Star Wars: Scoundrels (38 page)

It was a long shot. But sometimes long shots paid off.

The room they ushered him into was surprisingly large, equipped with a small table and four chairs, a couple of floor lights, and six beds spaced around the living area. Guards’ quarters, all right, furnished for men or Falleen who would use the room for little except sleeping. Manning led the way across to a wide door on the side wall that had an oversized keypad beside it. He punched in a simple code—one, two, three—and the door slid open to reveal a large walk-in closet. Tawb walked Han over to it and gave him a shove inside.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” Han protested as he regained his balance and looked around. No clothing, no storage boxes—the closet was completely bare except for a couple of long hanging rods along the side walls, some moveable shelves, and about a dozen hangers. “How about you at least give me one of those chairs?”

“How about we don’t,” Tawb said, giving the closet a quick once-over of his own and then backing out. “Enjoy your stay. We’ll be back when Master Villachor calls for you.”

“More likely when Master Qazadi calls,” Han called as the door slid shut. “He seems to be the one running things now.”

There was no comment from either of them. Han hadn’t really expected one.

The closet was pitch-dark, but Han had spotted a switch by the door on his way in. He tapped it, and a set of soft lights went on along the closet’s upper edges.

He spent the next couple of minutes looking around the room, hoping there might be something useful that he’d missed on his first sweep. But there was still nothing. The hangers were high-class types, polished hardwood with chrome hooks—marginally useful as clubs, but nothing that would do any good against a heavy wooden door. The shelves and clothing rods were the same polished hardwood, again not offering much in the way of escape material. The walls and floor were also hardwood, a different kind from that of the shelving but just as solid. The ceiling—

The ceiling.

Han looked up. The ceiling looked to be made of some kind of ceramic. But back when Rachele had been talking about the vault, she’d mentioned a gap between the ceiling and the floor above it. If the same design was in play up here, that ceiling shouldn’t be supporting any weight, and might not be all that thick.

And if the between-floors gap was big enough for him to fit into …

It took a couple of minutes to take down the shelves and set them up against the side walls, angled from floor to ceiling in opposite directions to create a sort of makeshift scaffold. Picking the sturdiest-looking of the wooden hangers, he climbed up onto the shelves and gave the ceiling an experimental tap.

Nothing happened. He tapped a little harder, then a little harder, wondering if the noise was going to draw unwelcome attention. But no one rushed in. He kept at it until finally, with a medium-hard tap, the hanger broke through the ceramic.

He’d been right—the material wasn’t very thick. Working along the spiderweb of cracks radiating outward from the impact point, he broke off enough to make a twenty-centimeter opening. He climbed the rest of the way up his scaffolding and eased his head through.

There was a between-floors gap, all right. Unfortunately, it was no more than twenty or thirty centimeters deep, with a narrower framing above the closet door. Bink might have been able to get through, especially with proper climbing gear, but there was no way Han was going to.

But if he could tear away enough of the ceiling outside the closet, he might be able to use one of the clothing poles to work the keypad and open the door. The one-two-three code Manning had punched in was probably a default setting and would be easy enough to duplicate.

Climbing back down, he moved his scaffolding to a spot right in front of the door and got to work.

From everything Dayja had read in the visitor brochures, the Honoring of Moving Fire was the climax of the Festival, the day when the various venues around the planet worked the hardest to outdo each other. Someday, Dayja decided, he would have to take the time to come here and actually watch it.

But today wasn’t that day. Today he had eyes only for the crowd wandering the Marblewood grounds.

There were eleven people on Eanjer’s team, he knew. Peeking in from their balcony nine days earlier, he’d seen them all in their suite’s conversation room. And though he’d seen one of the women only from behind, he’d had clear views of all the others’ faces. Today, right now, was their last and best chance to breach Villachor’s mansion and get into his vault. They should be here, ready to play their parts in whatever scheme Eanjer had come up with.

He’d already spotted three of them. Two of them, the team’s youngest human male and the shifty-eyed Balosar, seemed to have the same job: to stroll around and surreptitiously attach something beneath the flame-patterned gowns of the various serving and maintenance droids. Restraining bolts, Dayja guessed, or possibly small detonite charges. The third team member, a black-haired young woman dressed in a long and vibrant red gown, had attached herself to Sheqoa, the Marblewood security chief. She, obviously, was setting up to be the diversion.

So where in blazes were the other eight?

Off to his left, a sudden geyser of blue-yellow flame burst up toward the sky, sending a wave of warmth across the assembled crowd. Dayja gave the fountain an absent-minded look, then changed direction and headed toward the drink pavilions. The sun was just about down, with full darkness and the climactic fireworks display maybe an hour and a half away. He would give Eanjer that first hour to make his move, he decided. After that, if there was still nothing happening, he would go find Villachor and try to pick up the threads of his original penetration plan.

In the meantime, the Marblewood food and drink pavilions were still impressively stocked. He might as well take advantage of that.

The room ceiling just outside the door was as easy to break through as the closet ceiling had been, though Han winced at each snap and crack that the ceramic made as the pieces came loose. He could see that the room door was partially open, and he was mildly surprised that no one out there had noticed the noise he was making.

Still, as he’d already noted, most of Villachor’s people were busy elsewhere. That, plus the noise of the crowd and the show outside, was apparently enough to cover his activities.

The first snag came when he realized that the clothing poles were too long to maneuver through the holes, into the between-floors gap, and down through the hole outside the door. They also stubbornly refused to break, even when he angled one of them against the wall and jumped on it.

But there were still the fancy hangers. By hooking them together, he was able to make a flexible chain long enough to dangle through the opening and tap against the keypad.

Not that it was easy. It took a multitude of attempts and more patience than Han thought he had. But in the end, he got the door open.

Luckily the main room was still empty. Holding one of the hangers ready like a club, a small part of his mind recognizing how ridiculous such a weapon would be against knives, neuronic whips, and blasters, he crossed the room and eased a look outside.

And found himself well and truly blocked. Fifteen meters down the hallway, standing on opposite sides of one of the doors, were the two Falleen bodyguards he’d seen earlier.

Evidently Qazadi was the one person in Iltarr City who wasn’t outside watching Villachor’s fire show.

Mouthing a curse, he eased back from the door. Okay, so he was trapped in here. But that wouldn’t last forever. As soon as Lando showed up with their fake cryodex, Qazadi would surely go downstairs to take a look. Where Qazadi went, the bodyguards would also go.

And with the rest of Villachor’s people out and about, once the Falleen were gone Han basically should have free run of the mansion.

Assuming Lando did indeed bring the cryodex.

Get this through your head, Solo
, Lando’s angry words whispered through his memory.
We’ve been friends in the past, so I’m not going to do what you so richly deserve and blow your head off. But don’t ever come near me again
.

Lando had told him earlier that he’d cooled down since that rant, that he’d grudgingly realized Han hadn’t stiffed him on purpose. Given their long history together, Han had accepted the cease-fire as genuine.

But what if it wasn’t? What if the not-quite-apology had simply been the words Lando figured he had to say in order to get a shot at Eanjer’s 163 million credits?

In that case, all Lando had to do was stick with the original plan, help the others raid the Marblewood safe, and leave Han to whatever Qazadi decided to do with him. Neat and clean, with no need for Lando to dirty his own hands.

And it would pretty much guarantee that he’d never have to worry about Han coming near him again.

Han took a deep breath. No, Lando wouldn’t do that to him. Not that way. Definitely not with Chewie breathing down his neck.

He just had to wait. That was all. Just wait.

Backing across the room to one of the beds, he settled down onto the floor behind it, slouching enough to put his eyes just above mattress level, where he could see the hallway but wouldn’t be immediately visible himself unless whoever was passing took a careful look.

Lando and the others would come up with something. He just needed to be ready when they did.

Carefully, Lando settled their fake cryodex into its case and sealed it. “Everyone ready?” he asked, looking around the room.

A chorus of affirmatives ran through the group. They certainly
looked
ready, Lando decided. Even with a brown floppy hat obscuring half her face and the tension of anticipation lying before her, Tavia was stunning in her demure brown dress. Rachele had moved her computer over to the window, ready to provide whatever support anyone needed, whether it involved data fishing or high-sky visual work. Winter and Dozer were dressed in outfits that wouldn’t draw a second glance on the street but which were tailored to allow ease of running, dodging, or shooting. Chewbacca, typically, just looked impatient to get going.

“Okay,” Lando said, carefully adjusting the edge of the nondescript silk tear-away jacket Zerba had made for him. “Let’s do this.”

“Hang on!” Eanjer called from down the hall.

Lando turned, wondering irritably what the other man wanted now.

He felt his mouth drop open. Eanjer had put on a long dark blue coat, its upturned collar hiding much of the medseal that covered the right half of his face. Draped jauntily across his head was a wide burgundy beret with a side spray of drooping feathers at the lower edge that hid most of the rest.

“What are you all dressed up for?” Lando demanded.

“I’m going with you,” Eanjer said, his voice firm. “It’s my fault Han’s in this mess. I’m not going to just sit here and do nothing.”

“What if Villachor’s people recognize you?” Tavia asked.

“They won’t,” Eanjer assured her.

“And if they do?” Tavia persisted.

Eanjer’s single eye looked like something cut from flint as he slowly turned to face her. “Then you and Bink will have an extra bit of diversion to do, won’t you?”

Chewbacca growled and gestured impatiently toward the door.

“Yes, and we don’t have any to waste,” Lando agreed reluctantly. He didn’t want Eanjer in there with him. But unless they threw binders on the man’s wrists or ordered Rachele to sit on him, there wasn’t any practical way to keep him in the suite. “Fine. But.” He leveled a finger. “You’ll stay in the background, do
only
what one of us tells you to do, and will
not
make yourself a diversion of any kind. Understood?”

“Understood.” Eanjer smiled cynically. “After all, if Villachor gets me, your hundred sixty-three million suddenly shrinks to eight hundred thousand. Can’t have that, can we?”

“Never mind the shrinkage,” Lando growled. “We know what we’re doing. You don’t. So stay out of the way.”

“Trust me,” Eanjer said softly. “I have no intention of dying today.”

“Good,” Lando said. “Because neither do the rest of us.” He took a deep breath. “All right. Let’s go.”

There was another round of muted agreement as they all headed for the door.

As he joined them, Lando felt a frown crease his forehead. It had been hard to tell through all the rest of their murmurings. But he could have sworn Winter had just said—

“Winter?” he asked.

“Yes?” she said, looking at him.

Lando felt his lip twitch. “Nothing,” he said, and kept walking.

Because, really, no one said
May the Force be with us
anymore. No one but Rebels and religious nuts.

And if Winter was one of either group, he really didn’t want to know about it.

D
ozer settled the airspeeder down onto the rooftop landing area half a block from the Lulina Crown Hotel and cut the engine and lights.

“In position,” Winter reported into her comlink. She listened a moment, then nodded. “Okay. Let us know when.”

She clicked off and put it away. “The others are heading in,” she told Dozer. “Lando will call when he wants us to make our move.”