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looking.
The horsemen reined in around him, but nobody spoke a word. Ryan led his party
in a few yards behind, stopping and waiting. The silence was broken only by
the shuffling of the animals, the jingle of harness and by the rising wind
that carried a few spots of rain in its teeth.
Sharpe looked around, his eyes taking in everything, lingering on Jak and then
on Krysty.
"Well," he finally said. "Well, I see you alone, Joshua, with marks on your
face that tell me we have stickies on our lands. Best hear your initial
report, Sergeant." He turned slowly to look at Joaquin.
Sitting stiffly upright in his saddle, the man gave a concise account of what
had happened the ambush and the slaughter of the other members of the first
scouting party, the rescue by the outlanders that had resulted in the deaths
of all of the muties and the freeing of Joshua Morgan.
The baron stood very still, listening. When Joaquin fell silent, he still
didn't speak. Out of the corner of his eye, Ryan could see that Emma was
trembling. It could have been exhaustion.
Could have been.
"Well. Good report, Joaquin. Thank you. Gives me the things I need to know and
didn't waste words.
Glad to see you back alive, Morgan. Go and have a bath and get out of those
filthy, bloody rags. Then we will be very pleased to hear your dark story in
your own words."
"Aye, Baron." He slipped down and walked quickly toward the main building.
"Dismiss the men, Sergeant, and then come and see me in a half hour."
Ryan and his companions moved out of the way as the horses clattered across
the cobbled yard, through an archway that presumably led to the stables,
leaving them waiting alone with Baron Sean Sharpe.
The moment grew longer, and the spots of rain became more insistent, but
Sharpe ignored them, his eyes running back and forth along the line. Each
time, Ryan noticed, he hesitated at both Krysty and Jak.
"Well, now. We will spend plenty of time while you tell me your fascinating
tales. Perhaps while you lunch with us? But I would know your names and where
you've come from. You," he said, pointing unerringly at Ryan, "are the leader
of this group, aren't you? Introduce me."
"Sure thing. I'm Ryan Cawdor, from the Shens. My son, Dean. This is Krysty
Wroth from Harmony ville.
Mildred Wyeth from out of Nebraska. Emma Tyler who comes from" he faltered for
a moment and knew that Sharpe had spotted it, "Emma's from the north end of
the Shens. J. B. Dix from Cripple Creek. Jak
Lauren from the bayou country. And"
But Doc took over. "I am Dr. Theophilus Algernon Tanner, Doctor of Science
from Harvard and Master
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ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
nds%2027%20-%20Ground%20Zero%20(v1.0)%20[html].html of Philosophy from
England. Born in South Strafford, Vermont, now a resident of the open highway.
Delighted to make your acquaintance, Baron Sharpe. And may we now go in and
get out of this damnably miserable rain, which seeks out the flaws in my poor
old body?"
"In from the rain? Yes, of course. Most welcome. My people will show you to
some rooms where you can make yourselves comfortable." He turned away, then
looked back at them. "And thanks for your help."
He frowned. "The pity is that it was so little and so late."
For a moment Ryan stood still in the heavy downpour, watching the tall,
handsome figure stride toward the main entrance to the house.
"Yeah, and fuck you, too," he said quietly.
KRYSTY BOUNCED on the double bed in the third-floor room that a silent servant
had showed them.
Outside the mullioned window, the rain pounded against the small panes of
glass. There had been two flashes of lightning, but they had been halfhearted
affairs compared to the earlier storm.
"What do you think, lover?"
"The ville, Sharp, our situation, or Emma?"
"Yes."
He grinned. "Which?"
"All of them. The ville?"
"Workmanlike is the word that kept comin' to me. Not grand and not poor. Good
sec men. Defense isn't anywhere like as good as they think it is. I could get
in and take it with half a dozen good men. Or women. Well organized, though."
"Sharpe?"
"You feel anything about him?"
Krysty had found a brush lying at the vanity and sat down in front of a
gilt-framed mirror, working the knots out of her bright hair.
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