Chapter Thirty

 

 

 

The atmosphere at the breakfast table had been distinctly strained.

 

The moment the lights snapped on, Ryan had realized that they were hopelessly trapped. Though they had some serious weapon power, it would have been simple suicide to open fire on the armed men above them.

 

Moving at Guiteau's command, they'd slowly, one by one, laid down their blasters. It had been no surprise that the leader of the sec force had carried out his orders with efficiency and simplicity. Each of the seven companions had been led away, back to their rooms, under heavy escort.

 

Ryan had been kept to last.

 

Marie had disappeared, probably to her own chambers, to relish her triumph.

 

Guiteau slowly walked down to the hall, unable to restrain a smile. "Really triple-fucked now, outlander, aren't we? Haven't got the Trader to come rolling in to rescue you with his war wags rumbling and trumpets blowing."

 

"Clever of you to notice, Guiteau. So, what happens now? Or are you waiting for orders from that sick-brain bitch?"

 

"Words, words, words. If it's any consolation, Cawdor, the kid throwing up over the mistress doesn't make a lot of difference. What's going to happen on the morrow was going to happen the moment we saw you out in the woods. Just a matter of when, not if. The boy might have lived a few weeks longer if he'd played the game with the mistress. But it would all be the same." He drew his finger across his throat. "You saw the butterflies in their pretty clothes? She lets them live awhile, while they don't bore her. Within six months they'll be all food for ravens."

 

"Nice lady."

 

"Sure. But talk doesn't do a thing. You know that, Cawdor. There's roads we've both been down."

 

"Is there"

 

Guiteau shook his head. "Not a thing. You can't threaten me, and you sure as shit don't have anything to bribe me with. No. It'll be done tomorrow."

 

"How?"

 

The sec man grinned. "Me to know and you to find out, Cawdor."

 

"Why feed us and entertain us first?"

 

"Part of the way the baron likes it. Part of his pleasure. Part of the sport."

 

 

 

THEY WERE ESCORTED separately down to the hall for their breakfast. Maroon-uniformed men watched cautiously from the minstrels' gallery above. Neither the baron nor his daughter had appeared by the time Ryan and the others were halfway through their meal, though Harry Guiteau had joined them, sitting and sipping a large mug of black coffee and nibbling silently at a sweet cinnamon roll.

 

The food was, surprisingly, just as good as it had been before, but it was served by armed men rather than by the aproned young women.

 

Krysty called out to the sergeant. "If you're going to chill us, isn't this a waste of a decent meal?"

 

"Not me going to chill you, lady. Not directly. And the chilling'll be helped if you all eat well."

 

It was the clue that Ryan had been looking for. The clue that gave the answer to the puzzling jigsaw.

 

"A hunt," he said.

 

Guiteau looked sharply over his shoulder, to make sure neither of the Mandevilles was there, then glanced back at the prisoners, trying to school his face to indifference. "How's that?" he said nervously.

 

"Of course. Skydark, Ryan!" J.B. punched his right fist hard into his left hand. "A hunt. Like that poor bastard we saw getting his belly ripped open. We run and they chase. That's it, isn't it, Guiteau?"

 

"No."

 

"Lying bastard!"

 

"It's not." But his unease was obvious.

 

The woman's voice came from above, drawing every head. "Oh, yes, Ryan Cawdor. You've guessed well."

 

"Thanks."

 

"Later this morning you and your friends will be taken out into the forest surrounding the ville and given a sporting chance of escape."

 

"With our blasters?"

 

Marie shook her head, unsmiling. "You know better than that, outlander. But you may all keep your knives. See how kind we are?"

 

"You murderous, foul, evil bitch!" Michael was up on his feet, holding his index ringers crossed toward the woman. "Sooner you die, the sooner the earth's a better, cleaner place."

 

"When this day is over, I shall make sure that you are mine, boy." To Guiteau she said, "Any man harms this fast-tongued lad in the hunt will swim the moat with thumbs and toes tied. Tell that to your people, Sergeant."

 

"Aye, Mistress."

 

She disappeared again, but they could all hear her heels clicking along the stone corridor. Michael sat down again at the long table, slowly, his hands trembling with the red-mist violence of his rage.

 

Harry Guiteau caught his eye and laughed. "Say what you like, lad," he said. "Nothing'll make a difference now. Cawdor, a word with you."

 

Ryan sipped at his fresh chilled apple juice, then put the glass down, rising to move and stand by the burly sec man. "What is it?"

 

The answer was so quietly spoken that Ryan had to lean close to hear it. "If you care anything for that boy, then you'll do wellwhen the end of the hunt's nearto take him and cut his throat, quick and merciful. She" he jerked his thumb to the gallery, "won't be either quick or merciful to him. Take my meaning, do you?"

 

"Yeah. Thanks for that."

 

"Da nada, amigo."

 

 

 

AFTER BREAKFAST, they were again escorted to their rooms and locked in.

 

The last words from Guiteau were that they would be brought downstairs once more, probably around noon. They should make sure that all of their possessions were together, as they wouldn't be returning.

 

That was all he said, then refused to answer any of their questions.

 

Ryan stretched out on the big canopied bed, trying to relax, readying himself for what he knew might well be a terminal ordeal for all of them.

 

Krysty went into the bathroom. When she came back she lay down by him. "This going to be it, lover?"

 

He shrugged. "Been plenty of times we thought we might be catching the last boat downriver. I guess that one day it might be true. Might be now."

 

"We have much of a chance?"

 

"Not much. Best sec men I've ever seen. Plenty of them. Armalites are in good condition. Horses. Likely they'll give us a start of around ten or fifteen minutes. Not long enough to get far. Then they come after us and ride us down."

 

"We split up?"

 

He nodded. "Haven't thought it through, Krysty. Might be a chance of one or two of us getting away."

 

"Or we can go down together?"

 

"Yeah."

 

"How many are going to be hunting us?"

 

He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Probably the baron, his beautiful daughter and pretty well all of the sec men. In fact" He stopped.

 

"What?"

 

"Nothing, love. Just the tiny green shoots of a possible chance. Just a chance."

 

 

 

WHILE THEY WERE RELEASED and herded together in the corridor just before noon, Ryan maneuvered himself next to the Armorer, heads close together, talking intently to him. Krysty watched, knowing that this was something that she could never share. She and Ryan were as close to each other as it was possible for any two human beings to be, but when it came to details of the arcane and intricate crafts of combat and death, Ryan would go to John Dix above all people.

 

At least it showed a glimmer of hope in what she felt was an utterly bleak situation.

 

As they were marched down, J.B. called out to Guiteau. "Sorry we don't get to see the baron's gun collection. Must be something special. Where's he keep it?"

 

"North tower. You can get some satisfaction from the thought that all of your blasters are already up there, labeled and on show. But I guess you know that you won't ever be getting to see them yourselves."

 

Each of them had submitted to a cursory body check to make sure they weren't carrying concealed guns. Most of them had knives, but they were ignored.

 

Baron Mandeville was waiting for them in the great hall, standing on a platform close to the main door, hands behind his back. He looked as though he'd just come from a bath, with his white hair still damp, and the scent of perfumed oils surrounding him. He was dressed in a heightened version of antique fox-hunting clothescrimson jacket, fawn jodhpurs tucked into highly polished riding boots, with short, blunt spurs. He had an unidentifiable revolver in a deep holster at his hip and carried a silver-handled riding crop.

 

"Stands there like he's waiting for his sled and reindeer to go and deliver the Christmas presents," Michael whispered, making Doc, next to him, splutter with laughter.

 

"Time has come, outlanders," Mandeville announced, tapping the whip against the side of his boot.

 

Before he said anything else, he was aware that everyone was looking past him to a small staircase, where Marie stood looking at the assembly.

 

She wore a simple white blouse, with a ruffle of lace at her throat, black leather riding breeches so tight that they looked like they'd been sprayed onto her, and the same soft maroon boots she had on when they first saw her, with the same savage Mexican rowel spurs. Her gloves were scarlet leather, and she carried a vicious quirt. Her astounding hair was pulled back and tied with a ribbon of azure silk.

 

Her slit eyes burned toward Michael, but he, to his great credit, held his nerve and smiled at her, then turned away and spat on the stone floor.

 

"I hope you keep that courage after the hunt when you and I are alone again," she said.

 

"Fuck you, lady." It was Mildred speaking, and she gave Marie the finger. "Let's get on with this sad and sorry charade, shall we?"

 

 

 

THE BARON HAD GESTURED for his sec boss to tell Ryan and his friends what the rules of the game were. Outside the ville, they could all hear occasional rumbles of thunder, promising a return of yet another of the vicious chem storms that were whirling around Kansas. Through the tall windows it was possible to see that the day had become darker.

 

"You have a fifteen-minute start by my chron," Guiteau told them. "You get to the main gate and go from there. Stay together or split up. Doesn't matter. After the rain, there's no way you can hide your tracks from us. We come after you. Run or hide. Up to you. We catch you and you all get chilled." He hesitated and glanced at Marie. "One way or another, fast or slow. Remember what I said to you, Cawdor."

 

Ryan nodded, saying nothing.

 

"No questions, outlanders?" the baron asked, beaming at them as though he'd just wondered if anyone wanted more chestnut stuffing with their Thanksgiving turkey.

 

Nobody spoke. In the silence Marie gave a small, uncontrollable giggle of anticipation that was one of the most chilling and obscene sounds that Ryan had ever heard.

 

 

 

"I NEVER SAW so many sec men," J.B. said, observing the proceedings for the hunt with a dispassionate fascination. "Going to leave the ville short."

 

"Yeah," Ryan agreed.

 

Mildred was at their elbow. "No point in at least asking if they'll spare Dean, is there?"

 

"No." Ryan looked around him, seeing that the chem storm was not that far away, with lightning lacing the sky. The wind flurried, and he felt a brief spatter of small rain in his face. Tasting it, he found that it didn't have the bitter acid tang of the previous storm.

 

Both the baron of Sun Crest and his daughter had disappeared into the ville, no doubt to take some last-minute refreshment before hunting seven human beings to a brutish death.

 

But dozens of sec men circled the courtyard, watching the prisoners. Harry Guiteau stood among them, peering down at his chron in the gathering gloom. "Looks like you'll die wet, Cawdor," he shouted, getting a burst of laughter from his men.

 

"I can live with that." Ryan's retort also brought the reward of broad grins.

 

"I reckon time's about up, outlanders. Fifteen minutes from Now!"