Deathstalker Legacy (60 page)

Angelo just grunted, and pointedly didn’t watch as his big brother let himself out. It was turning out to be a really bad day, and the massage function in his chair wasn’t helping to ease the tension in his back and shoulders worth a damn. He investigated the extent of his swollen mouth with cautious fingertips, and found himself shaking with rage all over again. Douglas had actually hit him! Had dared to strike him! Him! Angelo swiveled savagely back and forth in his chair, scowling and seething. The Campbell would pay for this, and pay in blood. And if he was too well guarded . . . someone close to him. Everyone has a weak spot. Angelo’s office door swung open again, and he reached out for something heavy and preferably pointed to throw. And then he saw it was Finn Durandal, and he sank sulkily back into his chair again. He’d been right. It was going to be a perfectly foul day.

“I just passed Tel Markham on my way in,” said Finn. “What did he want?”

“Just a stray dog, looking for scraps,” Angelo said sullenly. “I sent him packing with a flea in his ear. Why? What do you care?”

Finn sighed, coming to a halt directly in front of Angelo. He glanced at the visitor’s chair, but made no move to sit in it. “Sometimes I despair of you, Angelo. You wouldn’t recognize an opportunity if it flew over your head and crapped in your hair. Markham is a more powerful man than most people realize. He isn’t just another MP anymore. He has influence in all kinds of quarters, in places even I can’t reach, at present. As you would know, if you kept up with the reports and memos I so conscientiously send you every day. I made you my junior partner, Angelo; do try and pull your weight. And in future, consult with me before you reject and possibly alienate a possible ally. Remember; you run this Church for me, not for yourself.”

“Of course, Finn,” said Angelo, as graciously as he could. “Why don’t you sit down, while I order us some refreshments?”

“What a good idea, Angelo,” murmured Finn. He came around the corner of the desk, and waved imperiously for Angelo to get up out of his own chair. And he did it with such confidence and command that it never even occurred to Angelo to argue the point. He made way for Finn, reluctantly, and tried hard not to scowl too openly as the Durandal ostentatiously made himself comfortable. Finn gestured for Angelo to sit in the visitor’s chair, and when Angelo hesitated, gave him a hard look that made Angelo hurry to sit down. His skin crawled as it made contact with the hard-backed chair. He’d had it thoroughly cleaned, of course, but still . . .

“Poor old Roland Wentworth,” said Finn. “But then, who needs a Patriarch when I have my very own Angel? Still; a transmutation bomb, Angelo? Rather excessive, even for you. Perhaps I should consider employing a food taster . . .” He smiled at Angelo’s shocked expression. “Oh, I know everything, Angelo. Never think you can keep a secret from me.”

Angelo’s mind raced furiously. First the Ecstatic, then Corcoran, and now Finn . . . did
everyone
know about the transmutation bomb? Only his most secure and trusted people were supposed to know about that. Someone must be talking. Angelo decided it was well past time for another purge.

“The Patriarch couldn’t just die,” he said finally. “He had to disappear. Completely. I did what I felt necessary. How . . . ?”

Finn smiled easily. “They’re my people first, and only yours second. Now; what about these refreshments you offered? I confess I’m really rather parched . . .”

Angelo busied himself arranging for his secretary to bring cold drinks and a few suitable snacks. He never kept such things actually in the office. Angelo was prone to comfort eating in times of stress, and he was trying to watch his weight. There seemed to be lot more stress in his life just recently, since he joined up with Finn. The refreshments arrived quickly, his secretary all adither at being in the presence of the legendary Durandal. Finn favored her with an autograph, and she all but swooned before Angelo ordered her out. He didn’t feel like eating, his mouth was still sore and the iced tea stung his lips, but Finn ate and drank enough for both of them as he listened to Angelo’s report on Donal Corcoran’s condition, and his expressed disinterest in the Church. Angelo somewhat exaggerated Douglas’s words and actions, to put himself in a better light, but Finn just nodded, and smiled slightly as Angelo angrily recounted being hit by the King.

“Serves you right,” he said flatly. “You should have known better than to goad an ex-Paragon. And he is the King, after all. For now. You can go and talk to Corcoran again, after he’s had a little more time to realize how helpless he is, trapped in that madhouse. I’ll send him some nice presents, a little care package of comforts and goodies, just to remind him who his friends are. And then . . . well, prisoners will make all kinds of deals, for the promise of freedom. Of course, once he’s safely in our hands . . .”

“He’ll be more of a prisoner than ever,” said Angelo.

Finn smiled dazzlingly. “Quite.”

They sat in silence for a while. Finn had no more business with Angelo, but he seemed in no hurry to leave. He finished off the food and drink, enjoyed the chair’s various massage functions, and played happily with the executive toys on the desk. Angelo fumed quietly for a while, and then suddenly realized he was wasting an opportunity. So he made an effort, and turned the full force of his famous charm on the Durandal. If he was ever to be free of his senior partner, he needed to understand what went on inside Finn’s head. What made him tick. Maybe then he would be able to see how best to manipulate Finn, and steal away his power and his people bit by bit, without him even noticing. And then . . .
then
. . .

So Angelo talked easily with Finn, praising and flattering him without being too obvious about it, chattering entertainingly and maliciously about people they both knew, and generally did his best to get Finn to open up, and talk about himself. It was a hard task, but Angelo persevered. He felt he had to get something out of the day for himself, for his pride’s sake. But it wasn’t until they got around to Finn’s long career as a Paragon, that the Durandal began to reveal something of the real man.

“Why did you stay a Paragon so long?” said Angelo, carefully casual. He had a strong feeling that this was the vital question, the answer that might explain much. “It’s an honorable occupation, of course, and there’s good money to be made, by a sensible man. But it’s not a pleasant job, and no career for the truly ambitious. So . . . why did it take you so long to turn to your true vocation?”

“I was . . . content, being a Paragon,” said Finn. “It was a way of proving I was the best, in front of the whole Empire. And I quite enjoyed being worshiped and adored, and knowing the admiration and respect of my peers. But the rewards of the job, such as they were, began to pale as I grew older. I already had as much money as I’d ever need. And I was running out of challenges. It just wasn’t . . . fun, anymore. No matter how many risks I took. But now . . . being a traitor and a villain is much more fun. To set myself against the whole damned Empire, to be my own man and to hell with everyone else . . . That is what it truly means, to be the best. I should have done this years ago. It took Douglas’s ingratitude to open my eyes to the true nature of things, and I shall reward him for that. By taking away everything he cares for and values, and destroying it right in front of him. Ah, Angelo; I haven’t felt this alive in years!”

There was a brief knock at the door, and Angelo cursed quietly to himself as Brett Random slouched in. Random nodded to Angelo, and bowed to Finn. He really didn’t like being up and about this early in the day, but in this as in so many other things of late, Brett didn’t have a choice. He looked dubiously at Finn. The Durandal had demanded his presence here but hadn’t said why, which was never a good sign. Brett couldn’t think of anything he’d seriously screwed up just recently, but . . . His stomach hurt so badly it was all he could do to keep from standing hunched over. He was wearing a new outfit because he’d had to burn the one he’d worn into the lair of the Spider Harps, for his own peace of mind, but he still looked a mess, not least because he’d had to sleep with the lights on and still had a tendency to jump at sudden noises and movements. The uber-espers had disturbed him on levels he hadn’t even known he had.

“You’re supposed to wait outside my office until I give you permission to enter,” snapped Angelo, trying to establish a little authority on his own territory.

Brett sniffed and shrugged, and spitefully made Angelo jump and twitch a little with his esp. Finn looked at Brett thoughtfully, and he stopped immediately.

“Where’s Rose?” said Finn.

“I don’t know,” said Brett. He looked vaguely round the office, as though he thought she might be hiding there somewhere. “I thought she was with you.”

“Clearly, she is not. I told you to keep an eye on her, Brett. I’m sure I was most specific about that.”

“Oh come on, Finn!” Brett protested, with the immediate verve of a man who can sense a chopping block in the near future. “This is the Wild Rose we’re talking about! She goes where she wants to go, and I for one am not stupid enough to get in her way. Besides; I’ve not been well . . .”

“Don’t whine, Brett. Go and find Rose, right now. And when you’ve located her, don’t let her out of your sight again. Is that clear?”

“What if she doesn’t want me around?”

“Tell her it is my will. Though feel free to hide behind something substantial while you say it. Now off you go. Hop like a bunny. Contact me when you’ve found her. Good-bye, Brett.”

Brett sniffed again, and then turned and left the office. Some days things wouldn’t go right if he put a gun to their heads.

 

He wandered slowly through the massive building of the Cathedral, deliberately taking his time. Finn might be his boss, but he didn’t own Brett Random. Well, actually, maybe he did at that, but Brett still had a little pride left that showed up now and again in small acts of rebellion. As long as Finn wasn’t around to see them. Like pissing in the coffeemaker the last time he’d been left alone in Finn’s kitchen.

After a while, Brett looked around him and found he’d ended up in the great central hall of the Cathedral. He stopped dead in his tracks, impressed almost in spite of himself. The towering walls were all veined marble, soaring up to a staggeringly high ceiling covered with magnificent works of art that dated from before Lionstone’s time. The huge stained-glass windows were more recent and traditional, showing the stations of the cross, populated with stylized depictions of Owen Deathstalker and his companions. Rows and rows of dark wooden pews stretched away before him, heading for the main altar of sculptured steel and glass, practically a work of art in its own right. Brett wandered slowly down the aisle, then drifted over to one of the pews, and sat down.

He breathed deeply, enjoying the faint traces of incense on the still air, left over from a previous service. No one else was around, and it was all very quiet and very calm. For the first time in a long time, Brett felt almost at peace. He supposed this was what home felt like, to people who knew what a home was. His stomach quietened, and his shoulders relaxed. He felt . . . safe here. Even Finn bloody Durandal wouldn’t dare raise his voice in a place as calm and serene as this. Sanctity and serenity all but oozed from the pale marble walls. It was like being deep under water, far from the storms that troubled the surface.

Brett looked around him, surprised at how deeply the Cathedral’s great hall affected him. People had been coming here to worship for centuries, and had left something of their peace and grace behind them. There was comfort here, and the hope of better things to come. Brett had never been particularly religious. In the con games he’d run for so long, belief was for suckers. But just lately he’d been thinking . . . bigger thoughts. Nothing like working for a genuinely evil man to make you consider questions of morality. Brett had never really thought of himself as a bad man. Until now.

You couldn’t ally yourself with something like the Spider Harps and not fear for the state of your soul.

Brett had been thinking about the mind and the soul . . . and the oversoul. He was an esper now, for better or worse, and that changed everything. He’d been feeling the presence of the oversoul more and more, like a great and glorious light shining in the depths of a dark, dark night. When he looked in that direction, which he could sense but not name, he felt awe and wonder, and something that was very like a religious experience. He also felt shit scared. It was just . . . too big, too intense, too overwhelming. He couldn’t cope with it. And when faced with something that scared and threatened him, Brett did what he always did; he ran away.

“That doesn’t always work, Brett,” said a calm female voice, right beside him.

Brett looked around sharply, almost jumping out of his skin, and found a statuesque brunette sitting right next to him. There was no way she could have sneaked up on him and sat down so close she was practically on his lap, without him realizing. Not with a practiced paranoid like him. But there she was, large as life and twice as overpowering, decked out in black silks and darker makeup, smiling at him like she could see right to the bottom of his lousy rotten soul . . . and didn’t give a damn. Brett felt very like whimpering, or fainting. He didn’t run, but only because he just knew that wherever he ran, she’d already be there waiting for him.

“The oversoul, I presume?” he said finally, just to be saying something. He had to force the words past numb and quivering lips. His stomachache was back big time.

“Of course,” said the brunette. “We’ve been calling you for some time, but you wouldn’t pick up the phone, so to speak. So we decided a personal visit was in order. I had business in the city today, so it fell to me. Relax, I’m not going to force any literature on you. I’m Crow Jane. I’m here to make you an offer you won’t want to refuse.”