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Baron Ragnar, but the story was too convoluted to tell at the moment.
"And the others," she continued, "are waiting to learn what action the
imperator undertakes to restore order and unity."
Kane felt his eyebrows knit at the bridge of his nose. "The imperator? Did I
hear you right? The imperator?"
Quavell nodded, linking her inhumanly long, delicate fingers beneath her
pointed chin. "Yes."
"What and who the hell is an imperator?"
Patronizingly, Quavell said, "I see you know very little about your own race's
history."
"True," Kane replied, an edge slipping into his voice. "Thanks to your race."
If Quavell was offended by the comment> she showed no sign of it. Kane assumed
she was aware how the educational systems of the villes were deliberately
limited. It was one way the barons used to control the herd.
She said, "The ancient Roman Empire was governed by a senate, but ruled by an
emperor, some-
times known as an imperator. This person served as the final arbiter in
matters pertaining to government.
The villes act independently, unified in name only. A proposal was put forth
to establish a central ruling consortium. In effect, the barons would become
viceroys, plenipotentiaries in their own territories."
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"Who made this proposal?" asked Kane.
"Baron Cobalt"
"Who else?" Kane muttered. "And so you're waiting around to see what he does
next?"
She shook her head. "Baron Cobalt's proposal was adopted by another."
"Another what? Another baron?"
"No. In truth I know little of the identity of the one who has claimed the
title of imperator."
Kane shrugged and returned his attention to the soup. "Well, for nearly a
hundred years the barons believed they were the viceroys of the Archon
Directorate, so I can't see how this setup is much different
Except the imperator isn't a myth, a control mechanism like the directorate
was."
"Perhaps," Quavell said quietly. "But from what I understand, neither is the
directorate."
Kane's spoon froze midway to his mouth. "It might be the apekin knows a little
more about the so-called
Archon Directorate than you. It doesn't exist"
"Perhaps," the woman repeated. "But one Archon does. Balam by name, and it is
he who has installed the imperator as the ruler of the nine villes."
For the second time in one day, Kane was too stupefied by shock to move or
speak.
Chapter 11
Brigid Baptiste's response to Baron Sharpe's pronouncement was not typical of
her. Perhaps it was impatience, the anger at being confronted with baronial
arrogance, that caused her to forgo her usual cautious approach. Ordinarily,
from of a position of weakness, she would have kept silent, keenly observing
the nature of a potential adversary before deciding on a confrontation. This
time, she did none of those things.
Brigid uttered a derisive laugh and sneered. "You'll have a long wait before
either of us calls you 'my lord,' Sharpe. You're not the lord of anything
unless it's a lunatic asylum."
It was nearly impossible for Baron Sharpe's eyes to widen, but his prim little
mouth gaped open. It was with difficulty Grant kept his own jaw from dropping.
Although he knew the baronial oligarchy was not
semidivine, he had never been in the presence of a baron before, and it made
him feel exceptionally nervous. Brigid's uncharacteristic disrespect, and the
insult flung at the anointed god-king, didn't exactly relax him, either.
Intellectually, Grant understood the barons were bom of science, of
bioengineering, not mysticism, but his ville breeding still caused him to hold
them in superstitious regard. He managed to maintain Ms usual scowl, but he
tensed his muscles, waiting for the reaction invoked by Brigid's disrespectful
words and tone.
Baron Sharpe's big, slanted eyes glittered momentarily in anger, and he cast a
glance toward the crippled creature he had introduced as Crawler. "What should
I do with her?" he asked.
Crawler's lips stretched in a smile. "Reward her, perhaps. She certainly has
you pegged correctly."
Sharpe sat up and laughed, a high-pitched musical titter that sounded like the
stuttering chirp of a flock of birds. He fixed his gaze on Grant. "Do you have
a tongue?"
The sudden question took Grant aback. "I have one, yes."
"Then I suggest you use it instead of trying to intimidate me with scowls and
silence."
He turned toward the crippled man. "Tell me more about them, Crawler."
Brow furrowing, Crawler stared intently at Grant with shadow-pooled eyes.
Grant sensed a wispy touch against his mind, and his heart began to pound. The
crippled man was a psionic, a doom seer, a doomie, possessed of mutant
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telepathic and precognitive abilities.
Most of the mutie strains spawned after the nuke-caust were extinct, either
dying because of their mutations, or hunted and exterminated during the early
years of the unification program. Stickies, scalies, scabbies and almost every
other breed exhibiting warped genetics had all but vanished, except in
isolated pockets. Grant had assumed even the muties who looked otherwise
normal except for their psychic powers had pretty much died off, as well.
"A doomie," Grant said, trying to sound as if he were interested only to be
polite. "Couldn't have been easy locating one in this day and age."
"Easier than you may think," Sharpe responded smoothly. "Part of my legacy
from my greatgrandfather, the first Baron Sharpe, was a small private zoo of
creatures that had once scuttled all over the
Deathlands. One of his last acquisitions was Crawler here."
"Nice name," Grant observed snidely. "A lot better than Bill or Philip."
"It was more of a title than a name," Sharpe replied. "My great-grandfather
bestowed it upon him after his leg tendons had been severed. He kept escaping
from the compound, see, employing his mental talents to find the most
opportune time and means to do so."
Grant decided to let the matter drop. If Crawler had been around in the
preunification days, then he was very old, probably on the order of 120 years.
But he had heard some muties possessed remarkable longevity.
The cobwebby touch disappeared from his mind as Crawler focused his eyes on
Brigid. She stiffened,
drawing in her breath sharply. After a moment, the doomie spoke in a flat,
matter-of-fact voice. "My initial percepts were sound, Lord Baron. Our
destination coincides with theirs, but our purposes are not the same. They
seek missing friends while we seek enemies."
"Missing friends?" Sharpe repeated quizzically. "Who?"
Crawler chuckled. "We have met one of them. He made quite an impression on us
both, you in particular. His name is Kane."
Baron Sharpe bobbed his head and uttered a long "Ahhh" as if finally solving a
puzzle. "Kane the traitor.
Kane the killer. Kane the baron blaster."
With icy irony, Brigid said, "I understand he certainly blasted you."
Sharpe laughed and undid the top buttons of his camo jacket, and the shirt
beneath. Pulling them aside, he revealed the pale flesh beneath. An angry red
stellate scar surrounded a raised, puckered ring in his upper chest. "He did
indeed. Here is his signature."
Although neither Brigid nor Grant had witnessed Kane's brief encounter with
Baron Sharpe and Crawler in Redoubt Papa, he had told them about it
Apparently, Crawler had duped Sharpe into accom-panying a squad of Magistrates
to die installation near Washington Hole. Sensing Kane's presence there, the
doomie conceived a plan whereby Sharpe would be assassinated and thus avenge
himself for the wrongs done to him by his great-grandfather.
When Kane refused to cooperate and be used as a pawn, Sharpe attempted to kill
Crawler. Kane shot the baron, assuming he had dealt him a mortal wound.
Apparently, his assumption was in error, but not La-kesh's description of the
baron's mental state. Brigid clearly recalled him saying Baron Sharpe was mad
"like Emperor Caligula was mad." [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]