Mission To Mahjundar (2 page)

If he’d been in charge of the imperial procession, the soldiers would’ve marched in better formation, with a crisper gait. Mike couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen a supposedly crack regiment display such an uncaring, lax attitude in front of the local populace. Heading the column was a contingent of mounted guards, wearing gaudy uniforms, cut from the same iridescent fabric as Rojar's, and sporting helmets with long, curling feather crests. Involuntarily, Mike glanced at his own black and gold uniform.

Busy whittling a stick of wood he’d picked up from somewhere, small yellow pocket knife sending the shavings flying, Johnny laughed out loud. "Makes you glad the Sectors don't go in for much color."
 

"We'd never be able to do our job." Mike hefted the bag he was carrying, not wanting to set anything else down on the busy street. “The enemy would see us coming a mile away.”

His cousin held out the crude carving. “My best attempt at local fauna, that winged lion thing.” He tossed the quickly done piece to a nearby boy who’d been watching him open-mouthed, before snapping his knife shut and tucking it in a pocket of his utilities.

Mike nodded at the standard bearers marching behind the guards, holding aloft the banners of the imperial household. “You mean that? The
cherindor
? You need a lot more practice.” The mythical, winged feline rampant on the banners resembled pictures he’d seen of Terran lions, but with a barbed tail and three eyes. The image was apparently ubiquitous in the city. He and Johnny had been joking about it in fact, while they’d waited for Rojar.

“Wings are tricky to carve. Just passin’ the time.”

Rojar elbowed Mike in the ribs, pointing with his free hand. “Her Imperial Highness Maralika. You’re privileged today, Major Varone, to have a glimpse of her magnificence.”

Definitely sarcasm
. Mike stifled a flash of irritation. Getting embroiled in local politics, even accidentally, wasn’t on his agenda for this search-and-recovery mission. He might have to request another liaison if this guy was going to cause problems with his hostility toward the ruling family.

The off-key trumpeters strutted by, blaring yet another fanfare. Now the empress appeared, carried in an elaborately painted litter, a muscular soldier at each corner. She was semi-reclining, so Mike couldn't get a good look at her face full on. Elaborately coiffed black hair, sparkling with jewels, framed a rather hard profile, somewhat disguised by cosmetics.
But for all I know, she’s the Mahjundan standard of high beauty.
He took a second look.
Not mine.
She waved languidly at the crowd with one pale hand as her litter proceeded along the parade route. Three rings flaunting gems the size of pigeons’ eggs caught the sun, throwing rainbows across the crowd as she flicked her hand.

Grim-faced guards walked on all sides, tougher than the gaudy troops who’d marched first in the parade. These men had their weapons at the ready, constantly scanning the mostly silent crowd.
 

A party of boisterous younger people rode horses behind the empress. Laughing and talking amongst themselves, they made no pretense whatsoever of acknowledging the crowd.
 

“Ladies-in-waiting, courtiers, some of the favored royal children,” Rojar told Mike. “We’re close to the end of the procession now. We'll be able to go on our way in a minute or two, after the priests and servants.”
 

A girl riding slightly behind the others caught Mike’s eye. She was wearing a pale blue dress, edged in lavender and gold. The lack of riotous, clashing color alone made her stand out to Mike in this crazy kaleidoscope of a city. But then he took a second glance to admire her beauty, masses of glossy black hair framing her lovely oval face. Brows drawn together in a fierce frown of concentration above almond-shaped eyes, she sat straight-backed in the saddle, one hand clenched in a death grip on the pommel, the other clutching the reins. Holding the horse’s green-tasseled bridle was a guard in the most subdued uniform Mike had seen yet on the color mad planet - brown-and-emerald with no braid or gaudy ribbons. Having a keen eye for horses, Mike could tell her magnificent stallion was ill at ease, sidestepping nervously, tossing its head, wild-eyed and sweating. He was about to ask Rojar a question about these two when suddenly there was a massive explosion farther to the east, toward the palace, followed by another, smaller blast.
 

The shock wave knocked Mike to his knees, hands going automatically to his ears, which ached from the concussion.
 

The crowd went berserk, screaming, pushing, running in all directions.
 

Instinctively, Mike reached for the blaster customarily at his hip.
Damn, not this trip.

The neat column of the procession had fallen to chaos on the roadway. The horses bolted, one plowing through the crowd right behind Mike, knocking people over like straws. Caught in a knot of Mahjundans, forced away from his companions by the unruly mob, Mike’s attention was riveted on the black stallion, rearing and lashing out. The guard in green was nowhere to be seen.
 

Mike pushed against the packed, sweating bodies surrounding him, yelling above the din for people to get out of his way. His attention was focused on the beautiful girl who’d seemed such a reluctant horsewoman. The stallion was circling, bucking, gathering itself to bolt while she did her best to control the terrified animal. Lips compressed, eyes unaccountably closed, the woman he’d become fascinated by before the explosion was holding the reins tight. Mike ran across the green tile border and into the street, which offered easier going. Most people were trying to escape from the square altogether, putting as much distance as possible between themselves and the potential danger of another explosion. Sprinting to the horse, Mike made a wild grab at the reins.
 

Seeing her at closer range, he revised his estimate of her age upward by about ten years–not a girl in the late bloom of youth after all, but a stunning woman. “Hang on, lady, I’ll help you dismount. Once you’re safe, I can try to get him calmed down for you,” Mike said, pitching his voice at a level he hoped would cut through the incredible din in the square. “You’re doing fine, just don’t let go of the reins, ok?”

She opened her eyes, turning in his direction. “Oh, please—”

The stallion bucked harder, breaking the rider’s hold on the saddle. She slid off like a rag doll. Cursing, Mike let go of the horse, which promptly bolted. He managed to break the girl's fall, going to one knee as he caught her. To prevent her from being trampled by the crowd, which surged into the space the distressed horse had kept clear with its lashing hooves, Mike carried her in the direction the panick-stricken people were flowing. "Come on, we've got to get away from this mob!"
 

It was like swimming in a riptide. Going with the flow initially, Mike angled toward the far curb and got himself and his trembling companion across the roadway.
 

“I can walk,” she said, voice faint. Making no effort to leave the security of his arms, however, she had her eyes closed again.
 

Rather than waste time arguing, he carried her as he clambered over fallen people and maneuvered around debris until they fetched up in the doorway of a bakery. The sweet smell of fresh breads mingled incongruously with the stench of smoke from the bomb blast. With a muttered apology, Mike set the woman on her feet behind him, so he could defend them both if necessary.
 

Drawing his belt knife, which was the only weapon he’d been allowed to carry through the city gates, he felt better. Now prepared to deal with whatever might happen next, he crouched in the doorway, trying to keep the woman out of sight behind him as much as possible. Mike surveyed the plaza, identifying
no immediate threats
. No one paying us any attention right now, too much confusion and panic
. He had no way of knowing if the empress had just been the target of an assassination attempt or whether the bombers had hoped some members of the royal household would be unlucky enough to be caught in the blast so close to the parade. If it was the latter case, his job was to keep the terrorists from stumbling over his companion.
Time to reassure the woman I rescued.
 

Half-turning to check how she was doing, he said, “Sorry for the rough handling, miss. Someone apparently has it in for the royal family today.”
 

One hand was clenched around a small red purse tied to her belt. She was staring slightly over his shoulder with beautiful caramel-brown eyes, golden highlights sparkling in their depths. Reaching to touch his shoulder with her free hand, she let her manicured nails drift ever so slowly to his face.
 

She’s blind?
He allowed her to run her hand over his features for a moment.

Finishing her rudimentary scan, the woman patted her hair and cleared her throat. “Your voice is unknown to me, sir, but thank you for your help. What of my guardsman? I’m anxious about his safety.”
 

You should be worrying about your own skin, lady.
“I didn't see him after the explosion. He probably got dragged away by the crowd. There were a lot of people in the market, and they became a mob with one thing on their minds—escape. I had a hard time working my way to you and the horse.” Mike took a deep breath of her perfume, floral with a woodsy undertone, while he reconnoitered the square again with practiced efficiency. “The excitement will subside in a few minutes, after which I’d be honored to escort you to the palace.”
 

“Most kind.” She stood patiently, one hand at her throat, toying with the turquoise and green necklace she wore. ”I wish we knew what had become of my guard.”
 

He checked conditions in the plaza. The crowd had thinned out now, leaving behind a colossal mess of broken pottery, crushed food, torn awnings, and everywhere, the injured. Mike guessed most of the casualties had been knocked down and trampled in the panic, since the lethal effect of the bomb itself had been localized.
Is this the explanation behind Rojar not wanting to walk any farther? He was on edge, anticipating something from the moment we met him.

The woman leaned back until she was propped up by the bakery wall. “Could—could you tell me what’s wrong with my arm? I think it’s bleeding.”
 

Returning his knife to the sheath first, he took her slender, tanned arm and pushed several jeweled bracelets and the blood-stained fabric of her sleeve out of the way. A jagged metal shard was embedded in her upper arm, blood dripping onto the sheer silk dress. Examining the wound carefully, Mike was relieved to find it messy but superficial. The blood was already clotting. “Not too serious, just a big metal splinter. Hold still and I'll pull it out. Have you got something we can use for a bandage, until you can see a doctor?”
 

With her free hand, she tugged a wispy lavender scarf from her ebony black hair. “Will this do?” she asked, holding it slightly off to his right.
 

Mike reached over to take the scrap of fabric. “Fine. Now try not to move.” Getting a firm grip on the twisted fragment, he drew it out, doing his best not to enlarge the wound. Then he wrapped the puncture firmly with the scarf. “You probably won’t even need stitches,” he said cheerfully. The woman stood quietly during the whole procedure, closing her eyes and breathing too fast, her chest rising and falling. She nodded at his remark but didn’t answer.

Mike surveyed his handiwork, then peered at her face. “Only a small piece of shrapnel, but pretty jagged. You're pale. Are you sure you're up to walking?”

Stepping away from the wall, she straightened her shoulders resolutely. “I'll be fine. We must get to the palace. They’ll be searching for me, and if there’s trouble on the streets, I shouldn’t be out.”
 

“Let me help you, then.” He laid his hand on her uninjured arm, to guide her down the bakery's three shallow steps.
 

She pulled away from him abruptly, eyebrows drawn together in a frown. “I can manage.”
 

Mike didn’t relinquish his grip on her wrist. “I don't care if you know every inch of this plaza on an ordinary day—there's too much debris at the moment. You won't get ten steps without tripping over something. Now, do I guide you or do I carry you?"
 

Wordlessly, but with the hint of a curve to her lips, she extended her other hand. Closing her fingers over his with a strong grasp, she allowed him to lead her from their sheltering doorway. Mike decided against walking in the roadway.
Too conspicuous.
He set a path along the fringes of the plaza, sticking close to the shops. It wouldn’t be as direct a route to the palace, but they’d attract less attention, a goal high on his priority list at the moment.
 

“Are there many injured?” she asked, brow wrinkled, voice soft with concern.
 

“Afraid so. Must have been quite a bomb. There are people attending to the wounded now, though.” Steering her around a spilled cart of melons, past a decapitated sheep, he was glad she couldn't see the carnage. Collateral damage and human casualties were increasing as they got closer to the smoking bomb crater.

Empress Maralika's empty litter was tipped sideways, the solid wooden undercarriage facing the side of the street where the bomb had gone off.
Gave the empress some protection
. The litter appeared undamaged in the middle of the roadway, about fifty feet short of the worst of the blast zone. Lying in the street, one of the four guards who’d been carrying the litter was moaning and clutching at his chest.