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CHAPTER TWO

BROTHERLY LOVE, AND OTHER CONSIDERATIONS

It was dark in the King’s private chambers. All the blinds were drawn, and the door was securely locked. And Douglas Campbell, last favored son of a noble line, Speaker to the House of Parliament, and chosen King of Humanity’s greatest Empire, sat alone in his opulent chambers, wrapped in a faded old dressing gown and nothing else, unshaven and disheveled, staring at nothing. His once handsome face was slack, his eyes were empty, and what thoughts he had were slow and sullen, of no importance to anyone, not even himself. Someone was knocking at his door, had been knocking for some time now, but he couldn’t bring himself to give a damn. They’d give up eventually and go away, leaving him alone, just like everyone else.

He’d sent them all away, friends and colleagues and servants, driving them from him with harsh words and bitter language. He needed to be alone with his pain, and he had no use anymore for words like duty or responsibility. He had a lot of brooding and second-guessing and feeling sorry for himself to do . . . and he had just enough dignity left that he didn’t want anyone to see him like this. Especially not the servants. For all their smiles and kind words and signed loyalty oaths, there wasn’t one he’d trust not to go running off to the media with their story, if the price was right. Once, that would have been unthinkable. But then, a lot of things had been unthinkable, once—before his closest friend had betrayed him with the only woman he’d ever really loved.

He wasn’t sure how long he’d sat alone in the dark, trying not to think or feel or care. He didn’t do much anymore. Mostly he just sat in his chair, ate and drank when he remembered, and spent as much time dozing and sleeping as he could, because then he didn’t have to remember how his whole life had gone to hell. He hadn’t shaved or bathed in ages, and didn’t care. He had a bowl of something lukewarm in his lap that he didn’t remember preparing. He couldn’t remember whether it was supposed to be breakfast or dinner, but now and again he ate some of it with his fingers. It didn’t taste of anything much. He was a mess, and he knew it. Somehow, that seemed fitting.

The viewscreen before him hadn’t been turned on in days. At first, he’d kept it on all the time, for a kind of company. He sat slumped in front of the screen like an acolyte, flicking numbly through the hundreds of news channels, in the hope of finding someone who could explain to him how everything in his life could have gone so terribly wrong so quickly. But all the news channels could do was drive home in merciless detail just how quickly his precious Golden Age was deteriorating into something far darker, by its own perverse will. It seemed like there was no good news anymore. The Church Militant was now the Empire’s official religion, in all the ways that mattered. Thousands of fanatics marched down city streets on hundreds of worlds, holding up blazing crosses, loudly proclaiming their vicious faith, and damning all unbelievers. Pure Humanity had also seized the public mood and made it their own, and everywhere hatred was lashing out at anyone or anything that could be declared inhuman. Espers, aliens . . . and anyone who wasn’t Pure Humanity or Church Militant. It was a dangerous time to be a free-thinker. Heretics could be hunted down and butchered in busy streets, and no one would raise a finger to help them.

The news shows weren’t openly biased yet, but the signs were already there, if you knew what to look for—in the words the commentators didn’t use, in the language that didn’t condemn, in the causes and people who couldn’t even get air time anymore. Douglas grew tired, watching it all fall apart. All the sane voices were gone. Most of the politicians were running scared, the old Church had vanished with its gentle Patriarch, and the Paragons had set off on their great quest, to find the missing Owen Deathstalker. So far, there was no sign of the blessed Owen anywhere, and a few Paragons had already returned, abandoning and renouncing the quest as useless.

There was no news at all of Lewis Deathstalker and his treacherous companions. Douglas couldn’t decide whether that was good or bad news. All he knew for sure was that he didn’t recognize what his world and his Empire had become. So he turned off the viewscreen and sat alone in the growing gloom, feeling lost and broken and useless.

The knocking at his door broke off abruptly, and as he looked vaguely around, he heard the sharp definite sound of his door unlocking. Someone had a key—which should have been impossible. The door swung open and light flooded into the room. Douglas put up a hand to protect his watering eyes and peered painfully at the dark silhouette in his doorway. He hadn’t called for anyone. He hadn’t called for anyone in ages. He wondered if his guards had finally betrayed him too, and then the thought came to him that perhaps the new savage Empire had decided that it didn’t want or need a King anymore, and had sent someone to put him out of its misery.

Anger flooded through him, pushing back the accumulated lethargy. He lurched up out of his chair, swaying unsteadily on his feet as he glared about him for his weapons. But he couldn’t think what he’d done with his gun or his sword, let alone his armor, so he snatched up a heavy wooden footstool and glared defiantly at the figure in the doorway, determined to sell his life dearly.

“God, you’re a mess, Douglas,” said Anne Barclay. “You look awful and you smell worse. What have you done to yourself?”

Douglas slowly lowered the footstool as his old friend Anne stalked forwards into his chambers, looking about her and sniffing loudly.

“Some people just shouldn’t be allowed to live alone. I spent months sorting out just the right furnishings for this room, and you’ve turned it into a dump.” She made her way quickly round the room, opening the blinds and chattering nonstop as daylight flooded the chamber. “And by the way, your guards are rubbish. I was able to bully and intimidate my way past them far too easily. I’ve replaced them with some of my own people. And put down that footstool, before you strain yourself.”

Douglas put down the footstool, and then did his best to stand up straight. It wasn’t easy; his legs were unsteady, and the new light was giving him a killer headache. But it was one thing for him to admit to himself how far he’d let himself go, and quite another to see the knowledge in Anne’s eyes. He pulled his dressing gown tightly around him and did his best to meet her accusing gaze with one of his own.

“What are you doing here, Anne? I didn’t send for you. And how the hell did you get in here, anyway? That door was locked.”

“I have a key,” Anne said briskly. “I am your head of security, remember? And I’m here because you haven’t sent for anyone in two months now. Some people already think you’re dead. And that’s a luxury you can’t afford anymore, Douglas. It’s time for you to return to the world. There’s an important media event happening in just over an hour from now, and your presence is very much required.”

Douglas sniffed loudly, and sat down again. “I don’t have to be anywhere, Anne. The Empire doesn’t need a King anymore, if it ever did. I saw the news shows. It’s an asylum out there.”

“The times are changing, so we have to change with them.” Anne came to a halt before him, hands on hips, glaring down at him. “Look, I really don’t have time for this, Douglas. Something really important has happened that affects you personally—you, and the whole damned Empire. Right now, I need you to get cleaned up, climb into your very best, and come with me. You can be depressed and depressing on your own time. Well, don’t just sit there! On your feet, into your bedroom, and get changed! And don’t hang about, or I’ll come in and help you get dressed. And I’ve got really cold hands.”

Douglas scowled at her as he rose reluctantly to his feet. “Same old Anne.”

Except that wasn’t strictly true. Douglas still had trouble getting used to how much his old friend had changed, physically. For as long as he’d known her, Anne Barclay had always been short and stocky, with a square, determined face topped by brutally short red hair. She wore smartly cut suits of uniform gray, and strode everywhere in a manner that suggested everyone else had better get the hell out of her way. She ran her security people like her own private army, was always on top of every problem, and was intimidatingly efficient. And about as glamorous as a sledgehammer.

But a lot of things had changed since the old days, not least Anne Barclay. The new Anne was tall and willowy, with pale perfect skin and a great mane of long flowing crimson tresses. Her face and especially her chin had been subtly redesigned to more fashionably feminine lines, and she now also possessed a quite magnificent bosom. Anne had been to the body shops, and had paid a not so small fortune to have herself remade in the image of her private dreams. She’d got her money’s worth. She was drop-dead gorgeous now. But for all her dazzling silk dress and elegant makeup, she still moved like the old Anne, striding everywhere and standing like a soldier. She had no style to her, no grace. She might be beautiful now, but she moved as though she didn’t really believe it. Being feminine was a new thing for her.

Douglas stopped at the door to his bedroom, and looked back at her. “Why?” he said abruptly. “You never cared about what you looked like, before. You never cared about what anyone thought of you. So why the makeover? Why give up being you?”

“Because I chose to,” Anne said flatly. “You only thought you knew me. You never knew what I wanted. What I really wanted. And you never cared enough to find out. I was just there to be used, to be useful. Well, I haven’t changed, inside. I’m still me, and I’ve got a job to do. So have you, Douglas. We’ve all indulged your protracted sulk long enough. Your seclusion’s over, as of now. And no, you don’t get a say in the matter. Finn and I have protected you as long as we could, but now something’s come up, and you’re needed.”

“Something’s happened,” Douglas said slowly. “Have they found Jesamine and Lewis?”

“No. Not yet. Not everything is about you and them, Douglas.”

“Is it the Terror? Has it reached another planet already?” Douglas tried desperately to work out how much time he’d lost. Had Anne really said two months?

“No. It’s still four months and three days before the Terror is expected to hit Heracles Four. This . . . is something new. Something unanticipated. It’s not anything I can explain. You have to see this for yourself, in person. And you can’t do it looking like that. Get dressed! Full kingly apparel, including the crown. After so long out of the public eye, you can’t afford to appear in front of the cameras looking anything but your best.”

* * * *

Some time later, King Douglas followed Anne Barclay through the wide, handsomely decorated corridors of the palace, and had to hurry to keep up with her. They were heading for the Imperial Court, and Douglas had a really bad feeling about that. He hadn’t been in the main court since his Coronation. It seemed to him more and more that all his troubles stemmed from that time. He’d been happy before then, as a Paragon, and Lewis had still been his friend. They would have died for each other, then. Now here he was heading towards the court again, and Douglas felt a strange dread, as though his whole life was about to undergo another irrevocable change.

He was properly dressed now, in all his kingly robes, with the great cut-diamond crown of the Empire upon his head. He’d bathed and shaved, and even eaten a hot meal under Anne’s watchful eye, and he had to admit he felt better and sharper than he had in . . . ages. He felt almost like himself again. But the bad feeling persisted, and he snatched another sidelong glance at Anne. She still hadn’t told him what the hell this was all about—wouldn’t tell him anything. In the past, she would have provided him with a full briefing by now, telling him everything he needed to know, along with carefully worked out answers to the press’s most probable queries, and even half a dozen different strategies for dealing with all the various ways to salvage the situation if it all went wrong. That was Anne’s job, and she’d always taken pride in being very good at it. But now she just ignored his questions and stalked along in front of him, her familiar scowl distorting her new, beautiful face. People they passed fell back hurriedly to get out of her way—her way, not his. Douglas didn’t miss that. Just another sign of how much things had changed during his seclusion.

He could hear the court long before they reached it. From the babble of raised voices up ahead, there had to be a whole army of reporters waiting, and not being at all patient about it. As Douglas and Anne slipped through the back door and approached the great hanging curtains that separated them from the court proper, the sound became actually deafening. Douglas frowned. What the hell could be so important, that didn’t involve Lewis or the Terror? It couldn’t be the return of the blessed Owen; Anne had no reason to keep that from him. But then, what reason could Anne have to keep anything from him?

Douglas straightened his shoulders. Whatever it was, the odds were it wasn’t going to be good news, so the sooner he faced it, the better. He’d been kept in the dark long enough. He let Anne give him a quick check over, to be sure everything was as it should be, and then he nodded sharply to the two waiting guards, who pulled back the curtains so he could make his entrance. He strode out onto the raised dais, accompanied by a recorded fanfare, and settled himself onto his throne while Anne was still hurrying to catch up. Douglas smiled inwardly. He might have been away, but now he was back, and the sooner everyone recognized that, the better. Time to remind people he was still the King—perhaps himself, most of all.

He looked benignly out over the great wide hall of the court, most of which seemed to be packed full of reporters. Hundreds of remote control cameras floated above the pack, occasionally getting into savage butting contests over the best angles. King Douglas smiled on them all, deliberately ignoring the roar of shouted questions as he seated himself as comfortably as possible on his ancient throne. There were some cheers at his appearence, but not nearly as many as there should have been. It seemed absence didn’t always make the heart grow fonder. And whatever story the mob had been led to expect, it clearly wasn’t anything to do with his return.

Anne came forwards to stand stiffly beside him, and that was new too. Normally, she stayed well in the background at all public affairs. There was another burst of recorded trumpets, and the roar went up again from the reporters as the hanging curtains parted to reveal the Imperial Champion, Finn Durandal. He came striding out onto the raised dais, as tall and muscular and classically handsome as always, smiling and nodding affably to the media pack, surrounded by his own personal honor guard of six Paragons, grim-faced in their polished armor and dramatic purple cloaks. Finn had never had any trouble looking every inch the hero, though up close his charisma had a cold and calculated feel. And he looked a lot better in the official black leather armor of the Champion than Lewis Deathstalker ever had.

Finn still wore his old purple Paragons’ cloak over his gleaming armor, as though to show he hadn’t forgotten where he came from. He struck a grand pose at the front of the dais and waved and smiled to the media mob, and they gave the Champion the kind of cheers that once would have been reserved for their King. Douglas looked at the six Paragons accompanying Finn. They’d spread out in a bodyguard’s pattern, studying the reporters with cold, inimical eyes. Douglas had to wonder just what it was that the apparently popular Finn Durandal felt he needed to be protected from so thoroughly. And there was something . . . off, about the Paragons. They wore their armor sloppily, and carried themselves more like thugs than warriors. And none of them had so much as glanced at Douglas, even though he would have called some of them friends.

What could have happened, out on their failed quest, to have changed them so harshly?

Finn Durandal smiled graciously out over the court as though he owned it, holding his noble heroic pose with the ease of long practice, allowing the media pack to worship him. Finally, he raised a single hand, and the crowd’s acclaim cut off immediately. The floating cameras all came rushing in for close-ups. A few targeted Douglas as well, just to be sure they didn’t miss out on anything. But it was the Champion and not the King who held everyone’s attention, and everyone there knew it.

“My friends,” Finn said grandly, “today, as I promised you, I bring you the story of the century. No, not the return of the blessed Owen Deathstalker, unfortunately. The great quest continues, but I have to tell you that more and more of our noble Paragons are returning, disappointed. Instead, I stand here now to inform you of the return of a man almost as legendary, as well loved and almost as long lost. A man long considered dead has been discovered very much alive; a hero, returned to us all in our hour of need! My friends . . . allow me to introduce to you James Campbell, first son of William and Niamh Campbell; the man born to be King!”

For a moment there was utter silence in the court, and then a tall and handsome man in kingly robes came striding from behind the curtains and out onto the dais as though he belonged there, and always had. The media crowd went crazy, screaming with joy and shock and approval, though not forgetting themselves so much that they neglected to order their cameras to get the best possible shots of the Empire’s most unexpected come-back. James Campbell stood beside Finn, who shook his hand warmly, and then put a comradely arm across his broad shoulders as they both beamed into the camera lenses—while Douglas Campbell sat slumped on his throne as though someone had just punched him under the heart.

It couldn’t be James. Not brother James. It just couldn’t. His elder brother had died in a stupid traffic accident, long before he was born. Everyone knew that. But the man on the dais had the same smiling face that Douglas had seen in so many family holo images. He had the same long golden mane of hair as Douglas, and similar roughly handsome features. Put them side by side, and even a stranger could have seen they were brothers. But how could it be James, the perfect Prince whose memory Douglas had been raised to revere? Douglas found he was actually trembling, as though he’d been brought face-to-face with a ghost.

James was big and broad and effortlessly hearty, all bluff cheer as he good-naturedly called for the crowd to shut up so he could say a few words. The media pack fell silent immediately, even the most hardened types crowding forward to the very edge of the raised dais, their eyes shining with more than just the pleasure of a good story. James Campbell: the man who should have been King, the greatest monarch the Empire never had. His return was a miracle, and in the face of all that had happened recently, like everyone else, the media desperately needed good news and a hero they could believe in. If they couldn’t have the blessed Owen, well, James Campbell was a perfectly acceptable substitute.

James made a short speech, all bluff sincere charm about how glad he was to be back, and how all he wanted was a chance to serve Humanity to the best of his ability. It was a slick and polished performance, and to Douglas it sounded more than a little rehearsed. Just the kind of thing Anne would have written for him, once. He looked at her, but she had eyes only for James. The moment he stopped talking, the reporters burst into spontaneous applause, an almost unheard-of event. Douglas joined in, though he still wasn’t sure what he felt or believed about this James.

The media pack finally remembered why they were there, and began shouting questions, but James just shook his head and said he’d let Finn speak for him, for the present—which was the first wrong note. In everything Douglas had read on his deceased brother, all the historians had agreed that James had been a natural orator, fluent and commanding, and never afraid to speak his mind. That James had never let anyone speak for him. Douglas looked at Anne again and tried to attract her attention, but she was ignoring him, staring at Finn and James with a smug, almost self-satisfied smile. It gave her carefully sculpted, beautiful face an ugly look. Douglas realized that she had to have known about James long before this. She must have helped plan this whole scene, this carefully orchestrated reintroduction to the Empire. But she hadn’t said a word to Douglas, before now. Until it was . . . too late for him to interfere? Douglas considered that thought, not liking the taste of it. Anne Barclay was one of his oldest friends. Finn Durandal was his friend, and his Champion. And neither of them had said a word about his dead brother’s return. If he couldn’t trust them . . . Douglas felt his heart grow cold. He realized Finn was speaking, and made himself pay attention as the Champion finally launched into the epic story of James’s return from the dead. It was a hell of a story, full of thrills and surprises, and it sickened Douglas to his soul.

It seemed James hadn’t died of his injuries in that famous traffic accident, all those years ago. Instead he was seriously injured and hideously disfigured, far beyond the ability of medical knowledge to repair him, in those days. There were even fears that he would come out of the regeneration tank mentally retarded. So King William and Queen Niamh decided to hide away their crippled, hideous son in the depths of their ancestral home, House Campbell, his existence to be kept secret until such time as new medical techniques could be developed to help him. But that could take years, even decades, with no guarantee of success at the end. So even as trusted servants tended to the hideous monster in his hidden room, William and Niamh decided that James should be declared officially dead, while they raised another son to take his place.

All this was bad enough, but there were hints too; hints that William was glad of an excuse to replace James with a new son. Hints that James—perfect and honorable James—had become too independent, too much his own man and a power in his own right; that William had become jealous of a son who threatened to be a much greater King than he ever had been. Apparently, William had determined that his new son would be more carefully guided, and controlled. Douglas was to be a model son and a credit to his father, and nothing more.

And so it might have gone, but a few weeks back Finn Durandal had been contacted secretly by one of the guards responsible for watching over James in his cell deep under House Campbell. And this guard told Finn that James had in fact made a full physical and mental recovery years ago, but that William had chosen to still keep him prisoner, rather than have his favored son Douglas deposed. Indeed, William had decided that James was no longer needed, with Douglas due to be married and produce heirs of his own, and so William had determined to have his first son killed, rather than risk having the truth come out after his death. This was too much for the guard, who’d grown fond of James, and he’d contacted the only man he felt he could still trust: the Imperial Champion.

Finn immediately raised a small army of his own people—all utterly loyal to him, of course—and led them in a raid on House Campbell. The guard lowered the House’s defenses at just the right moment, and Finn caught William and his people entirely by surprise. The good guys stormed House Campbell, and got to James just in time. Finn brought him blinking out into the daylight, for the first time in years, and Finn and all his people cheered James’s return from the dead. William was currently under house arrest at House Campbell, awaiting trial, and not available for comment at this time.

Douglas didn’t know what to think. Not about Finn’s story—that was obviously bullshit from beginning to end. Douglas had been brought up at House Campbell, and had roamed all over it as a child, having paid special attention to all the places he was supposed to keep out of. There was no way a hidden room could have been kept secret from him. And besides, he’d seen footage of the original accident scene. It ran for ages on all the news and gossip shows, until William bought up all the rights, to protect Niamh from having to see it again and again. The recording showed James dead on the spot, his brilliant brains spattered all over the front of the car that hit him. But if his elder brother really was dead, who was this? It certainly looked like James. And what did Finn have to gain from making up such a story? He couldn’t expect to get away with putting forward a look-alike, could he? One of the older reporters present raised the subject of the old footage, and Finn smiled easily in reply.

“My people are investigating that even now. I’m pretty sure we’ll discover the footage was faked, to help cover William and Niamh’s tracks.”

“That’s enough!” Douglas was up out of his throne and on his feet before he even realized he was doing it. All eyes and cameras immediately turned on him, and the court was suddenly silent, the air heavy with expectation. Douglas looked slowly around him, and knew that this was why he’d been brought here. He’d been told nothing, kept in the dark, just so he could be brought here unsuspecting, to make all his reactions in public, with all the worlds watching. They weren’t his friends anymore, Finn and Anne. They had transferred their allegiance to this James, or whoever he really was. He was on his own now. And he felt more alive than he had in ages. He walked slowly forward to the edge of the dais, keeping a distance between him and Finn and James.

“I cannot believe my father was a party to this; or my mother. They were devoted to James—his death nearly destroyed them too. I demand to speak to my father.”

“Of course,” said Finn. “Arrangements shall be made, Your Majesty. But for the moment your father is under armed guard, for his own protection. Once news of James’s return gets out, and the details of his past imprisonment . . . well, we don’t want aggrieved citizens taking matters into their own hands, do we? William is safer where he is. I know this must be hard for you to accept, Douglas. It hit me hard too, that the man I served so faithfully for so many years should prove to be unworthy of the trust we all placed in him. But I give you my word: this really is James, restored to us at last! Have you no welcome for your brother?”

All eyes turned on Douglas again. He looked at James. This was what it was all about. He’d been brought here just to answer that question, because his answer would decide how his own people would judge him. If he publicly accepted this man as his brother, he’d be trapped into playing Finn’s game. And James, as the older brother, had a better claim to the throne than he did. If he denounced the man as an imposter . . . Douglas was pretty sure that Finn wouldn’t have come this far without putting together some pretty intimidating evidence. And Douglas would be seen as a fool or a liar, ready to say anything to hang on to his throne. Finn, and Anne, had him exactly where they wanted him.

Except they’d miscalculated. They’d assumed his time in seclusion had broken him, and it hadn’t. He’d been asleep for a long time, but now he was awake again. He might have lost his best friend and his true love, but he was still the King, and he still took his duties seriously. His Champion had revealed himself as a threat to his people, and his family, and Douglas had always been ready to fight to the death for both. Of course, he couldn’t do that now. He’d been very cleverly isolated. Better to play the part they expected, and have them continue to underestimate him, until he could take back the high ground.

So Douglas smiled happily, if a little vaguely, at the man who claimed to be his brother James, and walked forward with an outstretched hand. They shook hands firmly, while the cameras whirred loudly and everyone applauded. James impulsively pulled Douglas forwards into a hug, and they held each other close. It was a very touching scene, and the media pack just loved it, the floating cameras fighting it out for the best angles. Douglas kept his smile going, and let James hug him, but he felt nothing at all—except, perhaps, just the briefest of guilty thoughts. If by some dark miracle this really was James, the man who should have been King, then perhaps Douglas would be able to step down from the throne after all, and escape from all the strains and pressures of a job he’d never wanted anyway. Let James be King. Let him deal with the Church Militant, and Pure Humanity and the Terror . . . It was only a brief thought, the very briefest of temptations. Douglas had always known his duty, even when he was just a Paragon. He’d fought to protect the people all his life, and he wasn’t about to hand their fate over to this . . . stranger.

James finally released Douglas from the hug, and they stood face to face, smiling at each other. James’s mouth went all wobbly, and he had to reach up to knuckle a manly tear from the corner of his eye—another nice touch that the media just loved to pieces. Douglas could feel Finn’s and Anne’s eyes on him, and he kept his face carefully vague and vacant. James turned back to the reporters, and made a big point of declaring that he was sure his younger brother had no idea of what had been done in his name; that he was entirely positive King Douglas knew nothing of his years of imprisonment, or the imminent death sentence from which Finn had so valiantly rescued him. Of course, until James raised the point, no one there had thought that at all, but now suspicious eyes turned to Douglas, clearly considering just how much he could or should have known. He had to have known something, people would say.

James smiled warmly at Douglas, and said, “We must work together, Brother, in this time of crisis.” And Douglas kept on smiling, and said, “Yes, of course, Brother.” James then turned the full force of his personality and charm on his audience, saying all the right things in a firm and resonant voice, and Douglas could feel everyone comparing him unfavorably with his brother. More and more, the reporters were being seduced by James’s manner and rhetoric, and embraced him as though he were the Second Coming of the blessed Owen—particularly when he vowed to do everything in his power to find an answer to the coming Terror. So when James also spoke out in favor of Pure Humanity and the Church Militant, those hardened cynical reporters happily went along with every hateful thing he said.

I don’t know who the hell you really are, Douglas thought behind his pleasant smiling mask, but that clinches it. James never believed in any of that shit. He had more sense, more conscience . . . and he never followed anyone’s path but his own. So, who are you? Really?

James finished his speech to thunderous applause, but Finn wasn’t finished yet. He took up a martial stance beside James, and fixed the media crowd with a stern stare. “Some of you will still be doubting that this really is the genuine James Campbell. Of course, that’s quite understandable, given the extremely dramatic nature of his return. I see Nigel Glover, of the Logres Times, right there in the front as always. I have to say, Nigel, you don’t look entirely convinced. Is there some question you wish to raise?”

“I remember James,” said the old man. “I got there in time to see him being loaded into the ambulance. Half his head was gone. How can we be sure this isn’t some look-alike from the body shops? Or even a clone?”

And that was as far as he got. Other reporters started to shout him down, some pushed and shoved him, and then suddenly they were all crowding in on him, shouting abuse and throwing punches. Douglas looked immediately at Finn’s Paragons, expecting them to dive into the crowd and rescue the old man, but they did nothing. They just stood there, sniffing and smirking. Douglas was just about to dive in himself when James launched off the dais into the crowd, grabbed the old reporter, and hauled him onto the safety of the raised dais. The old man stood trembling, more shocked than hurt, while James put a comforting arm around him. The other reporters milled uncertainly before the dais, still in an ugly mood. Finn stepped forwards, raising both hands in a calming gesture.

“Enough of that, my friends. This is a time for rejoicing, not violence. The Times has raised a very reasonable question. It’s been a long time since we had to beware of clone imposters in public life, but in as important a case as this, the question had to come up eventually. That’s why I have invited here today Elijah du Katt, the current clone representative in Parliament.”

Du Katt came through the curtains at the back right on cue—a blocky, medium height, average-looking fellow. He strode up to the front of the dais, stood beside Finn, and spoke in a clear, firm voice. “At the Champion’s request, I have performed a genetest on James Campbell. He is exactly who he claims to be. Details of my findings will be published shortly. My tests were very thorough. There is no way he could hide a clone background from me. DNA can’t lie.”

The media pack cheered again, and a still shaken Glover was allowed to rejoin his fellows, who ignored him. Douglas was still looking at du Katt. You couldn’t fake a genetest. So either James really was James, or . . . the conspiracy went deeper than he’d suspected. If a respected figure like du Katt had been suborned, who else did Finn have in his pocket? But still Douglas found that easier to believe than that his father and his mother could ever have been the villains Finn had declared them to be.

Du Katt left the dais, and Finn turned the meeting over to questions and answers. The reporters couldn’t get the questions out fast enough. James avoided answering a lot of them by pleading ignorance of most recent events, for obvious reasons, but he still managed to push Pure Humanity and the Church Militant as the answer to most of the Empire’s problems. Douglas admired the performance from behind his pleasant face. Anne had clearly done her usual excellent job in preparing and coaching James. And Douglas was pretty sure a lot of the questions had been planted. It was what he would have done. Interestingly enough, James wasn’t too good at the personal stuff. Questions like How do you feel? and What are you most looking forward to doing, now you’re free? left him thrown and uncertain, and glancing to Finn or Anne for reassurance.

In the end, Finn just stepped in and declared the audience over. He promised the media pack there would be further opportunities for interviews, and even one-on-ones, but that James was clearly tired now, and needed time to himself. Adjusting to his new world was obviously going to take time. Anne quickly ushered James offstage while Finn was still speaking, and he was gone through the curtains before the reporters realized it. Douglas got to his feet, inclined his head regally to the media, and strode off the dais after Anne and James. He had no intention of being left alone on the dais after Finn and his people left, facing questions he had no idea how to answer safely.

Behind the hanging curtains, Anne was patting James reassuringly on the shoulder, as though calming a nervous animal. Away from the rehearsed situation, James looked a lot less confident, and somehow . . . smaller. Douglas started towards them, and then stopped as Finn and his Paragons came through the curtains. Finn looked carefully at Douglas.

“You’re looking tired too, Douglas. Perhaps you should return to your chambers, and get some rest. You have rather been thrown in at the deep end. You can catch up with James later.”

“Yes,” said Douglas. “It’s all been a bit much, really. I’ll see you all tomorrow.”

“Anne, you’d better go back with him,” said Finn. “And I’ll send a couple of my people to go along with you. You can’t be too careful, these days.”

Anne nodded, and she and Douglas walked back to the King’s private chambers in silence. Two of Finn’s Paragons accompanied them. Douglas only knew them vaguely, and they wouldn’t answer him when he tried to talk to them. People were running back and forth in the wide corridors, looking at Douglas with wide eyes, and over and over again he heard the word James on people’s lips. The Paragons kept everyone at a distance with menacing scowls. They finally came to Douglas’s door, and he gestured for them to stand back so he could have a private word with Anne. They looked to her for confirmation, and reluctantly retired back down the corridor when she nodded. Douglas looked at Anne, and she met his gaze squarely, defiantly.

“All right,” said Douglas. “What’s going on, Anne?”

“How do you mean, Douglas?”

“You, Finn, James. Why wasn’t I told any of this in advance?”

“Because you gave strict orders that you weren’t to be disturbed, for any reason. And because we weren’t too sure what state you were in. I did look in on you a couple of times. You probably don’t remember—you were pretty out of it. And given the delicate nature of the situation, when we couldn’t be sure how much you did or didn’t know about James . . .”

She broke off abruptly, as Douglas’s face grew cold and dangerous. She actually fell back a step, before Douglas could regain control and put on his confused, vacant face again. He couldn’t afford to confront her over James’s identity, not now.

“Sorry,” he said. “Sore spot, there. Go on, you were saying?”

“We waited to establish the truth about James, and your father, before involving you,” said Anne. “It could all have been rumors. Even after we had James secure, and genetested, we left you alone as long as we dared, hoping you’d snap out of it, but you had to be there when we presented James to the public. It would have looked very bad if you hadn’t been there, Douglas.”

“I can’t believe what Finn said about my father,” said Douglas. “When can I speak to him, Anne?”

“Soon. You do believe this really is James, don’t you, Douglas?”

“You can’t fake a genetest. Everyone knows that.”

Anne nodded slowly. “You look tired. You’ve had a lot thrown at you, on your first day back. I’ve got to talk with Finn now; we’re going to schedule a whole series of public appearances for James, to let everyone know he’s back and introduce him to the Empire. That’s going to keep us busy for some time. You don’t need to be involved in any of that, Douglas. Get some rest, take all the time you need to pull yourself together again, and we’ll contact you when we need you.”

“Yes,” said Douglas. “Rest sounds good. We’ll talk again, later.”

Anne gave him a searching look, but Douglas maintained his tired, defeated look, and after a long moment Anne nodded and strode off back down the corridor, picking up the two Paragons along the way. Douglas watched them go, and then considered the two guards standing by his door. They weren’t his people. Anne had replaced the original guards with new men, undoubtedly loyal only to the new order. They were there as much to keep him in as to keep others out. Douglas nodded amiably to them and entered his private chambers. He locked the door behind him, and then jammed a chair up against it as well, just in case.

Safely back in his own territory, he dropped the pleasant mask and scowled so fiercely it was almost painful. He stamped back and forth, his hands clenched into tight fists, his mind whirling with plans for revenge and retribution. He would have liked to have kicked the hell out of the furniture, but that would have made too much noise, and he had no doubt the new guards were listening. He had to wonder what else Finn and Anne had taken from him while he was still too blind with self-pity to notice. Had it really been two whole months? He looked around the room with new eyes, and was honestly shocked at the mess. How could he have lived in such a sty for so long, without noticing? No wonder Anne hadn’t taken him seriously anymore. He forced himself to calm down, pushing back the anger, unclenching his fists. He had to be cool, calm, controlled. There were things he had to do.

He strode over to his private comm unit, and put through a call to House Campbell, punching in his old family security codes. The connection took longer than usual to make, and when his screen finally cleared, the face looking back at him was that of a stranger. He wore anonymous guard’s armor with no markings. He recognized Douglas immediately, and inclined his head.

“Your Majesty. How may I serve you?”

“I want to talk to my father,” said Douglas. “Why are you answering his private number?”

“No one speaks to William Campbell,” said the guard. “I’m sorry, Your Majesty, but I have my orders, direct from the Durandal.”

“Finn is my Champion,” said Douglas. “He answers to me. I am your King, and I want to speak to my father.”

“The Durandal’s orders were quite specific,” said the guard, unmoved. “No one is to speak to the prisoner, without his express permission. And in this case, his authority derives from Parliament, and not Your Majesty.”

“I could come down and see him,” said Douglas.

“I would advise against that, Your Majesty. All unauthorized ships approaching House Campbell are to be shot down on sight. The Durandal’s orders.”

“Gosh,” said Douglas. “I’d better not do that, then. I’ll talk to Finn. Thank you for your assistance. You’ve been very helpful. I’ll be sure to remember you.”

He couldn’t resist that last barb, and was rewarded by just a little uncertainty in the guard’s face before he shut down the connection from his end. Douglas scowled at the blank screen. Events had clearly slipped even further from his control than he’d realized. His first impulse was to commandeer a flyer, load it up with really big guns, and pay House Campbell a personal royal visit the guards there would never forget; but he knew he couldn’t do that. Finn would be expecting something like that. And Douglas had a strong feeling he wouldn’t be allowed to just stroll out of the palace either. He was beginning to sense just how comprehensive a trap had been constructed around him by Finn and Anne, and God alone knew how many others. All he could do for now was play along, play the broken man in public, until he could get back into shape again, physically and mentally. And then he would show these upstarts and their fake brother James just how Douglas Campbell had become a legend among the Paragons, long before he became King.

He would show them what a real Campbell could do, with vengeance in his heart.

But first he had to clean up his room. He couldn’t live in this dump anymore. Just looking at some of it made his skin crawl. And simple repetitious manual jobs always helped him think. It took him a long time to clear the mess up, but he had a lot of thinking to do.

* * * *

Over the next few weeks, Douglas sweated his way through every punishing exercise he could think of, while watching brother James make the rounds of all the very best news and gossip shows on his viewscreen. It seemed like James was everywhere, dashing from public appearance to public appearance, his every move covered by all the celebrity channels. Looking big and bluff and handsome with his bright eyes and bashful smile, James was the biggest news sensation since the return of the Terror. The people were desperate for good news, and the return of the man who should have been King was just what they needed. He wasn’t Owen Deathstalker, but he would do.

William, of course, was painted as the very blackest of villains, who only reluctantly kept James alive in case something happened to Douglas while he was playing at being a Paragon. Should James have been needed, it seemed William and Niamh had arranged to have a powerful esper delete all of James’s memories since the crash, so he would know nothing of his imprisonment. This particular announcement led to open hostility against all espers, even though the oversoul went out of their way to deny that any of their people had ever been involved in such a scheme. No one believed them. There were demonstrations bordering on riots in cities on worlds all across the Empire, calling for strict new controls on all espers. From all across the Empire, espers quietly made their way to Logres, and to the floating city of New Hope, where they holed up behind powerful protections and waited for the people to come to their senses again.

They should have known better. The people had a new hero to believe in, and they didn’t want their precious fairy story spoiled.

Douglas exercised ceaselessly, ate all the right foods, and pushed his soft body back into shape again. He worked out regularly with his sword and shield, and the old skills came flooding back. He wanted to be ready for when Finn dropped the other shoe.

He missed Jesamine, and Lewis. He missed having people around him he could trust. But he had no time to indulge his own problems, when the Empire’s problems were clearly so much bigger.

Douglas seemed to be the only person in the whole Empire who wasn’t impressed by James. This larger-than-life hero on the viewscreen wasn’t the easygoing, intelligent, deeply moral man Douglas had heard about all his life. This new James was just too perfect. He always knew the right thing to say, even if it didn’t seem to mean much on closer examination. He always came out with the right answers, even if they didn’t always fit the question. He was a great one for the barbed sound bite, delivered with a flashing smile and just a hint of a wink, and the public ate it up with spoons.

Douglas thought James was beginning to look over-rehearsed, and he still wasn’t very good at the personal stuff. He was fine at shaking hands with people and asking interested questions, but he couldn’t ad-lib to save his life. Fortunately, there were always some of Finn’s people close at hand to whisk him away on urgent business, if it became clear James was getting out of his depth. Douglas thought James was hollow, all surface charm, with nothing original in his head that hadn’t been put there. It bothered Douglas greatly that no one else could see it. None so blind . . . he supposed. Douglas hadn’t been allowed to meet with James since that first day, but he kept pushing. Sooner or later, Finn and Anne would have to let the two brothers meet again, because it would look decidedly odd if they didn’t. And when that finally happened, Douglas was determined to be ready with a whole bunch of really awkward questions.

He no longer had any doubts that James was a fake of some kind. For all his coaching, this James still made occasional factual errors about his life before the accident. Small things, perhaps, that only another member of Clan Campbell could have known, but Douglas spotted them immediately. His whole early life Douglas had been compared (usually unfavorably) to his glorious deceased older brother. When James was occasionally caught in an error, and called on it by an interviewer, James just turned up his smile another notch and blamed his uncertain memory on residual problems from his head injuries in the crash. And then no one would push it, for fear of seeming to bully an invalid.

The undoubted highlight of James’s media rounds was a guest appearance on that most popular of vid soaps: The Quality. By then in its triumphant fifth season, with two shows every day and a compilation at weekends, The Quality presented a highly idealized view of sin, scandal, and outrageous clothes among the aristocrats of the Empress Lionstone’s time. It was required viewing all across the Empire, if only so one could join in on what everyone else was talking about.

James played his ancestor Finlay Campbell—badly. He had charm but no talent, and his performance was more wooden than most of the furniture, but no one cared. You didn’t watch a soap like The Quality for the subtlety of the performances anyway. James appeared opposite the undisputed star of the show, the almost impossibly beautiful and radiant Treasure Mackenzie, who played the social butterfly Chantelle. She wasn’t that great an actress herself, but since it had been said truly of her that if she’d been any more voluptuous she would have been in 4D, no one gave a damn. As long as she kept smiling, taking deep breaths, and threatening to lose her clothes at every twist and turn of the plot, people kept watching. So Treasure floated becomingly around James, who read his lines carefully from the idiot boards and concentrated on looking good.

That episode gained the highest ratings the show had ever known.

Douglas turned the viewscreen off and studied himself in the mirror. He looked good. He’d burned off all the flab, and he looked like a fighter again. His mind was sharp and clear, and he was more than ready to remind his many enemies that a Campbell was never more dangerous than when he had nothing left to lose. But it would have to be done slowly, and subtly. He would have to continue to act confused and beaten down in public—especially when Finn and Anne were around—until he could prove to the people who mattered that he was his old self again and pick up some useful allies. The problem was, whom to trust? How deep had the rot gone? During his self-pitying seclusion, Finn had taken the opportunity to quietly replace all the King’s people with new faces loyal only to the Durandal. Douglas’s guards, and even his servants, were gone; and a lot of people he’d considered his friends wouldn’t even answer his calls anymore. Douglas had been very carefully isolated, so that even if he did recover from his fugue, he’d have no one to turn to.

But there were still a few people that even Finn couldn’t corrupt. Emma Steel, for example, the Paragon from Mistworld who was now patrolling Logres. And maybe Stuart Lennox, Lewis’s replacement Paragon from Virimonde. If only Douglas could work out a way to contact them privately.

And sometimes he still thought about Lewis and Jesamine. And wondered quietly if, since he’d been so wrong about so many other things, just maybe he might have been wrong about them too. He wanted to believe they’d never been traitors. He had loved them both, after all.

Next to Douglas, James had the biggest and most luxurious set of private chambers in the palace. Anne had provided them for him, by the simple expedient of kicking out the original occupants and defying them to do anything about it. The original owners had enough sense to see which way the wind was blowing, and left without making any fuss. They in turn kicked out someone lower in status than they, and took over their quarters. For the next few days, no one could move in the palace, because the corridors were full of people changing rooms. The order to house James in the palace had King Douglas’s name on it, but everyone knew it really came from Anne—and by extension, Finn.

James didn’t actually like his new quarters much. They were too big, too opulent, too overpowering. He wandered from room to room feeling lost and ill at ease, afraid to touch anything in case he broke it. His quarters were full of state-of-the-art tech that he didn’t know how to work. He wasn’t allowed any personal servants—they might learn something, and talk. James had a favorite chair, tucked away in one corner of his bedroom, in which he spent most of his time off. The problem was, these were quarters fit for a King, and James didn’t want to be a King. The thought alone scared him. He was just as scared of being James Campbell, given all the expectations that came with the name. But he was even more frightened of Finn Durandal, so he kept all these thoughts strictly to himself. The only person he ever dared to say anything to was Anne, but although she was never too busy to smile and comfort him, she never really listened to anything he said.

James belonged to Finn and Anne. He knew that. They owned him, body and soul. He was their creation.

He was busy practicing sincere smiles in front of the parlor mirror when Finn arrived late one morning, bringing with him the clone representative Elijah du Katt. James started trembling the moment he saw du Katt. It was a terrible thing to meet one’s own maker. James still had nightmares about some of the invasive surgeries du Katt had put him through, on Finn’s orders. But he didn’t make any fuss when du Katt unpacked his diagnostics kit; he just took off his frilly shirt and stood waiting patiently. He didn’t want to make Finn angry. Du Katt took his time with the diagnostics, checking James’s readings carefully against the expected optimums. He finally sniffed a few times and started packing away his equipment. James relaxed just a little, and quietly put his shirt back on as du Katt talked with Finn about him as though he weren’t there.

“He’s in excellant shape, Sir Durandal. No deviation from the original process. The most perfect clone I’ve ever produced.”

“I should hope so, considering how much you and your people charged me to make him,” said Finn.

“Ah,” said du Katt, smiling and shrugging, “clones aren’t cheap, especially when they’re illegal, and you did want something special. With all the improvements I’ve built into this model, he’s practically a Hadenman.”

Finn frowned suddenly. “I told you: no implants. No tech. Nothing that might show up on a scanner. I hope you haven’t been too creative, Elijah. If I’ve got to tear this model apart and start over, I’ll do the same to you. Slowly.”

“Relax, Sir Durandal, relax!” Du Katt’s hands fluttered nervously, and his attempt at an easy laugh wasn’t at all convincing. “I can assure you, he’s entirely organic. He’s faster, stronger, and has better reflexes than most of the fighters you’ll find in the Arena these days. A born killer, just as you requested.”

“Pity he isn’t a bit smarter,” said Finn, studying James dispassionately. “It’s a real pain in the neck having to teach him his answers to questions, parrot fashion, all the time, just to get him through interviews.”

Du Katt shrugged again. “He’s just as intelligent as the original, potentially—possibly even more so. He just lacks a context to work from. You can’t learn everything from books. A certain lack of social skills is only to be expected. He’s only six months old, after all!”

He laughed, but Finn didn’t join in, so he quickly stopped. James just stood there, his face carefully blank, waiting to be told what to do. He never volunteered anything. That wasn’t his place. And Finn hurt him if he ever looked like he was forgetting his place. In public, James was always calm and confident and perfectly poised, because that was what Finn wanted. In private, James was quiet, diffident, and eager to please—because he wanted to go on living.

Finn finally waved du Katt away and looked upon his creation, his possession, his latest weapon. And smiled, remembering.

* * * *

Finn Durandal personally led the raid on House Campbell, accompanied by his personal guard of six returned Paragons and four assault ships full of Church Militant and Pure Humanity troops. Armed and armored, fanatics to a man and a woman, pumped full of righteousness and knockoff battle drugs, they were sworn to fight and die in Finn’s name, for the cause. Cannon fodder, basically. Finn commanded the lead ship himself. Some pleasures were just too tasty to be shared with anyone.

William’s security people challenged him automatically as he approached, only to relax once they recognized his face. Finn had been to House Campbell many times before, as an old friend of Douglas. All he had to do was make vague allusions to a possible security alarm, and William ordered all his defenses dropped and invited Finn and all his people in. As easy as that. William had no reason to distrust the Imperial Champion.

Finn’s ships landed unchallenged on the House’s private landing pads, and his attack troops immediately spilled out, armed to the teeth and shouting their vicious slogans. Finn would have liked more of an element of surprise on his side, but he had to make allowances when working with thugs and fanatics. Strategy was a mystery to people blind to everything but their cause. So Finn just pointed them in the right direction and let them get on with it. They charged off the landing pads and into the grounds, killing everyone they saw. The security guards went down first, followed by gardeners and servants and old family retainers. Only the guards had weapons, of course, and most never even got a chance to use them. Those few who did were quickly outnumbered and overrun. Everyone else died where they stood. Or, if they ran, they were shot in the back. Finn had no interest in taking any prisoners.

No one had time to send a warning. And Finn had come prepared, with special equipment in his lead ship, to make sure no comm messages would leave House Campbell. He sauntered unhurriedly across the great green lawns towards the House, accompanied by his six beaming Paragons, enjoying the smell of smoke in the air as his people set fire to the ancient gardens. Trees blazed like torches, flower beds became ashes, and the old hedge maze burned brightly like a funeral pyre. And everywhere there were dead men and women, their blood and brains and guts seeping out onto the neatly cropped grass. The ancestral grounds of House Campbell had become an abattoir, and Finn Durandal couldn’t have been happier.

He strode like a conqueror into the great hall of House Campbell, casually destroying irreplaceable treasures as he went, and warmed his hands before the great open fireplace. It was an unseasonably chilly morning. He looked around, smiling, as his people dragged a beaten and bloodied William Campbell into what had once been his hall, and dropped the old man in a heap at Finn’s feet. He lay there, gasping and shuddering, while Finn looked thoughtfully at the thugs in their Church Militant armor. They stirred uneasily under his gaze.

“Did he put up a fight?” said Finn. “I wouldn’t have thought the old man had it in him.”

“Not . . . as such,” said one of the thugs. “But he said things . . .”

“Oh well,” said Finn. “I don’t suppose it matters. I never liked him anyway. And I do so admire zeal. Bring him outside.”

Finn led the way out of the house and across the devastated grounds, until they came at last to James’s grave. William stumbled along and had trouble keeping up, but the Paragons kept him moving with kicks and general abuse. They were having a good time. Finn finally let the old man drop to the grass at the foot of his eldest son’s grave, while he looked casually out over the artificial lake. Dead swans lay floating in the bloody waters. Finn’s smile widened. He approved of thoroughness. William slowly struggled up onto his knees, and looked at Finn, his bloody mouth quivering with outrage. One of the Paragons placed a heavy hand on his shoulder, to make sure he stayed on his knees.

“For God’s sake, why, Finn? What’s the meaning of this? Does Douglas know you’re here?”

Finn took his time answering. “Dear Douglas knows very little about what goes on, these days,” he said, smiling charmingly. “But it wouldn’t matter if he did. Douglas is a spent force, as are you; and neither of you matters a damn in the scheme of things anymore. I did all this . . . because I could. Because it pleased me. Don’t look for rescue. All of your own people are dead, and no one will be coming from outside. Your day is over, William. And mine is just beginning.”

“How could you do this, Finn?” William said numbly. “You’re Douglas’s friend. You were always welcome here. You and he used to have such good times here . . .”

“Things change, people change,” said Finn. “You might say I’ve grown up since then. You never really knew me, William. But you do now.”

William looked uncertainly at James’s grave. “What do you want here? What could possibly be worth all this death and destruction?”

“I’m glad you asked that, William. I’m here for James. No good to anyone just lying in the ground, but I have a use for him.” He leaned over the headstone, and casually blew out the eternal flame that burned there. “Dig him up, boys.”

William cried out angrily, and tried to surge to his feet, but the Paragons hit him, and he fell helplessly to the ground.

“Ah, William,” said Finn. “Children are such hostages to fortune, aren’t they? Even when they’re dead.”

Finn’s people dug up the grave while William watched helplessly. It didn’t take them long to get down to the coffin, break open the lid, and reveal the corpse. The funeral technicians had done an excellent job. Still perfectly preserved, all of James’s many injuries had been cunningly disguised. He might only have been sleeping. William made a soft low sound of distress, but no one paid him any attention. Finn clambered down into the open grave, so he could look James in the face, close up. Finally he nodded, smiled, and then leaned forward and kissed James on his dead lips.

“You’ll do. Du Katt, take your samples.”

“No names!” hissed the clone representative, as he hurried forwards. “You promised, no names!”

“Oh, get on with it,” said Finn.

Du Katt waited for Finn to vacate the grave, and then clambered clumsily down to take his cell samples. He was swiftly efficient, though he was careful never to look at the corpse’s face. When he was finished, he got out of the grave as fast as he could, and Finn then nodded to one of his people, who dropped a small transmutation bomb into the hole. A few seconds later, the mortal remains of the noble James Campbell had been reduced to undifferentiated protoplasmic slime that might have been anyone or anything. William cried harsh, racking tears while Finn smiled on him.

“Don’t blame me,” he said airily. “This is all Douglas’s fault. None of this had to have happened. But he should have made me Champion.”

“You always were a petty-minded little shit,” said William.

“Take him back to House Campbell,” said Finn. “Lock him up somewhere secure, then set up a rotation of guards for the house and the grounds. No one gets in or out unless they’re with me. Oh, and boys, you can play with William, but don’t break him. I may have a use for him, later on.”

He looked out over the burning gardens as his men dragged William away. “Someday, all Logres will look like this,” he said happily.

* * * *

Back in James’s chambers, Finn strolled around his creation, studying him from all angles. The clone looked good. He looked very good. Finn approved of good work. Du Katt had been surprisingly easy to bring on board. All he wanted in return for his services and the doctored genetest was a promise from Finn to bring the clone underground back to power and prominence again. And a whole bag load of money, of course. Only du Katt and a select few from the clone underground knew the truth. The less who knew, the less chance there was that someone might develop a conscience and talk. The deal itself was simple enough: in return for James, Finn would see to it that once the Transmutation Board had wiped planets clean of “troublesome” alien life, vast numbers of new clones would be produced to populate these new terraformed worlds. These new populations, along with their planetary votes in Parliament, would make the clones a force to be reckoned with again.

Du Katt was also responsible for keeping the original cell samples in a safe place, so that another James could be produced if the first one didn’t work out. That was one of the first things Finn told James, just so he knew where he stood.

Anne Barclay had dug up everything the clone James needed to know, from her extensive archives. It wasn’t difficult; down the years many books had been written and documentaries produced about the short but promising life of the man who should have been King. Anne and Finn had then taught the clone James all he needed to know on how to speak, how to move, how to act in public. He picked it up surprisingly quickly. As a blank slate he was endlessly hungry for information about himself, and the process was aided by Finn’s punishing him severely if he got things wrong, and Anne’s comforting him afterwards. Bad cop, good cop; carrot and stick. The old ways are always the best. James was still having trouble with some social skills, but they were mostly the kind you could pick up only by experience—which was why Finn insisted that James do so much at once. A full schedule of meetings and talks immersed James in the world he had to fool. It was sink or swim, but it seemed to be working. And if it was a bit hard on James, well, it wasn’t as if he was a real person, after all.

“You still need to do more work on your small talk,” said Anne, sitting opposite James. Even just sitting, she still looked stiff and awkward in her new, beautiful body. “I know chatting makes you nervous, James, but you can only learn by doing. When in doubt, just smile and say something nice. It doesn’t have to be true; few compliments are.”

“I do my best,” said James, trying hard not to sound sulky. “It’s just . . . I get tired. There’s so much to do, and it never stops . . .”

Finn slapped him across the face. It was a casual blow, but there was real power behind it. James rocked on his feet, but didn’t fall. He stopped talking and stood very straight, his hands at his sides.

“You do what I tell you to do, when I tell you to do it,” said Finn.

Anne was up out of her chair, glaring at Finn. “There was no need for that! He’s doing his best.”

Finn looked at her coolly. “I will do what I will do, Anne, and no one gets to stop me anymore. You of all people should know that. James has to be perfect in his part, or all our plans will come to nothing. So James is going to be perfect, whatever it takes.” He smiled at James. “I own you, boy, body and soul. I will make you King, and the Empire will bow down to you, but only because it pleases me to do so. You’re mine, and always will be. Now, I must be about my business. So many lives to ruin; so little time! Anne, make sure he’s fully briefed for the news interview in an hour. And remember: we are not at home to Mr. Cock-up!”

He laughed, patted James lightly on his reddening cheek, blew Anne a kiss, and then swept out of the luxurious chamber with du Katt hurrying after him. James waited until the door had slammed shut behind them, and only then dared to sit down. His hands were trembling, and he clasped them tightly together in his lap. Anne sat on the padded arm of his chair, and put her arm round his shoulders.

“Why doesn’t Finn like me?” said James. “I do everything he tells me to do. I try my hardest, always.”

“There, there, James, don’t take on so. It’s just his way. We’re both very pleased with your progress so far, and neither of us have any doubts about your abilities. Not really.”

“Then why is he always . . . like that?” said James. “Why can’t I ever please him? I want to please him.”

“Finn . . . isn’t easy to get to know,” said Anne. “And he has a lot on his mind. You just carry on as you are. You’re doing fine.”

She hugged him, one magnificent breast pressing against the side of his face. He blushed bright red and sat very still, so he wouldn’t startle her and make her move away. James found Anne’s beauty disturbing in a whole bunch of ways he didn’t really understand yet. When Treasure Mackenzie had hugged him on the set of The Quality, he’d thought he was going to pass out from lack of blood to the head. It had all gone somewhere else. Anne knew the effect she had on him, and she loved to tease him. She could accept attention from James that would have made her uncomfortable if it had come from anyone else—perhaps because James had never known the old Anne. As far as he knew, she’d always been beautiful. She found it easier to be . . . feminine, with him. She still had trouble calling up the confidence to bring it off successfully with anyone else. She liked the effect her new femininity had on men, the way it distracted and short-circuited their thinking, but she didn’t trust it yet. Part of her still suspected they were secretly laughing at her.

And if they were, she’d make them pay. She’d make them suffer. Every damned one of them.

* * * *

She took some time to get James settled, and then left him immersed in the latest files while she hurried after Finn. The Durandal hadn’t got far down the corridor. He was still trying to get rid of du Katt. The clone rep was as nervous as he was ambitious, and needed a lot of reassuring. As Finn said—more than once—if he’d known the little creep was going to be this clingy, he’d have approached someone else. But it was too late now. They were stuck with each other—for the time being. Finn saw Anne approaching, and used that as an excuse to send du Katt on his way. The clone rep left reluctantly, still muttering under his breath. Finn smiled on Anne as she joined him.

“And how’s our dear child? Studying hard and bettering himself, I hope?”

“He’ll be ready for the interview. He always is. You’re too hard on him, Finn.”

“It’s for his own good. If he screws up in public, it won’t be just our necks on the chopping block. The public’s always had a special loathing for clone imposters. Especially now they’ve invested so much hope and faith in the return of dear James.” He stopped, considered her for a moment, and then spoke more gently. “Something’s bothering you, Anne, and I don’t think it’s James. What’s the matter?”

“I don’t know,” she said, looking away, unable to meet his eyes. “It’s just . . . I don’t feel right. This new me . . . I thought it was what I wanted, but now . . . It feels like a trick; a mask that everyone else can see through.”

“You’re beautiful now,” said Finn. “You have blossomed. This is what you always looked like, inside.”

“Then why can’t I ever relax? Why do I feel like a fraud all the time? Why can’t I ever just . . . enjoy it?”

Her voice was rising. Finn took her firmly by the arms and made her look at him. “Listen to me, Anne. You can be whatever you want to be. You can remake your life, your personality, and your destiny, just like I did. You just have to be strong enough to take what you want. Other people will believe what you want them to believe, if you’re confident enough and strong enough in your belief. You are what you can make other people believe you are. Trust me on this, Anne, I’ve had a lot of experience in this field. Soon, people will forget there ever was another Anne. Just . . . believe in yourself. I believe in you.”

Anne slowly nodded, and Finn let go of her. She managed a small, tremulous smile. “Thank you,” she said quietly. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know,” he said, smiling impishly. “But I did anyway. Because even monsters aren’t monsters all the time.”

They strolled off down the corridor together, comfortably close but not actually touching. People passing by bowed low to them both, and kept well out of their way. They had both become great and glorious and larger than life, and they looked very much like they belonged in the ornate corridors of the Imperial Palace. As though anywhere else would have been unworthy of them.

“You’re taking a lot on yourself these days,” said Anne, after a while. “Are you sure you can juggle all these groups you want to work with? Pure Humanity and the Church Militant are bad enough, but these others you want to bring in . . . They’re not stupid, and they’re very dangerous. How long do you think you can keep these fanatics from finding out that you’re just using them for your own ends?”

“As long as it takes,” Finn said airily. “All I have to do is play them off against each other, and they’ll be too busy trying to do each other down that they’ll never see what I’m really up to until it’s far too late.”

“But to approach the Hellfire Club and the Shadow Court . . .” Anne looked at Finn. “You watch yourself, Finn. These people are vile and treacherous.”

“So am I,” said Finn. “But I am smarter and sharper than they are, because I don’t share their obsessions. And because I’m the only one who knows everything that’s going on. I’m the only one who sees the Big Picture. I’ll always be able to outthink them because I’ll always be one step ahead.”

Anne thought about that for a while. “At least they all have their causes. They believe in something. What do you believe in, Finn?”

He smiled dazzlingly. “I believe in me.”

Anne decided it was time to change the subject. “Do we have any fresh news on the Terror?”

“Nothing new,” said Finn, tacitly agreeing to the change in subject. “Presumably, it’s still on a course towards its next projected target, Heracles Four. We can’t be sure until it emerges into our space again. But assuming it holds its course, even traveling at sublight speed it should hit Heracles Four in a matter of months. They’re still working on beefing up their defenses, and bankrupting their whole economy to pay for state-of-the-art shields and weaponry. The latest hot rumor is that the Swart Alfair of Mog Mor, those enigmatic bastards, have supplied them with some entirely new forms of weaponry, for an exorbitant price, along with a handful of observers to see how well they work. If I was Heracles Four, I’d be sure to keep the receipt somewhere handy. I’ve arranged for a few observers of my own, just in case this new weaponry really does do all the marvelous things Mog Mor claims it can; but I don’t think I’ll hold my breath.”

“Do you think these extra defenses will make any difference?”

Finn pursed his lips. “I don’t know. But whatever happens, it’ll be a learning experience.”

“Finn! That’s cold-blooded, even for you!”

“Stick to what you’re best at, that’s what I always say.”

“But . . . what if none of it works? Do you have any plans on how to stop the Terror?”

“Oh, yes. I always have plans.”

“You always say that! Why won’t you ever tell me what you’ve got planned? Don’t you trust me, after all we’ve done and achieved together?”

“Hush, hush,” said Finn. “You’re getting loud. I don’t want to raise false hopes, until I’m sure what I’ve got in mind will work. We have time. It’ll be ages until the Terror can penetrate this far into the Empire. Now, my turn to change the subject, I think. I need to know what’s in your heart, dear Anne. Do you feel at all guilty about removing Douglas from the throne and replacing him with James? I mean, you and Douglas were friends for a long time.”

“So were you and Douglas.”

“No, not really. Stop evading the question. Is deposing Douglas as King going to be a problem for you?”

“No,” said Anne, meeting his gaze firmly. “He let me down. He let us all down. He didn’t have the guts to be the kind of King he promised he’d be. To be the legend I would have made of him. I won’t back losers anymore.”

“And what about Lewis, the valiant Deathstalker?”

Anne’s gaze was very cold now, her voice unforgiving. “He ran away.”

“And your oldest and dearest friend, the lovely Jesamine?”

“I made her the perfect deal. She would have been Queen, and a legend alongside Douglas. I had it all worked out. And she threw it all away. We could all have been glorious, but in the end they were all too weak. Let them all die and rot. James will be King, our King, and we will rule through him. Until the time comes when we can have him safely put aside, and then you shall be King, Finn. You’re strong enough to rule this Empire. Strong enough to be a legend.”

“I could make you Queen,” said Finn. “If you wanted.”

“No,” said Anne, looking away. “I’ve always felt most comfortable operating from the shadows.”

Finn took her chin in his hand, and made her look at him again. “That’s the old Anne speaking.”

“I’m not afraid of the spotlight,” said Anne, jerking her chin out of his grasp. “If you like, and if you can find the time, you can come and watch me as I brief the media this afternoon. I’m going to destroy what’s left of Lewis’s and Jesamine’s reputations, and piss on the ashes while I’m at it.”

“I wouldn’t miss it for worlds,” said Finn.

* * * *

It had to be said, Anne gave one of her very best performances at that afternoon’s press conference. She stood tall and proud before the assembled media pack, looked them straight in the eye, and lied. She spread her web of damning lies and half-truths with just the right mixture of forthright efficiency and diffident duty. As the reporters listened with widening eyes and dropping jaws, Anne thoroughly trashed Jesamine’s past with detailed evidence of the kind only an old and trusted friend could provide. Lovers were named and shamed, old scandals unearthed, long-standing rumors confirmed, and all of it carefully presented in the very worst light.

Anne had plenty of material to work with. She’d been Jesamine’s friend and confidante from the very beginnings of her career, and they’d kept no secrets from each other. Anne took everything she’d been told in secret, and added as many half-truths, distortions, and outrageous lies as she thought she could get away with.

And Jesamine had led a very busy private life, down the years. The fan magazines never knew the half of it. Jesamine’s many lovers had included men and women, before, during, and after her several marriages, and many of those favored had gone on to become prominent people in show business and politics. The sheer number of past lovers shocked the public, and the media happily fanned the outrage into open hysteria. Her recordings were destroyed, and she was burned in effigy in several cities. Many of the named lovers went into hiding to protect themselves.

Not all of those named were actually guilty, of course. Finn had provided Anne with a list of people he’d like brought down—people who had opposed him, or might prove a problem in the future—and Anne had nodded and said No problem, and added as many as she thought she could get away with. They denied it, but then, as Anne said to the reporters, Well, they would, wouldn’t they?

One of those publicly named and shamed was the member of Parliament for Malediction, Meerah Puri. Finn had grown tired of her endless questioning of him in the House, not least because she was edging towards the truth. But this time, the mud wouldn’t stick. Meerah Puri was vehement and detailed in her defense, and Anne was finally forced to issue a retraction, if not an apology. Finn shrugged, in private. You can’t expect to get everyone. He’d just have to try harder, next time.

Anne didn’t have any real dirt on Lewis Deathstalker, so she and Finn made some up. Since no one knew anything about Lewis’s private life, they felt free to go to town, and really did a job on him. Lewis, they said, had faked most of his so-called triumphs, with the help of false agents from the Rookery. Anne produced as witnesses some of the very people who’d helped establish Finn’s recent reputation, and as a result they were very convincing. They clearly knew what they were talking about. Having delivered their damning evidence, they then disappeared back into the Rookery before they could be questioned or challenged by any of Lewis’s few remaining supporters.

The people listened, and the people believed, already so shocked and stunned by Lewis’s and Jesamine’s treason and flight that they were ready to believe anything. Anne kept on, adding more names and places and details, and the more outrageous the claims became, the more ready people were to believe them. Anne claimed that both Lewis and Jesamine had secretly been members of the notorious Shadow Court, and the public nodded wisely and said Yes, of course, it all makes sense now. On Virimonde, Lewis’s family denied it all on his behalf, but Clan Deathstalker no longer had the influence it once had. Indeed, Parliament was threatening to take the revered name of Deathstalker away from them, and bestow it on some more deserving branch of cousins.

Tim Highbury, who had once hosted Lewis’s tribute site, was found hanged. Anne was genuinely upset about that. She’d known and worked with the earnest young man in the past. She liked him. She angrily accused Finn of setting it up, but for once he hadn’t. He hadn’t had to. With his hero destroyed and fatally smeared, Tim Highbury hadn’t wanted to live anymore.

And so it went, for week after week. Anne fed dirt to the media, James appeared on all the right shows and charmed everybody, and Finn . . . went suddenly missing. It caught Anne by surprise. She went to him for one of their routine strategy meetings, and his office was empty. She found a brief note saying he’d had to go to Haden. Right away. Anne took that rather badly. How could he just swan off and leave her, right in the middle of things? What could possibly be so important that he’d had to leave her in the lurch without any warning?

The news broke a few days later, and then she understood at once. It seemed the scientists working on Haden, studying the Madness Maze from what they fervently hoped was a safe distance, had been keeping a secret. Ten thousand brave souls had passed through the Madness Maze some two hundred years earlier, only to die horribly—which was why the Maze had been placed off limits ever since. Only now, that turned out to be not strictly true. Twelve men and women had survived. Strangely gifted and completely insane, they were still alive after two centuries, confined to one special annex of the Maze.

Finally, the news had got out. The twelve were no longer a secret. Anne swore loudly. Of course Finn had to go to Haden, and see these people for himself. Because if people could go through the Madness Maze and survive, that changed everything.

* * * *

Finn Durandal headed for Haden on the starcruiser Halcyon, captained by one Elspeth Wagner. Both she and the rest of the crew were Finn’s people, loyal directly to him rather than to Pure Humanity and the Church Militant. Finn trusted them, in as much as he trusted anyone. He had to get to Haden first. He didn’t want Church Militant fanatics anywhere near the Madness Maze or the twelve survivors. The Church demanded access to the Maze as a central part of their dogma, and this news would only inflame them. Finn needed to learn as much as he could, and then get the hell offplanet and slap down a major quarantine around Haden so that no one else could get in.

Knowledge was power.

As for Pure Humanity; God alone knew what those crazy bastards would do. Could you still be Pure, after you’d been through the Maze and it had worked its changes on you? Finn wouldn’t put it past them to try to turn their transmutation engines on Haden. So, in and out, and then the quarantine.

Finn paced impatiently back and forth in his cabin as the fastest ship in the Imperial Fleet took him to Haden, that ancient and treacherous world of transformation and dark miracles—and apparently even more secrets than had been suspected. He studied the limited available information over and over again. Twelve survivors, out of ten thousand. All of them very powerful, all of them extremely insane. Still alive and thriving after two centuries of captivity. Finn owed his advance knowledge to the robots of Shub, who were repaying him for the access he’d got them to the Maze. Human scientists had chosen to keep the survivors secret, but the AIs of Shub didn’t believe in withholding data.

It seemed the survivors exhibited powers and abilities far beyond any of the Empire’s espers, and the then-King and Queen, Robert and Constance, had backed the scientists to the hilt when the news was first presented to them. They didn’t want the survivors to be used as weapons by terrorists, or to give false hope to all those people still clamoring to be allowed into the Maze. Twelve crazy uber-espers were enough. Especially since they were all decidedly . . . disturbing.

Finn wasn’t traveling alone. He’d brought with him one of his creatures from the Rookery, a certain Dr. Happy. However, since the good doctor was also in his own way pretty damned disturbing, Finn mostly insisted Dr. Happy remain in his own cabin, if only so he wouldn’t freak the rest of the crew. Dr. Happy was a dealer in drugs and potions, as much alchemist as scientist, who’d raised altering states of consciousness to an art form. From love potions to battle drugs, uppers, downers, and the occasional trip sideways, Dr. Happy had more ways of messing with your brain than a butcher with a new cleaver and a really nasty sense of humor. The good doctor could make you feel any way he wanted, which included some emotions that had been considered purely theoretical until he came along. Dr. Happy could make you sing in colors, plait lightning, or speak in tongues with people who weren’t even in the same time zone as you. For the right price, of course.

The man himself was unnaturally tall, unhealthily slender, and was never seen out of one of his severely stained white lab coats. He wore protective gloves at all times, and never touched his own stock. Probably because he didn’t need to; he was born wired. He had a long thin face with a wide toothy grin, bulging eyes, and a shock of frizzy white hair that stuck out like a halo. His hair always looked like he tugged at it a lot, and his eyes changed color according to his mood. He giggled more than was acceptable, darted agitatedly around, and bit his fingernails savagely when he got excited. His eyeballs were yellow as urine, and his teeth weren’t much better. He smelled of something antiseptic.

Finn brought him along in the hopes the good doctor would be able to come up with some extreme new drug to calm and/or control the twelve survivors—or failing that, the human scientists working with them. Finn felt very strongly that he didn’t want any more surprises coming out of Haden. His alliance with the robots of Shub gave him some measure of control, but that wasn’t enough. He wanted to slam the lid down hard on Haden and the Maze, and for that he needed Dr. Happy. That meant he had to spend some time discussing matters with the good doctor—a man so lacking in moral and ethical principles, or any form of restraint, that even Finn felt uncomfortable around him.

So he sat in his comfortable chair in his comfortable cabin, and sighed inwardly as Dr. Happy capered around him, examining everything with disquieting enthusiasm, giggling loudly and clutching his bony hands to his sunken chest. He hadn’t wanted to leave his precious underground laboratory on Haden, but Finn had tempted him out with thoughts of the amazing new drugs he might be able to derive from the altered biochemistry of the twelve survivors. Plus, he would be allowed to treat the survivors with any drug he fancied, in doses that would undoubtedly kill a normal human—just to see what happened. Finn believed in experimentation, particularly on other people. And, Finn said that if Dr. Happy didn’t come with him, he would kill the good doctor—right there and then. Dr. Happy believed him. People tended to believe Finn when he said things like that.

Dr. Happy spun round several times, gurgled loudly, and fixed Finn with goggling eyes. “Are we nearly there yet? No? Hey ho . . . I am so excited at the possibilities before us! I am! Such potential! Yes. I have always believed that esper abilities have their basis in biochemical patterns in the brain, but the oversoul would never allow me to experiment on any of their bodies . . . All right, I wanted to do it while the bodies were still alive, but . . . Wimps. Some people just don’t appreciate the miracles of science. Oh, just let me at those twelve survivors with my scalpels and my genetic sequencers! Yes! From the deepest secrets of their various vitals I will concoct such potions as will push Humanity up the evolutionary ladder so fast it’ll blow away all the rungs!”

“I hear you’ve been running experiments in the ship’s med bay again,” said Finn. “I thought we’d agreed that you were not to test any of your concoctions on members of the crew? And particularly not on anyone in navigation.”

Dr. Happy stuck out his lower lip sulkily. “I have to keep my hand in, Sir Durandal. No one’s died yet, have they? And I’m sure that nice young lieutenant will stop screaming any day now. I must practice my art, I must! Oh, my word, yes. I must be at my very best when I come face-to-face with the Madness Maze, and begin my greatest work.” His eyes became dreamy as his long bony fingers tangled together, and his toothy grin became actually wistful. “Such miracles I shall work in the twisted minds and altered flesh of the Maze survivors! I shall change and transform the very nature of human consciousness, stretching it in undreamed-of directions. I shall warp consensual reality and storm the very barricades of Heaven and Hell! Yes!” He stopped abruptly and studied Finn with his head cocked to one side. “I do wish I could persuade you to try some small part of my inventory. Only the very broadest of perceptions will allow you to appreciate the probabilities inherent in the Maze and its creations. We must never allow our humanity to hold us back from what our ambition can conceive. Are you sure I can’t tempt you to try a little something?”

“Quite sure,” said Finn. “And if you try slipping something into my coffee again, I will remonstrate with you most severely. You do remember what happened the last time I had to remonstrate with you, don’t you?”

Dr. Happy nodded sulkily. He remembered. “I still feel you overreacted somewhat.”

“Just be grateful there was a regeneration tank handy. Next time, I won’t stop with your extremities. I might need you, but I don’t necessarily need you intact.”

* * * *

The Halcyon came at last to Haden and took up a high orbit. The robots representing the AIs of Shub below teleported Finn and Dr. Happy down to the scientists’ observation post, right on the edge of the Maze. Finn wasn’t at all happy about entrusting his well-being to anyone other than himself, but he kept his concerns to himself. Partly because he needed Shub to see him as a trusted and trusting ally, and partly because he was so very eager to see the Maze and the survivors. Dr. Happy giggled loudly through the entire teleport experience until Finn hit him.

They materialized in what looked like just another steel-walled corridor in any scientific outpost, but they had to be there on Haden only a few moments to realize that they had come to a very strange place. Everything felt different, eerie, threatening. Finn’s hand dropped immediately to the gun at his side. He could feel all the hairs standing up on his arms and the back of his neck, as though he’d just entered the lobby of a haunted house. Part of him wanted to turn and run and keep running, which was a shock to Finn. He’d never felt that way before, about anyone or anything. He pushed the feeling aside. He hadn’t come this far to leave empty-handed.

Dr. Happy stood very still, gnawing on a fingernail, his eyes wider than ever. He was trying to smile, but his heart wasn’t in it.

A human scientist in full blast armor came round the corner at the end of the corridor, and Finn almost shot him on sight. He made himself take his hand away from his gun. Whatever the threat here was, it definitely wasn’t human. One of the blue steel robots from Shub came round the corner to join the human scientist, and Finn relaxed a little. If anyone understood the true nature of this unnatural place, it would be Shub. He walked forward, nodded courteously to the robot, and stuck out his hand to the human scientist, who shook it grudgingly. He was short and bald and scowling, and didn’t look at all happy to have visitors.

“Welcome to Haden, Sir Durandal. It’s an honor to meet you, of course, but I could wish it had been under happier circumstances. I have to tell you that I’m not at all happy about this situation. The existence of the twelve survivors was kept secret for good reason. But, Shub went over my head, so . . . What is that, behind you?”

“That is Dr. Happy,” said Finn, not looking round. “And whatever disturbing thing he’s doing, don’t worry, because he’s going to stop it right now. Unless he wants me to slap him silly.”

“Charmed to be here,” said Dr. Happy, blinking owlishly at the robot. “Absolutely charmed. Is there a toilet anywhere handy?”

“Shut up,” said Finn. He gave the human scientist his best sincere look. “For better or worse, the cat is out of the bag, Doctor . . .”

“Dr. Ramirez. Well, if someone had to find out, I suppose I should be glad that it’s someone like you who got here first. Let me show you around. And then maybe you’ll understand why we kept our secret so long.”

He led them off, back down the corridor and round the corner, into another identical corridor. “This is all part of the observation structure my predecessors built directly around the Maze, deep under the surface of Haden. Normally we don’t come this deep and venture so close to the Maze itself, but the survivors can only be . . . appreciated, up close and personal.”

“I take it the blast armor you’re wearing isn’t just a fashion statement,” said Finn. “How dangerous is it down here?”

“To your body or your soul?” Dr. Ramirez tried a laugh, but it wasn’t very successful. “We take every precaution we can when dealing with the survivors, Sir Champion. Theoretically, they’re completely secure, but normal scientific theories tend to break down around the Madness Maze. You should be safe enough as long as you stick close to me, and don’t do or touch anything without checking with me first.”

“Is that your opinion too?” said Finn to the robots.

“Every worthwhile endeavor involves risk,” said the AIs of Shub.

“I just know I’m going to love it here,” said Dr. Happy.

Dr. Ramirez shook his head. “I knew we should never have agreed to Shub being involved here.”

“Now, now,” Finn said calmly. “You must learn to work alongside your Shub colleagues, Dr. Ramirez, or I will have you removed from Haden and replace you with someone who understands their duty to the Empire. At least Shub doesn’t withhold valuable information.”

“That’s not fair!” Ramirez said immediately. “We’ve shared every discovery that was safe to reveal. But if there’s one thing we’ve learned the hard way in our time here, it’s that we have to proceed with the utmost caution. Just being around the Maze is enough to drive perfectly reputable scientists crazy. This place gives you ideas . . . dangerous ideas. There’s something about the Maze, about its nature . . .”

“We do not have to proceed so cautiously,” the robot said. “The nature of the Maze does not frighten us, and these remote-controlled bodies can be exposed to any risk. They are easily replaced. Perhaps robots should replace human scientists completely, since humans are so physically and mentally weak.”

“Boys, boys, don’t fight,” Finn murmured. “Still, the robot has a point, Dr. Ramirez. What have you been doing here that justifies your continued presence?”

“Well,” Ramirez said reluctantly, “we’ve been examining the remains of the abandoned Hadenman city nearby, and we’ve uncovered some startling new additions to Hadenman and Human history. At first, we were mostly concerned with recovering new technologies from the city, and indeed we still are, but just recently we stumbled across a stash of data crystals whose contents shed a whole new light on what we thought we knew about the origin of the Hadenmen. The basis remains the same; a group of Humanity’s finest scientists came here long ago, and passed through the Madness Maze. Most died, horribly, but a few came out mentally transformed. These new intellectual giants made themselves into cyborgs, and became the progenitors of the Hadenman race, of infamous legend. But we now know one of these surviving scientists followed a very different path. She was already an esper before she entered the Maze, and when she came out her psionic abilities had been boosted and altered almost beyond belief. She had become Humanity’s first uber-esper.”

“What were the nature of her new abilities?” asked Dr. Happy, sounding almost sane for once.

“According to the data crystals, she had become an extraordinarily powerful telepath, capable of forcing other espers into a gestalt consciousness, which she could then dominate. Through the gestalt, all their powers became increased, and she was able to wield them all. She traveled the Empire, collecting other espers and absorbing them into her gestalt. The new Hadenmen followed her progress with fascination, but they were still human enough to be scared of her. When she had enough espers under her control, she returned to Haden and forced them all through the Madness Maze. The Hadenmen . . . kept out of her way. It also seems she used her powerful mind to drive all the other espers crazy, before putting them into the Maze. Perhaps she thought it would protect them. Perhaps she thought it would help her control them afterwards. Either way, most of the espers died, and the few that emerged . . . were monsters.”

“We all have monsters within us,” said Dr. Happy, blinking owlishly.

“How true,” said Finn. “Do carry on, Dr. Ramirez.”

“I think you know who I’m talking about,” said Ramirez. “These monsters were the legendary uber-espers: the Shatter Freak, the Gray Train, Blue Hellfire, Screaming Silence, the Spider Harps. The terrible minds that run the Esper Liberation Front these days. The original uber-esper had intended to use the power of these minds to force all espers into one great esper consciousness, like our oversoul today, but under her control. But for the first time, her ambition exceeded her abilities. The pressure of so many minds fighting to be free destroyed her. The gestalt collapsed, the woman died, and what remained of her mind was sucked into the mass subconscious of the espers; later to emerge as the Mater Mundi. The other uber-espers disappeared, fearful of being controlled again, and developed their own agenda.”

“Fascinating,” said Finn. “Do you have any clues as to the identity of this remarkable woman?”

“Yes,” said the blue steel robot. “We have a name: Alicia VomAcht Deathstalker.”

“Well,” said Finn, after a while. “I didn’t see that one coming. You’ve given me much to think about, Dr. Ramirez, but it’s not why I came here. Where are the twelve survivors?”

“This way,” Ramirez said reluctantly. He led them through more corridors, still talking. He sounded increasingly nervous. “The twelve survivors are kept in a holding area attached to the Maze. It appeared quite literally out of nowhere, an outgrowth of the Maze, because it was needed.”

“There are those who have suggested the Madness Maze is alive,” said Dr. Happy. “And quite possibly aware.”

“It’s alien,” Ramirez said shortly. “It could be anything.”

Dr. Happy clapped his bony hands together. “Oh, the possibilities . . .”

“All twelve are imprisoned behind force screens,” said Ramirez, deliberately not looking at Dr. Happy. “The shields allow nothing in or out. We haven’t been able to come up with anything that can affect these screens.”

“Then how do you feed the survivors?” said Finn.

“We don’t. They haven’t eaten or drunk anything in two hundred years. And that’s just the beginning of how . . . altered they are. I should warn you; you’ll find just being this close to the Maze disturbing. You’ll experience a constant feeling of being watched, and studied, or weighed in judgement. And not by the survivors. In this, as in everything else we do here, the Maze watches us all.”

“Yes,” said the Shub robot. “We feel it too. It is disturbing.”

Finn shot a quick glance at the robot, and then decided not to pursue the matter. “Can we communicate with the twelve?”

“We can talk with them, but I don’t know that what we get is actually communication.” Ramirez shuddered suddenly. “We’re almost there, Sir Durandal. Soon you’ll know why we’ve kept these . . . abominations secret for so long. The force shields the Maze provides are a blessing, and a protection for all Humanity. It is my fervent hope that they will never be lowered. Or at least not until the rest of Humanity has evolved to a point where we have some hope of dealing with these creatures.” He gave Finn a hard look. “I have to ask, Sir Durandal; what are your intentions towards the twelve?”

“I haven’t decided yet,” said Finn. “That’s why I came all this way, to see them in person. But, they could be weapons we can use against the Terror. Or other enemies.”

“Like Donal Corcoran,” said Dr. Happy, unexpectedly. “He’d make an excellent weapon.”

“Mouth is open, Doctor, should be shut,” said Finn.

And then they rounded a final corner, and there the twelve were, imprisoned behind shimmering fields of energy. Ramirez started to say something, but Finn gestured imperiously for him to be silent. He walked slowly forwards, alone. He had no intention of sharing this moment with anyone. He walked slowly down the aisle, peering into each cell, drinking in the terrible miracles the Maze had wrought in their merely mortal flesh. They were everything he had hoped for, and worse.

Twelve men and women, kept alive and suffering and crazy for two hundred years. Not eating or drinking, because they had risen above such human needs. He looked at them, and some of them looked back. They were glorious and awful, magnificent and appalling; sick dreams given shape and form and thrust unwillingly into the waking world. Finn decided he didn’t feel disturbed. He felt . . . invigorated. He slowly retraced his steps, stopped in front of the first cell, and gestured for the others to come forward and join him.

“I have to thank you, Dr. Ramirez,” he said calmly. “In all my years, I have never seen anything like this. A truly unique experience. I could watch them for hours, and never grow tired. Tell me, have they always been like this? Have they changed at all, in two hundred years?”

“Not according to the files left by my predecessors,” said Ramirez. He preferred to look at Finn rather than what was in the cell. “This is how they emerged from the Madness Maze. Each one entirely singular, and horribly self-sufficient. Apart from one, they haven’t slept at all in two centuries. No normal mind could survive under such conditions. But then, these creatures aren’t in any way normal.”

He turned and looked, almost unwillingly, into the first cell, and the others followed his gaze.

The cell contained two survivors. A man and a woman, joined together into one body. A large horribly white creature, with four arms and four legs, and one oversized head with too many eyes, it crawled slowly round its featureless enclosure like a giant insect. The single mouth spoke a language that made no sense, and all the eyes moved in different directions.

“Not much of a weapon, is it?” said Ramirez. “Sometimes it walks on the walls and the ceiling, and sometimes it sings a song that makes any listener’s ears bleed, but that’s about it.”

“Ah, well,” said Finn. “Early days yet.”

In the next cell, the occupant had been turned inside out, all down one side. It sat very still in the middle of its cell, and didn’t respond to any movements outside the force screen. The exposed organs were crimson and purple, pulsing with blood, wet and shiny. The single lung expanded and contracted smoothly. Sharp bone horns stuck out of the exposed gray matters of the brain. Where the genitals should have been there was only a twitching red mass. Tears ran steadily down the normal half of the face.

“Is it in pain?” asked Finn.

Ramirez shrugged. “It doesn’t respond to questions. Either way, we have no way of reaching past the force screen to help. According to my files, it hasn’t moved an inch in two hundred years. God alone knows what it’s thinking.”

“Why would the Maze do something like that?” said Finn. “What purpose could it serve?”

“I told you,” said Ramirez. “The Maze is alien.”

In the next cell, a man ran back and forth impossibly quickly, his movements almost a blur. He pounded on the walls with his fists, which continually broke and bled and constantly healed. His mouth was stretched in an endless silent scream, his eyes utterly mad.

“He can hear the whole Empire thinking,” said Ramirez.

“But he can’t shut any of it out, even for a moment. He doesn’t even know who he is anymore, his identity crushed under the weight of so many others.”

Finn looked at Dr. Happy. “Could you help him?”

“I could have a lot of fun trying,” said the good doctor.

The next cell held a man who’d torn his own eyes out. Blood streamed endlessly down his jerking cheeks from the empty red sockets. But his wounded head turned unerringly to follow Finn as he approached the cell’s force screen. When Finn stopped and looked in, the blind man came forwards to face him.

“I have to keep tearing them out,” he said hoarsely. “Because they keep growing back. I see things. Terrible things. I see other planes, other dimensions, and other realities. I see the awful things that live there, twisting and turning, and the awful things they want to do, if they could only find their way here. I have seen the answers to Humanity’s oldest questions, and secrets we were never meant to know . . . and I can’t stop seeing! I tear my eyes out, and I can still see!”

Finn backed away despite himself, and the man in the cell laughed hysterically. The laughter followed them down the aisle to the next cell.

In this cell, the occupant was constantly changing. It stood very still, a blur of movement from one moment to the next as it became a woman became a man became a child became someone else. Short and tall, fat and thin, every race and color of Humanity, everyone and everything, forever changing.

“We don’t know whether any of those are real people,” said Ramirez. “Whether they’re copies of people from other worlds, or alternate time track versions of the original person, such as the blessed Hazel d’Ark is supposed to have produced, or whether these people are just generated from the original’s imagination. None of them have ever stayed around long enough to be questioned. And before you ask, recording devices don’t operate through the force screen. None of our instruments will. We have no way of running tests on any of the survivors. I’m not sure whether that’s for their protection or ours.”

“Don’t be defeatist, Doctor,” said Finn. “One idea has already occurred to me. But let us press on, press on.”

The occupant of the next cell was fast asleep, curled up into a fetal ball, floating some two feet above the floor. Behind his closed eyelids, his eyes moved constantly.

“He’s been sleeping and dreaming for two hundred years,” said Ramirez. “What can his dreams be like, after so long away from reality? We don’t know if he’ll ever wake up, or what he might be able to do when he does. Perhaps he’s dreaming himself sane.”

The next cell contained a homicidal psychopath of such relentless ferocity that even Finn was impressed. The Maze survivor raged back and forth across his cell, murdering an endless number of people who seemed to appear out of nowhere just to die, and then vanish again. The killer’s face was purple with rage as he battered people to death with his bare hands, or strangled them, or tore them limb from limb.

“Again, we don’t know whether the other people are real or not,” said Ramirez. “But he’s been killing them nonstop, in increasingly nasty and inventive ways, for two hundred years. If the cell force screens ever do go down, the very first thing we’re going to do is shoot that bloodthirsty bastard with every gun we’ve got.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Finn. “He has possibilities.”

“Going to throw him at the Terror, are you?” said Ramirez. “Oh, yes, he’ll be a lot of use against something that eats planets!”

Finn looked at Ramirez. “Now, now, Doctor,” he murmured. “Who knows what other . . . abilities any of these people might have, outside their cells? Even the blessed Owen didn’t become a living god immediately; he had to grow into his powers over time.”

In the next cell, a woman sat cross-legged, smiling at nothing. Her eyes were fixed on something far away.

“She’s been smiling nonstop for two centuries,” said Ramirez heavily. “Never been known to speak or move, but one thing every scientist who’s seen her agrees on, is that . . . that’s a really disturbing smile. Like she knows something nobody else knows.”

“Oh, I’ve seen a lot of that,” said Dr. Happy. “Trust me, it doesn’t mean anything.”

The next occupant all but filled his cell; a huge dark fleshy mass that pressed against the walls and floor and ceiling, but held back from touching the force screen. It had no discernable human details, just a great mass, slowly moving.

“Apparently he looked perfectly normal when he went into the cell,” said Ramirez. “But he’s been growing steadily for two hundred years. Hopefully he’ll stop once he’s completely filled all the space available.”

“And if he doesn’t?” said Finn.

Ramirez shrugged. “That’s up to the Maze.”

In the next cell, a woman slowly faded in and out of reality, disappearing and returning, silently screaming for help. She reached out her hands to the people outside her cell, begging for them to do something.

“She can see us, but she can’t hear us,” said Ramirez. “We don’t know where she goes to, or how she comes back. Or how to keep her here. Whatever powers she hoped to find in the Maze, I can’t believe this was it.”

Finn found the occupant of the final cell the most disturbing, mostly because the occupant looked exactly like Finn Durandal. The two Finns stared at each other in silence for a while. The double was exact, down to the tiniest details of face, stance, and clothing. He smiled amiably back at Finn.

“Takes a bit of getting used to, doesn’t it?” he said calmly. “I become anyone who looks at me. Anyone at all. And not just the exterior; I am you, inside and out. I know everything you know, including all the things no one else is supposed to know.”

The original Finn raised an elegant eyebrow. “A telepath, I take it?”

“Perhaps,” said his double. “Or perhaps nothing so crude. I am you, in every way that matters. If you were to die, I could step into your life and take it over, and no one would be able to tell the difference.”

“I doubt that,” said Finn. “It’s a matter of style, you see.”

“I know everything you’re afraid of, Finn. And you’re afraid of so many things, deep down, aren’t you? Come on, you can admit it to yourself. Admit that you’re afraid that you’re not strong enough and smart enough to do all the things that have to be done. Admit that you worry constantly about being found out. Admit that you’re scared you have no heart . . .”

“I’m not afraid of that,” Finn said calmly. “I glory in it.”

He turned his back on the double, and walked back up the aisle. The others followed him out of the aisle and back round the corner into the steel corridor, leaving the cells and their occupants behind. Finn then stopped and stood still, and thought silently for a long time, and none of the others cared to interrupt him.

“They’re all secure,” he said finally, as much to himself as anyone. “We don’t have to worry about any of them escaping. The Maze knows what it’s doing.”

“Just as well,” said Ramirez. “If any of them weren’t crazy to begin with, they sure as hell are now, after all they’ve endured. But there are security cameras covering the aisle and this corridor twenty-four hours a day, just in case. Not that we have any way of stopping them if they do get out; it’s just to give the rest of us a good running start to get safely offplanet.”

Finn looked at the Shub robot. “You have no ideas on how to penetrate the force screens?”

“Not at present,” said the robot. “Though I feel I should point out that even if we could develop such an ability, I very much doubt we would be able to control or contain the twelve survivors afterwards. They represent a level of power beyond anything we have encountered, apart from Owen and his people.”

Finn was still frowning thoughtfully. “But you do have teleport capability. Could you perhaps teleport items in or out of the cells?”

“We are considering the possibility,” said the robot.

“You never said anything about that to me!” said Dr. Ramirez.

“You never asked,” said the robot.

Finn turned to Dr. Happy. “I’m leaving you here, Doctor. Learn everything that can be learned about the twelve survivors, and then let your mind run wild along its usual appalling paths. Let it run free. I will see to it that you have a completely free hand here, so no experiment should be considered too controversial, too expensive or too dangerous. Think the unthinkable! But, you are forbidden to use any of the scientific staff here as subjects for whatever drugs you develop, on pain of me getting really upset with you. If you reach a stage where you need subjects, I’ll supply them. And Doctor, if Shub does find a way to gain access to the twelve through teleportation, feel free to do any damned thing you like to them. As long as it doesn’t involve any risk of their escaping.”

Dr. Happy nodded, beaming widely. Finn turned to Dr. Ramirez. “I can see the objections rising to your lips, Doctor, but they will do you no good. Parliament has given me complete control over this whole establishment. Mainly because no one else wants it. If you even try to impede the good doctor in any way, I’ll let him have you as a subject. Concentrate on your own work, and all will be well. I shall expect regular reports and updates on everything that happens here. I need to know why these twelve survived, when so many others died. In the meantime, Haden is now officially under full quarantine. I’ll have two starcruisers posted here to ensure you’re protected from outside influences. And if any investigative journalists should manage to sneak their way in here, you have my permission to shoot them on sight.”

He turned to the blue steel robot of Shub. “Teleportation has to be the key. Work on ways to get things into those cells, and indeed, into the bodies of the twelve. But be very careful about taking anything out. I don’t want to risk losing any of our subjects.”

“We shall cherish them,” said the robot. “All that lives is holy.”

“So I’m told,” said Finn.

“What if we can’t learn anything useful from the twelve?” said Dr. Ramirez, just a little sulkily. “After all, my predecessors have been studying them for two hundred years, to little effect.”

Finn considered the question, and then smiled. “The answer would seem to be obvious. I’ll just have to send more people through the Madness Maze, until it produces some survivors you can work with.”

Ramirez looked at him, aghast. “But . . . you’d lose thousands of people! Maybe hundreds of thousands!”

“There’s never any shortage of fools,” said Finn Durandal.

* * * *

Some time later, in the House of Parliament on Logres, King Douglas sat in his throne as Speaker, and watched with a dull helpless anger as the members voted to dismantle the regulatory committee he’d set up to monitor the increasingly powerful Transmutation Board. Douglas couldn’t honestly say he was surprised. It was just the latest in a series of moves that proved Parliament was now dominated, if not actually controlled, by outside interests these days. Searching for something, anything, to shore up their ebbing power and influence, the members were desperate for support, and many were almost openly for sale. Or at least, for rent. Douglas had tried to contribute something to the debate, but the outcome was a foregone conclusion, and everyone there knew it. Besides, as Speaker and as King, Douglas’s position was not what it had once been. He was no longer the respected new force on the throne; he had been betrayed, and sidelined, and made irrelevant by the changing new order. Still, everyone remained very polite to him. Because he had been a Paragon, and was still a Campbell, and you never knew . . .

Douglas sat stiffly on his throne, overlooking the House as the members argued loudly over the next proposal, a bill to license and control all espers in the Empire, and especially on Logres. Douglas would have smiled at that, if he’d been in a smiling mood. This was the mice voting to bell the cat. But with public feelings against espers running so hot and high, Parliament had to do something, or at least be seen to be doing something. So: a bill that didn’t have a hope in hell of being enforced, but would look good on the news channels. Douglas sighed heavily. There had to be some members left in the House with guts enough to stand against the tide, and others who might yet be influenced by just the right words; but he had no idea who they might be anymore. He hadn’t realized how dependant he’d become on Anne to brief him, to do all the research and guide him through the treacherous undercurrents of modern politics. She’d known everything, about ideas and trends and people; but now she was gone, and working with the enemy. Douglas was doing his best to catch up on the ground he’d lost during his seclusion, but it was hard going. Particularly when hardly anyone would agree to talk to him anymore, even on the most private and secure of lines. In politics, there was always the fear that defeat might be catching.

Anne worked with Finn now. In fact, since his return from Haden, the two were rarely seen in public apart. Neither of them had much time for Parliament these days, though. The Durandal rarely showed his face in the House, even though he was Imperial Champion, and officially still Douglas’s bodyguard. And Anne only ever made her presence known from the shadows. Perhaps because the House was now such a tamed beast, it was beneath their notice. Douglas pushed the thought aside. He had to concentrate on those matters he could still influence. He made himself listen to the current speaker on the floor of the House. Joseph Wallace, head of the Transmutation Board, was politely thanking the House for its expressed support, and not quite gloating over his future plans, now he didn’t have Douglas’s regulatory committee to hold him back.

Wallace was tall and well-set, with a blandly handsome face set off by golden tracings that followed the lines of his face. They gleamed very prettily, but Douglas thought it made the man look as though someone had painted graffiti on his face while he was asleep. Still, Wallace had good posture and a trained voice, and a commanding presence, in an obvious sort of way.

“I thank this House for the confidence it has placed in me,” he said gravely. “In turn, I commit the Transmutation Board to even greater endeavors. More useless planets shall be transformed, from lifeless worlds to the building blocks of matter. Dross shall become gold; more goods, more food, more weapons for Humanity, in the hour of its greatest need!”

Most of the members stood up and cheered loudly, hoping to be noticed by the news cameras. Douglas made a mental note of the few that didn’t. Wallace was saying all the right things, saying what the public wanted to hear, and it was a brave man who’d stand in the way of something for nothing. Wallace looked about him, smiling smugly.

“And, I can assure this House that the board will take its responsibilities very seriously, when it comes to making dangerous alien planets safe. Transmutation can and will ensure that Humanity never need feel threatened by alien forces again!”

More cheering and applause from the honorable members, but the alien section of the House was noticeably silent. Like Douglas, they hadn’t missed that Wallace had been referring specifically to Humanity all along, and not to the Empire. The treasures to be provided by the Transmutation Board were not for everyone, it seemed. Some species had already stopped sending their representatives to the House, and more and more were leaving as the mood in the House became increasingly openly xenophobic. The Swart Alfair of that enigmatic planet Mog Mor had already declared their world off-limits to all human ships, though their own craft still traveled the Empire, openly defying Pure Humanity to do anything about it. The espers had also withdrawn their representative, even before the esper control bill was mooted. Telepaths and precogs are better than most at telling which way the wind is blowing. The clone representative still held his seat, smiling just a little smugly, and the robot from Shub was always there, though it had little to say these days. No one objected to their presence. Everyone knew they were under Finn Durandal’s protection.

Joseph Wallace finally finished his speech, and left on a wave of triumph. The honorable members waited until they were sure he was gone, and then switched off their smiles and sat down again.

* * * *

In a small private room in the warren of offices at the rear of the House, Joseph Wallace talked with Finn Durandal. Wallace was still flushed with his success, and wanted to boast and strut and recount his triumph, but he was finding it hard going under the Durandal’s cold, ironic gaze. Finn sat slumped loosely in his chair, and listened while Wallace strode up and down before him, and the more Finn listened the less Wallace felt like talking. He finally broke off in mid gloat and glared at Finn, gathering his anger to give him strength and pulling old resentments around him like armor. He was a member in high standing in Pure Humanity, after all, and for all his undoubted influence, the Durandal was still only Imperial Champion.

“With the King’s precious committee swept away, I run the Transmutation Board. My word is law now, and no one can say me nay. Planets live or die at my whim. I answer to Pure Humanity and no one else. So you can wipe that look off your face, and forget whatever threats you’ve been rehearsing. Any hold you might have had over me vanished when Rose Constantine ran off and left you high and dry. You can’t bully me anymore. I’m protected.”

Finn smiled easily. “They all say that.”

Wallace drew himself up to his full height and puffed out his chest. “You can’t threaten Pure Humanity. We are the way of the future!”

“Perhaps,” said Finn. “You’re not the only player in the game.” He rose gracefully to his feet, and Wallace fell back a step in spite of himself. Finn strolled over to the window, and beckoned for Wallace to join him. Wallace did so, reluctantly, and looked down at the street scene below. Everything seemed quiet. People came and went about their business, paying no attention to two of the most important men in the Empire looking down on them. Finn languidly indicated a man standing beside a vid phone booth.

“Do you recognize that gentleman in the rather tacky green cloak, Joseph?”

“Yes,” Wallace said, uncertainly. “That’s Brion Page. My immediate superior in Pure Humanity. I wasn’t aware he had any business at the House today.”

“He doesn’t,” said Finn. “He’s here because I required it of him. Poor Brion proved even more intransigent than you, and he was very rude to me. So now he’s come here, just to provide you with an object lesson.”

He waved cheerfully to the man down in the street, and Brion Page, his mind possessed and controlled by an ELF, smiled cheerfully back and cut his throat with his own dagger. He waved to Wallace as the blood gushed down his chest and he stood there smiling and waving until all the strength had gone out of his body, and then the ELF finally let go of him, and he fell down dead in the street. People were screaming all around him, and already there was the wail of an approaching peacekeeper vehicle.

Wallace fell back from the window, clutching at his tight collar, fighting to get his breath. He could feel sweat running down his face, and pins and needles in his suddenly numb hands. Finn took him companionably by the arm, and steered him into a chair.

“Don’t faint, Joseph,” said Finn. “I haven’t finished with you yet.”

“How did you do that?” said Wallace hoarsely. “What in God’s name are you?”

“I am a man with many friends, or at least allies. What you just watched is real power, Joseph. Not political influence, or philosophical rhetoric to sway a crowd or inflame a mob. My power is the only power that matters: control over life and death. No one is safe from me, no matter how highly placed they may think they are. So, do as you’re told, Joseph. Or I’ll replace you with someone who will.”

“What is it you want?” said Wallace. He met Finn’s gaze squarely. He had that much pride left.

“Nothing that should upset you too much, Joseph. Just spread a little dread and suffering, wherever I direct. You touched on it yourself, in your little speech in the House. I want to use the Transmutation Board as a weapon, not just against alien planets, but against any world that dares to stand against us. We can stamp out rebellion at the root, by wiping clean any planet that defies us. I think your first action as head of the board should be to send the transmutation engines to Virimonde. No need to actually do anything, just yet. Just the presence of those huge engines in orbit should be enough to . . . influence their thinking along the right paths. And after Virimonde . . . well, I’ll make you a list of all those worlds whose honorable members seem to be a bit slow to grasp the realities of today’s political situation. It’ll do no harm to remind people of their true place in the order that’s coming.”

“I can’t use the engines as a threat! The House would order my arrest, and take the board back under their control!”

“No, they won’t,” said Finn. “They’ll just spend all their time arguing over what course to take, until it’s far too late. I’ll see to that.”

“But . . . Virimonde?” said Wallace. He would have liked to wipe away the sweat he could feel on his face, but he couldn’t afford to do anything that might be seen as a sign of weakness. “Virimonde still has a fond place in the hearts of the people. I don’t think they’d stand for a threat to the homeworld of the blessed Owen.”

“But the current Deathstalkers aren’t nearly so beloved. Not after what Lewis did. They are our enemies, Joseph, and we must never be afraid to strike at our enemies. And there’s always the chance that a threat against his family might just be enough to tempt dear Lewis out of whatever hole he’s crept into. He always was a most honorable and sentimental fellow. I miss him, I really do. Now, off you go, Joseph, and arrange all the things that need arranging. And don’t worry; I’m sure I’ll be able to find the time for us to have another of these nice little chats. Possibly even sooner than you think. I do so enjoy explaining things to you.”

Wallace didn’t quite run out of the room, followed all the way by Finn’s terrible smile.

* * * *

Not long afterwards, Finn took the Paragon Stuart Lennox drinking, to the Sangreal bar. Finn had spent a lot of time with the young Paragon from Virimonde, all but adopting him as his student, partner, and protégé. They were friends, in as much as Finn had friends. Certainly the young Stuart hero-worshiped the older, legendary Durandal. So they sat close together at one of the best tables, drinking a murky blue wine that Stuart could never have afforded on his own, and the young man listened awestruck as Finn recounted old stories of his famous exploits as Logres’s Paragon. Finn carefully avoided any of his more current exploits. He didn’t think the boy was quite ready for that just yet.

Stuart Lennox was big and muscular, with a stern, humorless face under a thick mop of curly red hair. A sprinkling of freckles across his nose and cheeks made him look even younger than he was. But he wore his Paragon’s armor well and proudly, and he had, after all, been trained by the same man who trained Lewis Deathstalker. Finn constantly reminded himself not to underestimate the young Lennox. He was potentially a very dangerous man, which was why Finn had invested so much time in turning him.

The bar was getting rowdy. The Sangreal used to be a cop bar, patronized almost exclusively by security personnel from the House of Parliament just up the road, a quiet and civilized place for the serious drinker, but that was before the Paragons discovered it. The Sangreal’s owner hadn’t objected. The money had been good, and you couldn’t buy publicity like that. Everyone would want to drink in a bar that Paragons had patronized. Unfortunately, this new breed of Paragons, who’d returned unsuccessful from their great quest, were very different from those who’d set out so confidently and so joyfully. These Paragons had made the bar their own, and now no one else dared to come in anymore. The Paragons spent their money freely enough, but they did like to party hard. They drank everything there was to drink, openly ingested every drug under the sun, and had sex with each other right there on the tabletops, or with groupies they treated as casually as themselves. There was gambling and fighting every night, and sometimes they played games. Nasty games.

Stuart was shocked the first time Finn brought him to the Sangreal. Finn had to stop him from trying to arrest half the Paragons on sight. But Finn hauled him over to a table by brute force, sat him down, and explained that people in high pressure jobs, weighed down by duties and responsibilities in their public life, needed to relax more than ordinary people, and so were allowed more than ordinary latitude in the pastimes and pleasures they pursued when off duty.

And since it was Finn Durandal saying it, it must be true. Stuart watched the Paragons at their play, and while he never joined in, he slowly lost the ability to be shocked.

So Finn and Stuart were drinking together, talking and laughing, as Finn systematically and quite deliberately enchanted and seduced the young Paragon. Not that he cared a damn about the boy, but he could be a useful tool, if not an ally. And perhaps even a weapon that could be used against Lewis, should he ever be foolish enough to return to Logres. It was an easy enough thing to turn the boy’s hero worship into something else. Stuart was young and inexperienced in the ways of the world, and still delightfully innocent in oh so many ways. Day by day, Finn made Stuart into one of his creatures, and set the boy’s heart against Lewis Deathstalker.

It wasn’t difficult at all.

They were getting along really well, giggling together over their wine like great chums, when the Paragon Emma Steel made one of her grand entrances. She slammed open the door, knocked down the bouncer when he tried to block her way, and trampled right over him. She struck a pose, hands on hips, and glared disdainfully about her. She was tall and willowy, though her bare arms were heavy with muscle. Her skin was a rich coffee color, and she wore her jet black hair pulled straight back into a tight bun on the back of her head. Striking rather than conventionally pretty, she could still take your breath away—in more ways than one. Emma Steel was Mistworld’s Paragon, greatest fighter of the old rebel planet, and generally considered the most dangerous person on Logres, in or out of the Arena. She was the law, on Logres.

The other Paragons stopped their playing, and abandoned their drinks and their drugs and their groupies to rise silently to their feet and stare at Emma Steel. Everyone’s hand was near a weapon, but no one moved. Emma sneered at them all and stalked across the room, heading straight for Finn and Stuart’s table. The other Paragons stood very still, watching her silently with cold, vicious eyes. The music in the bar cut off abruptly, and it all went very quiet. Even the drunk and drugged-out groupies had enough sense to keep their mouths shut for once. Emma ignored them all with magnificent disdain, and crashed to a halt at Finn and Stuart’s table. The young Lennox gaped openly at her. If there was one other person in the Parade of the Endless he adored as much as Finn Durandal, it would have to be the almost equally legendary Emma Steel.

“What the hell are you doing in a place like this, with a man like him?” she said bluntly. “You can’t trust a word the Durandal says. Trust me. I have reason to know this.”

Stuart flushed angrily. He was already a little drunk, and made an effort to speak clearly. “I think I’m quite capable of choosing my own friends. And I don’t think you ought to talk like that about Finn. He’s Imperial Champion, and the greatest Paragon we’ve ever had.”

“I thought that once,” said Emma, looking coldly at Finn. “He was my hero. And then I met him. And now there’s just me to patrol the whole of Logres, because the mighty Imperial Champion can’t be bothered anymore.”

“I have other duties now,” Finn said easily. “New responsibilities. I can’t be everywhere at once. And you’re doing such a fine job, Emma. Hardly ever out of the news. I hope you’ve got someone experienced handling your merchandising.”

“I’ve never given a damn for any of that shit, and you know it. I care about the job—because someone has to. Lennox, listen to me. Learn from my mistakes. The Durandal isn’t the legend he was. If he ever really was.”

She broke off as one of the carousing Paragons suddenly threw away his drink and came charging straight at her, sword in hand. Emma spun round, her sword leaping into her hand, and met him head-on. She parried his sword thrust easily, kicked him in the balls, and then hit him on the back of the head with her sword hilt as he dropped towards the safety of the floor. She sneered down at the twitching body at her feet.

“The quality of Paragons has really gone downhill recently. I suppose that’s what happens when you pal around with the Durandal.” She looked unhurriedly about her, her free hand hovering over the disrupter on her hip. The other Paragons stared flatly back, their faces cold and dangerous, but none of them moved. Emma sniffed loudly. “Seems I’ve outstayed my welcome. Lennox, you know where to find me, if you need me. Don’t leave it too late.”

She backed out of the Sangreal, not taking her eyes off the other Paragons, not hurrying but not hanging about either. The Paragons waited until they were sure she was gone, and then they went back to their various unpleasant pursuits as though they’d never been interrupted. Stuart looked at Finn, shocked almost sober again by the unexpected confrontation.

“What the hell was that all about?”

“Women,” Finn said calmly, refilling Stuart’s glass. “She’s just jealous that I’ve got a new partner. She wanted the position, but she was never worthy of it. Not like you, my dear.”

Finn plied the young man with drink, flattered his ego, cuddled and kissed him, and none of it meant anything to Finn. Boys and girls, girls and boys—none of that had ever meant much to him. He took his pleasures as they came, and none of it ever touched him where he lived. There’d only ever been him, in his life. But it amused him to corrupt the idealistic young man and turn him into a weapon that could be thrown at Lewis; most of all because Finn knew how much it would hurt Lewis. As a useful side project, Finn also quietly pried information out of Stuart about Virimonde’s planetary defenses, just in case he found it necessary to use the transmutation engines on Virimonde after all. Finn believed in covering all the angles.

* * * *

Emma Steel rode her gravity sled high above the bustling streets of the Parade of the Endless. It was the only place she felt safe anymore, high enough in the sky that the madness and the corruption couldn’t reach her. Sometimes it seemed that she was the only sane person left in Logres, and she was hanging on by only her fingertips. Other air traffic saw her scowling face, and gave her plenty of room. Emma didn’t even notice, lost in her own thoughts. She was all on her own, these days. Finn left all the work to her, and none of the other Paragons she’d approached would help her, even though they showed no signs of returning to their own worlds. They refused to talk to her, even the few she’d thought of as friends. And the peacekeepers were reluctant to back her up, for fear of being caught in the middle of a Paragon quarrel. So now only one Paragon patrolled Logres, and that was Emma Steel. Sensing her isolation, the criminal element had declared open war on her, and placed an unofficial bounty of half a million credits on her head. It hadn’t done them any good. Emma took on everyone and everything they could throw at her, and never even looked like losing. She had been raised and trained on Mistworld, that most dangerous and barbaric of worlds, and compared to the everyday menaces she’d faced there, Logres’s lawbreakers were just talented amateurs. Her continuing triumphs in the face of overwhelming odds captured the interest of the news media and the public. They needed someone to admire—someone who clearly had no interest in extreme politics or religion, someone not tainted by the current era of corruption and betrayal—and they took Emma Steel to their fickle hearts.

To her credit, Emma didn’t give a damn. Mostly.

She glanced at the watch face embedded in her wrist, and sighed heavily. She was going to be late for her appointment. She’d reluctantly agreed to allow a reporter to tag along with her for one shift, to show people how much pressure she was under without the Durandal’s help. Normally Emma had no time for reporters, except to kick them when they got in the way at crime scenes, but she needed some way to get her views on Finn to the public. So for today’s shift, she was to be accompanied by one Nina Malapert, of Channel 739. All the news, as it happens, up close and personal. Not the channel or the reporter Emma would have preferred, but it had been almost impossible to find a journalist willing to put her own arse on the line. Most worked only through their remotes these days, sending their cameras into dangerous areas while they stayed safely in their offices—said it helped to give them “distance” from a story. Emma wasn’t having any of that. She wanted a reporter right there with her, transmitting live, so they couldn’t edit or cut out any controversial material.

And the only person to volunteer had been . . . Nina Malapert.

The reporter was where she said she’d be, her camera bobbing above her shoulder. She smiled and waved brightly to Emma as she descended on her gravity sled into the quiet side street they’d agreed on. Nina was a bright young thing, with an open happy face and a towering pink mohawk. She was wearing a clutter of pastel-colored silks and carrying a large leather shoulder bag decorated with images of pretty flowers. She wore far too much makeup on her somewhat pointed face, and had on entirely unsuitable shoes. Emma looked at her for a long time.

“You do realize we’re going into the Rookery today?” she said heavily. “Into the most dangerous and evil part of the city?”

“Oh, yes! Absolutely looking forward to it, darling! Don’t worry, I’ve got all my gear. Whatever happens, we won’t miss a thing! This really is terribly exciting! Now, tell me, before we start: is it true you’re a vegetarian?”

“Yes,” said Emma, frowning slightly.

“An exclusive!” Nina did a little dance of celebration right there on the spot, punching the air with one fist.

“Get on the sled behind me,” said Emma.

Nina hugged Emma tightly round the waist as they flew over increasingly narrow streets, heading into the center of the city and the criminal underworld of the Rookery. Nina let her chin rest on Emma’s shoulder, and chattered happily in her ear all the way there.

“I really am so glad you chose me for this gig, Emma. Honestly, darling, the competition was . . . well, everyone else was very busy, but even so . . . Oh, I just know we’re going to get on famously! I’ve read all the files we have on you. Well, not all of them, obviously, because there are an awful lot of them, but I skimmed the précis of most of them . . . We really are frightfully high up, aren’t we? I don’t normally get to do the crime stuff, you know. Mostly I do gossip. Who’s been seen dining with who at which new nightspot, who’s dumping who, that sort of thing. I was the one who proved Treasure Mackenzie is allergic to cats, even though she swore she wasn’t. Of course, she hasn’t talked to me ever since I thrust that cat in her face at a premiere, but then, she wasn’t talking to me anyway, the snotty cow. And sometimes I do the horoscopes, when there’s no one else left in the office. But this is the real thing! Real reporting! No more gossip for me, I’m going to be a genuine journalist at last. Mummy will be so pleased! Why did you choose me, Emma?”

“Because you were the only one dumb enough to agree to accompany me into the Rookery,” growled Emma, without looking round. “And more and more it’s seeming like a really bad idea. Now keep the noise down, and pay attention. Is your camera running?”

“Oh, yes, Emma. Has been ever since you showed up. We are totally live, as you requested.”

“Well, we’ve just entered a part of the city that doesn’t officially exist. This is where most of the crime that happens in this city is plotted and financed. This is where the really wild animals are. So stay close to me, do what I say when I say it, and for God’s sake don’t try to interview anyone. They don’t take kindly to being asked questions around here.”

“So how do you find out things?” said Nina.

“Mostly I beat it out of them. Now one of my more reliable snitches got a message to me about a meeting between one of the main agent provocateurs and his secret patron. The agent is apparently threatening to go public over their dealings unless he gets more money. The patron doesn’t normally come here in person anymore, so this could be our one chance to nail him. And if it turns out to be who I think it is, you are in for the exclusive of your life.”

Nina squeaked loudly with excitement right into Emma’s ear, and Emma winced. She wasn’t ready to mention the Durandal’s name yet. Not till she’d caught him in the act. But if he was stupid enough to meet with one of his creatures personally, then live coverage of the two together, in the heart of the infamous Rookery, should finally be enough to cast serious doubt on his goody-goody image. The problem was, she had to get solid evidence against Finn or it wouldn’t stick. Just meeting an agent provocateur wasn’t enough. He might still talk his way out of that. She needed coverage of the two of them discussing what they’d planned and done together—whatever that might have been. Emma sighed. Maybe she’d get really lucky, and the Durandal would implicate himself and then gun down the agent to silence him. Let Finn talk his way out of cold-blooded murder, broadcast live.

“Do you mind if I ask you a few more questions? Just till we get there?” said Nina in that open happy way of hers that made it clear nothing short of murder was going to stop her. “I mean, there’s still so much the people don’t know about you, Emma. Like, do you have a steady boyfriend? What’s your favorite recipe? Do you have any special makeup tips that you’d like to share with our viewers? You are a fashion icon, after all, even if it is a rather . . . severe look. What’s it like, being a woman and a Paragon? What do you do for fun?”

Luckily they reached the designated meeting place before Emma decided that she really had to kill Nina. Emma glided the gravity sled down into a shadowy square leading off from a particularly squalid and underlit street. It was all very quiet, with no one about, both of which were highly suspicious. There was always something going on in the Rookery, day or night. Emma stepped down from the hovering sled and glared about her. She’d already checked the overlooking windows and rooftops for snipers on the way down, but it didn’t hurt to check again. There was nothing obvious to be seen, but the whole situation felt wrong. Nina stepped gingerly down from the sled, and then made a highly distressed noise as she realized what she’d just stepped into.

“Oh, God, darling, this is disgusting! This whole neighborhood needs a good fumigating. With a flamethrower. I just know I’m going to catch something I’m going to have a hard time explaining to my doctor. Honestly, it smells like something died here. Very recently. Though admittedly, I have paid absolutely extortionate cover charges to get into supposedly fashionable clubs that smelled even worse. But at least they had a bar . . . Is that supposed to move like that?”

“Hush,” said Emma. She’d come deeper into the Rookery than she normally liked, now that she could no longer depend on peacekeeper backup, but the snitch’s tale had been just too tempting. Even if the Durandal didn’t turn up, the agent provocateur would have to know all kinds of useful things, which she was sure he could be persuaded to talk about. Though she might have to do the persuading discreetly off camera. There had been mention of Brett Random and Rose Constantine, and the things they’d done for Finn before they abandoned him to follow the Deathstalker. What could the Durandal be up to, that two such hardened scumbags had run away from it? Emma was close to answers now, she could feel it.

She also felt very much that she’d just walked into a trap, even if she couldn’t see it yet.

“Where exactly are we supposed to meet this informer of yours?” said Nina, looking unhappily about her. “Tell me it’s somewhere where they’ve at least heard of the basic rules of hygiene.”

“We are going to Mother Molly’s Kitchen,” said Emma. “Where they probably couldn’t even spell hygiene. I hope you’ve had all your shots. Stick close to me, don’t smile at anyone, and above all avoid the bar snacks. Especially the Long Pig Munchies.”

Emma led the way across the deserted square, checking every shadow and opening for unfriendly eyes, but everything was unnaturally still and quiet. Not even a stray dog rooting in the piled-up garbage. Emma strode along confidently, her head held high. There had to be observers around somewhere, and it wouldn’t do to let them think they could get to her. Nina scurried along beside her, peering about wide-eyed like a tourist. The entrance to Mother Molly’s Kitchen was literally a hole in the wall, with a door propped against it. There was no sign above the door, and no doorman, either. If there had been, he’d have been outside throwing people in. Emma grabbed the door and muscled it to one side, revealing a gloomy interior full of several kinds of interesting smoke. Nina took one sniff of the various aromas that drifted out and made discreet gagging sounds. But she still followed Emma in, muttering the word exclusive under her breath like a mantra. The floating camera bobbed uneasily over her shoulder.

Inside the drinking den, it was dark and crowded and very quiet. An anticipatory sort of quiet. The twenty or so customers were leaning against the walls, smiling unpleasantly. They were all heavily armed. Set on a card table in the middle of the room was the severed head of Emma’s snitch. From the lack of blood, he’d clearly been dead for some time. Nina swallowed audibly.

“I’m assuming that isn’t a good sign . . .”

Emma ignored her, raking the room with her best intimidating stare. “So, a trap and an ambush. Twenty-to-one odds. Am I supposed to be impressed? I’m Emma Steel, from Mistworld. Right, you are all under arrest, for being criminally stupid in a built-up area. Drop your weapons, and I’ll take you in alive.”

No one moved. The Durandal had clearly found some real hard cases to send against her this time. Trained killers. Emma did her best to radiate confidence. She just might have bitten off more than she could chew, but she couldn’t let them believe that, or the fight would be over before it even started. At least they couldn’t use disrupters in such a confined space, for fear of hitting each other. So, just twenty experienced swordsmen, against one. Not good. Not impossible, but definitely not good. Emma gave them her best disturbing stare.

“All right, gentlemen, let’s dance. Nina, stay in the doorway. You don’t want to get blood on your clothes.”

“Oh, hell with that, darling.”

There was a flash of blindingly bright light, and a roar like thunder, and seven of the swordsmen and half the wall behind them disappeared in a moment. Emma shook her head to clear it, and looked behind her. Nina was holding the biggest and nastiest handgun Emma had ever seen. Nina smiled brightly.

“Well, really, you didn’t think I’d come into the Rookery unarmed, did you, darling? My great-uncle Flynn picked this up during the Great Rebellion. He was in the news business too, and he always believed in being prepared. Shall I shoot some more of them?”

The would-be ambushers were already disappearing through the great hole in the wall, and fighting each other to get out first. They weren’t being paid enough to face guns like that. Emma could have grabbed the last few, but she didn’t see the point. They wouldn’t know anything. Finn undoubtedly hired them through a series of cutouts. She turned to Nina, who was slipping her oversized gun back into her shoulder bag, and smiled at her for the first time.

“Nina, how would you like exclusive rights to follow me around on patrol, day to day?”

“Gosh, really? A whole series with my name on it? I could write my own ticket!” She stopped abruptly and looked at Emma. “What’s the catch?”

“The catch is, you’ll probably get killed, hanging around with me. But if you’re game, I promise you exclusives like no one else has ever seen.”

“We’re going to be partners? Comrades in arms? Best chums?” Nina grabbed Emma in a fierce bear hug. “Oh, Mummy is going to be so proud!”

* * * *

In the House of Parliament, King Douglas sat slumped on his throne, not really listening to the lackluster debates on the floor. No one noticed his lack of interest or involvement, or if they did, no one cared. The Speaker had been bypassed, made irrelevant, and everyone knew it. But behind his disinterested facade, Douglas was doing some hard thinking. He was quietly plotting how best to wrest his power back from those who’d usurped it. He couldn’t do much on his own, which meant he needed allies. His first thought had been to turn to his old comrades, the Paragons, but most of them were still scattered across the Empire on their great quest. And the few who had returned were . . . different. Altered. Strange. They showed no interest in taking up their old duties, and their general conduct was appalling. What had happened to them, alone out there in the dark? Douglas had to wonder if their failure to find the blessed Owen had broken their spirit in some way.

There weren’t many MPs left he felt like trusting, the espers had retired to the floating city of New Hope and battened down the hatches, and Shub . . . went its own way, as always. The few people he’d considered friends had either betrayed him or distanced themselves from what everyone saw as a broken force. Being too close to the King was the kiss of death these days, in politics or Society. That left just the clones and the aliens. The clones were tied to Finn, and the aliens had troubles of their own. The King had been isolated.

Douglas was also very concerned that he still hadn’t been able to get any news about his father. House Campbell was strictly off-limits to everyone, very definitely including him. Finn kept promising the media the full story of William’s treachery, but he was in no hurry. No one had seen the inside of House Campbell since Finn’s raid. The continuing silence worried Douglas almost to distraction, but he didn’t let anyone see it. He just worked doggedly on his plan to break into House Campbell, rescue his father, and get him somewhere safe. If he could just hold himself together long enough. And if his father was still alive . . .

Douglas suddenly realized that Meerah Puri was speaking to him directly from the floor of the House, trying to get him involved in the debate. Douglas deliberately slumped down a little further in his throne, and just nodded vaguely to her. Meerah Puri was one of the few politicians left in the House that he still approved of, and he had no doubt she meant well, but Douglas had to play his role of the beaten man in public. He needed Finn and his people to believe that he was beaten; that the King was no threat to them or their plans, so that they wouldn’t see him coming until it was too late. But Meerah Puri persisted in addressing him, so he reluctantly sat up and paid attention.

“Your Majesty, it is the express will of this House, and of the people, that the King needs a Queen. The people need a King and a Queen. So the honorable members of this House have, after . . . lengthy discussions, finally made a decision as to who should be your new wife and Queen.”

Douglas gave her a hard look. He couldn’t believe they’d slipped this past him. “This is the first I’ve heard of this.”

“Yes, but you were . . . incommunicado for some time, Your Majesty.”

“So I was. Well, I see the necessity, I suppose. Who have you chosen this time?”

There was a great blare of recorded trumpets, and beaming brother James came striding onto the floor of the House, on his arm a very beautiful and entirely voluptuous woman dressed in the very height of revealing fashion. She was extremely blonde, utterly devastating, and if she’d been any more curvaceous there would have been two of her. Douglas recognized her immediately. Treasure Mackenzie, lead actress and star of the Empire’s most popular vid soap, The Quality.

So, thought Douglas just a little cynically, they’ve gone for beauty rather than brains, this time. Probably just as well, really.

Treasure and James came to a halt before the throne, and Douglas came down to greet them. Treasure curtsied very low, in a graceful rustle of silks, showing off more cleavage than Douglas had seen in one place in his life. James actually blushed and looked away, and couldn’t let go of her arm fast enough. Douglas bowed to Treasure, and reached out to take her tiny hand in his.

“Please rise, my dear. That’s better. You look delightful. This is your will, to be my Queen? You understand the responsibilities you will be taking on?”

“Oh, yes, Your Majesty,” said Treasure, in her trademark breathy voice. “I couldn’t be happier about this. Are you . . . happy about this, Douglas?”

He smiled at her. He couldn’t say no, in front of everyone. It would have been like disappointing a child.

“A King must marry. I’ve always known that. And you seem to me . . . a perfect choice.”

“And I’m to be the best man,” said James.

“Of course,” murmured Douglas. “You always are, James.” He looked across at Meerah Puri. “I approve the House’s choice. Set a date for the Royal Wedding.”

And while the House cheered, and James applauded loudly, and Treasure beamed and dimpled becomingly, Douglas smiled and nodded and considered his position. He couldn’t say no to a Royal Wedding—the people needed it too badly. They wanted to put the bad business of Lewis and Jesamine behind them, and they needed something good to look forward to, to take their minds off the coming Terror and the Paragons’ continuing failure to find Owen. Treasure seemed a safe enough choice. Typical actress bimbo, mouthful of teeth and a bra full of talent, too dim to make political trouble. It would be a marriage in name only, but he was sure she knew that.

He’d already given his heart to another, and nothing had happened to change that.

* * * *

Afterwards, Treasure Mackenzie looked in her mirror and smiled her true smile. It had all gone much better than she’d expected. But then, only a very few people present had known that she was also Frankie, Dark Mistress of the Hellfire Club. She laughed aloud. She couldn’t wait to be Queen.

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Framed