"Only one?" said Douglas. "I don't think you've been paying attention, Lewis. There are dozens of things worrying me."
"This one is particularly close to home," said Lewis sternly. "There used to be three Paragons guarding and patrolling Logres. You, me, and Finn Durandal. Now there's just the one; Finn. One man, to handle all the evils this world can throw at him. And God alone knows what state of mind he's in, now he isn't Champion after all."
"God help whoever he takes it out on," Douglas said easily. "Bad time to be a criminal on Logres, I would have thought."
"Has anybody spoken to Finn yet? I tried, but he won't take my calls."
Douglas shrugged. "I looked for him after the Ceremony, but he'd disappeared. I tried to reach him later, on my private channel as well as my new official one, but he's screening all his calls. All I got was a terse recorded message, and a plug for a new website. The man's just sulking, that's all. Doesn't want to talk to anyone because he doesn't trust his temper yet. He always did think too much of himself. He'll get over it. Eventually. He's still officially the greatest Paragon of all time, and with you out of the way he'll have less competition for the title. I wouldn't worry about him, Lewis. Finn has a way of bouncing back. And don't worry about Logres, either. With all the Paragons who turned up to witness my Coronation, the planet's never been better guarded. And I've already arranged for a permanent replacement, once they're gone; a second Paragon for Logres, to take up the slack in our absence."
"Anyone I'd know?" said Lewis.
"Oh, I'd say so. Emma Steel, from Mistworld."
"Damn! Oh yes, she'll do very well here!" Lewis couldn't keep from grinning. "The media's going to love her. Hard but fair, but mostly hard."
"Growing up on Mistworld "will do that for you," said Douglas. "She's a real scrapper; just what's needed. She was wasted on Rhiannon anyway; Logres will be much more of a challenge for her. And it'll do Finn good to have someone with as big an ego as his to deal with."
Lewis grinned. "Is Logres big enough to hold two egos that size?"
"Steel and the Durandal will make excellent partners," said Douglas. "If they don't kill each other first."
"It's still only two Paragons, not three," said Lewis. "And you can bet the ELFs will be planning something really nasty in retaliation…"
"Don't worry about it, dear," said Jesamine, moving over to join them. She perched herself daintily on the arm of Douglas's chair, and smiled sweetly at Lewis. "Logres survived perfectly well before you came here as Paragon, and it will do just as well now you've moved on. You men always think you're indispensible."
"We are now the Empire's King and Champion," said Douglas, slipping an arm around her waist. "That makes us indispensible, by definition."
"Not necessarily," said Anne. She turned her back on the monitor screens, folded her arms across her chest and looked severely at Douglas. "You screw up out there in the House today, and all your good intentions will come to nothing. I keep my ear to the ground. I hear things. For some time now, a lot of people have been talking about doing away with the constitutional monarch entirely. Making the Empire into a Republic or a Federation."
"People have been saying that since Robert and Constance were crowned," said Douglas, unmoved.
"Yes, but these are important people we're talking about now. People of position and influence. Robert and Constance were adored by the general populace, and made important and effective political contributions to the running of things. William and Niamh… didn't have that kind of charisma, or impact. They were popular enough, but William never had his fathers deft political touch. Or any real interest in acquiring one. God knows I did my best to provide him with information he could use, but he just didn't care. Some unkind people have been saying, inside and outside the House, that the Empire's already effectively been without a real constitutional monarch for over a century, and managed quite well without one."
"People may be saying these things," said Douglas. "But is anyone listening? Anyone who matters?"
"As yet, most people are still reluctant to commit themselves, one way or the other. The MPs like having a King and Speaker, because it detracts attention away from them when they need someone to publicly carry the can for necessary but unpopular measures. But that could change really quickly if you don't convince Parliament that you're too popular, too useful, and too powerful to be easily ousted."
"Well, that shouldn't be too difficult," said Lewis. "Your record as a Paragon shows you're trustworthy; all you have to do today is show everyone that your heart's in the right place."
The others sighed quietly, almost in unison. "It's not that simple," said Anne.
"Why not?" Lewis said stubbornly. "Let the MPs be devious and shifty and make their little deals in smoke-filled back rooms. The King is supposed to be better than that. Why can't Douglas just stand up for what he believes in?"
"I really don't have time for this," said Anne.
"Your trouble, Lewis," said Jesamine, "is that because you're an honorable man, you expect everyone else to be too. But the universe doesn't work like that. How someone with your trusting nature ever survived the mean streets of Logres is a mystery to me."
"I knew where I was in the mean streets," said Lewis. "They were full of criminals and scumbags."
"So is Parliament!" snapped Anne. "Nice guys don't survive long in politics, and no one ever got to be a Member of Parliament without learning how to fight dirty. They might come into the House meaning well, but they soon learn that idealism doesn't get you anywhere, and good intentions alone won't get you reelected. You have to be seen to deliver something tangible for the voters back home. Politics is all about the art of the deal, and what you can get away with."
Lewis looked at Douglas. "I thought you were planning to change all that?"
"I am," said Douglas, meeting Lewis's gaze steadily. "In time. But I'm just one man, fighting an established system. And a system that, for all its faults, works tolerably well. This is a Golden Age, after all. Trust me, Lewis. I know what I'm doing."
"Well, I wish I did," said Lewis. "I don't even know exactly what you want me to do as Champion, Douglas. I can't just be a glorified bodyguard, standing around waiting for something to happen. You're already surrounded by the best security in the world. I'm not made for ceremonies, and looking good in public. Nice new outfit or not. I need… to be doing something. To be making a difference. Or I swear I'll resign, and you can let Finn have the job anyway."
"I need you, Lewis," said Douglas. "I'll always need you. To be my sounding board, to be my conscience and keep me honest, as well as keeping me safe."
"Right," said Anne. "The best security systems in the world can't keep out a terrorist who doesn't care about dying as long as he can take his target with him. Just by being King, Douglas already has enemies. We've already intercepted over two hundred death threats."
Douglas looked at her. "We have? And just when were you going to tell me this?"
"Don't worry about it now," Anne said briskly. "You have an entire department set up to deal with things like that. They nearly always turn out to be cranks, anyway."
"She's quite right, darling," said Jesamine. "You should see some of the mail I get. There's a lot of weird people out there, with a fixation on public figures and far too much time on their hands. And don't even get me started on stalkers. One man even had a complete body change to look just like me, turned up early at a rehearsal and tried to take over my role. It all fell apart when he started to sing, of course. Personally, I didn't think he looked a bit like me. Had no style at all."
"Be that as it may," said Anne. "Parliament's security has a lot of experience in dealing with threats. We haven't even had a decent bomb scare in fifty years."
"You see!" said Lewis. "What am I needed for?"
"Because even the best security people can have a bad day," said Anne. "They have to be lucky all the time; a terrorist only has to get lucky once."
"Why would anyo
ne want to kill me?" said Douglas, plaintively. "I've made it clear I want to be a good King, for all my people. Justice for all, just like when I was a Paragon. Who could object to that?"
"I can have the computers print out a list, if you're really interested," said Anne. "Mostly the same people whose arses you used to kick as Paragon, plus all the people on all sides of the political spectrum with vested interests in maintaining the status quo. Then there's the ELFs, the Hellfire Club, the Shadow Court…"
"All right, all right," said Douglas, holding up his hands in defeat. "I get the point."
"Good," said Anne. "Now forget about all that, and concentrate on the more immediate problem of winning over and/or intimidating the MPs. And bear in mind there's going to be an absolutely huge media presence in the House today. Most of them just gagging for a chance to make you look bad, in revenge for your father denying them access to your Coronation. 'King does reasonably well on first day' isn't going to make the headlines. 'King screws up royally!' That's news. So don't give them ammunition to use against you."
Douglas grimaced. "Wonderful. More complications. I'll be glad when we've got all this media stuff out of the way, and I can get down to some real work."
Jesamine and Anne looked at each other again, and as always Anne bit the bullet. "Douglas; this media stuff is the real work. You can reach more people, persuade more people, through the media than you can any other way. The MPs will respond more to public interest, and public pressure, than they will to any amount of reasoned debate. Get the people by their hearts, or their balls, and their minds will follow. Get the people behind you, and you'll have the power to do what needs doing."
"It always comes down to the audience, darling, bless their black little hearts," said Jesamine. "Wave and smile, wave and smile, and never let them catch you sweating."
High above the Parade of the Endless, soaring the mild winter skies on his gravity sled, the Paragon Finn Durandal looked down on the people he was supposed to serve and protect, and didn't give a damn. He felt nothing for them; but then, he never had. He'd never actually admitted that to himself before, but now that he had, it didn't come as any surprise to him. He didn't fight the bad guys on their behalf; he did it for himself. For the thrill of testing himself against the best opponents. He'd taken pride in his achievements as Paragon, in the legend he'd made of himself. And then Douglas took it all away, by denying him his rightful place as Champion. So he must be made to pay.
Everyone must pay, for allowing this unforgivable insult to happen.
Ostensibly, Finn was out on patrol. He'd told Dispatching that he'd be going offline for a while. That he'd be out of touch while he talked to some of his sources, following up a lead on what the ELFs were planning next. All nonsense, of course. His patrolling days were over. There was no point in being a Paragon anymore. He was something else now. Though he hadn't actually decided what, yet. A traitor, perhaps. He liked the sound of that. To go against everything he'd been taught, everything he was supposed to believe in, tear it all down and laugh in their shocked faces; all in the name of pride, and revenge. Yes… that felt right. From the Empire's greatest hero to its greatest villain, just because he chose to… Finn laughed aloud. He'd never felt happier.
Still; if he was going to tear down the whole Empire, he was going to need a certain kind of help. He couldn't be everywhere at once, and he'd always known that to solve the really big problems you needed experts and specialists. So after much thought, and not a little research, he'd put together a shopping list of the right, or rather wrong, people. It hadn't been too difficult, not with his Paragon's resources and connections. He'd begin with a certain devious con man. Finn had given Brett Random strict instructions to be at a certain place at a certain time before releasing him, but he'd never expected Brett to actually show up. In fact, Finn would have been disappointed if he had. It would have meant Brett wasn't the kind of man Finn needed.
He knew where Brett would be hiding. All he had to do was go and get him, and the awful thing Finn was planning could begin. He would plunge the Empire into blood and terror, set its cities ablaze, and utterly destroy what men of good will had spent two centuries putting together. Just to please his wounded pride. Finn Durandal descended on his gravity sled into the hidden dark heart of the Parade of the Endless, smiling a predator's smile, his heart beating just a little faster in anticipation.
It was called the Rookery. A square mile or so of territory right in the center of the city that didn't officially exist. A dark and dangerous warren of crammed-together buildings and alleyways that hadn't changed its unpleasant nature in hundreds of years. All records of its existence had been erased long ago, in the time of rebuilding after the Great Rebellion. All it took was a little money in the right hands, and all the official maps and computers conveniently forgot that there had ever been an old thieves' quarter. Public transport was routed around it, and knowledge of the few remaining ways in and out was passed down verbally, and only to those who needed to know. It had its own power supply, its own secret economy, and you entered entirely at your own risk. The Rookery existed because people will always need somewhere to buy and sell the kinds of pleasures you're not supposed to want in a Golden Age.
The Three Cripples was a bar of the very worst character. Seedy would have been a step up. It was a dark sprawling place with blacked-out windows, good booze, indifferent food, and a rotten reputation. You got in by intimidating or bribing the doorman, and after that you were fair game for every thief, cheat, thug, and doxy who called the bar home. Most notably, it was a regular haunt for the ever-changing crowd of undesirables who called themselves Randoms Bastards.
In the main bar, in an atmosphere thick with smoke that was almost wholly illegal in nature, Brett Random was buying drinks for one and all, on the strength of the more than serious money he'd made selling his unauthorized coverage of King Douglas's Coronation. The tabloid news channels had all but gone to war over the bidding, and Brett had played them off against each other with a slickness that impressed even him. Brett Random was rich; but money had never really mattered much to him. The game was what mattered; money was just how you kept score. So; it was drinks on the house, and the best of everything for him and his friends, while it lasted. And then he'd go out and dip into some other suckers pockets, metaphorically speaking. It was what he did best.
As long as the money kept flowing there was no shortage of people willing to drink and carouse at his expense and tell him what a fine fellow he was, so Brett had a large, noisy, and good-natured audience all to himself as he roared and boasted and, not for the first time, pushed his claim to be the greatest of all Randoms Bastards.
His audience was a motley crowd, all considered. Men and women from a hundred worlds and societies, most of whom couldn't go home again. Sometimes their families actually sent them regular payments, on the understanding that they'd stay away. They lived the outlaw life and thrived on it, preying on the suckers and each other with equal glee. The death rate was high; but they found ways to keep cheerful, most of them illegal outside of the Rookery. There were even some aliens; certain individuals who'd developed tastes or needs that couldn't be satisfied back on their homeworlds, or who'd gone native after spending too long among humankind, and couldn't be allowed back for fear of contamination. The Rookery embraced them all. It was a vile and squalid place, where they'd steal the fillings out of your teeth while you slept; but it could still be a kind of home, for those who needed it. For those with nowhere else to go. In the Rookery lost souls found kindred spirits, and stayed, to work quiet and very profitable revenges against those who had driven them there.
Several saucy-looking waitresses with exactly the same face moved among the tables, laughing and joking and slapping the occasional face as they dispensed drinks, drugs, and bar snacks of a rather unsavory nature, all of it on Brett's tab. They were clones; Madelaines to be exact, a waitress franchise currently very popular in cities everywhere. These were knockoffs,
of course, bootleg copies. And in the Rookery, these Madelaines owned their own contracts.
Brett Random sat on the exact middle of the long wooden bar counter, legs dangling, face flushed, ripped to the tits on absinthe, crazy as a bag full of weasels, and happy as the night is long. The only thing better than running a successful con was boasting of it afterwards, preferably to a crowd of his compatriots who were secretly eating their hearts out with jealousy. He'd got rid of the distracting bright red hair, had a new eye put in to replace his spy camera, and was now back to his usual mousy brown hair, mild brown eyes, and weakly handsome face. His real appearance, that he only ever showed to his own kind. He was telling the indulgent crowd again how he'd sneaked into the Court, and all the things he'd seen and done while he was there (including many things he'd thought about doing, or wished he could have). He made a big thing of how he'd escaped afterwards, with Court Security baying at his heels, but drunk as he was he still had enough sense not to mention Finn's involvement. They wouldn't have understood. Hell, he was there, and he didn't understand it.
Besides, he didn't like to think about Finn Durandal. The man scared him. Ditching the Paragon was the smartest thing he'd ever done. Brett Random hadn't got where he was without being able to recognize trouble when he saw it. He wasn't even going to think about the man again.
Brett stopped boasting to prepare himself another drink. It took a while, but it was worth it. Brett always drank absinthe, when he had the money. There were other drinks that tasted better, or got you legless faster, but for sheer halfbrick to the side of the head impact, there was absolutely nothing to match absinthe. It cost an arm and a leg, was bad for you in practically every way possible, and some of the hallucinations it brought could be downright unsettling; but drink enough of it, and the world could be a fine and wondrous place. But most of all, Brett loved the ritual of it.