Deathstalker Legacy (63 page)

The trees had come from all across the Empire, carefully transplanted and preserved. Some no longer existed outside these gardens. There were artificial lakes brimming with all kinds of decorative life, tumbling streams crossed by delicately carved wooden bridges, and not far from the center of the garden there was a great hedge maze of cunning design. Douglas got lost in it once, when he was a small child. He’d been forbidden to enter it on his own, so of course he did. He was that kind of child. Eventually his increasingly tearful cries led his family to him. He still had nightmares about the maze, sometimes, though he never told anyone that. Whenever he came home, he always made it a point to walk through the maze from end to end, in and out, just to prove to himself that it no longer had any control over him. Except of course if it hadn’t, he wouldn’t have needed to do it every damned visit. Douglas was smart enough to know that, but he did it anyway. Because.

(He sometimes wondered if this was why he had such ambivalent feelings about the Madness Maze. He hoped not. He’d hate to think his subconscious was that petty. And, indeed, that obvious.)

He left the landing pad behind him, and walked off into the gardens, following the neat gravel paths when he felt like it, and wandering defiantly across the open lawns when he didn’t. There was no one to tell him not to anymore. He was the King. The sky was a clear, clear blue with hardly a cloud in sight, and the air was full of the scent of blooming flowers and fresh-cut grass, of rich wet turf, and growing things. Such a peaceful place, whose only movement was the slow turning of the seasons that even the weather control could only soothe, not interfere with. Birds sang and insects buzzed, and somewhere off in the distance Douglas could hear the slow, mournful cries of the peacocks, calling to each other. He walked on, taking his time, strolled down a shadowy tunnel of inward-leaning trees, and was suddenly struck by a nostalgia so overwhelming it was almost painful. He knew every inch of these gardens. When he’d been a child, they’d been his whole world. He hadn’t known there was another, harsher world outside it, and wouldn’t have cared if he had.

His parents had kept his duty and his destiny from him for as long as they could. They wanted him to enjoy his childhood.

He crossed an old stone bridge, so artfully constructed it didn’t need mortar to hold the stones together. A fast-moving stream bubbled and burbled beneath him, stocked with every kind of fish a fisherman might desire. (Unless you wanted one of the big bastards, the kind that fight back, in which case there was an ocean only half an hour or so away.) There were animals in the garden too, but they were there to be petted and enjoyed, not chased or hunted. The gardens were a place of peace, of contemplation. Everything in its place, so nothing ever changed. The gardens had been carefully planned so that the seams were never visible, designed and laid out centuries ago, long before even Lionstone’s time; by a master land-scaper who knew he’d never live long enough to see it all come into its final glory. The Campbell who’d ordered the garden had known the same thing, but hadn’t cared. It was for his Family. The Campbells took the long view, in those days. When they thought Clan Campbell was forever, and nothing would ever change . . .

And now the old Empire was thrown down, the old ways had been put aside . . . but the gardens still flourished. Clan Campbell was not what it had once been, but that was probably a good thing. Douglas walked through the ancient gardens, and thought dark thoughts about the impermanence of man and his plans. Man could disappear tomorrow, and the gardens would survive quite happily without him. Though of course there’d be no one to grieve as the gardens went slowly to the wild, and lost their artificially maintained beauty.

Finally he came to the very center of the gardens (ignoring the hedge maze for now) and there was his brother James’s grave. It was a simple affair; just a basic stone with James’s name on it, to mark his final resting place, topped with a flame that always burned and always would. Brother James. The man who should have been King. One brother stood and looked down at another, and envied him his peaceful sleep; while off to one side their father looked on, waiting as requested. When James died his sudden, stupid, and entirely unexpected death, public sentiment and the media had called loudly for him to be laid to rest in the old Campbell mausoleum, along with generations of the Campbell dead, right in the heart of the Parade of the Endless. Some even called for James to have a special place in the Cathedral. But William and Niamh said no. He was their son, so they brought him home, so he could sleep in a familiar place.

Douglas looked about him. It was a nice location, calm and peaceful, on the side of a gently sloping hill looking out over the placid waters of an artificial lake. For a while visitors were allowed, as long as they made a donation to charity, but eventually William and Niamh put a stop to that, when the visiting crowds threatened to turn his grave into a shrine. The ever-burning flame was enough. He was their son. He belonged to them, and no one else. Niamh was buried there now, sleeping beside her son, as she’d wanted. When the time came William would join them, and Douglas thought that perhaps he would like to rest here as well. He’d seen the old Clan Campbell mausoleum, where Crawford and Finlay and all the other great names of the Family had been interred, and the grim cold sepulchre had struck Douglas as a cold and joyless place to spend eternity. Robert and Constance had changed that tradition, as they’d changed so many others. They’d left strict instructions for their bodies to be cremated, and the ashes scattered over the gardens. They might have turned people they’d known into legends, but they had no wish to be revered or venerated themselves. Douglas liked to think that a few last particles of his grandfather and grandmother were still blowing about the gardens. When he was younger, he’d run around taking great deep breaths, hoping to breathe some of them in, so that he would be great too.

(William and Niamh had explained duty and destiny to him by then, and he’d understood just enough to feel distinctly scared and unworthy.)

“Are you going to stand there brooding all day, son?” William said dryly. “I was under the impression you’d come all this way to talk to me. The word
urgent
was used quite a lot, as I recall.”

“Sorry, Dad,” said Douglas. “I’ve had a lot on my mind just recently.”

William snorted. “I can imagine. Which of your many appalling problems brings you home this time?”

Douglas looked at his father. The old man actually looked better for having retired. Not nearly so fragile, he was standing straighter, and his eyes seemed sharp and alert. He was wearing old comfortable clothes, crumpled and grubby, of the kind Niamh would never have let him get away with.

“You tried to warn me, about being King,” Douglas said heavily. “And as usual, I didn’t listen. I don’t feel up to the job, Father.”

“No one ever does,” William said gruffly. “I spent most of my reign convinced that any day now the House would wake up and realize I wasn’t anything like the King my father was, and would demand I give up my Crown so they could give it to someone better qualified. You’re doing well enough, son. I keep up with the news. The Neuman riot was a mess, but you did well to take out so many ELFs at the Parade of the Paragons.” He paused, and fixed Douglas with a stern gaze. “Though I have to say, I’m still wondering just what you had to promise the oversoul, in return for their help in suppressing the Neuman rioters. The espers never do anything for free.”

“They didn’t ask for anything specific,” said Douglas. “Just asked for my . . . goodwill. I allowed them to be involved in taking down the ELFs at the Parade. Whether that’ll be enough, we’ll just have to wait and see . . . Dad; we need to talk about the Terror.”

William sighed and turned away, and looked out over the gardens. “It’s very peaceful here. Far away from all the troubles of the world. I’m glad you’re King now, Douglas, and not me. I wouldn’t know what to do. Probably just sit on my Throne and dither, hoping someone else would come up with a plan. Whatever you decide to do, it’s bound to be better than anything I could suggest.” He turned back to face Douglas. “You have to have faith in your judgement. I do. I raised you to be a warrior, boy, and you have never disappointed me. You’re doing a good job, Douglas. You are every inch the King your mother and I always hoped you’d be.”

Douglas was touched. He put out his hands to his father, and William held them tightly. And after that, Douglas couldn’t bring himself to discuss his other problem, Jesamine and Lewis, the real reason he’d come all this way. It would have seemed so . . . petty. So Douglas walked with his father through the gardens, talking of other things, and later they had a good dinner together. When evening finally fell, Douglas gave his father a hug and then flew back to the city, and his Throne. Leaving peace and contentment behind, to take up the burden of his duty once again. Because every child has to leave home eventually, to become a man.

 

Lewis Deathstalker was working in his apartment when the call came. An anonymous functionary called for Lewis to appear urgently at the House, and then signed off before he could be questioned. Lewis’s first thought was
Why now?
Invitations to appear at Parliament had been conspicuous by their absence for some time now. The King had made it very clear he didn’t need or want his Champion at his side anymore. And, this was a very inopportune moment to be called away. Lewis was sitting on the floor of his apartment, surrounded by paperwork, hunched over his computer screen and stabbing at the keyboard with two fingers. There was a lot of work to be done, preparing for the grand Quest of the Paragons, and somehow most of it had fallen to Lewis. The Paragons themselves had done nothing but argue about who was going where, ever since the Quest was announced, and someone had to sort out the mess without hurting too many feelings, and coordinate the various missions so that they wouldn’t end up stumbling over each other.

It helped that Lewis had been a Paragon, and knew most of them personally. He also knew where a lot of the bodies were buried; sometimes literally. No one argued with Lewis.

Lewis had also contacted the AIs of Shub through their Embassy, and had them search through all their records, over where best to look for Owen. Or the others. After all; Owen might not be dead. Just because some mysterious voice had said Owen was dead, and Captain Silence had seemed inclined to believe it, didn’t necessarily make it so. Lewis clung to that thought, with varying degrees of comfort. There had never been any shortage of sightings of Owen or Hazel or any of the other great legends, all across the Empire. Saint Beatrice in particular seemed to pop up all over the place, in every city on every planet, doing everything from healing the sick to shopping in a supermarket. People were always finding the likeness of her face in unlikely places. It was a lot of work, sorting out the few promising rumors from the more obvious cases of wishful thinking, while simultaneously trying to sort out which Paragons would go to which worlds, and in what order, but Lewis ended up quite enjoying it. The work kept him busy and kept him from brooding, and gave him a feeling of worth again. And for the first time in a long time he felt accepted by the Paragons again, as one of them. That made up for a lot.

And as long as he kept himself busy, he didn’t think about Jesamine for sometimes hours at a time. Sometimes.

Still, when Parliament called, you answered. Even if it was bloody inconvenient. Lewis carefully saved his most recent work on the computer, pushed his notes together into more or less tidy piles, and clambered painfully to his feet. He stretched slowly, wincing as he heard bones click loudly. He really ought to get around to buying a desk and a chair, at least. Before his back gave out. He pulled on his official Champion’s black leather armor, scowling furiously all the while, strapped on his weapons belt, looked around the room vaguely a few times, convinced as always that he’d forgotten something important, and then left his apartment. He scowled as he trudged up the stairs to the roof and his waiting gravity sled. Whatever Parliament wanted, it must be pretty important for them to recall him so urgently. Perhaps there was some new information on the Terror? The thought chilled his heart, and he ran up the last few steps and out onto the roof. He pushed his gravity sled as fast as it would go, all the way to the House. He tried to call in, but no one was answering. He was getting a really bad feeling about this.

He should have known. He really should have known. Deathstalker luck. Always bad.

 

Once at the House he hurried through the narrow corridors, intending to stop people as they passed, to get some idea of what was up. But the back corridors were unusually deserted, and the few people he encountered were apparently far too busy to stop and talk. At least they weren’t crying this time . . . He wondered whether he should make the time to stop off at Anne’s office and talk with her, but considering how his last visit had turned out, he decided against it. His hand still twinged sometimes. So he increased his pace, striding furiously through the corridors, his head full of all the things that might have gone wrong, and what he might have to do to put them right, until finally he came to the House itself. Two armed and fully armored guards stood before the great double doors. They pushed the doors open, and gestured for him to go right in. He hurried past them, and out onto the floor of the House; and the first thought that struck him was how quiet everything was.

He slowed to a halt in the middle of the floor, and looked about him. Everyone was looking at him, and not kindly. From the MPs filling the Seats, to the AI and esper and clone representatives, to the aliens filling their Section, to King Douglas sitting stiffly on his Throne; Lewis couldn’t see a friendly face anywhere. Jesamine was standing beside the Throne. She wouldn’t look at him at all. Her gaze was fixed on the floor at her feet. Lewis’s bad feeling grew suddenly worse.