Deathstalker Return (48 page)

And finally, there was the Gray Train. He no longer had a body as such, and existed now only as an individual entity by an extended ongoing effort of will. He manifested in the meeting place as a cloud of gray flakes in a more or less human form, composed of dust and detritus gathered together from his surroundings. He was only the memory of who he used to be, and if his concentration ever slipped, he wouldn’t even be that. He looked even vaguer than usual this day, a gray ghost in a stone chamber, weakened by what had happened on Shandrakor.

The Gray Train had always been a possessor—the first of the uber-espers to be able to thrust his thoughts into the mind of another, and take control. Under his will, his slaves become mere bodies for him to live through, to vicariously experience a world now lost to him. It was the Gray Train who taught the disaffected rogue espers how to become ELFs—because it amused him. So it was only natural that he should choose to possess the thirteen Paragons sent to Shandrakor. But the First Empire technology of the old Deathstalker Standing had destroyed his hold on those bodies, and thrust him forcefully from their minds, attacking and destroying his thoughts with strange energies. The Gray Train was still recovering.

The uber-espers. The spawn of the Mater Mundi. Powerful beyond reason, crippled beyond hope, driven to live like rats in the walls of society.

The last monster to arrive, because he always had to make an entrance, was of course Finn Durandal. He strolled in through the only door, looking smart and splendid in his black leather Champion’s armor, and looked casually about him as though he saw such grotesque visions every day, and wasn’t in the least impressed. He smiled easily about him, like a perfect prince among his courtiers in some children’s story, and then he leaned calmly against the stone wall and folded his arms across his chest.

“Well, well,” he murmured. “It seems the gang’s all here. The secret Kings and Queens of the Empire.”

“How did you know about this place?” said Blue Hellfire in her cold, cold voice. “Which one of us betrayed this location to you?”

“Oh, none of you,” Finn said easily. “But I have many useful allies. The AIs of Shub, for example. You’d be surprised at some of the things they know. They know about you, and they know about this place. They were only too happy to spill the beans, in return for a detailed report on you and this meeting. They do so love to collect data. Now, if we could please proceed to the matter at hand? I’m sure none of us wants to be here any longer than we absolutely have to. The ELFs have told me that they are on the verge of losing control of the Paragons. And we can’t have that, can we? So, someone here is going to have to take control of the remaining Paragons for a time, so that the ELFs can get a little rest.”

“Impossible,” said the Gray Train immediately. He had a soft sighing voice that was barely audible, like the echo of a thought. “It is all I can do now to maintain my own identity. The old science hurt me, banished me, diminished me. I am not what I was.”

“Give them to me,” said Screaming Silence, in her fat oily voice. She licked her great lips and slammed her massive hands together, sending shock waves rolling slowly through her great body. “The more the merrier, that’s always been my motto. We’ll have such fun . . . But now, sweet Finn, darling traitor, we must have words. We will not speak with the ELFs directly. We have moved beyond them. You shall be our voice to them in all things, and theirs to us. But never forget, Durandal: you are our figurehead, nothing more. Our human face in the human world. And everything you do is but an extension of our will; everything you think you own is really ours by proxy. We allow you a certain autonomy because it suits our purposes, but in the end . . . we own you.”

“You keep on thinking that,” Finn said generously. “And we’ll all see what the future brings.”

“The Terror,” said the Shatter Freak in a child’s voice. “The future brings the Terror. Devastation and horror and planets burning in the dark. The deaths of Princes and of Kings are always marked by great events.”

They all waited, but he had nothing else to say. His features slipped back and forth like melting wax on his face, young and old and young again, and he mumbled and muttered like an old man in his dotage.

The rest of the meeting was really nothing more than an extended squabble over what, if anything, the uber-espers should do about the coming of the Terror. Emma decided she’d heard enough. She signaled silently to Nina, and the two of them quickly and carefully wriggled back away from the metal grille. Nina shut down her camera to save power, and they slowly made their way back down the narrow stone corridor. Emma frowned harshly, thinking hard. Now that she had her evidence of Finn’s guilt and collaboration with the uber-espers, who could she safely present it to? The King was a broken force, Parliament was corrupt and at odds with itself, and the one man she would have trusted implicitly, the Deathstalker, was outlawed. And she couldn’t just give the recording to the media, even if she could find a station Finn didn’t directly or indirectly control. She needed someone to support her, to give the evidence authenticity. Only one name suggested itself . . . and even then, making contact would be difficult. Emma frowned so hard her forehead hurt, and quietly followed Nina back to the surface—and sanity.

Finn Durandal was hardly back at his desk in his office in the House, when he had a delightful if unexpected visitor. He smiled charmingly and came out from behind his desk to kiss the proffered hand of Treasure Mackenzie, famous and beautiful star of vid soap
The Quality.
Treasure allowed him to. She was dressed for business, in a formfitting gown of midnight blue, cut low at the front to reveal plenty of cleavage, and cut high at the sides to reveal even more thigh. Her great mane of silver hair had little pink bows tied in it, and her black stiletto shoes had heels high enough and sharp enough to be classified as deadly weapons. She looked stunning, but then, she always did. That was her job. Finn saw her comfortably settled in the visitor’s chair, and then sat down behind his desk again.

“So, Treasure, this is a pleasant if somewhat unexpected honor. What can I do for you? Is there some problem with the plans for the Royal Wedding? I’m afraid I don’t really handle such matters myself, but . . .”

“Cut the crap, Durandal,” said the woman who wasn’t really Treasure Mackenzie. “There’s no audience here, so neither of us has to pretend. And if you’ve got the good sense God gave you when you were born, you’ll turn off all the recording devices you’ve got hidden in this room.”

Finn regarded her thoughtfully for a long moment, and then pressed a hidden stud on the floor with his foot. “So,” he murmured, “all masks are off, are they, Frankie?”

The gorgeous woman with the suddenly harsh face leaned back in her chair and smiled unpleasantly. “You do know. We weren’t sure, but given that you’ve infiltrated or suborned so many other supposedly secret societies, I suppose it was inevitable that you’d have someone in the Hellfire Club. But we know things too. We know that your precious James Campbell is just a clone. And we can prove it, if we have to. Dear du Katt is one of us, and has been for some time now.”

“I can see I’m going to have to have a serious little talk with dear du Katt,” said Finn. “Still, it pleases me that the Hellfire Club has finally come to talk with me. You are almost the last unaligned power in the Empire. But you must know you can’t afford to stand alone any longer. Great things are happening, the whole character of the Empire is changing . . . and if you’re not part of the process you must expect to be left behind.”

“Funny,” said Frankie. “We were thinking the same thing about you. You’ve stretched yourself too far, Durandal. You’re trying to juggle too many forces and keep them all balanced, any one of which would leap at the chance to tear you apart if you even look like faltering. You need us, because we’re everywhere. We’re in all the other societies and movements you think you control. Join us, and help the Hellfire Club achieve its rightful destiny. You don’t have to be alone. There are many comforts, and many pleasures, available to all members of the Hellfire Club.”

Finn laughed at her. It was a harsh, ugly sound. His face was cold, even vicious. “You have nothing I want, and you need me a hell of a lot more than I need you. That’s why
you
came to see
me.
And the very fact that your masters sent an overweight cow like you to talk to me just shows how desperate you people have become. Was I supposed to be blinded by your beauty, seduced by your rather obvious charms, into giving up everything I’ve gained? I don’t think so. I really don’t. Go back and tell your masters to send me someone I can respect, and then maybe we can do business. You’re going to be Queen, Treasure. Settle for that.”

“So the gossip is right,” said Frankie. “No heart, and no balls. A nice package, but nothing inside it.”

“Good-bye, Treasure,” said Finn. “Don’t let the door hit your overpadded arse on the way out.”

Frankie rose up out of her chair with icy dignity, and stalked out of his office, deliberately leaving the door open so someone else would have to close it. She strode off through the corridors of the House, seething furiously behind her usual practiced smile, and for once not even the most ardent of fans came forward to press her for an autograph. Treasure Mackenzie was clearly on her way somewhere important, and no one had the nerve to get in her way. She dismissed Finn Durandal from her mind. If one plan didn’t work, move straight on to the next. That had always been her way. The next target was Douglas. He wasn’t nearly as broken-spirited as he liked people to believe. She’d tried seducing him and that hadn’t worked, so this time she’d try cold reason. The King had no friends left, and no allies, but if she could bring him into the Hellfire Club, then the new King and Queen would be in an excellent position to maneuver power away from Finn. And Douglas had a whole bunch of reasons for wanting to see Finn Durandal brought down.

 

 

Tel Markham, honorable member of Parliament for Madraguda, and Finn Durandal’s official whipping boy, went to see his brother Angelo Bellini, the celebrated Angel of Madraguda, in his luxurious office in the great cathedral of the Parade of the Endless. The visit wasn’t Tel’s idea. Finn had given him strict instructions. Tel was to talk with his brother on some very specific subjects, and either bring Angelo very firmly back under Finn’s control or . . . kill him and make it look like natural causes. No other options available. When Tel objected, Finn had smiled his disturbing smile, and said it was either Angelo or Tel. If he followed instructions, and it became necessary to kill his brother, then Tel would become the new head of the Church Militant. Under Finn, of course. But if he didn’t have the balls to do what had to be done, then Finn would have Tel killed, and replace him with someone who would get the job done.

You should be grateful I’m giving you this opportunity,
Finn had said.
At least this way you can make sure your brother doesn’t suffer.

Tel walked alone through the great halls of the cathedral, taking his time, blind to its charms and sense of peace, and wondered what the hell he was going to do. He’d never actually killed anyone before, though he’d always known that someday it might prove necessary. And as the head of the official Church he’d be a power in his own right again, and able to treat with Finn more as an equal. He’d be back in the game again, a player, and no one’s whipping boy. He’d never liked Angelo anyway. Not really. He could do it. He had a poison dust concealed in a secret cache in his sleeve. Angelo would never have his own brother searched. Easy enough to slip the dust into a drink, and then Angelo would be dead in seconds. Apparent heart attack. There wouldn’t be much of an investigation. Finn would see to that. And besides, Angelo wasn’t at all popular these days, even among his own people.

It was no secret that the Angel of Madraguda had seriously lost the plot. He’d started to believe his own propaganda—that he really was a saint, or even a messiah, come to lead his people out of darkness. Exactly where he was leading them didn’t seem too clear. He’d forgotten or disregarded that he had never been intended to be anything more than a puppet for Finn’s will. The Angel of Madraguda wrote his own speeches these days, rambling apocalyptic sermons, and openly defied Finn’s instructions. And there were rumors—dark, unsettling rumors—that not everyone who went in to see Angelo Bellini ever came out again.

So the man had to go. He had to be put out of everyone’s misery. And who better to do the job than his own dear brother? Well, half-brother, really. Same mother, different fathers. But even so, a brother was still a brother, wasn’t he? He was still family . . .

Tel finally came to the door to the outer office. He stopped there awhile, composing himself with several deep breaths, and then he pushed open the door and breezed into the outer office as though it was just another visit. Angelo’s secretary nodded distractedly to him. She looked pale and unhappy, and the smile she gave Tel didn’t reach her eyes. She looked . . . like a dog that had been kicked too often.

“Hello, Marion,” said Tel, doing his best to appear as though he hadn’t noticed anything amiss. “I’m here to see my brother. Is he in?”

“Hard to say,” said Marion. “I mean, yes, he’s in his office, but . . . he’s not himself. He rarely is, anymore. You haven’t been around for a while, so you haven’t seen . . . maybe you can help him. He won’t listen to me anymore. He won’t listen to anyone, except . . . You’ve got to get him out of here, Tel. Get him somewhere . . . safe, where he can get help. He’s done . . . bad things, Tel. And I can’t leave. I’m the only protection he’s got left.”

“Easy, Marion.” Tel put on his most reassuring face and voice. “It’s all right, I’m here now. I’ll take care of everything.”

He went over to the inner door, and Marion buzzed him through. The smell was the first thing that hit Tel as he entered Angelo’s office. It stank—of old food and spilled drink, of rot and corruption—and clearly no one had opened a window in far too long. The room was dim and gloomy, with all the shutters closed. There was only one light on, over Angelo at his desk. He was sitting hunched forwards, muttering to himself. Tel wasn’t sure whether his brother even knew he was there. He walked slowly and carefully through the gloom, avoiding the darker shadows of pieces of furniture. The carpet seemed . . . sticky, under his feet. Tel could feel his heartbeat racing. All his instincts were yelling at him that he had come to a very dangerous place.