Deathstalker Rebellion

by Simon R. Green

  Not being blind to all this, the military had taken steps to establish a strong presence among the courtiers. Officers of all ranks and stature, from the highest to the very high, stood at attention before the Throne. If the cold was bothering them, they were doing their best not to show it, though snow had accumulated on their heads and the shoulders of their uniforms. They had come to Court to make it clear that the Empress still enjoyed the military's support and confidence. And, of course, vice versa. The military was there to protect Lionstone against all threats; even those that might come from the Court itself. Though not above playing politics, when necessary, all branches of the Services owed their allegiance to the Empress, first and foremost. It was a matter of honor, which in the military at least, still ranked above politics—mostly.

  The Church of Christ the Warrior had its own strong presence, with ranks of armored acolytes standing alongside the military and studiously ignoring them. They had pale faces and shaved heads and the unblinking glare of the true fanatic. They were warrior priests, raised in a hot and bloody faith since childhood; and they bowed to the Empress only when circumstances forced them to it. The Church believed in enforcing the faith, even if it meant killing the very people they were supposed to be converting. It preached that might was right, by God's will, and was always ready and eager to provide practical examples. There were other religions in the Empire, but mostly they kept their heads down and tried to avoid being noticed.

  General Shaw Beckett stood at the very front of the crowd, and studied the ranks of robed acolytes thoughtfully. He didn't bother to hide his interest. Some of them were watching him just as intently, and for the same reason. Know thy enemy. Beckett smiled and blew a cloud of cigar smoke at them. Faith was all very well, but he preferred training. Just because a fanatic isn't afraid to die, it doesn't necessarily follow that he'll be able to get the job done before the enemy kills him. The General was an old soldier, and took the Church of Christ the Warrior with a large pinch of salt. He'd been a legendary fighter in his day, and even though he was now very clearly in his twilight years, no one crossed him without taking the precaution of making out their will first.

  He was of average height, but extremely fat, and this made him appear shorter. Most of his weight had accumulated around his waist, so much so that even his specially tailored battle armor had to strain to hold him in, but he didn't give a damn. He'd spent enough years in the field that he felt he'd earned his little comforts now. His value these days lay in his years of experience at the sharp end, and his brilliant, incisive military mind. He was renowned as a master tactician, and a wily debater, and rarely failed to get his own way, even when the Empress was in one of her moods and everyone else had run for cover. She was constantly on the verge of having him dragged away for saying the wrong thing at the wrong moment, or insisting on a truth she didn't want to hear, but somehow he always found a way to remind her of how valuable he was to her, and the Empire. Besides, he made her laugh. Shaw Beckett smoked thick cigars, even in places where he wasn't permitted to, and liked to blow the smoke in people's faces while he was talking to them. He had other bad habits, too, and gloried in them. Not surprisingly, he was very popular with the watching holo audiences.

  The Church had a private but widely known bounty for anyone who would bring the Church the General's head, preferably unattached to the body.

  The Church of Christ the Warrior had grown increasingly large and powerful since Lionstone made it the official religion of the Empire and gave it her backing. It ran exhaustive purges in her name, killed off every heretic it could get its hands on, and then decreed it had grown so powerful through God's will that it didn't need the Empress's support anymore. As the foremost Church in the Empire, Lionstone should bow to them. This didn't go down at all well with Lionstone, but having made them the official Church after a very public baptism, she couldn't back down now without looking weak and indecisive. And they did have one hell of a following. So she settled for sharpening the claws of her humor on them at every opportunity, and backing the military against the Church whenever they came into conflict. Which was pretty often, these days.

  The Church retaliated by increasing its ranks of deadly Jesuit commandos, and set about infiltrating society from top to bottom. Every Family had lost someone to the clutches of the Church, either as a member or a proclaimed heretic. As a result, people now had two masters they needed to please if they were to have anything approaching a quiet life: the Empress and the Church. Choose the wrong one at the wrong time, and you could end up in a world of trouble. As far as the Church was concerned, even Family loyalties and considerations should come second to the needs of the Church.

  This did not go down at all well with the Company of Lords, who tended not to give a damn what the lower orders chose to believe in, as long as they remained respectful and hardworking, but had little time themselves to worship anything apart from profit and status. So this new attitude of the Church had infuriated the noble Families, who made it very clear that they were determined to continue their age-old freedom to intrigue, lust, duel and generally kick ass as they saw fit.

  The Church, on the other hand, started with the belief that everyone was secretly guilty of something, and were always on the lookout for ammunition they could use to bring down the powerful, and bend them to the Church's will. So they persuaded, encouraged, bribed, and threatened the lower orders to spy on their masters, and report useful items, if they wished to avoid the Church's displeasure. The Families retaliated by launching their own purges among the lower orders. Everyone caught in between kept their heads well down and hoped not to be noticed. With the overall result that life in the Empire had of late become a great deal more complicated for everyone.

  "The Church has been busy since we were last here," murmured Silence to Frost. "Those warrior priests look impressive. And there are a damn sight more of them than there used to be."

  "Bunch of pansies," said Frost, not even deigning to look at them. "They're good at looking tough, but that's about it. I could carve them up and eat them raw without even a decent red wine to wash them down. I know the type. Brave enough in packs, but gutless in a fair fight. They're so keen to worship God, let them pick a fight with me, and I'll send them up so they can have a personal chat with him."

  "If you're going to keep on talking like that, kindly give me some warning," said Stelmach. "So I can stay well away from you. The Church has extremely keen hearing these days, and it never forgives a slight or an insult. Oh, God, one of them's coming this way. Try and look penitent."

  "I wouldn't know how," said Frost.

  Silence somehow managed to keep a straight face as the warrior priest approached, courtiers falling well back to give him plenty of room. He wore a long bloodred gown and skullcap, and an expression stern enough to cut glass. He was in his mid twenties and trying to look older. Two scalps hung from his belt, and a necklace of human ears hung around his neck. He stopped before Silence and Frost, ignoring Stelmach, who was quite happy to be ignored. The warrior priest looked from Silence to Frost and back again, his expression suggesting he'd seen more impressive specimens lying facedown on tavern floors, eating the sawdust.

  "They say you saved us all from the Godless alien craft," said the priest. "If you did, it was by God's will. You are both fine warriors, by all accounts, but you must learn your place in the new scheme of things. You must seek the Church's exemption for your sins and failures, as well as Lionstone's. To stand alone is no longer permitted. You must decide where you stand, and with who, and state it publicly. And remember, if you do not stand with the Church, you stand against it. And the Church knows how to deal with its enemies. Do I make myself clear?"

  His sneer disappeared suddenly as Frost drop-kicked him from a standing start. The force of the blow picked the warrior priest up and threw him back among his own people, scattering them like ninepins. There was much moaning and groaning and clutching of injured parts. The warrior priest who'd sta
rted it all lay curled up in a ball, trying to persuade his lungs to start working again. Frost had regained her feet, her face calm. She wasn't even breathing hard. Stelmach covered his eyes with his hand. Silence applauded. Some of the braver courtiers joined in. Frost ignored them all magnificently, every inch an Investigator.

  "I don't think I want to stand anywhere near you two," said Stelmach. "You must have a death wish."

  "Lighten up," said Silence. "We've probably been brought here to die anyway, remember? What does it matter who gets to kill us?"

  Stelmach glanced briefly at the Empress on her Iron Throne, and then looked at Silence almost pleadingly. "You're sure, then? We've no hope at all?"

  "Oh, there's always hope," said Silence. "The last time we were here, Frost and I, they had us in chains from nose to toes, and all the execution warrants needed was our names in the right places. We survived. Our chances are, if anything, rather worse this time, but at least we're not in chains. I choose to see that as an encouraging sign."

  "I don't," said Frost. "They're just being subtle. Nothing like providing a false hope to really put the screws to someone."

  Stelmach sighed. "I had hoped some of my Family might turn up, to provide a little moral support, at least, but no. No one's here to see me die. A failure has no kin or friends, for fear it might rub off."

  Silence looked at him. "That was almost profound. Obviously being this close to sudden death inspires you. You never talk much, Stelmach. Tell us about your Family. What kind of people christen their son Valiant?"

  "Ambitious people," said Stelmach grimly. "My people were in business, but not successful enough to become a Minister or marry into a Clan. So we were all packed off into the military at an early age. My brothers, Bold and Hero, are mid-line officers. My sister, Athena, was taken away even younger to be an Investigator. I don't know what became of her. One doesn't ask. My father died long ago, so he never got to see me disappoint him. Security Officers aren't exactly the most glamorous rank in the army."

  "At least you still have a Family," said Silence. "I became a Captain because my Clan expected it of me. And I wanted them to be proud of me. Instead, twice now I've brought the Family name into disrepute. Officially, they disowned me when I failed to go down with my first ship, the Darkwind. I was ready to, but the Investigator here insisted on saving me, for her own inscrutable reasons. Isn't that right, Frost?"

  "We all make mistakes," said Frost, not looking at him. Silence smiled slightly.

  "Aren't you going to tell us about your family, Investigator? We've both opened our hearts here. Tell us where you came from."

  There was a long pause, until Silence had almost decided he'd pushed it too far, and then Frost spoke very quietly, so that Silence and Stelmach had to concentrate to make out her words. She didn't look at either of them as she spoke.

  "Officially, Investigators have no Family but each other. But I was curious, so I broke into the right hidden files and checked out my background. I found my parents' address and went to visit them. Only my father would agree to see me. I tried to talk to him, but he wouldn't listen. He was afraid of me. I never went back. No Family made me, Captain. I made me, with a little help from the Empire."

  "I'm glad we had this little talk," said Stelmach. "I was feeling a bit depressed, but now I've moved on to feeling actually suicidal. Why don't we all just swallow our tongues now and get it over with?"

  "Because there's still hope," said Silence. "And because even if I am going down, I'll still fight them every inch of the way. Right, Investigator?"

  "Right," said Frost. "Oh, look, the warrior priests seem to be recovering."

  The priests had got their breath back and were now back on their feet, though still leaning on each other for support. The military were openly chuckling and nudging each other. Some of the courtiers began to applaud again, and then stopped and looked to see if the Empress approved. Luckily for all concerned, Lionstone was apparently deep in conversation with General Beckett. So everyone else turned to look at the other man standing in front of the crowd before the Iron Throne: James Kassar, Cardinal of the Church of Christ the Warrior.

  Said by many to be one of the most dangerous men in the Empire, he was tall and muscular, and wore black battle armor as though born to it. A large crucifix stood out in bas-relief on the armor over his heart. He'd been handsome once, but not anymore. Kassar had had a man executed as a heretic on questionable grounds, and the man's widow threw acid in the Cardinal's face. He struck her down a moment later, gutting her with his sword, but the damage had been done. His right eye was gone, eaten right out of the socket, and the right side of his face had been burned down to the skull beneath, so that discolored pitted bone showed clearly through ragged strips of flesh. His teeth gleamed through the remnants of his right cheek, giving him a constant ghastly half smile that had humor in it. His face was a fright mask to turn the strongest stomach, and he knew it. That was why he'd never had it healed. A regeneration machine would have smoothed the terrible wounds away, but he chose not to. Perhaps as a sign that nothing could stop or hurt him, perhaps as a reverse kind of vanity. There were those who thought it pleased Kassar to have a face that made others quail.

  There were also those who said he'd had the guards who let the woman slip past them arrested and then lowered into a vat of acid, feet first, one inch at a time. Few people had trouble believing the story. Cardinal Kassar was known for his cold rages and a vindictiveness that masqueraded as a thirst for justice. He'd risen rapidly through the ranks of the Church through leading vigorous crusades against heretics, which could be anyone who challenged his or the Church's authority. He didn't hesitate to accuse anyone who stood against the Church's rising influence or who got in the way of his own personal ascent, even if they were friends or Family or previous allies. And as he rose through the ranks with unprecedented speed, people hurried to copy his zeal, if they knew what was good for them.

  As a result, a useful way of dealing with one's enemies was to accuse them of heresy. No proof was needed; often the accusation was enough. There were tribunals, where the accused could present their defense, but they cost money. Justice has never come cheap. Things got so bad some people tried to take out insurance against being accused, to cover possible legal fees, only to discover the premiums were more expensive than the fees. That was when the courtiers first realized no one was safe anymore. The Empress wasn't slow to pick up on this and found the practice particularly useful for helping her keep her Court in order. If anyone started making trouble or getting above themselves, the word would go out and the unfortunate victim would be awakened in the early hours by the sound of holy boots kicking his door down. Soon anyone who even annoyed Lionstone had better have very strong ties with the Church, or a lot of money to hire lawyers. If you could find a lawyer brave enough to take on the Church these days.

  The courtiers played the same dangerous game, denouncing each other every day for political, Family, or personal reasons, but they were taken less seriously. The truth quickly vanished in a morass of claims and counterclaims, until even the Church grew sick of it. So they just recorded everything, to be kept for future ammunition, as necessary.

  Valentine Wolfe had been denounced so many times for all kinds of heresy that the Church lost count, including some that had previously been thought to be only theoretically possible, but the charges never stuck. No one doubted that he was an utter degenerate, with a drug habit strong enough to have killed half a dozen normal men, but as head of the Empire's first Family, incredibly rich and powerful, with the Empress's ear and support, he was for all practical purposes completely untouchable. Some wits made remarks about barge poles, but never when Valentine was around. Kassar still hadn't given up on him, but for the time being they settled for conspicuously ignoring each other. The courtiers watched avidly. Everyone knew the situation couldn't go on forever. It was just a question of which one made a misstep first; and then there'd be blood and hair on the walls.
>
  People had been laying bets for months.

  Valentine Wolfe stood a little alone in the heart of the crowd, as he always did. He was the head of the first Family on Golgotha, his every word a command for thousands of people, but he had no friends, or anyone who could say they were close to him. Valentine didn't give a damn. He never had. He'd always found himself infinitely better company than any of those who surrounded him. And given his continuing experimentation with every drug under the sun, and a few that grew only in darkness, his inner world was more than enough to occupy him in his quiet moments.

  Valentine was tall and slender and darkly delicate, like a fairy-tale demon prince, only more unreal. His face was long and thin and dyed a perfect white. Heavy mascara surrounded his overbright eyes, and a thickly painted crimson smile gave his face its only expression. Jet-black hair fell to his shoulders in thick curls and ringlets that had never known a comb. He wore dark clothes with the occasional splash of color, red for preference, and ignored the passing dictates of fashion with supreme indifference. In his time, he'd used every drug known to man and kept his private staff of chemists busy coming up with new ones. It was truly said he'd never met a chemical he didn't like. Anyone else who tried to ingest the quantity and variety of drugs Valentine had would undoubtably have been poisoned a dozen times over, his brains helplessly scrambled; but by some dark alchemical miracle. Valentine thrived and prospered. And if he saw the rest of the world rather differently than most people and had the occasional animated discussion with people who weren't there, still, it didn't seem to be slowing him down any. He remained sharp, ambitious, and extremely dangerous.