Haven's Blight Read online

  “Yeah,” Ryan said. He jutted his jaw forward. “Likely I wouldn’t know who the people were if you did tell me their names. But if there’s important people in the ville talking openly with the poor folks that way, I’d say Tobias and his sister have themselves another problem. Could be worse than pirates and the Beast put together.”

  “You really believe him, Ryan?” J.B. asked. “I mean, I don’t know. It still sounds kinda crazy to me. Everybody I talk to just can’t get over loving the two Blackwoods.”

  “Doc tells straight,” a voice said from behind them.

  Both Ryan and the Armorer jumped. J.B. spun in air like a cat, snatching comically at his hat.

  Behind them Jak leaned against the box of the wagon, his arms folded, grinning sarcastically.

  “Don’t sneak up on a man like that!” J.B. exclaimed. “Good way to find yourself staring up at the sky.”

  “Didn’t!” Jak said. “Been here five minutes.”

  “You did not see him arrive?” Doc asked sweetly.

  The Armorer scowled ferociously. Ryan grinned.

  “They both got us,” he said. “So, give, Jak. What did you hear?”

  A shrug. “Same like Doc. Local boys got arguing, on bayou. Lucky Louie knocked Wet Willy out flatboat for saying baron know where Beast from. Wet Willy got hollerin’ about Gotch Eye gone get him. Made so much noise, others stopped laughing and hauled back in.”

  “You know,” J.B. said, “reckon that’s as many words as I ever heard you string together before.”

  “Yeah, and I’ve got to tell you, J.B.,” Ryan said, “you’ve turned into a real chatterbox.”

  “So what do we do about this?” J.B. asked, ignoring his friend’s comment.

  “Such information is the sort of thing a baron might reward most highly,” Doc said with a glint in his eye.

  “I’m not coming within a longblaster shot of that spiderweb,” Ryan said. “Selling information like that makes enemies. And it makes barons wonder how a body happens to come into possession of such dangerous facts. I’d rather walk across the Great Salt with my canteen as dry as a bone.”

  Doc smiled slyly.

  “I do believe the cagey old bastard was testing you, Ryan!” J.B. exclaimed.

  “If I were doing such a thing, our fearless leader passed with flying colors,” Doc said. “As I would have predicted.”

  “So, what J.B. asked,” Jak said.

  “Huh?” Ryan said.

  “What now?”

  Ryan thought a moment, scrubbing his tongue along the inside of his teeth. “What we usually do,” he said. “Keep our heads down, eyes open and blasters ready.”

  “Perhaps, even without trying to parlay these tidings to our advantage,” Doc said, “it might after all be prudent as well as considerate to warn Tobias something is afoot.”

  Ryan cocked a brow at him. “Contradicting yourself, or second thoughts?”

  “I encompass worlds, my dear.”

  “Um. Yeah.”

  “Tell him what?” J.B. demanded. “That Doc’s been wandering the ville spying on his subjects.”

  “No,” Ryan said slowly, as his mind processed the options. “No need for that kind of detail. I think Doc’s right, though. I should mention to him, without going into specifics or making a big fuss about some loose talk going around. Nothing else, not angling for any kind of reward.”

  “You sure that’s a good idea?” J.B. asked.

  Ryan grinned. “Better be?”

  AS HE CAME OFF the stairs onto the top floor of the big house Ryan heard a murmuring voice. He froze. It seemed to come from the door to Krysty’s room, which he could see stood open.

  He soft-footed down the corridor. It was made easier by the fact a runner of dark, floral-figured carpet ran down the hardwood floor. Not that he needed help. He could move like a stalking catamount when he wanted.

  He felt no sense of menace. Quickly enough he recognized a soft feminine voice speaking. Still, it was a mystery, and he hated mysteries, especially in the room where his lover lay helpless.

  At the edge of the open door he stopped. He realized the speaker was Elizabeth Blackwood. He leaned carefully around the doorjamb.

  The baron’s sister sat next to Krysty’s bed with a large old-looking volume open on her lap. She wore a dress of lightweight off-white linen with her raven hair streaming unbound down her shoulders. Her beautiful wan face was set in concentration.

  “‘Leaving the main stream,’” she read, “‘they now passed into what seemed at first sight like a little landlocked lake. Green turf sloped down to either edge, brown snaky tree-roots gleamed below the surface of the quiet water, while ahead of them the silvery shoulder and foamy tumble of a weir, arm-in-arm with a restless dripping mill wheel—’ Oh, Mr. Cawdor! Can I help you?”

  “Sorry to intrude,” he said. “I was just coming by to check on Krysty. I, uh, I guess she’s still the same?”

  The slim shoulders rose and fell in a shrug. “Yes. At least she appears to be peacefully asleep. It doesn’t look like any coma I’ve seen.”

  “No.”

  Elizabeth folded the book shut. “Amélie believes she is fighting off the effects of the snake poison. Dr. Wyeth says Ms. Wroth has an unusually robust metabolism even for a person of this time and place.”

  “Robust,” Ryan said. “Yeah, that’s one way to say it.”

  When the dark-haired woman continued to look quizzically at him, he went on. “After the Big Nuke, it’s said that waves of plague rolled all around the world. Some were gene-engineered, or so I hear. Plenty were just natural, what with all the billions of dead bodies lying around unburied everywhere. Sickness took more than the nukes did. Mildred claims the people who were susceptible to disease died out and didn’t pass on their genes. So everybody alive today got triple-tough immune systems.”

  “We still have disease,” Elizabeth said. “Some quite terrible.”

  “Yeah. That’s a fact. Some of those just might be artificial plagues somebody made up in a lab just to be triple mean.”

  She shuddered. “How could anybody set out deliberately to create something so awful?”

  “Some folks’re just bad,” Ryan replied.

  “Do you really think so? I have a hard time believing that. Isn’t evil a choice we make? Perhaps the outcome of a chain of choices?”

  “Mebbe,” he acknowledged. “Then I guess perhaps some folks just choose to be bad.” But he’d run across plenty were so deep-dyed bad that it seemed like they had to be born to it. The name Cort Strasser, which had come up once today, returned to mind.

  “I fear you may be right, Mr. Cawdor. Would you care to be alone with Ms. Wroth?”

  “No. No, you’re fine. I can see she’s in good hands.”

  He pointed to the book. “Wind in the Willows?”

  Her face brightened. It made her beauty almost unbearably radiant. Like looking at the noonday sun.

  “You know it?”

  “Read it as a kid. It was a favorite of mine.” His father, Baron Titus Cawdor, had kept a well-stocked library at Front Royal, and insisted that his offspring be read to as youngsters, and learn to read as early as they could.

  “Really? I hope you don’t think it’s too childish to read to a grown woman. I mean, if she can even hear me—I hope she can. I feel she can.”

  For a moment Ryan felt too hollowed out to speak. Me, too, he thought. I talk to her at night.

  “It’s okay,” he said. “She likes it. I’m sure.”

  Elizabeth smiled.

  “I guess I’ll head out, leave you two to it,” he said.

  He started to turn away, then stopped. “Thanks,” he said, and walked down the hall.

  “THERE’RE SOME PEOPLE in the ville who seem to have a grudge against you,” Ryan told the baron a short time later, in Blackwood’s study. “Seems some of them have a notion you’re somehow to blame for the Beast. I know. But I thought you might need to know that kind of talk’s going arou
nd.”

  Blackwood sat at his desk shuffling through documents, apparently ville records and ledgers. Ryan was impressed. Most barons didn’t bother with any kind of paperwork, even when they could read. And had paper.

  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.”