“But these girls are not norms,” the brother of a baron from a southern island declared once more. “They are muties, and rarely speak because they’re afraid of showing their forked tongues.”
“Forked?” Kinnison repeated, trying not to get too impatient. The jolt had him wide awake now, and he tried not to glance at the main doors. Where the hell was Glassman? His family was already far to sea in their boat. Could the healer be holding his son hostage? Unthinkable!
The young man nodded. “Yes, my lord. Gods, they are beautiful and can pleasure a man in ways no gaudy slut would dare. But death follows the muties, and I have found that several have been seen in other villes.” He paused. “And they all look alike.”
“Sisters,” Kinnison declared, bored with the subject. If the girls were trouble, fuck them, then chill them. Or do it the other way around; he really didn’t care.
“No, my lord, they are identical. Absolutely identical in every way.”
The crowd murmured unhappily at this news.
“Clones?” Griffin asked softly.
As always, the bony man was scrubbed painfully clean, from his pointed beard to his soft leather moccasins. His clothing was plain, almost nondescript, and if he was armed, no blaster or blade was in sight. The lack of a visible weapon frightened most people, although they couldn’t quite say why.
Kinnison glowered at the high chancellor. “Crap,” he snorted. “My father chilled them all. There are no clones anymore.”
Just then, cheering could be heard from outside the throne room. Suddenly, the double doors were thrown open and in came a large group of laughing people, led by Glassman.
“My lord, it’s a boy!” he cried, carrying the swaddled bundle into the throne room of the baron’s fortress. “You have a son!”
“I have an heir!” Kinnison roared, brandishing both bandaged fists into the air. “An heir! Nobody works for the rest of the day! Wine for everybody, and it is forbidden to whip the slaves until nightfall!”
The crowd of attendees erupted into cheers, lifting high their mugs made from old 120 mm tank shells. From somewhere in the fortress a chorus began to sing, and fireworks could be heard exploding outside as could the crackle of blasters.
Reverently, a midwife placed a clean white blanket on a sturdy table, and Glassman lay the swaddled infant before the lord baron. “The ship carrying my family is long gone,” he whispered. “I am yours.”
“I know,” Kinnison replied, leaning closer to see the child as if for the first time. The boy was large, ten, maybe twelve pounds, and had a wild stock of coal-black hair. Incredibly, he seemed to actually resemble the baron slightly. But then, it was hard to recall what the baron looked like under his layers of encrusted bandages.
“Corbet,” the baron proclaimed, grinning so wide his lips bled at the corners. “His name shall be Corbet Kinnison, the twenty-seventh lord baron of the Thousand Islands!”
The room erupted in cheers once more, and now an army of slaves arrived to serve predark wine in crystal goblets. One by one, the barons lucky enough to be present for the wonderful event filed by the infant to pay their respects.
“Magnificent!” an old baron said, nodding at the tiny pink face. “A perfectly healthy norm. Congratulations.”
“Thank you,” Kinnison said, reaching out a hand toward the babe, then forcing himself to withdraw it. There was no way he would chance spoiling everything now by giving the little one the Red Death.
“And how is the mother?” Griffin asked, his hands tucked into the loose sleeves of his jacket.
The guards in the corners raised their blaster at the movement, and the chancellor quickly withdrew his hands and kept them in plain sight.
“Lady Susan died giving birth, noble sir,” the midwife answered sadly, giving a slight curtsy. “The delivery was long and difficult.”
“I see, what a tragedy,” Griffin said, stroking his beard. “I will attend to her burial needs personally. Such a glorious day to be marked by tragedy.”
“That is life,” the old baron said.
Kinnison agreed, and carefully watched the chancellor disappear into the crowd. There was something in the way the man had spoken that greatly disturbed the baron. He debated having the man chilled on general principle. His father had always told him that only the dead couldn’t hurt you.