Deathstalker Return (49 page)

His eyes adjusted to the gloom as he drew nearer Angelo’s desk. The room was a mess. Nothing was in its right place, nothing had been cleaned up, and what looked like important papers were scattered over the floor around the desk. Tel did his best not to step on them. He stopped in front of the desk, and Angelo finally raised his head to look at him. He glared sullenly at his brother, making no move to greet him. His hair was long and shaggy, and his beard hadn’t been trimmed in ages. His face had an unhealthy pallor, and his eyes had the dark dangerous glare of an old-time prophet. His hands were toying with a long, vicious-looking dagger, and Tel was suddenly very glad there was a wide desk between him and his brother. Tel looked away from his brother’s disturbing gaze, and suddenly realized that what he’d thought was an ornament was in fact the back of someone’s head. Tel moved to one side for a better look. It was a severed human head, with sunken eyes, its mouth drooping open in a never-ending scream of horror. It was mounted on a letter spike, and the blood around the base still looked wet.

“What happened, Angelo?” Tel said steadily. “You run out of executive toys?”

“Oh, don’t mind him,” said Angelo in a surprisingly calm and reasonable voice. “He was a traitor. There are traitors everywhere. Traitors and heretics and . . . But I make use of them. Waste not, want not, as our dear mother used to say. I was going to call her, only the other day, but . . . I talk to the head, you know, and it talks to me. God speaks to me through its dead lips, telling me His will. For I am His Angel, and He loves me dearly. I’m not sure how He feels about you, Tel. You were always very cruel to me, when we were younger. God’s will is sometimes strange, and often downright disturbing, but who are we to question Him? Don’t blame the messenger for the message, that’s what I always say. If He wants people killed, He must have His reasons. The only problem is, I have to keep replacing the heads. They wear out very quickly, and it’s often hard to work out exactly what God is saying, when the mouth is rotting and falling apart. I know, I know; the bad workman blames his tools, but . . . The spirit is willing but the flesh is weak. Still, there’s never any shortage of traitors and heretics. Sometimes I find them among my own people when I’m in a hurry. God doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

Tel nodded slowly, keeping his face blank. No wonder Finn wanted Angel replaced. It might undermine the faith of the Church Militant fanatics, if word got out that their revered spiritual leader had gone barking mad. Tel sighed inwardly. Perhaps . . . if he got Angelo out of here, away from all this, and the pressures of the job . . . then perhaps he could be coaxed back into his right mind. Mother would take him in. She always did.

Angelo had always been her favorite.

“You can’t stay here, Angelo,” Tel said carefully. “It isn’t safe anymore. I need you to come with me now.”

He reached out a hand to his brother across the desk, but Angelo recoiled immediately. A slow craftiness entered his gaze, and his voice rose sharply.

“No, this is my place! I have made it a holy place, and sacred. I can never leave here. The world is a dirty, sinful place, full of liars and schemers . . . Nowhere else is safe now. They plot against me, they do, even the Durandal. I never trusted him. But I know what’s going on. I have my sources, and God tells me many things. I live on pure air, you know. I have transcended the need for grosser nourishment. Angels are above all mortal weaknesses. You must go. I have a sermon to finish. The people are waiting to hear from me. They rely on me.”

I can’t kill him,
Tel thought slowly.
It might almost be a merciful release, but even so . . . I can’t murder a helpless pathetic mess like this. It would be like poisoning a small child. It seems . . . there are some lines that even I won’t cross. Who would have guessed it?

“Come with me, Angelo,” he said, with something very like compassion in his voice. “Let me take you home.”

“I can’t go home,” said Angelo. He sounded suddenly tired, resigned. “I don’t belong there anymore. Finn gave me so many drugs, and I took them . . . and now I have to stay in the place I made for myself. Did I ever tell you about what happened in that Church, on Madraguda, all those years ago? I lied. It wasn’t like that at all.”

“I know,” said Tel.

“I thought I found my path there, and my destiny. But all I really found was the darkness in my own soul. Get out of here, Tel. You can’t help me. Even I can’t help me now. I must do . . . what I must do.”

“Angelo . . .”

“Get out, Tel. Before God tells me to hurt you . . .”

Tel backed slowly out of the dimly lit room, not taking his eyes off his brother, and then he left, closing the door firmly. He looked at the secretary behind her desk, shook his head helplessly, and strode off back through the Cathedral. And wondered where the hell he could go, where Finn Durandal wouldn’t be able to find him.

 

 

It didn’t take long for the news to get back to Finn. Tel wouldn’t have been surprised if Angelo’s secretary Marion hadn’t put in the call herself. Either way, Tel had barely found a private comm booth, and started calling round his so-called friends and allies, when he discovered that the word was already out on him. And the word from Finn was death. There was to be no chance for explanations, or excuses. Most of the people Tel called wouldn’t take his call, and those few who would seemed to take an inordinate delight in informing him that he was no longer any associate of theirs. Tel Markham had been disowned from on high, and now he was an outcast, a pariah, with a price on his head. Some gloated, some even made threats, but most just wanted him to go away and never call them again. Because failure might be catching.

Tel left the booth and wandered off down the street. He hadn’t spent long enough on any call for anyone to be able to trace him, but he felt a need to keep moving. He knew there was only one place he could safely go now, but he resisted the idea, his thoughts plunging wildly back and forth for some alternative. Because once he fell into the Rookery, that was the end of his soft, comfortable, privileged life. He hated to think he’d thrown it all away, just because of a brother he’d never even liked much. And then he stopped, and looked at the vid screens on display in a store window. They were all talking about him.

A breaking news story was running on all the major channels. The life and crimes of Tel Markham, traitor and fugitive from justice. Tel watched for a while, and had to admire the workmanship. It was a very detailed, very clever hatchet job. Finn must have had it put together some time back, and kept it in reserve for just such an occasion as this—when Finn no longer needed Tel. The news story listed all the bad things he’d done, and a great many he hadn’t. Tel was impressed by the research, and thought he detected the skilled poison pen of Mr. Sylvester himself, the ruiner of reputations that Finn had brought out of the Rookery to be his character assassin. Tel had worked with Mr. Sylvester in the past, on just such pieces as this, using half truths and vicious lies to bring down those who threatened him. The irony of the situation did not escape him.

The story went on to reveal every one of the secret organizations he’d belonged to, from the Shadow Court to the Hellfire Club, and even a few really obscure ones that Tel had actually forgotten about. And so, at a stroke, Finn seperated Tel from all his old allies. None of the groups would support him now. They’d probably be furious enough to put a price on his head themselves. He had sworn allegiance to too many people, too many causes, and they would never forgive him for daring to serve so many conflicting masters.

Even the few people he’d actually thought of as friends had disowned him.
You don’t have anything we want. You don’t have anything we need. You’re nobody.

Tel looked casually around, and then activated the holo face he kept hidden for emergencies, stored in his high collar. It would last long enough to get him to where he was going. When you had nothing and no one, there was still one place that would always take you in. The last resort of the desperate man. The Rookery.

 

 

Tel Markham entered the Rookery through one of the lesser known ways, and went straight to a safe house he’d maintained for many years under a pseudonym, the finances carefully concealed behind a series of cutouts. He’d always made a point of keeping up with the payments, even in his leanest times, all for a time he’d hoped would never come. He let himself in with a key he’d never used before, turned off his holo face, and looked around him. It wasn’t much, but it had all the amenities, including a comm line. So the first thing Tel did was to sit down and contact all the major news channels—anonymously, of course—and spill all the secrets and dirt he’d spent a political lifetime accumulating. All the scandals, all the stupid choices and dirty washing of everyone he’d ever worked with. If he was going down, he was taking everyone else with him. Tel was a great believer in the satisfactions of revenge, and spreading the pain around.

And yet interestingly enough, none of the news channels would accept anything about Finn Durandal. The comm line just shut itself down automatically every time Tel tried to use the name Finn. The Durandal had fixed it so no one could discuss anything that the Durandal didn’t want discussed. Tel was impressed. That was real power.

He tried every trick he knew to get around the problem, but in the end he had to give up. He shut down the comm link. It had been a long and unexpectedly hard day, and he was tired. Maybe he’d try again tomorrow. It wasn’t as if he had anything else to do. He leaned back in the uncomfortable chair and wondered what he was going to do next. He had some money put away under a multitude of false identities, but it wouldn’t last long. And the Rookery could be an expensive place, once people there realized you had nowhere else to go. And sooner rather than later, the bounty hunters would be on his trail. Finn would see to that. Tel shuddered suddenly, and wrapped his arms tightly around himself, as a cold wave of helplessness washed over him. He was alone, cut off from everyone and everything he knew. What was he going to do now? He looked at the mirror on the wall opposite him, and didn’t recognize the face he saw there.

The pale, frightened face in the mirror didn’t look like him. That old, beaten down man couldn’t be Tel Markham, mover and shaker, member for Madraguda. Though he supposed even that title would be taken away from him, now he’d been named a traitor. But if he wasn’t an MP, what was he? Tel was used to defining himself by what he did; his title and his power and his influence. Now all that was gone, was he still Tel Markham? Who was he, really? What did he believe in? He’d never believed in any of the causes he supported, not once; they were all just a means to an end, to making him a mover and a shaker. All he had left now was himself, and now that he looked, there didn’t seem to be much of him.

No, there was one thing he was sure of: he was a man who wouldn’t murder his own brother.

Tel smiled slowly, coldly. When everything else has been taken from you, one thing still remains: revenge. And Finn really should have remembered that a man with nothing left to lose is the most dangerous man of all.

 

 

Finn Durandal decided that he would murder Angelo Bellini and make it look as though Tel Markham had done it anyway. So he strolled through the Cathedral, nodded casually to Marion at her desk, walked unannounced into Angelo’s office, hauled him over his desk, and strangled the Angel of Madraguda with his bare hands. Finn watched almost clinically as Angelo’s face reddened and then darkened, and the way his eyes bulged as he struggled for breath as he beat helplessly against Finn with his soft, useless hands. But in the end it was all over very quickly, and Finn was somewhat surprised and disappointed to discover that he hadn’t actually enjoyed it very much. It was just work, a necessary and marginally unpleasant detail he’d had to take care of, and now it was done. Finn let the dead body fall to the carpet, and then he strode round the desk and sat down in Angelo’s chair to consider the matter.

It was getting harder and harder for Finn to find things he could enjoy. When you can do anything, and no one can stop you, it rather takes the thrill out of it. He needed greater and greater stimulus to activate and entertain him, to keep him going. He’d done all the usual things, broken all the usual taboos, and now . . . his greatest enemy was boredom. He was beginning to understand what it was that drove the ELFs to commit acts of such appalling excess. When nothing is forbidden or impossible, even the vilest of sins can lose its savor. Finn had thrown aside all moral restraints in the name of freedom, and found it exhilarating; but now he was discovering that when you care about nothing, then nothing much matters anymore. It would probably have been different if he’d been a man of great physical appetites—for food and drink and sex. But he’d never had much use for any of them. And it might have helped if love had been real, but it never had been, for him. He’d always been much more comfortable with hatred. It seemed all he had left now were the subtle joys of intrigue, the setting of his mind in opposition to others. That, and the happy satisfactions of revenge.

He would still bring the Empire down and exult in its destruction—but he was no longer as sure he could be bothered to raise it up again.

Finn considered the rotting severed head on its spike on Angelo’s desk. Its ugliness bothered him. So he removed it from its spike, and threw it aside. He got up, went over to Angelo’s body, cut off the head and brought it back to the desk. He settled Angelo’s head on the letter spike, taking some care to get it perfectly straight and upright, and then sat back down again to study it. He particularly liked the look of surprise that still haunted the slack features. He decided to leave it there, on the desk, as a gift for whoever he decided to put in charge of the Church Militant. It would make such a marvelous object lesson. Hopefully, whoever he finally settled on wouldn’t take the job so seriously this time.