Free Star Wars: Knight Errant by John Jackson Miller Page B

air, they’d done something to apply some spin. Now Narsk tumbled gyroscopically in the air meters above the others, in the space between two ofDaiman’s catwalks. It’d been like this all day: bouts of violent rotation punctuated by occasional slowdowns during which his body was right-side up. Narsk supposed it was to keep him from passing out. For the first time since his imprisonment, he was glad he hadn’t been fed.
    The brief respites had given him a chance to survey the hall, though, and those inside. Daiman had stalked the catwalks for hours, seemingly brooding on some aspect of creation or another. Occasionally, he retired to the oversized plush mass, more a bed than a throne, resting in the middle of the suspended platform. Narsk thought he sat like a youngling, his legs curled up underneath as he idly kicked the ends of the cape. No, not a child , Narsk thought. An adolescent .
    Beyond a few aggravated sighs, Daiman had said nothing at all. He had, however, vanished twice into one of the exits for a wardrobe change. Narsk figured something must be about to happen. The sighs were becoming more like groans, and each outfit had been more outrageous than the last.
    There must be company coming , Narsk thought. I can’t believe this is what he wears around the house .
    The audience below had gotten no more attention from Daiman than Narsk had. There were Correctors there, and a few elite sentries. They stood, waiting silently on their master—as did a Woostoid woman Narsk took to be Daiman’s aide-de-camp. Narsk didn’t recognize her, but no spy could ever keep track of Daiman’s palace lineup. She certainly hadn’t been hired for her charm, he saw, every time he revolved to face her. Orange-skinned with bound magenta hair, the spindly thing looked like a black hole was sucking her face from within. All the engineering teams in the sector couldn’t construct a smile out of that raw material.
    Narsk couldn’t figure it. Daiman seemed to prize beauty in his house hold. But then he had anotherthought: It must be this way when you’re in love with yourself .
    “I heard that, spy!”
    Narsk’s frame whirled around long enough to give him a glimpse of Daiman at the edge of the platform, raising his talon-tipped hand. Seconds later all Narsk saw was blue pain, as Force lightning wracked his shaking body. As the attack subsided, rivulets of energy crackled off the side of the rack.
    “You think you’ve hurt me, don’t you? Don’t you? ” Cape billowing, Daiman stalked the edge of his platform. Below, several listeners on the lower floor stumbled, trying to keep up with him. “You haven’t hurt me at all,” he railed. “In fact, my little nothing, you haven’t changed my course a whit.”
    Narsk found his mouth too dry after the attack to respond—but it was just as well. There was no right answer.
    “No, you and the Jedi woman have given me exactly what I wanted. I just didn’t realize it at the time,” Daiman said, kneeling and eyeing Narsk. “I don’t always see the plan I started with until later—but I always do.”
    Already dizzy, Narsk shook his head. How did Daiman’s followers stand such doubletalk?
    “Uleeta!” Daiman called. “Is the connection ready?”
    Beneath, the Woostoid spoke. “As my lord knows, the heretic Bactra awaits on the priority channel.” The woman, Narsk saw, never faced Daiman when addressing him. Instead, she craned her neck and directed her bulbous ebony eyes toward the skylight, as if Daiman were living in the rafters somewhere. Well, he kind of is , Narsk thought.
    Uleeta glanced at her handheld control pad and looked up again. She spoke cautiously, as if fearful to offend. “Bactra … likes to be called Lord . As my—”
    “What he likes is pointless. Activate it.”
    “Activating. Should we remove the prisoner?”
    “No.”
    The answer sent a chill shot back down Narsk’s back. Whatever was about to happen, it didn’t matter if he knew about it. He