Deathstalker d-1

by Simon R. Green

  Jacob Wolfe nodded slowly and flexed his great muscles. "Good. That's more like it. One of us is going to get the chop, and she wants us there to witness it and be reminded where the real power at court lies. Nothing new there, except that for once, I don't have a clue as to who it might be. And that is strange. There's usually some whisper going round where my agents can overhear it. So watch yourself when we get to court, boy. Keep your mouth shut and your veins clear, and take your lead from me."

  "Of course, Father." Valentine finished the last petal and began to chew slowly at the stem, ignoring the thorns. A thin trickle of saliva mixed with blood ran down his chin as he smiled, and Jacob Wolfe looked away.

  * * *

  The antechamber to the Imperial Court was grand enough in its own right to put any other court to shame. A huge open chamber of gleaming steel and brass, it stretched away in every direction for as far as the eye could comfortably see, the vista broken here and there by tall intricately worked pillars of gold and silver, set at regular intervals as much for the effect as anything else. And still the packed crowd filled the antechamber from wall to distant wall. Everyone who was anyone, or thought they might be, came to court when the Empress held audience to shake the hand of those in favor or snub those who weren't, to make Family agreements or business deals, or just to be seen at court by the billions watching on their holoscreens throughout the Empire. Food and drink of all kinds were freely available from bewigged servants, but few availed themselves. Waiting to see the Empress, and discover what mood she was in this time, didn't exactly encourage the appetite. Besides, Lionstone had a nasty sense of humor, and it sometimes emerged in the food.

  All the Families were there, the cream of the aristocracy, carefully keeping a respectful distance between themselves and sworn enemies, or simply those of discernably lower status. Every Clan had a feud going on with at least one other Clan. It was expected. Holograms stood to one side, nodding politely to each other, given away by the occasional faint shimmering as some security field interrupted the signal for a moment. Forbidden by law and custom from speaking or drawing attention to themselves, they drifted among the gorgeous lords and ladies like ghosts at the feast.

  The Families conversed quietly as they waited, searching for support or oneupmanship or simply the latest gossip. Knowledge was power in Lionstone's court, even if it was only foreknowledge of which way to duck. Everyone suspected everyone else of being the prospective victim of the coming court's proceedings, and veiled eyes looked this way and that for signs of weakness, like vultures hovering over a dying man. No one said anything openly, of course. It wasn't done.

  Heavily armed guards stood here and there, ostentatious in their scarlet armour and visored faces. No one paid them any attention. The Families knew that they were being watched, and that the guards were only the most obvious part of it. Mostly they were just there to insure the peace among feuding clans. None of the families were allowed bodyguards or weapons of any kind, but when words grew heated, blows often followed. And then the guards would move in and restore order with savage gusto. It wasn't often a low-born guard got the chance to manhandle a lord, and they intended to make the most of it. So the guards watched and waited, and the Wolfes kept away from the Campbells, who kept away from the Shrecks, and so on and so on. Open violence was so gauche, after all.

  Lord Crawford Campbell, head of his Clan, moved slowly among the Families with bright eyes and a wide smile, like a shark maneuvering in a shoal of lesser fish. He was less than average height and more than average weight, and didn't give a damn. The Campbells always maintained that the greatness of a man could be seen in the breadth of his appetites, and Crawford Campbell was well known for his many indulgences. He was well over a hundred, but modern science kept his face as full and unmarked as a child's. None of which did anything to blunt the man's intellect, which remained razor-sharp and just as dangerous. The Campbells were in favor at court for the moment, not least because the Campbell had sacrificed so many others who stood in his way. Not that anyone could prove anything, of course. The customs and protocols had to be observed. People nodded respectfully to the Campbell as he passed, and gave him plenty of room. He took it as his due. And if sometimes a lesser Lord or Lady showed a different face to his back, Crawford Campbell never gave a damn. He didn't have to.

  Drifting at his side or in his wake like a multicolored bird of paradise was Crawford's eldest son and heir, Finlay Campbell, dressed as always in the brightest silks and graces current styles allowed. Tall and graceful and fashionable to the moment, from his polished thighboots to his velvet cap, Finlay glided among the lords and ladies with a smile and a nod and a polite murmur, allowing himself to be seen by as many as possible. He might have been handsome beneath the cosmetics that made a mask of his face, but it was almost impossible to tell. The current mode called for fluorescent skin that glowed a shimmering silver and shoulder-length metallic hair, every strand individually coated with whatever metals were currently in favor. He wore a cutaway frock coat that showed off his exquisite figure, and a pair of pince-nez spectacles he didn't need, and every pose he struck was the epitome of grace and style.

  Finlay Campbell was a dandy and a fop, and though he wore a sword on all occasions when fashion demanded it, he had never been known to draw it in anger. No one ever drew on him, of course, because he was a Campbell, after all, and you could never be sure with them…

  His father had given up disowning him because it didn't work, but made no secret of the contempt he held for the fancy poet who had somehow sprung from his manly loins. Even so, no one ever intrigued against Finlay. The Campbell was deadly enough for both of them and would brook no insult to the Family name.

  Crawford Campbell worked the crowd with ease, nodding to those in his favor or the Empress', and cutting dead everyone else with glorious scorn. Though his movements seemed random, he was in fact quartering the chamber with military precision, making sure he saw everyone who mattered and marking their face and position in his memory. It was important to know who had come to court, and who had not, or sent a holo in their place. Knowledge was everything in the cut and thrust politics of Lionstone's court. The Campbell approved, when he thought about it. A certain genteel savagery helped to weed out the weak and the timid. His gaze suddenly lightened as it fell upon a familiar but uncommon face, and he strode briskly through the crowd, giving people just enough time to get out of his way if they were quick.

  "Summerlsle, my dear fellow," he said finally, an unusual warmth forcing its way past his usual growl. "A pleasure to see you, as always. What brings you to court?"

  Lord Roderik Summerlsle bowed formally in return. Against the current fashion, he showed his true age in his lined face and thick white hair, though his back was still straight and he held his head high. The Summerlsle disapproved of the current court almost as much as it disapproved of him, and he was rarely seen in public. He dressed in the formal style of the previous Emperor, even though it was forbidden, and kept dangerous company. No one ever said anything. The Summerlsle had been a master duelist in his day, and no one was at all sure that day was over. He smiled at the Campbell almost reluctantly and took the proffered hand.

  "Campbell, looking as disreputable as ever, I see. Still in favor? Of course, silly question. It's been years since I last found it necessary to attend court, but some things never change. Virtue still goes unrewarded, and the scum still rises to the top."

  Campbell grinned. "You never did approve of me, Summerlsle. Lucky we're friends, or we'd have killed each other years ago."

  "Oh, I doubt it," said the Summerlsle solemnly. "You were never that good with a sword."

  Campbell produced a sudden bark of laughter, and people who'd been edging closer to eavesdrop quickly moved away again. It was said by many and believed by most that the Campbell's sense of humor was more dangerous than his rage. Campbell and Summerlsle had been rivals since they were born, and down the long years had been surprised to find
it was easier to like an enemy they admired than an ally who had to be supported for Family reasons. The Vogue and the honest man, friends despite themselves, bound as tightly as only opposites can be. Campbell fixed Summerlsle with a thoughtful stare and moved a little closer.

  "What does bring you here, after all these years? I thought you'd decided politics were for the lower orders, like myself."

  "My opinion of this court has not changed one iota. You are the living proof, Campbell. How many better men have you trampled underfoot to reach your present position?"

  "I stopped counting. It was starting to make me big-headed."

  Summerlsle shook his head slowly. "You are everything I despise in this court, and I am everything you've sought to stamp out in your long career of murder and double-dealing. What do we have in common?"

  Campbell let fly with his sudden bark of laughter again. "Dead enemies, mostly. We've survived because we've outlived everyone who tried to kill us. We've seen Emperors come and go, and the Empire spread a hundredfold. Political parties rise and fall, businesses bloom and wither, but we go on, matchless and unstoppable. Who else could we talk to, who've seen what we've seen, fought as we have fought? Personally, I like you because you don't take any shit from anyone. Especially me. As for you, you value the truth where you hear it, even if you don't like what it's telling you. You know where you are with me, Rod."

  Summerlsle smiled briefly. "You always did talk too much, Crawford. How are your sons?"

  "A pain in the ass, as always. All married off at last and producing grandchildren, but otherwise no bloody use at all. I swear Finlay is trying to achieve suicide or martyrdom through sheer excess of fashion. Sometimes I wish he would, just so he'd stop embarrassing me. If he wasn't my eldest, I'd have him smothered in his sleep. There were six others ahead of him, good boys all, but they all died from duels or treachery or politics of some kind. They're gone, and I'm left with Finlay as heir. If the genetest hadn't proved he was mine, I'd swear his mother stepped out on me. And the others are worse, if you can believe that. My blood must have been running thin when I fathered that batch. At least Finlay has a mind of his own, even if he doesn't use it much."

  Campbell stopped and looked unhappily at Summerlsle. His voice became low and gruff. "I heard about your son's death. He should never have fought that duel. He didn't stand a chance."

  "No," said Summerlsle. "He didn't. But he had no choice. Honor demanded it."

  "You haven't answered my question yet," said Campbell, changing the subject with as near to tact as he ever got. "What has brought you back to court after all your years of self-imposed exile?"

  "Her Majesty summoned me with a personal note in her own handwriting. Said she had someone she wanted me to meet. How could I say no?"

  "I would have. When Lionstone starts taking a personal interest in you, it's time to change your name and head for the Rim." Campbell scowled thoughtfully. "What does the Iron Bitch want with you?"

  "She didn't say. Just that my presence was required at this audience. It doesn't matter. My wife is dead, and all my sons. All I have left is my grandson, Kit, and we… don't get on. And I'm too old to be frightened. So here I am, a loyal subject of Her Majesty."

  Campbell's loud bark of laughter turned a few heads, but only briefly. The space around him and Summerlsle was growing. "Your loyalty has always been to the throne, not whoever happened to be sitting on it I don't think you've had a good word to say about Lionstone since she stabbed her nanny when she was six."

  "Oh, I don't know," said the Summerlsle. "I've got a very good word for Lionstone. Only I'm too much of a gentleman to use it." He waited patiently for Campbell's laughter to subside. "Her father was a hard man to love, if not to follow, but I never doubted he had the well-being of the Empire at heart. Lionstone cares for nothing and no one save herself. She's a spoiled brat, and always has been. Which is not exactly unusual in royal stock, but bearable when diluted with some sense of duty. We've seen many royal backsides on the Imperial throne, Crawford, but I honestly fear for the Empire under Lionstone XIV."

  "Get out of here, Rod," said Campbell quietly. "Whatever the Iron Bitch has to say to you, I don't think either of us wants to hear it. Nothing good will come of it. Leave now, while you still can."

  "Where would I go?" said Summerlsle calmly. "Where could I go where Her Majesty's hounds wouldn't drag me down sooner or later? I never ran from an enemy before, and I'm not about to start now. She's brought me here to kill me. I know that. But I will end my days with dignity, as a loyal subject before his monarch, even if that monarch is not worthy of that loyalty."

  "Very pretty," snarled Campbell. "It'll look great on your tombstone. Why make it easy for her?"

  "It's called duty, Crawford. You must have heard of it. When honor calls, a man must make his stand, if he is a man."

  "As you wish, Summerlsle. Just don't stand too close to me while you're doing it."

  They shared a brief smile and then looked round sharply as the great double doors swung smoothly open, the massive slabs of beaten steel gliding back as though they weighed nothing. A long fanfare rang out, silencing the chatter of the courtiers, and bright light spilled out from the great courtroom of Lionstone XIV. The courtiers moved toward it in fits and starts, like moths drawn to a flame.

  First went the Company of Lords, all those of the first hundred Families of the Empire, those who ruled planets or companies or armies by right of succession in the Empress' name. The highest of the high, most noble and acclaimed of Her Majesty's subjects. In theory, at least. They strode into the great courtroom, looking neither left nor right, their heads high. Secretly they felt naked without their usual retinues of bodyguards, advisors and sycophants, but a Lord came alone to meet his Empress, without even a sword on his hip. It was a sign of trust and respect Not to mention Imperial paranoia.

  And after diem came the two hundred and fifty Members of Her Majesty's Parliament. They represented the economic forces in the Empire, the power and influence of the mighty credit. Only those with a high enough income were allowed to vote, of course. Unless one was of noble birth, Parliament was the only way to gain access to the inner circles of Government. A Member of Parliament might be obliged to bow to a lord if they met in the street, but in an audience with the Empress, their voices were equal. If the Members were ever to act in unison, they could have brought the Company of Lords to heel like so many unruly dogs, but the Parliament was split into several opposing factions, and the Lords took care to keep it split through quiet patronage and the occasional large bribe. Of late, Parliament had been increasingly disturbed over the threat of higher taxes to pay for the expansion of the Imperial Fleet to face the possible threat from the two newly discovered alien species.

  In theory, the Empress was bound by law and custom to abide by whatever decisions Parliament and the Company of Lords could bring themselves to agree on. In practice, the Empress would listen, when she was in the mood, and then make up her own mind. Lionstone had the backing of the Army and the Fleet, and as long as she did, no one could make her do a damn thing she didn't want to. Which was why the prospect of an enlarged and more powerful Fleet was causing a lot of sweaty hands and sleepless nights among Parliament and the Lords. Some Members had been heard to say they didn't believe in the new aliens, but as yet no one was prepared to say that in public, let alone at court.

  But, on the other hand, Lionstone's position was not as powerful as it had once been. A great many younger sons of the aristocracy, unable to inherit a title, had ended up making careers for themselves in the Army and the Fleet. And as they advanced in rank, so their influence grew, so mat the Army and the Fleet were no longer the unquestioning servants they had once been.

  All of which meant that the political structure at court was one of complete chaos, over which the Empress presided through canny politicking and sheer force of personality.

  After the Members of Parliament came the bulk of the crowd: Family members, political
hangers-on, businessmen and officers, and anyone else who could bribe, beg or steal an invitation. The imperial court was the political and social hub around which the Empire resolved, and everyone wanted to be there, or to be seen to be there. You weren't anybody if you weren't seen at court.

  And finally, right at the back, in hard-worn clothes, with hard-worn faces, came the ten commoners who'd won the Imperial lottery that year. They had won the right to visit the court and petition the Empress in person for her aid or charity or justice. Of course, actually raising your voice at court was a risky business. A commoner had no friends there, and sometimes it was better if the Empress didn't notice you. Her sense of justice was whimsical at best, though occasionally she might rule in favor of a commoner just to upset some noble with whom she was displeased. On the whole, lottery winners tended just to enjoy the occasion. Some spent the whole year at court and never did ask their question.

  The court itself was a swamp, this time. Thick curls of mist hung on the humid air between gnarled and twisted trees, and everywhere was at least ankle-deep in dark, smelly water. Knotted vines hung down from lowering branches to trail in the water, and the air was thick with flies and other insects. The courtiers splashed doggedly on through the swamp, keeping a wary eye open for crocodiles or other unpleasantnesses that might be lurking in the deepening muddy water. Just because it wasn't a real swamp didn't mean there weren't real dangers to be found in it.

  Most of it was holograms with just enough physical reality here and there to make it authentically uncomfortable. Lionstone liked to keep her court interesting, and her tastes were both devious and wide-ranging. In the past, she'd turned her court into a desert, an arctic waste, and an inner city slum. That one had been really dangerous, and everyone had suffered from fleas afterward. The desert had been the most sneaky. Sand everywhere, and air so hot you could hardly breathe it And just to liven things up a little, Lionstone had had tiny metal scorpions hidden in the sand; nasty little copper devices with neurotoxins in their stingers. A minor Lord had been at death's door for a week, and Lionstone still got the giggles when she thought about it.