Star Wars_ X-Wing 09_ Starfighters of Adumar - Aaron Allston [32]
Janson began stomping on his cloak to put out the fire. Wedge heard a smattering of applause and whistling from the ground floor. He spared the floor a glance; men and women, bright in the lavender-and-gold livery of this building’s workers, were merely cheering their efforts.
“Cheriss,” Wedge said. “Who’s the leader?”
“You are, General Antilles.”
“I mean, their leader.”
She gestured with her sword point at the one Wedge had kicked in the face; he lay halfway between Wedge and Hobbie. He did not move, but his eyes were fluttering.
“Hobbie, get building security and see if you can get our blasters back. Wes, Tycho, pick up blastswords and poke the first one of them who offers trouble. Cheriss, help me with this one.” He moved up the stairs, somewhat tentative because the damage he’d done to the carpeting made walking tricky, and stood over the man he’d kicked.
Wedge moved his sword point back and forth over the man’s throat. “What was all this about?”
It took a moment for the man’s eyes to track on the blastsword tip. “What else?” the man said. “Honor. The chance to kill the famous general from the stars. Tomorrow I would kill the Imperial pilot.”
Cheriss gave him a less than respectful smile. “You couldn’t kill a feed-reptile if it spotted you two legs and an eye. He’s lying, General. He’s a paid assassin.”
The man scowled at her and shook his head, a mute protest of innocence.
“Cheriss, how do you know that?”
She gestured at the man, her expression one of contempt. “First, look at his clothes.”
The man, like most of the attackers, was dressed in what Wedge was beginning to recognize as barely acceptable clothing for a building as prosperous as this. His clothes were stylishly black, but on closer examination, the tunic was threadbare in places, the leather of his boots shined but much worn. The blastsword lying beside him had a guard that was much scarred, seldom polished.
“So?” Wedge asked.
“Second,” she said, “this.” She hauled back and kicked the man hard in the side.
He arched his back and groaned. He opened his mouth, doubtless to offer a curse or threat, and then remember Wedge’s sword point hovering centimeters above his face. He remained silent.
Wedge frowned at the girl. “We don’t torture for information, Cheriss. That’s not our way.”
She turned innocent eyes to him. “Torture? Never. This time, General, listen.” She hauled back and kicked the man again, possibly harder than before.
Over the man’s groan, Wedge distinctly heard a clinking noise from beneath the man’s tunic.
Cautious, Wedge pulled the tail of the tunic up through the man’s belt. Beneath, attached to a second, slimmer belt, was a transparent pouch filled with shining golden disks.
“Adumari credcoins?” Wedge asked.
“Perats,” Cheriss said. “Do you see Pekaelic’s face on the obverse? I see at least twenty of them. Not a fortune, but definitely an improvement in his estate.”
Wedge nodded to Tycho, who searched the others. He found pouches of coins, most of them about half as full as this man’s, on each.
“You’re saying that someone with this kind of spending money should have better garments,” Wedge said.
Cheriss nodded.
Wedge returned his attention to his prisoner. “Who paid you?”
“This money is from the last man I killed,” the man said.
“Then you’ve killed a minister or a wealthy merchant,” Cheriss said. “And his family will be wealthy enough to prosecute you all the way to the grave. I’ll tell the Cartann Guard what you’ve just admitted to. Whoever the last important man to be killed was, you’ll take the blame for it.”
The man opened his mouth as if to offer a denial, then shut it stubbornly.
Cheriss caught Wedge’s eye and gave him a tight shake of her head. Her meaning was clear; the man wouldn’t talk.