Though shadows were scarce along the busy streets, he modified his gait and had no problem remaining invisible. Gone was the fast, ground-eating scuttle. In its place a dirty, scrawny one-legged beggar eased his way timidly between and around knots of creatures of all kinds. No one paid attention to a one-legged beggar so long as that beggar didn’t intrude on their lives.
Val stopped suddenly. A group of six creatures in immaculate uniforms, clearly from a visiting Empire military ship, jostled their way through the throngs in his direction and he caught his breath. He moved out of their way, staring at them in awe as they went by. Dignified, maybe even a little haughty, their camaraderie called to him, and he felt himself standing tall and straight as they passed by.
Chapter Thirty-seven: Death of a Great One
He approached the meeting location carefully, his eyes searching the crowds for anything out of the ordinary. He didn’t trust Bodan, and any sense he could garner of Bodan’s mood and motives might be to his advantage. Nothing unusual stood out, so he entered the restaurant, weaseling his way between tables to an office in the rear. He was known here, and no one tried to shoo this particular beggar away.
Bodan waited behind his desk. Grossly fat, the remains of his last meal spotted the tent-like shirt he wore. Though humanoid, Bodan’s eyes reminded Val of a snake, including the vertical slits for pupils. His mouth was a thin, hard line like the mouth of a frog, and his nostrils were just slits above his lips. An unpleasant odor permeated the office, but Val had never determined if it came from Bodan or from the office itself.
“About time,” Bodan wheezed.
“Hello, yourself,” Val answered. “What do you have for me?”
“A delivery,” Bodan said, pointing to a fabric tool bag on the desk. “It needs to be there in thirty minutes. Here’s the address and the instructions.” He handed Val a scrap of paper. “Do you know the place?”
Val read the address. It was in a run-down section of warehouses and offices adjacent to the space port and not too far from here. “I know it,” he said, then waited. Bodan reached into his desk and withdrew the customary package. Val tore it open and counted the money, then looked across the desk at Bodan. “It’s not enough for that part of town, and you know it.”
Bodan’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t fool with me, boy. I can always get someone else.”
“Not quickly, and not with my dependability you can’t.” Val studied Bodan, and to his surprise he saw the eyes shift momentarily. Bodan’s nostrils pinched together a few times, but he reached back into his desk and came up with a fistful of money. “How much?”
“Another ten,” Val demanded, pressing his luck.
Bodan didn’t even argue. He counted out the ten and passed it across the desk. “You keep bargaining like that, you won’t get any more business from me,” he hissed.
Val grabbed the bag and turned. “I’m worth it. You called because I’m the best runner you know. I’m off.”
“Use the back door,” Bodan demanded. “And this meeting never happened.”
Val turned to the back door, his thoughts calculating. An extra ten credits, and Bodan, someone who always argued over every tenth of a credit, hadn’t even tried to deal. Something was clearly out of the ordinary. What was in the bag that was so all-fired important? His senses tingled, warning him to stay focused. There could be trouble with this delivery.
Val had a policy: he never, ever inquired about the contents of the packages he delivered. This one had some weight to it, but it didn’t feel like money. He sniffed the bag as he scuttled through the refuse behind the buildings, but there was no smell of drugs either. His mind considered options as he moved, always seeking shadows. Should he open the bag? No, there would be markers on the fastener, and he had his principles: he was a runner, and he did not judge. But, too, he was curious. He might just wait around to see who picked up the bag.
He made his way to the building, a decrepit complex of abandoned offices, with fifteen minutes to spare. Wondering if he was being watched, he went directly to the second floor and placed the bag in the janitor’s closet at the end of the short corridor per instructions.
His job done, he was now on his own, but he wasn’t done. He wanted to see who would come for the bag. He scouted the building briefly, unlocked the back door, then left the building by the front door. In case he was under observation, he crossed the street in plain view, then circled around several blocks before approaching the building again from the rear. He studied it for a time, detected no one, and entered, climbing back to the second floor. He opened the door to the janitor’s closet fully and left it open, then worked his way to the back of the closet behind containers of supplies and tools where he settled down to wait. He had a clear view of the corridor and the bag, but he would be invisible among the shadows deep within the closet.
He waited a full hour before three individuals, all Corvolds, leathery-skinned lizards, arrived one at a time. The first Corvold remained outside an office on the right side of the corridor as a guard. The other two entered the office where they remained silent. A short time later a rough looking, deeply tanned man with thinning hair and a patch over his right eye climbed the stairs and nodded to the Corvold guard as he entered the office.
Mr. Wyzcha! Val shied back against the rear wall of the closet. What was Mr. Wyzcha doing here?
No one had yet come for the bag.
Voices from the office sounded clearly as the two Corvolds greeted the new visitor.
“Thank you for coming, Sire,” Val heard from one of the Corvolds.
Val started at the word “Sire.” To the best of his understanding, such titles were reserved for royalty and their Knights. What was going on here?
“Choose your words carefully,” Mr. Wyzcha spoke harshly to the Corvold. “I am known as Mr. Wyzcha.”
“We choose them precisely, Sir Jarl.”
“That name means nothing here.”
“It does to us. You are our only hope. We cannot gain an audience on our own.”
“An audience with whom?”
“You know, Sire. The news services speak of nothing other than her visit.”
“You spoke of danger,” the man replied.
“Her visit must be cancelled,” a Corvold demanded.
“For what reason?”
“We need more time.”
“Time for what?”
“Time to sway minds, Sire. Our very presence here brands us traitors to our own people, but it’s a risk we’re willing to take. The meeting must not take place. If it does, she will die.”
“No one would be so foolish,” Val heard.
“It’s a whole new market, Sir Jarl. You know that. The crystals are malleable and under the right hands can be formed into almost anything. The moon where they were discovered is worth a fortune to whoever owns it. I’m sorry to say that some of our leaders have chosen to risk all. They are not representative of all Corvolds, and I hesitate to even call them my own people, but they are in charge at the moment. The decision has been made to proceed with their plan.”
“Daughter is second only to the Queen. The whole Empire will come looking for whoever attempts such a thing. There’s no possibility of success,” Mr. Wyzcha replied.
At mention of the title “Daughter,” Val froze. The level of intrigue suddenly skyrocketed. His thoughts went immediately to the fabric tool bag four feet in front of him. No one had come for the bag yet. Did these people even know it was here? What had he brought to this place? His mind raced, considering possibilities.
“That’s why we’re here, Sire. Their plan is perfect, but the truth always comes out in the end. We don’t want that for our people. We’d be cut-off from the rest of Empire forever.”
“Maybe she’ll find in your favor.”
“Not if it comes to a Testing, and it probably will. She’ll know we were second to the Horlig. We know it, and no one can hide the truth from her. No one ever has.”
“Maybe sh
e’ll find for both of you, let you share the wealth.”
“Not now. I actually think there was a good chance for us before this plan came about. She has a history of fairness, and we weren’t all that far behind the Horlig in the discovery. We both filed claims at the same time, so we have a legitimate legal claim to the moon, but the powers that be are not willing to share. They want all of it.”
“How stupid. What’s their plan?”
“Each ambassador will present a gift to Daughter, a gift of one of the crystals crafted by an expert. I’ve seen them, and they’re exquisite. But our guys made a second gift, an exact copy of the Horlig’s crystal. Because the crystals are malleable, they were able to form minute passages within and fill it with a deadly poison. The poison leaches to the surface at a predictable rate. The crystals have already been examined by Daughter’s people, and the poison is just now reaching the surface. The copy presented by the Horlig ambassador will, by the time she accepts it, be coated with poison. The poison acts slowly, but it is fatal. Daughter, the Horlig ambassador, and anyone else who touches the crystal will die within days. When the crystal is examined, all blame will fall on the Horlig, and my people will be granted ownership of the moon.”
Val sorted through what he’d heard and sucked in his breath. He suddenly knew what was in the bag, knew without any doubt. It was a bomb. No wonder Bodan had been so anxious to rid himself of the package. This meeting was not as clandestine as the attendees had hoped. Someone else knew about it, and whomever it was had no intention of letting these people leave this building alive to warn Daughter.
He shuddered, then did the only thing he could do. He rose from hiding, forced his way past the cleaning supplies, and raced from the closet yelling, “Bomb! There’s a bomb in the building!” He scuttled past the stunned Corvold guard. “Get out!” he yelled as he went by.
Pandemonium broke loose. Everyone headed for the stairs. Val was pushed by someone and fell hard, tumbling to the bottom of the stairs where he lie stunned. He heard a popping sound, but not an explosion. Instead, an incendiary device blossomed into a fireball that spread instantly within the old building.
Val came to his senses, discovered the building on fire above him, and looked frantically for his crutch. He discovered it lying on the stairway halfway up to the landing on the second floor. Flames engulfed the walls and ceiling up there and had begun to work their way down the stairwell. Choking on smoke and still dazed from his fall, he knew he had to get out of the building, but he would not leave his crutch behind. He climbed the stairs on his hands and knee, the fire leaping toward him. Smoke obscured his vision, but he had seen exactly where the crutch lay. He reached for it, then slid back down to the landing.
The front door was ajar. When he peered outside, he froze. Four bodies lay in the street, three Corvolds and Mr. Wyzcha, and a flitter was just lifting. It raced toward the center of the city and disappeared.
Val crawled out and stood up, then checked each of the bodies. He came to Mr. Wyzcha last, the one everyone addressed as ‘Sire.’ Mr. Wyzcha had a gaping wound that had nearly severed his body at the waist. There was a small puddle of blood under him as Val rolled him over, but a surprisingly small puddle considering the extent of the wound.
His eyelids flickered open. He seemed confused for a time, a long time, and Val was opening his pad to call for an ambulance when he discovered the eyes focused on him. “Val?” the man asked, seemingly calm.
“It’s me. I’m calling for an ambulance.”
“Don’t bother. My Rider tells me he cannot save me this time.”
Rider! Mr. Wyzcha had a Rider? Probably the most valuable commodity in the Empire, if it was possible to call a sentient creature a commodity, Riders were intelligent, symbiotic masses of protoplasm that lived within others, the cells of their bodies distributed throughout their host.
That explained the lack of blood. Only a Rider could have staunched the flow of blood.
“Hang on, Mr. Wyzcha. If you truly have a Rider, you have a chance.”
“Not this time. Don’t worry, I’m not in any pain. My Rider takes care of that. What are you doing here?”
“I was upstairs. I heard your conversation with the Corvolds. They called you Sir Jarl. Please don’t give up. She’s counting on you, Mr. Wyzcha.”
Mr. Wyzcha studied Val for a time, then reached a hand up and grabbed his shirt, pulling him closer. “You’re just a boy. Are you ready to be a man?”
“Sir?”
Mr. Wyzcha looked him in the eyes, hard. “It’s ‘Sire,’ Val. Know that much, at least.”
Val stared into the eyes of the man he so admired, and after a time he nodded. “Yes, Sire.”
“I ask again: are you ready to be a man? Are you ready to be everything we talked about?”
It didn’t take long for Val to understand. Mr. Wyzcha was dying, and if he died, Daughter would die. He gulped as the Knight’s gaze held him. “I am, Sire.”
“You understand the killing mechanism, the crystal?”
“I do, Sire.”
“Go there. Stop it. Daughter’s life must be preserved at all cost. At all cost. Do you understand?”
“I do, Sire, but I’m just a beggar.”
Mr. Wyzcha, the man others called Sir Jarl, studied him for a time. “You’re more than a beggar, Val,” Mr. Wyzcha said softly. “You always have been. A beggar can’t do what I ask, but you can if you choose.”
Hard eyes stared into his own, eyes that held him and called to him. Was he more than a beggar? Of course he was, but this! He wasn’t ready for this. Yet this man, a man he knew as Mr. Wyzcha, was a Knight of the Realm. Val could not turn away from the call of such a Great One. “I am more, Sire,” he whispered.
“The Empire’s counting on you, Val. So am I. Don’t let me down.”
Val thought hard. Security around the meeting would be very tight. “How will I get in? They won’t let a one-legged beggar within sight of the place.”
Sir Jarl’s voice was weakening. “Find a way. I can give you a few things that might help. Take my Knight’s Pins, and take my cape. It’s in my pocket. Now, put your arms around me.”
“Sire?”
“I’m leaving this plane of existence, Val. Do the right thing and hold me until I’m gone. It’s my last request.”
Val looked at the torn body, feeling squeamish. He couldn’t move.
“Son?”
The demand from those strong eyes could not be denied. He put his arms around the man’s neck and hugged him to his own chest. Mr. Wyzcha put his arms around Val and squeezed the two of them together despite his terrible wound. He lasted for a couple of minutes, an eternity for Val, but then the arms went limp. Mr. Wyzcha, Sir Jarl, a Knight of the Realm, was dead.
Chapter Thirty-eight: At All Cost
Val straightened his arms, lifting away, his face only inches above the man who had been his mentor. A Knight of the Realm! Even in death, Mr. Wyzcha’s features remained stern and rugged.
Looking at him, Val suddenly understood how little he knew about this man. Among all the hundreds of thousands of worlds of the Empire, there were only some one hundred Knights at any given time. They were spoken of with reverence, and their words were the Queen’s command on all worlds of the Empire. A Great One had just died in his arms.
In his wildest imaginings, Val had never dreamed of ever meeting a Knight. He studied the man’s face, the man he had known as Mr. Wyzcha. This incredible being had made a demand of him. He pressed his lips together, staring into the open, dead eyes. Daughter’s life must be preserved at all cost, he had said, and Val knew Sir Jarl well enough to know exactly what he meant with those words. This man had paid the ultimate price, and he demanded no less from Val.
The job ahead of him was a Knight’s job, yet he was still a boy. Was he up to the task?
The Great One’s eyes stared at him, unseeing but still demanding, even in death. Val could not leave his friend like this. The authorities would arriv
e soon and he had to be away before then, but he would stay for just a moment longer. He reached out and closed Sir Jarl’s eyelids, wishing him on his way with a brief prayer and wishing he’d had the opportunity to know this man in all his fullness.
Then he hurried, retrieving the Knight’s Pins and cape from his pocket. Blood pooled around the body, no longer held in check by the Rider, and the cape was soaked in that blood. When he pulled it free, a money key fell out onto the street. Val picked up the key and wiped the blood off on his shorts before studying it. To his surprise, the key was not coded: anyone could use it. Clearly, this man did not want to advertise his presence here. Val had no idea how much money remained in the key’s account. Wondering briefly if taking it would be stealing, Val shook his head and put it in his own pocket along with the cape. There would be no stealing from this great being, but he might have need of additional resources if he was to complete the Knight’s work.
He collected his crutch and stood up, feeling exposed. He discovered a mini-blaster beside the Knight and pocketed that as well, then scuttled across the street into the long shadows of warehouses and office buildings where he lowered himself to the ground to think. He was at a complete loss as to what to do next.
Last of the Chosen (Spirit of Empire, Book One) Page 36
