by Troy Denning
The sergeant nodded. “The Queen Mother is in danger.” His eyes flicked past Leia’s shoulder, and then he turned to face his subordinates. “Seal the chaaaraggh—”
The command ended in a strangled gasp when something long and white hissed past Leia’s head and planted itself in the side of the sergeant’s neck. Han cried out and instinctively shielded Leia, throwing himself onto her—and nearly losing an arm as her lightsaber blade snapped to life.
They had barely hit the floor when more of the strange projectiles hissed past overhead, coming from all corners of the chamber and filling the air with a sound like ripping cloth. An instant later the rest of the guards dropped to the floor amid a cacophony of strangled outcries and clattering armor.
Leia pressed her hand to Han’s chest. “Han, you’ve got to stop doing that.” She rolled him off with surprising ease and came up kneeling, then plucked at her robe. “Jedi, remember?”
“Sorry—old habits.”
Han rose to his knees. Half the suitors in the room—a couple of dozen—were charging across the chamber, leaping and dodging furniture, either holding a white throwing knife or drawing another from their sleeves. He spun around, reaching for the fallen sergeant’s weapon, and found the entire complement of guards lying in the archway, most dead already, but a few writhing in pain with a plastoid hilt protruding from their throats or faces.
A cold knot formed in the pit of Han’s stomach. The assassins were good—organized and well trained. He crawled forward and grabbed the sergeant’s bulky power blaster, then began to fumble with the unfamiliar Hapan safety.
“Blast! I don’t care what you say, next time I’m bringing—”
Leia’s lightsaber droned behind him, then the smell of burned flesh filled the air and a body thudded to the floor. The rest of the attackers were already racing into the archway to either side of the Solos. Most paid no attention at all to Han, simply grabbing weapons from the fallen guards and continuing up the corridor at a sprint. But one, a heavy-jawed man with blond hair, looked over and caught Han’s eye.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Uh, yeah,” Han answered. He finally found the power blaster’s safety catch—a small nub inside the trigger guard—and depressed it. “Thanks for asking.”
He pulled the trigger, blasting a fist-sized hole into the center of the man’s chest. The Hapan tumbled over backward, his brow still rising in surprise.
Han turned to find Leia behind him, standing over a dead Hapan and frowning in the direction of the man he had just killed.
“You ever get the feeling we don’t have the vaguest idea what’s going on here?” Han asked.
“We’re not the only ones.”
Leia pulled Han to his feet, in the process turning him back toward the waiting chamber. A dozen young noblemen were standing over the middle-aged bachelor who had been lecturing the pale-skinned “kid” about the hat.
Another fifteen suitors were watching in slack-jawed astonishment as the “kid” dived and rolled toward the same door through which the Solos had entered, dodging a constant stream of blasterfire from the guards posted there. Now that the assassin had discarded her oversized coat—revealing a skintight bodysuit and a utility belt lined with throwing knives—it was very clear Leia had been right about her being female. And she did have hair—at least a little of it. The top hat was also gone, revealing a bushy topknot that made her look wild, unpredictable, and very dangerous.
Han started to shoulder the power blaster, but Leia put a hand on the barrel.
“Not yet,” she said. “She’s Force-sensitive.”
“Force-sensitive?” Han understood what Leia was saying. The woman would not be a quick kill, and they could not afford to get tied up here. “Will someone please tell me what the blazes is going on?”
“Maybe later.” Leia turned up the corridor after the assassins. “After I have time to figure it out myself.”
Han grabbed a couple of spare power packs off the dead sergeant and raced after Leia. By the time he caught up to her, they were two dozen meters down the white stone corridor and not gaining on their targets. Han stopped and knelt at the side of the corridor, taking cover behind the pedestal supporting a blue-sheened suit of early durasteel blast armor.
“We need to slow them down,” he said.
“Good idea.” Leia continued running. “Try not to hit me!”
“Hey!” Han called. “Not what I meant!”
But Leia was well down the corridor, already passing beneath the great chandelier and picking up speed. Han cursed her foolhardiness, then took three deep breaths and shouldered the power blaster.
Before he could open fire, the assassins suddenly stopped running and glanced uncertainly back toward Leia. Even without the Force, Han could sense their confusion. Either they had come to an unexpected dead end, or they had not seen her attack their fellows and could not understand why she was charging them. Maybe both.
“What the blazes is going on?” Han asked again. He set his sights on the Hapan in front and blasted him between the shoulder blades, then swung the muzzle to the next man and fired again. That one bounced off a display pedestal, then staggered into the middle of the corridor and collapsed. The surviving assassins dived for cover, finally starting to return fire.
Leia caught up to the rear of the group and launched herself into a whirling lightsaber attack, cloaking herself behind a basket of sapphire light and batting blaster bolts back toward their source. Han dropped another assassin and she killed three; Han blasted a man’s leg and sent him somersaulting across the corridor; Leia used the Force to crush two more beneath a flying suit of heavy plexoid armor.
Then the deafening bang of a concussion grenade echoed down the corridor. Han was momentarily blinded by a brilliant flash of yellow. Leia cried out in surprise, and the air resonated with the piercing shriek of blaster-fire. Hapan voices began to scream and abruptly fall silent, and blaster bolts flew down the corridor so furiously it took a moment for Han to realize his vision had cleared.
Leia was Force-tumbling back toward him, somersaulting and twisting through the air, arcing from one side of the corridor to the other, batting blaster bolts aside and taking momentary shelter behind the display pedestals. Behind her, the surviving assassins—if there were any—were nowhere to be seen, and a wall of royal guards was charging into the far end of the corridor, power blasters blazing.
Han rose just high enough to show his shoulders and head above the pedestal he was using for cover. “Knock it off, you rodders!” he yelled. “We’re on—”
A volley of blaster bolts brought his protest to an end, blowing the armor display off its stand and sending him to the floor beneath a crashing avalanche of durasteel.
“Han!” Leia’s voice was barely audible over the screech of blasterfire, and the burned-meat stink of blaster combat had grown so thick in the hall that Han felt like retching. “Keep down!”
“Like I have a choice,” Han grumbled—or would have grumbled, had there been enough air in his chest to do so.
He pushed a twenty-kilo breastplate off his shoulders and head, then rolled to his knees. His breath still would not come, but the ache in his chest was dull and general, suggesting he’d simply had the air knocked out of him. Leia was on the opposite side of the corridor and a little ahead of him, trapped behind a display pedestal by a torrent of blasterfire so bright and constant it resembled an ion drive’s efflux.
Han looked back to the royal guards, who had already advanced halfway down the corridor. “Okay,” he growled. “I’ve had it with you guys shooting at my wife.”
He dropped back behind the display pedestal, pointed his blaster at the ceiling, and fired into the heart of the giant chandelier. It took only a handful of shots to bring the huge fixture down in a chiming crash of wind crystals and metal, and the torrent of blasterfire coming down the corridor immediately faded to a fraction of what it had been. He raised his head again and saw that the chandelier h
ad landed squarely in the midst of the charging guards, leaving the largest part of the company sprawled on the floor—injured, trapped, or just too dazed to move.
But nearly a dozen guards had been far enough down the corridor to escape the chandelier. They were concentrating their fire on Leia, driving her back behind the pedestal every time she tried to make a break for Han’s side of the corridor. And Leia was not helping matters much, simply deflecting their bolts instead of batting them back into her attackers. Clearly, she was trying to avoid hurting Hapans still loyal to Tenel Ka.
Han cursed her scruples, then took aim at the guards’ feet and began to bounce blaster bolts off the floor. More than half of them immediately turned their attention to Han, but one—an angry-browed man with the weathered face of a veteran—repaid the Solos’ courtesy by pulling a concussion grenade off his equipment belt.
“No!” Han cried, more to himself than anyone else. “Don’t—”
The guard thumbed the activation switch, and Han had no choice but to take aim at the man’s chest.
Before he opened fire, a string of bolts flew up the corridor from behind him, catching the guard full-on and knocking him off his feet. The grenade tumbled from the Hapan’s hand and rolled free. Han swung around in shock—or maybe it was fear—and had just enough time to glimpse the pale-skinned assassin standing in the archway, firing a cumbersome Hapan power blaster with each hand.
Then the concussion grenade detonated behind him, filling the corridor with light and thunder and fire. The assassin barely blinked. She simply continued firing with one of her weapons and used the other to wave the Solos toward her.
“Come on!”
Too astonished to do anything else, Han looked across the corridor at Leia—who merely looked back and shrugged.
A few of the guards trapped beneath the fallen chandelier began to recover and fired down the corridor again, at the assassin as well as the Solos. She dropped into an evasive roll, then came up firing and suppressed their attacks to almost nothing. She gestured to the Solos again, this time leaving the power blaster pointed in Han’s direction when she finished.
“Come on,” she repeated. Her voice was high but cold. “If you want to live.”
Han glanced over at Leia.
She nodded vigorously. “Who doesn’t?”
Leia rose and raced toward the archway spinning and tumbling, batting the few blaster bolts that came her way back up the corridor. Han mirrored her progress, scrambling along sideways and laying suppression fire back toward the chandelier. He still had no idea what was happening here, but it was growing more and more apparent that nobody else did, either—and when that happened, the only rule became survival by any means possible.
As they passed through the archway, the pale woman pointed her chin toward the entrance by which they had arrived. “Stairs!”
“Fine by me,” Leia said, leading the way.
They met no resistance as they crossed the chamber, for the suitors who had not taken part in the attack were cowering behind furniture or cringing in corners, unwilling to risk their lives without weapons of their own. From what Han had seen of the assassin so far, it was probably a smart decision.
On the landing outside the chamber, the two door guards lay sprawled and motionless—as did two more on another landing on the opposite side of the turret. So far, there was no sign of any more guards—but Han knew that would be changing very shortly. He led the way down the stairs and into the corridor that led back toward the salon he and Leia had occupied earlier.
The assassin called out behind him. “Wait!”
Han stopped and glanced back to see her kneeling at the entrance to the turret. She was pointing both power blasters up the stairs, but looking toward Han and Leia.
“Where are you going?” she demanded.
“Back to the hangar,” Han answered. “We’ve got to get out of here.”
“No.” The pale woman glanced back into the turret and began to fire up the stairs. “We have a contract to finish.”
“We?” Leia asked.
“Maybe you’re not getting paid, but you’re part of this.” The woman continued to fire with one weapon, but pointed the other at Han’s chest. “And don’t look so surprised. This isn’t exactly the way I expected it to happen, either.”
The knuckles on Leia’s weapon hand went white, but luckily Han was the only one who saw. The royal guards had reached the top of the stairs, and the assassin was busy exchanging fire with them.
“Look,” Leia said. “I don’t know—”
“You obviously know who we are,” Han interrupted. He was beginning to see why the fight had seemed so crazy—the assassins had mistaken him and Leia for people who were supposed to help them get to Tenel Ka. “How about returning the favor?”
The assassin looked away from the stairs long enough to scowl at him. “You don’t know?”
“We haven’t exactly been in the loop,” Leia pointed out, picking up on Han’s strategy. “We just got in from Corellia.”
A flurry of blaster bolts flashed into the corridor, nearly taking off the assassin’s head. She merely rolled out of the doorway and pressed her back against the wall, then glanced over at Leia’s lightsaber.
“Why don’t you call me Nashtah?” She almost seemed to smile. “I’d like that.”
For some reason Han did not understand, the name sent a chill down his back—or maybe that was just the growing stream of blasterfire pouring through the doorway.
“All right, Nashtah,” he said. “In case you haven’t noticed, someone set us up.”
“Tenel Ka obviously knows about the assassination attempt,” Leia added. “And that means we have no chance of getting to her right now. All that can happen is we get trapped and killed.”
“I don’t think she knew we were involved until this started,” Han said. “But that’s changed. We’ve only got about two minutes to get back to the Falcon—if we’re lucky. After that, the hangar is going to be sealed up so tight even a lightsaber won’t be able to cut our way back inside.”
Nashtah’s eyes seemed to grow darker and more sunken as she considered this possibility. Suddenly she dropped into a squat, then whirled back into the doorway and poured a volley of blasterfire up the stairs. There was a chorus of anguished screams.
“Lead!” Nashtah rose and waved them down the corridor, then tapped Leia’s arm with a blaster barrel so hot that it singed the fabric of her robe. “And this had better not be a double cross. There is nothing I love more than killing Jedi.”
chapter eight
The Consorts’ Sitting Room stank of smoke, scorched fabric, and seared flesh, and the floor was strewn with charred furniture and blaster-burned bodies. Emergency crews were evacuating the injured while palace security agents holorecorded the dead. On the far side of the chamber, a group of dazed-looking nobles was being sequestered by a detail of the Hapan royal guard.
Jaina began to have a bad feeling about the CEC light transport that had jumped to hyperspace just as she and Zekk entered the system. It had been accelerating away from Hapes at a rate few freighters could achieve, and the fact that there had been two squadrons of Hapan star-fighters on the vessel’s tail only tended to confirm that it had been the Millennium Falcon.
Zekk leaned close. “Han and Leia Solo did not do this,” he whispered. He was still in the same flight suit he had been wearing for more than a week, but the smell was nothing to the acrid stench that already filled the room. “It’s not their style.”
“I don’t need you to tell me that.” Jaina realized that Zekk was only trying to comfort her, but comfort was not what she needed right now. What she needed were facts. “Don’t you think I know my own parents?”
Zekk ran a hand through his sweat-matted hair, then shook his head and let out a disgusted snort. He started across the room without another word, leaving Jaina to stand there wondering what was wrong. It was not like Zekk to be short with her, and she did not understand why
he should be upset. After all, it wasn’t his parents they had seen fleeing the scene of an assassination attempt.
When Jaina did not immediately start after Zekk, the sergeant in charge of their escort nudged her in the back. “Stay together.” He motioned Jaina toward the vestibule. “We’ve had enough Jedi tricks for one day.”
Jaina turned to face the Hapan. He was tall and typically handsome, with chiseled features and dark blue eyes. “My mother didn’t have anything—”
“Tell it to Prince Isolder.” He rested a hand on the butt of his holstered blaster, then used the other hand to point after Zekk. “Go.”
Tempted as Jaina was to Force-slam the sergeant into the nearest wall, she recognized that now would be a less-than-ideal time to adjust his attitude. She settled for a smirk of disdain, then followed Zekk toward the corner, where Prince Isolder was watching a female security officer interview a shaken-looking noble.
As Jaina and Zekk approached, two bodyguards stepped out to block their way. Isolder touched the arm of one.
“No, Brak.” Though it had a few new—and well-placed—lines, Isolder’s strong-featured Hapan face was as handsome as it had ever been. “They’re fine.”
Brak did not retreat. “They’re Jedi, milord. After what just happened—”
Isolder clamped down on Brak’s arm and physically pulled him back. “They’re probably the reason my daughter survived what just happened.” He turned his attention to Jaina. “Unless I miss my guess, you were the source of the Queen Mother’s recent uneasiness.”
“I did reach out to her, yes,” Jaina said.
“I thought as much.” Isolder opened his arms, inviting an embrace. “It’s good to see you again, Jaina.”
“And you as well, Prince Isolder.” Jaina hugged him, then stood aside as he clasped arms with Zekk. “I’m only sorry we couldn’t arrive earlier.”
“Nonsense. We’re thankful for your, uh, warning. It prompted the Queen Mother to increase her guard.”