My club-bearing guide pushed inside and hurried past the groups of men who lolled about the large room, to the man in the great stone chair next to the fireplace. "You my boss, boss Svinjar. We bring them like you say." He swung about and stamped over to me. "Now you give sword."
"Sure. Fetch."
I threw it out the door into the rain, heard a yipe of pain as it bounced off one of his gang. He ran after it as I walked over and stood before the stone throne.
"You my boss, boss Svinjar. These guys my band. Make good music you betcha."
He looked me up and down coldly, a big man with big muscles - as well as a big belly that hung over his belt. Tiny piggy eyes peered out through the thicket of bristly gray hair and beard. The pommel of a sword projected from a niche in the stone chair and he touched it with his fingers, slipping it out then letting it fall back.
"Why are you talking in that obnoxiously obscene patois?"
"I do beg your pardon." I bowed deprecatingly. "I was addressed in that manner and assumed it was the local dialect."
"It is - but only among the uneducated imbeciles who were born here. Since you weren't, don't offend my sensibility again. Are you the musicians that got into deep cagal?"
"Word sure spreads fast."
He waved his hand at the 3D set against the wall and I felt my eyes bulge. It was a solid metal block with an armored glass face - with the aerial under the glass. A handle stuck out one side.
"Our jailers are most generous in their desire that we be entertained at all times. They distribute these in great numbers. Unbreakable, eternal - and four hundred and twelve channels."
"What powers it?"
"Slaves," he said and reached out a toe to prod the nearest one. The slave groaned and climbed to his feet, stumbled over, clanking his chains as he went, and began to turn the handle on the internal generator. The thing burst to life with a commercial for industrial strength cat food.
"Enough!" Svinjar ordered and the meows faded and died.
"You and your companions kept the news channels alive. When they said crime and hospital treatment I was rather convinced they meant here. Ready to play?"
"The Stainless Steel Rats are always at the service of those in control. Which, in this case, I assume is you."
"You assume right. A concert it is - and now. We haven't had any live entertainment here since the cannibalistic magician died of infection after being bitten by accident in the heat of passion. Begin."
By necessity all our gear had to be compact. The fist-sized loudspeakers contained holoprojectors that blew their image up to room size.
"All right guys," I called out. "Let's set up by the back wall. No costumes for this first gig and we'll start with 'The Swedish Monster from Outer Space.'"
This was one of our more impressive numbers. It had been found in one of the most ancient data bases, the lyric written in a long-lost language called Svensk or Swedish or something like that. After much electronic scratching about, one of the computers in the language department at the university had been able to translate it. But this lyric was so dreadful that we threw it away and sang it in the original which was far more interesting.
There was more like this and Madonette belted it out at full volume to the accompaniment of my syncopated soundtrack, with Floyd knocking himself out on his blower-powered bagpipe. Steengo plucked at a tiny harp — whose holographic image stretched up to the ceiling. Sound filled and reverberated through the great chamber and dust was jarred loose from the log walls.
I don't think that this tune would make the galactic top ten but it sure went down well here in endsville. Particularly when it ended with an atomic mushroom cloud that grew to room size - along with the best the amplifiers could do to simulate the atomic explosion itself. The part of the audience that wasn't collapsed on the floor had fled shrieking into the rain. I took out my earplugs and heard the light clapping of approval. I bowed in Svinjar's direction.
"A pleasant divertimento - but the next time you play it I would appreciate a little less forza in the finale and a little more riposo."
"Your slightest wish is our command."
"For a young and simple-looking lad you learn fast. How come you were caught pushing drugs?"
"It's a long story…"
"Shorten it. To one word if possible."
"Money."
"Understandable. Then the music business isn't that good?"
"It smells like one of your bully-boys. If you can stay up there with the big ones, fine. But we slipped from the top notch some time ago. What with recording fees, agents' commissions, kickbacks and bribes we were quickly going bust. Steengo and Floyd have been snorting back baksheesh for years. They started selling it to support the habit. It's nice stuff. End of story."
"Or beginning of a new one. Your singer, what's her name?" He smiled a very unwholesome smile as he looked over at Madonette. I groped for inspiration. Came up with the best I could do at such short notice.
"You mean my wife, Madonette…"
"Wife? How inconvenient. I am sure that something can be done about that, though not exactly at this moment. Your arrival is, to say the least, most timely. Fits in with what you might call a general plan of action I was considering. For the general good of the populace."
"Indeed," I said, controlling my enthusiasm for any plan of his that might be forthcoming.
"Yes, indeed. A concert for the public. Barbecues and free drinks. The public will see Svinjar as a benefactor of the first order. I gather that you are prepared to play a benefit performance?"
"That's what we are here for."
Among other things that we are here for, Svinjar old chubkin. But the longest journey begins with but a single step.
Chapter 8
I'm not happy about the way this operation is going," I said unhappily. Spooning up the almost tasteless gruel that appeared to be the staff of life in this place.
"Who's arguing?" Steengo said, looking suspiciously into his own bowl of food. "This stuff not only looks like glue - it tastes like it."
"It will stick to your ribs," Floyd said and I gaped. Did he have a sense of humor after all? Probably not. Looking at his serious expression I doubted if he had explored all the meanings of what he had just said. I let it lie.
"I'm not only unhappy with this operation so far - but with the company we have been keeping. Svinjar and his loathsome lads. We've shot almost a day here already - for little purpose. If the artifact is with the Fundamentaloids we ought to be out there tracking them down."
"But you promised a concert," Madonette pointed out with a certain logic. "They are building a sort of bandstand and the word has gone out. You don't want to let our fans down, do you?"
"Heaven forbid," I muttered gruelly and put the bowl aside. I couldn't tell them about the thirty-day poison or the fact that as of the moment over seventeen days had passed. Oh the hell with it. "Let's get set up. Maybe a quick rehearsal to see if all the gear is working and, hopefully, we are still in good form."
We put lunch aside with a great deal of pleasure and humped our packs to the concert site. There was a grove of trees here that were serving as supports for a singularly crude platform. Planks had been set up between them, with an occasional support stuck in below if the thing sagged too much. Our audience was reluctantly and suspiciously gathering in the surrounding field. Small family units with the men all armed with swords or cudgels, keeping close watch on the womenfolk. Well, this was a slaveholding society so such concern was easily understood.
"At least they are trying to make it look nice," Madonette said, pointing. Pretty crude and crummy, I thought, but spoke not my thoughts aloud. Shuffling slaves had brought up leafy branches which they were arranging around the platform; there were even a few flowers stuck in among the leaves. Oh, things were really swinging on Liokukae tonight.