Pellaeon glanced at the silent nightmare figure seated across the aisle. “You seem certain, sir, that the Guardian will be a Dark Jedi.”
“Who else would the Emperor have chosen to protect his personal storehouse?” Thrawn countered. “A legion of stormtroopers, perhaps, equipped with AT-ATs and the kind of advanced weaponry and technology you could detect from orbit with your eyes closed?”
Pellaeon grimaced. That, at least, was something they wouldn’t have to worry about. The Chimaera’s scanners had picked up nothing beyond bow-and-arrow stage anywhere on Wayland’s surface. It wasn’t all that much comfort. “I’m just wondering whether the Emperor might have pulled him off Wayland to help against the Rebellion.”
Thrawn shrugged. “We’ll know soon enough.”
The gentle roar of atmospheric friction against the shuttle’s hull was growing louder now, and on Pellaeon’s repeater display details of the planet’s surface were becoming visible. Much of the area directly beneath them appeared to be forest, spotted here and there with large, grassy plains. Ahead, occasionally visible through the haze of clouds, a single mountain rose above the landscape. “Is that Mount Tantiss?”3 he asked the pilot.
“Yes, sir,” the other confirmed. “The city ought to be visible soon.”
“Right.” Reaching surreptitiously to his right thigh, Pellaeon adjusted his blaster in its holster. Thrawn could be as confident as he liked, both in the ysalamiri and in his own logic. For his part, Pellaeon still wished they had more firepower.
The city nestled against the southwestern base of Mount Tantiss was larger than it had looked from orbit, with many of its squat buildings extending deep under the cover of the surrounding trees. Thrawn had the pilot circle the area twice, and then put down in the center of what appeared to be the main city square, facing a large and impressively regal-looking building.
“Interesting,” Thrawn commented, looking out the viewports as he settled his ysalamir backpack onto his shoulders. “There are at least three styles of architecture out there—human plus two different alien species. It’s not often you see such diversity in the same planetary region, let alone side by side in the same city. In fact, that palace thing in front of us has itself incorporated elements from all three styles.”
“Yes,” Pellaeon agreed absently, peering out the viewports himself. At the moment, the buildings were of far less interest to him than the people the life-form sensors said were hiding behind and inside them. “Any idea whether those alien species are hostile toward strangers?”
“Probably,” Thrawn said, stepping to the shuttle’s exit ramp, where Rukh was already waiting. “Most alien species are. Shall we go?”
The ramp lowered with a hiss of released gases. Gritting his teeth, Pellaeon joined the other two. With Rukh in the lead, they headed down.
No one shot at them as they reached the ground and took a few steps away from the shuttle. Nor did anyone scream, call out, or make any appearance at all. “Shy, aren’t they?” Pellaeon murmured, keeping his hand on his blaster as he looked around.
“Understandably,” Thrawn said, pulling a megaphone disk from his belt. “Let’s see if we can persuade them to be hospitable.”
Cupping the disk in his hand, he raised it to his lips. “I seek the Guardian of the mountain,” his voice boomed across the square, the last syllable echoing from the surrounding buildings. “Who will take me to him?”
The last echo died away into silence. Thrawn lowered the disk and waited; but the seconds ticked by without any response. “Maybe they don’t understand Basic,” Pellaeon suggested doubtfully.
“No, they understand,” Thrawn said coldly. “The humans do, at any rate. Perhaps they need more motivation.” He raised the megaphone again. “I seek the Guardian of the mountain,” he repeated. “If no one will take me to him, this entire city will suffer.”
The words were barely out of his mouth when, without warning, an arrow flashed toward them from the right. It struck Thrawn in the side, barely missing the ysalamir tube wrapped around his shoulders and back, and bounced harmlessly off the body armor hidden beneath the white uniform.4 “Hold,” Thrawn ordered as Rukh leaped to his side, blaster at the ready. “You have the location?”
“Yes,” the Noghri grated, his blaster pointed at a squat two-story structure a quarter of the way around the square from the palace.
“Good.” Thrawn raised the megaphone again. “One of your people just shot at us. Observe the consequences.” Lowering the disk again, he nodded to Rukh. “Now.”
And with a tight grin of his needle teeth, Rukh proceeded—quickly, carefully, and scientifically—to demolish the building.
He took out the windows and doors first, putting perhaps a dozen shots through them to discourage any further attack. Then he switched to the lower-floor walls. By the twentieth shot, the building was visibly trembling on its foundations. A handful of shots into the upper-floor walls, a few more into the lower—
And with a thunderous crash, the building collapsed in on itself.
Thrawn waited until the sound of crunching masonry had died away before raising the megaphone again. “Those are the consequences of defying me,” he called. “I ask once more: who will take me to the Guardian of the mountain?”
“I will,” a voice said from their left.
Pellaeon spun around. The man standing in front of the palace building was tall and thin, with unkempt gray hair and a beard that reached almost to the middle of his chest. He was dressed in shin-laced sandals and an old brown robe, with a glittering medallion of some sort half hidden behind the beard. His face was dark and lined and regal to the point of arrogance as he studied them, his eyes holding a mixture of curiosity and disdain. “You are strangers,” he said, the same mixture in his voice. “Strangers”—he glanced up at the shuttle towering over them—“from offworld.”
“Yes, we are,” Thrawn acknowledged. “And you?”
The old man’s eyes flicked to the smoking rubble Rukh had just created. “You destroyed one of my buildings,” he said. “There was no need for that.”
“We were attacked,” Thrawn told him coolly. “Were you its landlord?”
The stranger’s eyes might have flashed; at the distance, Pellaeon couldn’t say for certain. “I rule,” he said, his voice quiet but with menace beneath it. “All that is here is mine.”
For a handful of heartbeats he and Thrawn locked eyes. Thrawn broke the silence first. “I am Grand Admiral Thrawn, Warlord of the Empire, servant of the Emperor. I seek the Guardian of the mountain.”
The old man bowed his head slightly. “I will take you to him.”
Turning, he started back toward the palace. “Stay close together,” Thrawn murmured to the others as he moved to follow. “Be alert for a trap.”
No more arrows came as they crossed the square and walked under the carved keystone archway framing the palace’s double doors. “I would have thought the Guardian would be living in the mountain,” Thrawn said as their guide pulled open the doors. They came easily; the old man, Pellaeon decided, must be stronger than he looked.
“He did, once,” the other said over his shoulder. “When I began my rule, the people of Wayland built this for him.” He crossed to the center of the ornate foyer room, halfway to another set of double doors, and stopped. “Leave us,” he called.
For a split second Pellaeon thought the old man was talking to him. He was just opening his mouth to refuse when two flanking sections of wall swung open and a pair of scrawny men stepped out of hidden guard niches. Glowering silently at the Imperials, they shouldered their crossbows and left the building. The old man waited until they were gone, then continued on to the second set of double doors. “Come,” he said, gesturing to the doors, an odd glitter in his eyes. “The Emperor’s Guardian awaits you.”