Deathstalker Legacy (42 page)

“Hello, Tim. Good to hear from you. What’s up? Running short of funds at last?”

“No,” said Tim. “It’s not that.” His voice was high and uncertain, and he couldn’t seem to meet Lewis’s eyes. “It’s not the money, Lewis. It was never about the money. You know that. But I’m afraid . . . I’m going to have to shut down the site. Your site. In fact, it’s already done. I’m sorry.”

Lewis just stared at him, lost for words. He wasn’t sure how he felt about no longer having his own tribute site. On the one hand, he’d never been entirely comfortable with having a site at all; it encouraged too much of the fannish adoration he’d always found so embarrassing. But on the other hand . . . if there was one person he’d thought he’d always be able to rely on, it was Tim Highbury. Tim had always believed in him, understood him; stood between Lewis and the obsessives who would otherwise have made his life a misery. Before Tim had come along, Lewis had had to employ a screening system for his calls, and change his address every six months, to be sure of getting some privacy. And now . . . there was something odd about the way Tim was acting. He looked . . . not so much upset, as . . . disappointed.

“What is it, Tim? What’s happened? Has someone been putting pressure on you, over the site?”

“No! It’s not that. Well, not exactly. It’s just . . . it isn’t the same anymore. People don’t feel the same about you. Not since the Neuman riot. It’s all changed. It isn’t fun anymore. I’m sure you’ll find someone else to take over the site. Run it for you. For people who still believe in you. I’m sorry. I can’t do it anymore. I have to go now. Good-bye.”

His voice was all over the place. He was almost crying when he finally shut down the connection from his end. Lewis stared at the blank screen, almost in shock, and then shut down his screen. Tim had given up on him. His oldest, truest fan. Lewis hadn’t thought it would be possible to feel more alone, more isolated and abandoned; but in this as in so many other things, he had been wrong. He got up and slowly walked back to his chair. His legs were unsteady, and he all but collapsed into the chair as he sat down again. Was it just the riot? Or could word about him and Jes already be circulating? No; it couldn’t be that. Even a hint of such gossip would have had his place surrounded by journalists by now, baying for a statement. Could Douglas have simply put out the word that Lewis was now officially persona non grata? It wouldn’t have been like Douglas, but then, he’d never been betrayed so badly before. But no; again that kind of rift between two such important people would have been meat and drink to the gossip shows. So why had Tim abandoned him?

His comm implant chimed in his ear, and Lewis sat up sharply as Douglas’s voice came to him on his personal channel. Douglas sounded as calm and authoritative as always, but somehow . . . impersonal.

“Hello, Lewis. Sorry to bother you, but I have a job that needs doing.”

“Hello, Douglas. Don’t worry; you didn’t interrupt anything important. What can I do for you?”

“I need you to go over to the Court, and check on how preparations for the Wedding are going. They’re way behind schedule, and I can’t get a straight answer out of anybody as to why. I can’t spare the time to go over and yell at them myself, so I want you to do it for me. Feel free to kick whatever arses you consider necessary, to get them up to speed again. Talk to you later, Lewis. Bye.”

And that was it. Lewis chewed the words over slowly, not sure he liked the taste, or what it signified. His first thought was that this was just makework, something to keep him busy. And a safe distance away from the House, and Douglas . . . and Jesamine. Anyone could have coped with such a simple problem. Hell, Anne could have sorted it out on her lunch hour. And asking him to ensure that the Royal Wedding ran smoothly could be seen as rubbing his nose in it . . . Except that that would have been petty. Douglas was many things, but petty had never been one of them. So, was there something . . . important, significant, happening at the Court right now that Douglas needed Lewis to investigate? Something Douglas couldn’t afford to notice officially? Some threat, some dispute, some underhandedness that Douglas couldn’t discuss openly? God knew there were enough groups and individuals who’d seize on any chance of disrupting the Wedding. Lewis remembered the suicide bomber at the House, considered how much damage a transmutation bomb could do at the Wedding, and shuddered despite himself. Only one way to find out what was going on at Court: go and see.

So he went.

 

He was actually feeling pretty good by the time he got to Court. Good to be doing something again, something that mattered. The Court itself was full of people running back and forth on urgent errands, all of them apparently far too busy to stop and talk with him. Lewis strolled slowly around the great hall, getting the feel of things, looking and listening and saying nothing, while everyone else gave him plenty of room without actually acknowledging his presence or very existence. It soon became clear to him that while there was a lot of shouting and waving of arms going on, not to mention a hell of a lot of bad language, nothing much was actually getting done, because no one could agree on what needed doing first. Everyone had their own agenda and deadline, and no one was prepared to back down for anyone else. Projects were left unfinished or only half done because some other section leader would come along and commandeer the workforce for their own half-done or unfinished project. Lewis sighed, metaphorically rolled his sleeves up, and got stuck in.

When in doubt, go to the top. Lewis searched out each section leader in turn, and talked politely and earnestly. When that didn’t work, he grabbed two handfuls of their shirtfronts, slammed them up against the nearest wall, and glared at them till they whimpered. He explained how much better it would be for everyone if they stopped arguing and fighting with each other and started to behave in a civilized and cooperative manner, and everyone he talked to nodded eagerly, and didn’t stop nodding until he took his hand off his swordhilt. Or, in extreme cases, their throats. Lewis then assembled all the section heads together in one place and explained how unhappy the King was with their lack of progress. And how unhappy that made him. He went on to explain that if they couldn’t or wouldn’t do their job and get things running smoothly and back on schedule in very short order, he would personally see that they were all buried in one big communal grave (probably but not necessarily after they were dead) and see how their seconds-in-command did as section leaders. Everyone agreed to be much more civilized in future, and send the King’s office regular progress reports to prove it, and Lewis sent them all back to work with smiles and encouraging words, a promise of a substantial bonus if they came in on time and under budget, and a good kick up the arse to help the slowest moving on his way.

And that should have been that.

Except . . . Lewis couldn’t get over how frightened of him they’d all been. All right, he’d played his part to the hilt, complete with menacing stare and heavy breathing, because they wouldn’t have taken him seriously if he hadn’t, and he’d been quite prepared to slap a few heads if that was what it took to get their attention, but some of them had started sweating the moment they recognized him. Some of them looked like they would have run away if they’d dared. If he hadn’t known better, Lewis would have sworn they were actually taking his threats seriously. That they really believed he would kill them if they didn’t do what he said.

Which was . . . disturbing.

Lewis took up a position on the raised dais, beside the King’s Throne, and looked out over the Court again. There was a lot less shouting and carrying on going on now, and rather more constructive effort, but no one wanted to look at him. In fact, people were going out of their way to avoid even having to come close to the dais. Lewis was honestly baffled by this. He was used to respect, he felt he’d earned that in his years as Paragon and the King’s Justice, but this . . . this wasn’t respect. It was fear. They were acting like some wild animal had come into their midst, one that might go mad and attack them all at any moment.

Lewis looked around until he spotted a journalist, doing an on-the-spot commentary to his camera floating before him. Lewis stepped down from the dais and headed casually towards him. People scattered to get out of his way. The journalist looked around sharply, took one look at Lewis bearing down on him, broke off his commentary, and headed straight for the nearest exit, his camera bobbing along behind him. Lewis increased his pace. The journalist glanced back over his shoulder, saw that Lewis was catching up, and broke into a run. Lewis sighed, drew the thin throwing dagger from the top of his boot, took careful aim and let fly. The dagger snapped through the air, caught the journalist’s flowing sleeve, and pinned it firmly to the wall. The journalist was jerked to a sudden stop, and almost fell. He was still tugging furiously at the sleeve and the dagger, cursing and swearing and blaspheming, when Lewis finally caught up with him. The journalist straightened up, flashed Lewis a desperate and entirely unconvincing smile, and set his back firmly against the wall.

“Sir Deathstalker! Sir Champion! Wonderful to see you!

Looking good. Yes. Aren’t we having absolutely marvelous weather?”

“Why did you run?” Lewis said interestedly.

“Urgent story!” said the journalist. He was sweating heavily now, and his eyes were very big. “Just breaking. You know how it is. Very important story, and significant, and I really must be going. Can’t stop! Sorry!”

“Stand still,” said Lewis. “You’re not going anywhere until you and I have had a friendly and informative little heart-to-heart.”

“Oh shit,” said the journalist, miserably.

“What’s your name, and who do you work for?”

“Adrian Pryke, sir Deathstalker. Channel 437. News and views and everything that moves.
If it matters, we’re there.
Look, I really must be—”

“No you mustn’t,” said Lewis. “Talk to me, Adrian Pryke. Talk to me openly and honestly, or I will bounce your head off that wall until your eyes change color. Why are you so scared of me?”

“Are you kidding?” said Pryke, so desperate now he was too scared even to be polite anymore. “After what you did in the Neuman riot?
Everyone
’s shit scared of you!”

Lewis looked at Pryke for a long moment. “I did my duty.”

“You killed people! Lots of people! Cut them down and butchered them, right in front of the cameras, and looked like you were enjoying every minute of it. That wasn’t duty. It wasn’t even law. It was retaliation.”

“Paragons had been murdered. I was avenging my fallen comrades.”

“Paragons are supposed to be about justice, not vengeance.” The journalist’s voice was full of bitter resignation now, as though he expected to die, so nothing he said mattered anymore. He could tell the truth, because the worst had already happened. “We all saw it, Deathstalker. You went after the people who killed your friends, and you cut down everyone who got in your way, whether they were guilty of anything or not. And you smiled while you did it. There was other people’s blood on your face, and you smiled. We’ve been running coverage of what you did in the riot pretty much nonstop ever since. Not just 437, all the news channels. No one could believe what you did.That you could be so vicious, so . . . out of control. The famed Deathstalker rage, turned on civilians. No one trusts you anymore. What’s the matter, Deathstalker? You said you wanted the truth. Don’t you have the stomach for it?”

“I didn’t kill anyone who wasn’t trying to kill me,” said Lewis.

“We all saw, Deathstalker. We all saw what you did. We all saw the real you.”

Lewis jerked the dagger out of Pryke’s sleeve and out of the wall, and the journalist flinched, clearly expecting a killing thrust. Lewis put the dagger back in the top of his boot, and stepped away from the journalist.

“Thank you, Adrian. You can go now.”

Pryke looked at him dubiously. “You mean it? You’re not going to kill me?”

“No, Adrian. I’m not going to kill you.”

“Oh good,” said Pryke. “Then, if you’ll excuse me; there’s a toilet calling my name really loudly.”

He edged sideways across the wall until he was safely out of Lewis’s reach, and then he turned and ran for the exit, his camera chasing after him. He didn’t look back, as though afraid Lewis might change his mind and come after him. Or shoot him in the back. Lewis watched him go, and then turned slowly to look out over the Court again. It had all gone very quiet. Everyone was watching him. As Lewis looked back at them, they all avoided his gaze and went about their business again. The general noise and hubbub slowly resumed, but nowhere near as loud or as lively as before.

Lewis leaned back against the wall, suddenly tired. He scowled, his ugly face uglier than usual. This was why Douglas had sent him to the Court. What Douglas had wanted him to see, to know. To learn the truth that Douglas hadn’t been able to bring himself to say in person. That everyone was scared of Lewis Deathstalker now. That no one trusted him anymore. Not because of Jesamine, but because of what he’d done, what he’d let himself do in his rage, during the Neuman riot. They all thought he was a monster, and perhaps they were right. No wonder Tim Highbury didn’t want to run his site anymore.

He wasn’t just a monster. He was a pariah.

That was what Douglas had sent him here to learn. One last gift from an old friend? Or one more twist of the knife from a new enemy?

Lewis Deathstalker strode out of the Court, head held high, and everyone there was glad to see him go.

 

Brett Random and Rose Constantine were back in Finn Durandal’s apartment again, sitting in their usual chairs, waiting for instructions. The Durandal was off somewhere playing the good Paragon with Emma Steel, but he’d promised to be back as soon as he could credibly slip away and leave his new unwanted partner to her own devices. So Brett and Rose waited, not looking at each other, not talking. Brett had already dosed his aching stomach with everything in his and Finn’s medicine cabinet, and none of it had done a damned bit of good. Brett rubbed soothingly at his tormented stomach with both hands, and wondered dismally if perhaps he should contact Dr. Happy and use Finn’s line of credit to beg a little something. The ache kept him awake at night, and drove him from his bed far too early in the morning, and he was getting really bloody tired of it. No amount of promised money or power was worth this, and Finn’s threats on what he would do to Brett if he even thought of leaving were seeming less and less intimidating by the hour. Sometimes Brett thought he would sell his soul, or what little was left of it, if his gut would only stop hurting so badly.