Deathstalker Legacy (66 page)

Oh hell, maybe he’d just rob a bank. He couldn’t be in any more trouble.

He lay back on the hard, unforgiving mattress, his bare skin crawling where it touched the sheets, and stared up at the long crack spreading across the gray plaster ceiling. He had some hard thinking to do. If there was evidence condemning him in his computer (and he saw no reason to doubt Finn’s word) it could only be because some very professional person had planted it there. Which meant . . . there was a conspiracy against him. A disturbing thought. Shadow Court, maybe. This had the feel of the kind of thing they delighted in. Why kill a man, when it was so much more fun to destroy his reputation and ruin him? Or maybe the ELFs had hired someone here in the Rookery, to get back at him . . . You could find any kind of crooked pro here.

But if it was a conspiracy, he couldn’t hope to fight it on his own. Not with a death threat hanging over his head. No one would side with him, and no one would believe him. He was on his own. Not least because where Jesamine was concerned, he was guilty. He screwed his eyes shut, as though he could hide from himself in the dark. He couldn’t think about her now. He’d go mad. No; his only chance to redeem himself, and perhaps restore his honor, was to perform some act of great heroism, worthy of the Deathstalker name. He had to save the day; openly and extravagantly. And only one way came to mind: find out the truth about Owen and his companions. What really happened to them. Was Owen really dead? If not; where was he? And if he could be found, could he stop the Terror? Lewis raised his hand, opened his eyes, and studied the chunky black gold ring on his finger. Owen’s old ring, sign and seal of Clan Deathstalker. Everyone seemed sure it was the real thing. Given to him by a dead man . . . It must have been given to him for some reason; maybe it did conceal some secret, useful information. And if anyone was equipped to find the truth, it was him. He was a Deathstalker.

He sat up suddenly, leaned over, and activated the comm panel by the bed. It was a battered old unit, sound only, but it would do the job. Even in a dump like this, they had to provide the basic amenities, or no one would stay there. Lewis patched a call through to his old home, on the world of Virimonde, using secret family contact codes that only a Deathstalker would know. The peacekeeper computers would be monitoring all the comm traffic, but none of the codes he was using would set off an alarm or trip any flags. And once contact with his family was established, they’d institute a whole series of security protocols from their end, hiding the true conversation behind prerecorded talk of no interest to anyone. After what happened to Owen, and later David, the Deathstalker family was justifiably somewhat paranoid. Given the state of his credit card, Lewis had to call collect, which complicated matters a little, but soon enough Lewis was talking with his father, Roland.

“Took you long enough to get in touch,” his father said gruffly. “Your mother’s been worried sick. She’s currently lying down with one of her heads. We know what happened at the House. It’s all over the media, the bastards. This line will be secure for about twenty minutes, and then, if you have more you need to say, you’ll have to disconnect and try again. How are you, Lewis? You hurt? You need money? I can be there on Logres in under a week, if you need me.”

“No, Dad!” Lewis said urgently. “You’re safer where you are. Everything’s gone crazy here. I’m not hurt, and I don’t need any help. If you came here, they’d pick you up the moment you landed. This is Logres, remember? Best security in the Empire. I should know. I used to help run it.”

“What happened, son? There’s been all kinds of crazy talk on the news comment shows. They’re calling you a traitor. Tell me it’s not true.”

“It’s . . . complicated, Dad. I’m doing my best to sort it out . . . but that could take some time.”

“You can’t come home, Lewis,” Roland said flatly. “The family couldn’t protect you. Friends in Virimonde security quietly informed us that they’ve been given orders to shoot you on sight if you’re ever dumb enough to show your face here. The family will still do what it can to help you. We still believe in you. I believe in you. Now tell me what I can do to help.”

“I told Parliament that we didn’t have any secret information on the blessed Owen, or his fate,” Lewis said carefully. “But I’ve been doing some thinking, and it occurred to me that this might be just my opinion. Are there things in the family archives that I was never told about? Things no one knows outside the family?”

“Maybe a few, small things,” said Roland. “I would have told you if you’d asked, but you were never interested before. What does it matter now, anyway?”

“I need to know, Dad. It could be important.”

“Let me think for a minute.” There was a long, expensive silence, punctuated now and again by the occasional hiss of static. It was a very old unit. Lewis kept an eye on his watch, and tried not to worry too much as a large chunk of his safe twenty minutes ticked away. “All right,” Roland said finally. “How about this. We do know the exact coordinates for the location of the original Deathstalker Standing. Diana Vertue crash-landed what was left of the old castle on the planet Shandrakor. The Standing was shot to hell during the last great battle against Shub, apparently, and wasn’t considered worth salvaging. But whatever survived the crash might still contain useful information. No one else knows that. No one has been near it in two hundred years. Partly because we’re the only ones who know exactly where to look for it, and mostly because Shandrakor is even more hazardous now than it was in Owen’s day. Not many people remember this now, but all the monsters created by Shub and the Mater Mundi and the Hadenmen and Lionstone’s laboratories were rounded up and dumped on Shandrakor, after the Rebellion was over. I guess someone decided that was kinder than just killing them all. God knows how many of them might still be alive down there, or what their descendants have become. All anyone knows for sure is that Shandrakor today is just what that bloody world has always been: an endless, vicious killing ground.

“Word is the Transmutation Board would love to wipe it clean, just on general principles, but Robert and Constance personally delared the place off limits. It’s a sanctuary for all the creatures they dumped there, protected by a Quarantine starcruiser, and no one’s ready to overturn Robert and Constance’s decision. Public wouldn’t stand for it. I can give you the exact coordinates where the castle crashed, if that’s any use to you. But I have to say; it’s a hell of a long shot, and a bloody dangerous one at that.”

“I don’t seem to have many options,” said Lewis. “Thanks, Dad.And Dad . . . I’m sorry I let you down. Let the family down.”

“You didn’t,” Roland said sharply. “They let you down. After everything you did for them, all the times you put your life on the line to clear up the messes they made . . . they had no right to treat you this way. They weren’t worthy of you, Lewis.”

“Thanks, Dad.” Lewis would have liked to say more, but he didn’t trust his voice to stay steady. Tears burned his eyes.

“Do what you have to do, son. And come home when you can.”

“I always . . . I just wanted you to be proud of me, Dad.”

“I always have been, Lewis. You’re my son. And a Deathstalker.”

 

Lewis waited till night fell to break into the Bloody Tower. He’d been rather surprised to discover that Jesamine was being kept in Traitor’s Hall. It wasn’t exactly a maximum security prison. It was once, of course, in Lionstone’s day and before. You could be sent to the Bloody Tower for all kinds of reasons, back then. You went in dragging chains, and you came out in a coffin. No exceptions. The spilled blood had soaked so deeply into the stones in some places that it could never be removed. Place was supposed to be crawling with ghosts.

Now it was little more than a tourist trap, with guided tours and souvenir stalls; one of the great sights of the Parade of the Endless. Still, it was undoubtedly surrounded by whole armies of guards by now, if only to keep the media out. Certainly no one would expect Lewis to try and break in on his own, to free Jesamine; so that was exactly what he was going to do.

The Bloody Tower hadn’t been used as an actual prison since Lionstone had been overthrown, and all the political prisoners freed. It was one of the few relics of that awful time that still survived, preserved now because the building was deemed to be of great architectural importance. Most of the other old prisons and detention centers had been burned down by furious mobs, but the Bloody Tower had survived almost unscathed, because it was too big and too strong and too solid for the fires to do any real damage. And while a great many others were officially demolished, to appease the sorrow and rage of all the people who’d seen too many friends and family disappear into Lionstone’s dungeons, never to be seen again, the Bloody Tower escaped destruction because Robert and Constance wanted it kept; as a reminder.

These days, the Bloody Tower was run and maintained by a small group of historical enthusiasts who acted as guards and curators, complete with historically accurate uniforms. The tourists loved it. Especially Traitor’s Wing, where those who particularly displeased Lionstone spent their last few hours before facing execution on Traitor’s Block, before the assembled crowds. Ghosts were said to be really thick on the ground there, strolling around with their heads tucked securely under their arms, freaking out lone guards in the early hours.

The more Lewis thought about it, the less it made sense. If they’d put Jesamine in a real prison, under maximum security, behind tanglefields and force shields, with security cameras everywhere, and professionally trained, well-armed guards all over the shop . . . Lewis would have had a hell of a time getting in. So he had to wonder whether she’d been deliberately placed in the Tower, to act as bait in a trap for him. It was what Lewis would have done. But in the end it didn’t matter. He’d said he’d come back for her, and he would. No matter how many guards or guns or traps they put in his way.

Though Hell itself stood in his path.

Night fell, and Lewis walked out of the Rookery, wearing simple anonymous clothes, and a holo projection of a simple anonymous face. No one gave him a second look. He took public transport to the Bloody Tower, being careful to give exact change, so as not to give the driver any reason to remember him. When he stepped off the bus at the right stop, and regarded the Tower rising spendidly up before him, looking large and blocky and utterly impregnable, he was surprised to find a loudly chanting mob already assembled before it. Jesamine Flowers’s fanbase had mobilized itself through the singer’s websites and turned out in force, with more arriving every hour as fresh coachloads arrived from other cities. They were outraged that their beloved diva and idol had been arrested, and mad as hell that she’d been locked up. The guards set to watch for Lewis Deathstalker were now far more concerned with holding off increasingly hysterical crowds of Jesamine Flowers’s fans, who were loudly and furiously declining to disperse and go home, as ordered. There was much waving of angry placards, and organized chanting, and not a little stone throwing. Perfect cover for Lewis to study the Tower and its defenses without being observed.

Serious trouble broke out not ten minutes after he’d got there. The mob surged forward, infuriated beyond reason or common sense, moved by a simple determination to get their adored heroine out of the notorious Bloody Tower. They forced their way through the low-level tanglefields through sheer weight of numbers, and then the mob headed for the thin ranks of guards as though they intended to walk right over them. The guards were under strict orders not to open fire on unarmed civilians (certainly as long as the media was watching) and so they braced themselves, drew their shock batons, and went head to head with the shouting, spitting mob. Lewis watched, wincing, hard-pressed to decide which side looked the most vicious, or determined. More guards came running, from other sides of the Tower, to reinforce the defensive lines. And it was the easiest thing in the world for Lewis to sneak past everyone, circle around and let himself into the Tower through an unregarded side door, using his old Paragon skeleton key.

Once inside, he shut the door quietly behind him, relocked it, and then checked if the unobtrusive little device he’d brought from his lockup was still working. Basically, it tapped into watching security cameras and edited his image out of the picture. Simple, very effective, and utterly illegal. Just being caught in possession of the device was an automatic—and long—prison sentence. Lewis had confiscated it from a skell he’d busted in the Rookery a few years back . . . and somehow he’d never got around to turning it in. He’d always had the feeling it might come in handy someday.

He looked quickly about him, but the narrow passageway was completely empty. Lewis hesitated, thinking dubiously again about the skeleton key that had got him in. Surely they should have been expecting him to use it, and reset the Tower’s locks to keep him out? Or perhaps this was part of the trap, and somewhere a silent alarm was already flashing, to indicate he’d arrived. He shrugged quickly. It didn’t matter. It just meant he had to move faster. He padded quietly down silent, deserted corridors, following the decorated signs set out to guide the tourists. It seemed most of the guards were outside, dealing with the fans. Or trying to, at least.

Lewis heard footsteps approaching, and ducked out of sight through an open door. He peered cautiously around the door, and a single guard walked past, wearing an old historical uniform and carrying two mugs of steaming tea. Lewis stepped out of the side room and hit the man efficiently from behind. The guard slumped bonelessly to the floor, the tea going everywhere. Lewis looked quickly about him, but no one seemed to have heard anything. It took Lewis only a few moments to strip the guard of his uniform, switch clothes, and then reprogram his holo face to duplicate the guard’s features. It would have helped if the clothes hadn’t been at least three sizes too large, but he couldn’t have everything.