Alien Chronicles 1 - The Golden One (20 page)

She bowed, looking stricken. Again she started to speak, then pressed her hand to her ear dimple and rushed out.

The door was closed behind her by a guard, who then walked over to one side of Israi’s round bed and stood there at attention.

Ampris, left on her own, remained on the crimson carpet, which made her think of a stream of blood across the floor. The silence grew more ominous than ever. The chancellor’s yellow gaze was like stone. The guards stared beyond her, as though she did not exist. The Kaa’s eyes held nothing at all—no affection, no gentleness, no memory of past days when he had smiled at Ampris.

She watched him, her heart hammering wildly inside her, and felt the awful weight of his majesty and power as she never had before.

For an eternity he said nothing, did nothing except stare at her. She thought she would faint beneath his gaze. He seemed to probe to the depths of her, this Viis whose empire spanned an entire galaxy. Surely he was all-wise and all-knowing. Surely the gods had granted him special wisdom, so that he would know she had done nothing wrong. She hadn’t caused Israi to fall. She had tried to save the sri-Kaa’s life. Certainly the Kaa had enough mercy and pity in his heart to listen to the truth.

Ampris’s ears flattened, and she felt a slight tug on her ear as Israi’s cartouche swung on its ornate chain. She tried to find the courage to speak, to make an appeal.

But he was the Kaa, and she dust beneath his feet. She stood there trembling, and dared do nothing unbidden.

Finally, his gaze shifted, releasing her from that terrible stare. He sighed and looked infinitely weary, as though facing a task he dreaded.

Lifting a single digit from the arm of his chair, he crooked it, beckoning to her.

Afraid, Ampris felt her feet root in place. She could not move.

Chancellor Gaveid prodded her in the shoulder with the tip of his staff of office. “Approach his Imperial Majesty, cub. Do as you are told.”

Gulping, Ampris walked along the crimson carpet, one slow, frightened footstep at a time, until she stood before this personification of supreme power. She knew better than to meet the Kaa’s gaze this close. Instead she stared humbly at his feet, and even that seemed a sacrilege.

“Kneel!” Chancellor Gaveid barked the single word, making it a harsh command.

Ampris lost her breath. She sank to her knees, trembling, and bowed low, certain she was doomed.

CHAPTER
•ELEVEN

Elrabin moved slowly to one edge of the thronged plaza outside the gladiator arena. He took care to bring no attention to himself, to stay on the fringes of the crowd. He always kept a group of people between him and any patrollers stationed there for crowd control.

It was opening day of the games, the first of the winter fighting season that would last until Sahvrazaa Festival. The marquee above the ticket booth was flashing the names of popular champions. Famous schools of gladiators such as the Bizsi Mo’ad and Utar Dan flew their pennants above the arena. Hucksters called out prices for souvenirs. Opening day brought big crowds of spectators, many of whom had fat credit lines. Elrabin ignored the aristocrats, with their retinues of family, friends, attendants, and body-guards. Anyone clad in expensive clothing would be wearing body alarms. Instead, Elrabin searched for much smaller game, the gawking country visitor fresh off a small estate, one who had never been to court, one without city ways or city wariness.

Trying to look casual, Elrabin leaned against a stone pillar away from the bookmakers and illicit dust dealers. His elbow brushed against the stone, and he winced. Swiftly he cradled his swollen elbow in his hand, flexing his arm in an effort to null the flare of pain. Three days ago he’d had his registration implant cut out in a back alley shop. The illegal operation had been an expensive butcher job, performed fast and without any anesthesia. Now the incision was infected, bringing fever with it. Elrabin fought off a wave of dizziness and forced himself to concentrate.

Since escaping arrest a few days past, he’d been living like a Skek, scavenging through garbage, stealing food when he could, starving when he couldn’t. Afraid, trusting no one, he’d kept low, rarely venturing out during the day, sleeping in the sewer tunnels. He’d sold scrap, fighting Skeks for the best of it. He’d stolen anything he could find, taking more risks than he should have. Finally he’d managed to scrape together the fee for the implant removal, but it had taken everything he had.

Now he was truly illegal, a ghost in the registration system, able to walk into public areas freely. Of course, if a patroller saw him and grew suspicious, a quick scan would betray him as a ghost. But he couldn’t be tracked with a sniffer for his past record, and hiding became easier.

A ghost . . . yeah, he would be a real one soon enough if this fever didn’t clear up. Fighting off the shivers, Elrabin straightened again and moved to another pillar. More people were arriving, but the crowd was starting to line up outside the entry. They were going in. From inside the arena, a fanfare of trumpets sounded and cheers went up.

Desperation curled through Elrabin. He hadn’t seen the kind of target he was looking for. The more organized the crowd grew, the smaller his chances. He needed a hit today. He was so sick and hungry he couldn’t think. He couldn’t hang on without something to eat or somewhere warm to go. Merciful gods, he pleaded, let him find an easy mark.

As though his prayer was heard, there came a sudden commotion a short distance away. A battered, dusty litter pulled up at the steps leading from the street to the plaza, and a Viis family climbed out. Arguing and complaining among themselves, they issued contradictory instructions to their driver, collected wraps and a food basket as though unaware that concessions were sold inside the arena, and came hurrying across the plaza to join the line.

Elrabin forgot his misery and grinned to himself. Exactly what he wanted. The family patriarch was very tall and thin, dressed in outdated fashions, and oblivious to the stares and snickers of city-dwellers. His gawking, half-grown sons pointed at the gaudy marquee and colorful flags. The wife fussed with her rill collar and skirts, talking nonstop. The young daughter didn’t even bother to look around. She was too busy sneaking food from the basket and popping it into her mouth while no one was looking.

Elrabin let them walk past him, then followed in their wake, taking his time, although it was tempting to grab the food basket from the Viis female’s hand and run with it.

They moved with the line, the father busy counting up the admission price, the sons nudging each other and whispering sly remarks. Elrabin caught up with them and moved closer, bowing several times, until the father’s eye noticed him.

At once the Viis scowled and made a shooing motion with his hand. “Begone, beggar!” he said sharply. “You’ll not find me softhearted.”

Elrabin bowed again but didn’t step back.

The father glanced at his sons. “You see? You must take an authoritative tone with these inferiors.”

“Shoo,” the mother said to Elrabin, shuddering as she averted her gaze from him. “Such a dirty, tattered creature. Aethea, don’t look at him.”

The daughter stared right at Elrabin, chewing fruit with her mouth open. “You stink,” she said.

The mother grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her close as though she expected Elrabin to steal the chune.

“I told you to go,” the father said. “We have no money for you.”

“Please, sir,” Elrabin said in his most obsequious manner. “I am no beggar. The arena employs me to assist its spectators, those who come attended by no servants. I will carry your basket, your wraps, your cushions. If you wish, even your bets I can lay for you.”

The father’s eyes flashed. “Hah, I’m sure you’d like to. But would my money ever reach the booth? Eh? No, I’m sure it would not.”

The Viis sons nudged each other and snickered.

“This basket
is
heavy,” the mother said, then slapped at her daughter’s hand. “Aethea, stop nibbling. You’ve eaten too much already.”

The repellent brat went on chewing, staring at Elrabin the whole time. He swallowed and tried not to think about food, although the smells coming from the basket nearly made him swoon. But he had to concentrate, had to keep his wits on what he was doing.

“We’ll manage our own belongings, thank you,” the father said sharply. “I carry a payment card only, which is secure for travel. I have no coins for tips.”

“Kind sir,” Elrabin said with another bow, “no tip is necessary. The arena employs me. I require nothing except to serve you.”

“Hmm.” But the father was caught by the bait. Stingy to a fault, he couldn’t resist the chance to get service without paying for it. “Very well, take the basket and our cushions. Wife, watch him closely. I shan’t have anything stolen.”

The family piled him up with belongings, so many he staggered to hang on to everything. It was all he could do not to run with it, but he was too smart for that.

Instead, he stood patiently in line behind the family, ignoring their stupid chatter and rude remarks. He waited until the father had paid admission at the ticket booth and was turning around. No patroller was paying attention. Another group of late arrivals were walking up, making the opportunity perfect.

Without warning, Elrabin heaved his armful at the father, forcing the male to take the things or have them dropped.

“What the—”

Elrabin stepped closer, juggling the handle of the food basket over the Viis’s wrist and bumping into him as he did so. “Service ends here,” he said over the Viis’s startled protests. “Go in quickly. The games are starting.”

“But—”

“I must attend to other people.”

“But you were to carry our things inside,” the father called after him.

Successfully having lifted the Viis’s card from his pocket, Elrabin barely glanced back. “Not part of my job,” he said, and threaded his way quickly into the crowd.

He milled around the spectators for a few minutes, resisting the urge to run. He knew to stay calm and casual. But he was panting with excitement. His unsuspecting marks had gone inside the arena. With any luck, they wouldn’t miss the stolen card for hours. By then it would be fenced, and his stomach would be full.

A hand came out of the crowd and gripped his injured arm like a vise. The pain was instant—hot and debilitating.

Close to panic, Elrabin bit off a cry and kicked out blindly. But the fingers holding him tightened so hard he nearly blacked out from the agony. All he could think of was patrollers . . . arrest . . . disaster.

“No,” he said, gasping. “No!”

“Shut up,” growled a voice in his ear. “Make no sound and come this way. Fast, now.”

Elrabin realized it was no patroller’s voice. Reeling and half-blinded with tears of pain, he staggered along as he was pulled through the crowd. A Kelth gripped his arm, a grim-faced youth about his age who was missing one ear. White fur grew along the scar, which ran down his head beneath his eye and under his jaw. Scar tissue had twisted his lip on that side, revealing strong yellow teeth.

The pain in Elrabin’s arm throbbed hard, but he was over his initial fright now. He gauged his moment, and when the scarred Kelth paused at the top of some steps leading away from the plaza, Elrabin set his feet and jerked hard.

He nearly freed himself. Even as the Kelth turned on him, Elrabin reversed tactics and pushed with all his might. The Kelth went sprawling down the steps with a muffled grunt.

Elrabin spun around and ran, angling down the steps and heading for the street. But seconds later he was tackled from behind with a force that knocked the wind from him. Stunned, Elrabin found himself wrestled around and dragged to his feet.

The scar-faced Kelth glared at him. “Stupid, that. You come now, fast, before the patrollers get wind of us.”

Before Elrabin could try another trick, or even retort, his captor twisted his bad arm behind him in a ruthless hold that made resistance impossible.

Gasping in agony, burning with fury, Elrabin found himself marched along toward an underground service access leading beneath the arena. It was a delivery area, busy with activity, but lacking any patrollers.

On the other side, they entered an alley, then cut across several streets until they reached a dead end littered with garbage. Tall, windowless buildings surrounded them on three sides.

There, the scar-faced Kelth stopped, spun Elrabin around to face him, and hit him hard.

Reeling from the blow, Elrabin staggered to one side and barely kept his balance. Before he could recover, he was hit again, then shoved hard against the wall. Expert hands patted him down, fingering both pockets and lining of the coat he’d bartered for yesterday from a ragpicker, plucking out the card he had just stolen from the Viis.

Released, Elrabin dragged in a deep, unsteady breath and managed to straighten. He was shaking with humiliation and rage. Who did this
nolo
think he was?

The scar-faced Kelth stood a short distance away, holding the card up to the sky while he read the numbers embossed on it, mouthing them to himself.

Glaring at him, Elrabin clenched his fists and started to launch himself, but just as he moved, the other youth drew a sticker and pointed it straight at him.

The sticker’s blade was long and needle-thin, fashioned of blue steel, and quite deadly. The sight of it stopped Elrabin in his tracks. For a moment he couldn’t take his eyes off it. He forgot to breathe, forgot how angry he was.

Instead, he shifted his gaze to the other end of the alley, the only way out.

“Stand still,” the youth said curtly. He was still examining the card and didn’t even glance at Elrabin. He didn’t have to.

The sticker held Elrabin in place as effectively as a side-arm would have.

Elrabin knew the streets, knew the thugs and punks who prowled them, knew they had territories, knew they liked to steal from the independents, like himself. Elrabin realized he’d better forget his rage and fear and concentrate on using his wits. This Kelth might just decide to kill him, either on a whim or to enforce a lesson.