“Two dozen.”
“Don’t want slaves,” Ryan countered. “Need a ship.”
“Okay, a trawler for the blasters.” Then he added, “And ammo.”
“Weapons aren’t part of any deal,” Ryan stated curtly. “We’re here to offer information.”
The baron snorted a laugh. “For a ship? What kind of info could possibly be worth that?”
While the two men talked business, the sec men started to spread out across the beach. The companions shifted their positions to match them, and the sec men retreated to the gate. But more appeared on top of the wall carrying longblasters.
“Out here?” Ryan asked, glancing at the crowd of people watching them from the tunnel. The wall had to be ten feet wide, but then it was built to stop cannonballs.
Langford shrugged. “Inside, outside, makes no difference. This is my island.”
Fair enough. Ryan stepped closer and spoke softly. “We know the formula.”
The baron wasn’t impressed. Many times over the years, he had heard men tell him that, usually while they were being stuffed into a cage, trying to bargain for a fast death.
“The lord baron deals harshly with folks about such matters,” Langford whispered back, confident the breeze along the shore would hide their words. “Very harshly.”
“Doesn’t matter. We can also tell you how to make it better than him,” Ryan added. “The powder he sells isn’t as strong as the stuff he uses. Right?”
That was correct, but Langford wasn’t ready to concede anything yet to the cocky outlander. “Mebbe,” he hedged. “But that’s common enough knowledge. Gotta tell me more.”
Debating the options, Ryan chose the truth. “Three ingredients,” he said. “But they have to be mixed in just the right amounts, or it’s as useless as dirt.”
Now the baron felt a surge of excitement. Rumors among the slaves told about three chems. But this was the first confirmation of the fact. Maybe he was being offered the real thing.
“Perhaps we should continue this in private,” Langford offered slyly, trying to ooze charm. “Over dinner in my palace.”
Another scream sounded from within the ville, but Ryan already knew that getting out of the ville was going to be a lot tougher than going in. Dinner would be drugged wine, poisoned food and then a long lifetime in a small room with many knives until the companions had told the baron everything they knew.
“Out here is fine,” he countered, grateful for all those years he traveled with the Trader learning to cut a deal. The baron was no fool. “Or we could talk on one of the trawlers.”
Away from the longblasters, where only the cannon could strike? Langford thought. Fuck that. “Tell me an ingredient first,” he offered in reply. “Then we talk on the ship.”
On the ground, a blue crab scuttled by, unconcerned with the world of the humans.
“Sulfur,” Ryan said. “You call it flash. The yellow powder that smells like bad eggs and comes from a steam vent near your volcano.”
Trying not to show it, Langford was stunned beyond words. The outlander knew everything! So the lord baron had lied, it was part of black powder and not something for his disease. The healers used flash to treat minor wounds. They healed faster that way, so it seemed only natural to assume the lord baron was doing the same for his strange illness. Another lie. Had the fat bastard ever said anything that was true? Probably not.
“Good enough,” Langford grunted, tucking away his blasters. “What’s your price for the rest?”
“The trawler and a load of shine,” Ryan said doing the same.
The baron waited for the rest of the demands, but no more seemed to be coming. “That’s it?”
“All we need.”
His suspicions confirmed, the baron began to get truly angry. It was much too cheap. This was a trick. Or some sort of loyalty test from Kinnison to see if he would deal with whitecoats. Well, it wouldn’t work!
“Well, I don’t deal with traitors!” the baron shouted, backing away from the man so the snipers would have a clear target. “Chill these bastards!”
The crowd of people turned and ran, while the sec men cut loose with their flintlock miniballs humming past the companions. The range too great for the crude smoothbores.