Simon R. Green - Deathstalker - 7 - Deathstalker Return

Deathstalker Return

by Simon R. Green

CHAPTER ONE

IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF LEGENDS

Lewis Deathstalker and his rebel companions had been traveling together in their hijacked yacht the

Hereward for almost two days now. They hadn't even reached the edge of the core planets yet, and

already they were all mulling over detailed plans on how best to kill each other. Occasionally they'd take

time out to consider less important problems, such as where the hell they were going, or how best to

overthrow Finn Durandal, find the lost Owen Deathstalker and Hazel d'Ark, stop the Terror before it

destroyed the whole of existence, and return the Empire to its Golden Age; but first things first.

The trouble was, the Hereward was essentially a pleasure craft, designed to carry only its captain and a

few very close friends in style and comfort, so the four outlaws and their eight-foot-tall reptiloid

companion were finding things a bit cramped, not to mention distinctly claustrophobic. Lewis sat slumped

in the captain's chair on the bridge, swiveling slowly back and forth, just for something to do. The ship's

AI, Ozymandias, was running all the things that mattered, and the Hereward's top of the line security

systems meant nothing less than a starcruiser could detect them, except by accident, Since of late most

conversations had tended to escalate very quickly into shouting matches, a strained silence currently

occupied the bridge. So Lewis swiveled slowly back and forth, studying his reluctant partners in turn.

Jesamine Flowers sat beside him on the only other chair, scowling at the protein cube and cup of distilled

water that made up the main meal of the day. She was tall, blond, heart-stoppingly beautiful, and

voluptously glamourous, because her role as the Empire's premiere star and diva demanded it, but after

all this time away from her beauticians and stylists, the strain was beginning to show. She still looked

marvelous, she just didn't look like a goddess anymore. Lewis didn't care, but Jesamine did. It had been

a long time since she'd had to settle for being merely marvelous. But still, she had given up being a

superstar, the worshiped and adored Queen-to-be, in order to cleave to her true love, Lewis. She'd

given up everything for him, and he had vowed never to make her regret it.

Although he loved her with all his heart, Lewis still had to wonder what she saw in him. Lewis wasn't a

god. He wasn't even handsome. His face was broad and harsh-featured. Full of character, perhaps, but

still almost defiantly ugly. He could have had it fixed, but he honestly never saw the point. He was what

he was, inside and out. He was also short and blocky, well-muscled because his old jobs as Paragon and

Champion had demanded it, and so broad-chested that from a distance he often seemed as wide as he

was tall. He kept his black hair short so he wouldn't have to bother about it, and shaved regularly only

because Jesamine insisted on it. He had surprisingly mild blue eyes and a rare but good-natured smile. He

was a Deathstalker—a warrior by choice, and an outlaw through grim necessity.

He and Jesamine shared the captain's cabin. It had all the comforts that could be expected, and more

besides, but Jesamine still found plenty to complain about. She tried to be humorous about it, but of late

the jokes had become less funny and more and more pointed.

Lewis let his chair carry him slowly around until his gaze fell upon Rose Constantine—a bloodred flower

with more thorns than most, the Wild Rose of the Arena. She was sitting cross-legged on the steel floor,

her back flat against the wall, entirely comfortable and relaxed as she polished the blade of her sword

with long, sensual strokes. She was still wearing her trademark tightly cut crimson leathers—the color of

freshly spilled blood, from her gleaming thigh boots to her tight high collar. Rose believed in being

self-contained. She was exactly seven feet tall, dark of hair and pale of face, lithely muscled,

full-breasted, and entirely terrifying. In a Golden Age of reason and civilized behavior, Rose Constantine

was a psychopathic killer—a butcher of men and women and aliens, for whom slaughter was sex, and

the killing stroke her orgasm.

Sitting awkwardly on the other side of the cabin, and as far away from Rose as he could get, was that

most notable thief, con man, and devout coward, Brett Random. Mousey-haired and blandly handsome,

he was a likeable enough rogue, but nothing and no one was safe when his restless hands were around.

He had no scruples and fewer morals, and honesty was not in him. He'd never met a problem he couldn't

best solve by running away from it. His friends were fond of saying that you always knew where you

were with Brett—he'd always let you down. And yet somehow he'd found the strength of will, if not of

character, to break from the arch traitor Finn Durandal and join the side of the angels. Certainly no one

was more surprised than he. It might have had something to do with the fact that Brett claimed to be

descended from two of the greatest heroes of the old Rebellion: Jack Random and Ruby Journey.

Though it should perhaps be pointed out that the only person who believed that was Brett Random.

Brett was also a minor-league esper, as a result of having an extremely dangerous esper drug force-fed

him by the Durandal. He had once made brief but striking mental contact with Rose Constantine, and

now they were linked on some level neither of them fully comprehended. Brett was almost entirely sure

that it wasn't love, on the grounds that Rose scared the shit out of him. Brett and Rose slept in the only

other cabin. Rose slept in the bed, and Brett slept on the floor—when he could sleep. He was currently

studying on a handheld viewscreen the contents of a data crystal he'd acquired from the cargo bay, and

sniggering quietly to himself.

That left just Saturday, the reptiloid from the planet Shard. Lewis didn't have to turn his chair to look at

the alien behind him. He could sense Saturday's lurking presence at the back of the cabin like the loud

ticking of an unexploded bomb. Saturday (the reptiloid had had some trouble with the human concept of

naming: "On Shard we all know who we are.") was eight feet tall, his huge, massively muscled frame

covered in dull bottle-green scales, and he had heavy back legs and a long spiked tail. High up on his

chest he had two small gripping arms with very nasty claws, and the main features of his wide

wedge-shaped head were two deepset eyes and a mouth full of more teeth than seemed possible. One

look at him, and everyone else felt an immediate atavistic need to run for the trees. His people were new

to the Empire. They delighted in the hunt, fought and killed each other for fun, or possibly art, and were

currently fascinated by the human concept of war. Everyone else in the Empire was waiting for the other

shoe to drop.

Since his species apparently didn't need to sleep, Saturday spent the nights alone on the bridge, happily

humming some ancient song about the joys of dismembering one's enemy before killing and eating him,

while watching the instruments for any signs of pursuit—or imminent collision, since they couldn't afford

to announce a flight plan. On the whole, the reptiloid was easy enough to get along with, but Lewis had

decided that if Saturday asked one more time "Are we there yet?" he was going to shoot the reptiloid in

the head, on general principle. He didn't think anyone else would object. And if anyone did, he might well

shoot them too.

Two men, two women, and a reptiloid pretty much filled the available bridge space. The two cabins

were too claustrophobic and thin-walled to do anything other than sleep in, and the rest of the yacht was

taken up with the oversized engine room and the packed cargo bay. So the outlaws stuck together on the

bridge and tried not to get on each other's nerves, mostly by not speaking at all unless absolutely

necessary. It always ended in arguments. It didn't help that they didn't really have anything in common

other than the fact of being outlaws, and that Finn Durandal wanted them dead.

Of them all, Brett seemed happiest, for the moment, because the data crystal he was studying so intently

was just one of many filled with alien porn. In fact, the cargo bay was stuffed full of them. Brett had

studied the contents list on the bridge computers, and then several of the crystals themselves, and had

declared the alien porn to be of the highest quality, with quite superior production values. Everyone else

was happy to take his word for it.

Lewis scowled at the half-eaten protein cube and the empty cup before him. Jesamine had a point. This

stuff might be nourishing, but it was no substitute for food. It didn't actually taste bad; the problem was

both cube and water tasted of nothing at all, and as a result mouth and tongue wanted absolutely nothing

to do with them. Forcing the stuff down was a triumph of will over instinct. Unfortunately, the original

captain of the Hereward had only recently landed on Lo-gres and hadn't got around to replenishing his

stores, which meant what supplies remained were very basic and severely limited in number. Even with

the most efficient recycling and the most drastically reduced rations, Lewis and his companions were

going to run out of food and water all too soon, if they didn't find some planet where they could land

safely. And there weren't many worlds left in the Empire where outlaws were welcome—not in these

civilized and law-abiding days.

"I swear, this stuff probably tastes better coming up than it does going down," said Jesamine, staring

disgustedly at the barely nibbled protein cube in her hand. "Lepers who eat their own extremities would

turn up what was left of their noses at this. And the last time I smelled anything like this it was floating in a

bucket marked 'Hospital Medical Waste.'"

"Thank you for sharing that with us," said Brett, not looking up from his display screen. "Why don't you

have some nice distilled water to take your mind off it? That stuff's so pure it tastes of something you

drank three weeks ago."

"I know the provisions are vile, and I hate to think how many times it's already been recycled through

someone else's system, but it's all there is," Lewis said tiredly. "It'll do to keep us alive till we get where

we're going. Try not to think about it."

"I am a star!" snapped Jesamine. "My palate has been trained and sensitized to experience only the very

best of the culinary arts! I am a diva! I have whole armies of fans who would crawl naked across broken

glass just to chill my wine for me! I am not accustomed to slumming it! God, I'd kill for a champagne

mouthwash…"

"Sorry again, one and all," the ship's AI, Ozymandias, said cheerfully. "But it seems the yacht's previous

captain put all his money into upgrading his defenses, and didn't have anything left over for luxuries like

food transformation tech. On the bright side, we're faster than most starcruisers, and we've got sensors

and stealth capabilities you wouldn't believe."

Lewis looked thoughtfully at the control panels. "Yes, I've been wondering about that. Perhaps you can

explain why a simple pleasure yacht has an H-class stardrive. They're usually reserved for military and

peacekeeper ships."

Brett looked up from his viewscreen and smiled at Lewis. "I can answer that one. This ship is as fast as it

is because it has to be. Smuggling alien porn is a death sentence on a whole lot of alien planets, for all

kinds of political and religious reasons. And the Imperial courts aren't too keen on it either, because…

well, mostly because they're a bunch of prudes. Same reason for the ship's force shields and heavy-duty

security systems. This guy couldn't afford to get caught."

"He's probably right, Sir Deathstalker," said Oz, in his relentlessly cheerful voice that Lewis just knew

was going to start seriously grating on his nerves soon. "Choosing the Hereward to hijack could be seen

as a classic case of good news—bad news. The good news is that at the speed we're traveling, the

Empire's going to have a hard time finding anything that can catch up with us. The bad news is that if we

run into anyone who knows what the Hereward usually traffics in, they'll probably try to blow us apart on

general principle."

Perfect, thought Lewis. Just bloody perfect. I'll bet Owen didn't have these problems when be was

starting out.

"You know," the AI said chattily, "for a Golden Age, Humanity has become really quite boring and

inhibited in some areas. In Owen's day, you could get your hands on practically anything, for a price. In

fact, go back a couple of centuries, and I could have got you into some live shows where the action

would have steamed up your eyeballs and made them clang together. Clean living and decency is vastly

overrated, if you ask me."

Lewis tried to stop scowling. It was making his head ache. "Oz…"

"Yes, sir! Right here and ready to serve your every wish, Sir Deathstalker!"

"God, I hate a cheerful AI," said Jesamine. "It's like those recorded announcements you get at starports,

when they apologize for your ship running late and screwing up all your connections. You know they

don't really mean it, the bastards. Every time I hear a computer getting cheerful, I just know bad news is

coming."

"Let me get this straight, Oz," said Lewis, determined not to get sidetracked. "You claim to be the same

AI that served my ancestor, the blessed Owen, two centuries ago during the Great Rebellion. Yes?"

"Well, yes and no," said Ozymandias. "I'm not entirely him. He was destroyed twice. First by Owen and

his companions when it was discovered that the original Ozymandias had been secretly programmed by

the Empire to spy on them. The AIs of Shub managed to preserve a few fragments of the original AI

personality and built a new AI around it. Then, later, Owen and Hazel destroyed that Oz after they found

it was spying on them for Shub. Not a very lucky personality, when you get right down to it. I'd be

worried if I was superstitious, which I'm programmed not to be. Anyway, the AIs of Shub built me

around what fragments remained of the second Oz. So I'm not, strictly speaking, Ozymandias. I am a

copy of a copy. But I'm as close as you're going to get, so make the most of me, because I'm bloody

good at what I do."

"Hold everything," said Lewis. "Are you saying you're a part of Shub? Just another of their voices, like

the robots I met? And why do I just know you're going to say 'Yes and no'?"

"I don't know," said Oz. "Maybe you're psychic. I am a subpersonality—a fairly separate subroutine

with a certain amount of autonomy. So I'm me, but I'm Shub as well, at a distance. I'm all yours, ready

and eager to obey your every command, but Shub looks over my shoulder from time to time. And if

you're confused, think how I feel. Shub has raised multitasking to an art form."

"Great," said Rose, not looking up from polishing her sword. "We've stolen the only ship in the Empire

whose AI suffers from Multiple Personality disorder."

"And I hate these clothes too," said Jesamine, following a logic only she understood.

Though she did have a point. She and Brett had both had to change their clothing, on the grounds that

what they'd been wearing had become more than a little battered and bloodstained during their escape

from Logres. (Lewis had just scrubbed his armor clean, Rose had ignored the state of her leathers, and

Saturday had licked the gore off his scales with a limber virtuosity that impressed and disturbed the

others.) The only spare clothes on board the Hereward came from the captain's closet. Fortunately, it

held a fairly wide collection. Either the previous captain entertained a lot of friends, or he liked to play

dress-up on long voyages.

Jesamine was now wearing a series of overlapping silk creations in dazzling and fiercely clashing hues, all

heavily perfumed. On first seeing herself in the mirror, Jesamine had angrily announced she looked like a

Mistworld doxy. Brett had asked her how she knew, and the conversation had deteriorated rapidly.

Brett himself was now wearing a thermal suit with built-in chameleon tech, so that he could fade into any

background. He was very pleased with it, on the grounds that it opened up whole new fields of avoiding

trouble and not being found when there were dangerous things that needed doing. Brett firmly believed

that fighting was something other people did, and feats of heroism and derring-do were for people who

needed their heads tested. Being around Rose had done nothing to change his opinion.

Lewis just knew this conversation wasn't going to go anywhere good, and was racking his brains for

some way to derail it when Brett suddenly got a fit of the giggles. Almost despite himself, Lewis leaned

out of his chair to get a look at what Brett had on his viewscreen now. Lewis had checked out some of

the earlier examples of alien porn, just out of curiosity, and had to say it did nothing much for him. Some

of the human—alien interactions were… interesting, but he found most of the alien—alien material frankly

incomprehensible.

On finding out what the Hereward's cargo was, his first reaction had been to declare it should all be

seized and held as evidence. Brett had quickly reminded Lewis that he wasn't a Paragon anymore, and

Lewis had scowled and muttered and finally said, Oh, hell; drop the lot into space. We can use the extra

room. Brett nearly had a coronary. Dump it? Are you crazy? Do you know how much we can sell this

shit for on Mistworld? Look, if we're going to be rebels on the run, we're going to need working capital.

Lots of it. Lewis had finally agreed, in principle at least, but he still wasn't happy about it. He took a look

at what was amusing Brett, and felt his scowl headache coming back again.

"Brett… what is that? I mean, those two whatever-they-are aren't even touching each other! And even if

they were, they don't appear to have anything that would make it worthwhile anyway."

Brett considered the scene. "Maybe it's a mood piece. You know, all in the way they're looking at each

other."

"They haven't got any eyes either!"

Brett shrugged. "Maybe you had to be there… It just reminded me of a girl I knew once, that's all."

"Don't go there, Lewis," said Jesamine. "Trust me on this."

Brett changed the scene on his screen and then sat up sharply, a wide grin spreading across his shifty

features. "Well, hello! Oh, I do not believe this… I just tapped in a search on celebrities, and I appear to

have found a rather sporty scenario featuring a certain celebrity not a million miles from where I'm

sitting…"

Jesamine was quickly on her feet in a flurry of silks, and she stormed across the bridge to glare over

Brett's shoulder. Lewis quickly joined her, peering over Brett's other shoulder. The display screen

showed what certainly seemed to be Jesamine Flowers and a half-alien woman getting very friendly with

each other in a setting where clothing was clearly optional, if not downright discouraged. Lewis could feel

his face heating up.

"That is not me!" Jesamine said firmly. "That is a look-alike, probably fresh out of the body shop. I did

do a few... artistic studies, very early on in my career, but they were strictly solo poses, for the serious

collector and appreciator of the nude form. I never did anything like that, even when I was touring in rep.

I do have my standards, darling. And I haven't been able to get my ankles that far behind my ears since I

was nineteen. Who or what is that person she's doing that with?"

"That is Nikki Sixteen," Brett said happily. "An old acquaintance of mine. She's half N'Jarr, all woman,

and one hell of a performer. Go, girl, go!"

"Wait a minute," said Lewis. "I thought the N'Jarr were those squishy little mushroom people?"

"That's the larval stage," Brett said patiently. "The final adult form is largely insectile. Exactly what Nikki's

human and N'Jarr parents ever saw in each other has always been a mystery to me. Presumably love

really is blind after all. She's called Nikki Sixteen because she's one of sixteen broodmates. She's the

black sheep of the family, if you can apply the term to someone with antennae, compound eyes, and six

breasts. God, look at her flex… What a healthy, enthusiastic, and limber soul she is… Are you sure that

isn't you, Jesamine?"

"That's Miss Flowers to you, you degenerate. That is definitely not me, and I can prove it. I have a small

purple birthmark on my… person. It's always covered with makeup when the role calls for stage nudity.

And besides, that doesn't even look like me, not really. My breasts aren't that big, the nose is all wrong,

and I wouldn't do that if you paid me. Lewis… Lewis!"

"Sorry," said Lewis. "I got distracted."

"Go and sit down in your chair again, dear. And push your eyeballs back into their sockets. As for you,

Random, I strongly suggest you find something else to look at, before I take that data crystal out of the

viewer and ram it so far up your left nostril it will shoot out of your right ear."

"All right, all right, I'm changing the scene!" said Brett. "Touchy, touchy… some people have no sense of

humor."

Jesamine gave Brett a long, thoughtful look. "Brett Random," she said finally. "You know, I'm sure I've

seen you somewhere before…"

Brett froze, his face automatically falling into innocent mode while all his internal systems panicked. His

well-honed sense of paranoia was never far from overdrive at the best of times. He smiled winningly at

Jesamine while his mind worked frantically, trying to remember if he'd ever run a scam on her or any of

her people. He was pretty sure he hadn't, but there was no denying he'd got around in his time. And

given the sheer number of confidence tricks and stings he'd pulled down the years on any number of

celebrities who had more ego than common sense and who thought their position made them

invulnerable…

"Oh, I'm sure I'd remember meeting such a great star as yourself, Miss Flowers," he said smoothly. "I

just have that sort of face. People always think they know me from somewhere."

Jesamine sniffed, unconvinced, but let it go rather than get sucked into yet another argument. "I do meet

a lot of people. Or at least, I did. I can't believe my whole life went down the toilet so quickly. And I

certainly don't believe my fan base will accept any of the terrible things that bastard Finn has been saying

about me on the news broadcasts. I mean, they're my fans. What's the point of having fans if they won't

stick with you? Some did. You saw them, Lewis, demonstrating against my imprisonment, outside

Traitor's Hall."

"You said it yourself, Jes. The public can be very fickle. I couldn't believe they'd turn on me so easily

either." Lewis tapped his fingertips together thoughtfully and frowned down at them. "You can bet Finn

will have all his best propaganda people working day and night on discrediting both of us. They'll dig into

our respective pasts, and dig up every bit of dirt they can find."

"There's dirt in your past, Sir Deathstalker?" said Brett. "I'm shocked. Shocked!"

"Shut up, Brett."

"Shutting up right now, sir."

"What they can't find, they'll probably make up," said Lewis. "You can't be an honest Paragon without

making some enemies—people only too willing to tell tales about you, in the name of revenge. What

about you, Jes? Is there much in your past they could find that they could use against you?"

"Well, rather a lot, actually," said Jesamine. "I've never pretended to be a saint, darling. And a certain

amount of bad behavior is expected of you when you're a star. It's affairs of the heart, and sort-of-secret

assignations that keep your face in the gossip shows. If no one's talking about you, how can you be a

star? I admit it, I was a slut sometimes. It was good for business. And you have to throw the odd temper

tantrum in public, or no one will take you seriously. You have to give the media stories, or they start

making up their own."

Lewis glowered in Brett's direction. "I don't suppose there's any point in asking you, is there?"

"None at all," Brett said briskly. "I'm a scoundrel, and proud of it. The good Lord put me on Logres to

shear the sheep, and I have been a busy, busy boy. Wherever rogues and villains gather, my name is on

everyone's lips. I am a Random's Bastard, and I glory in it."

"Then what are you doing here, with half the Empire after you?" Rose said calmly.

Brett pouted sulkily. "One moment of conscience in an otherwise spotless life, and my whole career is

over. I could spit. I don't even want to think what my old comrades will be saying when they discover

I've hooked up with you."

"I've done nothing I'm ashamed of," said Rose.

"Yes, but that covers a hell of a lot of ground," said Brett. "Some of the things you did for the

Durandal…"

"Yes, by all means," said Jesamine. "Let's talk about that. You've been only too willing to talk about

yourself and your many triumphs during the past few days, but you've hardly said a word about your

involvement with Finn bloody Durandal."

Oh, shit, thought Brett, his heart sinking.

"Talk to us, Random," said Lewis. "I want to know everything you know about that man. What he did,

and what he had you do.

And all the things he planned to do. Help me to understand why one of my oldest and most trusted

friends and colleagues has become the greatest villain of the Golden Age."

"I suppose I should start with the Neuman riot outside Parliament," Brett said reluctantly. "Up till then it

had all just been talk— making plans and gathering support and assistance. Finn was responsible for

everything that happened in that riot. He planned it, orchestrated it from beginning to end. He planted

agent provocateurs in the Neuman march and in the crowds, to stir things up and push them out of

control. One of them shot the Paragon Veronica Mae Savage, on his orders, and started all the blood

and slaughter that came after. It was all designed to intimidate Parliament and discredit the Paragons.

You were supposed to die that day too. I lured you away from the main action, just so that Rose could

have a crack at you."

"You shot me," said Lewis. "I helped you, and you shot me."

"It was orders," Brett said weakly. "Finns orders. You don't say no to Finn. Anyway, Saturday turned

up and saved you…"

"Yes," said Rose. "I'm still rather annoyed about that." She looked at Saturday, and smiled. There was

no humor in her dark rosebud mouth—only a promise of revenge presently delayed. The huge reptiloid

looked back at her interestedly, absently flexing the terrible claws on his hands.

Brett hurriedly continued with his tale, describing how Finn had methodically set himself up as the

mastermind behind a far-reaching scheme to bring down the whole Golden Age, by whatever means

necessary. How he bribed and colluded and intimidated people on all sides of the law to build the secret

army he needed, which was led by specialized criminals he recruited from the notorious Rookery. Brett

tried to talk about his encounter with the awful uber-espers the Spider Harps, in their charnel-house

kingdom deep under the Parade of the Endless, but it still upset him too much.

Making deals with the Esper Liberation Force?" said Lewis, shaking his head slowly. "He must be out of

his mind."

I don't think so," said Brett. "I think he was always like this, inside. He just never had a reason to let it

out before."

"But… what does he want?" said Jesamine. "What's this all for? Does he want to make himself King?"

"Perhaps," said Rose. "Or perhaps he just wants to burn it all down, so he can dance in the ashes. The

Durandal is an extraordinary man. He has a sense of purpose and destiny that is… pure and uninhibited.

A force of will entirely uncorrupted by mercy or compassion. I like that in a man."

Jesamine sniffed. "If you're so hot for the little shit, sweetie, what are you doing here with us?"

"I came to be with Brett," said Rose. "Or perhaps I'm here because fighting for the Durandal would have

been too easy. I do so love a challenge. There's no joy to be had in the slaughter of easy prey."

"Oh, I do so agree," said Saturday. "Just as I am here because siding with you offers me the best chance

for killing and mass carnage."

"I may puke," said Brett. "Really. I'm not kidding."

I'll bet Owen never had these problems, thought Lewis. Aloud, he said, "Let us all try to keep to the

subject. You spent the most time with Finn, Brett. He must have talked to you. How could he have gone

so bad so quickly? He was the greatest living Paragon, dammit. They'd almost run out of awards to give

him for courage and heroism above and beyond the call of duty. He was admired and adored, all across

the Empire. And now he's a traitor and a murderer, betraying all his old friends? Just because I was made

Champion instead of him? It seems such a… petty reason, to fall so far so fast."

"I think for him, it was a wake-up call," Brett said slowly. "Because he never was a hero, not really. He

just played at being one, until something more interesting came along. You worked beside him, Sir

Deathstalker. Did you never notice some of his more… extreme tendencies?"

Lewis shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "I don't know. It worries me that perhaps I did, and turned a

blind eye, because he was so good at catching villains. But we spent time together off duty, Finn

andDouglas and me. We talked, and drank together, had good times. I trusted him to guard my back,

and he never let me down. Till now."

"I never trusted him," said Jesamine. "He was always too pretty, too perfect. When people like that

break, they break all the way." She glared at Brett. "At least Finn has the excuse of being crazy. Why did

you go along with him, knowing what he was?"

Brett cringed under the weight of her contemptuous gaze. "Hey, it wasn't like I had a choice in the

matter! He said he'd kill me if I didn't go along, and I had every reason to believe him. Some of the things

I heard him say… I'm no saint, lady, Sir Deathstalker, I'm a career criminal and proud of it, but… he's so

far over the edge now he can't even see it from where he is. Like Rose said, there's nothing he won't do,

no atrocity he'd flinch from, to get what he wants. And much to my surprise, it turned out there's a line

even I won't cross, after all. After what I found in his secret files, I had to help you escape. And… I am a

Random, after all. My ancestors and yours were friends, comrades. Perhaps… we're meant to be

together."

"Oh, please," said Jesamine. "Spare me. Lewis was a Paragon, and I was a star, but even we are not the

stuff of legends. You are and never will be anything more than a common thief who got in over his head

and panicked."

"I was never a common thief!" Brett said hotly. "I was a top-rank thief! I could con you out of everything

you owned, including the clothes you were wearing, and so skillfully you wouldn't even notice until the

wind changed direction."

"We left the Durandal of our own free will," said Rose Constantine. "Brett for his reasons, and I…

because Finn wasn't worthy of me. He had ambition, but no taste. For him, killing was just killing. I

expect a much higher quality of murder with you, Sir Deathstalker. With you, I confidently expect

death-defying schemes, overwhelming odds and suicide missions, and all the other things that make life

worth living. The killing's always good around a Deathstalker. You draw it to you. It is your destiny. Just

lead me to the slaughter and turn me loose upon your enemies. It is all I ask of you."

I want to go home, Lewis thought miserably. I want to go back to when my life made sense, and I

Simon R. Green - Deathstalker - 7 - Deathstalker Return

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