Arcadian's Asylum Page 8

  He waved the Steyr in an arc. Some of the sec around them were confused whether to follow the blaster or to keep their weapons trained on the man. Ryan also saw the sec chief’s head twitch as he only just refrained from flinching.

  “Well?” he continued, keeping the pressure on. “What are you going to do?”

  “All I’m asking is that you lay down your weapons, as only sec carries them in here,” the sec chief said, his voice straining and cracking under the tension.

  “Now you’re asking?” Ryan said softly. He wanted to press the point, but was wary of pushing the man over the edge.

  “It’s…a courtesy,” the sec chief said hesitantly.

  “Then you should have explained that from the start and not given orders. This way, we’re hardly likely to trust you,” Ryan countered.

  Stalemate. For what seemed like an eternity, they stood facing off. In the rooms beyond the hall activity had come to a halt.

  Ryan knew that this couldn’t go on indefinitely. Jak would be standing unblinking—that alone being enough to unnerve most opposition—and he could rely on the others, even the comparatively frail Doc. His people could tough it out.

  No, it would be Arcadian’s sec who would crack first. The only question was, would they start shooting or stand down? Right now, he’d bet on shoot first, apologize later. The only thing that could stop it would be if the baron himself stepped in. And Ryan had heard enough about Arcadian to figure that even though he was seemingly absent, he would have a very clear picture of what was occurring in his own palace.

  Footsteps echoed on the stairs, coming from the third story. Slowly, they descended—just the one pair of footsteps—and the sec men didn’t look up.

  The footsteps ceased, and the sound of slow clapping assailed them. Ryan risked a look up at the tall, strongly built man in purple robes over richly woven cloth. He was leaning over the second-story balcony rail, looking down at them with a wry grin, and as he caught Ryan’s eye he gave the briefest of nods.

  “Very good. Very good, indeed. As, I think, you expected, I am here to greet you.

  “I am Baron Eugene Arcadian.”

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Six

  “Schweiz, you can drop the weapons. I don’t think I have anything to fear from these people,” he stated, gesturing in an offhand manner to his sec chief.

  The thin man looked up and was almost relieved, it seemed, to be given the excuse to back off. With the briefest of nods, he holstered his blaster and indicated that his men could stand down. It wasn’t, however, until he had also relaxed his stance and literally stepped back a pace that Jak let his Colt Python drop. Even then, the albino youth looked to Ryan for confirmation that he should do this. The one-eyed man gave the slightest of inclinations, and Jak holstered his weapon, the large blaster disappearing into the depths of his patched and glimmering camou jacket.

  Following this lead, the rest of the companions likewise relaxed and holstered their armament.

  “There, that’s much better, isn’t it?” Arcadian boomed from the balcony, his voice echoed and enlarged by the cavernous hall. His tone was supposedly friendly, but there was a note of assumption and control in it that was vaguely alarming. This was his territory, and he felt secure and completely in charge. It was an impression confirmed when Ryan looked up to see that the baron was casually leaning on the rail that circled the staircase and upper balconies, his hands clasped loosely, relaxed, and in a posture that held no hint of defense.

  A quick glance around revealed that the sec men had returned to their previous posts and duties, having obeyed the word of their baron without question. The only man to still be within any distance of them, and not occupied with any other activity, was Sec Chief Schweiz. His hatchet face was impassive and gave little away. He seemed relaxed, but to the experienced eye there were signs in his posture that, although he followed orders implicitly, there was some part of him that remained on edge.

  A good man to have around, then, Ryan figured. But not perhaps so good as an enemy.

  “Well, are you going to stand there all day, or are you going to join me and explain what you were doing blundering into Sector Eight?”

  His tone was good-natured, and there was nothing but hospitality in the way he stepped back and gestured that they should ascend to his level. Yet the choice of words betrayed an underlying attitude that rankled with the companions as, led by Ryan, they made their way up the staircase.

  Doc, his previous caution submerged beneath the surprise he felt at seeing so many predark treasures, found himself warming to the idea of the baron, if not the man himself. It was rare indeed that he should see so many artifacts that made him feel so much at home.

  Certainly, on closer inspection, these were genuine treasures from the predark period. They had no currency value in these times, but represented a depth of old knowledge that was rare.

  At the top of the stairs, they found Arcadian waiting for them. He wore no weapons of any kind, and with a knowing grin he noted that Ryan wasn’t the only one of the group to notice that.

  “I carry no weapons as I am safe here. My men protect me, and they are loyal to the end. And, as you are no doubt aware,” he added with a wry touch, “I usually have visitors leave their weapons at the door.”

  “So why not us? Why not just have your boys take them in the first place?”

  Arcadian’s smile broadened. “Come now, I’m aware of your intelligence, Mr. Cawdor. You must already have worked it out. Would you have come this far so easily if a kind of mutual trust—a truce, at least—hadn’t been established? I think I have your curiosity. There’s little point in harming me. Nothing to gain.”

  “But what’s to stop one or all of us going loco and chilling you for the sheer hell of it?”

  “Is that likely?” Arcadian inquired in a manner that suggested he thought not.

  “It’s always possible,” Ryan replied in level tones.

  “I suppose most things are,” Arcadian said with a slight shrug. “The truly off-the-wall can never be predicted. But it would have to be insanity, or else you would realize that all that would happen is that my sec force would avenge me by wiping you from the face of the Earth. And who would gain from that, eh?”

  While this exchange had occurred, Arcadian had led them off the balcony surrounding the lobby walls, and down a corridor that led to a number of smaller chambers. Some of these had their doors firmly closed, and their purpose was thus hidden. Others had open access, and through the doorways they were able to see that the rooms nearest to the stairway were used for the purposes of running the ville. Behind desks, some of which were laden with paper and files, men and women toiled on what were obviously administrative tasks.

  To Mildred, it looked like nothing so much as municipal offices in any small town of the predark era, and it was bizarre for her to see a sight that had once been a normal part of life transposed to an era where it seemed so out of place. There were many questions she wished to ask, all of which would have betrayed her own unusual history.

  “I’ll tell you one thing,” Mildred stated. “I can’t recall ever seeing a ville run like this.”

  Arcadian looked back at her with an eyebrow raised. “You understand what they are doing? That’s very interesting. Most who have been this way, for whatever purpose, could not grasp that.” He let the matter drop, continuing in another vein. “I like to keep a close eye and a firm hand on Arcady. It’s the way we have always handled matters. So what better than to keep all the administrative bodies within the one building—and one in which I can simply walk out of my own chambers and check up at any time?”

  As he spoke, they passed the small chamber in which the central radio transmitter was housed. J.B.’s eye was caught by the bank of equipment, and the operator, who was listening intently to a message that was coming through.

  “Rebel force now outside Sector Five. Easily containable, but some backup may be necessary. Rebel quarters identifi
ed as on a line thirty-three west, a dis tance of one mile and one-quarter between Five and Eight. Suggest recce party to be followed by…”

  The rest was lost as they were out of earshot, and Arcadian’s voice drowned the faint and tinny voice from the receiver. But one thing was for sure: J.B. knew now how they had been tracked so simply—not one tracker, but many, relaying information. The baron had a pretty strong comm setup going here, and that was worth noting for future reference.

  Meanwhile, Arcadian had reached a room at the far end of the corridor.

  “This,” he said, standing aside and waving them through the double doors, “is where I conduct business for most of the day. It seems as good a place as any to continue our conversation.”

  Ryan moved into the room first, followed by Krysty, Mildred, J.B. and Jak. Doc was still at the rear, slightly behind the others, taking in the remnants of the old world that hung on the wall spaces between the doorways. Framed paintings, posters and newspaper pages, photographs of people that Doc only partially recognized: celebrities from all walks of late twentieth-century life. It was a smorgasbord of predark life.

  “Quite remarkable,” he murmured. “You must tell me how you came by all of this. By the Three Kennedys, this, too…” he said brokenly as he was assailed by the baron’s living quarters.

  The room, bizarrely, resembled nothing less than a larger, more ornate version of a 1970s suburban lounge, as Doc had seen on TV programs and videotapes during his captivity with the whitecoats of Operation Chronos. A pit had been sunk into the center of the floor, which was thickly carpeted in a white, cream and brown pattern. The pit was lined with cushions that were tasseled and covered in a variety of fabrics, mostly velvet in texture, and decorated with tapestrylike designs.

  Away from this central feature, a fireplace that was presumably in use during the colder months had been inlaid with tiling of many colors, and had a mantel that was lined with ceramics and ornaments from a variety of eras.

  Furnishings around the room were of battered but well-polished leather: a chesterfield, sofas and easy chairs, with footstools covered in dark, thickly padded fabric. A dining suite such as might have graced an affluent suburban home at the end of the twentieth century stood by a long window, the real glass made opaque by lace hangings, with thick, plum-velvet drapes on either side.

  It was a monument to another time and place, one that was lost on most of the people assembled in the room. To them, it was just plain weird, and unlike anything they had seen before. But to Doc and Mildred, it was like stepping back into a previous life. And was, perhaps, a clue as to where the mind of Eugene Arcadian was rooted.

  “It is rather nice,” Arcadian said, with a pride in his tone that belied the mildness of his words. “Please, this way, be seated and I will call for refreshments.” He indicated the pit, but said nothing when Ryan opted to move toward the leather furniture that was clustered close to the fireplace. A flicker of amusement passed Arcadian’s lips, which caused Ryan a brief moment of irritation. He realized that the baron could see he was unwilling to lead his people into the pit, and therefore a position that had a greater vulnerability. It was as though the baron found Ryan’s caution in some way funny.

  Maybe it was. For the simple reason that Arcadian seemed to have nothing but the best of intentions. As the companions settled themselves into the plush leather furniture in a manner that would have seemed bizarre if they could have seen themselves, Arcadian called for a servant, and ordered food and drink. He then excused himself and exited the room.

  “Think this is some kind of test?” J.B. asked softly.

  “See if we take a little look around?” Krysty added. “Could be. Better, mebbe, if we let him show his hand his way for now?”

  “I’d go with that,” Ryan said.

  They waited in a silence that was odd and pregnant, wondering if the baron truly had business to attend to, or if he was watching them in some way.

  If he had been, he showed no sign of it when he reentered the room a short time later, followed by women bearing trays of fruits, meat and bread, which they laid on the table. Pitchers of juice, water and wine followed.

  “Forgive the delay,” the baron said, “I had some matters of administration to attend to.”

  The manner in which he said this made J.B. wonder if those matters were tied to the message he had overheard. But now wasn’t the time to bring that up. Leave it for when they were alone.

  Seating himself, the baron indicated that they should take any food or drink that they wished. Then, seeing their reluctance, he rose first and went to the table, taking a small sample from every dish that was laid out, before pouring a small measure from each jug into a goblet. He tasted everything that had been brought in.

  “You see?” he said with a sly grin. “Everything is fine. It would be less than subtle of me to bring you all this way and then attempt to drug you. I wouldn’t insult your intelligence. Besides, there is much I want to hear from you. And there’s much that I have to tell you.”

  He stepped back from the table, urging them to take their fill. When they had, and when they had finished eating, he asked once again how it was that they came to stumble back into his ville.

  “For I know you. I didn’t meet any of you, but I know that you were here recently with Trader Toms. He spoke highly of you, and I’m surprised that he let you go.”

  “Didn’t exactly happen like that…” Ryan began.

  Briefly he told Arcadian of how they had traveled out of the ville with the convoy and had then been dumped in what—to them—was the middle of nowhere. Arcady being the only ville within any distance that they knew of, they had decided to head back this way. As he detailed how they had come across the roadblocks, and of their detour over the maze, he watched the baron carefully to see if there was any flicker of recognition.

  Arcadian kept up a facade of interested ignorance. There was no clue in his face that he was aware of any of this, or had engineered it. Ryan figured it had been a good call to say nothing of Toms’s informing them of Arcadian’s deal with him. A trader had to live on and walk the tightrope, and the fat man had played as fair with them as he could under the circumstances. No sense in getting him chilled. Besides, their knowledge of Arcadian’s desire to have them here was a useful card to keep hidden, especially as the baron was playing his cards close.

  When Ryan reached the part of his story where they encountered the coldhearts, Arcadian’s brow clouded.

  “Rebels.” He spit with disdain. “We have some problems with those who wish to live outside our society, yet still take from it without contributing. I cannot—and will not—abide such unfairness taking place. If they choose to go up against my sec, then they will inevitably come off second best. But it’s their choice.”

  Ryan held his tongue. Where had the sec been when they were attacked? If their patrols were used to this activity, then why wasn’t a patrol nearby when the confrontation occurred? Simply because they had been shadowing Ryan’s group and had presumably held back to assess their skills.

  Letting these issues pass, he took up their story to the point where they had been picked up by the black-clad sec. While he spoke, the others stayed silent, listening to him as intently as the baron. Just how or what the one-eyed man said dictated how much the baron should know, and would inform them of how much they could give away—or not—if questioned separately at any point.

  When he finished, there was a short silence while Arcadian appeared to take in the story. Finally he spoke.

  “Well, it seems to me that you have been done an injustice,” he said slowly. “Why Toms should do that is something that I find quite baffling. If I had people of your caliber on board, I’d want to keep you there. I suppose he has his reasons. He is, as I’m sure you’re aware, a little eccentric—a little weird,” he added, noting that Jak didn’t appear to recognize the term. There was a chuckle in his voice that he supposed was avuncular and indulgent. To the wary companions, i
t was a little sinister.

  “However, I have to say that his loss is most definitely my gain. I have heard of you people, Mr. Cawdor. I think there may be few barons on trade routes who have not. Even though we are relatively isolated, still the word reaches out. Traders are a garrulous species as a whole, and skills and knowledge such as yours are always at a premium. I would be glad if you would consider staying a while. If you wish, you can leave with the next convoy that passes through. Our wealth comparative to the rest of the region means that even though we’re a long haul, we’re worth it. You shouldn’t have to wait long. But in the meantime…” He ended with a shrug.

  A sly and a smart bastard, Ryan had to give him that. From what Toms had said, he was the only trader to move along this route; that was what had built his wealth. So either he had lied or Arcadian was lying—perhaps to make them feel more secure about staying?

  Outside the long windows, the night was now beginning to fall, and the sounds of a prosperous ville at night began to filter through. Arcadian, in the pause that followed, turned to look toward the window. An expression crossed his face. This one seemed devoid of any hidden intent or secret humor. It was a pure expression: love for his ville. Whatever his agenda may be, there was little doubt that the baron was a believer in Arcady.

  As though he knew that this thought had flickered across their minds as one, he turned back to them and spoke again.

  “You may be wondering about this place. You’ve seen a part of it that is very different to the parts you saw when you were with Toms. There’s a reason for this, and it lies in the history of this ville. You, Dr. Tanner,” he added, pointing at Doc, “seem to be fascinated by the displays of the old world that I have about this place. They are meant to be both instructive and inspirational. To remind us all of the world that was left behind, but not merely for the sake of empty nostalgia. No,” he said with emphasis, slapping his fist into his palm, “it’s important that we keep these memories alive to drive us on. On to building a better world than this. One that has the magnificence of the old.”