Deathstalker

  The Mater Mundi gestalt had provided living esp-blockers, who strolled quietly through the crowds, inside and out, ensuring that no one but the security Elves could use any form of esp. Now that all espers were part of a single conscious gestalt, the threat of rogue espers was pretty much eliminated, but no one was taking any chances.

  Crow Jane strode restlessly back and forth, checking everything over and over again, down to the smallest detail. A tall, strapping brunette in chains and leathers, with colors on her face and ribbons tied in her hair, she wore a bandoleer of throwing stars across an impressive bosom, and a scowl that could shatter steel at twenty paces. Wherever she walked, people hurried to get out of her way. She had made up her mind that the wedding and investiture were going to be absolutely perfect, and God help anyone who got in the way of that. It helped that Crow Jane took no shit from anyone, whether it be the highest members of Society, or the lowliest flunky. Even Chantelle found pressing reasons to be somewhere else very quickly when Crow Jane was on the prowl.

  She was currently responding to a number of complaints and not a few hand-wringing pleas, to do something about the choir. These handpicked young vocalists, chosen for the purity of their voices, were currently running amok, and causing more sheer havoc than a Grendel with hemorrhoids. The choristers might look like little angels in their frilly starched surplices and delicate ruffs, but, secure in their own importance, they had seized the chance to behave like little devils.

  To be fair, the oldest of them was only eleven, and though they'd all had the solemnity and importance of the occasion drilled into them, it had only taken about ten minutes' exposure to the total chaos to plunge them straight into overexcitement and out the other side into sheer let's-see-what-we-can-get-away-with mode. They ran back and forth like little windmilling dervishes, shrieking and name-calling and getting under everyone's feet, and sneaking into the kitchens faster than they could be thrown out. Two had developed a quite remarkable skill as pickpockets, two more had started a dice school and were challenging all comers, and another was being sick over a potted plant through sheer excitement. One little cherub had smuggled in a paint-stick, and was industriously covering a low level of one wall with fortunately incomprehensible graffiti, while behind him another chorister was taking advantage of his absorption to set fire to the back of his surplice. The choirmaster ran back and forth, bleating pathetically, ignored by all.

  And then Crow Jane arrived. The choirboys took one look at her, knew real trouble when they saw it, and tried to scatter in all directions, but somehow there was always an Elf in just the right place to grab them. Crow Jane retrieved a handful of wallets and other valuable items and returned them to their startled owners, confiscated the paint-stick, and emptied a bottle of the cheaper wine over the smoldering surplice. She then had a short but vehement heart-to-heart with the assembled choir before sending them off into an adjoining private room to wait till they were called. No one else caught what she had to say, but no one had ever seen the color drop out of so many faces simultaneously. When Crow Jane finally let them go, they headed immediately for the private room, huddling together for protection, followed by a relieved but equally shaken choirmaster, who made the sign of the cross at Crow Jane's back when he thought she wasn't looking.

  And standing well back from all the turmoil and din, watching everything with a calm, cold gaze, was the priest chosen to perform the wedding. Cardinal Brendan. Neither Robert nor Constance had wanted such an openly political creature in charge of their wedding, but their own preferred choice, Saint Beatrice, had politely declined to leave her Mission on Lachrymae Christi, where she felt she was needed more. Everyone else involved in planning the ceremony heaved quiet but heartfelt sighs of relief. Saint Bea was beloved by all, but no one would have felt comfortable coming into close contact with someone who voluntarily lived among lepers. Saints should keep their distance. All kinds of clerics were suggested, by all sorts of religious and political factions, for all kinds of reasons, but in the end Cardinal Brendan emerged as the chosen candidate. He was well known and well liked, and more importantly, he was Blue Block. And as in so many things, what Blue Block wanted, Blue Block got.

  Brendan himself didn't give a damn about the forthcoming ceremony. He knew that the real business of the day was to be concluded before the wedding or the investiture, right here, in a private room off the floor of the House. Where he could quietly explain the real facts of life to Robert, and if need be, Constance. That just having a crown placed on your head meant nothing where Blue Block was concerned. King and Queen would bow down to Blue Block. Or else. Brendan smiled at the thought. He'd already had one little chat with Robert, but apparently that hadn't taken as strongly as he would have liked. So this time, he was calling in the heavy artillery. And either Robert submitted to what they had planned for him, or there would be no wedding.

  Brendan moved unhurriedly through the crowd, bestowing smiles and blessings as he passed, untouched by the general riot, until he reached his chosen partner in crime. Chantelle was talking earnestly with Donna Silvestri, a broad, motherly figure and one of the Empire's more subtle movers and shakers. The Silvestri had risen to prominence in her Clan by the usual methods of treachery and murder, but always in such carefully planned ways that no blame could ever be traced to her. Now people jumped to obey her every murmured word, inside and outside her Family. She had a gift for intrigue, and enough quiet malevolence to ensure that her will always took precedence over others'. She ran things from the shadows, and liked it that way. She was, of course, Blue Block.

  In person, Donna Silvestri looked like everybody's favorite aunt, round and broad and always a few years out of fashion. She had an ear for every problem, and a shoulder for everyone who needed one, and if her warm smile never entirely reached her faded blue eyes, people were usually too preoccupied to notice. Donna Silvestri listened patiently, made all the right supportive noises, and forgot nothing. She stored everything away in her rat-trap of a mind until some muttered confidence might prove useful, at which time some poor fool would suddenly find Blue Block knew the one thing he would have sworn nobody knew. Nobody ever suspected the warm and kind and comforting Donna Silvestri. Suspecting her would have been like condemning your own mother.

  Cardinal Brendan bowed to Donna Silvestri, and Chantelle, and they both nodded politely in return.

  "Sorry to bother you, but I need a word in private, Chantelle," said Brendan. "A minor problem, concerning Royal etiquette."

  "Of course," said Chantelle. "We can use one of the private rooms. No one will disturb us there."

  She led the way, and Brendan followed demurely after her. There were a number of small private rooms leading off the main hall of the House, where by long tradition deals and discussions could be had in complete privacy. The rooms were soundproofed, guaranteed unbugged, had no windows, and only one door, with a first-class lock. More of the really important debates took place in these small rooms than ever occurred in the House itself. Real politics was too important to be practiced in public. Some of the rooms were already in use, as politicians and aristocrats fought out their new pecking order in the face of a constitutional monarchy. Everyone had his or her own plans for the future King and Queen. Even in the face of utter destruction by so many of Humanity's enemies, Golgotha concentrated on what was truly important.

  Chantelle had claimed one of the private rooms for her own personal use, and as in so many other things, no one felt secure enough to argue the point with her. She unlocked the door with her own personal key, ushered Brendan in, and then closed and locked the door behind them. The room was bare, save for a functional table and set of chairs. There were no comforts. This was not a room where people lived; it was just a meeting place; somewhere people passed through on their way to their respective destinies. Chantelle turned to face Brendan, and the Cardinal bowed low to her.

  "All goes well, so far," he said, just a little nervously. "The Elves are running security so
tightly not even a ghost could walk in unchallenged. There will be no interruptions to what we have planned."

  "We?" said Chantelle icily. "Don't flatter yourself, Cardinal. These are my plans. Everything that is to happen here, happens through my will."

  "Of course," said Brendan quickly. "I mean no challenge to your authority."

  "Damn right you don't. If I even thought you had a mind of your own, I'd have had you shot and replaced long ago. Now; let's keep this short and to the point. I don't want to leave Donna Silvestri in charge of things for too long. She has a good mind, but in the end she's just another Blue Block drone, like you. I need to be on the spot, to keep things under control."

  "Of course, Chantelle. Robert and Constance have been separated, as you instructed. They're now stewing in their own juices, in separate rooms."

  "Good," said Chantelle. "I think it's time they were brought here, so I can explain their true place in the real order of things. We'll start with Robert. He has basic Blue Block conditioning. Constance is the real wild card. We can't kill Robert; as one of the Hundred Hands, he's too valuable to us. But Constance is another matter. If need be, she is expendable."

  "And that's where I come in," said Kit SummerIsle, uncoiling lazily from one corner of the room. Cardinal Brendan jumped in shock at not having noticed him, and then tried to look as though he hadn't. Kid Death smiled. "I quite like the idea of killing a Queen. I got to chop off the Empress Lionstone's head, but she'd already vacated her body, so that doesn't really count."

  "You may get your chance," said Chantelle. "Constance could be very useful to us, once she's been properly conditioned, but she poses far too great a threat to Blue Block to be allowed to go on as she is. So, either she bows to Blue Block, one way or another, or you get to do what you do best, SummerIsle."

  "You'd better find me someone to kill soon," said Kid Death. "I don't want to get rusty."

  "You'll kill when I tell you to," said Chantelle. "I own your services now. Blue Block owns you."

  Kit SummerIsle smiled slowly, and there was no humor in it. Cardinal Brendan fell back a step. Chantelle held her ground, but some of the confidence went out of her face.

  "A lot of people thought they owned me," said the SummerIsle, quite calmly. "Most of them are dead now. I am my own man, and I serve you for my own reasons. I am a killer, and must go where the killing is. But at the end of the day, I'll kill you just as happily as anyone else. I never had your Blue Block conditioning. My Family never approved of you. One of the few things they were right about."

  "Don't concern yourself, Lord SummerIsle," said Chantelle, her voice perfectly steady. "There will be blood and death for you, as promised. Enough perhaps to sate even your appetite. Blue Block has many enemies, and I will turn you loose on them all, in time. Now; you worked for Clan Wolfe, before the rebellion. Have you ever met Constance Wolfe?"

  "We moved in the same circles. Nodded to each other in passing. Her late husband Jacob never really approved of me, even as he used me, and his dear wife was always too good and noble to have anything to do with the likes of me. If you're asking if I'll have any problems in killing her, the answer is no. I never have any problems killing anyone. As all the leading members of my late Family could tell you, if you had a good medium."

  In another of the private rooms, not all that far away, Robert Campbell was in a terrible state. Dressed in full formal attire, down to the compulsory gray gloves and top hat, with a silk cravat at his throat freshly tied by his gentleman's gentleman, Baxter, Robert strode back and forth in the confined space like a tiger in its cage, burning up with frustrated nervous energy. His hands were clenched into fists, his stomach was tied in knots, and his eyes stared almost wildly. On the one hand he was desperate for the ceremony to start, so that he could get it over with, but he'd also never been more terrified of anything in his life. He'd commanded a starcruiser, had his old ship shot out from under him during the rebellion, but that had been nothing compared to this. Then, he'd only had to be afraid for himself. Now, he was more afraid for Constance. This should have been the happiest day of his life, and in a way it was, but as the ceremony drew remorselessly nearer, all he could think of was all the terrible things that could go wrong. And of his first, tragic attempt at marriage. He strode back and forth, all but wearing a trail in the thick carpeting, while Baxter hurried after him, fussing over the fit of the suit, and trying to calm the King-to-be with wise words and reassuring anecdotes, none of which Robert heard.

  He was remembering his first wedding day. He still sometimes dreamed of it, and woke crying out in the night. His match with Letitia Shreck had been an arranged marriage, designed to tie Clan Campbell and Clan Shreck closer together, for various business and political reasons. He hadn't been consulted. He'd been a very minor member of his Clan then, back when most of his Family were still alive, and the only future he dreamed of was a Captaincy in the Imperial Fleet. He never even got to meet his bride-to-be Letitia, until the day of the wedding. She seemed a pleasant sort. Robert thought he could have become quite fond of her, in time. But during the marriage ceremony, an esper scan revealed Letitia to be already pregnant, by another man. Gregor Shreck went mad with rage. He strangled Letitia, while Robert's own Family held him back, helpless to save her. Gregor murdered Letitia, to save his Family from shame. And Robert had had to watch it, unable to do anything.

  He still kept a small portrait of Letitia in his bedroom. He never loved her. But he thought he might have, given a chance. If things had gone… differently.

  And now, here he was again, preparing for marriage. Things should be different, this time. He was marrying a woman he loved, who loved him, surrounded by a whole army of people determined to see that nothing went wrong. He should have felt safe, secure; delighted at his good fortune, that such a wonderful creature as Constance Wolfe had agreed to be his wife. And he was going to be King, as well. Constitutional monarch to the whole damned Empire. Assuming the whole damned Empire wasn't destroyed in the next few days, by the Recreated, or Shub, or the Hadenmen. His thoughts shifted to his other main worry: that he should be out there with what was left of the Fleet, commanding a ship against the Empire's enemies, instead of participating in an overblown ceremony merely designed to divert and distract the general populace. But as with his last wedding, he got no say in the matter. And he'd had to give up his Captaincy long ago, to become head of his Family, and a man who was about to be made King was far too valuable to be allowed to risk himself in combat.

  "Do sit down, Robert, I'm getting tired just watching you." Adrienne spoke calmly from her seat in a corner of the room. "Save some of that energy for your wedding night. There's really nothing for you to worry about. The ceremony's been planned and rehearsed down to the last detail, the Elves are strip-searching and body-probing anyone who even coughs funny, and Toby Shreck's in charge of the holo coverage, so you can be sure you'll look good in the live broadcast. Now please sit down, before you wear your wedding suit out from the inside."

  Robert growled something indecipherable, even to himself, and threw himself onto the nearest chair, folding his arms tightly across his chest, as though he could hold his nerves in check by sheer force. Baxter started to fuss with the suit again, but received such a glare that he quickly decided to give Robert's shoes a polish they didn't need instead. Robert looked at himself in the mirror on the wall, and growled again, even louder.

  "Do I have to wear this bloody top hat? It doesn't suit me."

  "A top hat rarely suits anyone, sir," said Baxter, still concentrating on the shoes. "But it is an essential part of the ensemble; a style handed down to us from centuries past. And style, after all, doesn't have to make sense. That's how you know it's style. But don't worry, after the immediate ceremony, one removes the hat and carries it under one's arm, so that one may place one's gloves in it."

  "I can take the gloves off?"

  "Oh, of course, sir. This was covered in the rehearsals. One couldn't greet one's gue
sts afterwards with gloved hands. That wouldn't be at all proper."

  Robert looked at Adrienne. "Who makes up all this shit?"

  "Don't look at me, dear. I never ever understood fashion, even when my late husband Finlay was a grand master at it. Some of the outfits he wore were so colorful the images are still imprinted permanently on walls all over the city, like the ghosts of styles past."

  Robert smiled slightly, in spite of himself. "Why do you always refer to Finlay as your late husband? He's been dead some time now."

  "Oh, I don't know, dear. I suppose I just like the sound of it."

  Outside the room, the sheer din of the continuing preparations grew a little louder, if anything, and Robert's face went cold and hard again.

  "What is it that's troubling you, Robert?" said Adrienne. "You're not having cold feet about marrying Constance, are you?"

  "No! No, she's the only thing in this whole damned mess that I am sure about. I love Constance, with all my heart. I never got the chance to love Letitia. But every time I think of this wedding, of standing before the Cardinal and taking my vows, all I can see is Letitia's dead face…"

  "That isn't going to happen this time! Everyone wants this wedding to go ahead. Everyone."

  "I know that! That's another part of the problem. Everyone wants this marriage, wants us to be King and Queen, and it feels like I don't have any say in the matter anymore. I want Constance as my wife, but… I never wanted to be King. Hell, I never even wanted to be the Campbell. But both have been thrust upon me, and I couldn't say no. I know my duty. But… Am I putting Constance at risk by marrying her? You know my history; most of my Family are dead, Letitia is dead… Am I a jinx, Addie?"