Krysty wondered who Cathy had been and how long ago she had supported Lynx, whatever that was.
A mahogany cupboard in one corner, with a deeply or-nate acanthus design, held a lidded chamber bucket, which Krysty had used and emptied into the filthy water of the moat.
There was a tapestry on the long wall behind the head of the bed. Faded green and blue, it showed a sailing ship, partly dismasted, running for shelter before a terrifying storm. Massive white breakers curled under the schoon-er’s quarterdeck, and sharp-fanged rocks waited at the base of towering cliffs. It was a mournful and desolate picture that fitted Krysty’s mood of bleak pessimism.
Since leaving Harmony, Krysty Wroth had been bowled along, bouncing from adventure to adventure, constantly flirting with death, but never finding herself locked in its embrace. Now it was changed. They were prisoners of a ruthless and crazed baron, locked away, weaponless, in the center of a fortified ville that swarmed with sec men. Only Doc Tanner and Lori Quint had offered any pros-pect of help, and she’d just seen them both stroll into the gaping jaws of the grinning tiger.
Krysty felt very much alone.
They brought food around noon, a hand-turned wooden bowl of vegetable soup, with some scummy slices
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of potato floating in it, and a hunk of coarse bread. They didn’t give her even a spoon to eat with, nor did any of the three armed men speak a single word to her.
There were no books in the room. No tapes. No pix, no sounds. Using some of the skills taught her by her mother, Krysty eventually lay on the creaking bed and willed her-self into a semitrance, slipping easily into sleep by relax-ing herself from her toes upward.
The day crept by.
it was near dusk when she heard the distant baying of the pack of hounds drawing steadily nearer. The fading light made it difficult to make out details, but she thought that Baron Harvey was slumped in the high saddle of his horse, his pretty cloak caked with gray mud. The whole party was subdued, with none of the chatter and singing that you would normally expect with the return from a successful day’s hunting.
There was the bloodied corpse of a large pig of some kind, its curling tusks gleaming yellow in the dusk. Its throat had been slit, and there was what looked like a scattergun wound in its flank. It had been flung into the back of a cart, which rattled over the cobbles into the keep of the ville.
The guards brought another meal, identical to the first except that there were some shreds of stringy pork lurk-ing in the slimy depths of the bowl.
Through the open door, Krysty could see the sergeant who’d brought them in from Shersville. She noticed a crust of dried blood on his lower lip, and the side of his jaw seemed swollen. Even as she looked at him, he lifted his hand and touched his face, wincing as though it were damnably tender.
“A good hunt for the baron?” she called out.
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“He fell at a thorn break. Came home tired and in the foulest of tempers. And I feel much the same, so just shut your mouth and keep it that way.”
“Won’t he see us tonight?”
The sec officer sighed. “I told you to… No, he won’t. He’s gone to his bed. But don’t worry, Red. One more night t’live. Be thankful. This time on the morrow you’ll either be chilled, or you’ll wish that you were.”
And the door slammed.
krysty was awakened by a faint grating sound that seemed to originate behind the head of her bed. She sat up, trying to work out what the time was and what had caused the noise. The sound was repeated. It had a pecu-liar, hollow resonance to it that echoed through the room.
The girl swung her long legs off the bed and stood fac-ing the ancient tapestry, which stirred as if a breath of wind had tugged at it. Though the window was flung open, there wasn’t a breath of air in the room. The night was sultry and humid; Krysty could hear thunder rum-bling off to the north.