Schickel had been talking about the deer that had been caught and killed, within the bounds of the domain of Baron Weyman.” ‘Baron Half-a-man’ is what I call him.”
The words were greeted by general laughter and applause.
“And our good comrade Straub. He has also done a little more work toward our big plan. We’ll talk more about that tomorrow. Meeting of all fighting men an hour after first food.”
It was obvious that the evening was breaking up. Ryan welcomed the chance to get an early night in their own tent and stood. “Thanks for your hospitality,” he said.
Schickel looked surprised, leaning down as Straub tugged at his sleeve. He listened to a few hasty, whispered words, then straightened again. “Not quite yet, Ryan Cawdor.”
“No?”
Schickel shook his head. “We would like a few more minutes of your time. Just Straub and myself. Just you, and perhaps one of your friends.” It was a barely veiled command. There were times when Ryan would have felt it necessary to make a point by ignoring the “request” and doing the opposite. But there seemed no danger here in the camp, so he was content to go along with what Schickel wantedthough it seemed likely that it was rather more what Straub wanted.
“Sure. J.B., hang around. Rest of you go to the tents. Be careful.”
Krysty squeezed his arm as she stood and eased herself past him, whispering in his ear, “Don’t turn your back on Straub, lover. Not for a second.”
The shaved head was tilted toward Krysty as she walked out of the circle of firelight, Jak close behind her, the two heads of miraculous hair in stark contrast, the fire ruby and the moonstone.
“Wonderful.” Straub sighed, his gold tooth gleaming in the dark cavern of his smiling mouth.
“What?” the Armorer asked.
“The hair, my friend. The hair.”
“Just what’s your interest in hair?” Ryan asked. “Keeps coming up.”
Straub’s long pale fingersof what Trader might well have called “strangler’s hands”were toying with the chunky necklace of turquoise.
“I have many ‘interests,’ outlander Cawdor. I travel here and there and do not stay overlong in any place. That is my way. But there are things I do to keep myself in eating jack. Oh, so many different things do I do.”
“Yeah?” Ryan waited for the answer to his question.
“I trade in hair,” Straub said eventually, after a long, overlong pause.
“Human hair?” J.B. probed.
“Ace on the line, Dix. The hair of humans.”
“What do you do with it?”
Straub smiled and stared at Ryan, who found himself consciously avoiding the dark silver eyes. “It is one of the immutable truths in this blighted world of Deathlands, outlander Cawdor, that there is always a market for everything.”
“Sure. That’s what our friend, Trader, always says. All you need to do is bring buyer and seller together. The result is happiness and mutual profit.”
Straub laughed out loud, nudging Schickel in the ribs. “I like these outlanders and their sayings.”
“And their blasters,” the chief muttered, rubbing the spot where Straub had poked him. “Don’t forget you also like their blasters!”
“You got another name, Straub?” J.B. asked curiously.
“No. I came grinning, with a fine full set of sharp teeth, from my mother’s womb, damn the foul-living slut! Called Straub. No first name. Or should that be no second name? Who knows? What’s first is last and sometimes the last shall be first. So it says in the Good Book.”
“Who do you sell all of this hair to, Straub?” Ryan was insistent, sensing that the man’s interest in Krysty and Jak could mean menace.
“Not all that much hair. I sell only the finest and rarest to the old wives of rich barons who have it spun into wigs that chase away the years for them. It is costly.” He sighed, rubbing his hands together like a preacher bemoaning a poor collection. “But these people can well afford the cost.”
“There is a market for hair? Then who sells it to you, Straub?” This time it was J.B. who was unable to bide his disbelief and revulsion.
“The poor, of course. Oh, don’t misunderstand. I pay a fair price to them. But I only want, as I said, the best. Most poor folk have dull, lifeless ordinary hair.”