Deathstalker 01 - Deathstalker

complete access to all that was happening, with no risk that some of it might happen to you. However, by tradition and law, only those who attended in person would be heard by the Empress. So if you wanted your voice to count, you had to be there. Besides, for someone to appear only as a holo as court was a risk in itself. Lionstone might choose to interpret that as a personal insult, that the Lord didn't trust his Empress to ensure his safety. It didn't do to give the Empress ideas. She had far too many of them as it was. Which was why the Wolfe and his son Valentine were sitting alone in their carriage, without weapon or bodyguard, on their way to court to hear something they probably wouldn't want to know anyway.
    Jacob Wolfe was a great bull of a man, with broad shoulders and a barrel chest that wouldn't have looked out of place on a professional gladiator. He wore his hair cropped close to his skull, maintained his face as that of a man in his forties, and ignored all fashions as they came and went. His jaw jutted always forward, as though daring anyone to comment. His eyes were dark and piercing, and it was a point of honor to him that he never looked away first. He had hands like mauls, large and blocky, curled most often into fists, and his voice was a growl. The Wolfe had put a lot of time and thought into the image he projected, and he was quietly pleased with the result. It let people know right from the start that he was not a man to be trifled with.
    The Wolfe was a hundred and three years old, but thanks to Imperial science, the young man sitting opposite him could easily have been mistaken for his brother rather than his son. Even so, a stranger would have found it hard to detect any Family resemblance between them. Valentine Wolfe was tall, slender and darkly delicate, like a hothouse flower rudely torn from its usual habitat. His face
    was long and thin and more than fashionably pale, and his shock of jet black hair fell to his shoulders in curls and ringlets. Heavy mascara highlighted his overbright eyes, and a painted crimson smile hid his feelings from one and all.
    He had an artist's hands, all long slender fingers and languorous gestures, and they fluttered about his throat in moments of excitement like startled doves in the night.
    Valentine Wolfe was well known in and out of court for having tried every drug known to man, and a few he'd had made up specially. If you could smoke it, sniff it or stick it where the sun doesn't shine, he'd tried it all once, and twice if he enjoyed it, which he usually did. It was truly said he'd never met a chemical he didn't like. It was a wonder to all who knew him that he hadn't fried his brains long ago, but by some dark chemical miracle, his mind remained sharp and dangerous. He had the usual enemies for a man in his position and looked like he would outlive them all. And though he chose not to play the game of intrigue himself, he could still be a subtle and malevolent influence on those who did.
    Valentine might be a hothouse flower, but his thorns were poisonous. He produced a tab from a silver pillbox and pressed it against the side of his neck, over the main vein. His painted smile widened like a scarlet wound. His father sniffed disapprovingly.
    "Do you have to do that now? We'll be at court soon, and we're both going to need all our wits about us."
    "It's just a little something to take the edge off, Father." Valentine's voice was calm and polite, and only a trifle dreamy. "Rest assured that all my many resources are at your disposal. If I was any more alert, my synapses would be going into meltdown. Why do you suppose Her Imperial Majesty, long may she reign, desires our company this time?"

    "Who knows why the Iron Bitch does anything these days? I've spent more time traveling back and forth in these damned death traps this last week than I'd normally expect in a month. She's not following any of her usual patterns, and all my usual sources have either disappeared into the woodwork or developed unexpected scruples. I've been paying the little turds good money for years, and just when I really need them they fold on me. Assuming I make it back from court in one fairly large piece, heads are going to roll, boy, and I am not being metaphorical. She's planning something, something she knows the Company of Lords won't approve of, so she's doing all this just to keep us distracted and separated. It's a smokescreen, sleight of hand, but hiding what? Pay