Deathstalker 01 - Deathstalker

the
    bloody sands of the Arena. There are always prisoners: men, clones, espers and aliens. Fodder for the never-ending hunger of the crowds.
    People come from all over the Empire to see blood and suffering in the Arena, to see life and death played out by the ancient rules. Billions more watch it all on their holoscreens every night, but for the true fans, the connoisseurs, seeing is not enough. They need to be there, in person, to see with their own eyes, drink in the atmosphere, and smell the bloodlust on the air as the crowd cheers their favorites, boos the incompetent, and bays for another death. The crowd always has its favorites, but as a rule they don't last long. That's why it's called the Parade of the Endless; heroes come and go, but the Games go on forever.
    The city is also unique in being the only city on Golgotha now owned or dominated by a single Clan. The Empress sees to that, through subtle pressure and not so subtle purges, to ensure that the Games remain fair and unbiased.
    Everyone has an equal chance to die on the bloody sands. Otherwise there'd be no fun to it. The Parade of the Endless has thus become a safe neutral ground, a meeting place for Families who could not otherwise, with honor, communicate.
    Instead, the Clans settle their differences through their champions in the Arena. Face is upheld and honor is satisfied. And if it tends to be rather hard on the champions, well, no one really gives a damn, or at least no one who matters.
    In return for this outlet, the Families provide generous contributions to the upkeep of the Arena and its staff. Even more of their money flows into the Arena's coffers through the Families' never-ending appetite for gambling.
    Fortunes are won and lost daily as the Clans plunge heavily in support of their champions and their honor. The champions are always paid men. Members of the
    Families would never dream of fighting in person. To risk one's life in a formal duel was one thing; to lower oneself to perform for the pleasure of the crowd was quite another. Besides, it wouldn't do for the lower orders to see the aristocracy dying. It might give them ideas.
    Around the Arena, in ever-expanding circles, live the citizens of the Parade of the Endless: the traders, the service industries, and those who have fought, or plan to fight, on the bloody sands. The Games are open to all, the crowd's appetite is boundless, and there is always a need for fresh meat. And so they come, from all over the Empire, seeking fame and riches, action and excitement, or just a place to die in the sun. No one is ever turned away. Death is very democratic.
    The streets around the Arena were packed with people, as always, coming or going or trying to sell something to those who were. The cries of the street traders rose above the general babble like birds marking their territory, determined to be noticed by those who passed. But even their ebulliency became somewhat muted in the presence of a Family member, so that you could usually track an aristocrat's path through the crowds by the relative quiet that surrounded them.
    Valentine Wolfe moved casually through the crush, and no more noticed the respectful quiet than he would have noticed the air he breathed. Tall and darkly delicate, he was not an immediately impressive figure, but still no one jostled him or got in his way. Everyone recognized the mascaraed eyes and scarlet smile, as they knew all the Clan faces that mattered, and none of them had any wish to do anything that might be taken as an insult to Clan Wolfe. So Valentine walked on, his thoughts hidden behind the painted mask of his face, his eyes dark and far away. He never bothered with bodyguards. Some said through pride, some said
    through arrogance, but if truth be told. Valentine simply preferred the company of his own thoughts whenever possible and found guards a distraction.
    He finally came to a halt outside a modest little patisserie, just a little off the beaten trail, and gazed thoughtfully at the wondrous confectionery creations in the window. He wasn't averse to the occasional indulgence of his sweet tooth, but that wasn't what had brought him there. The shop's owner, the one and only Georgios, supplied Valentine with tastes more tempting and far sweeter than anything to be found in his window. Georgios was one outlet of a complex drugs pipeline that Valentine had spent years putting together. Someone of his status could have practically anything he wanted just by