Deathstalker Legacy (72 page)

It was all Finn Durandal’s fault. He’d put this up to Parliament as treason, and then stirred them all up to demand the death penalty. The King had seemed too dazed and shocked to contribute anything. Emma scowled. She didn’t trust Finn Durandal anymore, and with increasingly good reason. Working through a series of trusted and well-bribed intermediaries, Emma had been able to obtain copies of most of the media coverage of the Neuman riot. And for hour after hour, she’d sat studying the images on her computer screen, speeding them up and slowing them down, and zooming in to pick out important details. And not just the transmitted images, but all the recordings, from all the angles. Slowly, obsessively, she’d worked her way through every single recording, from the beginnings of the riot to the end. From the death of the Paragon Veronica Mae Savage, to the arrival of the pacifying oversoul. But most of all, she studied the recordings of Finn Durandal fighting the rioters, from before she arrived to help him.

She’d had her suspicions even at the time, that none of his actions had been what they seemed. But now she was sure that the fighting had been fixed; just a setup for the cameras, to make the Durandal look good. It had clearly all been arranged in advance. Finn was never in any real danger. And neither were any of the people he was pretending to fight, until she turned up; at which point the Durandal had cold-bloodedly killed his own partners in deceit, just so she wouldn’t suspect. Emma scowled. That insight, appalling as it was, wasn’t the worst of it. If Finn had planned his mock fighting in advance, then he must have known in advance that the riot was going to happen. Perhaps he even helped plan and orchestrate it, right down to the murder of his fellow Paragons. What kind of a man could do that?

She’d also been studying media recordings of the ELF attack during the Parade of the Paragons. The Durandal’s actions there were highly suspect too. All right, there was clearly no fakery in his fighting this time. He’d killed ELFs with a cold verve and enthusiasm that anywhen else she would have applauded. But . . . how could Finn have known where and when the ELFs were going to ambush the Paragons? No one had ever been able to infiltrate the ELFs’ support structures before. The ELFs could read suspicious thoughts in a mind half a mile away; and there was no way they’d ever have let anyone have access to their plans who was using any kind of esp-blocker. People hadn’t asked any of these rather obvious questions because . . . they hadn’t wanted to. They wanted to enjoy their victory over the ELFs. They wanted to believe in their hero, their miracle worker, the Durandal.

The answers to all of this lay somewhere in the Rookery; Emma was sure of that. She had fought her way in on several occasions now, but she hadn’t been able to get anyone to talk to her about Finn Durandal. Not even in the most general terms. This, in a place where everything, most especially information, was supposed to be always up for sale. Most people seemed too scared to talk, even with the edge of Emma’s sword set against their quivering throats. Neither bribes nor brutality had got her anywhere, and she was frankly lost for a third alternative. People actually ran away rather than even discuss Finn Durandal; what did that say about the man’s true nature? But for all her hard work, all Emma really had were suspicions, and one growing conviction . . . that Finn Durandal wasn’t the legend she and everyone else had believed in; and possibly never had been . . .

And even if she could dig up some proof; who could she take it to? Who would believe her? Finn was the hero of the moment, at a moment when people desperately needed to believe in heroes. Bad enough that the Deathstalker had let them down; ask them to believe that the Durandal was crooked, and they’d laugh in her face, in self-defense. She couldn’t even talk to her fellow Paragons. Not after Finn had just saved them all from the ELFs. Finn was the Champion now, and one of the most important and respected men in the Empire. Which made Emma’s decision even more imperative. If Finn really was as dangerous as she thought and believed he was, she had to convince someone important, and soon. Someone important enough, and brave enough, to take a stand against the adored Durandal, while there was still time. Because somebody had to do something, to protect the King from his own Champion. Because who would have an easier job of killing the King than his own defender? If Finn decided that he wanted to be King . . . if that had been his plot all along . . .

Emma growled loudly in frustration, and threw her ice pack across the room. She had dreamed for years of coming to Logres as a Paragon, to work alongside her hero and inspiration, Finn Durandal; and now her dream had turned into a nightmare. She was isolated . . . like the Deathstalker was isolated. And if she wasn’t very careful, she might end up being accused of treason by Finn Durandal, just like Lewis . . .

 

At Court, alone in his sumptuous private quarters, Douglas Campbell sat slumped in his favorite chair, staring at nothing. He had a brandy glass in one hand, but hadn’t noticed it was empty for some time now. His people had just brought him news that Lewis Deathstalker had freed Jesamine Flowers from the Bloody Tower, and were both now on the run, somewhere in the city. Douglas had acted angry, shouting and cursing and throwing things, because it was expected of him; but secretly he was relieved. He’d had Jes put in Traitor’s Wing rather than a standard prison specifically so that Lewis would be able to rescue her. He’d even arranged for Jes’s fan clubs to find out where she was being held, just so they’d be sure to protest outside the Tower in force, and act as a distraction. Douglas hadn’t wanted Lewis or Jes to die. Even after all they’d done, they still mattered to him. He hadn’t wanted any of his guards to die either, but it seemed many had, defending the Tower . . . And reports were coming in that Lewis had had unexpected help; from his father’s old friend and adviser Samuel Chevron. What the hell did that mean? Why had Chevron of all people involved himself in open treason? Douglas had put in a call to his father, but so far William hadn’t answered.

The King raised his brandy glass and finally realized it was empty. He put it down on the richly carpeted floor beside his chair, watched it fall over, and then looked slowly around him. The two big mahogany tables were covered with piles of brightly wrapped presents that had arrived from all over the Empire in advance of the Royal Wedding. Douglas wondered vaguely whether he’d have to send them all back now. He hoped the senders had thought to keep the receipts, but doubted they had. Most people didn’t. The packages had all been sensor-scanned, for bombs or perishables or other unfortunate surprises, and Douglas had glanced briefly through the list. All pretty predictable, really. Tacky, tasteless junk that neither he nor Jes would have given house room under normal circumstances. And the more expensive stuff had really been nothing more than bribes, from minor politicians and the like looking to ingratiate themselves, in hope of future patronage. But there’d also been a lot of small stuff, from small people, just expressing their happiness at the forthcoming marriage. Douglas felt bad about disappointing them.

He wondered tiredly who Parliament would want him to marry next. They’d have to choose someone soon. Someone popular, and worthy, and safe. The public was all fired up for a Royal Wedding, for a time of parties and self-indulgence and celebration, and they were in no mood to be put off for long. And the House badly needed something big and moving and gaudy to distract the public from thinking too much about the coming Terror. So Douglas was pretty sure he’d be marrying someone soon. He supposed he could have some input into the choice, if he insisted, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He’d just lost his only real love and his only real friend; and the best he could hope for was that he’d never see them again. That they’d have enough sense to go deep into hiding, and stay hidden. The people could have long, angry memories when it came to people who disappointed them; and they could be very vindictive, if presented with a chance for revenge. There’d never be any Pardon for Lewis or Jesamine, no matter how many strings Douglas pulled.

He supposed he should hate them both, but he couldn’t. They were the only people who’d cared for the man, not the King, and even after all that had happened . . . he still loved them both. Even though they had run away, leaving him nothing but to be King, and a duty he never wanted.

There was a polite knock at the door, which surprised him. He’d made it very clear to everyone within shouting distance that he wasn’t to be disturbed. Whoever it was knocked again, a little less politely, but still he ignored it. He was the King, and if he wanted to brood and sulk and beat himself up, he would. He wondered if there was any more brandy. The door opened anyway, without his permission, and Douglas lurched up out of his chair, looking for something heavy to throw. It was Anne Barclay, of course. Douglas sighed, and dropped back into his chair. He should have known. Even armed guards couldn’t keep her out. Douglas deliberately looked in a different direction as she stalked over to stand before him.

“What do you want?” he growled finally, when it became clear ignoring her wasn’t going to work.

“I came to say sorry,” said Anne, in what was for her a fairly subdued voice. “In a sense, a lot of this is my fault. I should never have put Jes forward in the first place. I should have known she’d find some way to screw it up. She’s made a career out of breaking hearts, after all. But it meant so much to her, the chance to be Queen; and I just didn’t have the heart to say no . . .”

Douglas looked at her for the first time, and his expression softened. “Of course; you’ve lost your best friend too, haven’t you? Oh hell, Anne; sit down. We should talk. We’re the ones who are going to have to pick up the pieces. Whether we feel up to it or not.”

Anne pulled up a chair and sat down opposite him. “How do you feel, Douglas? No; silly question. Look; don’t you worry about anything. I’ve got my people all over the routine stuff, until you feel ready to start getting involved again. No one’s going to expect to see you in public for a while.”

“They’re all laughing at me, aren’t they? The King who lost his woman to his best friend, and never even saw it coming.”

“No! No, Douglas; they’re all too busy being angry with Lewis, for letting them down by being only human.”

“There will have to be a Royal Wedding, eventually, won’t there?”

“Yes. Too many preparations, too many events set in motion, for us to cancel completely. The House will decide on someone else . . . someone uncontroversial.”

“How can I face my people?” Douglas said heavily. “How can they ever have any respect for me, after this?”

“None of this is your fault!” Anne said sharply. “You’re the victim here, Douglas. Everyone can see that. You were betrayed, by the two people you had most reason to trust. The people will understand. The media’s being surprisingly supportive, and everyone’s working hard to put the best possible spin on what’s happened.”

She didn’t tell him the media were only cooperating because she and everyone else in a position of power and influence had begged, bullied, and bribed the various media into the right frame of mind. Anne had personally contacted every editor and publisher in her little black book, and bludgeoned them into line with everything from promises of private interviews later to a little private blackmail over things she wasn’t supposed to know. She had a job to do, and she didn’t have the time or the inclination right now to pussyfoot around. She did what was necessary; just as she always had.

Douglas didn’t need to know these things, so she didn’t tell him. In fact, there were a lot of things Douglas didn’t need to know.

“I don’t blame them, you know,” Douglas said quietly. “It wasn’t their fault; not really. They just . . . fell in love. That didn’t used to be a crime. I want them to be happy together, wherever they finally end up. I’d hate to think I lost the two people I care about the most for nothing . . .”

“Yes, well, that’s all very noble and chivalrous, but I don’t think that’s the approach we should take with the media,” Anne said carefully. “They need a King, not a Saint. You can’t afford to seem weak. I think . . . it’s best if you say nothing at all, for the time being. Finn and I have been talking. We can handle things in your name, until you’re ready to face the public again. There’s no rush. You take it easy. Rest. Get yourself . . . sorted out. And don’t worry about anything. Finn and I are on top of it all.”

“You and Finn,” said Douglas. “Better friends than I ever realized. What would I do without you?”

Anne waited a while, but he had nothing more to say. He sat slumped in his chair, staring at nothing, or perhaps too much. Anne got up and left the chamber, glad to be leaving a silence so heavy it was almost unbearable. She nodded to the armed guards outside, and they snapped to attention again behind her. Some way down the corridor, Finn Durandal was waiting. He and Anne nodded respectfully to each other, like two old adversaries who had unexpectedly ended up on the same side. Finn looked back at the King’s chambers.

“So; how is he?”

“Pretty much how we expected. Tired, mostly, I think.”

“Should I go in to him?”

“I don’t think that’s necessary. He still has a lot of thinking to do.”

“And right now . . . he might decide to blame the messenger for the message?”

“He made you Champion, Finn. Settle for that, for now.” She considered the Durandal thoughtfully. “The Champion’s black leather armor certainly suits you a lot better than it ever did Lewis.”

Finn smiled briefly. “Lewis never did have any style. And I always thought I’d look good in black. Is there . . . somewhere private nearby, where we could talk, Anne? I think we need to talk, you and I.”

“Of course.” She led him down the corridor and into a private reception room, where she locked the door securely behind them. She had a feeling it was going to be that kind of conversation. They sat down facing each other, and Anne fixed Finn with a cold, penetrating stare. “What exactly do you think we need to talk about, Finn? We’ve never been friends, or even allies. What do we have in common, apart from the fact that we’ve both betrayed people who were supposed to be our friends?”