Cold Asylum

Marie straightened, smiling, and resumed her seat next to Michael, offering him her gloved hand to kiss, which he obediently did.

The crowd was restless, shifting and murmuring, unable to guess what was going on.

Finally Nathan Mandeville beckoned Guiteau to him, leaning forward and whispering, just as his daughter had.

The sec man showed no hint of emotion, his eyes looking vacantly over his master’s shoulder toward the nearest towers of the ville.

He nodded and muttered something that seemed to be agreement.

With the exception of Michael, the rest of the friends were grouped tightly around Mildred. “Triple-red,” Ryan mouthed. “Don’t like this. The bitch had an idea, and it tied in with something been growing in the baron’s mind all afternoon. You can bet your blaster it involves us in some way.”

But the baron was back in Santa mode, all jolly smiles and good humor.

“A draw. These outlanders are fearful opponents, aren’t they? They beat our best at wrestling and at shooting with the long blasters. Then a draw in knife-fighting, and here we have a woman who has taken our favored Sergeant, Harry Guiteau, all the way to the wire.”

Far off to the east, Ryan’s eye was caught by a ferocious slash of chem lightning, a brilliant pinkish silver that left its image on the retina long after it had disappeared. He waited for the thunder, but the heart of the storm was too far away.

Mandeville had also seen it. “We had best finish our afternoon’s sport and relaxation before the weather sends us running to the ville.”

Guiteau was back, standing at Ryan’s elbow. “So, you had to all show off how good you were and what fine blasters you got.” There was a strange note to his voice that hadn’t been there before. Part of it was triumph for his own fine performance with the revolver. Part was an odd regret, as if something had happened that he deeply regretted but couldn’t do anything to influence.

“So?” Dean said cockily. “We just showed that when you want an ace on the line, you send for us.”

“Sure, son.” He ruffled the boy’s black curly hair.

“But it would have been Shit, I’m losing it in my old age. Forget it, outlanders.”

“What’s this grudge fight coming now?” Krysty asked. “Servants from the ville want to settle an argument?”

“Sort of. From the lands around the ville. Opposite direction to where we found you all. Tribe call themselves the wildwooders. Ragged-assed bunch of poxed and rad-sick bastards. Steal game, birds and fish. Upsets the baron. Nobody likes a hunt as much as he does.”

“So who is fighting?” J.B. asked.

“Wildwooders.”

“It can hardly be a fair contest if these poor folk are set against your sec men.” Doc shook his head sorrowfully. “I hope it will not be as unfairly onesided as that poor devil who was butchered in the forest.”

Guiteau sniffed, rubbing again at his scar. “Don’t worry, Doc. Not them against us.”

“Then who do they fight?” said Ryan.

“Each other, of course.”

THERE WERE FIVE PRISONERS, all, it was thought, from the same family. A wizened old woman stood barely five feet tall, with white hair cropped so short that her scabby gray scalp showed through in several places. She was naked above the waist, her withered dugs hanging slack and barren.

A tall, gangling youth looked to be around fifteen, with the simperingly vacant smile of a triple-stupe.

He didn’t seem to have any idea of where he was or why he was there, and grinned amiably at everyone, in contrast to the vicious temperament of his grandmother, who spat ferociously at everybody who ventured within range of her spleen.

A middle-aged woman had a dreadful skin disease that had left her entire face and body a mass of running, suppurating sores. She had lost an eye and wore a filthy scarf tied over the empty, weeping socket.

The father looked fairly normal, standing with his hands chained behind him, head bowed, occasionally glancing around to see what was happening. His clothes were torn but clean, and there was an empty knife sheath at his belt.