“At ease, you bastards,” the baron grunted in greeting, returning the gesture. “Mitchum, glad as hell to see you and the troops alive. After a week I figured you were aced.”
The colonel frowned. “Damn near, my lord, but we’re still sucking air thanks to these folks,” Mitchum said, looking at the companions.
“That so,” Baron Thayer said, glancing at them for only a second. “So what happened, pirates attack?”
“It was those cannies that been hunting us since last winter,” Mitchum explained. “Aced half my squad, and was working their way through the rest when Ryan and his people busted in and blew the place apart.”
“What do you mean?” the baron asked, confused.
“They set fire to the armory, Baron,” the colonel said. “You should have seen it!”
“Those cannies won’t ever be bothering us again,” a private added.
“That true?” Thayer demanded, scowling in disbelief.
“Close enough,” Ryan said, sliding out of the saddle to talk with the man on an even keel. The Trader always said that talking face-to-face put a man more at ease, and they needed the baron’s goodwill to acquire that boat.
Rubbing his chin, Thayer studied the companions closely, a thumb in his pocket, resting his hand inches from the little blaster. “I’m Harlan Thayer.” he said at last, “the baron of Ratak ville. Who the hell are you folks?”
“Just some explorers,” Ryan said, crossing his arms, so that his own hands hung near the loaded flintlocks tucked into his Army belt. “A forest fire burned down our ville of Moscow, and we set out to find a better place.”
“Lord Baron Kinnison doesn’t like wanderers,” Thayer growled. “Says they’re often spies working for pirates.”
The statement sounded like a trap of some kind, so Ryan took the offensive. “Don’t give a hot shit what the Lord Bastard likes,” he stated firmly. “And if somebody stuffed a Firebird up his ass, I’d gladly light the fuse.”
The crowd froze in terror, but the sec man laughed and Thayer shifted his frown into a momentary grin. “Well, you got balls, One-eye, that’s for sure. Everybody hates the fat rotbag, but few dare to say it aloud. What are your names?”
Introductions were made all around.
“Mighty good horse,” Thayer said, going to a mare and stroking its neck. The animal stayed in place and shuffled its hooves in pleasure under the petting. “What’ll you take for them?”
“The ones ridden by Mitchum and his men are yours,” Ryan said. “As are the blasters they carry. They bought them with blood.”
Thayer continued to stroke the beast, but seemed confused that the offer of payment had been declined, the animals and weapons turned into a gift. If he didn’t know better, the baron would have sworn the stranger was trying to buy his goodwill.
“Sell you these others,” Krysty countered, draping the reins over the pommel of her saddle. “Food and good beds for a week.”
Amused, Thayer looked over the red-haired beauty. He had thought she was only Ryan’s bed warmer, but now he saw she carried a blaster. Odd folks these outlanders. A memory tickled the back of his brain, something about strangers with fancy blasters. But these folks had only flintlocks, so it couldn’t have been about them.
“Keep the horses. I’m offering food and good beds for a month,” Baron Thayer stated loudly. “That’s what I pay as reward to anybody who aces a hundred cannies and saves my men from the pot. Food and beds, or three full pounds of black powder. Your choice.”
The old man dropped his pipe, and the crowd gasped at the incredible offer, unable to believe what they were hearing.
“Take the food and beds,” Ryan said, easing his stance and offering a hand.
“Agreed, Blackie,” the baron replied.
They shook on the deal, and Thayer added, “Mitchum, take these folks to the Grotto and tell Sal they’re my guests. And after they’re fed, bring them to the palace for drinks. Got some coconut wine that’ll melt a cannonball, and I’d like a talk with folks who have seen other islands.”
“Yes, Baron,” Colonel Mitchum answered, snapping a salute.
“Just a second there, dead man,” a gruff voice said from the crowd, and the people parted to admit a burly officer.
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