“Is the food to your liking, Baron?” a sec man asked with his mouth full, a partially chewed fish head peeking out from between his lips.
Henderson finished chewing some fried mush before answering. It was as tough as fried shoe, and almost as tasty, but he smiled and speared another piece with his fork, transferring it to his plate for dissection before the long and arduous process of consumption. They could patch holes in the roof with these things. Simply horrid.
“Best I’ve ever had,” he said with a smile. “Pity there are no onions. Always loved the things.”
“Onions?” DuQuene asked, as if never hearing the word before. “That’s servant food. Onions and fish guts.”
The sec men laughed at the witticism and pounded the table to encourage their baron for another.
Henderson damned them all for idiots. Trying not to scowl, the whitehair baron pushed away his plate and took a sip from his mug. “Oh no, my dear friend, food fit for a baron! Dice the onions, dip them in beer, roll them in breadcrumbs and fry them in fat. Utterly delicious and very healthy. Good for the blood.”
“Yes, well, we’ll have to try that sometime,” DuQuene said in a manner indicating that Deathlands would become a lush green jungle before that happened.
Suddenly there was a commotion in the hallway leading to the banquet hall, and the sec men stationed along the walls drew weapons and filled the doorway with their bodies. There were some shouted words, and the guards quickly parted to admit a panting sec man covered with road dust and a strong reek of horse.
“My lord! I have just returned from Casanova,” he exploded in a single breath. “And the story the old pervert tells is true!”
Henderson narrowed his eyes at the words, but said nothing. There would be plenty of time for retribution later, but the scout just went to the top of his shit list.
“His ville was melted?” DuQuene demanded, arching an eyebrow.
The man nodded excitedly. “Yes, my lord. The area is flat stone with bits of huts and bones sticking out, and still warm to the touch! It’s true!”
The sec men muttered among themselves at the pronouncement, and most drained their mugs, eyes full of worried thoughts. Seaton made no reaction to the dire news, the sec chief as calm and cool as a winter corpse.
“So it’s real,” Baron DuQuene muttered, putting aside his knife and fork.
“Of course,” Henderson replied softly.
“Wine!” DuQuene said, snapping his fingers. “We need a toast for our valued guest and adviser in the coming war on Front Royal.”
The young girls scurried aside as an adult woman hurried into the dining hall with a silver tray bearing goblets and dark bottles. Inspecting the wine as it was placed on the table, Henderson saw in dismay that the cork wasn’t flared and knew this was no predark vintage, just some damn local brew. Gods of the atom help him survive another meal with these barbs. Raw pig with cannies couldn’t be worse then this horrid slop.
“Splendid idea,” Henderson beamed in a calculated fashion. “My pleasure.”
The servant opened each bottle and filled the crystal goblets, painstakingly careful not to spill a single drop.
“To the death of Nathan Cawdor!” a sec man exclaimed, raising his goblet and sloshing some wine on the table.
Henderson smiled and reached for his own glass when there was a shattering crash at the window. Everybody turned and saw a screamwing partially impaled on the wooden splinters of a plank, halfway into the room. The leathery mutie shrieked and struggled, tiny rivulets of blood trickling down to the floor.
“Fucking hell!” Seaton cursed, and, bolstering his large blaster, drew a wheelgun and fired. The slug plowed through the winged animal, blowing its head out its ass. The wings fluttered wildly for a moment, then the mutilated body plummeted out of sight into the ville below.
“Damn things are always attacking the windows,” Baron DuQuene said, bolstering his own blaster and sitting again. “We have no idea why.”
“Cracks,” Henderson explained.
“What was that?” the baron snapped, glowering at the man.
“Cracks, openings between the wood planks,” the whitehair explained slowly. “The light from the lanterns must sparkle off the glass, making the muties think it’s water underneath.”