Independence Day
Page 22
The King gazed down at the prisoners as his entourage followed him through the doorway and filled the gallery. Most of them were dressed in finery almost as rich as their monarch’s. Some held lace-trimmed cloths to their faces.
‘This place stinks,’ the King said at last. He paused to listen to his words rebounding from the slick stones. ‘It’s fit only for vermin,’ he went on. ‘And that’s what it contains. Councillor Traban!’
One of the glittering figures stepped forward. ‘Your Majesty?’
‘Am I to take it, Traban,’ the King said, ‘that this pathetic, unwashed rabble of Twos is the mighty army that has eluded your men for almost a week?’
The Councillor hesitated before replying. It was clear to Bep-Wor that Vethran’s courtiers were in fear of him. ‘I believe so, your Majesty. We have succeeded in capturing all of them, with no losses to our forces.’ Traban had obviously decided that it was better to stress the positive aspects of the situation.
The King grunted, and Traban visibly sighed with relief. ‘So be it,’ the King said. ‘Although I’m sure it wasn’t necessary to mobilise half the household guard merely to round up a gang of escaped Twos.’
‘Your Majesty’s security is always my prime consideration.’
‘That’s as it should be,’ the King said. ‘It’s true there have been curious rumours about shadowy forces moving through the night. However, the problem has been resolved. Stand down the guard, Councillor, and bring the patrols back to their barracks.’
‘Of course, your Majesty.’
Bep-Wor found that he could still smile: a grim twist of his lips. Vethran had decided that with the escaped Twos recaptured, there was no further danger. Kedin’s preparations for his attacks could now proceed with less danger of discovery.
‘I should execute the lot of you,’ the King announced, addressing the prisoners. ‘But I’m in a merciful mood. And in any case, to kill you all would be a waste of valuable Twos.
You will all become obedient servants, and that will be the end of this short-lived rebellion. I will, however, make one exception. Which is the one known as the Doctor?’
A young man pushed through the courtiers to stand at the King’s side. Bep-Wor recognised him: Sarid, the commissioner’s assistant, whom Bep-Wor had last seen riding away from the landing site on the day the transport ship had landed.
‘That’s him, your Majesty,’ Sarid said, pointing down to the dungeon floor. ‘At the front, in the strange clothes and hat.’
The Doctor began climbing the steps. ‘Yes, I’m the Doctor,’
he said, ‘and I have a number of things to discuss with you.’
The King appeared amused. ‘Is that so?’ he said. He turned to Sarid. ‘I understand this fellow is unaffected by SS10?’
Yes, your Majesty. He claims he took the potion while in transit, and he certainly took a second dose on the orders of commissioner Dallid. As you can see, he retains his own will.’
‘Doctor,’ the King called out. ‘Stop there!’
The Doctor continued to walk up the steps.
A look of mild surprise appeared on the King’s face. ‘It’s true, then,’ he said. ‘Seize him, some of you.’
Four soldiers ran down the steps to intercept the Doctor, and soon he was struggling in their grasp next to the King.
‘We must talk,’ the Doctor was trying to say. ‘This is important.’
‘He’s a noisy little fellow,’ the King announced. The courtiers laughed politely. The King addressed the Doctor.
‘Be silent,’ he said, ‘or I’ll have the guards damage you.’
The Doctor’s struggles subsided.
‘If you don’t fall under the thrall of SS10,’ the King said to the Doctor, ‘you are worse than valueless. I would turn you over to my chemists, so that they can analyse you, but frankly I can’t be bothered to take the trouble. You have already caused enough inconvenience.’ He spoke to the guards around the Doctor. ‘Hold his head.’
The King produced from a pocket in his robe a slender glass tube. ‘This is distilled from the venom of bile worms,’ he said. ‘I made it myself. It corrupts the internal organs. Death is inevitable and very rapid. Let’s see you remain unaffected by this.’
The Doctor was fighting again to be free, but there were soldiers all around him. Bep-Wor saw hands clamped on to the Doctor’s head, twisting it and forcing his mouth open. He saw the King smiling as he tipped the contents of the tube into the Doctor’s throat.
‘Stand aside,’ the King said. The soldiers cautiously stepped back from the Doctor.
The Doctor stood alone at the top of the steps. His eyes were wide with shock. His limbs began to convulse. He gave a weak cry, and his knees gave way. He fell forward, and tumbled down the steps.
Bep-Wor watched the Doctor’s body. It lay motionless at the foot of the steps. The Doctor’s hat was floating on a stinking puddle next to his head.
Now, Doctor, Bep-Wor silently urged. Now is the time to rise up. Come on, Doctor. Amaze them. Be alive. Be alive, Doctor.
The Doctor didn’t move.
‘Collect the body,’ the King said. ‘I’ll have it put on display.
Have these Twos interrogated, and then dose them with SS10
as necessary. This little crisis is as dead as the Doctor.’
There was nowhere left to search. The men from Harran had torn up floorboards and had even knocked holes in the walls where they had sounded hollow. Men had climbed into the roof spaces and down into the drains.
Madok had to face the truth. The men needed to rest. And if Tevana Roslod had ever been held in Grake Castle, she was there no longer.
Madok sat at the Castlain’s desk with his head in his hands. He consulted his pocket-watch. By now Kedin would be committed to the final assault. And Tevana was still in Vethran’s hands.
Chapter Five
Above and beyond the vast glass dome that roofed the new throne room, night had fallen. Inside it was still as bright as day: glowing bulbs containing electric filaments were strung along the polygonal frames of the dome’s structure, creating a filigree tessellation in the heavens, while far below gas lamps in ornate shapes burnt alongside every avenue and at the centre of every table.
It was a room as spacious as a park. It contained an ornamental garden, a dining area, arcades and fountains and, on a terrace constructed of old stone blocks and decorated with friezes that depicted Vethran’s conquests, the throne itself.
Architecturally, Ace thought, it was a right old dog’s dinner.
She thought it odd that she hadn’t noticed before how grandiose and muddled the whole room was.
‘Ace!’ the King called to her. ‘Traban Yonfar needs more wine. He has reason to celebrate this evening.’
Dinner was in full swing. Every table was occupied by stuffy-looking lords and ladies wearing costumes that must have weighed a ton. The medals and jewellery were dazzling, and the noise of conversation and clattering cutlery was deafening.
‘Yes, your Majesty,’ Ace said, and carried her pitcher of wine towards the military-looking type with waxed moustaches.
From waitress to waitress, via a spot of time-travel and saving a few civilisations, she thought. As she squeezed between tables she was aware of all the nearby men looking at her. She was the only woman in the throne room wearing trousers, and she knew by now that everyone thought she was indecently dressed. Occasionally she felt a hand grope at her legs as she passed.
It’s a good job I’ve been told that I’m happy doing this, she said to herself, because otherwise I think I’d be quite pissed off.
She poured wine into Traban’s glass. ‘May I serve you further, sir?’ she asked him.
‘I’ll say, you pretty thing,’ the old buffer exclaimed. ‘Come here and sit on my knees, eh?’
Not bloody likely, she thought. I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.
‘Thank you, sir,’ she said. She turned and walked away, ignoring the expostulations behind her.
I can’t believe I just did that, she thought. I should have obeyed his instructions. I should have sat on his bony old knees. I would have been happy to do it. I’ve been told I’ll be happy to obey every instruction I’m given.
What’s happening to me?
‘Ace!’ It was the King calling her again. ‘Ace, come here. I want to show you to the Count of Martolin. I might lend you to him, I think, for an hour or so.’
You’re joking, aren’t you? Ace said to herself. She’d already identified the Count of Martolin as a grade-A slime-ball.
Smiling, and with a determined stride, Ace made for one of the stairwells that led down into the service areas. Her wine pitcher was almost empty, if challenged she would say that she had been told to refill it.
As she walked steadfastly towards the wine cellars she blocked out the noise around her and tried to work out what was happening.
She had been told to do as she was told. She had been told that she was happy to do as she was told. It was stupid, circular illogicality. What if she wasn’t happy?
And she wasn’t happy. In fact, how had she ever put up with them? That greasy fop Tragar, that vicious old witch Rigora, that wily politician Balon, and that fruitcake of a King. She remembered some of the things that they had made her do, and she felt her cheeks burning as she blushed.
She wasn’t happy. She was angry.
There were Twos and other servants carrying pitchers and bottles in and out of the entrance to the cellars, but inside the low, gloomy, bottle-lined corridors Ace was able to find a place where she could be alone.
In the cool quiet she sat on a barrel, inhaling the musty aroma of old brandy, and she realised that for the first time in weeks she was enjoying an experience without having been told to enjoy it.
The curious thing was that she remembered everything.
She had been herself - wanting things, knowing her own opinions, doing as she chose - in the TARDIS, and after the Doctor had left her on the space station. And then she had ceased to be herself. She had had no thoughts of her own: no wants or wishes, no emotions other than those she was told to have. She had done exactly as she had been told, always, because there had been no alternative.
And now, just as suddenly, she was herself again.
What I should concentrate on, she said to herself, is getting out of here. And doing as much damage as I can in the process. This whole set-up stinks. Mister high-and-mighty Vethran is in charge of a society that uses people from another world as slaves. This is exactly the sort of nonsense the Doctor and I should be putting a stop to.
But I can’t help wondering how it was done. How did I become like that? A mindless slave?
Oh, god. It had to be. There was no other possibility.
That’s the last time I fall for someone because he looks like a film star, Ace told herself. It was Kedin. All those people in cargo hold twelve; the ones I travelled with on that gruesome transport ship. It must be a drug, or something. And Kedin’s doing it.
As Ace remembered the things she’d said and done on the space station, she clenched her fists so tightly that her nails cut into her palms.
‘That bastard,’ she whispered. ‘I’ll kill him.’
Kia-Ga, along with all of Bep-Wor’s people who had taken the drug on the transport ship, had been taken away. The Doctor was dead.
Bep-Wor had been left with nothing. Soon he would be given the potion, and he would live out the rest of his life as a slave on this alien world.
The dungeon darkness enveloped him like a shroud. All around him, he knew, were his comrades - the army he and the Doctor had led from victory to victory, freeing slaves as they marched from the landing site to the King’s capital. And yet he felt utterly alone. The damp cold had penetrated into his heart and soul, and rendered him numb. Even if he had had a weapon, he knew he lacked the spirit to kill himself.
Nothing. The end. Blackness.
He wondered how long the noises had been going on. Down here every sound, except for the dripping of water from the walls, was muffled. He lifted his head. He heard murmurings from around him: others had begun to notice the occasional, distant, dull thumps that echoed, more vibration than sound, in the dark void above them.
He had heard similar noises before. On his home world, when the invaders had come. Before anyone knew the coming danger, soft booms like these had been heard from over the horizon. These were the sounds of explosives.
The attack had begun, then. In the streets above the dank stillness of the dungeon, men were fighting, firing weapons, thrusting swords.
Perhaps there was a little hope. But Kia-Ga was gone, and the Doctor was dead. And with the Doctor had died Bep-Wor’s gossamer dream that Kia-Ga could be returned to her former state.
Bep-Wor smiled bitterly. Just enough hope, then, to make him realise the hopelessness of his situation.
They had found only six camelopes in the stables of Grake Castle. Having transmitted to Kedin the grim news that Tevana had not been found, Madok had asked for five volunteers to accompany him.
He knew that every one of the Harran men was as battle-weary as he was.
He had told them that to accompany him would be more taxing than taking the castle had been: they would have to ride fast, in the dark, on unfamiliar terrain, into a well-defended city. The mission was suicidal. Every man had volunteered. Madok had been so moved that he had felt tears stinging his eyes.
The heavens seemed to Madok to be dispensing good fortune arbitrarily. After the disappointment of failing to find Tevana, things were once again going well. The camelopes were strong, and seemed accustomed to night travel. The riders made good speed across the wooded hillsides: none of the steeds tripped or was made lame. They encountered none of the King’s forces.
Madok called his little troop to a halt as they reached the final hilltop. From it they looked down on Gonfallon city.
‘It looks peaceful,’ one of the men said.
Madok extended his arm. ‘Look,’ he said. ‘There are fires burning in the outer quarters. Our covert teams have begun their work. They will draw the King’s guards out across the city, dispersing Vethran’s strength.’
A vivid burst of light flashed among the distant streets. It receded, and then flared again as a column of flame and smoke. A rumble, like thunder, rolled across the panorama.
‘Explosive charge,’ grunted one of the riders.
Madok’s lowered his arm slightly. ‘One of our motorised units has reached the West Gate of the inner city,’ he said.
‘They’re equipped with a weapon that we discovered on the space station. It fires a beam which seems to disrupt matter in its path. They should be able to take the gate. We’ll try to enter the city there.’
‘All’s quiet at the Citadel,’ another of the riders said.
Madok nudged his heels into the flanks of his camelope, and began to pick his way down the side of the hill. He kept his eyes on the vast, ornate structure that dominated the city: at its centre the dome of the new throne room glowed with light. ‘There’s a feast in progress,’ he said. ‘The entire court’s in residence. It looks quiet, but that new dome of Vethran’s will be shaking, what with the music and the talking. I doubt if they’ve even heard the explosions. It will be some time before the city’s garrison commanders can get word to Vethran that there are attacks in progress.’
‘No sign yet of Kedin Ashar’s ships,’ the rider behind Madok said.
‘He’ll be there soon. Vethran’s in for a surprise.’
I’ve heard of hiding in plain sight, Ace thought, but this takes the biscuit.
Balon Ferud had presented Ace to the King only that morning but, thanks to her infamously indecent costume she was already recognisable to just about everyone in the palace. Now she found that because she was so well known her presence was taken for granted. Carrying her wine pitcher, and with an expression of docile contentment fixed on her face, she was able to walk the corridors unchallenged.
Once she realised that no one would molest her, Ace decided to explore the whole palace. Something was up: the soldiers who passed her in the corridors were running now, rather than marching, and they were clutching rifles rather than the ceremonial swords they usually carried in the palace. The atmosphere had changed. It crackled almost audibly with an electric, exciting buzz. In the same way that one knows one is approaching the coast, even though there is no sign of the sea, because of the salt and seaweed smells in the air, Ace knew she was approaching something exciting.
She could smell it. Conflict. Danger. Thrills and spills.
Adrenaline in her veins.
She found a terrace: a stone-built walkway with glassed arches, like one side of a cloister. The windows, she assumed, provided views of something worth seeing, when there was daylight to see by. The terrace was, as far as she could judge, near the perimeter of the palace buildings, and it was here that she heard the explosion.
She recognised the sound immediately, and grinned.
That’s more like it, she thought.
She took the risk of dropping her pretence of mindlessness for a moment, and peered out into the darkness. There were fires burning in the distance; flashes of light, followed by deep rumblings; the crackle of gunfire.
It’s an attack, she told herself. Someone’s attacking the palace. Well, now: any enemy of King Vethran is a friend of mine, I’d say. I really ought to lend a hand.