He turned and led the way into his living quarters behind the counter.
"I will tell the others you are here," he said. He left through a rear door, leaving the raider to wander about the tiny room, inspecting it without interest. He had seen too many like it in the past five years to be interested. Dingy little rooms in the back of a store, insect-ridden chambers in public lodgings, shack in the backwoods outside a city, too many, too many. And never a place to rest.
After this one, he promised himself. After this one.
Soon the little tailor came back, and there were two others with him. One was a ferret-eyed little man with a suspicious stare, the other a heavy-set farmer. The heavy-set man had a scythe in his hand, he had apparently been on his way to his fields when the tailor found him. He held the scythe tightly, and the raider could see he was very nervous. It was probably the first time he had ever come into contact with one of the raider's—profession. He didn't like it.
Extending his free right hand, the farmer said, "My name is Carroll. Joseph Carroll. You are—Mr. Gray?"
The raider took the proffered hand warmly, trying to gain this man's friendship. He would need all the help he could get.
"Gray is my given name, Mr. Carroll. My last name—" he laughed embarrassedly, "—well, they call me Wolf, for the time being."
"Appropriate," said the man bitterly.
"I'm sorry I have to meet you under these conditions, Mr. Carroll, very sorry."
The other shrugged, keeping his eyes fixed on the raider's lean, brown face, trying to guess what sort of mind lay behind it.