Robinson Crusoe 2245: (Book 2) (12 page)

Friday nodded but said no more. The guards at the door slapped their fists across their chests before opening the tent flap for Arga’Zul and his party to enter.

Friday didn’t know what to expect inside, but she found the room surprisingly modest. There were a few areas for sitting and a large bed behind gossamer curtains in the corner of the tent. Merchants were gathered around a garish throne to bargain favors.

A slender man sat in a large chair at the top of the dais. He was nearly as tall as Arga’Zul, but unlike his warrior brother, he had little muscle or fat to speak of. His waist was taut and his skin pale. Friday felt an immediate loathing for the man as he sat, bored, yawning openly as others talked.

When this king saw Arga’Zul, he did not break from his trade, but a smile-sneer appeared on his face. After dismissing the merchant, he waved his brother forward.

“The great vanquisher returns. Prince of Rivers, Begetter of Blood. Greetings, Brother.”

“Greetings,” Arga’Zul said, stepping forward to embrace his brother, who didn’t rise, but let him kiss both cheeks.

“I hear you have recovered the object of my bidding. Discovered in a minor tributary, I believe?”

Arga’Zul gnashed his teeth. The only way for the king to know this would be if he had spies aboard the
Spinecrusher
. He would need to ferret them out.

“Yes, my king,” Arga’Zul said finally.

“Perhaps you should have looked there first. After six moons, I was beginning to suspect you were losing your touch.”

“There are many cities of the old world. Many of these places are no more than rubble and are difficult to navigate to.”

“And yet you still had time to raid.”

Arga’Zul shrugged. “I do have a reputation to maintain.”

Baras’Oot turned to one of his slaves and said, “Find Valud.”

As the slave ran off, Baras’Oot finally noticed Friday.

“And what have we here? Is this the
princess
I’ve heard so much about?”

“My great prize,” Arga’Zul said. “Daughter of the leader of our rivals.”

“Bring her closer. I would have a closer look at her.”

One of Arga’Zul’s men struck Friday in the back with his staff, and she shot forward, her face hiding none of the disdain she felt at that moment.

“I heard she was beautiful,” Baras’Oot said. “But you’ve done your best to free her of that disservice.”

“A disagreement,” Arga’Zul said. “She has trouble remembering her place.” Arga’Zul turned to Friday. “This is my brother, Baras’Oot, King of the Bone Flayers, and your new master. You will kneel before him.”

Friday leaned forward as if to comply but spit on the ground instead.

Baras’Oot laughed heartily.

In a rage, Arga’Zul punched Friday in the mid-section, and she doubled over.

“I see she follows your orders as well as your men,” Baras’Oot chided.

“She is Aserra. They always prefer the whip to the bridle.” Arga’Zul glowered.

“For you, perhaps,” Baras’Oot said. “I have never had such problems.”

As if on cue, a man appeared. Head shaven, sinewy frame. He wore the dress of the Bone Flayers, complete with a single string of teeth around his neck. And yet on one of his shoulders was a familiar mark.

This man was Aserra.

Friday looked at him with disgust, but the man appeared not to notice or care.

“Valud,” the king said. “My brother claims this
girl
is a princess of your people.”

Valud looked at Friday as if studying an insect. “Whores and princesses look alike to me,
exaltado pai
, and they are of little difference in the wild.”

Baras’Oot chuckled again.

In an instant, Friday was on her feet, charging Valud, but Arga’Zul’s guards caught her and pulled her back.

“She has spirit,” Baras’Oot said. “I can see why you like her. She will be very fun to break.”

Arga’Zul said nothing.

Baras’Oot lifted a lazy finger to one of the slaves, who hustled over with a jug of wine and two ancient glasses. Her shaking hands poured the cups and handed one to each brother.

“Show me the prize.”

Arga’Zul reached into his shirt and retrieved a folded map. It was yellow with age but intact. He held it out, but Baras’Oot barely glanced at it. Instead, he signaled Valud.

Valud spread the map out on a small table, tracing his finger over the ancient script, struggling it settled on a location to the southeast. He turned to Baras’Oot and nodded.

“The location and era appear to be correct, my king,” Valud said. “But this ancient tongue escapes me. Your guests will have to verify it.”

Baras’Oot nodded to the slave again, who quickly rushed away. Then his attention turned back to his brother.

“Fall has almost turned. Will you go out again before winter comes?” he asked.

Arga’Zul shook his head. “I am weary of travel. And my ship is in need of repairs. And I have much to accomplish here.” He touched Friday’s cheek and she snapped her head away. “I also wish to see if our guests can deliver what was promised.”

“And if they cannot?” Baras’Oot asked.

“I will do what I do best. At your bidding, of course.”

Behind them, the tent flapped opened, and the slave returned with two figures in tow.

“Come, my friends,” Baras’Oot said. “I have two surprises for you. I believe we have found what you’re looking for. The map.”

“And the second surprise?” the older of the two figures asked.

“A guest I am told you are familiar with.”

The two figures stepped out of the shadows, and Friday felt every muscle in her body seize. The older man moved for the map, but the younger one’s eyes never left Friday.

“We are,” said the younger one. “We are indeed.”

Friday had once again found herself in the presence of Vardan and Jaras Saah.

“On this road there are no godspoke men. They are gone and I am left and they have taken with them the world.”

They marched him downhill through the belly of the train yard. Robinson got his first look at the locomotives up close. They were magnificent, towering beasts made of iron and steel. Someone had taken great care to fix them up.

The men hadn’t bothered shackling Robinson’s hands. There was little need with two pistols at his back. Or so they thought.

He’d heard the click of their loading mechanisms and knew the explosive charge was a finger tug away. But there were a lot of steps that had to happen. The eyes registering movement. The brain sending a signal to act. The hand doing what it was told. It all added up to time.

Neither man seemed nervous about pointing a weapon at Robinson, but he didn’t panic. He’d had guns at his back before.

The men were largely silent. The older of the two had a gut that folded over his trousers and drew heavy breaths as he walked. If it came to it, he wouldn’t be hard to overcome.

The second man was the problem. He was short but stocky through the chest and shoulders. He had a thick red beard, stained dark with the substance he spit out again and again. And he had wild eyes. Every time Robinson looked back at him, the man grinned as if to say,
Go ahead and try
.

At the top of the next rise, a sprawling ancient city came into view. To the left was a vast collection of commercial buildings and towers. Only one was toppled over, but all were devoid of glass.

If there was any activity there, Robinson couldn’t see it.

The area to the right was different. The once-paved streets had been filled with dirt, and they were clogged with horse-drawn wagons, kids, and dogs. Robinson saw women walking the sidewalks in pairs, stopping to point at dresses in a window or exiting stores with bags in hands.

Atop the corner buildings of that main road, men with rifles watched over the crowd. They all looked identical, with thick mustaches, heavy coats, and wide-brimmed hats.

The older man nodded to one as they passed, and he signaled back. That’s when Robinson’s escorts returned their pistols to their holsters.

On the side of a brick building, an ancient sign had been re-erected. Rust had eaten its edges, but most of the words were still clear. They read:

But someone had crossed out the last word and written over it:

Music wafted out over the din. Robinson recognized the sound as a piano. But this one sounded much different than the box he’d stumbled upon when he first landed on the continent a year and a half before.

This was no tinkling of the keys. It was buoyant and spirited, with great crescendos that were accompanied by the cheers of a rowdy crowd.

As the trio turned up this main street, Robinson noticed a man on a stepladder lighting a gas lamp. More were interspersed every fifty or so paces, suggesting someone had taken the time to reconstruct the infrastructure of this city. But who? And why?

A few townspeople glanced at Robinson, but most paid him no attention. Almost all of the men wore belts around their waists, each displaying one of those old-style pistols and a row of cartridges lined up around the back like soldiers in formation.

Do they hand out those weapons to everyone who passes through town?
Robinson wondered.

“Who you got there, Mox?”

Robinson looked up to see a girl barely older than himself leaning over a balcony railing. Her face was heavily painted, and she was dressed in dainty lace clothes that left little to the imagination.

“You find me a stud colt wandering the prairie?” she yelled.

Mox, the red-bearded man, spit, revealing at least two missing teeth. There could have been more.

“I think pony be more like it, Wellie,” Mox replied.

Two more women appeared on the balcony. They were all dressed similarly and wore heavy face paint and perfume so strong they could probably smell it by the river.

“Bring him up here. Let us look him over proper like.”

“Why? You need a break from real men?” Mox asked.

“Dunno,” Wellie replied. “Ain’t had one in a while.”

The women cackled. Mox grumbled after his partner elbowed him.

“He is a pretty thing,” a brunette said. “Wonder if he’s ridden a woman yet?”

The third woman thrust her extremely large bust out.

“Imagine he’ll get thrown riding these!” she said.

Robinson looked away, embarrassed.

“Aw, look,” Wellie said. “He’s blushing. Maybe we should give him one for free. Whadaya say, Sweetie? You wanna come spend some time with us?”

“Boy ain’t got no time for you,” Mox said. “He’s going to see Boss. But when I’m done, I’ll come back for that freebie, if you like.”

“Mox, you’re so dirty, I’ll charge you once for the deed and twice for cleaning the sheets!”

Mox cursed and waved them off as he shoved Robinson down the street.

Eventually, they arrived at the establishment from which the music was emanating. A sign overhead read
Doc Holliday’s Saloon
.

Pushing through the doors, they were greeted by a sweltering heat that radiated off the mob of bodies gathered at a long bar to the left and tables in front of a stage. Gas lamps lined the walls, and iron chandeliers holding candles above added to the heat.

On the stage, a buck-toothed man in a straw hat pounded the keys while two women in provocative clothes danced behind him. With each kick of their legs, the male customers howled and shouted bawdy things that spurred the women on.

The place stank of hops, sweat, and vomit.

Mox pushed through the crowd and spoke briefly to a man behind the bar. When he returned, he said, “Out back.”

“Out back” turned out to be a horse paddock where a group of people were watching a man being whipped. His back was bloody and he cried out, begging for mercy, but no one ever answered.

Mox approached two figures near the back. The nearest was a tall, lanky man in a light blue suit with a pencil-thin mustache and oily hair parted dead center. Next to him was a woman dressed all in white, including a wide-brimmed white hat.

“’scuse me, Mr. Dandy, but we found this cub here skulking around by the rail yard. Thought Boss might want to see him.”

Mr. Dandy glanced back at Robinson but never really looked at him.

“You know
thinking
is not your forte, Mox,” he said. “Get rid of him.”

“Yessir,” Mox said.

As Mox returned, Robinson noticed the woman in white glance over her shoulder at him. She was pretty, but there was a harshness that radiated off her.

Mox shoved Robinson back toward the saloon door. But Robinson figured he’d done enough waiting. He slammed his head back as hard as he could. It connected with Mox’s nose, producing a sickening
crack
.

The older man reached for his pistol, but it was too late. Robinson jabbed two thumbs into his eyes. Then he whipped around, punched Mox in the gut, and pulled his head down to meet his knee.