Deathstalker (39 page)

“I keep telling you, you’ve got nothing to worry about. I’m the best, love. It wasn’t even close today.”

“You keep saying that, but anyone can have a bad day, make a wrong move. I wish …”

“I know. But I can’t give it up. As much as I need you, I need this, too. It’s part of what makes me
me
. I couldn’t walk away from this and still be the man you love. Evangeline …”

“I know. It’s just that I worry so much. I never thought there’d be anyone like you in my life, someone who mattered so much to me. I hate everything that comes between us.”

“Don’t.” He pushed her gently away from him, so that he could look into her face. Her dark eyes held him like a fist. “You’re always with me, my love. You’re always in my
thoughts. I even took your middle name to christen my sword.”

“Thanks a whole lot,” said Evangeline dryly. “Other lovers get gifts of flowers or jewelry. I get a sword named after me.”

“It’s a good sword. …”

“And that makes all the difference.” A cloud fell across her face, and she pushed herself away from him. “How’s your wife, Finlay?”

He blinked uncertainly. “Fine, as far as I know. We don’t see any more of each other than we have to, these days. She has her life, and I have mine, and as long as we don’t actually have to meet each other, we get along great. What brought this on, love? You know I never loved her, or her me. It was an arranged marriage to consolidate a business deal. I’d divorce her in a minute if I thought there was any way you and I could be together. Why are you asking me about her now?”

“Because you and I are going to be at the wedding this afternoon. Our presence is required. But what about her; what about Adrienne? Will she be there, too?”

“Yes, she will. But knowing dear Adrienne, she’ll get stuck into the booze the minute she gets there, and will quite probably be entirely potted before we even get to the ceremony. Don’t worry, my love; we’ll have our chance to be together, as long as we’re careful. Very careful. They must never know about us, Evangeline. I know you hope things will change between the Clans, but they won’t. They’d fight a war over us, if they knew.”

“Worse than that,” said Evangeline. “We’d never see each other again.”

He took her in his arms and stopped her words with his mouth. And then for a long moment they just stood there together, holding each other tightly, so tightly no one would ever be able to tear them apart.

The most mismatched and politically sensitive wedding of the Season was held in a ballroom belonging to Clan Wolfe. Given the complicated web of deceit, intrigue and vendetta that connected the Campbells and the Shrecks, it was as near as they could get to neutral ground. Both Families had longstanding arguments with the Wolfes, but they weren’t actually openly fighting at the moment. They weren’t allies, and
probably never would be, but it was a case of better the minor enemy you know than the friend who might turn on you. So the Wolfes hosted, for an extortionate price, and the Campbells and the Shrecks promised to be on their best behavior. The Wolfes posted extra guards, just in case.

Both Families brought with them a small army of guards, protectors and back-watchers, along with a not so small army of cousins, sycophants and hangers-on. In high society, the size of one’s entourage in public was vitally important. It showed one’s strength. It wouldn’t do for one’s enemy to get the idea one couldn’t command loyalty among one’s retainers. It wouldn’t be … healthy. Besides, all the Families loved a show.

The ballroom itself was large and ostentatious, decorated on walls and floor and ceiling to the point of overkill. This was nothing unusual. There were pillars of silver and gold, draped with delicate strands of ivy carved from jade, and the floor was a single huge mosaic of major Wolfe ancestors and triumphs, composed of simple slabs of marble exactly an inch wide. One square inch being all most people could have afforded. The walls displayed ever-changing hologram scenes, chosen at random by the House computers from whatever exterior views were currently considered interesting or fashionable. The ceiling was a holo of the night sky, with stars scattered thickly like diamonds on black velvet. Few of the guests noticed. They were more interested in watching each other.

Finlay Campbell was there with his wife, as required. Neither of them were particularly happy about it. They’d had a blazing row on their wedding day, and things had gone rapidly downhill ever since. They’d only agreed to the arranged marriage under the greatest of pressures, and a few not terribly discreet threats. They would have had each other assassinated long ago, if they could only figure out how to get away with it, but the Imperial espers had taken all the fun out of inter-Family murder. So the marriage continued, under protest.

In the meantime, they kept as far apart as possible and met only on formal occasions that demanded their presence. Like this one. The only things they had in common were their two children, five and six years old respectively, already holy terrors by all accounts. The product of laboratory conceptions and births, they spent their early years
under Family-approved nannies and were currently attending Family-approved boarding schools. Strong Clan loyalty was made, not born, and the Family believed in starting early. They also didn’t want to risk any interference from the parents.

Finlay often thought wistfully of his son and daughter. He enjoyed their company, when he could, and had a feeling he might have made a good father for them, given the chance. But as in so many other things these days, it was Not Allowed. Finlay sighed quietly and looked around him, hoping for diversion if not inspiration. He himself was the height of fashion, as always, from his shocking pink cutaway frock coat to his fluorescent face and shoulder-length metallicized hair of burning bronze. His cravat was midnight blue silk, fashionably badly tied to show one did it oneself, his velvet cap was jet-black with a single peacock’s feather, and he regarded the scene through a pair of jewelled pince-nez spectacles he didn’t need but which added just the right touch. He also carried a sword on his hip, as custom required, but though the hilt and scabbard were crusted with precious stones, only Finlay knew the blade in the scabbard was perfectly serviceable, and not in the least ornamental.

The wedding was due to take place in half an hour, and the ballroom was crowded. Bright colors shouted at the eye every way Finlay looked, interrupted here and there by the flickering holograms of those who couldn’t attend in person. Most Family members were scattered across the Empire on Clan business, but they attended the wedding in spirit to show their solidarity and catch up on the latest gossip. One voice still rose above the general din, and without looking round Finlay knew it had to be his wife, Adrienne. She had one of those laser beam voices that can cut through anything. Not for the first time, Finlay thought if the Family could just find some way of harnessing it as a weapon, they’d make a fortune. He turned slowly, resignedly, and sure enough there was Adrienne, holding court before a group of minor nobles’ wives, who looked like they’d rather be somewhere else. Anywhere else.

Adrienne was of average height and just a little more than average weight, but made her presence known by being the loudest, both visually and audibly, person in any gathering. She wore a long black gown, partly because she thought the color suited her pale skin, but mostly because that way she
could claim to be in mourning for her marriage. It was as far off the shoulder as she could get it without actually have it fall around her knees, and it was split up the sides as far as her hips. It looked like it would take one good sneeze for it to fall off.

She had a sharp face, all planes and angles and angry scarlet mouth. Her eyes were narrow and perhaps just a little too close together, and she had the smallest, most up-turned nose that money could buy. She had a mop of curly hair, shining bright gold like a distress beacon. Her movements were sudden and abrupt, like a striking bird, and she treated each conversation as an enemy to be dominated and brought to heel. It was possible she might have heard of tact somewhere, but if she had, she’d never been seen to bother with it. If she’d been a man, her mouth would have bought her a hundred duels. As it was, there were those who suggested broadening the term man to include Adrienne Campbell, on general principles.

She had a large drink in her hand, from which she took large gulps in between hectoring her audience, and God help the servants if they weren’t there to refill her glass when she needed it. She looked about the magnificent ballroom and shook her head disgustedly.

“God, this place is a dump. I’ve seen livelier funerals, and better catered. I’d pour this wine down the toilet, but I’d swear someone already beat me to it. And would you look at the groom? I’ve seen men being prematurely buried who looked happier than he does. And the bride; she’s a child! Probably have to give her wedding night a miss so she can finish her homework. I take it someone has taken her to one side and filled her in on the facts of life? Like one, always use a contraceptive, and two, always get it in writing and preferably witnessed. Look at her; poor thing looks as confused as a blind lesbian in a fish market. Still, a good lay should put some color in her cheeks. Not that she’ll necessarily get one from that long drink of tap water she’s marrying.”

Adrienne went on like that for some time, pausing only when she absolutely had to, to breathe or drink or glare at someone who didn’t look like they were listening to her intently enough. Finlay watched admiringly, from a distance. He appreciated a good performance, and Adrienne was certainly on form this afternoon. Mind you, after enduring several
years of such verbal battery at close range, he’d acquired a certain immunity. Others were not so fortunate. More than one of the ladies in Adrienne’s current audience looked as though they were thinking wistfully how easy it would be to drop something really unpleasant but not necessarily actually fatal in Adrienne’s drink when she wasn’t looking.

Finlay completely understood the impulse. Adrienne’s voice had the carrying quality of an airstrike and was usually about as welcome. People arranging parties and other social gatherings had been known to get extremely inventive when it came to producing reasons why Adrienne shouldn’t attend, everything from outbreaks of plague to social unrest, but it didn’t make any difference. Adrienne turned up anyway. As a Campbell by marriage, she couldn’t be excluded, and she had very thick skin. And it had to be said, the more attention they paid to her, the less they paid to Finlay Campbell. Which wasn’t always a bad thing.

He gazed about the crowded ballroom, packed with all the bright flowers of the aristocracy going through the familiar ritual dances of intrigue and seduction, politics and gossip. Everywhere there were brightly shining fluorescent faces under gleaming metallic hair, and clothes cut to the extremes of fashionable taste. They struck Finlay as so many chattering birds of paradise, or prettily painted toys with hidden sharp edges. There was no depth in them, no passion or commitment to anything but the pleasure of the moment. They were only saved from outright decadence by their short attention spans and inbred laziness. True debauchery was hard work, and most just couldn’t be bothered. Finlay despised them all. They knew nothing of courage, or the true extremes of life and death, except in their carefully orchestrated code duello, where honor was often satisfied with first blood. Finlay watched them all with an empty smile on his face and contempt in his heart.

He looked desperately about him in search of diversion, and his gaze lighted on the Wolfes. The Wolfe himself was absent, along with his new wife; a courtesy, so that whatever happened they could officially ignore any behavior that might threaten the neutrality of the occasion. But Valentine, Stephanie and Daniel were there, looking as though they’d much rather be somewhere else. Finlay smiled slightly. Of course, all three of them had arranged marriages of their
own coming up in the very near future. Presumably their father had insisted they attend to gain a few pointers on the terrible fate that awaited them. Stephanie and Daniel were standing together, ostentatiously ignoring their respective betrothed, who were currently chatting amiably together and getting on like a house on fire. Valentine stood alone, as always, tall and slender and darkly delicate, wearing a plum-colored coat and leggings. With his long dark curly hair and painted face, he looked like nothing so much as a rich but bruised fruit from some unhealthy tree. Beyond the mascaraed eyes and wide crimson smile, his face seemed polite but partly absent, as though his thoughts were somewhere else. Finlay didn’t like to think where that might be. Valentine had no wineglass in his hand, presumably because there wasn’t a wine in the room potent enough to jolt his jaded appetites.

Finlay decided he’d better find someone to talk to before someone really boring settled on him, and the Wolfes looked as interesting as any. Besides, Valentine intrigued him. They’d both attended the same school at the same time, but that was pretty much all they had in common, then and now. As far as Finlay could remember, Valentine had been a normal enough child, with no hint of warning of what he was to become. But then, that was probably true of him, too. He strode casually over to the Wolfes, as though he just happened to be drifting in their direction, nodding and smiling to those he passed, every movement the epitome of grace. It wasn’t difficult. One of the first things he’d learned in the Arena was how to control his every movement. He noted the admiring glances as he passed and felt only the satisfaction of a good disguise. He was the height of fashion: a brilliant mirror in which people saw only what they expected to see.

He stopped before Valentine and bowed with a flourish. The Wolfe heir nodded courteously in return, the heavy black eye makeup and scarlet mouth standing out starkly against his pale skin. That particular look hadn’t been fashionable in years, but having found something that appealed to his inner nature, Valentine was apparently loath to change it. Finlay wondered with a sudden flash of insight whether the painted face might be as much a mask as the one he wore. And if so, what other, stranger, Valentine might lie behind it. A disturbing thought. Whatever lay behind the mask,
it would have to be pretty damned strange to outdo his everyday persona. Finlay smiled dazzlingly.