“An escape route is only good if you can use it, dear brother,” Amanda replied, tucking the binocs into a cushioned pouch. “It’s there for our protection. Nobody but you and I know about the boat hidden in the river cave.”
He grunted in reply, admitting neither that he was wrong nor she was correct
A chill evening wind moved across the front of the Citadel, the grayish stone turning black in the evening light. The heirs sat in chairs on the front porch overlooking the execution dock. They knew it was always wise to be plainly seen by the slaves in times of trouble. It quelled unrest.
Large braziers heaped with coals lined the courtyard around them, deaf slaves wrapped in discarded furs fanning the smoke upward, and directing the heat toward their masters. Richard often worried about discussing important matters in front of the slaves, until Amanda discovered that a simple thrust of an ice pick rendered anybody permanently deaf. And with the adroit application of a sharp knife, their personal servants were no longer able to speak about what transpired in private bedchambers. Amanda took great pride in the fact that Eugene could only kill, but she was able to “fix” prisoners and make them more valuable than before.
Patrolling the courtyard were armed sec men, their longblasters wrapped in sleek furs to keep the bolt grease from congealing and hindering the firing mechanism. Autumn in the mountain valley was approaching with its usual savagery, and soon the acid snows would descend, piling tall drifts of burning white crystals.
Prominently off to one side was a large canvas lump, the stiff sheeting firmly tied down against the wind by numerous iron spikes driven deep into the granite cobblestones.
“There won’t be an autumn crop,” Amanda said, checking the figures in a ragged book. “We’ll be eating horse by March.”
“Unless we get their tank. Then we’ll feast on the limitless supply of canned food from the Wheel.”
“Hope for the best, prepare for the worst.”
Richard tossed a leg over the arm of his chair and curled a lip. “That’s what Father always told us. But he was weak! We’ll rule this land, all of this land! We’ll walk like gods among the lower classes, sowing death as befits our whims!”
As befits our whims? “You’ve been reading books again,” she said angrily. “I told you that would damage your eyes.”
“You read them,” he snapped.
In consternation, Amanda realized he was growing suspicious of her again. Damn his paranoia. Gently, she reached out to stroke his unshaven cheek. It was like caressing a porcupine, but he responded by moving against her hand.
“I’m a mere woman,” she purred. “What matters my vision? My whole purpose in life is to please you, my brother.”
He grunted in acknowledgment of the statement, took her hand, kissed it and shoved it aside.
“Anders is a good man,” Amanda stated, changing the subject to a military matter. Her brother was placated for the moment, but in the growing excitement, she was losing her control over him. He was acting more and more independent, taking charge, making decisions. Absolutely intolerable. She would either have to finally give herself to him, which meant losing her greatest hold on the heir apparent, or arrange for their public marriage. An equally disgusting idea.
“The lieutenant? He suffices,” Richard grunted, tugging a cloak tighter about himself. His sword was thrust cumbersomely under the arm of the chair, making it almost impossible for him to draw quickly. However, twin black blasters nested in a double shoulder holster. He had loaded the clips himself from their precious stock of predark ammo:
Glasers and Talons, horrible bullets that entered a body and then shattered, spreading out an internal wave of bloody destruction.
“About Anders…” Amanda started again. “Perhaps this is the time for us to grant him a promotion.”
“What? There hasn’t been one since Father’s accident!”
She agreed with a nod. “Anders is ambitious. We must promote him, or kill him.”
“Kill him, then,” Richard said, twisting the pommel of his sword.
“Competent men are few these days,” she reminded him.
“We have no need of such,” he replied haughlily. “Fear has always controlled Novaville. Fear of us, fear of Eugene, fear of the scavengers, of the Sons, of the Beast. Our slaves feast on fear as we do bread.”