Rainey stayed in the saddle, as did the three sec men, none of whom looked to be below fifty years old.
“I believe the baron placed me in command of this hunting party,” he said.
“That was before.” Ryan looked at him, trying to overcome his irritation. “You want to follow another plan, then do what you like.” He paused a moment.
“But if it risks the life of my son, then you get a front seat on the last train west.”
“What do you figure?” the sec boss asked. “Remember the son of my baron’s out there, as well. It would chill Weyman if anything happened to the boy.”
“Somethings already happened,” Trader said, cackling with laughter. “Question of what else happens.”
“Button it, Trader,” Krysty said angrily. “You’re a poor judge of when to talk and when to shut up.”
Ryan sighed. “Fireblast! Can’t we just get something done for once without an argument? We go through the woods on foot and recce the camp. No point in even thinking about trying to make a plan till we’ve done that.”
DITCHDOWN WAS SITTING in a padded chair beside the main campfire, which was always kept burning. The sunlight in the clearing accentuated the flash of white through his dark hair.
Straub stood at his side, as the two prisoners were hauled before him.
“Filthy little bastards,” said the chief of the brushwooders. “Filthy.”
Dean rubbed at his bruised and muddied face, making a low whimpering sound. Jamie stood at his side, silent, looking fixedly at the floor.
“You got anything to say for yourselves?” Straub said. His dark, silver-flecked eyes burned at Dean, as though they were drilling into his soul and sucking out all of his secrets. The boy returned his gaze for a few seconds, when he felt a sickening void opening in his head and he lowered his own eyes.
The shaved-headed man laughed. “We have here a young hawk and a common jaybird, Ditchdown. Yet both of these puny creatures can be of use to us.”
“Which is the hawk?” the brushwood leader asked. “Neither of them fit that description, Straub, do they?”
“One is the son of the baron of this ville. His name is Jamie Weyman. The other is a common little lout. I believe he might be one of the butchering party that gave us such trouble and cost us in spilled blood.”
Ditchdown stood and stared at the lads, his fists clenched in anger. “I can’t say I’d recognize the spawn of that one-eyed bastard. Truth is, I can’t even tell these two little rats apart.”
“There was a strong enough clue in what one of them carried. But ask them, Ditchdown.”
“Ask them what?”
Straub toyed with the opal in his ear, barely bothering to mask his feelings. “Ask them which is Weyman and which is Cawdor. If it’s not too difficult for you. One shall remain here and the other shall carry the message of what ransom we require, back to the baron. Just ask them, Ditchdown.”
“I SMELL THE SMOKE,” Krysty said, “and I can feel we’re close. Feel the brushwooders. Sort of dull, brutish shape in my mind.”
“How about the boys, lover?”
She shook her head. “Sorry, Ryan. Sorry, Bill. Nothing. But we reckon they were almost certainly alive when they were taken. Doubt they’ll have had time to do much to them.”
Trader hawked and spit, peering to examine the ball of phlegm. “Thought it might’ve turned yellow with all the sulfur in the air.”
The three elderly sec men from the ville were huddled together, sharing a cigarette. None of them looked as if they were enjoying the expedition.
Jak was looking at the trampled mud of the trail that led them between the trees, toward the camp. “Pigs,” he said, pointing with a long white finger at the unmistakable marks of sharp hooves. “Not long ago.”
“Then let’s move on,” Ryan said. “Faster.”
“WHICH OF YOU IS THE SON of Baron Weyman? I give you my word that he won’t be harmed. Just stay and be our guest a short while. Well?”
The voice was clear and defiant. “I’m Jamie Weyman, and you’re a piece of rotting shit. My father will come with all his sec men and ride you into the dirt.”