The soldier bowed his head. ‘Yes, your Majesty,’ he said.
‘I know where the Duke of Jerrissar is,’ the King said.
The Councillors gasped, looked towards the King, and then followed his gaze, which was fixed on the apex of the dome.
Ace, too, contrived to look up. The Duke of Jerrissar sounded like he was a tough operator, and Ace wanted to see him.
There was something above the dome: something large, darker than the night, hovering just outside the tracery of illuminated metal frames.
All the glass panes in the top of the dome shattered at once. The noise was deafening. Shards fell like rain on to the abandoned tables and chairs. A cold wind howled through the gaping holes in the dome. ‘Protect me!’ the King barked.
The Councillors gathered around the throne.
A voice, loud, harsh and distorted by electronic amplification, issued from above. ‘Surrender, Vethran. You’re surrounded.’
The voice sounded familiar to Ace, but she couldn’t place it.
There was a moment of silence, and then from all around the dome there came the rattle of gunfire, followed by a long tinkling of falling glass. The guards at the perimeter threw themselves to the floor as the windows around the base of the dome blew inwards. Ace could see figures moving outside the dome: the attackers had entered the palace and had reached the throne room. She congratulated herself on a well-placed explosive charge.
‘Stay close to me,’ the King hissed to his Councillors. He pulled a long knife from the jewelled scabbard at his side. ‘I’ll skewer the first man who moves. And don’t whine: you’ll be safe. He won’t shoot down unarmed men from his own class.’
‘Well, Vethran?’ the amplified voice said.
‘No surrender,’ the King shouted from the midst of his huddled courtiers. You’ll have to fight your way in.’
The prone guards at the perimeter of the dome started to fire their guns through the shattered windows into the darkness outside. Ace heard, coming from below, the sound of many running feet.
The King, too, had heard the noise. ‘At last,’ he cried.
‘Reinforcements. My guards are gathering. I can still crush this rebellion.’
Endless corridors, numberless rooms. Bep-Wor’s mind felt as numb as his pounding feet. He had no idea how many were behind him as he raced through the maze: hundreds, certainly. Bep-Wor had never been inside a building as large as this palace. It seemed as wide as a town. Towers projected upwards; layers of cellars and dungeons lay below. It was a place without sides, without a top or a bottom. It went on for ever.
He was leading his army only in the sense that he was at its front. Chanting and baying, it pushed him onwards. It moved forwards in spasms, stopping in a courtyard or in a suite of rooms, wherever there were people to be freed or guns to be captured, and then rushing on again through the never-ending corridors, up and down the infinite stairs.
Having somehow returned to the subterranean levels, they were now running upwards again. There was light ahead, and Bep-Wor hoped, as he had hoped many times already, that light might reveal to them a way out of the palace.
An incredible noise, like the sound of a ship grounding on rocks followed by the shattering of a thousand plates, rebounded down the stairs and rolled over the heads of the army. Bep-Wor’s people stopped chanting. They stopped advancing. Then, when there was no more sound, Bep-Wor led them forwards again, up the wide stairway.
He heard the sound of gunfire before he reached the topmost step, but there was no way to turn his people back: the stairs were crowded with men and women pressing forwards. The swollen army now consisted mainly of people who were under the influence of the dreadful potion, and those still in possession of their own minds were outnumbered. It was more a herd than an army.
Bep-Wor shouted for joy as he emerged into daylight, and outdoors. Then, as he began to understand what he was seeing, he realised that he was still in the palace and the light was artificial. He was in a room as big as the widest field, its roof a glittering, tattered web set impossibly high in the night sky. All around him his followers were emerging from the stairway and gazing up in awe at the distant, shining, broken dome above them.
But this was no place to stand and gawp. Bep-Wor tried to orient himself. There, covered in the shining fragments that had fallen from the damaged roof, was an area for taking meals; there, a garden, with trees and walkways; there, all around the edge of the entire space, were soldiers shooting their guns at unseen enemies outside the dome. And there, on a raised terrace, surrounded by a scrum of richly-dressed men, sat the King. In the chair beside his throne sat a tall, handsome woman, very pale of complexion and hair. And standing next to the throne, holding a jug, stood the young woman who had released him and his people from the dungeon.
The King and his fellows seemed as surprised to see Bep-Wor’s ragged, filthy army as Bep-Wor was to find himself in the King’s throne room.
Bep-Wor had no idea what was going on. He tried to make sense of it. This was the King’s place: it contained his throne, and he was with richly-dressed men who had to be his advisers. Therefore the soldiers shooting out through the broken windows were defending the King from outside attackers. And Bep-Wor assumed that the attackers must be lighting the cause of Kedin Ashar, the languid, clever man whom he and the Doctor had met just before they were captured.
From there the logic was indisputable: the King wanted to enslave the inhabitants of Bep-Wor’s world; Kedin Ashar was opposed to the King; therefore Bep-Wor would join with Kedin Ashar.
“There is your enemy,’ he shouted, turning in a circle to indicate the soldiers around the edge of the dome. ‘Take their weapons!’
The battle lasted only a few minutes. Caught between the incoming bullets of the attackers outside the dome, and the furious and unexpected onslaught of Bep-Wor’s army from inside it, the King’s guards could not even flee. They threw down their guns.
And then a loud, distorted voice bellowed from the skies.
‘Well done, Bep-Wor. Magnificent. I can’t possibly thank you enough. I’m forever in your debt.’
Bep-Wor looked up. There was something above the broken roof of the dome. Presumably some sort of flying machine.
The voice, in any case, was Kedin Ashar’s.
When the prisoners from the dungeon came surging up the stairway Ace had to bite her lip to stop herself shouting with excitement. They had destroyed the King’s hope of a last-minute reprieve, and had overwhelmed his final line of defence. The whole room was swarming with soldiers and prisoners, and buzzing with noise.
The prisoners were bellowing a victory chant: a name, shouted over and over again. And then Ace recognised the word, and had to suppress a laugh. They were shouting for the Doctor. She might have guessed he’d be involved. But she couldn’t see him anywhere.
It was almost impossible to remain still and impassive, particularly as she wanted to look for the Doctor, but she forced herself to remain where she was: standing beside the throne, with her wine pitcher in her hand, pretending to be a mindless serving-girl. No one paid her any attention, and she had an excellent view of the whole of the throne room.
And still there were things to watch. The attackers were entering the throne room, clambering through the broken windows all round the edge of the dome. Ace saw that they had had to fight hard to reach their goal: every man’s face was black with smoke, and many wore makeshift and bloodied bandages. The most remarkable thing about them, however, was their clothing: while some were in uniform, others were dressed in various civilian outfits, and a few were wearing outlandish costumes that were more appropriate for performing in pantomime than for warfare. They mingled with the defeated King’s guards and the prisoners from the dungeon, filling the floor of the throne room with a milling, variegated crowd.
Ace saw someone she recognised.
It was the way he moved that she noticed first. Everyone else in the crowd was moving without purpose: the King’s
guards, their shoulders slumped, were huddled in groups; the prisoners were talking excitedly among themselves; the newly-arrived soldiers were relaxing, sitting on benches and chairs, but keeping wary eyes and ready guns on the guards and the prisoners.
One figure - burly, tall, erect - was pushing through the throng, making for the stairs that led up the gallery and the throne. It was Madok.
What was he doing here? The last time Ace had seen him had been on the space station. He’d been back-up man for that despicable creep Kedin. He must have taken part in the attack on the palace. Perhaps he wasn’t all bad, then.
He looked up and caught her staring at him. She looked away quickly. I don’t want anything to do with you, she thought; leave me alone. She fixed her gaze on the shattered roof.
Soldiers were dropping through the broken polygonal panes of the dome. Hanging on ropes, they came sliding from the roof towards the floor. Their uniforms were immaculate; their guns were pointing at the throne. More and more of them appeared: the sky was raining soldiers.
Through the hole at the apex of the dome descended a platform, hanging from four ropes. Standing nonchalantly on the platform was Kedin Ashar.
Ace’s stomach clenched. She felt sick. There were quite a few people, in several planetary systems, that she hoped never to see again, but this particular long streak of aristocratic slime was right at the top of her hate list. He’d seduced her, lied to her, and pumped her full of a drug that had turned her into a slave. She stared straight ahead, and hoped that her face didn’t betray her loathing and disgust.
‘Kedin!’ It was Madok’s voice, calling up to his leader. ‘Is that you, Madok?’ The platform stopped in mid-air, so that Kedin was suspended above the centre of the throne room, on the same level as the throne. Ace tried to avoid his searching gaze. Kedin grabbed one of the supporting ropes and leant carelessly over the side of the platform. ‘Madok, old friend, we’ve done it. There’s just one final detail.’
Kedin straightened, and waved his arm to indicate the host of his soldiers filling the hemispherical space of the dome.
‘Vethran!’ he shouted. ‘I’ve captured your palace, I’ve disarmed your guards, and there are a hundred rifles trained on you. You’ve been King long enough, Vethran. I think it’s time for you to abdicate.’
‘Out of my way,’ the King yelled. Ace staggered as the King’s Councillors scattered to right and left along the gallery. She felt suddenly very exposed: all eyes in the throne room, and most of the guns, were trained on Vethran, leaning forward in the throne. On one side of him sat Tevana Roslod, still looking unperturbed; on the other stood Ace.
‘Think again, Kedin,’ the King said. ‘As you see, I have Tevana with me. And I have a knife.’
He lunged towards Tevana, and the blade of his knife was at her throat.
‘Tell your men to lower their guns,’ the King said. Kedin shrugged. ‘I have no intention of killing you, Vethran,’ he said. ‘I won’t descend to your level.’ He leant forward to look down to the floor. ‘At ease, everybody,’ he shouted. ‘Put your firearms up, for the time being.’ The dome echoed to the sound of rifles being shouldered. Ace remembered where and when she had heard Tevana’s name before. Kedin had said it.
Tevana, he had said, was his goddess. Ace felt her face redden. Perhaps she had been too hasty in judging Kedin. All right, he was still a lying toerag, but he had taken the trouble to overthrow Vethran, who was even more despicable then Kedin himself. Ace reminded herself that she had already discovered that it was Vethran, not Kedin, who had invented the stuff called SS10. And she realised that if Tevana had been in Vethran’s clutches all along, as seemed likely, than Kedin had had to keep his opposition secret.
‘I won’t have you shot, Vethran,’ Kedin shouted. ‘Now let Tevana go.’
Vethran laughed. ‘Look, Kedin,’ he said, and thrust the point of his knife into Tevana’s neck. A bead of blood grew and then trickled down her pale skin. ‘If you and all your men surrender immediately, I’ll let Tevana live.’
Ace could see that Kedin was finding it increasingly difficult to maintain his air of confident detachment. He had flinched when Vethran’s knife had sunk into Tevana’s neck.
‘If you harm Tevana, Vethran, I can promise you that I will kill you. Release her, and I’ll be merciful.’
‘I am your King, Kedin Ashar, and you are a traitor. I do not need your mercy. Surrender now and I will spare Tevana.’
The two men stared at each other.
The throne room was silent.
The silence lengthened.
Kedin made a signal in the air, and the platform on which he was standing continued its descent to the floor of the throne room. ‘I’ll consult with my officers,’ Kedin called to Vethran, ‘while I’m waiting for you to come to your senses.’
‘I can wait, too, Kedin,’ Vethran replied. He flourished the knife. ‘And I can make Tevana uncomfortable while I’m waiting. So don’t make me impatient.’ He laughed when he saw Kedin scowl in impotent rage. ‘Balon!’ he called out.
Come here.’
Balon Ferud brushed past Ace as he hurried from the end of the gallery to the throne. Surreptitiously Ace slid closer, so that she could overhear the deliberations of the King and his Councillor.
‘Balon,’ the King whispered, ‘we know that loyal regiments are on their way. We have to play for time. I want you to go and negotiate with Kedin Ashar. Let him think that I’m prepared to give up the throne. Involve him in lengthy discussions about what lands and titles I’m to retain, the guarantees each side will give - you know the kind of thing.’
‘Yes, your Majesty,’ Balon said. ‘But surely Kedin will expect precisely this gambit? It will be difficult to inveigle him into negotiations.’
Vethran smiled mirthlessly. ‘Quite right, Balon. But he won’t be expecting this. Come closer. Let no one see.’ Ace glimpsed the tiny glass phial that he produced from inside his jewelled cloak. ‘This contains concentrate of SS10,’ the King said. ‘Drop it into his drink or on to his food, or simply throw it into his face if you have to. Do it at the first opportunity. If you succeed, the Duchy of Jerrissar is yours.’
Balon took the slim tube between trembling fingers. ‘All the lands of Kedin Ashar?’ he whispered.
The King nodded. ‘Lands, titles, everything,’ he said. ‘But do it quickly. And be careful, Balon: the phial is delicate.’
It seemed to Ace that from that moment events moved in slow motion. A part of her mind was watching the portly body of Balon Ferud trotting down the steps of the gallery, towards Kedin. Another part was caught in an endless loop: Kedin Ashar isn’t too bad really, and it’s reasonable for him to want to save his lover and to get Vethran off the throne, but Vethran’s going to poison him, so Kedin’s going to lose after all.
And, seemingly quite independent of her mind, her limbs were moving. She leant forward; she let her arm brush against Vethran’s as she righted the engraved glass that had fallen over on the table in front of him. She pulled the glass nearer.
Vethran looked at her in surprise. He had forgotten that she was standing beside him. He smiled to see her.
‘Still here, Ace? It’s good to see I’ve still one faithful servant.’
“Thank you, your Majesty,’ Ace said, returning his smile.
She lifted her pitcher, tipped it, and filled the glass.
Vethran picked it up.
Balon was making his way towards the huddle of officers around Kedin and Madok.
‘Kedin!’ Vethran shouted. ‘Balon Ferud has my authority to parley with you.’
He held up the glass as a salute.
The officers around Kedin made space for Balon to approach.
Balon held his left hand behind his back.
Vethran brought the glass to his lips.
Balon was almost within reach of Kedin. His shoulders tensed.
Vethran drank.
Kedin extended his hand to greet Balon.
Vethran fell fac
e forward on to the table.
‘Kedin!’ Ace yelled. ‘Look out! Balon!’
Kedin ducked to one side, turning left and right to try to identify the source of the warning shout. Balon swung his left hand around his body, aiming to throw the phial into Kedin’s face. His arm was stopped: Madok held it. Baton’s fingers opened, and the phial fell to the floor, and shattered. Kedin, Madok and the officers stared in horrified silence at the dark, viscous liquid that stained the carpet at Baton’s feet.
‘Baton Ferud,’ Madok announced, ‘you are under arrest.’
He summoned two soldiers. ‘Lock him up,’ he told them.
Kedin ran to the foot of the stairs that led up to the throne.
‘Ace,’ he said ‘thank you. You had every reason to wish that Baton would succeed. And yet you saved me. I already owe you more apologies than I can pronounce in a lifetime, and now I find myself indebted to the same degree in gratitude.’
Ace grinned down at him. ‘I sorted out the King for you, too,’ she said. She turned to the slumped body beside her, and nudged its shoulder. ‘Oi, wake up, mate,’ she said.
Vethran sat up. His face was expressionless.
‘Say hello to Kedin,’ Ace told him.
‘Hello, Kedin Ashar,’ Vethran said. He remained motionless, with a faint smile playing on his lips.
Kedin bounded up the stairs. He gazed in awe at Vethran.
‘What have you done?’ he said to Ace.
‘I’ve given him some of his own medicine,’ she said, waving her pitcher in the air. ‘I found his laboratory.’
Kedin continued to stare at the man who had once been the King. ‘I suppose it’s what he deserved,’ he whispered. He turned to Ace. ‘I’ll see to it that every drop of that pernicious liquid is destroyed,’ he said. ‘Even the new, temporary formula that we administered to you. It will be another happy event in a day full of them. And,’ he added, turning towards the figure sitting beside Vethran, ‘the best event is still to come. I have my Tevana again. Why are you still seated, my love? Come to my arms, my dearest angel.’
Independence Day Page 25
