The Forever Hero (52 page)

The rhinoped snorted, shifting its weight from left to right side, as if flexing the muscles that could propel its three ton mass at close to forty kays.

At the far end of the elongated clearing, a man, small by comparison to the beast, in turn shifted his weight, not taking his eyes off the rhinoped, as if to ensure that the red and flowing sheetmail weighed evenly across his massive shoulders.

Well over two meters tall, the giant swung his sword in prescribed arcs, waiting for the double bell, waiting for the sonic barrier to drop, that unseen wall that both held and infuriated the beast.

The combat was third on the card, more than a crowd warm-up,
but still three events before the finale, where two firelizards, a blooded rhinoped, and a jackelion were pitted against a single man.

The giant in red mail did not have to accept those odds, since he entered the arena by choice, not necessity. In turn, the crowd cheered the animals rather than him, at least until the combat was over.

Just before the twin chimes sounded, he glanced upward, over the artificial terrain, over the synthetic recreation of the Alhurzian high forest toward that part of the spectator area bordered by the golden rail.

Whether he saw any mark of favor from the line of barons' tables or not, he made no acknowledgment, as he recentered his attention on the snorting rhinoped.

Cling! Cling!

Thirty meters above the purple-veined replicas of Alhurzian morloch vines, the copper-haired woman with the flowing curls that glistened and the bright green eyes that flashed with cold fire sat alone at the box rail table of a baron.

That it was the box table of at least a baron of the Empire was clear because only barons were permitted to purchase the inner line of tables along the high rail overlooking the arena. That she was recognized and belonged there was clear from the bowing and scraping accorded her by the staff, the depth of whose genuflections tended to be proportional to the wealth and position of those before whom they bowed.

That she was not the baroness herself was clear from the intensity in watching the arena, for she had not yet acquired the refined indifferent cruelty born of experience, though her carriage and manners were perfect in every ostensible sense.

Three tables down, to the left, also against the railing, sat an angular-featured young man, accompanied by a younger woman scarcely out of girlhood, and by a silver-haired and slender baroness whose veiled eyes slowly shifted from point to point, surveying everything but the action in the large arena below.

Most of the baron's tables held one or two people, though each could accommodate eight in grand style and up to twelve in a more intimate arrangement.

In the fringe area to the left and right of the baron's tables, where the status of the holders was in the undefined limbo of those greater than commercial magnates, but not officially recognized as barons, a black-haired, black-eyed man dressed in black sat alone. His hair was short, but tight-curled, and while his manners were almost indifferent, the staff tiptoed nearly as deferentially to him as to any baron.

The table belonged to Fernand H'Llory, but the man who sat there was not H'Llory, for H'Llory had never attended the spectacles at the arena and had obtained the table for the convenience of his wide range of guests and associates, all of whom were at least the equal of commercial magnates, if not more. The placement of the table afforded an accommodation between shades of status satisfactory to all, particularly to H'Llory.

The man in black was obviously from the fringes of the Empire, for he wore the black with absolute authority, certainly, and flair, defying the current unspoken convention that while women might wear black, no man of worth would do so, for black had been the color of the assassins, and they had been broken, and those who remained and followed the profession independently were obviously inferior.

The copper-haired woman clapped politely, as did most of the other Imperials, as the red-mailed man in the arena dispatched the three-meter horned rhinoped. The kill had been serviceable, but little more. He had avoided injury, but taken more than the pair of normal kill strokes required to destroy the twin hearts of the beast.

The single woman let her eyes drift toward the man in black, who had not even made a gesture toward applause. As her head turned, the angular-faced young man's eyes followed hers, although he had to strain slightly to see her actions from the three table distance.

“Who is he?” asked the angular-faced man's sister.

“I don't know. He was here last night. Black then, too.”

“Gauche,” the girl observed.

“By current standards,” noted the baroness.

“You approve, Mother?”

A wry smile crossed the baroness's face. “Whether I approve or not will affect society's judgments and fads little.” She turned her head. “But the man is handsome, rather, in a dark way.”

The angular-faced young man frowned, his complexion paling a shade. His sister touched his arm. He removed her fingers gently, but quickly.

“What can I do? Two agents missing, and that Commodore Gerswin has disappeared, almost as if he knew they were after him. Helene has refused to consider any contract or further contact until that's resolved. She says she is sorry, but whoever her contract-mate is will have to clear that blot.”

He watched as the copper-haired woman known as Helene summoned a towering staffer in cold violet formal wear, watched as she
instructed him or requested something, and watched as the tall man stepped away.

He was still watching as the functionary appeared at the table where the man in black sat.

The man in black inclined his head, then shook it firmly.

“She can't do that!” hissed the angular-faced man.

“He didn't accept, Duran,” observed the sister.

“That will just intrigue her more.”

“Of course.”

“You are too eager, Duran, too intense, like your father, though he has come to accept that failing in himself. Watch the next combat. It might be interesting.”

Below, a man and a woman, each with a boar spear, bowed to the audience, which responded with an applause mainly perfunctory.

“Do you want to wager on the outcome, or the time?”

“Neither,” snapped Duran, forcing himself to avoid meeting the cool glance of Helene, who had surveyed his table without seeing him or his sister and mother. “Neither.”

“There will be a dance tonight. Are you going?”

“I haven't decided.”

“Well,” added his sister with a smile that did not hide the cruelty, “Jaim Daeris told Forallie that Helene was going. Alone.”

She refrained from saying more as the baroness's cold gray eyes caught hers.

“I haven't decided,” Duran repeated. “I haven't decided.”

Lyr D'Meryon mumbled under her breath, touched the screen controls, and surveyed the information again.

“One thousand torps. That was bad enough.”

Her finger jabbed at the console controls.

“Now he wants to know about surplus in-system relay stations—and the possibility of simplified designs for both torps and stations. What does he want? His own private message delivery system?”

She brushed a strand of hair back off her forehead, wondering why she had ever even considered that her mysterious commander—
strange how she continued to think of him as a commander—would settle into a more regular pattern after he retired from the Service.

Settle down? Regular? Not only could she never find him in a hurry, but the work load had more than tripled in the last ten years.

And the creds! Everything he touched seemed to generate money. The more he spent, the more it created. Plus the funds from strange names and friends, names and friends that were never explained.

Was Shaik Corso an acquaintance or an alias? She suspected the latter, but the documents were in order, and the foundation's records had to show the latter. MacGregor Corson was so transparent, proper records or not, that she wasn't about to risk an Imperial censure. So “Corson's” contributions and expenses were listed as a subset of Gerswin's.

The commander might complain, but the foundation was going to be run right. Period.

She sighed, and mentally added the thought—as far as she was concerned.

She switched screens again, trying to unscramble the codes on his latest voucher, shaking her head all the time.

Where it would end, she didn't know. If it would end.

The supposedly ancient commander still looked and acted like a man in his standard thirties, but the background she had found indicated he was well over a century old—at least.

She frowned at the thought that he might outlive her, then smiled a wry smile. She had a few more decades, at least, before she even had to worry about it.

“Ms. D'Meryon, can you check out item three on four beta?” asked the on-line tech.

“Hold one.”

She transferred screens again, calling up the questioned item.

“That's an approved transportation item, deductible under 33(a)(1). Note that in the remarks section.”

“Thank you.”

She returned to screen one. Satellite relay systems? Surplus? Where should she start there?

She frowned once more, then tapped out a number.

Duran stood in the corner, half shielded by the ice sculpture of the rhinoped, and watched the dancers sweeping across the low grav of the dance floor in time to the ancient waltz.

His eyes followed a copper-haired woman in a formal coppered dress that should not have complimented her pale coloration, but did, as the dance ended and as she bowed to Carroll, the elder son of Baron Kellenher, and turned away, leaving the young man standing there with words on his lips left unsaid.

Duran grimaced.

At least she was equally cavalier with others, or some others.

A flicker of black caught his eye, and his head jerked around involuntarily.

The black-haired man skirted the dancing area, brushing the massive forearm of a giant in red, who whirled to confront the slender figure in black.

Duran smiled.

He did not know the giant personally, except that as the younger son of a minor mining baron, Trigarth had achieved a certain notoriety by surviving in the arena and a certain success with women by dropping to the level of combat in the circus and succeeding.

Duran's angular features relaxed as he watched the confrontation develop.

“…apology…?” asked Trigarth.

The man in black inclined his head politely, but quizzically, as if he could not believe what Trigarth had asked.

“I think you owe me an apology.” By now the hall was quiet enough for the words to reach Duran.

“I beg your pardon, but I believe I owe you nothing.”

The smaller man turned, his carriage conveying his opinion of the big man, an opinion Duran silently seconded, though he would never have been fool enough to voice it.

Trigarth stepped around in front of the other, blocking his departure.

“I would appreciate that apology.”

The smaller man's eyes surveyed the massive two plus meter form of Trigarth. His lips quirked, as if to sneer, then his face cleared.

“Are you trying to insist that sheer dumb mass requires respect?”

Duran's mouth dropped, as did a number of others'. Was the man mad? The wealth of Trigarth's house could pay off any death claim.

“Never…have…I…been…so…insulted.”

“Then you have been extraordinarily fortunate. Now, if you will excuse me…”

Duran caught sight of Helene among the watching dancers. Even from ten meters he could see the unnatural brightness in her eyes as she watched the pair.

“I could crush you!” rumbled Trigarth.

The man in black laughed twice. Two cruel barks conveyed a sense that Trigarth was less than the lowest of the low. Then he shook his head sadly, as if to convey pity on the big noble and gladiator, and began to turn.

Duran could see it coming, watched as Trigarth lost all control and launched hands and body toward the smaller man with a speed that caused Duran and others nearer to the pair to draw back.

Duran, his angular features tight again, waited for the stranger's dismemberment, his own reflexes keyed so that the scene seemed to play out in virtual slow motion.

Trigarth's whole body drove toward the man in black, who stood motionless for long instants. Just before hammering arms blasted through him, the smaller shifted, and his hands and body blurred as he moved.

Thuddd!

Duran gaped.

The small man appeared untouched, unmussed, and was again shaking his head sadly, this time at the unconscious figure of the giant on the floor.

Three of the staff guards arrived too late, expecting apparently to rescue the stranger's remains.

“He is unconscious, but you should find that he will be all right, except for a bruise on his jaw where he struck the floor. He must have had too much of something.”

The senior guard asked something.

“Merhlin of Avalon, guest of Lord and Baron H'Llory. I will be staying as his guest for at least several days more.”

Another question followed.

“I suppose I could claim I was a baron, were I so inclined. Would that make any difference?”

Duran shook his head. So fast…so incredibly fast. And so strong. Was the man human? Then he bit his lip.

As Merhlin of Avalon dismissed the security force, a copper-haired woman touched his black-sleeved forearm. The woman's eyes glittered in the light.

This time, instead of dismissing Helene, Merhlin surveyed her coolly, then offered his arm.

Duran gulped the last from the goblet in his hand, choking it down, and ignoring the burning in his throat. He clutched the empty goblet as if he wanted to crush it into powder.

Instead, the unbreakable crystal squirted from his fingertips and struck the ornate floor tiles, bouncing away from him.

Clink! Clink. Clink
.

He could see his sister Aermee look up in surprise, and then avert her eyes as she recognized that he had been the culprit. The couple next to him drew back and looked away.

The sound of the bouncing crystal echoed in Duran's mind as he turned away, but he was not quick enough to avoid the smirk on Helene's lips as she swept up the ramp with the man called Merhlin.

Duran swallowed and slowly retracted his steps across the hall. Even people he did not know drew away in distaste as he headed for the exit not taken by Merhlin and Helene, the exit that began the long walk back to the family suite, and, in all probability, toward a quiet talk with his mother, the baroness. Either shortly, or the next morning, when Aermee would have reported her extreme embarrassment at his behavior.

Duran sighed, loudly enough to cause another set of averted faces.