“Relax, Mr. Cawdor,” a husky voice said. “I assure you there’s no reason to be afraid here. In the rest of the ville, perhaps, but not here.”
The speaker sat at the end of a rectangular dinner table. Black hair was piled atop a pale oval face that looked only slightly more healthy than a corpse’s. If she hadn’t been sitting in a wheelchair, Ryan judged that the woman would be tall, perhaps as tall as himself. She wore a jade green dress that crisscrossed her chest. A white eye patch covered her left eye.
“I would get up to greet you,” Aunt Maim said, “but I am somewhat invalided these days. Please seat yourselves.”
Ryan pulled a chair out for Krysty, taking a moment to run his hand under the table’s edge to make sure nothing was waiting underneath that would do them harm. He did the same at the other end of the table before seating himself.
Aunt Maim picked up a long tall wineglass in her right hand. The maid poured from a dark blue bottle. The shawl draped across her narrow shoulders hid Aunt Maim’s other arm from sight. “You’ll find the wine is an excellent vintage,” the hosteler said.
The maid came to Ryan’s end of the table and poured drinks. Ryan picked his drink up and sniffed it. It might have been wasted effort, and he knew it. The Trader had made him aware that several poisons were virtually undetectable. Krysty shook her head, letting him know she sensed nothing wrong.
Aunt Maim laughed, a full-throated bray that carried with it a hint of insanity. She caught herself after a moment, then put down her wineglass and covered her mouth. “Excuse me, but it’s been a long time since I’ve found myself so amused.”
“Mebbe you’d care to explain what you found so funny.” Ryan let an edge creep into his voice. He kept his hand on his thigh next to the SIG-Sauer blaster. He’d slipped the retaining thong the instant they’d left the room upstairs.
Aunt Maim quieted with effort, but the madness lingered in the dark eye. “What I find so amusing is that you would believe you have anything to fear from me, yet you accepted Kirkland’s offer to enter this ville.”
“Kind of short on choices at the time,” Ryan said.
“So you chose death or imprisonment over taking your chances elsewhere?”
“Mebbe you want to spit out what you’re trying to say,” Krysty suggested vehemently.
“I guess Kirkland hasn’t told you that you’re prisoners here.”
“No,” Ryan answered.
“And I take it you didn’t know about the plague before you walked into the ville?”
Ryan shook his head. “Mebbe you should start with the plague.” As he listened to the, woman’s story, related with a morbid fascination, he felt his stomach tighten. Sickness was something he didn’t relish. A plague, unless a man found the bodies scattered ahead of him with enough distance between and the wind right, was something that couldn’t be run from.
The maid came around the table as Aunt Maim spoke, unveiling the food covering the surface. Vegetables were cut in beautiful shapes, looking delicate and delicious in their dishes.
“You don’t have to worry that you’re receiving better fare than your friends,” Aunt Maim said. “I’m having them served out of the same kitchen. Everything that is offered to you here tonight is also being offered to them.”
The maid bent low to talk to her mistress.
“I’m told only one of your party remains within the hotel,” Aunt Maim said.
Ryan nodded.
The woman sighed in irritation. She leaned back for the maid to place a napkin in her lap. “That’s a pity,” the hosteler said, “because not all of this food will maintain proper consistency for long.”
“We’ve learned not to be picky eaters,” Krysty said. “If it’s edible, or even healthy enough, they’ll eat.”
“Still, I’ll not have guests in my establishment dine on anything less than the best. Even if they insist on keeping strange hours.” Aunt Maim turned to the maid. “Please inform the cooks that their services will be needed a while longer.”
The maid nodded but remained where she stood.