Deathstalker Legacy

  "Yeah," said Douglas. "You got some action today after all, Champion."

  Lewis sniffed. "You keep on pissing off heavy-duty bastards like that, and I'm going to need better weaponry. How about a stasis field projector? Yeah, I know, they're expensive; but it would have been just the job today. Put him on ice in a second. A transmutation bomb… that is playing really dirty. And how the hell did he smuggle something like that into the House anyway? Just its presence should have set off every alarm in the building!"

  "Don't I know it," said Anne. "I can only assume it's been so long since there's been a serious threat to the House that certain people have got sloppy. Heads will roll over this. Actually, it's just the excuse I need to force some high up but basically useless people to retire."

  "It was more than that," said Lewis. "Somebody very well placed must have been paid to look the other way, shut down the relevant systems. Pure Humanity has a spy in the House."

  "Wouldn't surprise me at all," said Anne. "They're devious bastards. Once I've got my own people in place, I can start putting pressure on anyone I even suspect isn't one hundred percent behind the King."

  "Anne, dear," said Jesamine. "You don't actually run the House's Security."

  "Only a matter of time," said Anne. She looked at Lewis. "Good thinking on your feet. What exactly did you throw at the bomber?"

  "This," said Lewis. He sat forward in his chair and held out his palm, with the chunky black gold ring balanced on it. The others leaned forward to study it. Jesamine recognized it first, and shrieked out loud.

  "That's the Deathstalker ring! Owen's ring! Sign and symbol of Clan authority. It was one of the main props in Deathstalker's Lament."

  "Where did you get that?" said Douglas. "It was supposed to have disappeared with Owen two hundred years ago!"

  Lewis told them about the strange little man called Vaughn. None of the others recognized the name or the description. They took it in turns to hold the ring and study it, touching it only gingerly. The ring had belonged to a legend, so that made it a legend too. They were all more than a little awed. Finally Anne gave it back to Lewis, and he slipped it back on his finger.

  "I feel a bit weird," said Douglas. "That ring saved my life. It's as though Owen himself reached out to save me through his descendant. Weird."

  "The bomber really was very stupid, darling," said Jesamine. "All he had to do was run up to Douglas and detonate his bomb, and there would have been nothing Lewis could do to prevent it. But no, he had to show off, and make his stupid speeches first. Have his moment in the spotlight. Prima donnas. They're all the same."

  "Smart people don't do suicide-bomb runs," said Anne. "They convince some other stupid bastard to do it for them."

  "Pity you couldn't take him alive, Lewis," said Douglas. "Alive, we might have been able to get some answers out of him. I really want the people behind this."

  "You ungrateful pig!" Jesamine said immediately. "Lewis saved your life! He saved all our lives."

  "He wasn't going to be taken alive, Douglas," Lewis said evenly. "You heard him. And you can be sure there would have been a poison tooth or another bomb hidden in his belly. Something dramatic. There was no way his bosses would have sent him out without being sure there was no way anything could be traced back to them. We've dealt with this kind before, back when we were both Paragons. You know how they think."

  "Yes," said Douglas. "Of course, Lewis; you're quite right. Sorry. I'm… still a little shaken. Why don't you work with Anne; see if the two of you can figure out exactly how he got past Security."

  Lewis nodded, got up, and moved over to join Anne before her monitors. She was already using her computers to work out possible routes the bomber could have used to end up in the alien section of the House. Douglas looked at Jesamine, and she came over and sat down beside him.

  "Why did you go to him, Jes, and not to me?" Douglas said softly.

  "He saved both our lives," said Jesamine steadily. "And silly me, I was worried he might be hurt. Don't make more of it than it was."

  "You must know it looked more than that, in front of the media cameras. It looked bad, Jes. Like you cared more about him than you did about me."

  "I know more about the media than you ever will, Douglas Campbell! They'll see what's there, and nothing else; a woman concerned over the Champion who saved her life and that of her husband-to-be. No one will say anything else; unless you make a big deal of it. Let it drop, Douglas. It doesn't matter."

  "It matters," said Douglas. "It matters to me."

  There was a lot more for them to discuss, and it was some time before the day's business was finally over and they were all free to go their separate ways, and consider the day's ramifications. Lewis walked the narrow corridors alone, the heavy scowl on his ugly face enough to keep pretty much everyone at a distance. Even those who just wanted to congratulate him on the day's heroism thought better of it, and kept on walking. Lewis didn't notice. He never did.

  And then a large and blocky figure moved deliberately out of the shadows to block his path. Lewis had to stop or walk right through him. Lewis opened his mouth, and then closed it again, as he recognized the man standing patiently before him. Michel du Bois, Member for his own home planet of Virimonde. Lewis nodded politely, and du Bois nodded politely back.

  "You did well today, Deathstalker. Credit to you reflects well upon your home. And I really like the new outfit."

  "Don't you start," said Lewis. "What do you want, du Bois? And why do I just know I'm not going to like it?"

  "We need to talk, Deathstalker," said du Bois. "And you've been avoiding me ever since the Coronation."

  "That's because I was hoping to avoid just such conversations as this," growled Lewis. "We have talked in the past, du Bois, and neither of us enjoyed it. Nothing has changed. I am not going to trade on my friendship and position with the King to plead for special favors and attention for Virimonde."

  "Why not?" du Bois said reasonably. "Everyone trades favors here, even though we're not supposed to. A little of this, for a little of that. Everyone makes deals. That's how the system works. Up until now, Virimonde has been very much the poor relation at the House. We've never had anything or anyone to trade with. So all the best trade deals and economic grants ended up going to other worlds that needed them less than we do. When we bring our begging bowl to the House, we stand alone, with no friend or ally at our side. You could change all that. People would flock to the world that had the ear of the King. You talk to the King, he talks to the subcommittees, everyone gets something they want, everyone's happy. What's so bad about that? I'm not asking for anything for myself, Deathstalker; only for my world. Your world. Your home."

  "Wouldn't do any harm to your chances for reelection, though, would it?" said Lewis. "I do know a few things about how politics work. You have to deliver, or they'll replace you with someone else who might. Understand me very clearly, du Bois; I am not going to do anything that might compromise Douglas's position. It's important to him and to me that the first Imperial Champion in two hundred years is seen to be utterly impartial. Or no one will trust him or me."

  "How soon they forget," said du Bois, and there was new iron in his voice. "How ungrateful the son can be, once he's distanced himself from his family. Who was it that supported you all these years on Logres, added to your meager salary, so you could play the part of the honest Paragon? Your wages didn't allow you to live as other Paragons did, and your own family couldn't support you."

  "I never asked for that money! You came to me, said it was important that Virimonde's Paragon didn't appear to be a poor relation at Court!"

  "You took the money," said du Bois. "Did you never think that one day there would be a reckoning? The people of Virimonde put up a lot of money on your behalf, went without so you could live in comfort in the greatest city in the Empire. They're entitled to get something back for that."

  "They do," said Lewis, meeting du Bois's angry gaze unflinchingly. "They ge
t a Champion they can be proud of. My responsibility to them is the same now as it always was; to be the best, most honorable representative of my world that I am capable of being. To be honest and true, and incorruptible. An honorable man, from an honorable world."

  "Words," said the Member for Virimonde. "Just words. You have a lot to learn, young Deathstalker, about how the Empire really works."

  "Oh, I'm learning," said Lewis. "Trust me, du Bois; I'm learning. Douglas chose me to be his Champion, rather than the more obvious choice of the Durandal, because he trusted me to be my own man. And so I am. Stop my money, if you want. If you can. I will not compromise my beliefs; beliefs my Clan has held to for hundreds of years. I am a Deathstalker; and don't you ever forget it. From now on, du Bois, I think we should meet only on public occasions. We have nothing more to say to each other in private."

  "I could raise the matter directly with the King," said du Bois. "He might be more… reasonable."

  "The King is very reasonable," said Lewis. "He's also even more honorable than I am. He'd have you arrested for treason on the spot, just for trying to put pressure on me. So you go right ahead, if you want. I'm told Traitors Hall is comparatively comfortable, these days."

  He bowed briefly to du Bois and walked away, and du Bois watched him go, and thought many things.

  CHAPTER THREE

  ALL KINDS OF BETRAYAL

  It had been two weeks since Douglas's Coronation, and everything in the garden was wonderful. The planet of Logres, and most especially that ancient and golden city, the Parade of the Endless, blossomed like a rose in summer under the rapt attention of the whole Empire. The new King's positive attitude had caught Humanity's mood exactly, and his unexpected political skills had delighted everyone who enjoyed seeing the established political elite embarrassed and outdone. The media followed King Douglas and his people wherever they went, and absolutely everyone was fascinated to see what he would do next. It was only another two weeks until he would be marrying the Empire's most beloved diva, anticipation was already at fever pitch, and the media were going out of their minds. They had all made it very clear that nothing short of armed force was going to keep them out of this one, so Douglas had bowed to the inevitable, and graciously agreed to Empirewide live coverage of his marriage, to be carried on all the major channels. Jesamine had already promised that she would be singing at the ceremony; her last ever live performance. Bidding for the recording rights was fierce, bordering on vicious. Already there were newsgroups, websites, and whole vid channels devoted to nothing but gossip about the buildup to the marriage ceremony.

  And you were nobody in Society if you didn't already have your invitation.

  The Parade of the Endless buzzed with rumor, and bristled with all kinds of life. Tourists were flooding in from all sides of the Empire, and you couldn't book a room in a hotel for love or money. News channels were offering outrageous sums just for a peek at the wedding dress, and the wedding banquet organizers were getting everything from stock option offers to death threats over the seating arrangements. Excitement was in the air wherever you turned, and everyone agreed there had never been a better time to be alive. It was, in fact, the last great Season of the Golden Age, though no one knew that then.

  On the surface, all was calm and peace and happy anticipation. But down in the dark, dark depths, something with teeth and appetite and awful ambitions was laying the groundwork for a terrible storm.

  Brett Random's stomach hurt all the time now. It hurt when he woke up, ached all through the increasingly long days, and barely subsided enough to let him sleep at night. He didn't eat much, and he was drinking a lot. It was all tension, of course. Nerves. And it was all Finn Durandal's fault. The Paragon drove Brett like a slave driver.

  Brett had never been bothered with butterflies in the stomach before, even during the most complicated and risky of his confidence tricks; but back then he had always been the one in charge. He had always taken great pride in the careful planning that went into every one of his stings, and had the utmost confidence in his ability to function and if necessary improvise under pressure. But now Finn was in the driver's seat, demanding remorselessly that Brett lead him further and further into the seediest, darkest warrens of the Rookery; searching out the extremely disreputable people and expertise that Finn had decided were necessary for his bitter revenge.

  Brett assumed Finn had some secret overall plan, though he couldn't see it for the life of him. But he had to assume that Finn knew what he was doing, because the alternative was frankly too awful to contemplate. Far better to be the accomplice of a master criminal than the victim of a raving lunatic. So Brett took Finn where he wanted to go, introduced him to the often appalling people Finn said he needed to meet, and did a lot of sitting miserably in corners, with his arms folded tightly over his aching stomach.

  Sometimes Rose Constantine joined them, and then Brett's head hurt too. He just knew the Wild Rose was a disaster waiting to happen. When he had trouble getting to sleep at nights, he just counted the ways it could all go suddenly and horribly and violently wrong when Rose was around.

  Brett Random trudged unhappily down narrow lanes, knocked on hidden doors, and reluctantly led the way into windowless rooms with dramatically low lighting, where he introduced Finn Durandal to locksmiths, forgers, computer hackers, burglars, muscle and guns for hire, and all the other secret people a Golden Age didn't like to admit still existed. A lot of them wouldn't have been in for Brett Random, but they were all fascinated to meet a legendary Paragon gone bad. Most didn't believe it at first, but you only had to be in Finn's presence for a while, to hear his calm awful voice, and see the fey light in his eyes, to know this was no trick, no con. And somehow none of these alleged twilight people could bring themselves to say no to the charming, dangerous, tainted Paragon as he murmured his needs and requirements, and promised them rewards almost beyond belief.

  Evil always knows evil, when it meets it face to face.

  Finn was particularly pleased to meet a certain Mr. Sylvester; a faded actor of a certain age, who with the decline of his career had embraced computer hacking and character assassination with equal satisfaction. Mr. Sylvester was an absolute master at breaking into even the best guarded of files, adding a damning line or two, and then leaving, with no trace to show he had ever been there. He could destroy a reputation with just the right planted word, here and there, and could change or corrupt the whole meaning of a phrase just by meddling with the emphasis. After all, a half truth can be so much more damning than a total lie… Many a ruined life, and many a suicide, had been traced to Mr. Sylvester; but only by those in the know. Finn talked with Mr. Sylvester for over an hour, while Brett waited in the corridor outside and failed utterly to make small talk with Rose Constantine.

  The agents provocateurs had their own squalid little cafe, The Outcry, where they lounged around all day when they weren't working, drinking bad coffee, and swapping the tales they could tell only each other. For the right price, they would infiltrate any march or meeting or organization, and guarantee to bring it all crashing down to ruin and disgrace. No one was safe from them, and some had been known to boast they could start a fight in an empty room. They were much in demand, and very well paid, but the nature of their profession, and the many enemies they'd made, demanded an anonymity that they found particularly irksome. What use was craft and skill and accomplishment if you couldn't boast about it afterwards? They were all heartily sick of each other's company, so they took to Finn Durandal immediately, as he sat and listened patiently while they all but fell over themselves detailing all the appalling things they could do for him, for the right price.

  In the end, Finn offered a sum that made Brett's eyes bulge, as a down-payment for a series of actions yet to be detailed, and all the agents present agreed to abjure all other assignments and hold themselves ready for his call. Brett was so astonished he actually took Finn by the arm and insisted on talking privately with him. Finn sighed and agr
eed, and allowed Brett to lead him away while the agents chatted animatedly with each other. Finn had promised them a real test of their skills, and they did so love a challenge. Brett pulled Finn into a private booth, and the Durandal immediately pulled his arm free.

  "Don't touch me, Brett. I don't like to be touched."

  "You must be touched in the head, to be putting up the kind of money you've been offering them!" Brett said angrily, too outraged even to be respectful. "And you didn't need to hire them all, dammit! Jesus, you could at least have let me negotiate…"

  "I'm touched by your concern, Brett, but you don't know what I'm planning," Finn said calmly. "I may have need of all of these people, or I may not. I'm not sure, yet. But either way, I don't want any of them free to work against me. And anyway; money doesn't matter to me."

  "Don't blaspheme," Brett said automatically. "And keep your voice down, or they'll double the price on general principle. Are you really so rich you can just throw it away?"

  "I've always had money," said Finn. "I made a lot of it in my early days. It was just another way of proving I was the best. Another way of keeping score with my… contemporaries. But I never really had anything worth spending it on before. Certainly nothing that gave me so much pleasure. Don't frown like that, Brett. It'll give you wrinkles. I know what I'm doing, and you know only what I want you to know."

  And then they both looked around sharply, as a single agent came striding over to join them. He crashed to a halt outside their booth, his thumbs tucked ostentatiously into a wide leather belt from which hung all kinds of nasty-looking weapons. He glared at Finn and Brett impartially. He was almost as wide as he was tall, his body bulging with the best muscles money could buy. In fact, he looked like he got a bulk discount on the deal. He was a thug, and looked it, conspicuous in his lack of enthusiasm for Finn's proposal earlier. Brett studied the man warily, and let his hand drift casually towards the dagger concealed up his sleeve.