Haven's Blight (16 page)

He set the papers down and looked calmly up at Ryan. “Do they say why they feel this way?”

“No. It’s just—talk. And I can’t put names to any of it. Thing is, seems like a cross section of ville folk seem to be saying it. And that can actually get around to turning into something.”

“I appreciate your concern,” the baron said. “And your warning.”

“Really, Baron, there’s nothing to worry about,” said St. Vincent, breezing in with a feather duster. “That kind of loose talk always happens around Haven, or any other ville for that matter. And normally talking is as far as it ever goes. Isn’t that right, Master Cawdor?”

“Yeah.”

Ryan wasn’t sure how he liked the easy brazenness with which the majordomo let on he’d been eavesdropping on their privileged conversation. But he knew enough about ville life to know servants listened in on their masters all the time. It was a plain matter of survival, in their cushy and hard-to-come by jobs if not in terms of their lives. And he had to admit the lean and elegant St. Vincent seemed concerned about taking care of his brother-and-sister bosses.

St. Vincent opened one of the glass fronts to the book cases and began to dust the dark, age-cracked spines of the volumes. “It’s most kind of Master Cawdor and his friends to repay your hospitality with such concern, Baron,” he said without looking around.

“Yes, St. Vincent,” Blackwood said. “Yes, it is. Thank you, Mr. Cawdor.”

Ryan shrugged. “Don’t want there to be any trouble. Reckoned you should know.”

The baron nodded. “Indeed. And how fares Miss Wroth?”

“Same as before, Baron,” Ryan said sadly. “She doesn’t get worse, but she doesn’t get better. It bothers me, I don’t mind admitting. Not knowing what’s wrong. Nor what to do about it.”

“Is Dr. Mercier assisting adequately?”

Not even his intrepid spirit was up to ragging Mildred and Mercier about her any more today. “Yeah. She and Mildred seem to be working on it around the clock.”

Blackwood smiled and nodded. “I trust they’ll find a cure for her condition soon. Will you and your friends be so kind as to join my sister and me for dinner? I have some guests I’m expecting.”

“My friends would string me up if I let them miss out on a meal like that. Not that the chow you feed us regular isn’t tasty.”

“Splendid! I’ll see you at dinner. And now, if you’ll excuse me…”

Chapter Eighteen

“The pirates have grown into an intolerable menace,” said the tall, gaunt man with the black side whiskers sweeping out from the sides of his dark, beak-nosed face and the spade beard. “Is it true that the latest report from the coast say that the Black Gang has already reassembled in the wake of the hurricane?”

“And the battle our honored guests took part in,” Blackwood said, “yes.” He broke off a piece of freshly baked bread.

“That’s unacceptable, Baron!”

“What would you suggest we do about it, Master Landry?”

Ryan sat forking up a spicy crayfish
étouffée
on rice. He held a chunk of the excellent bread in his other hand. A glass of white wine sat by his elbow.

As before, the fan swooping in deliberate circles above the long table with its spotless white-linen cover did little more than stir heavy, hot air. Even the gesture was welcome after a day spent in the sun.

“Why, we have to take the fight to them, clearly!” Landry exclaimed. “Take the offensive upon the sea.”

“What would you suggest we do it with?” Blackwood asked mildly. “By himself, the pirate who styles himself Black Mask has more boats available than we. He’s busy making allies as we speak. And his men are experienced at sea fighting, while ours are not.”

“Why, seize the necessary ships! From the merchants and fishermen.”

“That would put a stop to trade in a hurry, Franc,” said Bouvier, Tobias’s other influential guest from the ville. Unlike Franc, who was mostly a big farmland owner and also a major local brewer, Ryan understood Bouvier had strong shipping interests.

For a moment Landry champed his thin lips. “What about it? Too much of our wealth goes to outsiders as it is. We should be self-sufficient anyway.”

Ryan looked at J.B., across from him with Mildred sitting at his side. Both tucked into their food with their accustomed appetites. Fortunately the baron believed in serving his food plentiful as well as good.

J.B. rolled his eyes. For all that it was dangerous and sporadic, trade was the lifeblood of survival. Lack of it could make Haven slide from relatively secure and prosperous to desperate in a matter of months. The two men hadn’t spent their apprenticeships under a man legendarily called the Trader for nothing.

“Do you enjoy the wine, Master Landry?” Elizabeth asked sweetly.

“Oh, yes, Lady Elizabeth. It’s most delicious.”

“It’s an import. This isn’t exactly wine country, around here.”

His cheeks turned red beneath the furze of his sideburns.

“Clearly that’s out of the question,” Bouvier said, “to attack Black Mask in his own element.”

He was white-haired and red-faced like Barton, who sat at his usual spot at the table’s foot, as usual saying nothing. But stouter, and also clearly older. His jowls clashed with the collar of his purple predark shirt where they spread out over it.

“At the same time,” Bouvier went on, “it’s a scandal how open we lie to attack. We do need to build up our defenses in the worst way.”

“And yet,” the baron said, “the more labor and resources we devote to building defenses, the less we have to build up the production that gives life and promise of a better future to the ville. To all of us who live in Haven.”

Suave St. Vincent leaned over Ryan’s shoulder, refilling his glass. “Perhaps our distinguished visitors would care to offer some suggestions as to how we may best secure ourselves here in Haven.”

“Excellent notion, St. Vincent,” Blackwood said. “If you’d be so kind?”

Ryan looked around at his companions. Doc sat beside him. From the absent smile, the faraway look in his lined eyes, Ryan guessed he wouldn’t have much useful to contribute. Nor would Jak, seated next to Mildred so that she could keep an eye on his table manners.

J.B. caught Ryan’s eye. Ryan nodded slightly.

“Okay,” the Armorer said, waving with his own chunk of bread for emphasis. “You got some squared-away weapons and folks who know how to use them. But the pirates got blasters, too, good predark weapons with loads of ammo. Even a few automatic weapons. Plus they got grenades and RPGs, and
Black Joke
mounts a 105 mm recoilless rifle. They can bring heavy firepower down on you.”

“We possess some fairly sophisticated grenades of our own,” Blackwood said, “including some that can be launched from crossbows. As you know, black powder, which we make here in the mill, serves quite well for such purposes.”

“I’ve seen your mills,” J.B. said. “They’re ace.”

“We also have clay-jar Claymores we can pack with metal scrap or even pebbles. These can be set on tripwires or command-detonated using battery-powered clackers. Thanks to trade with the Tech-nomads, we have a small stock of rechargeable batteries, as well as solar-powered chargers for them.”

“There are an awful lot of pirates, too,” Mildred said. “Even though we tried our best to thin them out.”

“Black Mask will have replaced his losses by now,” Barton said. He sat at the far end of the table, tucking into his second portion of the spicy stew with relish. “For one thing, the storm will have smashed or foundered fishing vessels for miles along the coast. Lot of men are suddenly looking for new livelihoods.”

Elizabeth smiled wanly. “In a way I’m not sure I’m grateful for your insight, Master Barton, as keen as it is. It is…unpleasant to be reminded that our enemies are not all just brutal coldhearts ravening for human blood. Some are decent men just trying to find a way to feed their families.”

“Wolf come eat you,” Jak said around a mouthful of food, “don’t care if good wolf, bad wolf. Kill all same.”

He winced and protested as Mildred dug him swiftly in the ribs with an elbow. “Hey!”

“Remember,” she said sotto voce, “food to your mouth should be a one-way trip.”

The raven-haired woman sighed. “Such is the sad reality of our time.”

“If it is any consolation, Your Ladyship,” Doc said, snapping suddenly back into focus, “it has always been that way. Through history, the exceptions have been but islands in a sea of despair.”

“None of which loads any mags,” Ryan said. “Baron, you sound as if you’re confident you can hold off the pirates. I’ve seen you fight. There’s none better. But there’s a limit to what a few fighters can do against a whole horde. No matter how skilled or motivated they are.”

“I’m not sure I’d say I feel confident,” Blackwood said. “So far the harm the pirates have done us has been limited in human terms because coastal dwellers can just run off into the swamps when attacked. The property loss to pirate theft and vandalism causes hardships to our people, but so far we’ve been able to furnish them enough to begin rebuilding. Against sporadic raiding there is no defense I can envisage, given their strength and mobility asea—and our own limitations.”

“But if they invade…” Mildred said.

“As I’m sure they will,” the baron said. “Our greatest strength, then, lies in defense in depth. Invaders will have to run a gauntlet of ambushers—householders and citizens, well-armed, on their own terrain, fighting for their homes. And should they force their way to Haven proper, they’ll face the same inspired defense in a built-up area. Which I understand from my historical readings is terrible terrain for an attacker.”

“Generally I think historians are talking about considerable more ‘building up’ than you got here, Baron, if you’ll forgive my saying so,” Ryan said. “But I think the principle applies, though, yeah. Attacking a ville’s always a tough proposition, even one a lot smaller than this.”

“Rationally, why should they attack us at all, Tobias?” Elizabeth asked. “We can impose greater costs on them than they’re likely to recoup even if they succeed in plundering Haven!”

“But sometimes these guys aren’t rational,” said J.B., biting off a chunk of bread and chewing it, earning a look of dismay from Mildred as crumbs tumbled down his shirtfront. “A guy like Black Mask gets a bee in his bonnet, he won’t reckon profit and loss. Plus Haven’s a plum prize.”

“Plus he’s a pure stoneheart,” Ryan said. “It’s not like he’s going to shed any tears for any blood he doesn’t leak himself. More of his dregs you chill, the bigger his piece of the pie.”

The baron nodded. “This is why I’d be so much happier if you—all our honored guests—would consent to sign on and help us past the point your companion, Krysty, recovers.”

Landry scowled. “You were complaining about limited resources, Baron? Why would it be advisable to add new mouths to feed on an extended basis?”

“Nonsense,” Bouvier said, taking a hearty slug of wine. “These people are skilled fighters. They add far more than they could possibly consume. They’re worth any number of farmers and laborers pulled from their tasks. No matter how enthusiastic they are, such people remain amateurs.”

Ryan didn’t bother polling his companions with a look. “All I can say is what I said all along, Baron. We’ll stay and do what we can to help you until Krysty’s fit to fight again. Then we’ll talk long-range.”

“And as I have said,” Blackwood said with a slightly regretful smile, “that’s fair enough.”

“Speaking of Krysty,” his sister said, “have you any good news for us, Dr. Wyeth?”

Mildred sighed and looked down at her plate, which was empty except for a little sheen of yellow crayfish grease. Ryan already knew her answer. He’d intercepted her the moment she’d stepped into the house.

“Only that she’s not getting worse. Amélie says she remains hopeful. She knows a lot. Also, she has a remarkable facility, given that it was put together so many years after skydark.”

“Her father was a remarkable man,” Blackwood said. “A man of great determination as well as ability—traits his daughter carries on. He was persistent and resourceful enough to find the materials to build the laboratory. And my father supported him without reserve. I’ve tried to do as well by Lucien Mercier’s daughter.”

Elizabeth put her napkin on the table in front of her. “Brother, if you and our guests will excuse me, I believe I shall retire.”

St. Vincent materialized behind her to help pull out her chair and assist her to her feet. At a gesture from the majordomo, a female servant appeared at Elizabeth’s side. Elizabeth gratefully put an arm over her shoulder for support.

“Elizabeth—” Tobias said.

She waved a hand. “It’s nothing,” she said. “Just weak. I’ll be fine when I lie down.”

She made her way out with the help of her servant. The baron turned a look of pain and helplessness around the table.

Ryan knew how he felt.

R
YAN
’
S
EYE
SNAPPED
open to the amber gleam of an oil lamp turned low.

Krysty’s dead, son, a voice said in his head. Face it. She’s lost. You’re lost. She was the better half of your soul. Now she’s gone forever.

He sat up so violently he almost made the cot fold up on him. He felt hotter than the air would account for. Wildly he looked at Krysty. She still lay on her back, covered by a sheet, her cheeks the color of ivory in the dim light.

Somewhat more cautiously he climbed off the cot. He licked a finger and held it under her nostrils. He felt the slight cool pressure of her breath. She was breathing shallowly, as she had since he had awakened here in Haven. But at least she still breathed.

But this is how it ends, the voice said. She’ll never get better again. You’ve lost her. You’re lost, little boy. You’re doomed to wander forever alone.

He shook his head. He wasn’t a fearless man. Any man who said he felt no fear was just a flat-out liar. A man who really didn’t feel fear had something wrong inside.

Ryan had felt fear many times, in many forms. He had always mastered the fear. He had always one way or another found what it took to do what had to be done. That was what made him the man he was.

But he’d never felt fear quite like this before. It curdled his guts and turned his joints to jelly. It was a burning pain like cancer in his brain. It seemed to offer no hope, no escape.

“Nuke it,” he snarled, keeping his voice low as if there was any danger he’d wake the sleeping woman. As if that wouldn’t feel like the best thing that ever happened to him. “I’m not going to give in. I’m not!”

Ryan,
he thought he heard a voice say.

“Krysty?” There had been no sound. The woman lay as she had for days now. She obviously hadn’t moved. Or spoken.

Ryan, listen to me,
the beloved voice said in his skull.

He shook his head. “I’m imagining this.”

He felt her soft laughter fall on him like gentle rain.
You still haven’t learned better, lover? Believe what you want. You always do anyway.

“You got that right,” Ryan said, folding his arms and feeling like a stupe for holding a conversation with a woman in a coma.

First, you’ll never be left alone. Unless you choose to be. I’ll always be with you, live or dead, until you tell me you don’t want me hanging around anymore.

“That’ll be never.”

That’s a long time, lover.

“You said it first.”

Again, he felt more than heard the unvoiced laughter.