Cay eventually spoke, his deep voice exploding into the silence. “But if it ain’t outsiders, and it ain’t us, then who the fuck is it?”
Eddison shook his head. “I dunno, but I could guess.”
Silas had an uncomfortable feeling that he knew what the quiet man would say, so decided to get his view in first.
The baron coughed before speaking. “You wouldn’t happen to be thinking along the same lines as I am right now, would you?”
“Depends what they are,” Eddison said.
“It occurs to me that if we aren’t responsible ourselves, it could be that our people are.”
“You triple stupe!” Silveen roared, bringing his fist down on the table with a thump that made the wood shake. “If we’re not responsible, then how could we be if…if…” He spluttered into a red-faced silence, shrugging.
Silas allowed himself a smile. It was obvious that Silveen hadn’t used his brain to get the baron’s position in Mandrake.
Baron Abraham, who had been listening in silence as the argument unfolded, leaned forward and spoke, directing his comments generally although he looked at Silveen as he spoke.
“We might not be directing it, but our people could still be fighting among themselves, right?”
“I suppose it’s possible, but why are they attacking the project and not each other?” Silas asked with a shrug.
“Does it matter?” John the Gaunt asked with soft menace. “The only thing that matters is that they’re stopped. And the buck for that stops with you.” He emphasized the last word with a jabbing, bony finger that was directed at Baron Silas.
The baron looked from the pointing John the Gaunt to the other barons, all of whom were now staring at him.
He had to do something. The success of the oil well and his continuing reign as baron of Salvation would depend on some kind of action…and a visible action at that.
AFTER RECALLING this exchange to the companions, Baron Silas sat back and held up his hands, gesturing to the hall around him.
“So this is all at stake. This and the dream.”
Ryan said nothing for a moment. He looked around at his companions. J.B. had an impassive expression, still contemplating the baron’s words. Mildred looked unimpressed, as did Krysty. Jak was, if anything, more impassive than the Armorer. Dean caught his father’s eye, and Ryan saw his own cynicism at the baron’s words reflected back at him. As for Doc, well, Doc was off in a land that only Doc knew.
“I don’t buy the dream bit,” Ryan said eventually. “I never met a baron yet who didn’t place jack, good trade and his own skin below a dream. But I’ll grant you need some action. Question is, what.”
Baron Silas rose to his feet and walked over to one of the ironwork-covered windows and looked out on Salvation with his hands clasped behind his back.
“You have any idea why the people from the villes would put all this at risk?”
“Because it isn’t theirs,” J.B. answered. “Salvation isn’t theirs, no matter where any baron sends them. And no matter what they’re supposed to be doing, there’s no way they’re going to be happy living and working close to those who’ve been their enemy for so long, not without the chance to hit back.”
“So why not just fight each other?” Silas questioned. “Yeah, we’ve had a few bar and gaudy brawls between different ville folk, but that’s all. Why attack the project?”
Doc smiled, allowed himself a throat clearing, then spoke. “I suspect, my dear sir, that you already have an answer for that, but wish to see if we are smart enough to work that out. I would assume from what you have said that the camps with the workers are located in close proximity to each other at the site of the well and resurrected refinery.” When Baron Silas assented with the briefest of nods, Doc continued. “Then it would be reasonable to assume that they have—if not so originally placed—then certainly gravitated into groups concomitant with their place of origin.”
The baron turned and gave Doc a quizzical look.
“They are in groups like miniature versions of their villes,” Doc clarified. “And indeed, they are working on their own tasks in these groups.”