Playfair's Axiom (6 page)

“But these are empty,” Mildred said. She held up the lid of one of the squat pots as if to prove her point.

Ryan just looked at her. “Oh,” she said, and replaced the lid with exaggerated care.

“So what now?” Doc asked.

“We wait.”

“I’m worried about J.B.,” Mildred said.

“Me, too,” Ryan said. “But there’s nothing we can do about it now. I’m going to sleep.”

He stretched himself on a lumpy canvas mattress.

A
CLATTREING WOKE HIM
. Burly Lonny stood outside, kicking the door with a boot. He held a large covered blue metal dish.

“They sent me with some vegetable stew for you,” he said. He set the dish on the porch, then shoved a bag through the flap-covered metal hatch in the bottom. Krysty retrieved it, opened it.

“Bowls and spoons,” she said.

“Wood spoons,” Mildred said, sitting up and blinking muzzily. “So we don’t dig our way out, I guess. They’re right on top of things, these folks.”

Lonny had stood up, still holding the dish. He had a strange and ominous look in his eyes.

“You’re gonna hunt her,” he said. “They’ll offer you supplies and jack, and you’ll take it. Because you’re just coldhearts who’ll do anything for pay. I know your type!”

“Hold on,” Ryan said, standing up. “Back up a couple steps. You lost me.”

“The princess!” Lonny snapped. “You don’t care about her. What they’ll do to her. Your kind don’t care!”

He snorted a deep breath through his lump of nose, drawing his head back on his thick neck. Opening the lid of the food dish he hawked and spit a big glistening green glob into the stew. Replacing the lid, he rocked the dish from side to side, to stir the mix up right. Then he bent down and shoved the dish through the hatch.

“There you go, coldhearts,” he said. He turned and marched off.

“What that about?” Jak asked.

Ryan shook his head. “Slagger’s a few rounds short of a full mag.”

He picked up a chipped bowl and a wood spoon from
where Krysty had laid them out on the floor, went to the dish. Opening the cover, he spooned himself a bowl of stew.

Mildred gagged. “You aren’t seriously going to eat that?”

Ryan sat down cross-legged on the floor with his back to the wall, facing the door.

“Had worse,” he said, and dug in.

From the heaviness of the fist banging on the steel outer door Ryan knew who he’d see when he opened his eye.

“Garrison,” he said, sitting up. His body felt as if mules had been playing kickball with it.

Around him the others roused themselves from sleep. Outside the shadows were lengthening toward afternoon. The light had gone mellow, softening the edges of things.

“Baron wants to see you,” Garrison said.

B
ARON
S
AVIJ WASN`T
what any of them expected.

His room made up pretty much a big chunk of the upper story of the baronial palace. The chamber was decorated lavishly. And also in what, even by Deathlands standard, was pretty dubious taste.

The chamber was festooned with swatches and banners of purple and gold silk. Giant velvet paintings, of bare-breasted women, Elvis the King, African warriors and, in close-up, a snarling tiger’s face, hung from every wall. Candles and lanterns burned everywhere, hanging by chains from golden lamp-stands, on gold-painted stands by the walls, from a candelabrum overhead. Dominating all was a vast bed canopied in purple and gold and green satin, and hanging behind it, a giant tapestry—evidently also predark, since the figures were too precise and the colors too bright even after decades for handwork—of a black man with a ferocious Afro. He wore an abundance
of gold jewelry and strode defiantly with an electric guitar in one hand and a panga not unlike Ryan’s in the other, at the head of a retinue that consisted primarily of scowling, hypermuscular thugs with shaved heads, and beautiful women.

The curtains of the big bed were parted to reveal the baron, lying with his head propped on a green satin pillow.

He had been a big man. That was obvious from his frame beneath the purple satin coverlet. From the way his sallow, mottled cheeks had fallen in it was clear he’d suffered catastrophic weight loss. He turned his hairless head right to face the newcomers and blinked gum-encrusted eyes at them.

The room stank of incense and stale piss and shit. It even made Ryan’s titanium-steel stomach restless.

A young woman in a green smock dabbed at the baron’s eyes with a cloth soaked in some sort of a solution. He waved her away feebly.

“Let me see these people,” he said in a slow, cracked voice.

Garrison and Strode had escorted the companions to see the baron of Soulardville. He blinked at them slowly. Though his complexion was mottled with greenish and yellowish bruiselike marks, Ryan guessed he had been a medium dark-skinned black man. His eyes were a dark blue, which would probably have been startlingly intense had they not been clouded and dimmed by his condition.

“You look…strong,” Baron Savij said. “Reckon…you’ll do.”

Ryan just stared. Krysty said hastily, “Do for what, Baron?”

“I want my baby back,” he said. A tear rolled down his right cheek to make a dark stain on the pillow. He
stretched a clawed, discolored hand toward them. “Bring her to me.
Please.
”

His eyelids fell shut, his arm dropped like a dead bird. His hand dangled off the edge of the bed, palm up. The female attendant hastened to ease it back onto the coverlet beside him.

“He dead?” Jak asked. The words were horribly loud in the sudden deep silence.

Krysty shushed him fiercely. “What I say?” he protested. Doc took him gently by the arm and led him aside.

“You’d better go now,” Strode said. She looked no more than usually concerned for the health of her prize patient.

“Is he?” Ryan asked as she led them toward the stairs.

“Is he what?” the healer asked a bit impatiently.

“Dead.”

“No. Just exhausted.” She seemed minded to say more. Instead she flicked her eyes toward the sec boss, who stood gazing down at his baron with a thoughtful frown rumpling his face.

They started down heavy stairs of dark-stained wood. “Rad sickness?” Mildred asked quietly. The ville healer had assured her J.B. was resting well and she and the others would get to see him once the bosses were finished with them. Mildred seemed to have accepted the healer’s competence. She still was obviously none too pleased with their situation. But then, who was?

Lips pressed together, Strode nodded briskly. “Apparently he broke open a hidden rad pit while leading an expedition into ruins to the northwest of here. He took a substantial dose. Probably ingested some.”

“Lethal dose?” Mildred asked.

“Only time will tell. At this point some random disease could swoop in and carry him off opportunistically.
Pneumonia’s a real threat. Even with scavenged antibiotics, there’s a limited amount we can do.”

“Rad death,” Jak said softly, and shivered. Not much scared Jak. But death by radiation exposure would frighten the balls off a brass statue.

“Hard way to go,” Ryan said.

“Know any good ones?” Garrison asked.

Ryan shrugged. “Easier ones and quicker ones, sure.”

“Wait,” Mildred said, stopping dead halfway down the steps. “I know the man in that tapestry. That’s Savij!”

“The first Baron Savij, yes,” Strode said. “He founded Soulardville in the days just after the bombs quit falling. He and his posse showed up one day armed to the teeth and took over.”

“I knew him,” Mildred said. “Knew
of
him, anyway. He was a famous gangster rapper. Unlike a lot of them he was the real deal. Authentic street thug, been shot half a dozen times, suspected in a dozen murders but somehow never convicted. Supposedly kept his posse supplied with cocaine, hookers, illegal automatic weapons, explosives and rocket launchers.”

“Sounds like our founder,” Strode said.

Frowning, Mildred shook her head. “I remember reading once that Soulard was a totally white-bread little suburb. How would a bad-ass black man like Savij take over a place like that?”

Garrison chuckled like gravel shaken in a gallon can. “Who was gonna stop him?”

They came out onto the ground floor. A young woman was lighting kerosene lanterns against evening’s impending arrival.

Two men stood on a dark brick floor near the landing. One was tall, erect in bearing, lean with just a hint of pot belly pushing out the front of a T-shirt tie-dyed in a
red and orange and yellow sunburst, over which he wore an open sky-blue shirt. Sun-faded jeans and sandals completed the ensemble. He wore a three-lobed golden pendant, each lobe of which was engraved with a spiral.

Late-sun glow from the street gilded a round cheek and a head of neat dreadlocks just long enough to tie into a queue at the back of his neck. He was a middle-aged, relatively light-skinned black man with laughing eyes and a trim salt-and-pepper beard.

The shorter man was a little skinny white guy dressed in a red, green, black and gold T-shirt bearing an image of the original Savij. It had to be relatively recent scavenge by simple virtue of the fact it was intact. It was, however, filthy; Ryan, accustomed to the smells of himself and his friends after days of wandering in wilderness and ruin, felt a bit of a twinge at the sheer intensity of his body funk. He had a ratlike face, much of which was concealed, probably for the better, by big dark glasses. His hair hung over the shoulders of his shirt in tangled dreadlocks, so greasy they not only made it impossible to tell what color they might originally have been, but also actually left obvious stains when they brushed the already grimy fabric.

“I’m Brother Joseph,” the tall man said in a rich baritone voice that flowed like honey. “This is my associate, Booker.

“I am the spiritual guide of this community of seekers,” Joseph said. “I’m pleased to meet you all at last. I’ve heard a great deal about you.”

“What would that be, Brother?” Krysty asked, putting some sugar in her voice. Men tended not to get suspicious when a question came out in that kind of tone from that kind of face and body. Krysty had a great many assets—mental, spiritual and physical—and she wasn’t shy about using any of them to help her friends survive.

In this case, Ryan knew, it could be important to know whether their reputations had preceded them. It happened. If they had, it might give them leverage they wouldn’t otherwise have. Conversely, if the saga of One-Eye Chills and his merry band
wasn’t
known here in the rotted-out corpse of St. Lou, it might just mean potential enemies could underestimate them. And whatever the sentiment of the ville as a whole, they had enemies here: burly Lonny’s bizarre behavior with their food demonstrated that.

“Why, your running battle and heroic last stand in the ruins of downtown,” Joseph said. “You would be Krysty, would you not? Our patrol’s reports scarcely do your beauty justice. Nor your obvious intelligence. And you, Mildred—”

He turned the considerable candlepower of his smile on Mildred. “Our own healer gives high marks to your field treatment of your wounded comrade. Had you not taken the actions you did, promptly and efficiently, we would not have had the opportunity to save his life.”

“Hmm,” Mildred said. But she didn’t seem quite so full of piss and vinegar as she had a moment before.

“And you are Jak, the valiant youth,” he said, turning and nodding. “And you, sir—Doc. I’m afraid our people made rather heavy weather of your full name.”

“Dr. Theophilus Algernon Tanner, sir, at your service.”

“An honor to meet you, Doctor. You are clearly a man of education. And last, the hero-figure, the leader-from-the-wilderness. Ryan. You must be a most remarkable man.”

For once Ryan felt at a loss for words. He felt Krysty sidle against him and take his arm. “He is,” she said.

Brother Joseph beamed more brightly. “Indeed! You are all remarkable men and women. Every man and woman is a star, the oracle tells us. But now you’ll want to pay a visit to your fallen comrade. I trust you’ll forgive me this brief
delay. After an afternoon of praying and meditating over what your advent might mean to this ville, I found myself dying to meet you. You’ll join us in an hour for supper, I hope?”

“Sure,” Ryan said. That was an easy call, anyway. A free feed was a free feed. Neither the vegetable stew nor Lonny’s loogie had been enough to do more than dull the edge of hunger long-honed by privation.

“Splendid. Come, Booker. We’ve business of our own to attend to.”

“M
ILDRED,”
the man on the bed said in a rough-edged whisper. “Sorry. I let you down. Everybody…down. I…fucked…up.”

Now wholly Mildred, and not even the least little bit the briskly professional Dr. Wyeth, the sturdily built black woman clutched his hand in both of hers. “Honey, no. Don’t talk that way. It wasn’t your fault.”

“Bullet flies where it will, J.B.,” Ryan said. “You of all people should know that.”

The Armorer’s eyes were closed. His cheeks were yellowed and sunken. He looked awful, for a fact. Though not a sensitive man, Ryan was too attuned to the realities of morale to point out the fact, even in any sort of fun. Fact was, his own heart ached to see his friend and battle brother reduced to this condition.

“Mildred’s right,” he said. “Don’t fret yourself on nonsense. Rest. Get better.”

“What he’s trying to say, in his manly, near-inarticulate way,” Krysty said, moving to the other side of the sick-bed, “is that we need you, J.B. Rest well. Come back to us soon.”

Although no breath of air blew through the open windows of the neat, almost dazzlingly clean infirmary, in a
former storefront across the big plaza from the palace, her sentient hair stirred around her shoulders as if in a slight breeze. It showed the agitation of her own spirit.

“Heh,” the Armorer croaked in what seemed to be an attempt at laughter. “Mebbe I’m chilled already and all them stories about heaven weren’t the lies I thought they was. I’m surrounded by angels…”

He sighed and relaxed. Ryan’s hard heart skipped a beat before sense took over and he realized his friend had simply passed into sleep, not caught the last train west.

Strode made a sound in her throat. “Strange as it seems I think that last remark was probably a favorable sign,” she said. “Making a joke shows he’s keeping his spirit up. That’s important to healing.”

“I know,” Mildred said. “Back in my day—when I was studying the healing arts, I mean—some people claimed it was all a myth that your feelings could affect your physical health. But most of the people I knew who actually did healing knew better. And so do I.”

“Whitecoats,” the stocky woman with the gray braid said, shaking her head. She wore an old-fashioned stethoscope around her bull neck. “They know so much about facts and figures and so little about what matters, where people are concerned.”

“How you know whitecoats?” Jak asked suspiciously. He was always suspicious. Mention of scientists tended to make him more so.

“We have some of our own,” she said. “I have to admit, they’re helping us to make new medicines from herbs and plants. And of course Breweryville is full of whitecoats. The brewmeister fancies he’s a scientist himself.”

“Brewmeister?” Doc asked.

Strode shrugged. “Their baron.”

“You don’t sound too fond of him.”

“Well, he’s not lovable. I’m not as down on the ville itself as…some of our people here. I wouldn’t want to live there myself, that’s certain sure, even though they’re richer than we are.”

A look passed among the companions. Compared to what they were accustomed to—their whole lives, in Ryan’s and Jak’s and Krysty’s cases, not just their last few years of wandering the wastelands—Soulardville was all but unimaginably prosperous and peaceful. And clean. Ryan was actually becoming aware of his own stink through the carbolic-acid smell of Strode’s domain, and the way his unwashed clothes chafed, the way every fold and crevice of his lean hard-muscled body itched. He realized he’d begun scratching his ribs unconsciously.

Mildred had stepped to Strode’s side and was discussing J.B.’s treatment. All traces of rivalry or suspicion between the two women had disappeared like a pinch of dust thrown to the wind. Each recognized in the other a true professional in her field. Now they talked shop.

“—antibiotic powder in the wound,” Strode was saying.

Mildred’s eyebrows rose. “Your whitecoats make you antibiotics?”