Deathstalker Rebellion (36 page)

“Your Majesty, I really must protest. Information has come to me, from a private but valued source who must of course remain anonymous, that verifies everything the Lord Wolfe had to say. The Lord High Dram is dead. He died on the Wolfling World, cut down by the original Deathstalker himself. The man at your side is at best an impostor, at worst a clone you are attempting to fool us into accepting. Well, I for one am not fooled. I must insist that this … person submit to a genetest, here and now. We cannot permit a clone to stand as Consort to Your Majesty.”

“We?” said Dram. “And who might this
we
be?”

“I represent a number of my colleagues,” said the Member of Parliament. “And I trust I have the backing of every loyal man and woman here. We have a right to know the truth.”

Lionstone leaned forward on her Throne, her face calm and quite composed. “Your face is not familiar to us. You are …?”

The MP drew himself up a little farther, his voice ringing out magnificently. “I am Richard Scott, newly elected Member for Graylake East. I won my seat on a platform of reform for truth and justice in government. It seems only fitting that I begin my fight here at Court.”

Lionstone nodded and leaned back in her Throne. “I might have known. There’s nothing more pompous and im
pertinent than a newly elected official. Dram, you deal with this.”

Dram nodded, his cold dark eyes fixed on Scott, who was looking a little perturbed. Whatever answer he’d expected to his challenge, this wasn’t it. No anger or denial or bluster, just a calm indifference from the Empress and a cold calculating look from her Consort. Scott began to wonder if he’d made a mistake. His colleagues had been loud enough in their support earlier, but now they stood silent in the crowd while he stood alone before the Iron Throne. Dram stepped forward, and Scott had to fight down an impulse to step back. He had to appear strong, resolute. Dram came to a halt, standing between Scott and the Throne. His sudden smile was cold as death.

“The Empress has already stated before this assembled Court that I am the real Lord High Dram. By challenging that, you challenge her word. You have, in effect, called her a liar. And that is a dueling offense—a matter of honor. I represent Lionstone in this matter. Find another to stand for you, or you must defend yourself, here and now.”

Scott paled as he saw the trap he’d fallen into. No one would help him now. The field of honor was sacrosanct. He swallowed hard. “Your Majesty, I protest! Members of Parliament are by tradition exempt from the Code Duello.”

“Normally, yes,” said Dram. “But you insulted the Empress in front of her own Court. That much insult outweighs tradition.”

Scott didn’t turn to look behind him. He knew the faces of the courtiers would be closed against him. He raised his hands to show they were empty. “I don’t have a sword.”

One of the guards who’d brought in the late head of starport security stepped forward at Dram’s gesture and offered Scott his sword. The MP accepted it as though it was his death warrant, which in a way it was. He was no duelist, hadn’t drawn a sword in anger since his student days. And Dram was the Warrior Prime. If this was Dram, of course.

Scott hefted the sword once, getting the feel of it. It was a good blade, well balanced. He started to cry. Not a breakdown or anything dramatic; he’d be damned if he gave them the satisfaction. Just a few tears, running down his cheeks. He knew he was going to die. This was an execution, not a duel. He couldn’t remember whether he’d told his wife he loved her when he left that morning. He hoped he had. And
he’d had that specially imported marble come for the forecourt. She wouldn’t have a clue what to do with it. So many things left undone. He shook his head briefly. None of that mattered now. It was too late for anything but Dram and him and their two swords. He looked straight at Dram, and though tears were still running down his cheeks, his voice was cold and hard and determined.

“Let’s do it.”

Dram stepped forward, lifting his sword, and Scott went to meet him. They circled each other a moment, and then Dram launched a blistering attack with all his strength behind it. Scott parried as best he could, but after only half a dozen blows his sword was knocked out of his hand. He watched it sail through the air and land in the snow a dozen feet away. He looked back at Dram, held his head high, and tried to keep his mouth from trembling. There was nowhere he could run, and maybe a good showing would buy him a reprieve from the Empress. But Dram didn’t even look back at her. He raised his sword and brought it flashing down to sink deep into Scott’s right shoulder, like a forester taking his ax to a stubborn tree.

The impact drove Scott to his knees, a surprised sound exploding from his slack mouth. Dram jerked his sword free, and blood fountained from the great wound, spattering Scott’s face and the snow around him. Dram struck at him again and again, avoiding a killing blow, his sword rising and falling with relentless precision. Scott tried to intercept some of the blows with his arms, the sword slicing skin and meat away as the blade rebounded from the bones, but then one of the blows took off his left hand, and after that he just crouched there in the snow, cradling the bloody stump to his chest. He cried out constantly at the pain, but made no move to avoid any of the blows. Finally, he fell forward into the crimson snow and lay still. It was obvious to all that the man was dead, but Dram continued to hack at the body like an axman cutting wood, the body jumping and shuddering under the rain of blows.

The courtiers watched in horrified silence. Lionstone leaned forward in her Throne to get a better view, smiling widely. The maids stirred restlessly at the foot of her Throne, excited by the smell of blood in the air, watching the body jump and shudder with their unblinking insect eyes. Silence watched impassively, and wondered if he’d
just crouch there in the snow and take it. Armed or unarmed, he’d do his best to die with his hands crushing Dram’s throat. Frost watched the display with a curled lip, disapproving of such a messy kill. Stelmach’s face was as white as the snow, but he didn’t look away. He knew how dangerous it could be to show weakness in Lionstone’s Court. And finally Dram stopped and straightened up, standing over the butchered body with blood dripping the length of his sword blade. He was breathing just a little heavily, but his face was calm. He thrust his sword into the snow a few times to clean it, and then sheathed it. He looked at the watching faces of the courtiers, and smiled briefly.

“Time for a by-election at Graylake East.”

He moved back to take his place at Lionstone’s side. Kassar gave him plenty of room. The Empress gestured for her guards to come and drag the body away, as they’d previously disposed of the late head of starport security. They wrapped the body in a sheet, careful not to leave any of it behind, and carried it away. They couldn’t do anything about all the blood soaked into the snow, though. The courtiers were silent and watchful, thinking hard and privately for later discussion. They all knew an object lesson when they saw one. They also recognized the Lord High Dram’s distinctive style when they saw it, and this killing had been typical of the man privately known as the Widowmaker. Lionstone reached out and tousled Dram’s hair, as one might pet a favorite dog, and then turned her gaze on Silence, Frost, and Stelmach. Silence and Stelmach tried to stand a little straighten.

“We have new duties for you three,” said Lionstone calmly. “We were rather upset with you when we heard of your failures on the Wolfling World, but in saving us from the alien ship, you have redeemed yourselves. We must commend you, Captain Silence. You seem to have a knack of drawing back from the brink at the very last moment. Take care your timing doesn’t let you down in the future. Now then, you and your companions are to return to the
Dauntless
, embark on a tour of all those planets in our Empire still mainly populated by aliens, and make sure of their loyalty to the Throne in these trying times. If you encounter dissent, you are empowered by us to take whatever steps you deem necessary to restore order. Under no circumstances is any alien world to be allowed to make contact with
any alien force from outside the Empire. If contact has already been established, you are authorized to scorch the planet. That’s all. You can say thank you now.”

“Thank you, on behalf of us all. Your Majesty,” said Silence. He thought he’d better say it. Stelmach was still clearly in shock, and Frost had never said thank you in her life. Investigators didn’t. “I take it you wish us to begin this tour of duty immediately?”

“Oh, hang around for a while if you like,” said Lionstone. “Enjoy the rest of this audience. It might be some time before you get a chance to see us again.”

If we’re lucky
, thought Silence, bowing. He wasn’t fooled by the kind words. No one was. He’d been handed what was essentially punishment duties, doing the dirtiest, most unpleasant but necessary job she could find. Too important to be trusted to someone incompetent or weak of stomach, but too time-consuming to be given to anyone she really needed. And afterward, if his actions proved to be politically embarrassing, he could always be thrown to the wolves as a sacrifice. Still, it could have been worse. He was still alive and in possession of all his extremities. He had been given a sign that he was forgiven, if not forgotten; a last chance to show he could still be useful.

He hadn’t been fooled by Lionstone’s invitation to stick around, either. Once this Court was over, guards would no doubt immediately appear to escort him and his companions back to the
Dauntless
, to see they didn’t get lost along the way or talk to anyone they shouldn’t. One reason for sending them out to the backs of beyond was so they couldn’t be asked awkward questions about Dram’s death on the Wolfling World. By the time they got back to Golgotha, the question would be moot. Silence gestured to Frost and Stelmach, and led them back into the safety of the crowd. It wouldn’t be wise to risk catching the Empress’s eye again. There was such a thing as tempting fate.

Lionstone began winding down the business of the Court, handing out commendations and reprimands as necessary, and reminding everyone of where the true power in the Empire lay. Questions were asked and answered, points of law decided, and reports made on the repair work taking place in the devastated city and starport. The courtiers began to relax a little and felt free enough to talk quietly among themselves again. David Deathstalker and Kit SummerIsle, that quiet
young man also known as Kid Death, watched from a safe distance and allowed themselves the occasional discreet yawn. The action appeared to be over. It had finally stopped snowing and the wind had settled down, as though even the weather was growing bored now the excitement was over. It was still bloody cold, though. A cold setting for two very cold young men.

Kit SummerIsle had become the head of his Family by the simple expedient of killing everyone who stood between him and the title, including his own parents. He killed his grandfather, a legendary old warrior, at the request of the Empress, but little good it had done him. She lost interest in him once he was no longer of any use to her. He flirted with the underground for a while, but was thinking of dropping out after the debacle at Silo Nine. He knew a losing proposition when he saw one. And so the man commonly known as Kid Death, trusted by no one and hated by many, had become an outcast and a pariah even in the dog-eat-dog world of high society. Just nineteen years old, he was a slender figure in black and silver battle armor, with pale blond flyaway hair above a long pale face dominated by icy blue eyes. He walked like a predator in a world of prey. Kid Death, the smiling killer.

His only friend stood at his side, scowling thoughtfully. David Deathstalker had taken over the title as head of his Clan after the outlawing of his cousin Owen. Eighteen years old, tall, muscular, and immaculately dressed, he was handsome enough already to have flustered the hearts of a few society beauties. He’d recently figured that out and was planning on cutting a swath through the more impressionable young ladies of his generation. His friendship with Kit SummerIsle gave him a dangerous glamor, which he played to the hilt.

Their friendship had come as something of a surprise to both of them. They had both come to be heads of their Families at an early age, only to find no other Family respected them. They fought duels at the drop of an insult, both separately and together, but that only won them a cold public courtesy. In return, they had nothing but contempt for the intrigues and betrayals that made up Family politics, not least because they didn’t have the patience or the skill to take part themselves. They had won a certain following among the general populace by fighting in the Arena against all comers,
to the scandal of their peers, but they couldn’t be said to be popular. The SummerIsle because of what he’d done to his Family and because he was a complete bloody psychopath, and David because he bore a name that had become a synonym for treason. But they had found a kindred spirit in each other, fellow outcasts rejected by their society, and two young men who had never known friendship before grew closer than brothers, sworn to each other to death and beyond. They stood together in the crowd of courtiers, ignored by their neighbors, and studied Dram dubiously.

“I could take him,” said David. “And either of us would make a better Warrior Prime.”

“True,” said Kit. “But you only get the job through popular acclaim, so I think we can forget about that. Maybe if we were to perform some outstanding act of bravery or note, things would be different. But we’re never allowed a chance at anything like that. Still, maybe there’ll be a war soon, against the rebels or the aliens. Always good chances for improvement in a war.”

“There’s also an equally good chance of being sent home in a box with some important pieces missing, just for standing in the wrong place at the wrong time. Wars are a little too arbitrary for my taste. I’d prefer something a little less dramatic.”

“Hello,” said Kit suddenly. “I spy a familiar face. Thomas Le Bihan, Member of Parliament for Thornton North, as I live and breathe. Our sometime patron. I do believe he’s trying to pretend he hasn’t see us. Let’s wander over and embarrass him, for the good of his soul.”