pity, and it might take some time before he could regain his companions’ full respect; although Guy had not shown him much respect since their very first meeting.
'I didn't know who was coming, Questor Guy,” he said. “I thought Gruon might have become hungry again.'
As the boy approached, Grimm hailed him in a gentle voice. “Who are you, son?'
Not looking up, the child replied, “My name's Atur, please, sir. It's my job to feed the city's guests.” He removed the cloth from the trolley, to display a wide range of viands, beverages and sweetmeats. “Rev'nant Murar sends his… sends his regards, and please if you'll tell him what you like to eat so he can give you what you want.'
'We want to get out of here, boy,” Guy growled. “That's all. Murar isn't about to turn me into some mindless bloody-'
'It's not the boy's fault we're here, Great Flame,” the General snapped, as the child seemed to shrink from the Questor's hot words. Walking over to Atur, Quelgrum put a grandfatherly hand on the boy's shoulder.
'It's all right, Atur,” he said. “Nobody's going to hurt you. We were just… surprised, that's all. We weren't expecting one of Gruon's nephews.'
The boy's brown eyes opened wide. “Oh, no, sir, I'm not lucky enough to be one of them. I'm only a Realster like you.” He shrugged in an apologetic manner.
Grimm nodded. What did Murar and his fellow Revenants care if a Realster boy suffered injury or even death at the hands of their unwilling guests?
'If you'll excuse me, sir,” Atur said, “I do ‘ave me duties to perform, like.'
Slipping from under the General's hand, the boy picked up a hand-bell from the cart's lower shelf and rang it lustily. As the various inner doors of the structure swung open, Grimm began to appreciate just how many Realsters were imprisoned in Brianston.
The crowd swarming into the central plaza looked to be at least fifty strong, ranging in age from about Artur's age to the mid-thirties.
Well, at least they're generous with the food, he thought, stepping to one side as the Realsters rushed to the trolley and began loading plates and bowls with what looked to be the choicest of victuals. Elder men and women, each laden with several containers, handed the bowls to the children as they were filled. The cheerful youngsters pranced away, to return a few minutes later for more.
That must be for younger children who are still inside, mused Grimm. Or older…
No! There aren't any old people here, and there never will be unless we can do something! As for the food, the Revenants just want fat, contented milk cows-blood cows-for Gruon, who doesn't even really exist!
It seemed to the mage that the eight pints of scarlet dragon-milk inside him were heating up. Imperturbable as ever, Guy stepped up and was handed a plate by Artur.
'This braised liver looks good!” the older Questor exclaimed, heaping his plate high with meat and vegetables.
Quelgrum laughed. “Good blood food, Great Flame. Good to build you up for Uncle Gruon's delectation.'
As the Breeders and their offspring melted away into their cubby-holes to eat, Crest, Harvel, Quelgrum and a shaky-legged Tordun approached the trolley for their own sustenance.
'Not eating, Lord Baron?” the General queried. “It's prime quality food.'
'It could be drugged for all we know, General.'
'What if it is? You won't be any better off starved. If an escape opportunity should present itself in a week or a month, how can you take advantage of it if you don't eat? In any case, you told me you borrowed a gem that tells you if food is poisoned or drugged. Questor Guy has one, too, but he's eating like it's going out of fashion.'
Grimm shrugged. “I guess I just don't fancy fattening myself up for the slaughter.'
Although he tried to hide it, he could not disguise the sulky tone in his voice. General Quelgrum either did not notice, or he pretended not to do so.
'Just tell yourself you're fattening yourself up for their slaughter,” the old soldier whispered. “Come on, eat.'
'I'm sorry, General, but I'm just not hungry. I'm tired, and I'd rather sleep.'
'You must eat, Sir,” the boy, Artur, insisted, his eyes wide. “See those holes in the walls?'
The Questor nodded.
'If the Rev'nants don't see you eating, they'll shoot you all with lots of little darts, and when you fall asleep, I'll ‘ave to push a tube down your throat and make you eat. I don't like doing that, sir. Please don't make me.'
Grimm had assumed the holes in the walls were for ventilation, but now he saw their true purpose. He carried a charm that would return any projectile to its sender, but the Revenants weren't stupid: they might just as easily fill the building with soporific or narcotic smoke.
Artur's brown eyes pleaded with him, and the Questor's heart went out to a boy who had been brought up in a madhouse.
Poor little tyke: he's not to blame for all this, may the Names help him.
Above all, Grimm knew he must remain strong and ready for the least opportunity. And, in truth, he was hungry after so many days on dried rations and meagre offerings from sparse areas of woodland.
'I'm sorry, Artur,” he said, his voice full of compassion. “I won't make you do something you don't like. Perhaps I will try a little of your food, after all.'
His warning charm remained cool and black, and Grimm found himself relishing the splendid fare. However, at the back of his mind, he remained painfully aware that a blameless woman would die the next day unless he or his companions could do something to prevent it.
But what can we do? he wondered as he shovelled the victuals down his throat and stared at the steel- reinforced stone walls. We must get out of here!
'Hail, strangers!'
As Shakkar and Erik approached the centre of the town, a burly, young man in blue robes confronted them, his hand raised in a warning gesture.
'Stand aside, friend,” Erik said, raising his machine-pistol. “Our argument's not with you, but with Revenant Murar. Bring him to us, or we'll have to get nasty.'
The Sergeant flicked the safety catch to the ‘off’ position and drew back the weapon's slide with an ominous clacking sound.
'Do I make myself clear?'
The blue-clad man eyed the black weapon with a look of mingled disgust and disdain. “I don't know what that… thing is, but you can't touch a Revenant with any filthy Realster weapon,” he growled. “Try it, if you don't believe me. I'm a Revenant, too.'
The muscular man stood squarely before the Sergeant, his eyes dark pools of defiance. Erik took up the first pressure, but he wondered if he could just kill an unarmed man in cold blood…
He decided he could not. In any case, he found himself more than a little unnerved by the man's mocking, contemptuous expression. Even the fearsome Shakkar seemed a little uncomfortable.
'Just fetch Murar, will you?” the demon rumbled. “Or there will be trouble between us.'
'I don't think I will,” the man said, stepping forward. “You cannot touch me, stranger.'
'That's far enough,” Erik warned. “I'll open fire if you take one more step.'
The bulky Brianstonian continued to advance as Erik unleashed a short burst of fire over his head. His former scruples nullified by a primordial fear of contagious madness, the sergeant lowered the weapon and loosed a stream of bullets into the man's chest, the thickest part of his body.
The Revenant staggered as the bullets hit him, but he did not slow. Panicking, Erik held his finger on the trigger, to no effect. As the hammer clacked once on an empty chamber and the chattering sound stopped, the man raised a ham-like fist and launched it straight into the point of Erik's jaw, sending his helmet flying from his head. The stunned Sergeant fell like a toppled pencil, as blackness took him
