“Mildred’s a doctor.”
“Ah, I must admit that your father didn’t appear to be the sort of a man who would have medical skills. I hope you don’t mind my saying that.”
“No.”
They reached the top of the stairs, and the conversation briefly halted.
Krysty was right at Ryan’s shoulder, and she whispered in his ear. “Never heard a more grown-up little man than that Jamie Weyman. He talks better than I do, and he can’t be more than eleven years old. Can’t see him and Dean really becoming the closest of friends, can you?”
Before Ryan could answer, Rainey was beckoning for them to follow him along the corridor, past shuttered casements, pausing before a closed door.
“Baron’s in there,” he said. “When you’ve finished, come on down to the eating room, left at the bottom of the stairs, and I’ll get some food rustled up for you.”
The sec boss knocked on the door, waiting to hear a muffled voice call for them to enter. Then he turned and strode away along the passage, ruffling his fingers through the hair of the two boys as he did so.
Ryan turned the handle and opened the heavy door.
The room was so dimly lit, with heavy shutters drawn across the windows and only a single oil lamp for illumination, that he thought for a moment that there was nobody there. Then he saw a gray figure, wearing a gray coat, sitting in a deep, gray armchair to one side of an empty fireplace.
“Come in, outlanders. I hear from Bill Rainey, excellent fellow, incidentally, that you were on your way. As far as Bill is concerned, ask him if there’s anything you want or need. Food, beds, that sort of thing.” The man waved a languid hand. “But do come in where I can see you properly. Oh, is that my son and heir I spy bringing up the rear as usual?”
“Good day, Father. This is my friend, Dean. He’s the same age as I am, aren’t you, Dean?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m delighted to meet you all. You’re Ryan Cawdor, aren’t you? Fellow who’s a little deficient in the optical area?”
“What?”
Doc was at his heels. “Baron means you’ve only got one eye.”
“Oh, right. Yeah. Shall I introduce you to the others?”
“No, no. Not here and not now. There is some sort of poor meal prepared for you. I shall join you there in a short while. Do go on down and enjoy whatever humble repast there is on offer.”
He paused. “Jamie, perhaps you would remain with me for a few moments longer?”
“Of course, Father. Can Dean stay, too?”
“I think not. He should go with his friends. You will have plenty of time to see him later.”
He waved his hand. “Now, outlanders, off you go to eat.”
Like young children being dismissed by their wise and elderly principal, they all filed out, J.B. quietly closing the door behind them.
“That man needs his balls pushed into his throat,” Trader said, his face flushed with anger. “Who the fuck does he think he is, treating us like that? If we had the war wags here, we could blow his penny-ante ville into the mountains.”
“I didn’t think he was that bad,” Abe commented.
“Shows what a piss-poor judge you are, Cohn,” Trader snarled. “Always were and always will be.”
“I’m Abe,” the gunner said. “I wish you’d try to get my name right.”
Trader turned on him, looking for a moment like he might smash him to the floor of the corridor with the butt of the Armalite. He restrained himself with a visible effort, his voice surprisingly gentle. “I’m trying, for Christ’s sake, Abe! You think I’m not trying?”
Ryan cleared his throat. “Break it up, friends. Last thing we want in a strange ville is to get ourselves locked at one another’s throats.”
They moved toward the head of the stairs. J.B. eased the Smith amp; Wesson on his shoulder. “Weyman didn’t seem that bad. Talks like he’s swallowed a word book. But he’s kindly to us.”
He turned to Trader. “Not many barons in Deathlands greet outlanders as friendly as that, do they?”