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Huston nodded, swaying at a violent shift from his boat. "Getting skittish,"
he muttered, looking around the saloon. "Seems that you acted for the best,
Mr. Cawdor."
He turned to his sec men. "Take this gentleman up and stop him ruining our
fine carpet.
Show him the brig for a few hours to gentle him down." He clapped his hands.
"And that's it. Now, the weather's getting restless, ladies and gentlemen.
We're going to have to clear public areas and close the decks. Real sorry.
Need to find a quiet shelter and moor up, so if you could all return to your
cabins. Only for a couple of hours. And there'll be complimentary drinks this
evening."
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The roulette wheels stopped spinning, and the cards vanished into the discard
slots on the tables. Slowly and reluctantly the room cleared, leaving a faint
haze of cigar smoke hanging around the crystal lamps.
Ryan holstered the SIG-Sauer as the semiconscious gambler was hauled from the
bloodied floor and carried away, toes dragging across the carpet.
Captain Huston looked at him. "Seems you did the right thing, Mr. Cawdor. Glad
to hear that. Wouldn't have wanted to go against& Well, upset anyone's plans
for the rest of the voyage." He put his head on one side, listening to the
wind rising as one of the shutters on the port side ripped loose with a
deafening crash of torn timber. "Best get to the bridge. Worsening. Take care
on your way to your cabins."
He spun on his heel and stalked off. The boat's movements were becoming
increasingly violent, and Ryan reached out to steady himself on a fixed table.
"Heard the man," he said. "Let's go, friends. Before we get blown away."
WHEN THEY REACHED their deck level, Krysty hesitated, staring at the door to
the stormy outside. "Would like to take a look there," she said, voice raised
against the screaming of the wind. "Sounds a sight worth the seeing." Ryan
shook his head. "Let's go back inside, lover."
Mildred and J.B. were already at their own cabin door, hanging on to each
other against the pitching of the deck. Jak was steadying Doc, who was
jingling the jack in his pocket.
"Thanks for your help, my dear Ryan," he called. "Incidentally did I show you
that I had the winning hand?"
"You did, Doc, you did."
Krysty tugged at his arm. "Come on, love, get a life. Don't always have to
play it safe.
We can hold on to the rails if it's too bad."
Somewhere a door was slamming remorselessly back and forth. And it felt as if
the
Golden Eagle was slip-sliding in a half circle, her bow pointing toward the
starboard shore of the Sippi.
The other four had all made their minds up, retreating into their cabins,
leaving Ryan and
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Krysty alone in the shadowy corridor, where the polished oil lamps swung and
clattered on their brass gimbals.
"Come on. Just for a minute. We can wash up and get dry in the cabin. Be fun."
Ryan closed his eye for a moment, knowing in his heart that this was a bad
idea, but not feeling quite strongly enough to stop Krysty from going out onto
the deck.
As she turned the white handle, the door was ripped out of her hand, crashing
back, letting in a wave of wind-torn spray that flattened her hair, tugging at
her clothes. Krysty laughed exuberantly at the violence of the storm, turning
to beckon to Ryan. "Come on, lover!" The words were mimed against the bedlam
of the hurricane.
She vanished and he followed her, ducking and blinking against the driven
water. The sky was like pewter, with no trace of light, making the river look
supernatural and menacing, its muddy surface whipped with the crests of white
waves a dozen feet high.
The banks were invisible through the drenching rain and spray. Though the
massive stern-
wheel was only a few feet away from them, it was both invisible and inaudible.
Ryan felt that the boat was drifting sideways, and he realized for the first
time that she was actually out of control, a toy of the raging storm.
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Krysty was on the starboard side, clinging to the rail, beneath a canvas
canopy that was blowing wildly, looking as if it were about to tear to shreds
at any moment.
Ryan flattened himself against the superstructure, beneath the overhanging
balcony of the stateroom where he guessed Wolfram and the Magus would be
sheltering, maybe even watching Krysty and himself in this stupe venture.
"Come back in!" he yelled, but her face was turned away, eyes squeezed shut
against the primal force of nature. Her head was thrown back, relishing the
power and the danger.
He took a half step toward her, reaching out against the wind, when there was
a deafening crack, screaming over the typhoon's raging. The canvas ripped
across, flapping loose from its mooring above Krysty, plunging down on her
with a malevolent intent, like a giant manta ray.
It wrapped around her head and shoulders, plucking Krysty off balance, tipping
her against the rail, her legs flailing for a moment as she tried to grab for
support.
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But the storm had her in its thrall, whirling her up and over, toppling back
toward the churning wheel at the stern of the helpless vessel.
Ryan was after her, feet skidding on the wet planks, blinded by the spray. One
hand reached for the slippery rail while the other grabbed helplessly at the
torn canvas shroud that held his lover.
His fingers brushed it, and he saw it snag for a moment on a stanchion on the
edge of the stern. The one-eyed man snatched the moment to lock his hand in
the rough, soaked material, steadying it for a couple of seconds on the brink
of the drop, feeling Krysty's weight tugging against him.
Agonizingly it was shifting him, as well, lifting him, pulling him up and over
the rail, following Krysty toward the thrashing, whirling paddle, and Ryan
knew that they would be both sucked and crushed into the dark water.
He was over, managing to twist like an acrobat and grab the iron stanchion,
hanging on to the suspended canvas with his other hand. He clung there, poised
between life and death, aware that nothing could now save them. In a few
seconds his grip would go, and they would be doomed.
He had closed his eye, then opened it once more to find that he was staring,
inches away, into the blankly incurious steel eyes of the Magus.
Chapter Nineteen
Time stopped.
Ryan wasn't even aware of the ripping, howling wind that tore at him, or the
grinding strain on his arms, one holding the ragged canvas that enveloped
Krysty, the other gripping the slippery iron stanchion on the corner of the
rail. He knew that the whirling stern-wheel was slicing through the spray,
only a few inches away from Krysty's dangling boots.
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But none of that had the same reality as the glittering face of the Magus,
streaming with river water, leering at him from the safety of the deck. The
angular skull, remembered from years long gone, was so close that Ryan could
see every pore in the smooth skin, see the effects of the sophisticated,
heroic surgery the best available in all of
Deathlands carried out in the past, which had saved his life, leaving him to [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ] - zanotowane.pl
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