After five minutes’ striding through the maze that was Raw, the baron came to a halt in front of a unit that had a ragged curtain across its entrance. With a delicacy and care that surprised Ryan, Alien lifted the curtain and looked in. Ryan heard him whisper “Good time to see him?” and wait for a mumbled reply before stepping in.
As he did, he turned to the one-eyed warrior. “You may come, as well, if you wish, Ryan Cawdor.”
Ryan, feeling like he did when Baron Titus of Front Royal—his father—had caught him at mischief when a child, followed Alien into the sparse unit.
It was obviously a medical-care center, equipped as best as possible, and scrubbed clean, possibly by the woman who tended to the wounded sec man. He was unconscious, but seemed peaceful. Alien asked a few questions of the pale, haggard woman who tended him, listening intently to her answers before wishing her well and leaving, beckoning Ryan to follow.
Outside, Ryan felt an absurd need to explain himself.
“I wondered what you were doing, if there was anything wrong—”
“And besides which, it doesn’t hurt any to keep an eye on a baron in a strange ville when he wanders off in the middle of celebration.” He waved silence as Ryan attempted to speak. “No, save your words. I would do exactly the same in a strange ville. You have your people to worry about, just as I have. I like you, Ryan. Most barons—and that is what you are in your own way—are concerned only with their own power, not with using that which they have. I know my ways may seem strange after all you have seen, especially if the stories traders bring with them about other villes and other barons are true. But I feel that you will understand me.”
The one-eyed man assented. “Mebbe I do. What you were taught you believe, and you try to live right by it. A man can do no more than try to live right by his code.”
The baron smiled, almost to himself. “A rare thing, to find two such as us together. Not a boast, but a sad reflection, I think.” He looked back over his shoulder. “That young lad hasn’t been under Harvey’s charge for long, and it’s doubly hard for his mother as she is one of our medics. Her own son… It’s right to celebrate defending our way of life, though.” He clapped Ryan on the shoulder, almost to bring himself out of his reverie by a forced goodwill. “Come, let us return.”
THE CELEBRATIONS continued for some time, with almost the entire ville drinking themselves into a stupor. For the companions, it was difficult to stay sober. The ville’s own brew was a sweet vegetable liquor, with a syrupy texture, and was deceptive in its taste. It was, as Jak noted, far more potent than most brews they had encountered, and after a certain amount induced a mild hallucinogenic euphoria due to fungal spores that had crept in with the vegetable matter.
Despite their best efforts to stay sober, only Dean managed to remain upright by the end of the celebration. He had a reason: the young Cawdor was suspicious not of the baron, but of his wife. Neither did he trust Harvey. Whether this dislike was exclusive, or whether it was because they were allied in some way he didn’t know, but one thing was for sure: he would never get a better chance to explore the ville and find out what—if anything—the baron’s wife was plotting.
So when Krysty had settled a maternal eye on Dean and warned him against the brew, he was only too happy to play along with her for once, and swear off the alcohol. He carried a small cup with him for most of the evening, to ward off those who wanted in their exuberance to thrust it on him. He tried a sip, but found his abstinence helped by the fact that, to him, it tasted like he imagined sugared horse piss would taste. He feigned intoxication, and with almost everyone around him blissfully drunk, he was able to get away with it easily.