No one had been in there for a long time. The place had gone to weeds. The only animal life I saw was a scroungy, orange, feral cat. She headed for cover when she saw me.
The building next on the left was small, solid, and very much in use. It turned out to be a wellhouse, which explained why it looked like it handled a lot of traffic. A place this size would consume a lot of water—though I'd have thought they'd pipe it in from a reservoir.
The stable was the next building over. I gave it a skip. I'd talk to whoever was there after I finished snooping. Next over was a smaller building filled with a jungle of tools and farm implements with an air of long neglect. There was another cat in there, a lot of mice, and from the smell, a regiment of bats. There's nothing like the stink of lots of bats.
Next up was the barn and, yes, that's what it was. Bottom level for the animals, dairy and beef. Top level for hay, straw, and feed. Nobody around but the cows and a few more cats. I figured there must be owls, too, because I didn't smell bats. The place needed maintenance. The cows weren't friendly, unfriendly, or even curious.
The day was getting on. The gloom was getting thick. I figured I'd better get on with it and save the detail work for later. Supper would be coming up soon.
The building I'd thought looked like a barracks was probably for seasonal help. It was about eighty yards long, had maybe fifteen doors. The first I looked behind showed me a large, dusty bunkroom. The next opened on smaller quarters divided into three rooms, a bigger one immediately inside and two half its size behind it. The next several doors opened on identical arrangements. I guessed these were apartments for workers with families. Trouble was, there was a lot of waste space between doors, space unaccounted for.
The far end of the barracks had a kitchen the size of the bunkroom. Its door was on the other side of the building. Glancing along that face, I saw more doors, which explained the missing space. The apartments faced alternate directions. I stepped into the kitchen, a windowless, cheerless place that would have been depressing at the best of times. I left the door propped open for light.
There was little to see but dust and cobwebs and cooking utensils that hadn't been touched in years. Another place nobody had visited in a long time. I was surprised the stuff was still lying around. TunFaire and its environs have no shortage of thieves. All this stuff had some market value.
A gold mine that hadn't been discovered?
The door slammed shut.
"Damned wind," I muttered, and edged my way through the darkness, trying to remember what was lying in ambush between it and me.
I heard somebody secure the rusty hasp.
Not the wind. Somebody who didn't want to be my friend.
Not a good situation, Garrett. This place was far from where anybody had any business. The walls were thick stone. I could do a lot of yelling and nobody would hear. The door was the only way out and the only source of light.
I found the door, ran my hands over it, pushed gently, snorted. I stepped back a few feet and kicked hard.
The hasp ripped out of the dry, ancient wood. I charged through with a ready knife, saw nobody. I roared around the end of the barracks. And still saw nobody.
Damn! I leaned against the building and gave it a think. Something was going on, even if it wasn't what Black Pete thought.
Once I settled down, I went back to the kitchen door and looked for tracks. There were signs that somebody had been around, but the light was so poor, I couldn't do anything with them.
So. Nothing to do about it now. Might as well go to dinner and see who was surprised to see me.
7
I was late. I should have explored the house. I didn't know where we'd eat so I went to the kitchen. I waited there till Cook turned up. She gave me a high-power glower. "What you doing in here?"
"Waiting to find out where we eat?"
"Fool." She loaded up. "Grab an armful and come on."
I did both. She shoved through swinging doors into a big pantry, marched through that and out another swinging door.
The dining room was a dining room. The kind where a guy can entertain three hundred of his closest friends. Most of it was dark. Everybody was seated at one corner table. The decor was standard for the house, armor and edged steel.
"There," Cook said. I presumed she meant the empty place. I settled my load on an unused part of the table, sat.
Wasn't much of a crowd. Dellwood and Peters and the brunette I'd caught rifling my duffel bag, plus three guys I hadn't met. And Cook, who planted herself across from me. The General couldn't make it, apparently. There weren't any other places set.
The girl and guys I hadn't met looked me over. The men looked like retired Marines. Surprise, surprise. The girl looked good. She'd changed into her vamping clothes.
Garrett, you dog... The thought fled. This one gave off something sour. She was radiating the come-and-get-it and my reaction was to back off. Here was trouble on the hoof. What was it Morley said? Don't never fool around with a woman who's crazier than you are?
Maybe I was growing up.
Sure. And tomorrow morning pigs would be swooping around like swallows.
I didn't plan to outgrow that for about another six hundred years.
Peters said, "This is Mike Sexton. He was with me in the islands about ten years back. Mike, Cook." He indicated the troll-breed woman.
"We've met."
"Miss Jennifer, the General's daughter."
"We've also met." I rose and reached across, offering my hand. "Didn't get the chance before. You had both of yours in my duffel bag."
Cook chuckled. Jennifer looked at me like she wondered if I'd taste better roasted or fried.
"You've met Dellwood. Next to him is Cutter Hawkes."
Hawkes was too far off to shake. I nodded. He nodded. He was a lean rail of a character with hard gray eyes and a lantern jaw, middle fifties, tough. He looked more like a fire-and-brimstone prophet than an old soldier. Like a guy with the sense of humor of a rock.
"Art Chain." The next guy nodded. He had a monster black mustache going gray, not much hair on top, and was thirty pounds over his best weight. His eyes were beads of obsidian. Another character who was allergic to laughter. He didn't bother to nod. He was so happy to see me he could just shit.
"Freidel Kaid." Kaid was older than the General, maybe into his seventies. Lean, slow, one glass eye and the other one that didn't work too good. His stare was disconcerting because the glass eye didn't track. But he didn't look like a man who had spent his whole life trying not to smile. In fact, he put one on for me when Peters said his name. He was the guy I'd seen stoking the fire in the General's quarters.
"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Sexton."
"Likewise, Mr. Kaid." See? I can be a gentleman. Rumors to the contrary are sour grapes and envy.
Jennifer didn't give me a chance to start eating. "What are you doing here?"
"The General sent for me." Everybody was interested in me. Nice to be the center of attention sometimes. I have to set the Dead Man on fire just to get him to listen.
‘"Why?"
"Ask him. If he wants you to know, he'll tell you."
Her mouth pruned up. Her eyes shot sparks. They were interesting eyes, hungry eyes, but eyes that had been brushed by a darkness. I couldn't tell if they were green or not. The light wasn't good enough. An odd one. Maybe unique. A one in a million beauty and not the least attractive.
"What sort of work do you do, Mr. Sexton?" old Kaid asked.