Valentine smiled and turned his attention to Pieter Romanov, that fat and ruddy man wrapped in a torn masterpiece. Pieter believed a man should be recognized by the breadth and achievement of his appetites, and indulged each sense till they groaned under the weight of his will. There was in him a hunger that would not be satisfied, no matter how he tried. His people obeyed his every whim, or he had them killed and replaced with those who would. Pieter was an aristocrat’s aristocrat, and he had taken Random’s deal hard. Not for him the lesser power and rewards of mere business. So he went looking for an ally, a great man of power and influence, who would put things back the way they once were, the way they should be. A man of vision and destiny. Unfortunately, all he could find was Valentine. But the Wolfe at least had a plan, which was more than most, and Pieter couldn’t help but admire a man whose taste for indulgence actually surpassed his. So Pieter and Valentine had made a pact, and if the Romanov found the source of their power base to be somewhat distressing, there was always another meal and another bottle from the Deathstalker’s excellent wine cellar to help distract him.
And finally there was Athos Kartakis. A short and swarthy man with a flashing smile and a temperament that could change in a moment from brightest day to darkest night. He collected insults and saw dueling as a sport. He never accepted first blood, and always went for the kill. People tended to be very careful what they said around the young Lord Kartakis. His Clan had never been more than a fairly minor House, and generations had been spending money faster than it came in. Kartakis had inherited many debts, and wasted no time in adding many of his own. Creditors preferred to forget their bills rather than risk fighting a duel over them, but even so, everyone knew the true state of affairs, and Kartakis knew they knew. The deal Blue Block had brokered with Random had been the last straw. Take away his lordship, and Kartakis had nothing left. He’d never survive as a businessman. If only because he’d made so many enemies in trade. And so he had pawned what was left of his soul with Valentine.
Valentine watched his people at their play, and thought pleasantly on the day he wouldn’t need their support anymore and could have them all killed in slow and interesting ways. He’d just begun to number the ways and select his very favorite when the viewscreen on the wall chimed politely. Valentine raised a painted eyebrow. He’d given the servants to understand that he wasn’t to be interrupted at his dinner for anything less than a major emergency, and after he’d had that footman flayed from the waist down, they’d learned to follow his instructions to the letter. So he accepted the call and directed his cronies to hush themselves. The screen cleared to show that sinister butterball of a man, the ex-Lord Gregor Shreck. The Shreck sat behind an ugly but functional wooden table, covered with papers and reports. He nodded curtly to Valentine, the nearest he ever got to polite behavior, and plunged right in without bothering with any more amenities:
“You’re in trouble, Wolfe. Parliament’s sent a force to investigate what you’re up to on Virimonde.”
“Really?” said Valentine, unperturbed as always. “Andjust how large an army are they sending?”
“It’s worse than an army. They’ve sent Deathstalker and d’Ark.”
The three aristocrats looked quickly at one another and began to babble unhappily. Valentine waved for them to be quiet, and they were. The Wolfe smiled slowly at the Shreck’s image on the viewscreen, his great scarlet smile spreading across his deathlike face. “Dear Owen. I have so been looking forward to meeting him. I can’t wait to see what he thinks of what I’ve done with his old place. When can I expect the illustrious hero and his warlike companion?”
“Hell, he and the bitch have probably already landed by now. I’m not as well connected as I used to be. Word takes longer to reach me these days.”
“The Deathstalker can’t be here,” said the Kartakis. “The security systems would have taken out his ship. Or the sensors would have warned us—”
“Don’t be silly,” said Valentine. “This is Owen Deathstalker we’re talking about.” He looked back at the Shreck. “You are still otherwise on top of things at your end?”
“Of course. You supply the product, I’ve got people set up to move it.” Gregor scowled unhappily. “Never thought I’d end up a drug runner at my time of life.”
“I’d have thought it was an occupation you were ideally suited for,” said the Silvestri, idly paring his fingernails with the edge of one of his knives. “But then, everyone rises to their true level eventually.”
“At least I’m not a fugitive from what passes for justice these days,” snapped Gregor. “I still have my Tower and my people.”
“But you’re not a Lord anymore,” said the Romanov, in between sucking chicken grease off his fingers. “We haven’t allowed Blue Block and that traitor Random to strip our rightful heritage from us.”
“And we will be Lords again,” said the Kartakis flatly. “Even if we have to kill everyone else in the Empire who says otherwise.”
“Big talk from a little man,” said Gregor, secure in the knowledge that the Kartakis was light-years away. “We tried fighting. We lost. Our only hope now is the Wolfe’s plan. And God help us all if it goes wrong.”
“If it goes right, I’ll make gods of you all,” said Valentine calmly. “We will return in glory and know power beyond that even Lionstone wielded. But that’s the future. Tell me of the present, Gregor. How goes the cabal?”
“Growing all the time,” said Gregor. “No one’s willing to come out in public, but more and more aristocrats and politicians are supplying people and money to help expedite your plan. No telling how many of them will actually stand up and fight when the time comes, but I’ll settle for them just abstaining at the right moment. The rebels and their pet Parliament may think they’re running things, but their precious new regime is built on sand.”
“And the sands of time are running out for all of them,” said Valentine. “How I do love a good metaphor. Now, be a good boy, Gregor, and make yourself scarce. I must think. I have to prepare a suitable welcome for dear Owen and the redoubtable Hazel d’Ark.”
“Watch yourself,” said Gregor. “They aren’t human anymore. If they ever were. They’ll take a lot of killing.”
“If it was easy,” said Valentine, “there’d be no fun in it, would there? Goodbye, Gregor.” He shut down the viewscreen.
“Let them come,” said the Silvestri. “ We can handle them.”
“We can,” said the Kartakis. “I’m not so sure about you.”
Carlos Silvestri flushed pinkly, a knife in each hand. “I can hold up my end.”
“Relax,” said the Romanov, rooting through the remains of his dinner in case he’d missed anything. “With all the guards and security we’ve set up here, we could hold off an entire army till they starved to death.”
“Anyone else maybe,” said the Silvestri. “But this is the Deathstalker and the d’Ark woman. I’ve heard stories about them, of the things they did during the street fighting on Golgotha. Someone said they died and brought themselves back to life.”
“Stories,” said Athos Kartakis. “There are always stories.”
“In this case they might just be true,” said Valentine. “But not to worry, dear comrades. Let them come how they will. They’ll find nothing here but death.” He laughed softly at his little joke. The others didn’t look too appreciative of his humor, but then, they rarely did. Valentine’s sense of humor had changed and evolved along with his alchemical transformation, and wasn’t to everyone’s taste anymore. He sighed, and got to his feet, the signal that dinner was officially over. He dabbed daintily at his scarlet lips with a napkin and started toward the door. The three aristocrats made varying sounds of alarm despite themselves. Valentine took his time turning back to face them.
“Yes, dear friends? Was there something else?”
“The drug,” said the Kartakis stonily. “We need the drug.”
“Of course,” said Valentine. “What was I thinking? It’s time for your daily dose, isn’t it? How very forgetful of me.”
He strolled back to the table and took a small phial of pills from his pocket. The three men who had once been Lords and masters of their destiny looked at the phial and tried not to appear too desperate. Valentine was quite capable of dragging out his little game for ages if he felt like it. He could make them do anything, anything at all, at this time of the day, and they all knew it.
The esper drug had originally been discovered by a small group of scientists looking for something else. To their surprise, they found they had created a drug that could give everyone who took it regularly a small but real gift for telepathy. The original Lord High Dram, the Widowmaker, had seized control of the drug and the scientists, and put it to his own use, but his plans, like his imagination, were somewhat limited. After his death Valentine took control of the drug and the single laboratory that produced it. There was of course a catch or two. First, the drug was highly addictive. Once you’d started taking it, you had to continue for the rest of your life, or die horribly. And second, a small percentage of the people who took it died immediately. Valentine had weighed the pros and cons, but not for long. It was only a drug, after all, and Valentine had never believed in letting a chemical get the better of him.
The three ex-Lords had also taken the drug and survived. It had been the Wolfe’s condition for allowing them to join him in mass-producing the drug. A drug that could be used as a weapon to undermine and then control first the Parliament and then the rest of the civilized worlds. For whoever owned and controlled production of such an endlessly addictive drug would have complete and utter control over everyone who took it, for as long as they lived. And for those few who might try to hold out against it, it would be easy enough to slip them the drug unnoticed. Everyone has to eat and drink, and one dose was all it would take.
Valentine had always believed the simplest plans were the best.
So he handed out the precious pills, and the Silvestri and the Romanov and the Kartakis swallowed them down, and everyone was reminded of just who was in charge of things in the old Deathstalker Standing. Valentine had the grace not to smile triumphantly at them. They would have liked to kill him for the secret, and regain control of their lives, but they didn’t dare. They knew that if he died, they would die too, and however badly he died, they’d die worse.
“I trust you enjoyed the dinner,” he said smoothly. “Something a little different today.”
The three aristocrats looked suspiciously at the dinner table, trying to remember if anything had seemed out of the ordinary.
“No, no,” said Valentine, correctly interpreting their expressions. “I wouldn’t waste any of my special concoctions on such an unappreciative audience. Rather, I thought we might all enjoy a taste of the last real produce exported from the food planet of Virimonde.”
For a long moment none of them got it. There was no food left on the planet anymore. Everyone knew that. And then the Silvestri’s eyes widened, and he put a hand to his mouth as all the color drained from his face. “The dead . . . the people of Virimonde . . . we’ve been eating . . .”
“Yes, you have,” said Valentine. “And with such good appetite too. Ah, me; so many taboos, so little time. Enjoy the after-dinner mints, gentlemen.”
With a cheery smile and a modest inclination of the head, Valentine Wolfe left to plan the surprises he had in mind for Owen Deathstalker and Hazel d’Ark.
The great Deathstalker castle had been built on a huge promontory of solid granite. From the front and the two sides, open plains stretched away in all directions. To the rear there was a solid drop of hundreds of feet, ending in nasty, jagged rocks lashed by a vicious incoming tide. Which made the Standing both extremely easy to defend and very hard to sneak into. Perfect security thinking. Though that wasn’t why Owen had chosen to put his Standing there. He just liked the view.
Of course, he’d never expected to have to break into his own Standing, so when he and Hazel finally came in sight of his old home, they had to stop and do some hard thinking. A frontal or side approach was out of the question; their special nature might make them invisible to the castle’s sensors, but they were still perfectly visible to the naked eye. And Owen didn’t share Hazel’s faith in their invulnerability. So after a certain amount of argument, they finally decided the only practical way was around the back. It meant retreating back some of the way they’d already come, and a slow descent down to the wave-lashed shore at the foot of the great promontory, but eventually they stood together amid the flying spray, looking up at hundreds of feet of bare granite wall.
“There used to be birds here,” said Owen quietly. “Or things very like birds. Soaring and wheeling on the wind, crying out in the saddest voices you ever heard. And now they’re all gone. They even killed the damned birds.”
“Just another reason to take revenge,” said Hazel. “Nothing like a little stoked rage to warm a body on a long, cold climb.”
“It’s very cold here,” said Owen. “I don’t think I’ll ever be warm again.”
He started up the dark granite wall, climbing slowly and carefully, and after a moment Hazel followed him. The wind rushed around them, trying to pluck them from the sheer rock face, but couldn’t budge them, so it just settled for blowing tears from their eyes. Owen concentrated on the wall before him, moving confidently from one foot and hand hold to another.
After the first hundred feet, he decided very firmly that he wasn’t going to look down again till he was safely inside the castle. Great views aside, he’d never been fond of heights. And yet he moved increasingly easily up the bare rock face, his hands and feet instinctively finding holds and supports he would have sworn weren’t there till he needed them. Not for the first time, it was as though his body knew how to do something without having to be told. Owen brooded over that as he climbed. He’d become able to do all kinds of things that he never could before, since he passed through the Madness Maze, and emerged so much more than he had been. The talents came and went, and he couldn’t always be sure they’d be there when he needed them. And even after all this time he was no nearer understanding their nature. He looked across at Hazel, skittering calmly up the smooth granite surface like an insect on a pane of glass, and had to look away. He really hoped he didn’t look like that. He made himself look again, and found Hazel looking back at him.