Deathstalker Legacy (28 page)

Lewis sighed, and stared moodily into his glass. He couldn’t even get drunk. Bad for the public image. Someone would see and tell; someone always did. Lewis pushed his glass away, and buried his face in his hands. He’d been so proud, so happy, the day he was acclaimed Champion. He thought he’d reached the peak of his career. How could it all go so wrong, so quickly? He lifted his head, and snorted quietly. Deathstalker luck. Always bad. Ask Owen.

If you could find him.

 

The Empress Lionstone XIV, tall and lithe and impossibly beautiful, sat in state upon her great Throne of black iron and gleaming jade, wrapped in the snow white furs of extinct animals, the diamond Crown of Empire shining on her elegant head like a star. She smiled her approval on the thirteen members of the Shadow Court as they assembled before her, to bow and curtsey and show their respect. Lionstone, glorious and adored, powerful beyond hope and mercy, last of a fabled line. It was a pity she was just a hologram recording, but the Shadow Court was used to having to make do with second best.

The thirteen men and women, anonymous in enveloping black cloaks and black silk masks, even their voices electronically masked and altered, met in secret once a month, to plot the downfall of King and Parliament and the modern order, and plan sedition. The old ways of revenge and vendetta had never been forgotten. Each one present was a descendant of a once-mighty Family, and dreamed of the day when the Clans would rise again, to tear down the hated institutions of democracy and mediocrity, and take back the power and influence that was theirs by right. The old names were long gone, of course. No more Wolfes or Chojiros or Shrecks. The old names had become curses on the lips of the modern Empire. But though the Families had long ago given up their ancient names along with their long-established privileges, to make new identities for themselves in the worlds of trade and business, still they never forgot what they had once been, and had sworn to be again. One day.

Thirteen men and women, all of them rich and powerful in their own right, who hungered always for the one thing their riches couldn’t buy them. To be acknowledged by all as naturally superior.

None of them had ever seen each other’s faces, so that even if captured they couldn’t be made to betray each other. It was enough that they were of the Families; for one aristo can always spot another. They met together in the most obvious place of all, Lionstone’s old Court, in its steel bunker miles below the surface of the planet, deep and deep beneath the bedrock on which the Parade of the Endless rested. Officially the old Court had been abandoned and closed down hundreds of years ago; too full of bad memories even to be preserved as a museum. Armed guards had been set to watch over the only entrance, and only a few people now knew exactly where the old Court was. Lionstone herself didn’t even have a grave or a tombstone.

The Shadow Court never forgot. So they gradually replaced the guards with their own people, over a period of years, and slowly and carefully infiltrated the security forces and made them theirs too. And then the old Court was theirs again, to do with as they wished. The Shadow Court didn’t dare awaken the bunker to its full glory, when wide-reaching holos had transformed the old Court into a world all of its own, full of wonders and marvels. That much power use would have surely been noticed somewhere. But they indulged themselves with the single holo of Lionstone’s ghost, watching from her Throne. A taste of a more glorious past. They liked to think she would have approved of them and what they meant to do.

It never occurred to them that they were ghosts, shadows of what the Families had once been.

Secure behind his concealing mask, Tel Markham, MP for Madraguda, sat at ease in his very comfortable chair, looking out across the antique ironwood table at his fellow conspiritors. Tel Markham was a man of many secrets. He was a well-established, even honored politician, a public supporter of all the right good causes, and a member in good standing of many secret societies, including Pure Humanity; but all his roles, public and private, were nothing more than a means to an end: to making Tel Markham a man of real power, in a new order where he wouldn’t have to endlessly scrape and bow to lesser people and . . . breeds. When his word and every whim would be law, and life and death were his to control and decide. When he could be a Silvestri once again, and hold his head up high. The better to look down his nose at everybody else.

The Families who had once been Clans were nearly all very rich these days, and wielded all kinds of influence on all kinds of levels, but that was not enough for them, not nearly enough. And since they weren’t strong enough to force the changes they wanted so desperately, they moved secretly and indirectly behind the scenes, undermining important people and institutions with a push here and a bribe there, spreading fear and confusion among their many enemies. And always pushing in many small and subtle ways for the return and reestablishing of the Clans to their rightful positions.

Their greatest triumph to date was the creation of a phenomenally successful vid soap,
The Quality.
It ran twice a day on all the major channels, with an omnibus edition at the weekend; a supposedly historical series, set in pre-Rebellion days, concerned almost wholly with sex, sin, and scandal among the aristocracy of Lionstone’s time. All fictitious names, of course, and nothing even remotely based on reality. It was very romantic, very glamorous, and
very
popular.

The series featured larger-than-life characters in gorgeous costumes, impossibly handsome and radiantly beautiful, scheming and plotting and falling in and out of love and in and out of bed. And billions of people watched every episode. The Quality were the people you loved to hate and secretly admired, and even the most minor characters had massive fan bases. Their look dictated fashion, and their catchphrases were on everyone’s lips. The show spawned dozens of style and gossip magazines, and made everyone involved very rich indeed. Money was coming in so fast that even the media accountants couldn’t hide it all.

As a direct result, the general image and popular perception of the aristocracy had never been better. Which was, after all, the point.

The Shadow Court had its people everywhere. They knew all about Finn Durandal. What he was doing, and what he planned, even if some of his actions and intentions frankly baffled them. Many in the Shadow Court were still undecided as to whether the Durandal was fiendishly clever, or a complete looney tune. This particular Session of the Shadow Court had been specifically called to decide what (if anything) should be done about him.

“I say bring him in,” Tel Markham proposed flatly. “As things stand he’s an unknown factor, a wild card, accountable to no one. Who knows what he might do, in the name of his wounded pride? He might think he’s being subtle, but left to his own devices it’s only a matter of time before the powers that be will notice that he’s not at all the man he used to be. Bring him in, make him one of us, and then we can guide and control his efforts. He has a right to be here. His people were Quality once.”

“The Lord Durandal was a hero, back in the old days,” said a woman in a black silk mask liberally spotted with sequins. She fanned herself languorously with a paper fan decorated with erotic images. “He went into the Darkvoid in search of lost Haden, and was never seen again. I say we have this character written into our soap; play up the legendary qualities of the Durandal name. So that if we do choose to embrace young Finn, the public will already be conditioned to adore his
aristocratic
name.”

“What makes you think Finn would want any part of us?” said a clear deep voice, from a man so fat he lay reclining in an antigrav chair, floating beside the table. Someone that size should have been immediately identifiable, and it bothered the others immensely that even after all these years, they still had no idea who he might be. The fat man smiled wetly, spreading his huge soft hands in an expansive gesture. “Finn has his own plans, and his own intentions, and might not take kindly to the suggestion that he should subordinate his desires to ours.”

“Sweeten the pot enough, and he’ll come to us,” Tel Markham said confidently. “There are definite limits to what he can hope to achieve, with his limited resources and the kind of rabble he’s gathering about him. The Rookery is fine for providing specialist advice and cannon fodder, but to bring about the kind of revenge he hungers for, he’s going to need widespread popular support; and for that he’s going to need an organization like ours.”

“Approach him,” said a woman whose silk mask had been cunningly fashioned into a stylized bird of prey. “Sound him out; see if he’s what we think he is. From a safe distance, of course.”

“Of course,” said Tel Markham. “He’ll never know how far deep he’s in . . . until it’s far too late for him to say no.”

Brett Random mooched around Finn Durandal’s living room, looking for something decent to drink. He pushed back a few likely looking panels in the walls, uncovering a speed oven, a bookcase of paperbacks with cracked spines, and a collection of frankly ugly porcelain figures, before finally locating a tasteful polished wood wine rack, with the bottles lying properly on their sides. Brett pulled out half a dozen and sneered at the labels. Why do rich people always buy such rubbish? To hell with taste or discernment; just buy whatever’s fashionable, whatever the glossy lifestyle magazines are plugging that month. There was nothing of any real quality, and a few domestic reds that Brett wouldn’t have used as mouthwash. He finally settled for a fairly reasonable Elfshot vintage as the best of a bad bunch, just to be doing something with his hands. Brett was nervous.

This was the first time the Durandal had invited Brett and Rose back to his place. Having seen it, Brett could understand why. The apartment was located in an excellent neighborhood, but the interior was cozy if you were feeling charitable, and cramped if you weren’t. The furniture was mass-produced shit, functional rather than aesthetic, and only borderline comfortable. The walls boasted a color scheme that bordered on the soporific, and the gray (gray!) carpet clearly hadn’t been shampooed in years. One wall was taken up almost entirely with a massive vidscreen, currently inactive, while another had been programmed to show a holoscene of a seaside view. No sound option. And that was it for the decorations. Brett took a wild guess and decided that Finn probably didn’t spend a lot of time here. This wasn’t a home, or even a den; just some place to crash when you weren’t working.

Rose was still sitting patiently in the chair Finn had directed her to, staring at nothing in particular. She didn’t seem at all interested in her surroundings, but then, outside of the Arena, the Wild Rose didn’t seem to care much about anything. She was just sitting there until Finn came to tell her it was time to be somewhere else. She was relaxed, in the way a cat is relaxed as it waits patiently outside a mousehole.

Brett poured himself a very large drink, and downed half of it in several large gulps. It didn’t make him feel any better. He threw himself sulkily into the nearest chair, and scowled unhappily. He didn’t want to be here. He wanted to go home, lock and bolt the door against the unfriendly world, feed his aching stomach something warm and liquid and soothing, and then crawl into bed and escape into sleep so he could forget about the mess his life had become and having to work with crazy people like Rose Constantine and Finn bloody Durandal. Brett glared sullenly at the closed study door. Finn had been in there for some time now, running checks on the esper drug he’d purchased from Dr. Happy, at a price that had made Brett feel like screaming. Or fainting. Or both. Brett could have told Finn he was wasting his time doing whatever he was doing in his study with the door locked. The good doctor took pride in the quality of his wares.

Finn still hadn’t explained what he wanted with the esper drug. All right, Brett could see how having their own personal telepath could come in handy in all sorts of ways, but it would be easier and safer all around just to hire a rogue esper. There were always a few to be found hiding out in the Rookery, human nature being what it was, and they weren’t all mean or weird, like the ELFs.

Maybe Finn had taken it, after all. Maybe his pride wouldn’t let him waste such an expensive drug on just anybody. And someone with an ego like his would believe he could beat the odds after all. Maybe Finn had taken the drug, and dropped down dead! Brett brightened at the thought. He sat up straight in his chair, and regarded the closed study door with new interest. If Finn was dead . . . one quick round of the apartment to steal everything worth having that wasn’t nailed down, and then he would be out of here so fast it would make Rose’s head spin. And it was up to her if she wanted to hang around and explain the body to the peacekeepers. Brett smiled, and his stomach actually settled a little.

And then he jumped and spilled his drink as the study door crashed open and Finn came striding out. He was holding a test tube full of clear liquid in one hand and smiling broadly. Brett’s heart sank, not least because Finn was smiling at him. Bad news was never far away when the Durandal smiled at him.