'Yes. I think so.'
'Do you think so? What an excellent Captain you are, Captain! We will talk more, I think, about how such an excellent Captain could produce such a frog's testicle of a son.'
His eyes touched Jack's face briefly, coldly.
'But there's no time for that now, is there? No. I suggest that you summon a dozen of your brawniest men and that you double-time them - no, triple-time them - out to the Outpost Road. You'll be able to follow your nose, to the site of the accident, won't you?'
'Yes, Osmond.'
Osmond glanced quickly at the sky. 'Morgan is expected at six of the clock - perhaps a little sooner. It is now - two. I would say two. Would you say two, Captain?'
'Yes, Osmond.'
'And what would you say, you little turd? Thirteen? Twenty-three? Eighty-one of the clock?'
Jack gaped. Osmond grimaced contemptuously, and Jack felt the clear tide of his hate rise again.
You hurt me, and if I get the chance - !
Osmond looked back at the Captain. 'Until five of the clock, I suggest that you be at pains to save whatever barrels may still be whole. After five, I suggest you simply clear the road as rapidly as you can. Do you understand?'
'Yes, Osmond.'
'Then get out of here.'
Captain Farren brought a fist to his forehead and bowed. Gaping stupidly, still hating Osmond so fiercely that his brains seemed to pulse, Jack did the same. Osmond had whirled away from them before the salute was even fairly begun. He was striding back toward the carter, popping his whip, making it cough out those Daisy air rifle sounds.
The carter heard Osmond's approach and began to scream.
'Come on,' the Captain said, pulling Jack's arm for the last time. 'You don't want to see this.'
'No,' Jack managed. 'God, no.'
But as Captain Farren pushed the right-hand gate open and they finally left the pavillion, Jack heard it - and he heard it in his dreams that night: one whistling carbine-crack after another, each followed by a scream from the doomed carter. And Osmond was making a sound. The man was panting, out of breath, and so it was hard to tell exactly what that sound was, without turning around to look at his face - something Jack did not want to do.
He was pretty sure he knew, though.
He thought Osmond was laughing.
5
They were in the public area of the pavillion grounds now. The strollers glanced at Captain Farren from the corners of their eyes . . . and gave him a wide berth. The Captain strode swiftly, his face tight and dark with thought. Jack had to trot in order to catch up.
'We were lucky,' the Captain said suddenly. 'Damned lucky. I think he meant to kill you.' Jack gaped at him, his mouth dry and hot.
'He's mad, you know. Mad as the man who chased the cake.' Jack had no idea what that might mean, but he agreed that Osmond was mad.
'What - '
'Wait,' the Captain said. They had come back around to the small tent where the Captain had taken Jack after seeing the shark's tooth. 'Stand right here and wait for me. Speak to no one.'
The Captain entered the tent. Jack stood watching and waiting. A juggler passed him, glancing at Jack but never losing his rhythm as he tossed half a dozen balls in a complex and airy pattern. A straggle of dirty children followed him as the children followed the Piper out of Hamelin. A young woman with a dirty baby at one huge breast told him she could teach him something to do with his little man besides let piss out of it, if he had a coin or two. Jack looked uncomfortably away, his face hot.
The girl cawed laughter. 'Oooooo, this pretty young man's SHY! Come over here, pretty! Come - '
'Get out, slut, or you'll finish the day in the under-kitchens.'
It was the Captain. He had come out of the tent with another man. This second fellow was old and fat, but he shared one characteristic with Farren - he looked like a real soldier rather than one from Gilbert and Sullivan. He was trying to fasten the front of his uniform over his bulging gut while holding a curly, French horn-like instrument at the same time.
The girl with the dirty baby scurried away with never another look at Jack. The Captain took the fat man's horn so he could finish buttoning, and passed another word with him. The fat man nodded, finished with his shirt, took his horn back, and then strode off, blowing it. It was not like the sound Jack had heard on his first flip into the Territories; that had been many horns, and their sound had been somehow showy: the sound of heralds. This was like a factory whistle, announcing work to be done.
The Captain returned to Jack.
'Come with me,' he said.
'Where?'