"Mother Sonja used to say that a distillation of the oil of cloves was an aid to that sort of tooth pain," Krysty said.
"Got any?"
"Course not!"
"Then keep your rad-blasted stupe mouth shut, will you?"
She stared hard at him. "There're times I make allowances for you behaving like a hamstrung pig, lover. Luckily for you, this happens to be one of those times."
Now they were wandering around a big street market, only a mile or so farther into the ravaged suburbs of the huge ville. They'd crossed over the remains of a massive freeway, several lanes in either direction. A collapsed overpass had been partially cleared away and there were two lanes working. Ryan and Krysty had stopped and stared in amazement. Neither of them had ever seen such an amazing volume of gas-powered transport, buzzing and roaring past them: heavy wags, painted in a dull olive-green and a number of autowags; two-wheelers by the dozen. And at least two vehicles out of every three sported the silver circle that they recognized as being the insignia of "the Party."
The market wasn't very difficult from innumerable similar ones that Ryan had seen all over the scattered villes of the Deathlands. Trestles made from old doors, propped up by makeshift hunks of hacked wood, sold everything under the sun.
"Everything except weapons," Ryan observed.
Though some cautious barons controlled how blasters and blades were peddled in their villes, most markets in the Deathlands would have several stalls selling arms: longbows, crossbows, lethal catties made from steel and plaited cords of elastic, hunting spears, knives long and short. And blasters — Colts, Smith & Wessons, Mausers, Webleys, Lugers, Winchesters, Deringers and Derringers, Adams and Rugers, flintlocks and percussion cap blasters, muskets, rifles and carbines. Automatics and semiautomatics, single action and double action. Grens and launchers.
But in the Nikulino street market there wasn't even a blunt knife on offer. Ryan also noticed that nobody appeared to be carrying any kind of weapon, at least not openly, except for the parading sec men and women, all of whom carried either pistols or rifles — Stechkins, Tokarevs and Makarovs. But, most commonly, the old versions of the Kalashnikov rifle.
The market offered everything else.
Food was scarce and, compared to some of the other items, expensive. Potatoes were plentiful, but the stalls peddling carrots, turnips and small amounts of hothouse fruits and tomatoes were sparse and the produce was costly. There was plenty of meat, with old women sitting behind their displays, rhythmically fanning away the hordes of buzzing blowflies. Mutton and horsemeat were most common, as was a surprising quantity of good fresh fish.
A few stalls sold prenuke memorabilia, like books and small household items. But the prices posted seemed ludicrously high compared with other things, and there seemed to be few takers.
One ramshackle table held only an array of false teeth, gleamingly pink and white and infinitely macabre. Another stall sold false teeth made from metal and wood, which seemed to cause Ryan's pain to surge again.
Clothes were sold in the largest number of stalls in the market, most of them crudely made and based on furs. One old woman had some finely worked hand-embroidered kerchiefs for sale, but nobody was buying. The stall next door was piled with secondhand rubber boots, and fifteen or twenty people were jostling to purchase them.
One section of the market was set aside for various crafts. A slim boy with only one leg pumped at a foot-operated drill and offered extremely fine engravings on glass of birds and butterflies. Another boy was selling tiny creatures of folded, colored card, attracting a good crowd to admire his skill. A chubby woman standing next to Ryan said something, gesturing to the boy's creations. Hoping he was right, Ryan muttered "Da" and smiled. She smiled back, so he figured he'd guessed right.
Some of the craftsmen had signs hung up to advertise their particular skills. It was Krysty who spotted the enormous golden tooth, carved from a single piece of wood, indicating the dentist.
It was only when Rick was deep in the miasma of trying to explain Ryan's condition that they realized they were attracting a crowd.
"Zup!" shouted the freezie, sweating with the tension. He looked worriedly at Ryan.
Since the pain from his ravaged tooth had miraculously vanished, it seemed a good moment to make their excuses and leave. But the kopeck had finally dropped and the open-air dentist grinned broadly. He pushed Ryan into a battered iron chair.
As the man smiled through the forest of ginger hair, Ryan was alarmed to see that he was totally toothless. Not a jagged stump remained anywhere.
He beckoned Rick to him, hissing in his ear, "Tell the triple... tell him I want only onetooth out and I'll point at it."
The freezie stumbled through an explanation, which seemed to amuse both the dentist and the growing crowd of watchers. Ryan was becoming less and less comfortable at being the center of attraction, but Krysty reassured him.
"Folks are the same everywhere," she whispered.
"What?"
"Love watching pain. Give 'em a good show, lover. Don't disappoint them."
It was only as the Russian started to poke around in Ryan's mouth that the one-eyed man realized he was being treated by a mutie. As mutations went it was comparatively slight and very common — variations in the numbers and placing of digits on hands and feet. In extreme cases you might see a mutie with thirty or forty tiny, feeble toes on each bare foot, like the stubby tentacles of a sea anemone.
The Russian had only two digits on each hand. But to make up for it, they were huge. The thumb and index finger were like the claws of a massive lobster. The skin was immensely thick, like horn, and there were no nails.
Ryan opened his mouth as wide as he could, leaning back, hands folded white-knuckled in his lap, and closed his eye. He swallowed hard and tried to steady his breathing, feeling an obscure and pointless wave of patriotism, which wasn't something that happened very often when a man lived in the Deathlands. But Ryan didn't want to behave badly in front of the mugging crowd of Russians. He didn't want to let himself and his country down by appearing to be a weakling, even though none of them knew he was one of the hated breed of Yanks.
The man, whose breath stank of vinegar and stale cabbage, turned and said something to Rick.
"Says he'll have to pull it out. Thinks he can see which one it is."
Ryan didn't much like the sound of the word "thinks," but he nodded anyway. He also didn't care for the way the red-bearded man was looking curiously at Rick. Because he was so close to Ryan, the freezie hadn't been able to prevent his hearing the quick burst of a foreign language.
Rick said something to the "dentist," which Ryan assumed was simple a "go" command. He opened his mouth wider and braced himself.
The pincering thumb and finger closed on the afflicted tooth, making him start at the shock of fresh pain.
It happened very fast.
The man's left hand pressed hard against Ryan's chest, keeping him still in the chair, and he felt an overwhelming sense of pressure. To his surprise, the first movement was one of pushing, then a squeezing, crushing feeling. There was comparatively little pain, but he heard a dreadful cracking, rushing noise, as if part of his jaw were being forcibly sucked out through his ears.
Ryan was aware of tendons creaking under the strain. Then blood gushed from the torn socket as the tooth was ripped free. It flooded into his throat, making him choke and gag. He pushed the Russian away from him and sat up, gobbing a great spray of thick blood into the dirt of the street.
Ryan's performance won a round of cheers from the circle of onlookers. He noticed that the driver of a small-goods wag had stopped his vehicle, leaving the engine running as he climbed from the canvas-topped cab to join in the fun.