Simon R. Green - Deathstalker - 6 - Deathstalker Legacy

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LAST NIGHT I DREAMED OF OWEN DEATHSTALKER.

He was walking slowly through the empty stone corridors of his old Family castle, the Deathstalker

Standing, on Virimonde. He was tall and rangy, with dark hair and darker eyes, moving with the quiet

grace of long martial training. He looked like he'd had to walk forever to get home. His clothes were torn

and blood-stained, topped with a great fur cloak. His face was tired and drawn, and his eyes were haunted

and quietly sad. His footsteps made no sound at all as he strode slowly down the ancient flagstones; but

then; he was a dead man, after all, walking through a castle that hadn't existed for centuries.

He wore a sword on one hip and a gun on the other, though he always thought of himself as a scholar who

became a warrior, almost against his will. Because he was needed. Because there was no one else. A man

of peace and reason, destined and doomed to fight in one war after another, who fought for justice for all

and knew so little of it himself. Not for him, the simple joys and comforts; of hearth and home and

family, of children and grandchildren and peace of heart. Owen was a hero, and so he had died alone, far

too young, and far from friends, saving all Humanity.

He overthrew the Empress Lionstone, destroyed her evil and corrupt system, and replaced it with the

seeds of what would eventually become a Golden Age. He gave hope and freedom to all the people of the

Empire, for the first time, and never lived to see any of it. Deathstalker luck, he would have said wryly,

not complaining. Always bad. Destiny is a cold and heartless beast, and cares nothing for the pawns it

sacrifices.

In my dream, I saw him walk into a gorgeously appointed chamber that hasn't existed for over two

hundred years, and I saw him greet his old friends and companions. Hazel d'Ark, ex-pirate and

clonelegger, the one great love of Owen's life. Jack Random, the professional rebel. Ruby Journey, the

female bounty hunter, who never could resist a challenge. And the Hadenman Tobias Moon, who fought

so hard for his own humanity. They all gripped hands and hugged each other, clapped each other on the

back and on the shoulder, so happy to be together again. For all their differences, they were always

friends.

Five ghosts, of the people they used to be, in the memory of a castle no longer standing. They laughed

together, but I couldn't hear them.

All gone now, long gone. Dead and gone, these two hundred years.

I miss them so much.

In my dream I called out to them, and Owen turned and looked at me. I tried to warn him, of the Terror

yet to come, but he couldn't hear me. Too many years separated us. Years, and more.

As I sit here writing this, burdened with memory, it's hard to remember him the way he really was. The

man, not the myth. The hero, not the legend.

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Last night I dreamed of Owen Deathstalker and the way things were; and I wish, oh how I wish, that I

could have slept and dreamed forever, and never had to wake up.

CHAPTER ONE

THE CEREMONY OF INNOCENCE

It was a Golden Age, dammit. People tend to forget that, in the wake of all that happened. They forget

from how high a point they fell, or were pushed. Or jumped. But for over a hundred years the Empire had

known peace and prosperity, unbridled growth and progress, and justice for all. A golden Empire; the

very best parts of Humanity writ large across the stars. It was a time of unprecedented breakthroughs and

advances made all the more glorious because its wondrous spoils were shared so freely with those who

were not human. The Empire now embraced clones, espers, aliens, and even those who had once been the

official Enemies of Humanity: the AIs of Shub. For almost two hundred years these disparate elements

had labored together to forge a new Empire from the ruins of the old, to produce a whole far greater than

the sum of its parts. Triumph followed triumph, marvels and miracles were the order of the day, every

day, and no one could see any reason why it shouldn't continue forever.

Sparkling cities on shining worlds, a civilization born of hope and honor, and dreams come true.

It wasn't a perfect age. There are always some who cannot, or will not, embrace the oldest dream of

Humanity, to live in peace with itself. Even standing in the brightest sun, some parts of Humanity see

only the dark shadow they cast. Who'd rather live in Hell than see their enemies enjoy Heaven with them.

It was a Golden Age, then, for all its occasional faults, which makes it all the more sad that no one

seemed to appreciate it till it was gone, torn apart and cast down by the arrival of the Terror, and the

wounded pride of one terrible man.

It was Christmas Eve on the planet called Logres, once known as Golgotha, now the center of the greatest

Empire ever known. Logres; a bright and glorious world, whose cities were famous throughout the

Empire for their sights and wonders, their heroes and celebrities, their innovations and achievements. The

finest minds and hearts and souls came to Logres, to be a part of the great advance of Empire: the

warriors and scientists, the poets and philosophers, the"' daring and the divas. To kneel before the Golden

Thrones, and ask how best they might serve the greatest adventure of all.

And in the most noble and exalted of all these cities, the ancient Parade of the Endless, full of marvels

and wonders and the pride of Empire, it was a time of hope and renewal and great Celebration; for this

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Christmas Eve would see the crowning of a new King.

Douglas Campbell, Paragon and wielder of the King's Justice, entered the Imperial Court from the back,

slipping between the heavy black velvet curtains as quietly as possible, hoping not to be noticed. He

leaned against the middle of the three Thrones, carelessly elegant in his Paragon's armor, and sighed

quietly. He had hoped for a little peace and quiet, a moment or two of reflection, but it was not to be. It

was a good six hours before the Ceremony was due to begin, but already a small army of people were

bustling back and forth across the vast floor of the Court, shouting unheard orders and complaints at each

other as they hurried on their urgent errands, determined that everything should be absolutely perfect for

the Coronation.

It was going to be a day to remember, a Ceremony viewed across all the Empire, and no one intended to

be found wanting in the crunch. Still, they all seemed very sure of what they were doing. Douglas could

only envy them their certainty.

He stood quietly beside the King's Throne (huge and ornate and reputedly hideously uncomfortable to sit

on), looking about him. The Imperial Court was just as vast and impressive as he remembered it, still as

steeped in history and pageantry and significance, which was probably why he'd avoided it so assiduously

for more than twenty years. He didn't like to be reminded that he was not only a Paragon, but also a

Prince, the only son of King William. A Prince soon to be made King, much against his will.

It wasn't fair.

Only forty years old, and already the days of his freedom were over. He'd always known this day would

have to come eventually; but though he had to admit he had a natural gift for authority, he'd always had a

quiet dread of responsibility. He hated the thought of other people's lives and happiness depending on his

word and decision. He wasn't up to it. He knew that, deep down. Even after twenty years as a Paragon,

meting out the King's Justice ... He'd been happy as a Paragon, out in the field, away from the Court;

fighting the good fight. Because even the greenest fields and the most contented flocks can still be

threatened by wolves.

Douglas liked the certainties of his old job: good guys versus bad guys, blade to blade, testing your

strength on the anvil of your faith of what was right; straightforward conflicts with no moral,

philosophical, or legal ambiguities. Paragons were only ever unleashed on the vilest, most irredeemable

villains. Once he was made King, and Speaker to Parliament, he'd be trapped in the altogether trickier

arena of politics, with its ever-shifting ground and deals born of compromise. And he, the poor bastard on

the golden Throne, would be expected to be the rock of certainty for everyone else.

Douglas looked at the Throne, soon to be his, and wondered if he was afraid. He was never afraid when

he was doing his job, out in the city, cutting down those who threatened the peace. But to be King, a

living example to the whole Empire ... As King, he'd be rich, famous, and powerful, and he didn't want

any of it. All he wanted was what he couldn't have, to be just a man, as other men. To be free, to be what

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he made of himself.

Douglas Campbell, son of William and Niamh, grandson of Robert and Constance, was tall, broad-

shouldered, roughly handsome, with an easy smile and steady eyes. Eyes the deep blue of a summer sky

and a mouth that was firm even when it was smiling. And a long thick mane of golden hair, brushed

straight back from his high forehead and held in place with a silver band. Even now, standing quietly,

unnoticed, he was a fighting man and he looked it, completely at peace in his Paragon's armor and purple

cloak. Sword on one hip and gun on the other; and both of them had known hard use in their time.

Douglas took satisfaction from being a warrior, trained and true, but to his credit he tried hard not to take

joy from the killing that came with the job. You only killed a man when you knew for sure he was

beyond saving; and that was a terrible decision to have to make.

It usually helped you to decide if he was trying to kill you at the time, but still . . .

Douglas looked down at his armor. There was a mark on his breastplate from where a swordpoint had

come too close that afternoon. He rubbed at the mark with his hand, and polished it with a handful of his

cloak. He was going to find it hard to give up his practical uniform for the official robes of state he'd have

to wear as King. At least he wouldn't have to wear the Crown all the time. Cut from a single huge

diamond, it was a heavy bloody thing, and a pain to wear for any length of time, according to his father.

Unless he was being metaphorical again. In fact, Douglas acknowledged with yet another sigh, he should

have changed into his robes by now, ready for the final rehearsal. But still he put it off, because once he

put aside his armor his old life was over, the change in him final, and forever. Maybe he was afraid of ...

growing up.

He smiled at that, despite himself. There were probably billions of people all across the Empire, dreaming

of all the things they would do if they were King, and here he was dragging his feet. There were times

when he seriously thought the whole damned universe ran on irony. He heard footsteps approaching

behind him and looked around guiltily. He knew who it was, who it had to be. The black velvet curtains

opened abruptly, and there was King William, frowning at his only son and heir. Douglas straightened up

and did his best to look regal and dignified, knowing even as he did so that he wasn't fooling anyone.

King William advanced remorselessly on his son, who stood his ground and tried a pleasant smile, just on

the off chance it might make a difference, for once. The King came to a halt before his son, looked him

up and down, took in that he still hadn't changed into his robes, and glared at him. Douglas hung onto his

smile. He just knew there was another speech coming.

"Two hundred years ago," King William said heavily, "your grandparents, the blessed Robert and

Constance, became the first constitutional monarchs of the Empire. Replacing the depraved and deposed

Empress Lionstone, damnation to her memory. For two hundred years, first they and then your mother

and I served as Humanity's first family, the people's voice and conscience among the powers that be.

Very soon now, it will be your turn. And you can't even be bothered to dress properly for the occasion.

Tell me I haven't made a terrible mistake in stepping down in your favor, boy."

"I'll get changed in a minute, Father," Douglas said steadily. "There's still time yet."

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"There's never enough time! First lesson you learn as King. The faster you deal with things, the more

things they find for you to do. It's a hard job and a never-ending one, but that's how you know it's

important. How you know that what you're doing matters."

"You don't have to step down, Father," Douglas said carefully. "You still have years of service in you."

"Don't flatter me, boy. I'm a hundred and fifty years old, and some days I feel every damned minute of it.

I might have another twenty years in me, or I might not. Either way, I plan on enjoying what years are left

to me in peaceful retirement. I've earned that much." His face softened, just a little, and he put a hand on

Douglas's armored shoulder. "I held on as long as I could, for your sake, but it's time for me to go,

Douglas. Well past time."

He paused, his eyes suddenly far away. Douglas knew his father was thinking of his other son, James. His

first son, trained from boyhood to be King, admired and adored by all. Everyone said he'd make a great

King, the brightest and best of his line. Everything was set for him to take the Throne on his twenty-first

birthday. Only he died, in a stupid traffic accident; that clever, charismatic brain smeared all over the

front of a speeding vehicle that came out of nowhere. The other driver's fault. He was drunk. When he

sobered up, later, and discovered what he'd done, he wept like a child and killed himself. Too late to do

anyone any good.

The King and Queen had only had the one son. Current medical technology, with widely available tissue

cloning and regeneration, meant everyone had a good chance of living till a hundred and fifty. Some even

made it to two hundred. As a result, population levels had been rising all over the Empire, filling up the

civilized worlds at dizzying speed. Small families, of one or at most two children, were encouraged by

everything short of actual legislation, and the King and Queen did their bit by example.

Which was all well and good, until the Empire's only Prince lay dying m a gutter, and the regeneration

machine couldn't get there in time.

Everything stopped for James's funeral. Everyone mourned the loss of the best King they'd never have.

They made a saint out of him, or the man he might have become, and even to this day a flame still burned

over his grave. But still, the Empire needed a Prince, and so Douglas came along, very late in his mother

and father's life. The Prince who wasn't perfect. These days people stayed in their physical prime right up

till the end of their lives; but even so, Douglas knew his parents for only an unusually short time before

the first inevitable signs of deterioration began. It was hard for him to remember a time when they hadn't

seemed old.

And James was such a hard act to follow.

His mother, the Queen Niamh, died very suddenly. For no obvious reason, the life just went out of her,

and in a few months she went from an aged but still vital woman to a wrinkled face in a hospital bed that

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Douglas barely recognized. She died while they were still trying to work out what it was that was killing

her. Douglas could have told them. She was old, and felt old. It was her time, and she'd always been far

too polite to outstay her welcome. King William hadn't seemed really old until his wife died; but when

she left it seemed to Douglas that she took the best of her husband with her, leaving behind a broken old

man looking forward to his own death.

Though he still had enough spark in him to run his son ragged. William might be about to retire and

devote what remained of his life to pottering about in the historical archives—following in the footsteps

of his hero, the legendary Owen Deathstalker—but before he stepped down, William was determined to

make Douglas every inch the King that William had always wanted him to be.

"I'm sorry I can't be the King that James would have been," Douglas said, almost cruelly. "I'm sorry I

can't be the son to you that he was."

"I've never said that," said William.

"You didn't have to."

The King launched into another speech, but Douglas wasn't listening. He looked at his father and wished

they could have been closer. Wished they'd had something in common. But the ghost of James had

always been there, and Douglas could never compete with that. So all that was left was for Douglas to do

his best to be his own man, even if that man wasn't what his father had wanted or intended.

King William was still slender and elegant for all his years, but the grace had gone out of him with

Niamh's death. His short, neatly-trimmed hair was as much white as gray, and getting decidedly patchy.

His face was heavily lined and shrunken, and his official robes flapped loosely about him now. He moved

slowly and carefully, as though he'd become fragile, and perhaps he had, at that. His mind was still sharp,

though his speeches tended to flounder and get lost in their own arguments if they went on too long. Like

this one. Douglas listened with half an ear and looked out over the Court again, still trying to get his head

around the idea that as from tomorrow it would all be his.

It should have been James's. He would have known what to do with it.

The wide open space of the great hall was bounded by towering walls made from warm and glowing

woods from a hundred worlds across the Empire, culminating in an arched ceiling of interlocking beams

that was practically a work of art. Even the colorful mosaics of the great open floor were constructed

from thousands upon thousands of tiny wooden plaques, waxed and buffed and sheened till they seemed

to glow with their own inner light. This new Court, built right in the heart of the Parade of the Endless,

had been designed and constructed as a deliberate contrast to the inhumanly cold metal and marble Court

of the deposed Lionstone, long abandoned now in its bunker deep in the earth. This was to be a more

human Court, for more human monarchs, reflecting the warmth and open-heartedness of King Robert and

Queen Constance, of blessed memory.

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Douglas looked over at their huge idealized images, shining from the stained-glass windows at the far end

of the hall. He tried to feel or find some connection between them and him, but it was hard. They were

both dead and gone long before even James was born. Douglas's gaze wandered over the images in the

other stained-glass windows, the icons of Empire, blazing fiercely as the late afternoon light fell through

the glass in bright shimmering shafts. They seemed more like saints and angels than heroes of the old

Empire. All long gone now, but everyone knew their names. Owen Deathstalker. Hazel d'Ark. Jack

Random. Ruby Journey. Douglas could feel his chest tighten as he said the old names of glory to himself.

He felt as though he should kneel to them, just for being in their presence. What did being a King mean,

in comparison to who they were, and what they did? And yet; they were real men and women, once.

Before they were transformed from heroes into legends, what human imperfections they might have had

wiped away, and their rough edges smoothed over, their humanity forgotten so that they might be

worshiped the more easily.

Douglas felt guilty at such a thought, but unlike many he was in a position to know some of the truth.

Very early in their reign, King Robert and Queen Constance allowed themselves to be persuaded by

Parliament to sign a decree destroying all the actual footage of Humanity's saviors in action. Not one

scrap, not one contemporary record, remained of what the blessed heroes actually did during the

Rebellion. Not one interview survived, not one holo image. Every last news report or eyewitness account

had been carried out of the archives and museums and news stations and wiped clean or burned. It was

hard work, constructing a Golden Age. Humanity needed legends to inspire them, perfect men and

women they could worship and revere. Facts would only have gotten in the way.

And the greatest legend of all had arisen around Owen Deathstalker, the Lord of Virimonde, who gave up

wealth and power and prestige to fight Lionstones evil. The good man who saw Humanity's plight, and

could not look away. The greatest warrior of his time, who somehow single-handedly saved Humanity

from extinction at the hands of the Recreated out in the dark, dark spaces of the Rim. And never returned

home, to receive the thanks and blessings of a grateful Empire. No one knew what had become of Owen

Deathstalker. He passed easily out of history and into legend, and though not a year went by without

some sighting of him, quietly doing good, healing the sick or performing some minor miracle, most

preferred to believe he was sleeping somewhere, resting and preserving his strength for the day he would

be called back to be a hero and a savior again, in the hour of the Empire's greatest need. There were

statues and shrines to him all across the Empire, and even after all these years, people still laid fresh

flowers at those sites every day. Beside the two great golden Thrones of the Court, of King and Queen,

there was a third Throne, simple and unadorned and set slightly apart, waiting there for Owen should he

ever return.

There were other idealized figures portrayed in the Court's stained-glass windows. Stevie Blue, of course,

the esper martyr and saint, wrapped in bright blue flames of her own making. Who lived so briefly but

blazed so very brightly. (No such portrait for Diana Vertue, of course. Even the official myth making

process hadn't been able to smooth the rough edges off Psycho Jenny. She'd been dead almost a hundred

years now, and the powers that be were still scared she might someday make a comeback.) But the

greatest icon of them all, represented again and again in windows all across the Court, venerated and

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adored, was the only real Saint of the Empire; the Blessed St. Beatrice. More respected, more important,

and more loved than any poor damned hero.

Douglas liked to think Owen would have approved.

He sighed quietly, hardly listening to his father at all now, lost in his own thoughts. He was intelligent

and cynical enough to know the political reasons and imperatives behind the creation of such legends, but

still . . . these had been real men and women once, and they had overthrown an Empire. His breath caught

in his throat as he thought of what it must have been like, to fight such a clear and obvious evil in the

company of such people in the great Rebellion. Everything and everyone seemed so much ... smaller now.

Part of him ached to know what it must have been like, to have fought in a war when giants walked the

worlds . ..

Douglas was proud to have been a Paragon, to have fought the good fight and protected the people. But

for all the good he'd done, the lives he'd saved and the things he'd accomplished, no one would ever set

his image in stained glass after he was gone or set aside a Throne for his return. He was a Paragon, and

he'd done his job. That should be enough.

To be King was actually a step down, as far as he was concerned. This vast and glorious Court was only

there for show, for Ceremonial matters, and the kind of empty pageantry the people still loved. Power lay

with Parliament, as of course it should. The King had a place there, but only as Speaker, to preside over

debates and provide an impartial voice, to help Parliament reach its decisions. As it should be, of course.

The Members of Parliament represented the worlds of Empire, one Seat to a planet; they were the Voice

of Humanity, and expressed its will. Mostly. But never again would any one man or woman be allowed

dominion over Humanity. Not after Lionstone.

Douglas approved. He really did. It was just that ... if he had to be King, he wanted it to mean something.

Desperate for distraction, Douglas's gaze wandered over the hundreds of people scurrying back and forth

in the Court, until his eyes stumbled over a short, stocky man in a shimmering white gown and tall jewel-

encrusted mitre, and then he had to smile. It was good to know there was someone in the Court who

wanted to be there even less than he did. As tradition demanded (and there's nothing more intractable than

a fairly newly minted tradition), the new King would be crowned by the Patriarch of the Empire's official

religion; the Church of Christ Transcendent. However, the current Patriarch had been in his job for only

about five minutes, following the sudden and very unexpected death of the previous Matriarch in an

accident apparently so embarrassing that the Church still wasn't willing to release any details on the

subject. So the new Patriarch, chosen by blind lottery from among the hundred and twenty-two Cardinals,

had turned out to be an extremely inexperienced twenty-seven-year-old man from a backwater planet

who'd only been made Cardinal because no one else on that world wanted the position. No one doubted

his sincerity or his good intentions, but it was clear to Douglas that the new Patriarch couldn't have been

any more nervous if someone put a gun to his mitred head. Pretty much the whole Empire would be

tuning in to watch him crown the new King, and the opportunities for screw-ups, fiascos, and making a

complete bloody pratt of himself were almost limitless. The current Patriarch was currently walking up

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and down, endlessly shuffling and rechecking his notes, while mumbling his lines and accompanying

himself with emphatic gestures. The servants were watching him out of the corner of their eyes and

giving him plenty of room.

Douglas's smile widened into a grin as he considered the happy possibilities in sneaking up behind the

Patriarch and saying Boo! very loudly.

And then he jumped and yelled himself as a firm hand took hold of his right ear and twisted it sharply.

Douglas swore loudly, as much in shock as in pain, and then froze as everyone in the Court stopped what

they were doing to turn and look at him. King William had released his ear by now, but Douglas could

feel the fierce blush reddening his cheeks. He gestured curtly for the servants to continue in their tasks,

and they did so. But he just knew what they were thinking. Douglas turned and glared at his father, who

grinned nastily back at him.

"Teach you to pay attention when I'm talking to you, boy. I may be old, decrepit, and far from my prime,

but I am still your father and your King, and while I am speaking I will have your full attention and

respect. Is that clear, Douglas?"

"Yes, dammit! Jesus, I bet the other Paragons don't have to put up with this."

"Now then, where was I? I hate it when I can't remember things . . . Ah yes. Would it surprise you to

learn that I never wanted to be King either? My father just took it for granted that I would follow in his

footsteps, and so did everyone else. And I ... wasn't strong enough to fight them. Your grandparents were

both very . . . forceful personalities. I never was. I did what was expected of me, because it was easier that

way. Story of my life, really. I knew from the start you weren't going to be anything like James. He

studied hard to be King, because he wanted it. I never did figure out what you wanted. So in the end, I

settled for raising you to be as tough-minded and independent as I could. To be nothing like me. So that

when you finally came to the Throne, at least you'd bring something new to it. In many ways, you're a lot

like your grandfather.

"You will be King, Douglas; because I want it, because Parliament wants it, and most important of all,

because the people want it."

"And what I want doesn't matter?" said Douglas.

"The best person to wield power is the man who doesn't want it," said William. "The blessed Deathstalker

said that. Supposedly. What will you do, Douglas, once you are King? Have you considered the matter at

all?"

"Of course I have!" Douglas stopped himself sharply. This was far too public a place for raised voices

and an open row, but somehow his father's goading always pushed Douglas's temper to the edge. He

made himself breathe steadily for a few moments before continuing. "I've thought about nothing else for

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months. And I'll tell you this: if I'm going to be King, I'm going to be King. I won't just sit around,

nodding my head to whatever Parliament says. I'll not be anyone's rubber stamp. Everyone says this is a

Golden Age, and maybe it does look all bright and shiny from up here; but as a Paragon, I saw the darker

side of things. I saw people suffering every day, at the hands of villains who got away as often as not,

because I was just one man and I couldn't be everywhere. Well, what I couldn't put right as a Paragon,

maybe I can fix as King."

William surprised Douglas then, by nodding cheerfully in agreement. "Well done, Douglas. Well said. A

little naive, but good intentioned. That attitude is why I pulled every string I had, called in every favor

owed to me, to get you made a Paragon. James was a good boy, and well intentioned too, but he never

raised his head out of his books. I wanted you out in the city, among the people, seeing the things they

won't let me see. I wanted you to see the Empire not as a King's son, but as one of the people who make it

work. I'm glad to see my efforts weren't wasted. You don't want to give up being a Paragon, do you,

boy?"

"No," said Douglas. "No, I don't."

"Then be a Paragon on a Throne," said William. "The Crown may not have any real power, but it still has

influence. You don't have to care about political niceties, such as whether backing an unpopular position

might interfere with you getting reelected. You can say the right thing, the necessary thing, and to hell

with what's expedient. You can still get things done, if you care enough. My problem was ... I never did

care enough, about most things. I drifted through my life, always following the path of least resistance.

Hell of a thing to say about a life as long as mine, but there you go. I don't care. Perhaps . . . because so

many people so badly wanted me to care . . ."

"Father . . ."

"I cared about your mother, about James, and about you; and that's all. Your mother and James are gone,

so that just leaves you. And you . . . are everything I wished I could be and never was. Passionate,

committed, honorable. I'm proud of you, son."

Douglas just nodded numbly, too surprised even to say anything in return. King William looked out over

his Court.

"Be King, Douglas. Do the right thing, as often as you can. They won't love you for it. They'll adore you

from a distance, but that doesn't mean anything. They only ever love the symbol, the public face, not the

person underneath. In the end, they only remember the things you didn't do that you promised you would,

or the things they think you should have done. Or the things you got wrong. And if you do manage to do

something right; well, that's your job. That's what they pay taxes for. And Douglas, never trust

Parliament. As far as they're concerned, you're just something they can use to hide behind. A public face

to take the blame when things don't work out the way they were supposed to." William sighed, and

suddenly looked even older, and smaller. "I did my best . . ."

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