Rogue (28 page)

Still, he was dead, and with the doors unlocked, I was terrified at the prospect of what we might find inside.

Whoever he was, he must not have been down long, for when we passed the fountain and headed for the door to the outside, we caught up with Dragus and the slaves who were running for the portico.

"Jataka was the traitor!" Dragus shouted at Wazak. "He tried to kill me but slipped and fell. I have the keys."

Dragus saw me in the pack, and our eyes met. I had no difficulty imagining why Jataka had slipped, and just exactly what he had slipped on. It would make a great story, if either of us ever lived long enough to tell it.

"Good," said Wazak. "Open the passage."

Dragus continued on to one of the pillars which supported the domed roof of the patio and pulled out the keys. Inserting one of them into the intricate carving, he turned it. A large section of the pillar then detached itself from the whole, revealing a hollow interior with a spiral stair leading downward.

"Arrgghh!" Trag shouted, tearing at his hair in frustration. "After all these years of being locked up in here, do you mean to tell me that we could have gotten out that way?"

"Yes," Dragus said with a grin. "Ironic, isn't it?"

Trag appeared to be speechless for once, and Tychar appeared at my side, slipping his arm around my waist and pulling me into his embrace. He didn't say a word, but kissed me fiercely. Just knowing he was still alive was enough for me.

"I'm glad to see you, too," I whispered. "When I saw that guard, I thought you were all dead."

"But we are not," he said. "Stay close."

"This passageway has always been a closely guarded secret," Wazak said, "but Jataka knew of it. We may meet opposition at the exit."

I was hoping that the rebels had counted on Jataka being in control of the keys, though it seemed rather stupid of them to underestimate Dragus that way. I'd have sent more than one man, myself, though if Jataka hadn't fallen, things might have turned out differently.

It made me wish I hadn't told Dragus to clean it up, because all that semen in the corridor would have brought down an entire squadron. As it was, he must have missed a spot.

Wazak sent Hartak back with the keys to lock the main doors to The Shrine. It wasn't much, he said, but it might slow down anyone else who might have been following us. Then he chose four of the guards to send down the stair first.

"Hey, Wazak?" I asked tentatively as I peered into the dark stair. "Where does that stairway come out?"

"Below here on the portico."

"Well, can you see it from here? Like if you lean out over the wall or something? You know, to see who might be down there waiting for us?"

"The wall is very high," he replied.

"Yeah, I know, but we do have a bunch of acrobats with us," I reminded him. "They could probably climb up there to take a look."

"And we could then spray any of the rebels standing down below with a wide stun beam." Wazak rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Yes, that would be helpful."

"Hear that, Nindala?" I said eagerly. "See if you guys can climb that wall."

The Edraitians had all been running and were undoubtedly as tired as the rest of us, but they were still quite nimble, and several of them formed a pyramid with Racknay and two of his brothers joining in to form the base. Even so, they still weren't high enough to top the wall.

"Hey, Sladnil!" Trag shouted. "Why don't you take your sticky fingers and climb up those guys and take a look." In an aside to me, he added, "So, these are the blue redheads you were telling us about, huh?"

"Yeah," I replied. "Pretty cool, aren't they?"

"Well, maybe," he said, not sounding terribly enthused. "If you like blue."

"You don't like blue?"

"Not particularly."

I thought this was a rather odd prejudice for him to have, but then I remembered the crack he'd made about Tychar's blue eyes and wondered if that had anything to do with it.

Sladnil was climbing up the pyramid of blue-skinned acrobats, who were getting completely weirded out whenever his fingers sucked onto one of them. He slowed down when he got to Nindala, seeming to savor her "essence" just a bit before moving on.

"He'll come all over himself if he keeps that up,"

Tychar muttered. "Stop that, Sladnil!" he called out to him.

"Oh, all right!" Sladnil said, his voice even more shrill than usual. "But if I am to die anyway..."

"You won't die," Tychar called back. "You're too ugly to die! Heaven wouldn't let you in, and hell would probably spit you back out!"

"Known each other for a long time, have you?" I commented as I watched Sladnil reach the top of the wall. Crawling on his hands and knees, he crept toward the outer edge.

"Too long," Tychar said. "He's the strangest one of the bunch—but also one of Scalia's favorites."

I wasn't quite sure how to tell them. "Urn, you guys, about Scalia. I think, that is, I'm pretty sure she's..." I stopped there, hating to say it aloud again. In the heat of the moment, I'd spat it out at Nindala—and in front of the children, too—so I don't know why I was finding it so difficult to tell her slaves, but for some reason, I did.

"Dead?" Tychar gasped. "So that's what's going on here? Someone else has taken the throne?"

Nodding, I went on, "It was Dobraton, and she doesn't like offworlders one little bit!"

"In deep shit, aren't we?" said Trag.

"You bet," I agreed. "Along with any of the royal family and anyone else loyal to them."

I could see the slaves were having trouble grasp-ing this. I wondered if they realized that Scalia's death would probably set them free—most slaves would see the death of their master as a blessing, but this was an unusual situation, one which could just as easily result in their own deaths, in addition to hers.

Of course, Dobraton wasn't the only thing we had to fear, and I abandoned that line of thought as another problem occurred to me. "Hey, we shouldn't be standing around here watching," I exclaimed suddenly. "You guys need clothes! You won't last long naked outside the palace, especially if we're heading across the desert to the mountains! Get a sheet and make a poncho out of it, at least. Bring one for me while you're at it—and some pillowcases, too. Wish I could have gone back to my quarters," I grumbled. "I hate being unprepared."

Tychar came back with some sheets and asked, "What's a poncho?"

"I'll show you," I said. "Got a knife, Dragus?"

The one he handed me looked like something out of a museum with a curved blade and an ornately carved handle. It was sharp as a razor, too, and I cut a slit in the middle of the sheet and slipped it over Tychar's head.

Then I knelt and ripped a strip of fabric from the bottom.

"Here, tie this around your waist," I told him. Ripping open a pillowcase, I made a headdress out of it, tying another strip of cloth around his head to hold it in place.

"Wow!" I said softly, looking up at him. "It's freakin'

Lawrence of Arabia! With darker skin, you'd look like a real Arabian sheik."

"It would be better if we looked like Darconians,"

Tychar pointed out. "Even dressed in this manner, we still look like offworlders."

"Well, unless you want to go skin what's-his-name over there," I said, "this is the best we can do in a pinch.

At least the sun won't burn you to a crisp." I ripped up some more sheets and donned my own desert attire while Trag made his own.

"I see them!" Sladnil reported from his perch on the wall. "There are six of them down there."

"Here!" Wazak called out, tossing him a pistol.

"Shoot them."

Catching the pistol effortlessly with his sticky fingers, Sladnil hissed incredulously,
"All
of them?"

"It is set for a wide stun beam," Wazak said dryly.

"You will not miss."

"There may be more that he can't see," Dragus muttered. "It's a wonder they haven't heard us up here and taken cover."

"They will not have the chance," said Wazak, and then sent the four guards down the stairwell with orders to unlock the door at the bottom and come out firing on his signal. He gave them time to descend, and then called up to Sladnil. "Have you got a clear shot?"

"Yes," Sladnil called back.

Wazak muttered something into his comlink and then waved at Sladnil. "Fire!"

I heard the pulse pistol fire, and Sladnil let out a squeal. For a second I thought he'd been shot, but it was a shout of triumph.

"He's really enjoying that, isn't he?" Tychar muttered, shaking his head. "Strange fellow..."

"The way is clear," Wazak said, motioning us on down the passage. The children went first, followed by me with Trag ahead and Tychar behind. Inside, the air was stuffy and stale, and I wondered how long it had been since anyone had been through there. Given the political climate, I wouldn't have been surprised if it hadn't been checked out fairly recently, but it felt more like we were descending into an Egyptian tomb that had been sealed for eons rather than a secret passage to the outside.

And suddenly, we
were
outside. It felt strange enough for me to be leaving the palace, though I'd only been in residence for a couple of months, but the slaves must have been feeling very peculiar, indeed. So near the source of the oasis, I could feel the moisture in the cooler air as my flowing garment was caught by the wind.

Looking about, I felt a frisson of fear pass through me as I caught sight of a number of shadowy shapes in the distance. At first I thought they might be the vanguard of some alien army, but then I realized that they were only the fruit trees, growing in neat ranks on the fertile plain surrounding the oasis.

The tigers were like two ghosts walking beside me in their light-colored robes, while the blue-skinned Edraitians seemed to almost disappear into the shadows. I ought to have been relieved that we had escaped the palace, but it was still likely that the desert would consume us in the end.

I couldn't understand why there hadn't been more in the way of survival gear in our escape route—something to carry water in at the very least. Wazak had said we would get water at The Shrine, but if we had, I'd missed it in all the excitement.

The Darconians searched the fallen rebels, collecting their weapons and passing them on to those of us who weren't armed. Surprisingly, the first rifles Wazak gave out were to the two Zetithians. He must have trusted them more than the Edraitians, but they had been slaves to his queen, and it seemed to be a rather strange and ironic turn of events. After ensuring that the older children were armed, Wazak then checked the settings on a pulse pistol, after which, he handed it to me.

"That is set to kill," he said evenly. "Do not hesitate to use it should the need arise."

I took the pistol without protest, though Dobraton's men were the least of my worries at that point, since dying of thirst seemed far more likely. "Wazak?" I began in a hoarse whisper. "What about water?"

"There are secrets to this palace that many do not know," he said. "Follow me."

I had no idea what he meant by that—and neither did anyone else—but we followed him anyway. What we would have done without him I couldn't begin to guess, and if Dobraton had had any sense at all, she'd have killed him even before she shot Scalia.

It was still hard to believe what I'd seen. In the events which followed, I hadn't had much time to think about it, but the horror of watching someone be killed was now creeping into me like a chill, and I shuddered in spite of the heat. Then something took my hand, startling me to the point that I nearly screamed.

Looking down I saw two shining eyes blinking up at me. It was Uragus. "Kyra," he whispered. "I would like a hug."

Gathering him up in my arms, I gave him a squeeze.

"Are you scared?"

"Yes," he replied.

"Me, too," I said.

Then he asked the most surprising question. "Was it because of me?"

"What do you mean?"

"Was my mother killed because I played the piano?"

"Oh, no, sweetheart!" I said, giving him another hug.

"Your playing was marvelous! Dobraton had other reasons for doing what she did. What you did had absolutely nothing to do with it!"

But even while I was saying it, I knew it wasn't true—at least, not completely. Attitudes toward males on Darconia could be just as prejudiced as they were against offworlders in some respects, and he was not only male, but he'd been playing music written by a human, on an instrument which had been manufactured on Earth, and had been taught to play it by a Terran—and did it remarkably well, which was possibly the greatest offense of all. Perhaps it was symbolic that Dobraton had chosen that particular moment to assassinate his mother.

"Is she going to kill us, too?" he asked.

"I don't think so," I replied. "Wazak is a good leader.

He'll keep us safe."

To my surprise, Wazak heard that. "I did not protect his mother," he said bluntly. "I have failed in my duty to her."

"I wouldn't exactly call that failing, because there was no defense against what Dobraton did," I said briskly, "but if you're looking for redemption, Wazak, now's the time to do something about it! You just keep the rest of us alive, and I think even Scalia would forgive you."

Zealon spoke up just then, but if I'd have expected tears from her, I would have been disappointed. With barely contained anger, she said, "Yes, I forgive you, Wazak, but I will not forgive Dobraton. She will pay for this."

Racknay was close by as well, and if looks could have killed, Dobraton would already be dead.

"I'm so sorry for your loss, Zealon, Racknay," I began. "I know—"

"We have no time for sorrow," Zealon said, cutting off my expression of sympathy. With a defiant lift of her chin, she added: "And Darconians do not cry."

Wazak didn't comment, but led us on through the portico a litde way before stopping at a perfectly blank place in the wall. Taking a small key from his breastplate, he inserted it into yet another lock which would have seemed invisible if we hadn't watched him do it. A moment later, a heavy section of stone swung out from the wall.