Kinnison said nothing as he watched the weeping prisoner dragged away, then sighed and sagged against the stone wall. He was feeling weaker every day, and the drugs were helping less and less. Death would be a sweet release. But this unexpected excitement of pirates and Evander had drained him completely. He felt sick to his stomach, and itchy.
“Here, my lord,” a sergeant said, offering a gourd. It sloshed from the slight motion.
“And what is this?” Kinnison demanded suspiciously, not accepting the container.
“Chancellor Griffin commanded us to start carrying some of your medicine with us while on duty,” the guard explained smoothly. “There is no reason our baron should ever be in pain.”
Kinnison looked at the gourd as if it were a fanged insect. “Thank you, Sergeant,” he spoke in an even tone. “Take that to the launch pods on the roof. I’ll be there shortly to direct the attack.”
“But…” The sec man stopped and saluted. “As you command, my lord.”
As the guards marched away, Kinnison decided that Griffin had to go to Davey. This was the most clumsy attempt on his life ever, and if the chancellor was this poor at his job, then of what possible use could he be to the ville? None. Simply more jetsam for the sea.
Flanked by the remaining sec men, Kinnison rushed along the corridor as quickly as he could, and forced himself up a flight of stairs to reach his private level. The guards at the iron gate saluted as he went through. Going directly to his bedroom, Kinnison used two keys to unlock the steel door. The guards stayed in the hallway as he went inside and threw the heavy bolts. Then he paused to catch his breath. His temples were throbbing like a ship’s cannons, his bandages felt tight, breathing was difficult and his skin felt prickly as if he were standing near a roaring fire. That sec man had been right; he needed more jolt immediately. But he wasn’t accepting any as a gift. How stupid did Griffin think he was? Something was happening, and the baron began to strongly doubt there were any pirates in the waters around his island. The real danger was under his own roof.
Rushing to a hidden compartment in the headboard of his bed, Kinnison slid back a grooved wooden panel that perfectly matched the rest of the intricately carved mahogany. Quickly, he extracted a jar full of white powder and shook some into his trembling palm. There was spring water in a crystal pitcher on the table, and red wine in sealed bottles filling a shelf near the rack of longblasters, but those were much too distant. Lapping the drug from his hand, he stayed kneeling on the quilt until the tremors passed. Feeling better by the second, he drained the pitcher of water and sat down in relief.
Kinnison first knew something was terribly wrong when a fuzzy warmth spread outward from his enormous belly, stealing the strength from his limbs. He tried to rise and found it impossible. What was happening? Had he finally crossed the line and was dying of an overdose? The baron had to concentrate to breathe. His fingers twitched for the bell rope to summon his healer, but the effort was too great. He felt woozy and confused, and trying for the rope was too great an effort.
The door swung open, and in walked Griffin with a huge revolver in his grip. Kinnison recognized it instantly; it was a gift to Samson, one of his personal guards, for saving the baron from a night-creep attack. But the sec man was fanatically loyal to Kinnison and would never give up the weapon. Unless he was chilled.
“Yes, he’s gone,” Griffin said with a grin, cocking back the hammer. “And the ones I didn’t ace personally, my gaudy sluts did. Every man and woman who supported you is dead. The palace is mine.”
A great well of fury boiled inside Kinnison, but he could do nothing. The chancellor seemed to be at the far end of a long white tunnel. The baron mouthed the word traitor, but nothing came out.
“Oh, I’m much more than that, you fat bag of pus.” The man chuckled and went to the door to slide back the heavy bolts.