by Timothy Zahn
“I know, I know,” Eanjer said, looking even more pained. “I just didn’t think anything could happen this quickly, that’s all.”
“I guess it did,” Dozer said heavily. “So now what?”
“You heard Chewie and Rachele,” Lando said. “We get him out.”
“How?” Dozer retorted.
“Somehow,” Lando said with strained patience, his mind scrambling for a plan. “Winter, are there any other weapons caches lying around town we could raid?”
“There are two that I know of,” Winter said. “But anything small enough to be smuggled in through the gates wouldn’t be nearly powerful enough to get through the mansion’s doors, walls, or windows.”
“Not to mention all the security men,” Dozer pointed out.
“The umbrella shield will have to be shut down for the grand fireworks display later,” Rachele pointed out. “Maybe we could get something big enough to breach the wall from up here.”
“We can’t wait that long,” Lando said. “I don’t know how much patience Qazadi has, but I doubt it’s going to last more than an hour or so.”
Eanjer cleared his throat. “I have an idea,” he said hesitantly. “Winter, how accurately did you duplicate the other cryodex?”
“Completely,” Winter said.
“I mean, really accurately?”
“What part of completely don’t you get?” Lando growled.
“No, no, I understand,” Eanjer said. “I was just thinking … if we let Qazadi see the cryodex, and if he’s seen Aziel’s enough times up close …” He paused, looking around expectantly.
Rachele got it first. “He’ll think it’s Aziel’s,” she said. “And that Aziel … no. Would he?”
“What, think Aziel’s behind Lando’s bid to get the blackmail files?” Winter asked. “Sure, why not?”
“She’s right,” Tavia agreed. “If he suspects Villachor of possible treason, why not Aziel?”
“Playing the corners against each other,” Lando agreed. Eanjer might be on to something here. “So if we can convince Qazadi that Aziel is a traitor …”
“He won’t just let Han go,” Tavia said slowly. “But he’ll definitely figure he’s worth more alive than dead.”
“Especially if he thinks Han can fill in the details of Aziel’s plan,” Rachele added. “It should at least buy us some time.”
Chewbacca rumbled a warning.
“Good point,” Lando agreed grimly. “It only works until Aziel shows up at Marblewood with the real cryodex.”
“Which means we have to get to Aziel—right now—and steal the real one,” Rachele said.
“What about the guards and the window alarms?” Dozer objected.
“We’ll just have to take the risk,” Rachele said. “If Villachor sees the two cryodexes together, Han is dead. Tavia, do you think Bink can pull it off?”
“I don’t know,” Tavia said, her face screwed up in thought. “This fast, and before full dark … I don’t think so. But if it’s the only way, I know she’ll be game to try.”
“If we pull her out now, we may lose our chance at Villachor’s vault,” Winter warned, picking up the electrobinoculars and going back to the window.
“Han’s worth more than all the files in the galaxy,” Rachele called after her. She sent a quick glare at Eanjer. “And all the credits, too.”
“Let’s not make it an either-or just yet,” Lando said. “Winter? Can you see her?”
“Yes,” Winter said, shaking her head. “Sorry—she’s already hooked up with Sheqoa. If we pull her out now, especially with him probably already suspicious, it’s over.”
“Unless we can get her back in time,” Dozer said.
“Not a chance,” Tavia said.
“Which leaves only one other shot,” Winter continued calmly. “Dozer and I don’t have anything else to do right now. We’ll go to the Lulina Crown and keep Aziel there.”
“Whoa,” Dozer said, his eyes going wide. “Us against—? No. Not a chance.”
“Relax,” Winter said. “I’m not suggesting we hammer him and his collection of bodyguards. We just have to keep him locked down in his suite at the hotel.”
“Oh, yeah, that’ll work,” Dozer said sarcastically. “He wouldn’t have a comlink or anything he could call Qazadi with. Not a chance.”
“Hang on,” Lando said, the first bit of hope stirring inside him. “Winter’s right. Calling Qazadi doesn’t do Aziel any good. Of course he’ll say he still has the cryodex. But he’d say that whether he did or didn’t.”
“So how do you pin someone in his room?” Rachele asked.
“I don’t know yet,” Lando said. “Let’s run a quick inventory of what we’ve got on hand and see if we can come up with a plan.”
“Unless you’re still too afraid of the Falleen to do this,” Rachele added to Dozer, an edge of challenge in her voice.
Dozer flashed a glance at Winter’s back and squared his shoulders. “Let’s find a workable plan first,” he said. “As far as gear goes, I’ve got some vehicle remotes, some universal door decrypt openers—”
“Excuse me,” Winter said, still standing at the window. “Any of you know if Han smokes?”
“Not that I know of,” Lando said, frowning. “Chewie?”
Chewbacca rumbled a negative.
“Maybe a long time ago, but not lately,” Lando said. “Why?”
“Because I think,” Winter said thoughtfully, “he may just have sent us a message.”
Han keyed off the comlink. As he started to put it away, one of the guards plucked it out of his hand.
“Okay, I sent the message,” Han said to Qazadi. “I guess we wait.”
“Yes,” Qazadi said. “We shall hope your superior considers you more valuable than his cryodex.” He smiled thinly. “Especially since underlings are so much more easily replaced than rare artifacts.”
“Not the good ones,” Han countered, looking back at Villachor. The man was about two paces away. It should work. “I suppose I’m going to be your guest for a while?”
“A short while only,” Qazadi said. His eyes flicked to Villachor’s bodyguards. “You two, escort him to the guards’ quarters across from my suite. The closet there is lockable. Put him inside.”
“Manning can take him,” Villachor said firmly. “Tawb will stay with me.”
“They’ll both take him,” Qazadi said.
For a second he and Villachor locked eyes.
And in that second, Han made his move.
The bodyguards were still gripping his upper arms, but both forearms were free. Giving his left shoulder a little hunch as a distraction, Han dipped his right hand into his side pocket and got a grip on the data card there. In a single smooth motion, he drew it out and flipped it toward Villachor.
He had just enough time to see Villachor reflexively reach up and catch it before the two bodyguards yanked him backward and slammed him down onto the floor.
“Take it easy,” Han said hastily, wincing with the sudden pain in his shoulders as the whole room seemed to sprout blasters. “It’s just a delivery from my boss. I was ordered to give the card to Master Villachor.”
For a long moment no one moved. Out of the corner of his eye, Han could see Villachor turning the data card over in his hands.
“What is it?” Qazadi asked.
“The details of his offer,” Han said. “Not that it matters now, I suppose.”
“I never said I was going to join you,” Villachor insisted, tossing the card back at Han as if he were getting rid of a baby gundark.
Han gave a little shrug. “Like I said, I was ordered to deliver it.”
For a few more heartbeats no one moved or spoke. Han held his breath …
And then Qazadi stirred and gave Han a small smile. “I admire a man who spends his last breath carrying out his orders,” he said. “Let him up.”
The hands pinning Han’s arms to the floor reversed direction, pulling him upright again.
“And I’ll take that data card,” the Falleen added, almost as if it was an afterthought. “Dygrig?”
One of Qazadi’s guards retrieved the data card and handed it to his boss.
“You have your orders,” Qazadi continued, eyeing the card thoughtfully.
“Sir?” one of Villachor’s bodyguards asked.
“Yes, go ahead, Manning,” Villachor said with a hint of a sigh. “Tawb, go with him.”
“Move,” Manning growled in Han’s ear as the hands tightened around his arms again. His breath carried a hint of tabac; apparently the man was a cigarra smoker.
They led him down a long hallway and up three flights of steps to the fourth floor. Along the way, Han noted with some interest, they passed exactly one other person, an older man in a chef’s outfit hurrying toward the kitchen area. Apparently all of Villachor’s people were either outside or on duty in the mansion’s various working areas.
“Where are we going?” Han asked, glancing up at the skylights above him as they headed down the corridor into the northeast wing.
“You heard His Excellency,” Tawb growled.
“Yeah—a closet in his guards’ room.” Han looked sideways at Manning. “I don’t suppose you could give me a cigarra to help pass the time.”
Manning snorted. “Yeah. Sure.”
“No, really,” Han pressed. “I really need one, and I know you smoke—I can smell it on you. Come on, give me a break. I really need it.”
“You really need a smoke?” Letting go of Han’s arm, Manning took a long step forward and fell into step beside him, pulling a long, thin cigarra from his pocket. “Like this one?”
“Watch it,” Tawb warned. “Qazadi’s not going to like it if you get smoke in his rooms.”
“I won’t,” Manning assured him. He lit the cigarra and puffed out some smoke. “Smoke like this?” he asked Han, puffing out another cloud.
“Yeah, like that,” Han said, straining against Tawb’s grip as he tried to get closer to the twisting tendrils of smoke, hoping he could mask his actual disgust for the stuff. “Come on, let me at least smell it.”
“Because I’d be in real trouble if I gave you anything,” Manning continued, walking backward as he inhaled more smoke and puffed it back at Han, always keeping just far enough away that Han could only get a whiff from the edge of each cloud before it drifted up to the ceiling. “Especially a cigarra. Especially in Qazadi’s suite.”
“Come on,” Han pleaded. He could practically feel his nose hairs curling as he inhaled the smoke, and his lungs were hovering on the edge of a violent coughing fit. But he had to make this look real if he wanted Manning to keep up the game.
“Enough,” Tawb snapped. “Come on—we’re too close as it is.”
“Relax,” Manning soothed. He gave one final puff and then slipped a cap on the cigarra to extinguish it. “I’ll save the rest for later,” he said, dropping it back into his pocket. “Enjoy the memories.” He stopped at an open door and gestured inside. “In here.”
“Sure,” Han said. Winter and Rachele would be up in their suite right now, keeping a close eye on the mansion and grounds, and an odd pattern of smoke puffs in one of the skylights should be just the sort of thing one of them might notice.
Or they might miss it completely. But if they did spot it, they might figure out that Han was pointing them to the part of the mansion where he was being taken.
It was a long shot. But sometimes long shots paid off.
The room they ushered him into was surprisingly large, equipped with a small table and four chairs, a couple of floor lights, and six beds spaced around the living area. Guards’ quarters, all right, furnished for men or Falleen who would use the room for little except sleeping. Manning led the way across to a wide door on the side wall that had an oversized keypad beside it. He punched in a simple code—one, two, three—and the door slid open to reveal a large walk-in closet. Tawb walked Han over to it and gave him a shove inside.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” Han protested as he regained his balance and looked around. No clothing, no storage boxes—the closet was completely bare except for a couple of long hanging rods along the side walls, some moveable shelves, and about a dozen hangers. “How about you at least give me one of those chairs?”
“How about we don’t,” Tawb said, giving the closet a quick once-over of his own and then backing out. “Enjoy your stay. We’ll be back when Master Villachor calls for you.”
“More likely when Master Qazadi calls,” Han called as the door slid shut. “He seems to be the one running things now.”
There was no comment from either of them. Han hadn’t really expected one.
The closet was pitch-dark, but Han had spotted a switch by the door on his way in. He tapped it, and a set of soft lights went on along the closet’s upper edges.
He spent the next couple of minutes looking around the room, hoping there might be something useful that he’d missed on his first sweep. But there was still nothing. The hangers were high-class types, polished hardwood with chrome hooks—marginally useful as clubs, but nothing that would do any good against a heavy wooden door. The shelves and clothing rods were the same polished hardwood, again not offering much in the way of escape material. The walls and floor were also hardwood, a different kind from that of the shelving but just as solid. The ceiling—
The ceiling.
Han looked up. The ceiling looked to be made of some kind of ceramic. But back when Rachele had been talking about the vault, she’d mentioned a gap between the ceiling and the floor above it. If the same design was in play up here, that ceiling shouldn’t be supporting any weight, and might not be all that thick.
And if the between-floors gap was big enough for him to fit into …
It took a couple of minutes to take down the shelves and set them up against the side walls, angled from floor to ceiling in opposite directions to create a sort of makeshift scaffold. Picking the sturdiest-looking of the wooden hangers, he climbed up onto the shelves and gave the ceiling an experimental tap.
Nothing happened. He tapped a little harder, then a little harder, wondering if the noise was going to draw unwelcome attention. But no one rushed in. He kept at it until finally, with a medium-hard tap, the hanger broke through the ceramic.
He’d been right—the material wasn’t very thick. Working along the spiderweb of cracks radiating outward from the impact point, he broke off enough to make a twenty-centimeter opening. He climbed the rest of the way up his scaffolding and eased his head through.
There was a between-floors gap, all right. Unfortunately, it was no more than twenty or thirty centimeters deep, with a narrower framing above the closet door. Bink might have been able to get through, especially with proper climbing gear, but there was no way Han was going to.
But if he could tear away enough of the ceiling outside the closet, he might be able to use one of the clothing poles to work the keypad and open the door. The one-two-three code Manning had punched in was probably a default setting and would be easy enough to duplicate.
Climbing back down, he moved his scaffolding to a spot right in front of the door and got to work.
From everything Dayja had read in the visitor brochures, the Honoring of Moving Fire was the climax of the Festival, the day when the various venues around the planet worked the hardest to outdo each other. Someday, Dayja decided, he would have to take the time to come here and actually watch it.
But today wasn’t that day. Today he had eyes only for the crowd wandering the Marblewood grounds.
There were eleven people on Eanjer’s team, he knew. Peeking in from their balcony nine days earlier, he’d seen them all in their suite’s conversation room. And though he’d seen one of the women only from behind, he’d had clear views of all the others’ faces. Today, right now, was their last and best chance to breach Villachor’s mansion and get into his vault. They should be here, ready to play their parts in whatever scheme Eanjer had come up with.
>
He’d already spotted three of them. Two of them, the team’s youngest human male and the shifty-eyed Balosar, seemed to have the same job: to stroll around and surreptitiously attach something beneath the flame-patterned gowns of the various serving and maintenance droids. Restraining bolts, Dayja guessed, or possibly small detonite charges. The third team member, a black-haired young woman dressed in a long and vibrant red gown, had attached herself to Sheqoa, the Marblewood security chief. She, obviously, was setting up to be the diversion.
So where in blazes were the other eight?
Off to his left, a sudden geyser of blue-yellow flame burst up toward the sky, sending a wave of warmth across the assembled crowd. Dayja gave the fountain an absent-minded look, then changed direction and headed toward the drink pavilions. The sun was just about down, with full darkness and the climactic fireworks display maybe an hour and a half away. He would give Eanjer that first hour to make his move, he decided. After that, if there was still nothing happening, he would go find Villachor and try to pick up the threads of his original penetration plan.
In the meantime, the Marblewood food and drink pavilions were still impressively stocked. He might as well take advantage of that.
The room ceiling just outside the door was as easy to break through as the closet ceiling had been, though Han winced at each snap and crack that the ceramic made as the pieces came loose. He could see that the room door was partially open, and he was mildly surprised that no one out there had noticed the noise he was making.
Still, as he’d already noted, most of Villachor’s people were busy elsewhere. That, plus the noise of the crowd and the show outside, was apparently enough to cover his activities.
The first snag came when he realized that the clothing poles were too long to maneuver through the holes, into the between-floors gap, and down through the hole outside the door. They also stubbornly refused to break, even when he angled one of them against the wall and jumped on it.
