Aurora - Blood Moon Tribute Pt. 09

The king's roar echoed through the chambers. "LIAR!"

"As meaningless on Earth as in Heaven."

The king turned pale, realising the breadth and depth of the betrayal. "My own mystics," he breathed, "turned against me. Heaven itself abandons me."

"Don't worry, Pop," Rashiid said, "I'll see to it you get a proper burial. If they ever find the remains. You men!" he gestured at a loitering squad with his chin, "Take my seers back to their quarters. Have food sent up, and some wine." He looked at the mystics. "Anything else?"

"A s... s.... s..." Short Round stammered.

"Is he always like this?" Rashiid glared.

"It's all the soothsaying," Reverend Rake explained, "it's affected his brain. In the upper dimensions he sings like a bird."

"Well, what does he want?"

"Serving boys." Reverend Rake replied and Short Round nodded. "Three or four should do. Young and handsome as they can be." Another avid nod. "And for me. A Paris model or two, young ones, to help me meditate. And if they could rustle up a nice big block of hashish."

"Consider it done." Rashiid said. "And in return, I would have you canvas the these higher dimensions you speak of. I seek their blessing. As soon as the Grand Scholar arrives, I am to be wed. I wish to know our future, my bride's and mine."

"It will be done." the seers bowed, suddenly disavowed of their ambitions on one hand, still alive on the other. They turned to go, never once laying a craven eye on their former patron.

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The first body lay on the stairway, the long, sandstone service route on the eastern flank of the palace. A steward by the looks, still in uniform, shot in the back. For the old man a grim and frightening sight- he'd dared a glance at a road accident he'd once passed, the front and rear passengers, both deceased, partly ejected from the wreckage. That instant of vision still haunted him, but for Sook the dead were old friends. Edging past the scene, they quickly descended the stairs, out of sight of the palace proper, counting the landings.

On the pool level, heaped one on top of the other, 2 more casualties, a trooper and a palace guard, both servants of the king. Stepping over them, Watson put his fingers to his lips and pulled the hood over his head, then sidled to the terrace entrance for peek.

The pool terrace was milling with commandos, rifles over their backs, smoking and laughing, while their leader was down on one knee, busy with the radio. Tracers arced into the night, followed seconds later by the chatter of gunfire. From the barracks island by the looks, a few diehards or enthusiasts letting loose. Inching back out of sight, Watson looked at Sook then jerked his head in the direction of downstairs.

"What did you see?" Sook whispered.

"The baddies."

"How do you know they were baddies?"

"Cos' they were all enjoying themselves. Did you hear that gunfire?"

Sook nodded.

"I think it came from the barracks."

"Well," Sook shrugged, "I guess I'll soon find out."

As Sook set off, Watson caught her sleeve. "Sookie. I'm not entirely sure we can do this."

Sook looked at his hand and gently pulled away. "Do what?"

"Go out there. To look for the girls. It might be best if we just lay low."

Time stopped for one of those instants, as if the universe had just hit a crossroads. The old man looked at Sook, waiting, hoping she might give him a way out. "Lay low?" she frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Just till the shooting stops."

Sook's skin looked like fine bone China under the moonlight. She shook her head. "It'll be too late by then. We'll all be rounded up then god-knows what."

"But we're guests."

"I'm a chick, Damon. That's not gonna go down well. Nor is a flogged-out old yachtie, no offence, impersonating a billionaire scientist."

"Maybe we can just plead insanity."

Sook blew a raspberry. "Let me know how that works out. Face it, Damon. Either way it goes we're probably done-for. If we're gonna die we might as well die trying."

Watson ran a trembling hand through his hair. "But I don't wanna die."

"Well neither do I." Sook said curtly, "But if I have to, I wanna make it worth something." She set off, but had only gone three or four steps when she stopped and looked over her shoulder. "You coming?"

Watson shook his head. "I... I..."

Turning, Sook ran silently back up the stairs to his side. "Damon, now is not the time."

"But you don't understand."

"But I do understand. The Yalu River, remember?"

Watson gripped her arm and put his face in hers. "It's not the dying I'm afraid of, it's the failing. Failing them. Failing you."

Sook heaved a deep, frustrated breath. "You know what, Damon? You're right. I grew up with this shit. I know when to hold 'em and I know when to fold 'em. The best thing you can do is go back to your room. Lock yourself in. Seriously. I'm younger, faster and much better looking than you. I'll be okay. Tell me. Where can I find Beck?"

A tidal wave of shame crashed over the old man. "Beck? In... in... in... in her chambers. Very top level of the top tier. But there's a dirty great gate and a..."

"Don't worry, Damon," Sook raised a hand, "I can nut it out. I can get the girls out on my own. Beck first, then Ally. When the heat dies down, meet us on the beach."

"But Sook... no... Please Sook, I'm begging you. Come back with me. Let's go to my room and just wait it out."

Sook wrapped her arms around the old man and gave him a hug. "No can do, Pardner. Phase one, steal underpants. Phase three, get the fuck out of here. Phase two... well... why don't you let me take care of that one?"

The old man looked at her, burning with humiliation. Shouts, screams, several volleys of gunfire, put the seal on his determination not to go on. "Off you go." Sook said, trying to physically turn him away, "You'll be safe up there. You're a billionaire, remember, they're not going to touch you. Me, on the other hand... Crossing the no-go line and sneaking into the palace. Impersonating a handsome young devil. And when they work out I'm an inny, not an outie."

"But... Sook..."

"Scat, cat. I'll be careful, I promise."

Light on her feet, silent as a shadow, the young Korean girl set off. Plodding upwards towards safety, leaden feet scuffing the stone, the old man had only gone half a dozen steps when some unseen force dragged him to a halt. He looked downstairs in time to see Sook turn right off the bottom landing and disappear.

Black robes flying, he caught her with meters to go, before the last few steps leading down to the road. For a moment it looked like she was about to hit him, till she recognised the face peering out from under the hood. Together, they ran, stooped, to the shadows of a retaining wall.

"I thought I sent you home!" Sook whispered harshly.

Watson threw the hood back. "They have a song, you know."

"What fuckin' song? Who do?"

"The Underpants Gnomes." Watson said then cleared his throat and in a quiet, strained falsetto, sang, "Time to go to work, work all night, search for underpants heyyy..."

Sook raised a hand. "Thanks! Thanks... I'm a much better person for hearing it. And now I've heard it, fuck off."

Watson leant out of the shadows, checking the coast was clear. Taking Sook's arm, he pulled her out from under cover. "See that stairway?" he pointed at the western duplicate of the eastern stairs they'd just descended. "It goes all the way to the top. To a side entrance."

"Got it. And what do I do when I get there?"

"You mean what do I do. Phase Two. I'll go for Becky, like we agreed."

Sook licked her lips. "What are you gonna do if you get shot?"

"What do you mean?" Watson shrugged. "Fall down? Die?"

"You're not gonna blame me?"

"No. Will you blame me if you get shot?"

Sook nodded. "At first."

They embraced, and Sook pulled back smearing her eyes. "I knew you'd come."

"You know that works on so many levels." the old man sighed.

"We've got all that stuff to look forward to. During Phase Three."

"Better go." Watson said and heaved a sigh. His mouth was dry, and his heart was pounding loud enough to give them away. As Sook was tensing to go, Watson caught her elbow. "Sook, Sweetheart? Do I talk in my sleep?"

Sook knitted her brows. "I... you... do you what?"

"Do I talk in my sleep? Because if I do, then you already know how much I love you."

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One foot after the other, step by sweating step, a black-clad figure scaled the endless sandstone stairway. The misshapen moon hung brightly overhead, smiling benignly, gazing down on the fighting and killing. After three dead ends and half a dozen wrong turns, Fat Cleric had just worked his way out of the labyrinth, at the foot of the palace, several hundred steps from where he was meant to be. The problem with secret passageways was they were secret. There were no maps, no guides, no 'You Are Here' showing the way. He'd rattled around like a mouse in a maze, only to wind up here. Outside. On the stairway. The only sure-fire route to his goal.

Unseen above him, another form in shapeless black had just reached the head of the stairs, to find the way barred by the same huge, steel door he'd seen on previous visits. Of course it came as no surprise- just one of many hurdles the night held in store- a test of that hackneyed old mantra, 'no problems, only solutions'.

He tried the handle- locked, naturally, then took a few steps back, the better to scale the obstacle with his eyes. There had to be a way around, surely. On an island swarming with palace security, it was more a deterrence than insurmountable barrier. To warn off random visitors, like VVIPs out for a moonlight stroll. Moving to the edge, Watson struggled up onto the stairway boundary wall, looking straight down at the rounded boulders of the mountainside four or five meters below. The spikes and razor-wire finished at ground-level. Getting down would be easy enough. Getting back up with multiple fractures would be a whole other challenge.

Watson froze and his hair stood on end as the sound of laboured panting reached his ears. Deep, ragged breaths, the sound of scuffing footsteps, unequivocally human. Shrinking back against the gate, dark robes merging with the dull black steel, the old man looked down to see a dim, ghostly figure slogging up the stairs.

Fear coiled around his intestines and gave them a squeeze. Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, his only other option; blend in. Fight, flight, or freeze. A primal reflex, in some time-expired tin, right up the back of the cupboard. One foot on the wall, the other dangling in the void, Watson melded with the cold steel barrier, counting each breath, ready to make jump for it if the situation turned nasty. Onto the stairway, preferably. Over the side if there was no other way.

The figure pulled up within spitting distance, on the landing, right in front of the gateway. Oblivious to the presence a couple of meters away, the figure turned to face the wall, a towering edifice of sawn stone blocks, perfectly dressed and bereft of features. For a moment it just stood there, doubled over, hands braced on its knees, muttering inaudibly as if praying. Or complaining. Any second now, it would try to open the big black gate and they'd both be in for a little surprise.

The new arrival fumbled under its voluminous robes and moonlight glanced off a thin metal rod, gold or bronze, with a four-finned cross-head, like a pair of razorblades at ninety degrees. Watson braced himself- if that was the gate key then he was out of there, straight down on top of the punter and get a head-start down the stairs. Instead, the apparition stepped up to the wall, then carefully winkled the cross-head into the intersection of four adjoining blocks. A sudden 'click!' made Watson jump, and as he watched, section of the wall retracted. A warm, yellow glow spilled onto the stairway, dim as candle light. The figure looked left and right, checking for witnesses, a surplus precaution, since who else would be up there?

A wide-eyed Westerner as it turned out, trying hard to rein in his breathing. Without a second look, the black robed phantom folded into the light, then disappeared, closing the hole in the wall behind him.

Turning stiffly and dismounting, Watson shucked his sleeves up, fully intending to beat a retreat. Go back the way he had come, down the stairs, then cut across the 3rd or 4th tier back to familiar territory. Back to his room for a good, stiff drink, then come up with an alternative plan. And if he were stopped and challenged on the way, well, how bloody dare they? He was a very rich man, a guest of the king, merely trying to find his way to the dining hall.

As he passed wall where the door had been, a wafer-thin sliver of light caught his eye. Teetering to a stop, Watson backed up, searching for that telltale gleam, the merest inkling, where the edge of a concealed doorway met the wall. The snug fitting joint was almost invisible, merging perfectly with the structure around it... almost invisible, but not quite.

One eye closed, Watson lay his cheek against the wall, the ruddy sandstone still warm after heat-soaking all day. As he leant, heavy breathing, searching for some hint of what lay beyond, the old man felt the door move under his hand, the slab weighing a ton or more deftly poised on its hinges. The figure, whomever it might have been, had not shut the thing properly behind him, either that or he meant to come back, in which case it would be best to leave. The smartest course of action, Watson thought, in fact the only one, was to be nowhere around when the joker returned. Get as far away from this unexpected temptation as quickly, quietly and unobtrusively as he could. Fall back to safety and come up with another idea.

Watson looked over his shoulder at the sound of gunfire, a long, emphatic exchange lighting up the sky with ricochets of tracer. The doorway stood partly open, beckoning. Peeking inside, he found a short concrete tunnel, dimly lit by overhead strips. Pushing further inside, he saw what looked to be an ascending stairway, five meters away on the left. By his estimation, the flight was heading upwards to the palace top tier, to the chambers of the royal bride. And while he'd never been a betting man, he wagered that was where the mysterious figure had gone.

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Beck stood at the door, pounding on the woodwork. "YOU FUCKEN' BITCH!" she bellowed, long after Inayat had gone. "IS THAT ANY WAY TO TREAT YOUR QUEEN?"

Hope and Floraliza dragged her back, in case someone decided to answer with an assault rifle, and stood-by sobbing, tears tracking over their cheeks. Inayat's warning had not been lost on them. They were done for, the doctor had promised.

"What are you two snivelling about?" Beck demanded, venting her fear. "I'm a queen now. You just wait till my husband hears what she just did."

Hope and Floraliza swapped a glance- how little their young mistress knew. "My Lady," Floraliza quavered, "I fear you may be in grave danger."

Beck curled her lip. "I'm in danger? Not as much as she is. I'm queen now, that raddled old bitch has to answer to me."

"Didn't you hear her?" Hope asked wanly. "A wedding on the Blood Moon. Two days away. And then you will return to the Mountain Palace. Not the Sea Palace. The mountain Palace."

Beck hooked a wayward tress from her cheek. "Well, what's that supposed to mean?"

"The king." Hope said. "His Majesty... We fear he may have been..." Hope looked at Floraliza, groping for the term.

"Thrown over."

"Thrown over?" Beck frowned. "Thrown over what?"

"No, no." Floraliza shook her head. "His son, Prince Rashiid. We fear he may have taken the crown."

Beck shucked her sleeves up. "He can't take the crown. He's third in line. I saw it on a docco. God knows they made me watch it often enough."

Floraliza took Beck's hand. "His older brother renounced the throne." she said, tears dripping from her chin. "And his younger brother, Iskander, is barely eighteen. And if the crown were to be taken by force..."

Beck tilted her head, frowning. "They still do that?"

The handmaidens looked at each other once more. As much as they loved the girl, sometimes it seemed their mistress was from another planet. "Of course." Hope said. "All the time."

"And if it's Rashiid," Floraliza said, twirling a finger, taking in the bloodshed raging outside, "then the situation may be very bad for you."

"But I'm queen now, right?" Beck frowned. "I'm like his step-mum or something, and he'll have to do what I say. And I'm telling you. Any monkey business, I'll take that little shit and kick him in the ass, then put him in the naughty corner with bread and water."

Every time the maids swapped a glance Beck's anxiety cranked up another degree. Their red eyes, streaming tears, and dripping snot candles didn't help either. She flicked her hair back. "Well, what's the worst he can do? Send me home?"

Floraliza put her face in her hands, shoulders shaking with anguish, and Hope put an arm around her. "Sometimes the prince does not treat women well."

Beck cocked her head, looking deadpan. "Ah... You mean the screaming wall?"

Floraliza dropped to a squat, howling into her hands. The African girl Hope, who'd seen way too much, simply nodded.

Beck squinted at her. "He'd seriously do that?"

Hope nodded once more and her lips barely moved. "Yes, My Lady."

The colour drained from Beck's face and she looked around, then raked her hair back. "Well, if that little prick tries anything, I'm taking him with me." she said with mock belligerence in the face of knee-shaking fear. Her eyes settled on a tall, sliver refrigerator, a two-door affair, in the refreshments-nook of her chambers. Bending, she slid her hands under Floraliza's armpits and heaved her upright. "I'm the frikken boss around here," she huffed, "and if that little fuckhead wants that frikken' crown, he'll have to go through me."

Floraliza swiped her face with a forearm. They were doomed, of course, but if there was one thing she knew; her fearless, brazen, upstart mistress would make the enemy work for it. "Chin up, Lizzy." Beck said. "Girls, let's face it... men have the attention span of a special-needs goldfish. If we can just harbour up in here a while, Prince-fucking-Littledick might get bored and go away. What do you say? Get over here and let's move this bloody fridge."

Beck threw a priceless Persian silk carpet on the floor. Between them, they walked the refrigerator out of its alcove, then pushed it over, standing aside as it toppled sideways onto the rug. Huffing and grunting, they dragged the prostrate appliance across the marble tiles, then rolled it onto its back, hard up against the double doors.

Wiping her hands, Beck looked around. Her heart sank. Two further doors opened into the chambers, one from an anteroom, the other from Doctor Inayat's quarters. Leaving the maids to study their handywork, she padded across to a door, her face expressionless, mind racing. The locks were activated by radio-magnetic readers, with antiquarian key locks for backup. Beck swept her hair back again- sheer nervous energy- then cast around for inspiration.

Her maids were still transfixed by the fallen refrigerator and all it implied. A crime like this in the royal residence- wanton vandalism- carried a life-sentence, guaranteed. When that venom-spitting harridan, Inayat, returned, their world would implode, so it seemed only sensible to maximise the damage. Looking up to the sound of breaking furniture, they found Beck nearby dismantling the 100 year-old, rare-timber furniture. "My Lady?" Floraliza blinked.