There was no one else to see Jamie on his way.
Donald sighed quietly, and hunched inside his cloak as the wind whirled snow around him. He’d expected Gideon Steel to at least make an appearance, but he hadn’t come. With all the problems the Director had it was hardly surprising, but… At least he’d sent a wreath. The priest finished his prayer, signed himself quickly, and closed his Bible with a quick, decisive snap. He murmured a few words of sympathy to Donald, clapped him on the shoulder, and then hurried away to his next funeral. The beginning of winter was always a busy time for funerals. The two gravediggers stood a little way apart, waiting patiently for the mourners to leave so that they could get on with their job. Donald took a handful of earth and threw it down onto the coffin lid. It landed with a heavy thud; a harsh, final sound.
“Goodbye, Jamie,” said Donald quietly. “Rest easy, lad. I’ll get the bastards who did this to you, I promise. I promise.”
He moved back, and watched in silence as one by one the others each took a handful of earth and threw it down onto the coffin. The lid had been closed throughout the service. Jamie’s face had been badly burned, far beyond any mortician’s skill to rebuild it. Donald hadn’t wanted to see the body anyway. He preferred to remember Jamie as he was when he last saw him: young, handsome, brimming with life.
Madelaine Skye came over to him and took both his hands in hers. She squeezed them gently once, and then stood back a way as Cyder and John Silver came to pay their respects. Cyder glanced briefly at the mysterious figure with its hood pulled down to cover the face, and then nodded politely to Donald.
“I understand Jamie died owing money,” she said gruffly. “I’ve got a few credits tucked away on the side. If you need any help putting his affairs in order…”
“Thank you,” said Donald. “I have enough money to take care of all his debts. But it was kind of you to offer.”
“I liked Jamie. You always knew where you were with him.”
“Yes. I didn’t know you and Jamie were friends.”
“Neither did I, till he was gone. I’m going to miss him.”
She shook Donald quickly by the hand, then turned and left, striding briskly off into the fog. John Silver stepped forward to take her place.
“I only knew Jamie a few years,” he said quietly. “Looking back, it seems like I spent most of that time trying to keep him out of the hands of the Watch. Life’s going to seem awfully dull without him around to liven things up.”
“Have you any news on his killer?” asked Donald politely. He already knew the answer.
“I’m sorry, no. But it’s early days yet.”
“Yes.”
“Director Steel sends his apologies. The way things are… “
“I understand. Please thank him for the wreath.”
“Of course.” Silver looked back at the grave. “Jamie was a good friend, in his way. I wish I’d known him longer.”
He shook Donald’s hand and walked away into the mists. Donald Royal and Madelaine Skye stood together beside the open grave.
“I always thought Jamie had more friends,” said Skye quietly.
“No,” said Donald. “Not real friends. Acquaintances, business partners, and drinking companions; he had plenty of those. But not many friends.”
“I suppose that’s true of all of us, in the end.”
“Perhaps.”
“What about the rest of his family?”
“There’s no one else. Just me.”
They stood together a while, thinking, remembering.
“Madelaine…”
“Yes, Donald.”
“Did you love him?”
Madelaine Skye didn’t look at him. “I don’t know. Maybe. I didn’t know him very long.” She stopped suddenly as her voice broke. “Yes, of course I loved him.”
“Did you ever tell him?”
“No, I never did. And now I never will.”
“Why did you and he split up? You seemed to be doing quite well as partners.”
“We were. We had an argument. One of those silly things. It seemed important at the time.”
Donald took her by the arm and turned her away from the grave. “Let’s go,” he said quietly. “We’ve said our goodbyes, and now we have work to do. Someone has to pay for Jamie’s death, and I think I know who.”
“Donald, you can’t just walk into Leon Vertue’s office and demand to see him. He has a high-tech security system you wouldn’t believe, just to keep out people like us.”
Donald Royal warmed his hands at the crackling fire, grimacing as the cold seeped slowly out of his bones. Skye’s office was taking a long time to warm up, and he’d been out in the cold for hours. Skye had been talking to him for several minutes, but if he heard her words, he didn’t show it. He stared thoughtfully into the leaping flames, his mouth a flat grim line. When he finally spoke, his voice was calm and even and very deadly.
“I’m an old man, Madelaine. You should have seen me in my prime; I’d have made your eyes sparkle and your heart beat faster. To hear the way they tell it now, I was a hero in those days. I’m not so sure myself; I was so busy charging round Mistport trying to hold things together that I never really had the time to think about it. I only did what needed doing.
“Since then I’ve lost my wife and both my children, and today I watched them bury my only grandson. I’ve outlived all my friends and most of my enemies, and seen my past turned into a legend I barely recognise. Jamie was all I had left. He was a wild one, but he had style and a kind of integrity. I had such hopes for him.… And now he’s gone. Someone’s going to pay for that. I don’t care if Vertue’s got a whole stinking army to hide behind; I won’t let him get away with what he’s done.”
And then he shrugged and smiled, and turned away from the fire to face Madelaine Skye. “You don’t have to go along with this, lass. I’ve got nothing left to lose, but you’re a young woman, with all your life ahead of you. Jamie wouldn’t have wanted you to throw away your life on an old fool’s schemes for revenge.”
Skye smiled at him affectionately. “Someone’s got to watch your back. Look, we can’t be sure Vertue is our man. I’ve been doing a little quiet checking up on him, and there’s not a lot to go on. It seems clear that Jamie was doing some kind of courier work for him, but no one seems too sure what it involved. Word is that Vertue might be in some kind of trouble. He’s cut back his organ bank business to the bare minimum, and his bodysnatchers have been quiet of late. There’s even a rumour that Vertue’s been trying to arrange passage offworld on one of the smugglers’ ships. It’s hard to get any real evidence, one way or the other. People are afraid to talk about Vertue. After what happened to Shrike at the Redlance, you can’t really blame them.”
“Any word on who killed him?”
“Nothing definite. Chances are that Vertue’s pet mercenary had something to do with it, but again nobody’s willing to talk.”
“Well then,” said Donald calmly, “Since we can’t get the answers anywhere else, we might as well go and ask Vertue.”
“It’s not going to be that easy, Donald.”
“How right you are,” said a harsh, sardonic voice behind them. Donald and Skye looked quickly round to see a great bear of a man standing just inside the open office door. Almost seven feet tall, and more than half as wide in his bulky furs, his broad face was mostly hidden behind a long mane of dark hair and a thick bushy beard. His eyes were dark and sleepy, but his smile was openly cruel. He looked round the poky little office, and sniffed contemptuously. Behind him, four husky bravos flexed their muscles and practised looking tough. Donald looked at Skye reproachfully.
“We’re going to have to do something about the security in this building.”
Skye nodded grimly, and glared at the newcomers. “Business hours are over. Now, who the hell are you, and what do you want here?”
“I’m Stargrave,” said the giant cheerfully. “You’ve probably heard of me.”
�
�Sure,” said Skye. “Protection, blackmail, and a rather nasty variation on the badger game. Last I heard, there was a thirty-thousand-credit reward out on you.”
“Fifty thousand, woman. Get your facts right.”
“What do you want here, Stargrave?” asked Donald coldly.
The giant chuckled quietly. There was no humour in the sound, only menace. “I do so admire a man who likes to get down to business. Well, grandpa, it seems you and the young lady here have been poking your noses into things that don’t concern you.”
“And you’re here to warn us off.”
“Something like that, grandpa. You’ve both been naughty, so you both get punished. She gets her legs broken; you get a good kicking. Nothing personal, you understand.”
Donald laughed, and Stargrave frowned as he recognised the genuine amusement in the sound. “You think I’m joking, grandpa?”
“Not at all,” said Donald. “It’s just good to know some things haven’t changed. I’m going to enjoy teaching you the error of your ways.”
“He’s crazy,” muttered one of the bravos. “Let’s get the job done and get the hell out of here.”
“Right,” said Stargrave calmly. “Only I think we’ll break one of grandpa’s legs as well. I don’t like to be laughed at.”
He moved forward, and the four bravos sauntered into the office after him. Donald glanced unhurriedly about him, taking in the layout of the office furniture and checking for possible advantages and pitfalls. Even allowing for the odds, it felt good to be back in action again. One of the bravos looked curiously at Skye, still largely anonymous in her heavy cloak with the hood pulled forward. His face suddenly went pale, and he stopped dead in his tracks.
“You can’t be. You can’t be! Vertue said you were… “
He screamed and fell backwards, the hilt of Skye’s throwing knife protruding from his left eye socket. There was a harsh susurrus of steel on leather and Skye leapt forward, her sword swinging before her in a bright silver blur. Another bravo fell to the floor, grasping desperately at the wide slash in his gut. Skye turned quickly away to face her next opponent, and steel rang on steel as she forced the bravo back with the sheer speed and strength of her attack.
Stargrave and the final bravo drew their swords and then made the understandable mistake of going after Donald, assuming him to be the weaker opponent. Donald backed cautiously away, his sword held out before him, and then darted behind Skye’s desk, putting it between him and his opponents. Stargrave and the bravo shared a glance, and moved to opposite ends of the desk. Stargrave grinned. Whichever way the old man went, they were sure to get him. Donald looked from one adversary to the other, grabbed a handful of papers from the desk, and threw them in the bravo’s face. The bravo automatically put up a hand to protect his eyes, and Donald skewered him neatly through the ribs. Stargrave stood and watched, frozen in place by astonishment as Donald pulled back his blade and the bravo fell limply to the floor. Donald grinned. That was one style of fighting they wouldn’t find mentioned in his legend. It might spoil his image. And then Stargrave was upon him, and there was no time for anything but swordsmanship.
Donald backed away around the desk, ducking and weaving and meeting Stargrave’s blade with his own only when he had to. He knew if he tried a full block or parry, the giant’s sheer strength would force the blow home. Donald kept backing away, his mind working furiously. Even in his prime he would have been hard pressed to match Stargrave’s power, and he was a long way from his prime. Already his arm was tired, his grip was weakening, and his breathing was growing short. Donald smiled suddenly, his eyes cold and grim. That just made it more interesting. It had been a long time since he’d had a real challenge in his life.
He ducked under Stargrave’s sweeping blade and cut viciously at the giant’s leg. Stargrave jumped back, startled at Donald’s sudden switch from defence to attack, and then a slow, sullen fear crept into his heart as Donald pressed home his attack. Stargrave had never bothered to learn much of the science of swordsmanship; with his strength and reach he’d never needed to. But now this old man’s sword seemed to be everywhere at once, striking from everywhere and nowhere, faster and faster, till the gleaming blade was just a blur. Stargrave backed away, step by step, unable to believe that this was really happening to him. And then he came up short against the desk, and realised that his retreat was blocked. He couldn’t go back and he couldn’t go forward, and the sword, the sword was everywhere. He hesitated as his mind worked frantically, and in that moment there was a sudden burning pain at his throat.
He hurt me, thought Stargrave incredulously. I’ll cripple him for that. I’ll cut out his tongue and put out his eyes. I’ll stamp on his ribs till they crack and break. He hurt me!
His sword slipped out of his numb fingers and fell to the floor. Stargrave looked at it stupidly. Something warm and wet was soaking his chest. He put his hand to it and his fingers came away covered with blood. His vision blurred, and all the sounds in the office seemed to come from very far away. The strength went out of his legs, and he sat down suddenly. His eyes closed and his head dropped forward as the last of his life’s blood pumped slowly out of his severed throat.
Donald Royal leaned back against the wall and waited patiently for his ragged breathing to get back to normal. An interesting opponent, but not very bright. He turned to see how Skye was doing, but she had already killed her man, and was busily searching through his pockets.
“Anything interesting?” asked Donald.
Skye held up a bulging purse and hefted it in her hand. It clinked musically. “I hate working for nothing,” said Skye calmly. She straightened up, tied the purse onto her belt, and looked round her office. The five dead men had shed a lot of blood. Skye wrinkled her nose, and scowled. “What a mess. Why couldn’t they have attacked us on the street? Ah well. We’d better get out of here before someone calls the Watch.”
“Right,” said Donald, pushing himself away from the wall. “You can stay at my place for a while. I’ve got plenty of rooms. Do you still have any doubts that Vertue is our man?”
“None at all.”
“Good.” Donald hefted his sword thoughtfully. “As soon as things have quieted down some, I think we’ll pay him a little visit. I’m quite looking forward to speaking with Dr. Leon Vertue.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
* * *
The Closing Trap
TYPHOID Mary stalked the city streets, hidden in the curling mists.
Mary wasn’t really insane, just programmed. The Empire had altered her according to its needs, but Mary never knew that. As far as she knew, she was just another refugee, running from the Empire. Time moved for her in fits and starts, and memories from one day rarely passed to the next. The only constants in her shifting life were her terror of being captured and handed back to the Empire, and her need for the object she sought; the desperate, overwhelming need that kept her roaming the mist-choked streets and would not let her rest.
When she was a child on her father’s estate, they’d called her greedy. Her mother said Mary had a sweet tooth; if she saw something pretty, she just couldn’t resist it. Her father gave her a sapphire for her tenth birthday, because she pleaded for it so; a small polished stone with a heart of cold blue fire. It cost her father a great deal, since sapphires are very rare, but Mary neither knew nor cared. It was enough that it was pretty and she had wanted it. She hung it from a chain of rolled gold, and wore it always round her neck. The sapphire became her constant companion in good times and bad, through triumph and heartbreak. Now it was gone, and she wanted it back.
Someone had stolen it from her. She didn’t know who or why, but ever and always a dark whisper in the back of her mind kept her moving, searching, hunting. From time to time it seemed to her that she’d found the thief, but somehow it never was, and she had to go on looking. Sooner or later, she would find her sapphire. She had to.
Scurrying from shadow to shadow, ever fearful of the Empire,
Mary roamed the crooked streets and alleyways of Mistport. Deep within her, madness stirred. Behind her lay a trail of the dead and the brainburned, but she never knew that. Typhoid Mary had been programmed.
She hurried through the narrow streets, hidden in the mists. In the houses she passed, children woke screaming in the night and would not be comforted.
“People are dying by the hundreds, Investigator! I don’t have the time or the patience to indulge your vendetta against Vertue any longer!” Steel hammered on the nearest console with his fist to make his point, and then growled under his breath as Topaz looked calmly back at him. Steel breathed deeply, and fought to hold onto his temper.
Behind her calm mask, Investigator Topaz felt deathly tired. It had all seemed so simple when she began. All she had to do was track down her husband’s murderer and kill him, and then everything would be settled and she could carry on with her life again. Now Blackjack was dead, but nothing was settled. It might have been the mercenary’s finger on the trigger, but Vertue had given the order. She didn’t even know why. All she knew for sure was that Michael hadn’t been the intended target. He died only because Topaz had lent him her cloak. He died because Blackjack had mistaken him for her.
Her first impulse had been to hunt Vertue down and kill him slowly, but she soon realised she couldn’t do that. In the past few days she had given herself over entirely to death and destruction, and only Blackjack’s death had shocked her sane again. It was the Empire that had taught her to think in such ways, the Empire that had taught her to kill and destroy. Over the years, Michael Gunn had shown her other ways to live, more human ways, and Topaz had thought her past was gone forever. Now she knew she’d only buried it deep down inside her. It was still there, and always would be, waiting to be called forth again. All she had to do was give up the humanity Michael had so painstakingly taught her. She couldn’t do that, she wouldn’t do that, not even to avenge Michael’s death. He wouldn’t have wanted it.
Mistworld (Deathstalker Prelude) Page 17