“What?”
“Around where Baron Sharpe has his ville, you’d do best to hide that snowy hair.”
“Why?”
The man hesitated, swallowing hard. “Sharpie collects all kinds of odd animals and muties. Like a zoo.”
“Animals or people?”
“Animals.” After a long, long pause he added, “Animals, mostly.”
Krysty leaned forward, wineglass in hand, and pointed at the barkeep, drawing his eyes to her. “You telling us that we could be in danger?”
“Anything unusual. Like you with hair like living fire and him with hair hacked clear out of the heart of the worst winter blizzard ever known.”
“Not that uncommon for a Deathlands baron to show their wealth and power with some sort of collecting,” Ryan said. “Last one we met liked coins. Others have old vids or predark books or clothes or blasters.”
“Or women,” J.R added.
“Or wags or swords.” Ryan looked at the barman. “How dangerous is this Sharpe?”
“Bad if you’re unlucky. But his ville’s far enough away from the shanties, so you should be safe. And you got some of the finest blasters between you all.” He smiled at Ryan. “Remember how good old Trader liked blasters. Used to carry a battered Armalite, did he not? Looked like he’d used it to batter down a stone wall or stir his stew with it.”
“Speaking of stew,” Ryan said. “Let’s finish the ordering and get some food on the table.”
EVERYONE STARTED with the soup, which arrived in a beautiful dark blue tureen and turned out to be a mix of vegetables with some chunks of unidentifiable meat bobbing around in it. The flavor was highly spiced, which concealed any clue as to what it really contained.
“Not bad,” Jak pronounced, wiping his mouth and then picking with the needle point of one of his throwing knives at a slab of gristle jammed between his front teeth.
The barman bustled in and collected their empty dishes, checking that there was still enough wine left. At the opening of the door there was a raging torrent of noise from the main part of the saloon.
“Busy,” Ryan commented.
“You sure aren’t farting ‘Dixie,’ Mr. Cawdor. Like I said. Word of strangers. Right. Bring in the main courses in just a moment.” He spoke more rapidly than before, avoiding direct eye contact with any of the seven companions.
“What?” Ryan asked.
“Nothing. Just said I’d bring in.”
“Not that, Clinkerscales. I asked you what it was?”
“What?”
“Worrying you?”
“Ah, that. Couldn’t ever tug the wool down over your eyes, Mr. Cawdor. Any man of Trader’s would-”
Ryan stood, glaring at the barkeep. “Best you tell me what it is.”
Clinkerscales looked around, making sure that he’d closed the door behind him. “Just that there’s some men in the saloon tonight that I never saw before. Spit-and-sawdust talk is that they could be sec men, or scouts.”
“For Sharpe?” J.B. asked.
“Could be, could be. Hard-eyed men, who laugh like the bark of a hunting wolf. If you take my meaning.”
“How armed?” J.B. asked.
The man shook his head. “Two of them got holstered sawn-downs. Twelve-gauges, I reckon. Most have handblasters out on the hip. But I’m sure that I caught sight of a couple of hideaways while serving them.”
“Food?” Mildred said plaintively. “We can talk about getting ourselves murdered by some loony baron’s sec men after we’ve eaten. Hate the thought of going to meet my Maker on an empty, rumbling stomach.”
“Right away, right away,” Clinkerscales stammered, obviously eager to be out of the dining room and away from the pressure of the questioning.
THE FOOD WASN’T at all bad.
Ryan chose the mutton stew, finding it to be both rich and satisfying, served with diced carrots, leeks and fluffy new potatoes.
When Clinkerscales reappeared again, bringing the two extra bottles of wine that Doc had called for, he saw seven empty plates.
“As you can see, mine jovial host, Master Simon the Cellarer, we are all sturdy trenchermen here,” Doc said, beaming broadly, while wiping ineffectually at a positive archipelago of grease spots down his frock coat. “And there’s the dew-fresh flagons of the rich Medoc and the sharp chardonnay to keep the party swinging merrily along.”