If nobody let them in, then survival could be measured in short minutes.
“Mebbe we better run for it, Dad.”
Ryan ignored Dean’s worried voice, using the knocker as if he were beating the heat out of the ville.
There was a small, barred ob window in the side of the door, and it slid back. All Ryan could see was a white oval of a face peering at him.
“Mill’s broke,” he said urgently. “Power’s down. Got to check inside before Baron Nathan comes back. Quick, open up.”
He spoke quickly, as if he were on the wrong side of panic, keeping his head turned away, relying on the uniform as his pass.
There was a deafening crash of thunder, smothering whatever the person inside the door replied. Ryan shouted again at the top of his voice.
“Open the fuckin’ door or you can be the one tells Baron and Mistress why the ville’s blacked out!”
He heard bolts grating and a key turning.
The moment the door began to move he hurled his shoulder against it, pushing in, so that the invisible person inside was knocked off balance. Ryan stabbed with the panga, using the broad point, feeling it jar against solid flesh. Hearing a gasp of pain and shock, he twisted his wrist, giving the blade a savage jerk as he withdrew it.
Blood gushed hot over his wrist, and he felt the life drain away at his feet.
Everyone was jostling around Ryan, and he was aware of J.B. pushing past him, across the narrow hallway, and cautiously easing open the stout door beyond that led into the rest of the ville. There was nobody on the bottom floor of the north tower, and they climbed quickly to the next level, past priceless tapestries showing medieval hunting scenes.
The Armorer was in the lead, keeping flat against the wall, trying to avoid the oak treads of the broad stairs, not that anyone was likely to hear creaking over the noise of the chem storm.
On the second floor there weren’t any lamps lighted, nor were there any sec men or servants.
“Where are the damned blasters?” J.B. hissed, staring back into the pit of blackness.
Ryan had automatically taken up the dangerous position of rearguard and he stopped a moment. “Just said they were in this tower, didn’t they?”
Krysty spoke. “Next floor.”
She was right.
The precious gun collection of Baron Nathan Mandeville was on the third floor, where several emergency lamps had been lighted.
And where three sec men were waiting.
SOME OF THE DOGS picked up the trail of the fugitives, leading toward the water mill. But most of them had missed the cutoff and were still racing excitedly on through the downpour, vanishing from sight, barking and snapping at one another.
Two horses went down in the confusion, the rest of the riders bottled up and screaming.
Harry Guiteau had suddenly realized what Ryan Cawdor’s plan might be, and he was trying to spur through the chaos, yelling out for order.
THE THREE SEC MEN were all standing on the landing, carrying several unlighted oil lamps, two of them with glowing tapers. J.B. spotted them and retreated without being seen, beckoning to Ryan to join him near the top of the stairs.
“That overall could get you the few steps you need,” he whispered.
“Start coming before those bastards even work out who I am,” Ryan replied. “Not going to be much time for this. Let Doc follow on third. His sword stick could be just what we need here.”
There was no point in waiting for a better time or a better chance.
Ryan gathered himself, slipping the panga out of sight behind his back and powering himself up the last few steps and onto the landing at a dead run.
The guards were less than twenty feet away from him, slowed by their burden. One turned, spotting the maroon clothes and started to smile.
“Been outside in the rain and” he began.
And died.
Ryan slashed the sec man’s throat open, then lunged at the chest of the second uniformed man, who went to meet his Maker, puzzling over whether he should try to drop the valuable predark lamps before unslinging the Armalite from his shoulder.