Deathstalker War (4 page)

“Yeah,” said Owen. “Disrupter burn. I take it she wasn’t wearing the cloak at the time?”

“No. Her husband was. Someone shot him in the back, at point-blank range. She found the killer, and killed him slowly, but she still wears the cloak, and she never had the hole mended. What kind of person would do that?”

“Cold, obsessed, unswerving,” said Hazel. “An Investigator in other words.”

“Let’s change the subject,” said Silver. “Before I start looking over my shoulder and jumping at sudden noises. Jack Random and that Psycho woman took off on their own missions. What are you here for? Or aren’t you allowed to tell me?”

“It’s no big deal,” said Hazel. “I’m here to make contact with the Council on behalf of the Golgotha underground. It should have been someone else, but plans got changed at the last minute, and I was the only one who didn’t run away fast enough, so I got volunteered. Owen’s here to hunt down an old information-gathering network his father set up in Mistport some years ago. You can make a move when you’re ready, Deathstalker. I’m going to spend some time with Silver before I get started.”

Owen frowned. “I thought we’d be sticking together. You know Mistport a lot better than I do.”

“So what do you want me to do, aristo? Hold your hand?”

“You heard what Silver said,” Owen said stubbornly. “We don’t have any friends out there, and our . . . link is unreliable.”

“I can look after myself,” said Hazel. “So can you.”

Owen scowled, nonplussed. It made no sense at all to split up when they both had so many old and new enemies to watch out for. He wondered for a moment if Silver might have been more than a friend in the past, and that was why he was being frozen out, but he didn’t think so. The body language was all wrong from both of them. But it was clear he wasn’t going to get anywhere with Hazel while she was in this kind of mood. There was also no point in losing his temper. She’d always been better at throwing tantrums than he. He found it all so undignified. Besides, she didn’t look too good. She was sweating in the heat of the fire, and her mouth was set in a flat, ugly line. Owen pushed back his chair and got to his feet.

“Well, if you’d rather waste time chatting with an old friend than getting on with the job we were sent here to do, I can’t stop you.”

“Damn right you can’t. And don’t take that tone with me, Deathstalker. I know my duty, but I’ll take care of it in my own time and in my own way.”

“Time is something we’re rather short of, Hazel. Or had you forgotten how closely the Empire has been dogging our heels?”

“I haven’t forgotten anything! You stick to your mission and leave me to mine! Get out of here, aristo. I’m sick of looking at you. I don’t need you!”

“No,” said Owen. “You’ve never needed anyone, have you?”

He bowed curtly to Silver and stalked out of the room, not quite slamming the door behind him. The tense silence continued for a while, as Hazel glared at the closed door, and Silver studied her thoughtfully. He’d seen Hazel in many moods, but this was a new one on him. Clearly the Deathstalker, or at least his opinion, mattered to Hazel. Silver hoped she wasn’t falling for the outlawed aristocrat. Hazel had never been any good at handling affairs of the heart. She always got hurt in the end. He almost jumped as Hazel turned suddenly to face him, her eyes hot and fierce.

“We’ve always been good friends, haven’t we, John?”

“Of course we have. We’ve walked a lot of miles together.”

“I need your help, John.”

“It’s yours. Anything you want, just say the word.”

“I need some Blood. Just a drop or two. Do you know where you can get some? Someone . . . discreet?”

“If that’s what you want.”

“Yes, John. That’s what I want.”

Silver pursed his lips. “The Deathstalker doesn’t know about this, does he?”

“No. And you’re not to tell him. He wouldn’t understand.”

“I’m not sure I do. I thought you were clear of that shit. I held your hand and sponged your brow and wiped your ass while you sweated the stuff out of your system the last time. I don’t want to have to do that again. It almost killed you, Hazel.”

“I’m not talking about going back to being a plasma baby again! I’ve got it under control this time. I just need a drop, now and again. You don’t know what I’ve been through, John. You don’t know the pressure I’m under.”

“I said I’d help you, Hazel. If Blood is what you need, I can get it for you. We all have the right to go to Hell in our own ways. As head of port Security, I have access to all drugs seized from incoming ships. No one will miss a few drops.” He paused. “Are you sure about this, Hazel?”

“Oh yes. I have to have something in my life I can depend on.”

Young Jack Random strode unhurriedly through the streets of Mistport, and no one bothered him. There was something in his unyielding stance and cold confidence that persuaded people to keep their distance. That, and the energy gun he wore openly on his hip. Only the real movers and shakers in Mistport had access to energy guns. Random made his way into Merchants Quarter, in search of an old friend. Councillor Donald Royal had been one of Mistport’s greatest heroes in his younger days, and was an influential figure even now, in the autumn of his life.

Random finally came to a halt before a soot-blackened old building in a part of the Quarter that had definitely known better days. Donald Royal could have afforded to live practically anywhere he chose in the city, but this had always been his home, and he wouldn’t move. Stubborn old man. Random stepped forward and knocked politely on the door. There was a long pause, and then he sensed he was being studied through a spyhole. He smiled charmingly at the door, and kept his hands well away from his weapons. The door swung open to reveal a striking young woman. As far as Random knew, she was a complete stranger, but he kept his smile going anyway. She was tall for a woman, with a tousled head of reddish-brown hair, falling in great curls to her shoulders. Her face was a little too broad to be pretty, but her strong bone structure gave her a harsh, sensual look. She held herself like a fighter, with a cold steady gaze and a mouth that gave away nothing. Her clothing was strictly functional, but well cut, and she carried an energy gun holstered on her hip. Random noted that her hand was resting on her belt next to the gun and cleared his throat politely.

“Good evening. I’m looking for Donald Royal. I understood he was still living here.”

“He’s here, but I don’t know if he wants to be bothered right now. I’m his partner. I don’t let people bother him without a good reason.”

“I’m Jack Random. I’ve come to talk to him about planning the new rebellion against the Empire.”

The woman smiled suddenly, and her eyes warmed. “That’s . . . a good reason. I’m Madelaine Skye. Come on in. Pardon my caution, but we don’t get many legends around here.”

She stepped back, and Random bowed politely before moving past her into a narrow, gloomy hall. He hung up his coat and his sword belt without having to be asked and allowed Skye to lead him down the hall and into a cosy sitting room. Oil lamps provided the only light, suffusing the room with a soft buttery glow. Thick leather-bound books lined three walls, the last wall being covered by a display of well-used bladed weapons, from slender daggers up to a huge double-headed ax. Below them lay a large fire, crackling contentedly in its grate, surmounted by an elaborate mantelpiece of dark wood, carved into blocky Gothic shapes. On top of the mantelpiece, a large clock was set into the belly of a carved wooden dog with an ugly face. Its eyes and lolling red tongue moved to and fro as it ticked. Sitting beside the fire in a large padded armchair was an old man with vague eyes. He’d been a large man once, but the great muscles that had packed his frame in his youth had slowly wasted away down the years, and now his clothes hung loosely about him. Long strands of wispy white hair hung down about a gaunt, bony face. Madelaine Skye stood beside the chair, hovering protectively close.

“We have a visitor, Donald.”

“I can see that, woman. I’m not blind yet. Or senile. I assume he’s someone important, or you’d have sent him on his way with a flea in his ear.” He looked at Random for a long moment, and then frowned. “I know you from somewhere. Never forget a face.” And then his gaze cleared, and he rose suddenly out of his chair. “Dear God, it can’t be. Jack? Is that you, Jack? Damn me, it is.” He grinned broadly and reached out to take Random’s proffered hand in both of his, the large wrinkled hands enveloping Random’s. “Jack Random, as I live and breathe! What the hell are you doing here?”

“Looking up old friends,” said Random, smiling. “Been a long time, Donald.”

“You can say that again. Too damned long. Sit down, sit down, and let me take a look at you.”

Random pulled up the armchair on the other side of the fire and sat down, politely pretending not to notice as Donald Royal lowered himself carefully back into his chair, with just a little help from Madelaine. Donald studied Random with sharp, weighing eyes. There was nothing vague about him anymore, as though the memory of the man he used to be had recharged him. Madelaine moved away to give them some privacy, but stayed by the door, leaning casually against the doorjamb. It hadn’t escaped Random that her hand was still resting near her gun. He smiled warmly at Donald.

“Nice place you have here. Comfortable. I like your clock.”

“Do you?” said Donald. “Can’t stand the bloody thing myself. But it was a favorite of my late wife’s, and I haven’t the heart to throw it out. You’re looking good, Jack. Must be twenty years since I last saw you, sitting in this room, in these same damn chairs. You were a firebrand then, so young and alive and full of hope and vinegar that I couldn’t resist you. Gave you all the gold I had on me, and the names of everyone I could think of who might listen to you. I’d have gone with you myself, but even then I was getting a bit too old and fragile for adventuring. You had the gift of words, Jack, and I never could resist a plausable rogue.”

“You were one of the first people to really believe in me,” said Random. “I never forgot that. Though it’s just as well you didn’t come with me to Lyonesse. Things went badly, from start to finish. I was young and inexperienced, still learning my way. We had some victories, but in the final battle we were thrown back and routed. I had to run for my life, while good men and women died to buy me time. But we still stuck a blow for freedom, and made the Iron Bitch afraid, if only for a moment.”

“I remember Lyonesse,” said Madelaine from the doorway. “Your army was cut to ribbons, one in ten of the population was hanged for supporting treason, and the survivors had their taxes doubled for the next ten years. There are those who might say Lyonesse was better off before your rebellion.”

“Don’t mind Madelaine,” said Donald. “She doesn’t believe in luxuries like optimism and virtues. She’s never happy unless she’s seeing the dark side of things. She persuaded me to come out of retirement to work with her as private investigators. I provide the brains, and Madelaine sorts out the bad guys. I have to say, I’ve felt more alive this last year than I have for ages. I was never meant for retirement. She still insists on acting as my bodyguard, even though I haven’t forgotten how to use a sword.”

“I’m sure she’s very proficient,” said Random. “Donald, I need to talk to you.”

“Of course you do, Jack. We have a lot to catch up on. Twenty-two years since I last saw you. I’ve followed your career as best I could. News takes a while to reach Mistworld. You haven’t changed a bit, Jack. Unlike me. How have you stayed so young? You must have been in your late twenties when I first met you, and you don’t look as though you’ve aged a day since then.”

“I have several heavy-duty regenerations to thank for that,” said Random. “And a little cosmetic surgery. People won’t follow an old rebel. It’s no secret that I’ve been pretty badly messed up on more than one occasion. I may be young on the outside, but my bones know the truth. But I’m still me. Still the professional rebel, ready to fight for truth and justice at the drop of a hint. My cause hasn’t changed in twenty-two years, Donald, and just like then, I need your help.”

Donald sighed, and settled back in his chair. “Afraid my help’s rather more limited these days, Jack. I’m still on the city Council, but I don’t take much interest in politics anymore. Which means my influence is pretty much nonexistent. I stick my oar in now and again, just to remind them I haven’t died, and I try to do my own small bit for truth and justice as a private investigator, but truth be told, on the whole the important life of the city just passes me by. I can give you names and addresses of some people who might be willing to listen to you, but my name isn’t the recommendation it was the last time you were here. Times have changed, Jack, and not for the better. Mistport is a colder and far more cynical place than you and I remember.”

“You can still vouch for me to the Council,” said Random. “There seems to be some question as to whether I really am who I say I am. If you were to speak up publicly to confirm my identity, it would help a lot.”

“No problem there,” said Donald. “I may not be as young as I was, but there’s nothing wrong with my eyes or my memory. You’re Jack Random. No doubt about it. I’d stake my life on it.”

“Don’t be so quick,” said Madelaine. “Looks aren’t everything. You said yourself he looks far too young. How do we know he isn’t a clone?”

“A gene test would answer that,” Random said easily.

“Unfortunately, we don’t have access to tech like that here in Mistport,” said Madelaine. “Convenient, that.”

“Hush, Madelaine,” said Donald. “Easy enough to test the man. There are things only Jack and I would remember. Things we talked about, people we knew, back then. Right, Jack?”

“Of course. Let me think for a moment. It was a long time ago.” Random pursed his lips and rested his chin on his fist. “I remember some of the people you sent me to. There was Lord Durandal, the adventurer. Count Ironhand of the Marches. Is either of them still around?”

“No,” said Donald. “They’re both gone now. Ironhand drowned, saving a child who’d fallen into the River Autumn. He was a good swimmer, for an old man. Got the child to safety. But the shock of the icy waters was too much for him. He knew it would be, but he went in anyway. He was that sort of man. Durandal disappeared into the Darkvoid, years ago, on some damn fool quest to find the Wolfling World. Don’t know if he ever found it. He never came back.”