“Death to the heirs,” Clifford said, then took off into the street. Instantly a hue and cry formed in his wake.
“It’s him! It’s him!” cried dozens of people. “Invader! Outlander!”
Guards charged out of doorways with blasters in hand, but hesitated to fire. To kill Ryan meant their own deaths from the hated and despised Eugene. Shoving slaves out of their way, the sec men desperately tried to follow the darting man, his telltale eyepatch identifying the outlander to them in a single glance. A wild chase began.
HIGH ATOP the parapets of the Citadel, a lone guard standing near the alarm bell shivered from the cold in spite of the thick bearskin coat he was wearing.
Retrieving a hand-rolled cigarette from a pocket, he placed it in his mouth and lit the tip from a match, cupping both hands around the tiny flame as protection from the wind. On the ground they might only be getting a mild breeze, but way up there with nothing to act as a buffer, he was washed in a steady stream from the mountains.
The cigarette finally caught, and the guard inhaled the smoke with true satisfaction. He smiled in contentment, then frowned and started to wave his arms and legs about. He tried to grab for his blaster, but it was buried deep under multiple layers of fur and leather, impossible to reach with any speed. The precious cig dropped from his gasping mouth as he continued to dance above the floor. After a few minutes, his struggles lessened and finally stopped as he went limp, but didn’t fall.
Grunting from the effort, Ryan finished tying off the wire garrote around the man’s neck, the strands buried deep in the mottled skin. The corpse stayed where it was, firmly attached to the flagpole.
Ryan whistled twice. Moving out from behind the chimney flue, the rest of the companions got to work. With a soft clatter, J.B. removed the cover from an air vent and stepped aside. Stripping off his vest and weapons, Dean gave them to Krysty and wiggled into the opening. The boy just barely managed to crawl inside the cramped aluminum duct. When he was safely inside, J.B. secured the cover back on and the rest departed for the ground.
In the yule below them, alarm bells were ringing, the soft crackle of small-arms fire sounding steadily, and an irregular splotch of light seemed to be a barn engulfed in flames.
IN THE AUDIENCE ROOM of the Citadel, both the massive fireplaces loudly crackled with huge fires, slaves wearing only loincloths constantly adding small logs to maintain the conflagration. Tables laden with different types of food were arrayed before the dais, and the heirs supped off golden plates held by silent slaves. Taking one bite from a succulent beef rib, Richard tossed the morsel aside and laughed as the dogs fought over it. Amanda was chewing her way through a pile of chicken legs, her lovely face scrunched into a thoughtful scowl.
“Have we done everything we can?” she asked, swallowing a tiny mouthful.
Richard belched, and wiped his mouth on a silk sleeve. “Yes, of course we have. Now shut up. The slaves will bring us Ryan within the hour.”
“And if they don’t?”
“Then we start killing them.” He took another rib. One bite and it went to the dogs. Their stomachs grumbling with hunger, the slaves in the room struggled to keep themselves from diving to the floor and fighting the pit bulls for the food scraps. They would be allowed to eat after the heirs were done, even if it was only bread and bloody juices mopped from the dirty plates.
At the other end of the room, the iron-banded door slammed open and in rushed Captain of the Guard Ian McGregory. The bald man came scurrying toward them at a full run, his robes of state billowing around his legs. He jerked to a halt before the dais and bowed almost as an afterthought.
“My lord and lady!” he panted, flushed with the exertion of running. “I bring bad news! There have been reports of Ryan being captured.”
Sucking loudly, Richard freed a piece of meat from between his teeth. “That’s good news, you ass. Are you so feeble a short run has scrambled your brain?”