Savage said sarcastically. "The woman you happen to have an interest in magically appears onboard the ship, leaving you with the 'unfortunate' burden of protecting her and guarding her from reckless, bad men like me, who might attempt to steal her innocence, which, incidentally, is nonexistent thanks to you -!"
"I thought we just proved that Cat is remarkably innocent for a woman of her level of experience," Mercer pointed out.
"That's not the innocence I'm referring to and you know it," Savage said impatiently.
"All things considered, Lieutenant, I'd rather you not refer to that particular innocence at all," Mercer said lightly, casually moving his pistol nearer to Savage. "Seeing as it's really not your business to begin with and you had absolutely nothing to do with the circumstances surrounding its loss."
Savage glared resentfully at the gun in Mercer's fingers. "I really hate how you have a weapon to back up every threat you make," he informed the clerk.
Mercer smiled. "It's one reason why I'm so damn good at my job," he said.
"When pretty little wenches of ill repute aren't distracting you," Savage said nastily.
"This would be the first woman to ever distract me on a job, and if you call her a wench again I will shoot you in the knee without hesitation," Mercer warned.
Savage spat in the street, having nothing else to do in response to the threat. "So where are we going, anyway?" he mumbled.
"We're going to an English tavern downtown that's run by a contact of mine," Mercer informed the Lieutenant. "It's called the Wind and Sail. Run by a man by the name of Winslow Robertson. You might know him."
Savage's eyes momentarily looked as though they would pop from his head. "Winslow Robertson?" he spluttered furiously. "That miserable little upstart stole my first position in the Company!"
"Ah, I thought you might remember him," Mercer said, a smile playing across his features. "Beat you out for your first job aboard a ship, didn't he? You were all set to sail the morning of the departure and the Captain informed you that he'd found somebody better to take your place, so you wouldn't be coming with them."
"Thank you kindly for reminding me of the details," Savage said bitterly. "I remember them very clearly without your little narrations."
"My sincere apologies," Mercer said, very insincerely.
"Well, what the hell is Winslow doing here?" Savage asked. "There was nowhere but up from that position…"
"So you thought," Mercer said with a morbid chuckle. "When the merchant got here, he was slaughtered by some locals who looted the ship and took all its cargo, then set the damn thing on fire. Winslow was left here, dirt poor, and none of the other Company officials would let him come back unless he paid. When Beckett visited the port last time he offered to pay Winslow a nice sum if he'd open a tavern and keep his ears open for the latest rumors. Now the Wind and Sail is the best place to gather gossip and news in Bombay – even the Indians like to drop by every now and again to chat."
Savage started to smile. "Well, that's something of an ignoble post," he said. "Certainly work that's beneath me. I'm relieved, really, that he got the job instead of me. But of course if I'd been in that situation, Beckett wouldn't have forced me to stay in this Godforsaken place and spy for him."
"He would have made the request, the same as he did for Winslow, and you would've refused," Mercer said calmly. "And then he would have killed you."
Savage's smile disappeared. "Beckett knows I'm valuable," he blustered.
"Of course he does," Mercer replied, "As long as you're willing to do what's ordered of you and don't try to reach too high above what you've been given."
Savage's swagger was quite gone now; he looked disturbed, suspicious, and unusually thoughtful. He continued to brood in this way until Mercer turned Cat down a large, open street that was filled with people. As Savage made to turn, an old beggar man stumbled into his path. With a furious snarl, Savage ripped his pistol from his belt and shot the old man, who fell to the ground with a pained cry and lay there bleeding.
Cat gave a tiny scream of horror, and Mercer moved in such a way that his body blocked her view of the beggar. "Feel better now?" he asked Savage in a completely level voice.
Savage bared his teeth, almost like a lion. "Very much so, thanks," he said.
Without another word, Mercer started off again. Cat tugged desperately at his coat. "We can't just leave him there!" she gasped, attempting to look back at the old beggar man.
Mercer paused, caught her face in his gloved hands, and forced her to look only at him. "What's done is done," he told her firmly. "You can't save that man, and neither can I. There's nothing more we can do for him. Leave him there, and someone else will take care of him."
Cat stared up at him, blue eyes overflowing with tears. "You should've stopped him," she said angrily.
"You say that as if I can read minds," Mercer said in exasperation. "How was I to know what Savage was going to do?"
It was somewhat unreasonable, but Cat still felt that Mercer should have guessed Savage's intentions. "The least you can do is try to help him," Cat insisted, her voice shaky but her gaze hard and full of fury.
Mercer heaved a sigh and said, "Lieutenant, please retrieve the man you just shot and bring him to the Wind and Sail. We'll see what Winslow can do for him."
Savage snorted in disgust, but he turned and went back towards the old man. Cat tore free of Mercer's iron grip and ran after him. It was probably a wise move on her part – Savage had had no intention of being careful with the fragile old beggar. Cat, however, hovered worriedly over his shoulder as he stepped towards the beggar, then pushed her way in front of him to kneel by the man's side. He stared at her with wide, rich brown eyes that were full of suspicion. "You shot him in the shoulder," she said, glaring hatefully up at Savage.
"Coulda been worse," Savage said offhandedly. "I coulda shot him in the head."
"You son of a bitch," Cat spat, so venomously that Savage actually stopped smiling and took a step back. Mercer arrived just as the terrible oath escaped Cat's lips, and he raised both brows in shock at the foul language.
"Maybe you ought to take care of this," Savage muttered, taking another step back to allow Mercer to move forward.
Mercer stepped slowly towards the old beggar, then knelt by his side, examining the wound. "Well, we might be able to help him," he said dubiously. "The shoulder is one of the most painful places to be shot, so I've no doubt the man's in pain, but Winslow might be able to save him if he can get the bullet out. Course, the wound might go sour and he might die anyway."
"But he might live," Cat said tersely. She glanced up at Mercer with a cool gaze. "I can't lift him myself," she said in a deathly quiet voice.
Mercer obeyed her unspoken command and carefully lifted the beggar, who howled in pain. The trio started off at a quick pace towards the Wind and Sail, which was at the end of the street. Cat forced stragglers out of the doorway as Mercer made his way through, carrying the starving and bleeding beggar man into the dark interior of the tavern. The man was howling with such vehemence and agony that the entire tavern fell silent when they entered.
Winslow, a chestnut-haired man going into his thirties, rushed out from the back room of his tavern with an angry oath. "What in damnation is going on here?" he demanded; then he spotted Mercer holding the old beggar man. "Oh, Mr. Mercer!" he said in surprise, hurrying forward. "I knew you would be here soon, but I didn't expect such a… uh… entrance."
Mercer smiled grimly. "An old friend of yours thought he'd practice his shooting skills on this one," he said, jerking his head back in the direction of Savage, who was leaning casually against the door and pretending to be nonchalant.
Winslow's eyes narrowed. "Ralston," he said in a low voice. "I hate that man."
"Apparently the feeling is mutual," Mercer said, wincing as the beggar screamed in his ear. "Can we please find a room and a doctor for this baggage? I'm getting tired of holding him and if he bleeds much more he'll be dead before we can get him help."
Winslow turned his eyes back to the beggar and nodded quickly. "Well, you don't need to worry about finding him a doctor; I've skills enough to care for him," he said. He looked quizzically up at Mercer. "You're not know for generous acts like this," he said curiously.
Mercer's gaze snapped involuntarily to Catherine, who was standing at the base of the stairs with her arms folded over her chest, her face the picture of feminine wrath. Her hat was folded under her arm, her hair flowing freely down her shoulders, and Mercer fleetingly thought how pretty she was when she was feeling murderous. He'd never seen her so angry before in all the time he'd known her.
"Ah… I see," Winslow said understandingly, drawing Mercer back to the situation at hand. Winslow eyed Mercer a bit disapprovingly. "She's… rather young, isn't she?" he said, and Mercer knew what he meant. You're too old for a young thing like that.
"Bloody hell, Winslow, we can talk about her later if you're so damn curious," Mercer snapped. "This man is bloody dying."
"Right, right," Winslow said, shaking his head in embarrassment. "Right this way, if you please. You come too, Miss…?"
"Welborne," Mercer said hurriedly before Cat could give her real name. "Seraphina Welborne."
Winslow cocked an eyebrow, looking the young girl up and down. "Pretty prestigious name for a poor girl," he murmured to Mercer.
"Her parents had high aspirations for her, and instead they got me," Mercer said shortly. "Can we please take care of this man? If he screams one more time I may go deaf."
"Yes, up we go," Winslow said, quickly vaulting up the stairs with Mercer in tow and Cat behind him. Savage got out of the doorway and followed a good distance behind them, looking depressed.
"Seraphina Welborne?" Cat whispered to Mercer. "Don't you think that's a little obvious?"
"It's the best I could do on such short notice," Mercer hissed back at her. "And you were going to give him your real name!"
"So?" Cat snapped. "It's not as if he'd know who I was. Not that many people actually recognize my name when they hear it."
"Cat, my ridiculously naïve little seraph, yes, they do," he said in frustration.
It was unfortunate that Cat was behind him, because the smile that blossomed on Cat's face would have brightened his day considerably. "Is that where Seraphina came from?" she asked quietly.
Mercer flushed darkly and then did his best to hide it. "Maybe," he said tersely.
Fortunately, he was saved from further interrogation due to their arrival at Winslow's most spacious upper room. "Here," Winslow said, standing aside so they could slip in through the door. "This ought to suit for the purpose."
Mercer carried the old man over to the bed and laid him down. The man gave another cry of agony and started speaking rapidly to Winslow in a foreign language that neither Mercer nor Cat understood.
"What's he saying?" she asked quietly.
"He's asking me to end the pain," Winslow told her. "He's speaking Hindi. I know him, actually; his name's Jayant. He likes to visit with me every now and again. We're friends."
"I'm sorry Savage shot him," Mercer said, although he was more sorry about that fact due to all the trouble said shooting was currently causing him.
"Well, I'm not sorry at all," Savage said from the doorway. "Nasty buggers deserve to die."
"Ah, Savage," Winslow said sourly, refusing to look at the door and instead focusing on his charge. "How charming to see you again. Welcome to my humble abode."
"'Humble' is the polite word for it," Savage said disdainfully. "I'm amazed this ramshackle place makes any money. Doesn't Beckett pay you?"
"More than he would ever pay you," Winslow replied icily. "But unlike you, I choose to wisely invest my funds so that they'll be on hand in case of an emergency."
"You ought to try living like me sometime," Savage suggested. "Then maybe you'd relax a little and stop acting like someone had shoved their cutlass up your arse."
Winslow stood up and brushed his hands off on his breeches, ignoring the remark. "If you don't mind, gents – miss – I have to get a few supplies from downstairs and send for an Indian healer – men like Jayant want to have their countrymen close at hand in situations like this, and anyway some of those healers know a hell of a lot more than any English doctor I ever met," he said. "I'll be back. Keep an eye on him – and try not to shoot him again, Savage."
"I'll see what I can do," Savage said, "But I don't promise nothing."
"Mercer, can't you shoot him if he steps out of line?" Winslow asked.
"If he irritates me too much," Mercer replied, casually tapping his fingers on the butt of his pistol. Savage sneered in contempt, but his eyes were defeated.
"Well, shoot him if he even looks like he's headed for that pistol," Winslow advised. "I'll give you free lodgings for the week if you do."
"Well, hell, I'll just shoot him now," Mercer said, tugging his pistol out of his belt.
"Very funny," Savage glowered. "You're so amusing."
"We try," Winslow said airily as he slipped out of the room.
Savage watched him go with a hateful stare. "I really abhor that man," he muttered.
"Funny, he said the exact same thing about you when we first came in," Mercer said, slipping his pistol back into his belt.
"I'm on Winslow's side," Cat said, shooting a nasty glare in Savage's direction.
Savage groaned. "And that will of course mean that Mercer's on your side as well," he said.
"I would have been on Winslow's side anyway," Mercer said, leaning against the wall and crossing his arms over his chest. "I've always liked him."
"Doomed from the start!" Savage exclaimed dramatically, throwing his hands in the air. "I was destined to be loveless and uncared for!"
"Oh, do shut up, Savage," Cat snapped.
Jayant emitted another groan from the bed, and Cat's head snapped towards him, her eyes softening immediately. She hurried to his bedside and took his hand in hers, studying him worriedly. "You'll be all right," she said soothingly, stroking his trembling fingers in hers. "Easy now; you'll be all right."
Jayant weakly turned to look at her, studying her with a surprisingly sharp gaze. His lips trembled as he smiled feebly; maybe he couldn't understand what she was saying, but he knew it was of a kindly and comforting nature. She smiled bravely and squeezed his hand.
Mercer watched with a tiny twinge of jealousy. Silently he wondered how in hell he was going to make things work between himself and Cat. Not only did they come from completely different worlds; they had two completely different sets of beliefs. And Cat was certainly not used to the lifestyle that Mercer led; obviously she didn't like traveling by ship, and she had already told him she wanted to be dressed as a woman again despite the danger it posed to her. It was altogether too complicated, and it was driving him to distraction.
Unfortunately, he had other things to think about at the moment. "When Winslow returns, remember that Catherine Whitlock is safely back home in London, where she should be," Mercer told Savage. "This woman with us is Seraphina Welborne."
Savage looked impressed. "Good name," he said. "Has a snobby ring to it that suggests those idiots in the lower class who think their daughters will marry rich men if they have ridiculously ostentatious names."
Mercer nodded shortly; his parents had been that type. He was fairly certain that Savage's parents had been of the same make – there was no other explanation for a name like 'Ralston Savage.' One either had to be rich or pretending to be rich to carry a name like that. Even the name 'Cutler Beckett' bore those pretensions to wealth.
Winslow returned, an Indian man dressed in a tunic and loose, baggy breeches following closely behind him. "This is Ghoshal; he's the local doctor for these parts," he said, by way of introduction. "Ghoshal, this is Mr. Mercer and Lieutenant Savage of the East India Trading Company, and that is Miss Welborne."
Ghoshal bowed to each of them in turn and murmured, "Namaste."
Cat glanced curiously at him. "What does that mean?" she asked Winslow.
"It means 'the Divine in me honors the Divine in you,'" Ghoshal said, his English heavily accented but nearly perfect otherwise. "It is an old way of greeting for our holy men."
Cat seemed quite taken with the phrase. "Namaste," she repeated to herself.
Ghoshal smiled at her reverent tone, then lightly laid a hand on her shoulder. "If you will pardon me, Miss Welborne," he said politely. "I need to look at Jayant."
"Of course," Cat said quickly, getting to her feet and moving aside.
Jayant looked very relieved to have Ghoshal there. He started speaking rapidly in Hindi, gesturing with his good arm to the various people in the room while Ghoshal examined the wound, nodding and making soft sounds to indicate he was listening. Occasionally he asked a question in Hindi, which would set Jayant off again. The old man's voice was cracked and frail, but he was saying as much as he could with what energy was left him.
Casting a slightly disparaging glance in Savage's direction, Ghoshal said softly, "I will need to be alone with Jayant for now," he said. "I will see what I can do for him. But, if he does not survive, he wants to thank you for your kindness, Miss Welborne. He speaks very highly of your generous spirit."
Cat blushed. "I've barely done anything for him," she said abashedly.
"You may have saved his life," Ghoshal said with a gentle smile. "I think that is something – don't you?"
Cat smiled sweetly at the doctor, which was enough to make Mercer green with envy. Then, heedless of the audience, Cat hurried over to Mercer and grabbed his hand, twining her fingers in his and wrapping her other arm around his waist. The envy evaporated in an instant.
Winslow took them downstairs and led them into a separate back room, away from the other guests, who were happily conversing with one another, having apparently forgotten the wounded old man upstairs. He closed the door firmly behind them, then motioned for them to sit. "I won't ask what inspired you to shoot Jayant," he said, glaring at Savage, "But I have to admit that I'm very curious as to why you're here. Lord Beckett's letter didn't give a reason for your presence, but he said you'd be making inquiries."
"And you, Winslow, are the best person to whom one should make inquiries," Mercer said with a small grin, feeling absurdly elated due to the fact that Cat was resting her head on his shoulder. "We're in search of a particular person, as well as a certain treasure."
"Treasure, eh?" Winslow said with a knowing nod. "There's a good deal of that in these parts, and a whole lot of rumors about what's here. Do you know exactly what you're looking for?"
The trio exchanged glances. "Not exactly," Mercer admitted. "We know its name, though, and the person who is supposed to be tracking it."
"Give me the names and I'll share what I know with you," Winslow told him.
"First and foremost, we need to find a Frenchman who goes by the last name Bussiere," Mercer said, leaning forward on the table. "Heard of him?"
Surprise, then amusement flickered across Winslow's face. "Oh, yes, I know Bussiere," he said. "She's staying here, fortunately for you."
Mercer blinked in surprise. "She?" he repeated.
Winslow grinned. "Yes," he said with a nod. "Miss Ancelote Bussiere. She's the daughter of a French trader; speaks Arabic and Hindu and a few rarer languages. She's particularly well versed in the lore of this area. If anybody could lead you to a rare treasure here, it would be her." He also leaned forward, eagerly now. "And what, exactly, is this treasure that you want?"
"It's called the Hand," Mercer said. "Heard of it?"
Winslow's eyes widened and he sat back in his chair, gaping at the three of them. "The Hand?" he repeated, stunned.
"Yes," Mercer said suspiciously. "Why so astonished?"
Winslow exhaled sharply. "It's just… a very ambitious project," he said with a shake of his head.
"It won't be a problem," Mercer said, waving a hand. "Just tell us what it is."
"Can't you guess?" Winslow said incredulously. "It's the Hand of Midas."