Deathstalker (16 page)

Stevie shuddered again. Blood poured down her chin. When she spoke, only the Empress could hear her.

“I’ll be back. There are lots like me. One of us will gel you. Burn in hell, bitch.”

Lionstone slid the dagger delicately into Stevie’s heart and breathed the esper’s dying exhalation into her own mouth, savoring it like a connoisseur. She pulled out the dagger, put her fingertips against the esper’s breast and pushed. Stevie Blue fell back into the dark water and lay still. Lionstone
straightened up, made the dagger disappear up her sleeve again, and allowed Dram to help her up onto the throne again.

“Elves never talk,” Dram said casually. “They program their minds to self-destruct, rather than give up any secrets. If anything, you gave her an easy death.”

“You always want to spoil my fun, Dram. She died in despair. That will do for me. For the moment, I’m more interested in how that many elves got past your security defenses.”

“A good question,” said Dram. “And one which I will be putting to my staff very forcefully once this audience is over. I can only assume I have a traitor somewhere in my organization.”

“I thought that was supposed to be impossible.”

“So did I. If there is a traitor, I’ll find him.”

“I hope so, Dram,” said the Empress. “Because if I can’t trust you to protect me, what use are you?”

Dram smiled and carefully dipped a finger into the traces of cream still on her face. He tasted it thoughtfully.

“Brandy buttersauce. My favorite. If nothing else, the elves do have excellent taste.”

“Of course,” said Lionstone, “just ask my maids.”

The city had another name once, but no one remembers it now. For the past three hundred years it has been known throughout the Empire as the Parade of the Endless, home of the Arena and the Games. It’s not a large city, by Golgotha standards, but it grows a little every year as new citizens are drawn to it like flies to rotting meat. There are gambling houses and pleasure domes, reality shunts and psi jaunts, wonders and marvels and spectacles beyond counting, but no one comes to the Parade of the Endless for those. They are the appetizers, the side dishes, something to clear the palate and sharpen the senses before moving on to something stronger.

In the center of the city, deep in its dark and bloody heart, lies the Arena: a wide open space of carefully raked sands surrounded by tiers of banked seating. It is kept safe and separate from the rest of the city by a series of force screens, only ever lowered in sequence. It’s hard to get into the Arena. It’s even harder to get out. Those that live there never leave. They have their own places in the cells and chambers and twisting passageways deep beneath the Arena. The gladiators live in relative luxury, honing their fighting skills and dreaming of fame and glory. Trainers and service staff live in the plainer chambers, their lives dedicated to the smooth running of the Games. Prisoners await their fate in the darkness of their cells on the lowest level, knowing they will never see light again till they are pushed stumbling out onto the bloody sands of the Arena. There are always prisoners:
men, clones, espers and aliens. Fodder for the never-ending hunger of the crowds.

People come from all over the Empire to see blood and suffering in the Arena, to see life and death played out by the ancient rules. Billions more watch it all on their holoscreens every night, but for the true fans, the connoisseurs, seeing is not enough. They need to be there, in person, to see with their own eyes, drink in the atmosphere, and smell the bloodlust on the air as the crowd cheers their favorites, boos the incompetent, and bays for another death. The crowd always has its favorites, but as a rule they don’t last long. That’s why it’s called the Parade of the Endless; heroes come and go, but the Games go on forever.

The city is also unique in being the only city on Golgotha now owned or dominated by a single Clan. The Empress sees to that, through subtle pressure and not so subtle purges, to ensure that the Games remain fair and unbiased. Everyone has an equal chance to die on the bloody sands. Otherwise there’d be no fun to it. The Parade of the Endless has thus become a safe neutral ground, a meeting place for Families who could not otherwise, with honor, communicate. Instead, the Clans settle their differences through their champions in the Arena. Face is upheld and honor is satisfied. And if it tends to be rather hard on the champions, well, no one really gives a damn, or at least no one who matters.

In return for this outlet, the Families provide generous contributions to the upkeep of the Arena and its staff. Even more of their money flows into the Arena’s coffers through the Families’ never-ending appetite for gambling. Fortunes are won and lost daily as the Clans plunge heavily in support of their champions and their honor. The champions are always paid men. Members of the Families would never dream of fighting in person. To risk one’s life in a formal duel was one thing; to lower oneself to perform for the pleasure of the crowd was quite another. Besides, it wouldn’t do for the lower orders to see the aristocracy dying. It might give them ideas.

Around the Arena, in ever-expanding circles, live the citizens of the Parade of the Endless: the traders, the service industries, and those who have fought, or plan to fight, on the bloody sands. The Games are open to all, the crowd’s appetite is boundless, and there is always a need for fresh
meat. And so they come, from all over the Empire, seeking fame and riches, action and excitement, or just a place to die in the sun. No one is ever turned away. Death is very democratic.

The streets around the Arena were packed with people, as always, coming or going or trying to sell something to those who were. The cries of the street traders rose above the general babble like birds marking their territory, determined to be noticed by those who passed. But even their ebulliency became somewhat muted in the presence of a Family member, so that you could usually track an aristocrat’s path through the crowds by the relative quiet that surrounded them.

Valentine Wolfe moved casually through the crush, and no more noticed the respectful quiet than he would have noticed the air he breathed. Tall and darkly delicate, he was not an immediately impressive figure, but still no one jostled him or got in his way. Everyone recognized the mascaraed eyes and scarlet smile, as they knew all the Clan faces that mattered, and none of them had any wish to do anything that might be taken as an insult to Clan Wolfe. So Valentine walked on, his thoughts hidden behind the painted mask of his face, his eyes dark and far away. He never bothered with bodyguards. Some said through pride, some said through arrogance, but if truth be told, Valentine simply preferred the company of his own thoughts whenever possible and found guards a distraction.

He finally came to a halt outside a modest little patisserie, just a little off the beaten trail, and gazed thoughtfully at the wondrous confectionery creations in the window. He wasn’t averse to the occasional indulgence of his sweet tooth, but that wasn’t what had brought him there. The shop’s owner, the one and only Georgios, supplied Valentine with tastes more tempting and far sweeter than anything to be found in his window. Georgios was one outlet of a complex drugs pipeline that Valentine had spent years putting together. Someone of his status could have practically anything he wanted just by asking, but Valentine preferred to keep his needs and appetites strictly private. Knowledge was power. And besides, some of the things he wanted were banned even to those of his rank. Which was at least partly why he wanted them.

A single black rose stood in a slender glass vase in the left-hand corner of the window, and Valentine studied it thoughtfully. The rose was Georgios’ way of saying that he had Valentine’s order ready to hand. That it was in the left rather than the right-hand side of the window was his way of saying that something was wrong. Valentine smiled slightly and considered his options. He could just walk away and avoid whatever trouble it was. Most likely it was some kind of trap. Like all those who played at the great game of intrigue, Valentine had his fair share of enemies, and then some. But if he did just walk away, he’d never know whose trap it was, and how they’d found out about Georgios. He hadn’t thought anyone knew about him and Georgios. Besides, it would mean leaving the dear fellow in the hands of his enemy, and that would never do. He couldn’t let people get away with threatening his friends and business partners, or he’d end up without any of either.

And a good business partner was hard to replace.

He pushed open the door and walked in quite casually, as though he didn’t have a care in the world. It was dark inside the shop. Someone had polarized the windows to keep out the sun. Valentine let the door drift shut behind him and stood very still. He concentrated in a certain series of ways, and drug caches deep in his system opened obediently to the mental triggers and dumped their contents into his bloodstream. Fresh oxygenated blood rushed to his muscles, which swelled subtly, readying themselves for action. His senses became supernaturally acute, and the shadows before him began to give up their secrets. There were twelve of them, standing very still at the rear of the shop. Two of them were holding Georgios securely with a hand over his mouth. He could smell Georgios’ fear and the anticipation of the others. He could hear the slight movements they made unknowingly, thinking themselves safe in the gloom. Valentine’s smile widened slightly. There was no safety anywhere for his enemies. They were all dead. They just didn’t know it yet. He cleared his throat politely.

“Turn up the light, someone; there’s a good fellow. We can’t negotiate in the dark.”

“What makes you think we want to negotiate?” said a voice that tried to sound cultured, but couldn’t quite bring it off.

“If you were assassins,” said Valentine calmly, “you’d
have killed me the moment I walked in. Therefore, I assume you have something to say to me. Do get on with it. I’m running late for an appointment.

The light flared up suddenly as one of the shadowy figures cleared the window glass, the bright sunlight revealing a dozen gang members grinning arrogantly at him from the rear of the shop. They were all naked, the better to show off the bulging muscles and other enhancements they’d bought from cheap knock-off body shops in the darker back alleyways. They’d all had their skin dyed the same overpowering shade of electric blue to declare which gang they belonged to, and a blazing silver skull had been tattooed on every chest. There were a dozen less painful ways the skulls could have been imprinted on their flesh, but the pain was the point. It was an initiation, a declaration of courage and dedication. Tattoos were for life. So was gang membership.

Valentine recognized them immediately, as he was supposed to. The Demons: one of the larger bands of street toughs who ran wild in the grubbier areas of the city. There were thousands of them in hundreds of gangs; too young, too scared or too smart to be seduced by the call of the Arena, they scraped a kind of living by hiring out to anyone who needed a little muscle. They did other things, too, if you had the money. They fought many battles among themselves over territory or women or what passed for honor among them. As above, so below; the lower orders aping their betters. They also ran simple protection rackets and badger games when things were quiet, but even then they usually had enough sense not to get involved with the Families, suggesting that someone must have laid out a small fortune to set this up. Which, if nothing else, helped to narrow the field.

Valentine took his time studying the Demons. It wouldn’t do to give the impression that he was at all nervous or insecure. Some of the gang members looked to be genewarped, or at least genechanged, from hiring out their bodies to unscrupulous body doctors, who always had a need for guinea pigs for their new experiments and processes. Misshapen faces and bodies were the marks of the lucky ones. They’d survived. Some had clawed hands and pointed teeth, others had the twitchy sudden movements that suggested hyped-up adrenal glands. They’d all have their hidden little secrets, but Valentine was reasonably sure they had no tech augmentations.
They couldn’t afford to buy or replace the energy crystals that powered them. They were all armed, most with swords, some with knives or machetes or lengths of spiked chain.

Valentine smiled at them dazzlingly, just to keep them off balance while his thoughts raged furiously. The Demons were well out of gang territory this close to the Arena. By rights, they shouldn’t have been here at all. The local guards should have seen them on their way the moment they showed their blue faces. Someone must have spread a lot of money around to buy a blind eye to their presence, even for a short while. Someone wanted this meeting very badly, but didn’t want to be identified as the instigator. Using street toughs was about as annonymous as you could get. They’d do practically anything for money and didn’t give a damn where it came from. Now that his eyes had completely adjusted to the change in light, Valentine could tell from the Demons’ flushed faces and over-bright eyes that they’d been primed with something extra. Cheap knock-off battle drugs, probably.