Deathstalker (19 page)

“Is something wrong, sister?” Valentine said courteously. “You look rather pale.”

“No. Nothing’s wrong,” said Stephanie, fighting to keep her voice as calm as his. “You’re a little late. We were concerned something might have happened to you. Did … anything unusual happen on your way here?”

“Unusual? No, not that I can think. Why do you ask?”

“No reason,” said Stephanie. “No reason.”

Valentine smiled his wide crimson smile, and his dark eyes gave away nothing at all. He shrugged off his cloak and dropped it over the back of the nearest chair. Stephanie frowned in spite of herself. Her brother was wearing the ugliest, coarsest and most unfashionable clothes she’d ever seen him in. In fact, to be bluntly honest, they looked like a tradesman’s clothes, and not even the right size. She would have sworn he would rather have died than appear in such a state in public.

“I’m a little late because I had to stop off along the way,” Valentine said casually. “Had to pick up my new outfit. Rather dashing, don’t you think?”

“We can discuss your appalling taste in clothes later,” growled the Wolfe. “We have Family business to discuss. We waited for you to put in an appearance because some of it specifically affects you.”

Valentine sank elegantly into a chair and fixed his father with a condescending gaze. “You’re not thinking about putting me through detox again, Father, surely? You must know by now that my system will never be normal again, after all the wonderful things I’ve done to it. You’d have better luck trying to change my height than my blood chemistry.”

“No,” said the Wolfe, smiling unpleasantly, “I’ve given up trying to change you, Valentine. I thought I’d let someone else have a try. I’ve decided it’s time you got married. All of you.” He beamed round at his three children, who looked back with varying degrees of shock. The Wolfe’s smile deepened. “To that end, I have arranged marriages for you all to suitable young matches of good Family backgrounds.”

There was a long pause while nobody said anything.
Jacob was enjoying himself, Valentine was looking thoughtful, and Stephanie and Daniel were looking desperately at each other for ideas and support. The Wolfe sat down in his usual chair, taking his time to make himself comfortable. Constance came and sat beside him, still smiling sweetly. Jacob patted her fondly on the arm.

“Your new mother and I have been discussing this. It’s time I had a few grandchildren to bounce on my knee, young sprouts to carry on the bloodline. I waited till late in life to sire you three, and I won’t have you making the same mistake. You’re getting married. Whether you like it or not.”

“Do I understand you have already picked our partners for us?” said Valentine slowly.

“Damn right I have. Leave you to sort it out and you’d make a right mess of it. I’ve chosen prime young fillies for you and Daniel, and a strapping young blade for you, Steph. Good bloodlines, excellent stock. You’ll meet them at the Imperial Ball tonight and be married next month.”

“Next month?” howled Daniel. Stephanie didn’t think she’d ever seen his eyes bulge quite so much, but for once she was helpless to support him. She was too busy trying to get her own whirling thoughts under control.

“Yes. Next month.” Jacob wasn’t even trying to hide his satisfaction. “If I gave you three any more time, you’d undoubtedly find a way to wriggle out of it. So the marriages will go ahead just as soon as the proprieties have been observed.”

“I’ll see you damned in hell first, Daddy,” said Stephanie. She wouldn’t have believed her voice could hold such ice, such venom. Daniel nodded vigorously at her side.

“You can argue all you like,” said the Wolfe. “It won’t do you any good. You could, of course, refuse to go through with the ceremony, in which case I would have no option but to disinherit you and have you thrown out of the Clan. Think about that for a moment, dear children. Could you exist outside the protection of Family? No money, no station, no future? Having to work for a living? What jobs could you do? No, you’ve been cossetted and pampered too long to survive in the real world. Any last comments before we pass on to the next order of business?”

He looked from one face to another, one eyebrow raised politely. Daniel was trying to find his voice, while looking like someone had just kicked him in the gut. Stephanie was
scowling furiously, thinking hard. Valentine smiled suddenly.

“If it’s to be a Church wedding, can I wear a veil? I look good in white.”

Jacob gave him a hard look, but decided not to rise to the bait. He looked out over the Arena, but nothing much was happening. The first few fighters had mostly killed each other, but there was hardly anyone in the stands or private boxes to see it. The early acts were just warmups, inexperienced fighters building a reputation while getting the feel of genuine life-and-death combat. Training and simulations could only do so much. There was no substitute for the real thing, for the smell of sweat and blood, or the sight of a man’s guts spilling out onto the crimson sands. Which was, of course, what brought the audiences back again and again.

The last two survivors stamped back and forth across the bloodied sands, but few of the slowly growing audience took any notice. They were too busy finding their seats, getting comfortable and chatting with friends and neighbors. There was a flash of steel and a strangled cry, and one of the gladiators fell to the sand, clutching his side tightly as blood pulsed between his fingers. The winner raised his dripping sword and looked about him for applause. A few people clapped langorously, but that was all. The winner lowered his sword and put it away, then bent down and helped his fellow gladiator to his feet. No one had cared enough to turn a thumb down. The fighters moved slowly away, heading back to the main gates and the training areas under the Arena.

Jacob watched them go. He thought he knew how they felt. He was fighting for his life, and that of his Family, in the great game of intrigue, and no one seemed to give a damn about his struggle, either. He turned back to face his children and tried to keep the tiredness out of his face.

“The contract for mass production of the new stardrive is being readied. Whoever wins the rights to this new drive will end up with power and riches almost beyond imagination. It is therefore vitally important that Clan Wolfe wins the contract, or at the very least ensures that our principle enemies do not. Were Clan Campbell to beat us out, for example, it would ruin our shipping interests overnight and leave us vulnerable to all kinds of hostile takeovers. The very existence of the Family could be at risk.”

“I hate to be picky,” said Valentine, “but the Campbells do have much more experience in the stardrive field than we do. They would do a much better job.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

Valentine shrugged. “I just thought it might not be in the Empire’s best interests for us to steal the contract away from the Campbells.”

“The sooner I get you married and raising children, the better,” said the Wolfe. “The Family comes first. Always. Besides, what’s good for Clan Wolfe is good for the Empire. Now pay attention. Clan Campbell, bad cess to them all, have been proving unexpectedly successful of late in many fields. I’m pretty sure they’ve got a silent partner hiding in the background: someone high up, financially independent, and politically invisible. According to my sources, who for the amount of money I’m paying them had better be reliable, this silent partner has been providing the Campbells with all kinds of new high tech, practical and theory, that the Campbell labs couldn’t have produced on their own. I thought at first it might be one of the minor Clans trying to buy their way into the big time while hiding their light under a larger Family’s protective bushel. But I regret to report that none of my sources have been able to come up with anything incriminating. Whoever’s backing the Campbells has gone to great pains to hide their trail very thoroughly.”

“Could it be one of the undergrounds?” said Stephanie, frowning. “The cyberats, for instance?”

“That’s more like it,” said the Wolfe approvingly. “You see, you have got brains when you care to use them. My people are currently investigating the various extralegal organizations to see if any of them have been getting ideas above their station, but it’s going to be some time before they’ll be able to report back anything worth listening to.”

“Maybe they’ve managed some kind of contact with the new aliens?” said Daniel, not wanting to be left out.

The Wolfe looked at him. “I suppose that’s a thought. The Campbells wouldn’t hesitate to blow away the rest of the Empire if they thought there was a good chance they’d come out on top. I’ll put a few agents on it. Well, Valentine, have you nothing to contribute?”

Valentine Wolfe produced his small silver pillbox, opened it, and took out a large pinch of fluorescent blue powder. He placed it carefully in two small heaps on the back of his
hand and then sniffed it up with great style and elan, one heap for each nostril. His eyes widened, showing bright and gleaming against his mascara, and for a moment his crimson smile seemed impossibly wide. He shuddered once, put away the pillbox, and smiled at his father.

“Since we cannot hope to beat the Campbells on the grounds of business experience or technical expertise, we will have to do battle with them on the social and political field. Set up a few schemes to disrupt, discredit and if need be destroy Clan Campbell, or any other Family that stands between us and the contracts we seek. I would like to offer my help but, of course, if I’m to be married at such short no-lice, I really don’t think that I can afford to become personally involved. I’ll have far too much on my mind.”

“Right,” said Daniel quickly. “Same here.”

“Then I’ll just have to soldier on without your no doubt valuable input,” said Jacob. “You’re getting married if I have to see you all dragged in chains to the altar. But that’s enough business for the moment. We’ve covered everything urgent. Your new mother is a great fan of the Games, and I promised her an uninterrupted afternoon’s pleasure of death and mayhem.”

“But …” Daniel began, only to wither under his father’s implacable gaze.

“Enjoy the Games, dammit. This box is costing me enough.”

The Games proper started traditionally with rebel-baiting. Twenty convicted felons, habitual offenders who hadn’t learned a thing from their previous stays in jail, were turned out onto the sands without armor or weapons, and twenty experienced gladiators pursued them with whips and swords. The rebels ran in every direction, screaming for help or a weapon or just another chance, and the crowd booed and hissed them. The gladiators pursued their prey, cool and calm and very professional. A few rebels tried to make a stand, back to back, and the gladiators allowed them the courtesy of a quick death. They respected courage. The other rebels were harried and tormented, driven this way and that with flashing steel and the crack of the whip, until they were a mass of blood and cuts. They staggered on as the blood pumped out of them, too exhausted to run but too scared to stop. And finally, one by one, they died for the pleasure of the crowd, and their bodies were dragged away. The growing
crowd laughed and cheered and applauded the gladiators. They always enjoyed a good comedy turn.

In the Wolfe private box, Constance shrieked and laughed and clapped her tiny hands, and Jacob smiled fondly at her, happy to see her happy. Daniel sat sulking by himself. Stephanie was still thinking hard. And Valentine watched and applauded and kept his feelings to himself.

The stalls were filling up now, and most of the private boxes. The beginners and warm-ups had done their job, and the real Games were about to begin. The holocameras were in place, ready to catch all the action as it happened, and already the resident bookies were making money hand over fist.

The first real turn was a pulse-stirrer. Three clones from the underground were turned loose in the Arena, armed only with swords. They were all the same slim, dark-haired youth, with wide eyes and trembling mouths. Probably teachers or technicians or civil servants before they made the mistake of trying to find their freedom through the clone underground. They had never drawn a sword in anger in their life, and now it was all that stood between them and a particularly unpleasant death. They made their way uncertainly to the center of the Arena, back to back in a triangle, moving with the almost telepathically-linked precision that only clones can achieve. They all had the same instincts and mannerisms and held their sword in the same way. When they fought, they would fight as one. For all the good it would do them.

The crowd booed them lustily, and then cheered as trumpet sounded and their champion appeared from the main gate. All the Wolfes broke off from their various thoughts and stared hard at the newcomer. The Campbells had loaned out their private Investigator: the man called Razor. He was tall and blocky, with thick slabs of muscle and a patient, brooding face. His skin was dark, his close-cropped hair was white, and his eyes were a curious green. He moved with a slow steady power that suggested something implacable and unstoppable. He carried a curved sword in each hand, but wore no armor. He didn’t need any. He was an Investigator.

Technically, he was supposed to give up the title once he’d retired from the Service, but no one was stupid enough to tell him that to his face. Clans often acquired their own Investigators, once they were free of the Service’s demands.
They made invaluable bodyguards and champions, mainly on the grounds that very few people were dumb enough to upset an Investigator. Unfortunately, they rarely lasted long in private employ. Investigators were only allowed to leave the Service when they became old or tired or began making mistakes. But they lived for battle and the destruction of aliens, and once taken away from such delights, they soon withered away into pale copies of themselves. Mostly they took their own lives, or allowed someone else to do it.

But while they lasted, they were the ultimate status symbol for a Clan.

Razor moved unhurriedly toward the clones, and they scattered around him like fluttering birds. Their swords flashed brightly as they circled him in silent unison, every move a reflection of each other’s. The audience stamped and roared and cried out for the clones’ deaths like young carrion crows in the nest. Investigator Razor paid them no heed. He stood still, his head cocked slightly to one side as though listening, his green eyes faraway. The clones fell on him in unison, their blades reaching for his heart from three different directions. One moment Razor was still, and the next he was moving too fast to follow. His swords lashed out, burying themselves in flesh and leaping out again, and the three clones staggered away from him, clutching at their death wounds, to lie still and broken on the bloody sands.