James Axler – Cold Asylum

Guiteau had explained. “Watered and rolled every day for the last fifteen years. Hand weeded. You could have grass like that if you took the trouble, Cawdor.” He drew closer. “By the way. Whatever happened to the Trader? Heard so many rumors. He really go up to God in a golden war wag?”

“I heard rumors. Far as I know, Trader’s dead. Been gone a couple of years now. You know different?”

The sec man shook his head. “Nothing to prove, Cawdor. Lot of cheap talk. Nothing else.”

Baron Mandeville was seated on what was close to being a throne, set on a dais, above everyone else. He was wearing a loose jerkin of soft green wool fringed with sable. The rich fur was so dark it had a coppery sheen to it, reminding Ryan of the wings of blowflies.

Next to him, in an identical seat, was his daughter.

Marie was leaning back in her chair, tapping her fingers on the arm. She wore a short dress of white fringed leather, with a wide belt of brilliant red. There were rings on all of her fingers, some of them unlike anything Ryan had ever seen. One was a silver skull with an opal set in the forehead. Another held an unnervingly accurate glass replica of a human eye. Ryan hoped it was only a replica. Her ankle-length boots matched the belt and had tapering, slender heels.

The baron waved a hand to them. “We can begin now. Find yourselves somewhere to sit.” He gestured to a row of chairs ranged on both sides of him.

Ryan noticed that the preening fops were conspicuously absent from the gathering, though three sides of the lawn were lined with male and female servants from the ville.

Marie beckoned to him. “By me, outlander.”

Ryan sat where she pointed, with Krysty beside him. The others all found seats to watch the wrestling.

It was almost immediately obvious which of the wrestlers Michael was going to have to face.

Guiteau had positioned himself directly behind Ryan and Marie Mandeville, giving him a whispered commentary on the fighters. One was a butcher, heavily muscled, but slow and clumsy. Another worked in the forest, slimmer, but visibly worried about getting himself hurt.

“Jericho’ll take them, one hand behind his back, won’t he, Mistress Marie?”

She didn’t turn to face the sec sergeant, contenting herself with a nod.

Jericho appeared in the third of the opening bouts. Unlike the others, he fought stripped to the waist, and Ryan noticed that he was greased across the shoulders, chest and arms, making it harder for any of his opponents to hold him. He wondered whether Michael had spotted the trick.

“He a sec man?” he asked, the question intended for Harry Guiteau.

But Marie answered. “Jailer.”

“Jailer? You got a jail in the ville?”

She turned and stared at him. “You don’t look triple-stupe, Cawdor. Man who rode at the right hand of the Trader can’t be a stupe. So, why pretend to be surprised that we have a prison here at Sun Crest? You measure the power of a baron by the number of his enemies.”

He nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, you’re right.”

It was fair comment, even though it had been put a little more bluntly than he’d liked.

Jericho the jailer was well over six and a half feet, looking to be around three hundred and twenty pounds. He was very strongly built, despite the suggestion of a beer gut hanging over his maroon trousers.

He won both his bouts with absurd ease, his opponents unable to conceal their fear of him.

Justified fear.

Krysty leaned toward Ryan. “Not just big and powerful, lover,” she said quietly.

“No. Also fucking mean.”

“Will Michael”

He cut her off, knowing that Marie and Guiteau were both listening to them. “We’ll see.”

The second of Jericho’s opponents was being helped away, bleeding from nose and mouth. The first had only just recovered consciousness after a bone-numbing knee drop, performed with a grinning ease by the jailer.

“Will your boy fight this giant of mine, Ryan Cawdor?” the baron asked.

“Ask him yourself.”

Michael stood and peeled off his black denim shirt, taking several deep breaths. Ryan watched the crowd, seeing from their muttering that they felt the slender teenager had no hope at all. There was a ten-inch difference in height and nearly two hundred pounds in weight.