Chapter Eighteen

 

 

Ryan had received a decent education as a young boy in the ville of Front Royal, at the instruction of his father, Baron Titus Cawdor.

 

But the few hours he spent with Dean in the Colorado school of Nicholas Brody stretched his confidence almost to the breaking point. He was constantly worried that one of the teachers would spring some question of history or geography or reckoning at him and reveal his ignorance. Knowing that grammar was a particular weakness of his, as Krysty was ceaselessly pointing out, he took great pains with every sentence, trying to avoid any foolish mistakes, trying to think through what he was going to say before it slipped from his mouth. He examined each word with the suspicion of a timber wolf scenting poisoned bait.

 

Ahab and Joel left them at the heavily fortified front gate, iron-studded with a vanadium-steel inset for added strength. It would have taken a heap of implode grens or a small nuke to have broken it down.

 

They were turned over to an older man, wearing the same casual uniform, who led them wordlessly through a large, airy entrance hall and along a short corridor toward a reception room where Ahab had told them they'd meet Nicholas Brody.

 

On the way they passed two half-glassed classroom doors, and Ryan peeked into both of them as they walked by.

 

One had a mixed class of six or seven children, looking to be about twelve. They sat at desks, staring attentively at a blackboard where a long-haired male teacher was pointing to a map of Deathlands.

 

The second room had about the same number of older children, around fifteen, mostly boys, who were writing busily in notebooks while a middle-aged woman in a white blouse and a tweed skirt walked up and down between the desks, dictating from a large, dark blue textbook.

 

Dean was too short to see through the glass in the doors and walked happily along behind the sec man.

 

Ryan felt a familiar chill in his guts at the sight of the classrooms, and he wondered whether this really was such a good idea after all.

 

 

 

NICHOLAS BRODY was a very large man with a neat beard who spoke in strangely convoluted speech patterns, with a slight hesitancy that never became a stammer.

 

"So this is another seeker at the well of knowledge, is it?" he said, shaking hands with Dean. "Another apostle to carry the sword at sunset against the swamping print death of the universe. Welcome, thrice welcome, Dean Cawdor."

 

Despite his slightly off-putting way of talking, Ryan took an instinctive liking to the man and felt more relaxed about leaving Dean. The boy also seemed to like Brody and laughed at some of his more obscure pronouncements, though he obviously didn't understand them.

 

Brody handed them both a prospectus of the school, telling them how many children were there and how they were divided into groups or "houses."

 

"I base it frankly and openly upon what used to be the classical English public school system," he said, "which offered the finest education in the history of the worldapart from a strange belief in the powers of freezing showers, cold toilet seats and a flogging every morning. We have disposed of those aspects here at the Nicholas Brody School."

 

"We play games?" Dean asked.

 

"Sir," Brody prompted gently. "I and my male staff are referred to as 'sir' and female members as 'ma'am.' That does not apply to the members of the security service. And we do indeed play games."

 

Ryan was glad that his son hadn't breezed in calling the man "Nick."

 

 

 

RYAN WAS OFFERED A BED for the night, as well as supper. "I assume that you will join myself and the members of my peripatetic team of pedagogues in burying our snouts in the trough of sustenance. You may then bid a fond farewell to young Dean in the morning and leave him to us." He patted Ryan on the shoulder.

 

"That may be done in conditions of privacy as our experience is that it can be a touch emotional with watering of the glim ducts on every side. At least the lad's mother is not here. There is a Mrs. Cawdor ?"

 

"She died about five years ago."

 

"My condolences. Rest assured that the boy will be well treated here. If you have any questions ? Of course, you may visit us at any time. Any time at all, even if there be a mystical conjunction of the planets and a solar eclipse, linked to a revolt among Brazilian sheep shaggers. It matters not a tittle or a jot, Mr. Cawdor. Come when you wish."

 

 

 

RYAN AND DEAN HAD a little time together before supper when they were in the dormitory that the boy would share with five other lads of about the same age.

 

The furnishings were spare but solid. Ryan sat on one of the firm beds. "What do you think?" he asked.

 

The boy sat facing his father, looking suddenly younger and much more vulnerable. "I think it'll be all right," he said finally.

 

"I like Brody. Seems a straight arrow kind of a man. You back him and he'll back you."

 

Dean nodded. "I like him, though he talks funny some of the time."

 

"You don't mind wearing the uniform?" This was simply a light colored shirt and dark jeans. There were blouses and skirts for the girls. "Seems comfortable."

 

"Guess so. How do I get it?"

 

"Brody said you'd have to see the housekeeper, Mrs. Miggens, in the morning and she'll provide you with everything you need. Clothes and pens and books and stuff."

 

"How are you paying for all this, Dad?"

 

Ryan smiled at him. "That's for me to know and you to guess, son."

 

"Must be a shitload of jack."

 

"I wouldn't use too many expressions like that, if I were you, Dean."

 

"Sorry, but"

 

"Don't worry about the jack. I've been careful over the last few months. Took it where I found it."

 

"Stole it, Dad?" Dean sounded shocked.

 

"Let's just say that Mr. Brody is content with the arrangements for payments, and so am I."

 

"Fine."

 

"You got any questions, Dean?"

 

There was a long pause. Somewhere outside the room an electric bell rang twice.

 

"Must mean supper," the boy said, standing.

 

 

 

RYAN WAS SHOWN to a seat at the head table in the dining room, with the members of staff of the school. He found himself settled between the middle-aged lady with the tweed skirt and a young man with slightly slanted eyes.

 

He saw Dean led by Brody to one of the pupils' tables and introduced to the boys on either side of him.

 

But he was distracted by the woman touching his arm. "I'm Natalie Davenport, and I have the singular delight of pounding mathematics into these eager young skulls."

 

"Ryan Cawdor. That's my boy, Dean."

 

The man on the other side joined in. "Chris Akemoto. I do what I can with the sciences. How old's your son?"

 

"Eleven."

 

"Good age to come here. Give us a year and you won't recognize him."

 

Natalie smiled. "Probably what Mr. Cawdor fears, Chris. But we are not like the Jesuits."

 

"The who?" Ryan asked, feeling the ground turning to water beneath his feet.

 

"They were a strict religious order. Their boast was that if they were given a child at, I think it was ten, then he would be theirs for life. We make no such claim."

 

Nicholas Brody had taken his place at the head of their table, and he tapped a spoon on a water glass. Everyone, staff and pupils alike, rose to their feet, Ryan a mere half beat behind everyone else.

 

"We welcome a new pupil, Dean Cawdor, to our community. We will all make him welcome and offer him the hand of friendship. "Let us pray." Ryan closed his eye and bowed his head. "Merciful Lord, bless this our home and these our endeavors. Let us render to no man evil for evil. Strengthen the fainthearted. Let us learn justice and loyalty. And let us relish this our supper. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Ghost, now and forever, amen."

 

"Amen." Ryan joined in the chorus, squinting from beneath the lowered lid to watch Dean, seeing that the boy had taken his part in the small ritual.

 

 

 

TO RYAN'S GREAT RELIEF, the conversation around the top table wasn't at a high intellectual level. Quite the reverse. The staff was far more concerned with the institutionalized trivia of who had done what and said what. Through it all, Natalie had endeavored to bring Ryan into the talk whenever more general topics arose, and he felt that he had been able to avoid letting Dean down.

 

But Chris Akemoto had been largely silent. He spoke little through the main course, which was buffalo stew, the coarse-grained meat well cooked, with a rich variety of fresh vegetables, waiting until the dessert was served, which was thick slices of delicious steamed treacle pudding covered with creamy custard.

 

Then he leaned across to Ryan, pitching his voice low so that nobody else could hear. "You said you were a general sort of a trader, traveling all over the place, Mr. Cawdor."

 

"Sure."

 

"Forgive me, but I think the key word in that story is the word 'Trader,' isn't it?"

 

"I don't understand, Chris." Though he did, resisting the automatic reaction, when threatened, to reach for the butt of the SIG-Sauer.

 

"I recognize you. God knows, I have reason to! You were once the right-hand man of the infamous Trader."