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him the brush and soap. Wili stripped, waded into the chill water, and
scrubbed.
    "Dress in these," she said after he was out and had dried himself. The new clothes were
soft and clean, a minor piece of loot all by themselves. Irma was almost her old self as
they walked back to the mansion, and Wili felt safe in asking the question that had been
on his mind all that morning: "My Lady, I notice we are all alone here, the four of us — or
at least so it appears. When will the protection of the manor lord be returned to us?"
    Irma stopped and after a second, laughed. "What manor lord? Your Spanish is so
strange. You seem to think this is a castle that should have serfs and troops all round."
She continued, almost to herself, "Though perhaps that is your reality. I have never lived
in the South.
    "You have already met the lord of the manor, Wili." She saw his uncomprehending
stare. "It's Paul Naismith, the man who brought you here from Santa Ynez."
    "And... " Wili could scarcely trust himself to ask the question,"... you all, the three of
you, are alone here?"
    "certainly. But don't worry. You are much safer here than you ever were in the South, I
am sure."
    I am sure, too, My Lady. Safe as a coyote among chickens.
If ever he'd made a right
decision, it had been his escape to Middle California. To think that Paul Naismith and the
others had the manor to themselves — it was a wonder the Jonques had not overrun this
land long ago. The thought almost kindled his suspicions. But then the prospect of what
he could do here overwhelmed all. There was no reason he should have to leave with his
loot. Wili Wachendon, weak as he was, could probably be ruler here — if he was clever
enough during the next few weeks. At the very least he would be rich forever. If
Naismith were the
jefe,
and if Wili were to be his apprentice, then in essence he was
being adopted by the manor lord. That happened occasionally in Los Angeles. Even the
richest families were cursed with sterility. Such families often sought an appropriate heir.
The adopted one was usually high-born, an orphan of another family, perhaps the
survivor of a vendetta. But there were not many children to go around, especially in the
old days. Wili knew of at least one case where the oldsters adopted from the Basin — not a
black child, of course, but still a boy from a peasant family. Such was the stuff of
dreams; Wili could scarcely believe that it was being offered to him. If he played his
cards right, he would eventually own all of this-and without having to steal a single thing,
or risk torture and execution! It was... unnatural. But if these people were crazy, he would
certainly do what he could to profit by it.
    Wili hurried after Irma as she returned to the house.
    A week passed, then two. Naismith was nowhere to be seen, and Bill and Irma Morales
would only say that he was traveling on "business." Wili began to wonder if
"apprenticeship" really meant what he had thought. He was treated well, but not with the
fawning courtesy that should be shown the heir-apparent of a manor. Perhaps he was on
some sort of probation: Irma woke him at dawn, and after breakfast he spent most of the
day — assuming it wasn't raining — in the manor's small fields, weeding, planting, hoeing.
It wasn't hard work — in fact, it reminded him of what Larry Faulk's labor company did —
but it was deadly boring.
    On rainy days, when the weather around Vandenberg blew inland, he stayed indoors
and helped Irma with cleaning. He had scarcely more enthusiasm for this, but it did give
him a chance to snoop: The mansion had no interior court, but in some ways it was more
elaborate than he had first imagined. He and Irma cleaned some large rooms hidden
below ground level. Irma would say nothing about them, though they appeared to be for
meetings or banquets. The building's floor space, if not the available food supply, implied
a large household. Perhaps that was how these innocents protected themselves: