Now that they knew where their destination was, five miles past the burned-out mill, Ryan considered whether they might try to break for it. But the sec men were armed and watchful, while they had lost their blasters.
“You are thinking of going over the side if we give you the chance,” the Magus said, his harsh voice breaking the stillness of the private room.
Ryan didn’t respond, though the man’s perception had shaken him.
Wolfram laughed, beckoning with a snap of the fingers to the waiters to bring in the main, meat course, which was a large turkey, stuffed with a chicken, stuffed with a quail, with an array of mixed vegetables, including pumpkin and superb roasted potatoes, golden brown, and a thick gravy.
“Surprised that we can keep on second-guessing you, Ryan? We been studying you for long enough. Know the way you’ll jump. But you mustn’t bother about trying to escape. No need.”
He turned to his colleague on his right hand. “I believe that the time has come to explain our plan, has it not, Magus? Serve yourself to your veggie meal, while we attack the luncheon specialty of the Golden Eagle. Captain Huston has done us exceedingly proud and has well earned his reward.”
Between mouthfuls Wolfram explained to Ryan and J.B. just what they intended, while the bleak-faced Magus interrupted now and again with extra details.
It took a long while.
RYAN DIDN’T specially favor very sweet food. Homemade ice cream could usually tempt him, but cream gateaux and sugary cobblers weren’t his special favorites. But he was now stirring in the fifth spoon of part-refined brown sugar, whisking it slowly into the creamy coffee in the large porcelain mug, knowing that he would be needing every atom of energy over the next few days. To his left the Armorer was doing the same.
“Your comments, my dear fellow?” asked Wolfram, who was forking away at a third slice of chocolate cake with almond butter and chopped pecans.
The Magus had passed on the desserts and was sipping at a small cup of black coffee, toying with a single, wafer-thin peppermint cream.
Ryan tasted his own coffee, carefully placing the cup back in the saucer. “Let me see if I’ve got this straight, Wolfram,” he said.
“By all means. I shall be surprised if any detail has passed you by.”
Ryan nodded. “You hold Krysty, Jak, Mildred and Doc, keeping them all snugly locked up and well fed and unharmed.”
The Magus had taken out one of his metal contact lenses and was washing it carefully in a goblet of water. The shadowed socket appeared to hold the remnants of an eye, bloody and cavernous, though Ryan was sure that he could make out tiny wire filaments in the darkness.
“And they go completely free once you’ve done what we’re asking from you.”
It was Ryan’s turn to nod. He considered removing the patch over the raw socket of his own missing left eye, to match the Magus, but decided against it.
“And you want us to act as foremen, or charge hands for you on your plantation.”
“And in the mines,” Wolfram prompted, smearing chocolate on his sleeve.
“And in the mines.” Ryan finished his coffee and replaced the empty cup on the saucer. In between courses the waiters had been sent out so that they didn’t hear any of the conversation, though the sec men stood, still as marble statues, eyes not moving from J.B. and Ryan.
The Armorer continued. “You used stickies as slaves. Like old times, Wolfram. And now they’ve revolted. Rebelled. Run away. And you are well and truly fucked.”
Ryan cut in. “And you want us to pluck the chestnuts out of the fire for you. Appropriate when you’re dealing with stickies, isn’t it?”
“They’ve kidnapped three of our foremen. Vanished from the mine and the fields. Gone into the hills and the forest. Not a trace of them. Just whispers and rumors and the occasional burned-out homestead.”
Ryan looked across at the Magus, who had readjusted the metal lenses. “You’ve got some triple-good sec men. Why not promote some of them or send them out on the trail of the stickies? Teach them a lesson.”