Deathstalker Return (12 page)

Jesamine made her way slowly over to the
Hereward
’s airlock, and then leaned against the hatch, pressing her hot, flushed face against the cold metal. She was shaking with shock and reaction to all she’d been through. Not just from the strain of singing with the Ashrai, though her head still swam and her throat was raw with pain, but also from the sheer horror of the fighting she’d witnessed and been a reluctant part of. She’d thought she’d seen the rough side of life before, when she was starting out; seen men kill each other in the cheap clubs and bars she’d played at the start of her career. But this was war, and war was different. All the blood and suffering, the desperate screams of the dying, the knowledge that you could die at any moment if you were slow or stupid or just unlucky enough to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Amid the noise and the bedlam and the sudden stench of freshly spilled guts, she had killed because she had to, and she had no doubts about what she’d done. She had nothing but contempt for the fanatics who made up the Church Militant and Pure Humanity. But still she shook and shuddered and bit her lip to keep from crying out. She didn’t know if she could do it again . . . not even for Lewis and his cause.

Lewis finally noticed her and came quickly over to put a comforting arm around her. She turned and buried her face in his chest, and took what comfort she could from him.

Not too far away, Brett was standing hunched over, his arms wrapped tightly around his aching stomach. He’d already vomited till he dry heaved, and it hadn’t helped. He was a con man, not a fighter. A thief, not a killer. He didn’t want anyone to die, least of all himself. And yet he remembered walking through the trees, making men kill each other and themselves, as though he’d been a whole other person then. Rose stood patiently beside him, not understanding, but keeping him company.

“It’s over,” she said. “We won. You fought well enough. You should be proud.”

“I never wanted this,” he said thickly. “This isn’t me. This isn’t what I do. I want to go home.”

“Things change,” said Rose. “After a while, it won’t bother you at all.”

“That’s what scares me,” said Brett.

Saturday watched them all, and said nothing.

Carrion came walking out of the forest with another man at his side, and both sides were surprised to find the other knew the newcomer.

“You told me John Silence was dead,” Carrion said reproachfully.

“That’s because we knew him as Samuel Chevron,” Lewis said finally, when he could get his breath back. “I knew you had to be someone important from the age of heroes, but I had no idea . . . are you really him? Captain John Silence of the
Dauntless
?”

“I was once. It was a long time ago.”

“That’s how you were able to do all those amazing things in Traitor’s Hall!” said Jesamine, her eyes almost painfully wide. “Why . . . why didn’t you tell us? Why did you let everyone think you were dead? And why didn’t anyone recognize Samuel Chevron was really one of the great legends of our time?”

“People see what I want them to see, when they look at me,” said Silence.

“I’ve taken care of all five starcruisers,” said Carrion, smiling at the open awe in the faces of Lewis and Jesamine and Brett. Rose just watched silently. “A few lifeboats got away, to tell what happened here. I don’t think the Empire will be coming back. I trust the excitement is now over, and I can get back to my life?”

“We were hoping you might come with us, Sir Carrion,” Lewis said diffidently. “To search for the blessed Owen. We have so much to do . . .”

“No,” said Carrion. “Not even for a Deathstalker. Not even for you, John.”

Lewis turned to Silence, but he shook his head too. “I go where I’m needed. You don’t need me, Deathstalker.”

“Why haven’t you revealed yourself before this?” said Jesamine, almost angrily. “Why did you allow Finn and his people to come to power? Why didn’t you stop all the terrible things that have happened?”

“One man alone can’t save the Empire,” said Silence. “Even a Deathstalker needs companions.”

“Why didn’t you interfere in the fighting here earlier?” said Brett.

“Because you needed the experience.”

“We could all have been killed!”

“That’s part of what you were learning.”

“What about the Terror?” said Lewis. “With your power . . .”

“No,” said Silence. “That’s your destiny, Deathstalker. Go to Haden. All the answers you seek are there, in the Madness Maze.” He turned to look at Carrion. “I have to go, Sean. Tell me: are you happy, now you’re an Ashrai?”

“Yes,” said Carrion. “It’s all I ever wanted.”

“Good,” said Silence. “I’m glad one of us at least got to have a happy ending.”

“They told me you were dead, John.”

“I am,” said Silence, and he disappeared.

Carrion nodded slowly. “Well,” he said. “This is a planet of ghosts, after all.”

He turned back into an Ashrai, huge and powerful, spread his membranous wings, and flew back up into the glowing sky to rejoin his people.

It was dark in the King’s private chambers. All the blinds were drawn, and the door was securely locked. And Douglas Campbell, last favored son of a noble line, Speaker to the House of Parliament, and chosen King of Humanity’s greatest Empire, sat alone in his opulent chambers, wrapped in a faded old dressing gown and nothing else, unshaven and disheveled, staring at nothing. His once handsome face was slack, his eyes were empty, and what thoughts he had were slow and sullen, of no importance to anyone, not even himself. Someone was knocking at his door, had been knocking for some time now, but he couldn’t bring himself to give a damn. They’d give up eventually and go away, leaving him alone, just like everyone else.

He’d sent them all away, friends and colleagues and servants, driving them from him with harsh words and bitter language. He needed to be alone with his pain, and he had no use anymore for words like duty or responsibility. He had a lot of brooding and second-guessing and feeling sorry for himself to do . . . and he had just enough dignity left that he didn’t want anyone to see him like this. Especially not the servants. For all their smiles and kind words and signed loyalty oaths, there wasn’t one he’d trust not to go running off to the media with their story, if the price was right. Once, that would have been unthinkable. But then, a lot of things had been unthinkable, once—before his closest friend had betrayed him with the only woman he’d ever really loved.

He wasn’t sure how long he’d sat alone in the dark, trying not to think or feel or care. He didn’t do much anymore. Mostly he just sat in his chair, ate and drank when he remembered, and spent as much time dozing and sleeping as he could, because then he didn’t have to remember how his whole life had gone to hell. He hadn’t shaved or bathed in ages, and didn’t care. He had a bowl of something lukewarm in his lap that he didn’t remember preparing. He couldn’t remember whether it was supposed to be breakfast or dinner, but now and again he ate some of it with his fingers. It didn’t taste of anything much. He was a mess, and he knew it. Somehow, that seemed fitting.

The viewscreen before him hadn’t been turned on in days. At first, he’d kept it on all the time, for a kind of company. He sat slumped in front of the screen like an acolyte, flicking numbly through the hundreds of news channels, in the hope of finding someone who could explain to him how everything in his life could have gone so terribly wrong so quickly. But all the news channels could do was drive home in merciless detail just how quickly his precious Golden Age was deteriorating into something far darker, by its own perverse will. It seemed like there was no good news anymore. The Church Militant was now the Empire’s official religion, in all the ways that mattered. Thousands of fanatics marched down city streets on hundreds of worlds, holding up blazing crosses, loudly proclaiming their vicious faith, and damning all unbelievers. Pure Humanity had also seized the public mood and made it their own, and everywhere hatred was lashing out at anyone or anything that could be declared inhuman. Espers, aliens . . . and anyone who wasn’t Pure Humanity or Church Militant. It was a dangerous time to be a free-thinker. Heretics could be hunted down and butchered in busy streets, and no one would raise a finger to help them.

The news shows weren’t openly biased yet, but the signs were already there, if you knew what to look for—in the words the commentators didn’t use, in the language that didn’t condemn, in the causes and people who couldn’t even get air time anymore. Douglas grew tired, watching it all fall apart. All the sane voices were gone. Most of the politicians were running scared, the old Church had vanished with its gentle Patriarch, and the Paragons had set off on their great quest, to find the missing Owen Deathstalker. So far, there was no sign of the blessed Owen anywhere, and a few Paragons had already returned, abandoning and renouncing the quest as useless.

There was no news at all of Lewis Deathstalker and his treacherous companions. Douglas couldn’t decide whether that was good or bad news. All he knew for sure was that he didn’t recognize what his world and his Empire had become. So he turned off the viewscreen and sat alone in the growing gloom, feeling lost and broken and useless.

The knocking at his door broke off abruptly, and as he looked vaguely around, he heard the sharp definite sound of his door unlocking. Someone had a key—which should have been impossible. The door swung open and light flooded into the room. Douglas put up a hand to protect his watering eyes and peered painfully at the dark silhouette in his doorway. He hadn’t called for anyone. He hadn’t called for anyone in ages. He wondered if his guards had finally betrayed him too, and then the thought came to him that perhaps the new savage Empire had decided that it didn’t want or need a King anymore, and had sent someone to put him out of its misery.

Anger flooded through him, pushing back the accumulated lethargy. He lurched up out of his chair, swaying unsteadily on his feet as he glared about him for his weapons. But he couldn’t think what he’d done with his gun or his sword, let alone his armor, so he snatched up a heavy wooden footstool and glared defiantly at the figure in the doorway, determined to sell his life dearly.

“God, you’re a mess, Douglas,” said Anne Barclay. “You look awful and you smell worse. What have you done to yourself?”

Douglas slowly lowered the footstool as his old friend Anne stalked forwards into his chambers, looking about her and sniffing loudly.

“Some people just shouldn’t be allowed to live alone. I spent months sorting out just the right furnishings for this room, and you’ve turned it into a dump.” She made her way quickly round the room, opening the blinds and chattering nonstop as daylight flooded the chamber. “And by the way, your guards are rubbish. I was able to bully and intimidate my way past them far too easily. I’ve replaced them with some of my own people. And put down that footstool, before you strain yourself.”

Douglas put down the footstool, and then did his best to stand up straight. It wasn’t easy; his legs were unsteady, and the new light was giving him a killer headache. But it was one thing for him to admit to himself how far he’d let himself go, and quite another to see the knowledge in Anne’s eyes. He pulled his dressing gown tightly around him and did his best to meet her accusing gaze with one of his own.

“What are you doing here, Anne? I didn’t send for you. And how the hell did you get in here, anyway? That door was locked.”

“I have a key,” Anne said briskly. “I am your head of security, remember? And I’m here because you haven’t sent for anyone in two months now. Some people already think you’re dead. And that’s a luxury you can’t afford anymore, Douglas. It’s time for you to return to the world. There’s an important media event happening in just over an hour from now, and your presence is very much required.”

Douglas sniffed loudly, and sat down again. “I don’t have to be anywhere, Anne. The Empire doesn’t need a King anymore, if it ever did. I saw the news shows. It’s an asylum out there.”

“The times are changing, so we have to change with them.” Anne came to a halt before him, hands on hips, glaring down at him. “Look, I really don’t have time for this, Douglas. Something really important has happened that affects you personally—you, and the whole damned Empire. Right now, I need you to get cleaned up, climb into your very best, and come with me. You can be depressed and depressing on your own time. Well, don’t just sit there! On your feet, into your bedroom, and get changed! And don’t hang about, or I’ll come in and help you get dressed. And I’ve got really cold hands.”

Douglas scowled at her as he rose reluctantly to his feet. “Same old Anne.”

Except that wasn’t strictly true. Douglas still had trouble getting used to how much his old friend had changed, physically. For as long as he’d known her, Anne Barclay had always been short and stocky, with a square, determined face topped by brutally short red hair. She wore smartly cut suits of uniform gray, and strode everywhere in a manner that suggested everyone else had better get the hell out of her way. She ran her security people like her own private army, was always on top of every problem, and was intimidatingly efficient. And about as glamorous as a sledgehammer.