I found an apron, ripped it up, and tied and gagged the two slaves, then hauled them into a storeroom. I was stacking Vallonians away like a squirrel storing nuts.
I came back into the kitchen. It was silent now. The room reeked of sour soup. A stack of unpleasantly familiar loaves stood by the oven. I gave them a kick that collapsed the pile as I passed to pick up a knife. I hacked tough slices from a cold haunch of Vallonian mutton, threw one to Itzenca across the table, and sat and gnawed the meat while I tried to think through my plans.
Owner Qohey was a big man to tackle but he was the one with the answers. If I could make my way to his apartment and if I wasn't stopped before I'd forced the truth out of him, then I might get to Foster and tell him that if he had the memory playback machine I had the memory, if it hadn't been filched from the bottom of a knapsack aboard a lifeboat parked at Okk-Hamiloth.
Four 'if's' and a 'might'—but it was something to shoot at. My first move would be to locate Qohey's quarters, somewhere here in the Palace, and get inside. My bodyguard's outfit was as good a disguise as any for the attempt.
I finished off my share of the meat and got to my feet. I'd have to find a place to clean myself up, shave—
The rear door banged open and two bodyguards came through it, talking loudly, laughing.
"Hey, cook! Set out meat for—"
The heavy in the lead stopped short, gaping at me. I gaped back. It was Torbu.
"Drgon! How did you...?" He trailed off.
The other bodyguard came past him, looked me over. "You're no Brother of the Guard—" he started.