Deathstalker (22 page)

“I am quite capable of looking after myself,” said Owen hotly. “I have been trained as a warrior by some of the finest tutors in the Empire!”

“Judging by what I’ve seen, you should ask for your money back. You’re a liability, Owen, and I’ve got my own problems. You’ll do all right. Selling this ship should make you one of the wealthiest people on Mistworld, if you don’t let yourself get fleeced.”

“Sell
Sunstrider
? Are you out of your mind? She’s my only chance for getting off this planet!”

“Owen, you’re not going anywhere. This is the end of the line for people like us. Mistworld is the only planet where you can hope to survive. Anywhere else, they’ll cut your head off the moment you raise it to look around. You aren’t going to find it easy here, but at least you’ll have a fighting chance. And that’s the best you can ever hope for as an outlaw.”

Owen thought hard. Much as he hated to admit it, he needed Hazel d’Ark. She was loud, overbearing and definitely common, but she understood this new world of outlaws, and as yet he didn’t.

“You can’t just abandon me,” he said plaintively. “You
have contacts here; I don’t know anyone. You can’t just walk off and leave me to the wolves.”

“Watch me,” said Hazel. “I don’t owe you anything, aristo. If I’d known you were going to cling on like this, I’d have shot you myself.”

All right
, thought Owen,
so much for appealing to her better nature. She is an outlaw, after all
.

“How about this: I’ll hire you as my bodyguard till I learn the ropes. Name your own price.”

Hazel looked at him thoughtfully. “And just what were you planning to pay me with?”

“As you just pointed out, selling the
Sunstrider
will make me extremely rich. If the right person was there to oversee the deal.”

“Ten percent,” said Hazel flatly. “I get my money right off the top, and you don’t get to make any conditions. You also don’t get to whine, complain or ask impertinent questions. I’ll stick with you till you’re established, but then I’m off. You’re too tempting a target, Deathstalker. I feel nervous just standing next to you.”

Owen seethed inwardly. He had a strong suspicion that ten percent of what the
Sunstrider
would bring would be enough to set up a dozen men for life, but it wasn’t as if he had a choice in the matter. He couldn’t command her as a Lord, or beg her as a friend, so that just left money.

“All right,” he said tightly. “You’ve got a deal.”

He put out his hand for her to shake, but she just looked at it. “Forget the handshake, Deathstalker. We’ve no reason to trust each other. All you need to know is that if you try to cross or cheat me, I’ll cut you up into bite-sized chunks, and to hell with all your fancy training. Now let me think.”

She stood there for a long moment frowning, concentrating. Owen lowered his hand and let it rest on his belt near his sword. With anyone else, he would have challenged them to a duel for such an insult, but Hazel was different. He had a feeling he could come to respect her. If he didn’t kill her first. She sniffed suddenly, as though coming to a decision she wasn’t particularly pleased with, and fixed Owen with her sardonic gaze again.

“Assuming the few friends I made last time I was here are still around, and still feeling friendly, I should be able to talk our way past quarantine. We can’t afford to hang around long enough to be recognized. Unfortunately, we can’t afford
to rely on my old contacts. Lifespans tend to be rather short on Mistworld. If the people don’t kill you, the planet will. I hope you’ve got some industrial-strength warm clothing tucked away on this ship somewhere, or we’re going to freeze solid just walking off the landing pads.

Owen scowled. “Assuming your old contacts are no longer in the land of the living or the willing, and we can’t talk our way past quarantine, how long would they hold us?”

“Long enough to call an esper to dig through our minds in search of something incriminating. Mistport security takes its job very seriously. The Empire keeps trying to smuggle in disguised plague ships and the like.”

“And we can’t afford to be identified,” said Owen. “Great. Just great. All right, Hazel, do whatever you have to, but keep us out of quarantine. Only bear in mind that whatever bribe you end up offering is coming out of your ten percent. Clear?”

Hazel nodded approvingly. “See, you’re starting to think like an outlaw already.”

“What sort of planet is Mistworld?” said Owen as they headed for the comm panels. “You make it sound like a hellworld.”

“It’s a hard world, Deathstalker. Very poor, hardly any high tech, and the people who come here tend to be the lowest of the low.”

“I’m sure you felt right at home here, Hazel.”

“You will come to regret that remark in the long cold days ahead, aristo. You’ll either learn to fit in here, or die. Your choice. Ozymandius, are you listening?”

“Of course, Hazel,” said the AI promptly. “A great many people have been trying to talk to us. I have been waiting to ascertain whether we wished to talk to them.”

“Patch me through to the Mistport control tower,” said Hazel. “Everyone else can wait.”

“As you wish. May I point out at this stage that I am a very sophisticated system and quite capable of running rings around any AIs the Mistport might have?”

“Don’t even think about it,” said Hazel sharply. “What they use for computers down there would scare the electronic spit out of you. They’re very powerful and extremely dangerous. Shield yourself at all times and stay well clear of anything that isn’t entirely human. Like everything else on
Mistworld, the computers have got teeth you wouldn’t believe.”

“Nice place you’ve brought me to,” said Owen.

“It has its charms. Raise the control tower, Ozymandius. Hello, Mistport central. This is the
Sunstrider
, looking for sanctuary. Please acknowledge.”

“This is duty esper John Silver,” said a tired voice from the comm panels. “Don’t adjust your systems, we’ve lost visual again. I need a full rundown on your crew, cargo and last planetfall. Don’t bother lying; our espers will get it out of you anyway.”

“John?” said Hazel, smiling suddenly. “Is that you, Silver, you old pirate? You’re the last voice I was expecting. This is Hazel d’Ark. Remember, we worked together on the Angel of Night swindle.”

“The good God preserve and save us,” said the voice, sounding a little more animated. “Hazel bloody d’Ark. I always knew you’d be back someday, no doubt dragging a long trail of creditors behind you. Who have you got mad at you this time?”

“Practically everyone. Look, John, I need a favor.”

“You always do. What is it this time?”

“I can’t afford to hang around in quarantine. Too many people looking for me and this ship. I need to go to ground for a while. Will you vouch for me?”

“Depends. Are you alone?”

“One passenger, and I vouch for him.”

“That’s not much of a recommendation. I have a strong feeling I’m going to regret this, but all right. Put your ship down on pad seven, and then disappear into the mists. I can only buy you twenty-four hours, though.”

“That should be enough. Thanks, John. How the hell did a died-in-the-blood pirate like you end up in security?”

Silver chuckled briefly. “Times are hard, girl, and Mistport needed all the espers it could get. Things have gone to hell since you were last here. Empire hit us with something really nasty. Over half our espers are dead or mindburned. As a result, security is tighter than ever, but with nowhere near enough people to enforce it. Look me up when you’ve got a chance. Unless you’re still trouble, in which case I never heard of you. Silver out.”

“Now that was a stroke of luck,” said Owen, and then
stopped as he saw the expression on Hazel’s face. “Wasn’t it?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. The John Silver I knew was an expirate and a confidence trickster. And now he’s in charge of Mistport security? Things must have really gone to the dogs since I was last here. And we’re not out of the woods yet. We’ve got twenty-four hours, and then either I report in with a lot of convincing answers, or Silver’s people will tear the city apart looking for us. On top of that, we have to use that time to find a buyer for
Sunstrider
before someone recognizes it. You can bet every Imperial agent on Mistworld has a detailed description of it and you by now. Which means we have twenty-four hours to make the sale, bank the money, and then go to ground so thoroughly that even the really talented and highly motivated people looking for us won’t be able to find us. Once things have quieted down a little, we can reappear with new names and backgrounds and a hell of a lot of money to back us up.”

“Why can’t we just change our looks in a body shop?” said Owen.

Hazel gave him the kind of look a tutor gives a dull but persistent pupil. Owen was getting rather tired of that look, but kept his temper.

“Remember what I said about limited high tech on this world? The only tech they’ve got here is what smugglers can sneak past the Empire. I’m not saying there isn’t a body shop somewhere in Mistport, but if there is you can bet it’s the only one, and so exclusive that they charge an arm and a leg. Possibly literally. Which means it’ll be watched night and day by Imperial agents, just in case we’re stupid enough to go anywhere near it. Try and keep up, Deathstalker. I can’t carry you all the way. And before you start sulking again, could you perhaps put a little thought toward raising some stake money? I’ve got a little credit stashed away here and there in Mistport, but not a lot. I had to earn it the hard way.”

“Really?” said Owen. “How?”

“You don’t need to know. Ozymandius? Are we cleared to land?”

“As soon as we pay a rather exorbitant docking fee, yes.”

Owen asked how much. The AI told him, and Owen nearly had a fit. “I’m not paying that! It’s extortionate!”

“Not really,” said Hazel. “Not when you consider how
much more they could make by handing you over to the Empire. Besides, you’re not paying it, I’m going to have to. And just for the record, no, this is not coming out of my ten percent.”

Ozymandius cleared its throat politely, something that never failed to disconcert Owen, not least because the AI didn’t have a throat to clear. “I really feel I should remind you, Owen, that the new files I discovered hidden in my memory were quite specific concerning an establishment in Mistport that you should visit in order to find help.” The AI paused, and when it spoke again it sounded almost apologetic. “I also have a name to go with the address. But you’re not going to like it.”

“Try me,” said Owen resignedly. “I’d be hard-pressed to name anything about this situation I do like.”

“The name is Jack Random.”

“He’s here? On Mistworld?” Owen thought hard. “How the hell did he get tangled up with my father’s intrigues? I wouldn’t have thought they were in the same class.”

“A good question, Owen, for which I have as yet no satisfactory answer.”

“You’ve got really polite since Hazel came aboard,” said Owen accusingly.

“Are you complaining?”

Owen thought hard. His head was beginning to ache. Jack Random: the professional rebel. Legendary warrior. He fought the system. Any system. He’d been fighting the Empire for more than twenty years, leading one rebellion after another on any number of planets. He was a spellbinding orator, with a keen eye for injustice, and never had any trouble finding more hotheaded fools to follow him to death or glory. And so it went for many years. But the decades passed, and the Empire stood as strong as ever, and people remembered the many lost battles rather than the few triumphs, and they stopped listening. The price on Jack Random’s head became increasingly tempting, and the bounty hunters went after him in earnest. He’d been forced to drop out of sight, and no one had seen him for years.

“Trust my father to hook up with one of the biggest all-time losers,” said Owen. “Even I have more sense than to tie myself to Jack Random. By all accounts a legendary fighter and hero, but a piss-poor general. Hazel, I place myself in your hands.”

“In your dreams, aristo,” said Hazel. “But please, Owen, watch your step and leave all the talking to me. If the people we’re going to see get even a hint of who you really are, we are both dead.”

“Relax,” said Owen. “I am not without experience. I know how to comport myself in public.”

“That’s what I mean! You can’t go around using words like comport; it’s a dead giveaway. Look, don’t say a word, and I’ll pass you off as my deaf-mute cousin.”

Owen looked at her. “Don’t do me any favors.”

“Trust me,” said Hazel. “I won’t.”

Owen kept his mouth shut and his eyes open as Hazel led him through the narrow streets of Mistport. The city was in a hell of a state. Rebuilding was going on everywhere he looked, and the people seemed uniformly sour and tight-lipped. From the look of the place, Owen didn’t blame them one bit. The stone and timber buildings leaned out over the street like drunken old men apologizing to each other. There was mud and filth in the street, and the smell was appalling. A thick fog pearled the air in sheets of gray, so that lamps burned brightly at irregular intervals, even though it was getting on toward midday. People filled the streets, huddled under heavy furs and cloaks, looking straight ahead and using their elbows with practiced skill.

Owen and Hazel kept the hoods of their cloaks pulled well forward, so that their faces were hidden in shadow. No one stared at them or showed any curiosity; apparently, anonymity was a common state in Mistport. Owen trudged on through the mud and slush and beat his gloved hands together to force out the cold. He’d taken the heaviest clothes from
Sunstrider
’s wardrobe, but there hadn’t been a lot of choice. Owen glared at Hazel’s back ahead of him. She was striding along like it was just another day. Owen muttered to himself and struggled to keep up with her, elbowing people out of his way with grim satisfaction. Nobody said anything. Apparently that was common practice, too.

Hazel dragged him from one low dive to another in search of old acquaintances, but no one wanted to talk. After the recent troubles, everyone was busy looking after their own affairs. Hazel kept plugging away, while Owen’s spirits drooped. He couldn’t even talk to Oz for company; they’d agreed to keep communication to a minimum for security’s
sake. You could never be sure who was listening in on Mistworld. He scowled unhappily and pulled his cloak tightly around him. It was all taking too long. Finally Hazel came up with a name, if not a location: Ruby Journey.