Doc shouldered his swordstick and sighed. “Ah, to be in England now that durance vile is here.”
Though the sec men had disarmed them, searching Jak and confiscating his knives, they hadn’t bothered with Doc’s swordstick. He had leaned on it, hobbling as he walked, complaining that he needed it for his lumbago. The only Helskel men who knew it concealed a sword blade were dead.
Fortunately the sec men hadn’t mistreated them, though it was apparent they sorely wished to beat them. Hellstrom had evidently only given the order to incarcerate them, without adding a codicil concerning brutality to the command. No one seemed to be in charge, and since they were afraid of reinterpreting the patriarch’s commands, Krysty, Jak, J.B. and Doc were merely herded into the cell.
Squeaking rats scurried about in the sour-smelling straw. A pair of ten-gallon galvanized metal buckets sat in a corner. One held brackish water, and a tin cup was attached to the wire handle by a small-linked chain. The other bucket was empty, intended to hold the prisoners’ waste. Doc tapped it with his swordstick.
“In retrospect,” he remarked, “I suppose our lack of breakfast is a blessing in disguise.”
“Especially in your case,” J.B. said. “Good thing you only had half a cup of coffee, or that bucket would be filled by now.”
The Armorer was pacing off the dimensions of the cell. When he was done, he announced, “Twenty by eighteen. Downright spacious compared to some of the holes we’ve been thrown in.”
Jak walked around the walls, his movements feline smooth and graceful. He pushed here and prodded there. He sprang up to the window, grasped the bars, hung from them a long moment, then dropped back down to the hard-packed earthen floor. He shook his head gloomily.
The morning passed sluggishly. When no one else showed an interest in doing so, Doc stretched out on the bunk and napped, his swordstick held beneath his folded hands.
Krysty assumed a lotus position, sitting cross-legged, eyes closed, going through a relaxation exercise by balancing her breathing, her heart rate, and trying to reduce the flow of adrenaline through her body. It wasn’t easy, though all of them had been prisoners before. Waiting to learn their fates wasn’t a new experience, but repetition didn’t make it any easier to endure.
She thought of Ryan and Mildred and repressed a groan of anxiety. She knew Hellstrom’s threat to sacrifice all of them to the Anthill inhabitants was no idle boast. Human lives were, to the patriarch of Helskel, no more than a helpless insect in the wing-plucking hands of a sadistic child.
Outside the cell, the everyday business of Helskel went on. They heard merchants hawking their wares, raucous laughter, music and the roar of motorcycle engines.
Jak, noting the quality of light through the barred window, said, “Getting hungry. Hope give midday meal.”
J.B., who sat on the flagstoned steps leading to the door, pointed to the rats cowering in a corner. “Mebbe them things are their idea of lunch.”
Suddenly, unexpectedly, the small observation panel in the door opened. A sec man’s face was framed behind the grillwork. “Everybody get away from the door.”
Doc awoke with a snorting start, but he didn’t rise. He lifted his head and blinked as J.B. and Jak moved to the wall beneath the window. The cell door opened just enough to admit a single figure. In the room outside, they glimpsed two sec men, blasters at the ready.
The door banged shut behind her, and Fleur regarded everyone with an emotionless stare. Her clothes were in disarray, her hair a wild, unbrushed tangle. A purpling bruise showed on her forehead, and her lower lip was puffy. Her right wrist was encased by a wooden splint, and her left hand was thickly bandaged.
Doc climbed to his feet and inclined his head in a courtly bow. “Welcome, my lady of war, to an exclusive club. The Honorable Order of Patsies.”
Krysty stood and stared at Fleur. “I take it your beloved patriarch snapped his fingers, and you were magically transformed from warlord to scapegoat.”
Fleur didn’t reply. She simply stood motionless, like a mannequin, not even appearing to breathe.