“Come in, Morgan.”
Ryan closed the door again, carefully locking it again. The sec man watched him.
“You take care, don’t you, Cawdor?”
“Living is taking care. What is it?”
“We heard word from Clinkerscales at the Lincoln Inn about what happened. The young woman’s a doomie, isn’t she?”
There was no point in denying it. “She claims to be,” Ryan replied cautiously.
“Caused a riot. Blood knee deep on the floor.”
“Ankle deep,” Krysty said.
Morgan nodded. “Baron doesn’t know it yet. I’m the only one knows. Word doesn’t get around the Hole too much. Better Sharpie doesn’t know.”
“Why?”
The sec man stared directly at Ryan. “I owe you my life. But the baron could take an interest in Emma if he knew she had true mutie powers.”
“But why should-” Krysty started.
Morgan held up a hand. “No! I’ll go so far along the road for you. No farther. But this is only a part of what I’ve come for. Just take it as a warning. Clinkerscales also told me about you and John Dix riding with the Trader. How he met up with you, years back, and all. I never actually saw the Trader, but I heard plenty of tales of him.”
“Most men have,” Ryan stated.
“The old woman in the infirmary said she used to ride with him. Wanted a word with you, Cawdor.”
“And J.B.?”
“Just you. Says you’ll know why.”
“What’s her name?”
“Won’t give it. She’s real triple sick, Cawdor. Best take a couple coins to lay on her eyes. Hours at most. Mebbe minutes. No time to waste on talk.”
Ryan rubbed a finger down the side of his nose, considering the request, automatically looking for the possibility of a trap, rejecting it.
“Right,” he said.
Ryan turned to Krysty. “Keep the door safe, lover. Go to bed if I’m more than an hour.” She kissed him on the cheek. “Take care.”
MORGAN LED HIM silently through the rambling ville, past pairs of patrolling guards, all of them well trained and alert, making Ryan reconsider his original thought that it would probably be easy to take the ville.
“Nearly there, Cawdor.” They were the only words that Josh Morgan said to him until they reached a half-glass door with the painted sign over it, proclaiming that it was the infirmary.
“You coming in, Morgan?” Ryan asked.
“No. This is one ball you have to carry on your own, outlander. Woman’s in a private room beyond the main ward. Nobody else in there. Bell by the bed if you need to call for help.”
It looked for a moment as though he were going to say something else, but he turned on his heel and walked back along the shadowed passage.
Ryan opened the door and entered the infirmary, finding himself in a silent dormitory, with five beds to a side. An occasional light glowed dimly on the walls, showing the stark folded sheets and the fluffed pillows.
The air tasted of antiseptic and sickness.
Ryan moved slowly, like a one-eyed ghost, his hand resting on the butt of the P-226 SIG-Sauer. His combat boots whispered on the polished linoleum floor.
Blinds were drawn over the windows, deepening the effect of an undersea cavern.
At the end of the ward, Ryan saw the corridor stretched ahead of him for another fifty or sixty feet, with several doors opening off on both sides. The first of them stood ajar, showing an empty office. The door opposite was locked.
A narrow strip of pale fire glittered coldly from under the next door along on the right-hand side, and Ryan paused outside it, fingers reaching for the cold brass handle and turning it.
The light was on above the single bed. The solitary window was closed, the shutter thrown back, showing only a polished blackness. The room smelled of death.
Ryan’s first thought was that the mysterious woman who claimed to have known him had already slipped peacefully into the big sleep. Her eyes were closed, the toothless mouth sagging open. He had no doubt that Morgan had been misinformed. Ryan had an excellent memory for faces, and he knew immediately that this skeletal old woman, looking to be closer to ninety than eighty, had never ridden the war wags with him.