Deathstalker Destiny (51 page)

But all went well. Crow Jane proclaimed their true identities in a ringing voice, and Robert’s quiet sigh of relief went unnoticed as the Cardinal raised his voice to declare them now man and wife. Robert kissed his bride, remembering at the very last moment to lift her veil first, and the whole audience cheered, in the House and across the Empire. Flynn was right there with his camera, getting it all. Two Members of Parliament, chosen strictly by lot, came forward with the two newly made crowns; simple golden frames encrusted with the Empire’s most precious and radiant stones. Robert and Constance knelt before them, and were crowned at the hands of the people. The two crowns were lowered onto their head simultaneously, to demonstrate King and Queen were equal in power and status. The two constitutional monarchs rose to their feet, and smiled out over the people, and everyone cheered again, and again and again, as though they might never stop.

 

Afterward the wedding banquet was a loud, noisy, and altogether more relaxed affair. There was no room for seats, so everyone just grabbed a plate and some cutlery, and provided for themselves. Robert and Constance made the rounds, smiling and shaking hands, and making sure everyone had enough to eat. There was the traditional cake, twelve tiers high, and enough champagne to float a medium-sized ship, and an apparently endless buffet table almost collapsing under the weight of delicacies from a hundred worlds. It took a while for Robert and Constance to get anywhere; everyone wanted to pay their compliments to the new King and Queen, and to be seen doing it on holo. Politics never takes a holiday. But still it was a time of happy chatter and loud laughter, with good humor and good fellowship for all.

Or very nearly. Kit SummerIsle had been quietly following the Royal couple on their rounds, at a discreet distance, when he spotted a familiar but unexpected face in the crowd. He paused just long enough to be sure that Crow Jane and the Unknown Clone were watching over the King and Queen, and then he moved quietly through the press of bodies to intercept his chosen target. The man had a new name and title now, as Sir Sleyton du Bois, but that wasn’t how Kit knew him. Sir Sleyton had once been the Steward of David Deathstalker’s Standing on Virimonde. The Steward had been sworn to David’s service, but instead had betrayed his master to the Lord High Dram’s forces when they invaded Virimonde. Because of the Steward’s betrayal, the castle Standing had fallen, and David died in Kit’s arms. Kit had never forgotten that.

He’d lost track of the Steward during the upheavals of the last days of the rebellion, but he never gave up the search. Eventually he discovered that Lionstone had rewarded the Steward with a new name and a minor title, but Kit was patient. He’d known a social climber like the Steward would be unable to miss the Royal wedding. And sure enough, here he was, bold as brass. The SummerIsle came to a sudden halt in front of the ex-Steward, and took a certain cold satisfaction in watching all the color drain out of the man’s face.

“Ah, Steward,” he said calmly. “So good to see you again, after all this time.”

“You can’t touch me,” said Sir Sleyton du Bois. “I have a new life now. Aristocratic friends. Influence. Protection ...”

“I know who and what you are,” said Kit SummerIsle. “I am now Warrior Prime to the Empire, charged by the King himself with hunting down and dealing with traitors. Come with me, traitor.”

He dropped an apparently friendly hand onto Sir Sleyton’s shoulder, and his fingers dug harshly into an exposed nerve there. The ex-Steward grimaced, but made no move to resist as the SummerIsle steered him through the crowds and into the adjoining kitchens. A few people looked at them askance, but no one said anything. The SummerIsle half threw his captive into the kitchens, and carefully shut the swinging doors behind him. The kitchen staff fell back, abandoning their responsibilities. They knew who Kit SummerIsle was. The ex-Steward backed away, rubbing almost childishly at the pain in his abused shoulder.

“I have position. I could do a lot for you. I have money. I could make you rich. I could ...”

“Can you raise the dead?” said Kit.

“What ... ?”

“I thought not. And you have nothing else I want. I’ve waited a long time for this moment, Steward.”

Sir Sleyton du Bois turned and tried to run, but Kid Death was upon him before he managed more than a few steps. He dragged the ex-Steward over to a great brimming punch bowl, bent him over, and then thrust the man’s head down into the punch till it covered his ears. The ex-Steward kicked and struggled, but Kit held him down remorselessly. The kitchen staff watched, horrified, but no one even thought of interfering with Kid Death. It took a while for the ex-Steward to drown, but Kit was in no hurry. Finally the bubbles stopped rising to the surface of the punch, and the ex-Sir Sleyton du Bois was still. Kit held him under awhile longer, smiling gently, and then let him go. The dead body fell to the floor, eyes staring, mouth wide, lungs full of the most expensive punch.

“For you, David,” Kit said quietly. “My love.”

 

Back on the floor of the House, Cardinal Brendan had been called away to speak with a young Sister of Mercy, who had an urgent message from Saint Beatrice. The Cardinal had been happy to go, glad of any excuse that would allow him to disappear while the SummerIsle wasn’t around and watching. He didn’t have long to be happy, though. The smiling young nun steered him into one of the empty private rooms, locked the door behind him, and slid a wicked-looking knife between the Cardinal’s ribs with practiced skill. Brendan sank to the floor, too shocked even to cry out, both hands clasped to his side as though he could somehow hold in the life that was escaping from him along with the gushing blood. He lived just long enough to see the holo disguise drop away, revealing the smiling face of Valentine Wolfe, and then he died. Valentine laughed softly, and refigured the holo camera on his shoulder so that he now appeared to be Cardinal Brendan. The damned Elf security had kept him well away from the actual ceremony, despite the young nun’s most tearful blandishments, but no one would stop Cardinal Brendan. What could be more natural than for the Cardinal who had married Robert and Constance to wish to pay his compliments to the new King and Queen? And once he was close enough ... one disrupter blast, one slashed throat, and it would all be over, with no time for anyone to do anything. And then the fun would really begin.

Valentine sailed happily out of the private room, leaving Brendan’s dead body lying on the floor, and made his way briskly through the crowds, heading straight for the happy couple like a shark that’s just scented blood in the water. His holo disguise was perfect, and no one gave him a second look. His heart beat rapidly as he bore down on the King and Queen, and they turned to meet him, entirely unsuspecting. There was a news cameraman nearby, and Valentine beckoned to him imperiously. He wanted the whole Empire to see what he was about to do.

Flynn nodded quickly to the Cardinal, and hurried forward to get a better shot. But when he looked through his camera, he saw again the same vague distortion he’d seen around the young Sister of Mercy earlier. He swore silently, and wondered if he’d have to dismantle the whole damned camera to find out what the problem was. There couldn’t be anything wrong with the signal going out, or Toby would have been yelling in his ear by now. Flynn looked at the apparent energy field again, still not sure what he was seeing. He ran quickly through the camera’s most recent update menus, searching for possibilities, and then lost his cool completely as the camera told him the most likely answer was a holo disguise. Flynn looked at the scene through his own eyes, saw how close the Cardinal was to the King and Queen, and how far away the nearest Elves were, and did the only thing he could. He yelled a warning, and sent his camera shooting forward at full speed. It locked on to the holo signal, and crashed right into the hidden camera on the Cardinal’s shoulder, knocking it away. Once out of contact with its user, the camera’s holo field collapsed, and suddenly there was Valentine Wolfe, with scarlet mouth and mascaraed eyes, and a gun and knife in his hands.

There were shouts and screams as people shrank back from him. Valentine looked round him, startled, only slowly realizing what must have happened. Elves came running from all directions. Robert moved quickly to stand between his bride and the new danger, his ceremonial sword at the ready before him. Valentine laughed softly, and raised his gun. Robert stood his ground, protecting Constance with his own body. The Elves struggling through the packed crowd lashed out with their minds, but Valentine’s own esp was just strong enough to confuse them, and their attacks went wide. Valentine’s gun centered on Robert’s chest.

“Everybody stop right where they are,” he said brightly, and the Elves reluctantly slowed to a halt. Valentine looked at Robert with feverbright eyes, and licked his lips. “Give me your crown,” he said calmly. “You know it really should be mine. And it’s only fitting that a King should give way to an Emperor.”

“Mad as ever, Valentine,” said Robert. “Kill me, and you’ll never leave here alive.”

“Oh, I think I will. Nothing can kill me now. I’ve moved far beyond such human weaknesses. I’m glad it’s come down to you and me, in the end. How very fitting, after all this time, that the last real Campbell should meet his end at the hands of the last real Wolfe.”

“Not even close, Valentine,” said the Unknown Clone, pushing forward to stand at Robert’s side. He reached up and pulled off his mask, and the whole crowd murmured with something like shock as they recognized the grim face of Finlay Campbell. Valentine nodded slowly.

“Well met, old enemy. Aren’t you supposed to be dead?”

“You’re a fine one to talk. I thought I’d finally got rid of you in Tower Shreck.”

Valentine made a negligent gesture. “I don’t do the dying thing anymore. I cannot be stopped by anyone.”

“Really?” said Finlay. “Let’s test that.” His sword lashed out with dizzying speed, and the tip raked across the back of Valentine’s hand, severing the tendons. Valentine’s fingers opened automatically, and the disrupter dropped from his hand. The tendons knit back together again almost immediately, and Valentine quickly brought his sword into position as Finlay advanced on him. He smiled at Robert.

“Bet I can pick up my gun and use it before you or your cow can run three paces,” he said brightly. “So stay put, and watch the show. I’ll get round to you. But first ... the two true inheritors of Clan Wolfe and Clan Campbell, locked in mortal combat, one last time. Ah, Finlay ... how proud our fathers would be of us.”

“Shut up and fight,” said Finlay.

They both moved forward, their swords clashing together and then springing apart as they circled each other, their arms moving so fast they were little more than blurs. Valentine had been trained in swordsmanship by the finest tutors Wolfe money could buy, but Finlay had been the Masked Gladiator, undefeated champion of the Golgotha Arenas. The fight had hardly begun before Finlay tricked the Wolfe into lowering his guard for just a moment, and then the Campbell stepped forward in an extended lunge and ran Valentine through. His sword slammed into Valentine just under the breastbone, and burst out of his back in a flurry of flying blood. A perfect killing blow. But Valentine didn’t fall. He coughed delicately, and a little blood sprayed from his mouth, but his dark eyes never wavered. And while Finlay still held his extended lunge, confused, Valentine thrust his own sword into Finlay’s belly. Powered by Shub-driven strength, Valentine’s blade punched right through Finlay’s armor, burying itself deep in his gut. Finlay cried out and fell backward, clutching at the bloody wound with both hands as Valentine’s blade left his body. Dark blood pulsed thickly between his fingers. Valentine pulled Finlay’s sword out of his body, and let it fall to the floor. The wound healed almost immediately, closed and sealed by Shub nanotech. Evangeline and Adrienne grabbed Finlay and dragged him away. Fortunately for him, there was a regeneration machine on standby in one of the private rooms. The Elves had insisted.

Valentine looked unhurriedly about him. “Anyone else? No? Well then, as I was saying, before I was so rudely interrupted ...”

“Get away from the King,” said a cold, merciless voice, and everyone turned to look as Kit SummerIsle came striding through the crowd. Valentine nodded thoughtfully, and lifted his sword, but made no move to pick up his gun. He could have anytime, and everyone knew it, but he was having far too much fun. He did so love to tease his enemies. He bowed lightly as Kid Death came to a halt before him, sword in hand.

“Typical,” said the SummerIsle. “I take my eye off the ball for a few moments, and everything goes to hell. Come on, Wolfe. Let’s do it. You know you want to.”

“Why not?” said Valentine easily. “Always time for a little pleasure before business.”

They came together in a flurry of flashing blades and stamping feet, both showing their teeth in smiles that had no true humor in them. Again the fight was fast and furious, but Kit had had time to see Finlay’s mistake, and kept his distance. Since running the Wolfe through clearly didn’t work, Kid Death concentrated on whittling away at his opponent, cutting and slicing at the Wolfe’s pale flesh, but the wounds sealed themselves as fast as they were inflicted, and if Valentine felt any pain it didn’t bother him in the least. Kit parried Valentine’s blows with almost arrogant skill and ease, but he couldn’t help noticing that the attacks were coming faster and stronger all the time. Almost inhumanly fast. Kit held his ground anyway. He knew there was nowhere to go. His calm killer’s mind assessed the situation logically. He couldn’t hurt or harm the Wolfe, so that just left ... He grinned suddenly, chose the time and angle of blow carefully, and cut off Valentine’s sword arm, right at the elbow, with a tremendous double-handed swing that drew admiring cries from the crowd. The severed arm fell to the floor, still clutching the sword.