Deathstalker (38 page)

The crowd cheered as he went, a tall and lithely muscular man with no crest or insignia on his armor, and an anonymous steel helm hiding his face. A mystery wrapped in an enigma, as always. There were many who would have paid a pretty sum to know just whose face the helm concealed, but there were many more who delighted in his secret and connived at all levels to preserve it, even from agents of the Empress herself.

The Masked Gladiator strode through the gate, the force field dropping just long enough for him to pass, then springing up again behind him, invisible and inviolable. He strode on through brightly lit corridors, one hand placed protectively over the wound in his side. He nodded tightly to the fighters and trainers he passed, cool and calm and collected. It wouldn’t do for word to get out that he’d been seriously wounded, especially by his own hand, even if it had won him the match. There were any number of vultures who’d attack in a moment if they thought he was weak. The Masked Gladiator had a lot of enemies. Mostly people who’d bet against him. He strode on, grunting at the sudden stabs of pain that were jutting past his control, and his head seemed very far away. The angel’s severed head bumped against his leg as he walked, leaving a spattered bloody trail on the floor behind him, but he didn’t give a damn. Let the Arena staff earn their money for a change.

Then the door to his private chambers was right there before him, though he didn’t remember getting there. He’d be safe on the other side of that door. His privacy was ensured by the Arena management, and his own oft-repeated statement
that he’d kill anyone who tried to spy on him or otherwise bother him. He hit the security plate with the palm of his free hand, and the door opened as the computer recognized his palmprint. He staggered through the door, and it shut itself behind him. His mentor and trainer, Georg McCrackin, hurried toward him, worry plain in his face. The Gladiator smiled and threw him the angel’s head.

“Hi, honey; I’m home.”

And then the strength went out of his legs, and Georg dropped the head and caught him just before he hit the ground. Things got rather confused after that, and the next clear thought came as Georg was helping him out of the regeneration machine. He was still wearing his armor, but the pain in his side and back was gone, along with the injuries. There wouldn’t even be any scars. He grunted his approval. Excellent device. Worth every penny of the medium-sized fortune it had cost him. He grinned at Georg McCrackin, who was busy fussing over removing the armor, and looked at himself in the full-length mirror on the wall. He looked pretty damn intimidating, if he said so himself. He stood there quietly a moment, winding down, emerging slowly from the persona of the Masked Gladiator, and letting his other self come to the surface again. And then he took off his helm to reveal the calm face of that most notorious fop, Finlay Campbell.

If his father could have seen him, he’d have had a stroke. The thought never ceased to amuse Finlay. He’d been playing his double role long enough that he took much of it for granted, but that particular wrinkle never failed to raise a smile. He stripped off the last of his armor and let Georg take it away, and then stood nude before the mirror and stretched slowly, as unselfconscious as a cat. Sweat was drying on his chest and arms, and he absently accepted a towel from Georg and mopped at his body while his mind was elsewhere.

Georg McCrackin had been with him for years, as was his right. He’d been the original Masked Gladiator, before he finally tired of it and bequeathed the helm and the legend to his pupil and successor. No one ever knew. He mopped at Finlay’s back with another towel, a dark and brooding figure muttering quietly about the stupidity of taking needless risks.

“I always feel good after a kill,” Finlay said almost
dreamily. “It cleans out the system, purging all the dark thoughts and impulses.”

“Just as well,” said Georg dryly. “If you couldn’t quench your thirst for blood in the Arena, no one would be safe. Probably wipe out half the aristocracy in duels. I knew you were a natural-born killer the first time I saw you fight.”

Finlay looked at him. “Are you telling me you didn’t enjoy your time on the sands as the Masked Gladiator?”

“No. But I fought for the challenge; you do it for the thrill. There’s a difference. Which is why you’ll find it a lot harder to step down than I did. But eventually even your appetite will grow cold, and then it will be your turn to pass on the helm and the legend to another fool with blood in his eyes and a devil in his heart.”

“Maybe,” said Finlay, in a tone that suggested he rather doubted it but didn’t feel like arguing. “It’s all my father’s fault, you know. I knew I was born to be a warrior, even as a child. I’d fight anyone at the drop of an insult, no matter how much bigger they were. I won a surprising number of fights, too. I’d have been happy in any branch of the Service, fighting the Empress’ enemies. But no, I was the eldest, and the heir, and that meant I couldn’t be allowed to do anything that might risk my precious skin. I still received excellent training in the use of the sword and the gun, that was part of my heritage and couldn’t be denied me, but it was never enough. Not nearly enough. I needed something more to fire my blood, stir my senses, make me feel alive. …

“I fought my first duel when I was fifteen. Cut the poor bastard to ribbons. It felt so good, so
right
. After that, a bodyguard went everywhere with me and fought my duels on my behalf. You can guess how popular that made me with my peers. I’d never been exactly admired before, but after that I was a pariah. I’ve a lot to thank my father for.

“It was a long time before I thought of the Arena. I slipped my bodyguard’s leash, bribed my way past the Arena staff, and fought my first match under a hologram mask. Nothing fancy, no frills; just sword to sword. And when it was over, and I was alive and he was dead, it was like coming home. I developed my fop persona to keep anyone from finding out about my little secret. After all, if it became public it would be a major scandal: an heir to one of the greatest
Houses, fighting all comers in the Arena … dear Father would have an aneurism on the spot.”

“You never told me any of this before,” said Georg. “I knew most of it, of course. Made it my business to know. But you never wanted to talk about it, so I never pressed the point. What brought this on all of a sudden?”

Finlay shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe I just got a taste of my own mortality out there today.”

Georg sniffed. “About time. Just because you’ve always won, it doesn’t mean you can’t lose. You’ve been getting cocky lately. If there’s one thing the Arena teaches us all, it’s that it doesn’t matter how good you are; there’s always someone better.”

“Like who?” challenged Finlay, throwing aside his towel and reaching for his other persona’s clothes.

“Well, Kid Death, for one. He’s the new SummerIsle now. You keep well clear of him. He’s crazy.”

“And that makes him unbeatable?”

“In practice, yes, because he wouldn’t care about dying himself if it meant he could take you with him. For once in your life, listen to what I’m telling you. I didn’t train you to be the best in the Arena just to lose you to a genius madman with a sublimated death wish.”

“Point taken.” Finlay sat down on a nearby bench to pull on his knee-length leather boots. “I have been getting a little obsessed with the fighting, just lately. The Arena feels so clean and uncomplicated after the endless intrigues and politicking in high society. Every word has a dozen meanings, every statement a dozen levels, and you can’t turn around without tripping over a conspiritor murmuring in a traitor’s ear. Luckily my Family, and everyone else’s, considers me a coward as well as a fop, so mostly I get left on the sidelines as not worth bothering with. There’d be no glory in defeating the likes of me in a duel, and I haven’t the wit to be trusted in a conspiracy. I always knew that persona would come in handy. It keeps me out of intrigues, protects my secret, and affords me endless amusement. Ah, life is good, Georg. Though death is more fun.”

“Hang on to that good mood,” said Georg. “You’re going to need it. In case you’ve forgotten, and you probably have, you asked me to remind you that you have a wedding to attend this afternoon. It sounds pretty important; only for direct
members of the Families involved. A distinctly minor noble such as myself wouldn’t even get past the door.”

“Now don’t get touchy,” Finlay said briskly, putting the finishing touches to his outfit and regarding himself thoughtfully in the full-length mirror. “You wouldn’t like it anyway. No excitement, no bloodshed; just determinedly polite voices, fattening finger food, and inferior champagnes. It is a rather important occasion, I suppose, if you’re interested in such things. A cousin of mine, Robert Campbell, is to marry one Letitia Shreck, and thus bring the two Families together. An arranged marriage, of course, for cold and practical political reasons. The two Clans have been at each other’s throats for as long as anyone living can remember, but right now we find ourselves in need of mutual support against common enemies, so all the bloody hatchets are to be buried in a wedding. It’ll all end in tears, of course, but no one gives a damn about that. Doesn’t matter if they never see each other again, really, as long as they donate sperm and egg to the body banks and remain officially married. Poor Robert and Letitia. Never even met each other, as far as I know.”

Georg smiled. “You’re going to find it terribly quiet and dull after today’s excitement in the Arena.”

“Not necessarily. There are times when Family gatherings can be more dangerous and loaded with traps than anything you’d find in the Arena.”

Georg shrugged. “I keep well clear, myself. A minor son of a minor House, too small to be noticed, that’s me.”

“If only they knew,” said Finlay, smiling. “Sooner or later you’re going to get tired of being civilized, and the Arena will call you back. You can’t fight it; it’s in the blood.”

“No,” said Georg. “I woke up from that nightmare and found peace. I’m just hanging on here till you do, too.”

“Then you’re in for a long wait,” Finlay said flatly. “I couldn’t give this up if I wanted to. It’s all that keeps me sane.”

Georg raised an eyebrow. “Given where we are, and what you do, sane is a relative term.”

And then they both looked round sharply as the door swung open behind them. Which should have been impossible. The security system on the door was supposed to be state of the art. Finlay snatched up his sword Morgana, still bloody from the angel’s death, and Georg produced an energy
gun from somewhere. A nun walked through the door, all billowing black robes and folded hands, with the hood pulled down low to hide her face. Finlay didn’t relax, and Georg didn’t lower his gun. The Sisters of Mercy were common enough in the corridors under the Arena, but even so there was no way she should have been able to get past the door. She stopped a respectful distance away, the door swung shut behind her, and for a tense moment everyone held their position. And then the nun raised her slender, aristocratic hands and pushed back her hood, and Georg and Finlay relaxed with almost explosive releases of breath. Finlay put down his sword, and Georg made his gun disappear again.

“Evangeline!” said Finlay, hurrying toward her. “You promised you wouldn’t come here again. It’s too dangerous.”

“I know,” said Evangeline Shreck. “But I couldn’t stay away. I had to be with you.”

And then she was suddenly in his arms, and they were kissing with a passion that heated the small changing room like an oven. Georg looked briefly heavenward, shook his head, and moved off into the adjoining room to give them a little privacy. Left to themselves, the two lovers clung together like children lost in a storm. Finlay’s heart ached in his chest, and he couldn’t seem to get his breath. It was always the same when he held her in his arms; he could never really believe that someone as special as her could care for him as much as he cared for her. The Arena warmed his blood, but Evangeline burned in his heart like a pure, white-hot flame. Her familiar scent filled his head like a drug, but she was real and solid in his arms, her hands digging into his back as though she feared she might be dragged away at any moment. She was his love, his one and only love, and he would have killed for her, died for her, or anything else she might require.

And it might come to that someday, for their secret love was forbidden. He was heir to the Campbells, and she was heir to the Shrecks, two Families at war for generations. The current arranged marriage that afternoon, between two minor cousins of no importance to anyone, had already almost spilled over into bloodshed a dozen times. And for the two heirs to marry: unthinkable. One House would inevitably be engulfed by the other, though not without mass slaughter on
both sides. He was Campbell and she was Shreck, and they must be mortal enemies to their death, and beyond.

Except they had met by accident, both wearing masks, not knowing who the other was till it was far too late, and they had both fallen in love. It happened so quickly, but it changed their lives forever. Now they lived for what few brief meetings they could snatch in private, knowing always that were they to be discovered, it would mean shame and probably death for both of them. Some scandals simply could not be allowed.

Finlay held her in his arms and buried his face in her hair. It smelled so good. She seemed so small and vulnerable, at the mercy of great grinding forces that cared nothing for her, or love. If he could have, he would have walked away and somehow lived with the pain rather than endanger her, but he couldn’t any more than she could. She was everything he ever dreamed of or hoped for, and losing her would be like tearing out his heart and throwing it away. She nestled against him like a small child, like a frightened animal, her breathing gradually slowing with his.

“You took too big a risk coming here,” he murmured finally in her ear. “You could have been followed.”

“I wasn’t.” She wouldn’t look up at him. “I used an esper to be sure. And who’d recognize me in this outfit? There are always Sisters of Mercy here, caring for the injured and the dying. No one ever remembers the face of a nun. I had to come, Finlay. I heard about the creature they set on you. I had to be sure you were safe.”