Deathstalker Legacy (65 page)

Guards and security men crouched around the edges of the great hole, and peered dubiously down into it. Absolutely nobody was keen to follow the Deathstalker into unknown territory. Particularly not when he could be waiting for them anywhere . . . Finn pushed his way through the guards, limping heavily and with one arm protectively cradling his smashed ribs. His face was white with pain and fury, but his features were still carefully composed. He glared into the hole, and then turned his glare on the guards.

“Get down into that hole, right now, or I swear I’ll shoot you myself.”

No one there doubted he meant it. The guards looked at each other, sighed heavily, and then one by one they slowly and very cautiously dropped through the hole into the tunnels below, guns at the ready. But of course by then the Deathstalker was long gone, losing himself expertly in the intricate warren of service and maintenance tunnels under the House that were a mystery to all. Except those few unfortunates who used them on a regular basis and those who knew of them because it was their business to know such things. Finn knew the tunnels too; but he wasn’t stupid enough to go after a maddened, avenging Deathstalker. At least, not until he’d spent some time in a regeneration machine, and afterwards armed himself with every weapon under the sun.

King Douglas sank slowly back into his Throne again, glaring down at the confusion on the floor before him. He knew Lewis would have made his escape by now. None of these people here were fast enough or smart enough to catch the Deathstalker. By the time they’d finished checking out the tunnels foot by foot, Lewis would have left the House. Free as a bird. Douglas wasn’t sure how he felt about that. He wanted Lewis tried and punished for what he’d done, if only for being such a disappointment; but he didn’t want him killed. You couldn’t kill someone just for falling in love with the wrong woman. The rest of the charges had to be lies or misunderstandings. Had to be. Douglas sighed heavily. He couldn’t be that wrong about a man he’d known for so many years. He just couldn’t be. At least he still had Finn . . .

Lewis wouldn’t be back, no matter what he’d said. He wasn’t that stupid. He’d think about the odds, and make the sensible decision. He’d run, go offworld, lose himself in the Rim worlds; and Douglas would never have to see him again. So . . . Lewis was exiled, disgraced, outlawed. Just like his ancestor, the blessed Owen. Lewis had been right after all. Deathstalker luck. Always bad.

Douglas realized slowly that Jesamine was still standing beside his Throne. He gestured sharply to the two guards restraining her, and they let go immediately. Jesamine rubbed at her bruised arms, and looked at Douglas with bruised eyes. He met her gaze coldly.

“Your lover’s gone, Jes. Don’t expect to see him again. He knows if he ever shows his face openly on this world again, he’s a dead man. By running, he’s proved his guilt.”

Jesamine tried to speak, and couldn’t. Too many things jostled in her head at once. She swallowed hard, moistened her dry lips, and concentrated on saying the one thing that mattered. “Douglas; I never meant to hurt you . . .”

“Then you screwed up, didn’t you?” His voice was cold and merciless, because he knew that if he gave in to his emotions, even for a moment, he’d start to cry, right there in the House, in front of everyone. He’d just lost the only two people he ever really cared for. He gestured tiredly to the two waiting guards. “Take her away. I don’t want to look at her anymore.”

“Wait!” Finn Durandal came limping forward, and everyone fell back to give him plenty of room. His face was calm, his voice steady, but his eyes were angry, vindictive. The House fell silent, waiting to see what further surprises he had in store. Finn lurched to a halt before the Throne, beads of sweat popping out on his forehead from the pain in his ribs. There was blood on his mouth and chin that he hadn’t bothered to wipe away. Finn knew the value of a strong visual image. The sight of him standing before his King, beaten and bloodied but still unbowed, would be all over the media within the hour, and would go a long way to helping people forget he’d let the traitor Deathstalker escape. He managed a small bow to the Throne, and then glared at Jesamine. “She is just as guilty as her lover, your Majesty! Her treason is just as great. She must stand trial for her life too!”

“You’ve done enough damage for one day, Finn,” Douglas said quietly. He glared around at the watching MPs before they could start shouting again. “Yes; she is a traitor, but only to me, not the Empire. There’s been enough talk of death here today. This isn’t Lionstone’s time. Lock Jesamine up, and let her be tried in open Court. The people must be shown the evidence, and be convinced of the truth, or they’ll never believe it. Jesamine Flowers the diva still has a hell of a lot of fans, and the last thing we need is more riots in our cities.” He looked at the waiting guards again. “She’s a traitor, so take her to Traitor’s Hall, in the Bloody Tower. A most suitable destination for the woman who would be Queen. See she’s comfortable, but she is to have no special privileges, and absolutely no visitors, unless they have my personal consent. And my seal to prove it. And double the guard in and around the Tower, just in case.”

“Yes,” said Finn. “Traitor’s Hall. An excellent choice, your Majesty. Let the traitorous bitch rot there till the courts can get around to her. And when the courts have proven her guilty, of conspiracy against you and the Throne and the Empire, and the people quite rightly demand her death; I, as your Champion and official executioner, shall cut her head off on the Traitor’s Block at the Bloody Tower, and hold it up to show the crowds. I’ve always been a great believer in upholding the old traditions.”

“I always knew you were weird, Finn,” said Jesamine, before they hustled her away.

 

After a long chase, Lewis Deathstalker left the House unobserved, strode openly through the streets inside a borrowed cloak with the hood pulled well forward, and finally went to ground so thoroughly no one could find him. He was glad he’d been able to get out of the House without having to kill someone. They were just doing their job, mostly, just as he would have been, only the day before. But it seemed like every damned guard, security man, and rent-a-sword had turned out to chase and harry him through the Parade of the Endless. He hadn’t dared go near his gravity sled; it was bound to be watched. And even if he’d been able to take it by force, it would have only made him too obvious a target.

So he walked up and down streets, and in and out of buildings, watching carefully for anyone who might be tailing him, using all the techniques of flight and evasion he’d learned from all the crooks and crazies he’d chased through the city in his years as a Paragon. The irony of his position did not escape him. He’d become the very thing he’d fought all his life. He was the criminal now.

No one even got close to catching him as he made his slow, excruciating way through the city, not even when the House sent his fellow Paragons out to look for him. Though Lewis liked to think they weren’t looking too hard. That they knew a fit-up when they saw one. Either way, this was his city, and no one knew its secret ways better than he. Lewis Deathstalker had vanished, while a whole city turned itself inside out searching for the greatest traitor of the Golden Age.

He went to ground in an old lockup he’d used before, in his Paragon days. It was just an anonymous metal shell, one in a long line just outside the main starport; simple steel-lined rooms roughly ten feet a side, with big strong locks, that could be used to store extra lugagge and the like, by starcruiser staff on a fast turnover. The lockups were cheap, featureless, secure, and practically invisible unless you knew what you were looking for. Lewis kept one on a long lease, under another name, to hold various items that he might need in emergencies. Or that the authorities would prefer not to know about.

Changes of clothes, extra weapons (mostly nonregulation), false identity papers and credit cards, and a few useful tech items of an underhanded nature. Lewis had often found it useful to be able to adopt new identities in the past, when he was still a Paragon, and sometimes had to operate undercover to get the information he needed. Mostly in places where his distinctive ugly face would get him killed straightaway. No one knew about these other identities but him. Not even Douglas. Lewis had always found such work distasteful, and even borderline dishonorable. He did it because it was part of the job, and necessary to get useful information and tips, but he’d never felt inclined to boast about it.

He even had some simple body shop technology, that could give him another face, if necessary. No one ever expected Lewis to give up his famously ugly features, but Lewis had always known there was more to being a Paragon than fighting. He was capable of being subtle, and even downright devious, on occasion. When necessary.

The first thing he did was to discard his black leather Champion’s armor, dump it all on the floor, and give it a good kicking. He’d never liked it. New clothes, new ID, new credit card, and he was a new person. A light tech collar around his neck produced a holo-generated new face, with features so average they were practically invisible. Together with the right unobtrusive body language, no one would look at him twice in the street. He didn’t use the body shop tech to change his face. He wasn’t ready to cut all his ties with his past life just yet. There was always the chance he might still be able to prove he was no traitor, and somehow resume his old life, if not his old position. He had to believe that, or go crazy.

Except . . . he still loved her. So he was a traitor, in that at least. And always would be.

He pushed the thought firmly to one side, and made himself concentrate on the matter at hand. He strapped on a new weapons belt, with sword and gun, and slipped a handful of throwing knives and other surprises back where they belonged. He scowled unhappily as he clipped a force shield around his wrist. The power level was showing worryingly low. He’d meant to recharge the energy crystal, but with so much going on in his life, he’d never got around to it. And he didn’t have time now. So he just shrugged, arranged a few more useful tech items about his person, took a deep breath, and left the lockup.

He checked that the lock was secure, looked up and down the empty street a few times, and then walked out into the main thoroughfare. Wrapped in a somewhat shabby cloak, he strolled casually down the street, watching carefully from behind his holo mask, but no one gave him a second look. A Paragon shot by overhead on a speeding gravity sled, and Lewis looked up along with everyone else so as not to stand out, but the Paragon didn’t look down, and was gone in a few moments. Lewis walked on. Let them look for the Deathstalker. They wouldn’t find him. He was gone, for the moment.

Lewis made his way across the city, using public transport as much as possible, dodging guard checkpoints when he had to. He was pretty sure his fake ID would hold up, but it had been some time since he’d last used it, and he didn’t feel like putting it to the test until he absolutely had to. He couldn’t be sure exactly how many of his secrets he’d shared with Douglas, or Finn for that matter, and how many of those secrets his ex-partners might remember. Either way, dodging around the checkpoints wasn’t exactly difficult. The guards and peacekeepers couldn’t be everywhere, and no one knew the ins and outs of the city like Lewis. He knew all the scams and dodges because he’d busted most of them, and there wasn’t a secret door or hidden passageway he hadn’t chased someone through in his time.

It didn’t take him too long to get to the Rookery. Getting in was no problem; he’d been there before, in various disguises. Certain people would be very surprised to find out who their old drinking partner really was. Lewis pushed back his cloak so that his gun and sword showed clearly, and changed his anonymous shuffle to a broad and cocky swagger. Most people then had enough sense to leave him strictly alone. One bravo lurched out of a bistro to brace Lewis, to impress his drunken friends, and Lewis immediately beat the crap out of the idiot with such vicious thoroughness that even the hardened bravos watching from the safety of the bistro were impressed. Lewis left the unlucky bully crying in a corner, trying to find at least some of his teeth before his eyes puffed shut, and strode off down the street, whistling cheerfully. He’d been hoping to find someone dumb enough he could take out his bad mood on.

No one else bothered him after that. News travels fast in the Rookery, and they all knew a complete psycho when they saw one.

Lewis ended up at a small inn with smoke-stained walls and windows that were never cleaned. The Mucky Duck was cheap and nasty, its booze was barely adequate, and its food was actually distressing, but it let rooms by the day or the hour, and asked no questions as long as your credit held out. Lewis had used the place before, and always had to take a long shower afterwards. Sometimes he burned his clothes too. Still, the inn had the useful quality of being centrally located, on one of the main intersections in the Rookery, which meant people were always coming and going, and the gossip in the bar never stoppped. If Finn actually tried sending people into the Rookery, in search of Lewis, The Mucky Duck would know the moment the poor sods crossed the boundary. The Rookery had no time for would-be undercover peacekeepers.

Lewis sat on the edge of a very hard bed, and stared glumly at the bare and grimy walls. No one would pay any attention to one more hard case like him, probably just looking for work as muscle-for-hire. And the inn wouldn’t give a damn as long as his credit was good. Lewis shut off his holo face, to preserve the energy crystal in the collar. He had the door locked and bolted, with a chair jammed up against it, just in case. There wasn’t a lot of credit left in his fake card. He’d been meaning to transfer some new funds into it for some time, but given how tight his finances had become of late, he’d never got around to it. When he’d been made Champion, he’d thought he’d never have to come back to places like this . . . So; he had enough credit to last two days, maybe three if he was careful and lucky, and then . . .