Deathstalker 01 - Deathstalker
his crimson smile seemed impossibly wide. He
shuddered once, put away the pillbox, and smiled at his father.
"Since we cannot hope to beat the Campbells on the grounds of business experience or technical expertise, we will have to do battle with them on the social and political field. Set up a few schemes to disrupt, discredit and if need be destroy Clan Campbell, or any other Family that stands between us and the contracts we seek. I would like to offer my help but, of course, if I'm to be married at such short notice, I really don't think that I can afford to become personally involved. I'll have far too much on my mind."
"Right," said Daniel quickly. "Same here."
"Then I'll just have to soldier on without your no doubt valuable input," said Jacob. "You're getting married if I have to see you all dragged in chains to the altar. But that's enough business for the moment. We've covered everything urgent. Your new mother is a great fan of the Games, and I promised her an uninterrupted afternoon's pleasure of death and mayhem."
"But…" Daniel began, only to wither under his father's implacable gaze.
"Enjoy the Games, dammit. This box is costing me enough."
The Games proper started traditionally with rebel-baiting. Twenty convicted felons, habitual offenders who hadn't learned a thing from their previous stays in jail, were turned out onto the sands without armor or weapons, and twenty experienced gladiators pursued them with whips and swords. The rebels ran in every direction, screaming for help or a weapon or just another chance, and the crowd booed and hissed them. The gladiators pursued their prey, cool and calm and very professional. A few rebels tried to make a stand, back to back, and the gladiators allowed them the courtesy of a quick death. They respected courage.
The other rebels were harried and tormented, driven this way and that with
flashing steel and the crack of the whip, until they were a mass of blood and cuts. They staggered on as the blood pumped out of them, too exhausted to run but too scared to stop. And finally, one by one, they died for the pleasure of the crowd, and their bodies were dragged away. The growing crowd laughed and cheered and applauded the gladiators. They always enjoyed a good comedy turn.
In the Wolfe private box, Constance shrieked and laughed and clapped her tiny hands, and Jacob smiled fondly at her, happy to see her happy. Daniel sat sulking by himself. Stephanie was still thinking hard. And Valentine watched and applauded and kept his feelings to himself.
The stalls were filling up now, and most of the private boxes. The beginners and warmups had done their job, and the real Games were about to begin. The holocameras were in place, ready to catch all the action as it happened, and already the resident bookies were making money hand over fist.
The first real turn was a pulse-stirrer. Three clones from the underground were turned loose in the Arena, armed only with swords. They were all the same slim, dark-haired youth, with wide eyes and trembling mouths. Probably teachers or technicians or civil servants before they made the mistake of trying to find their freedom through the clone underground. They had never drawn a sword in anger in their life, and now it was all that stood between them and a particularly unpleasant death. They made their way uncertainly to the center of the Arena, back to back in a triangle, moving with the almost telepathically-linked precision that only clones can achieve. They all had the same instincts and mannerisms and held their sword in the same way. When they fought, they would fight as one. For all the good it would do them.
The crowd booed them lustily, and then cheered as trumpet sounded and their champion appeared from the main gate. All the Wolfes broke off from their
various thoughts and stared hard at the newcomer. The Campbells had loaned out their private Investigator: the man called Razor. He was tall and blocky, with thick slabs of muscle and a patient, brooding face. His skin was dark, his close-cropped hair was white, and his eyes were a curious green. He moved with a slow steady power that suggested something implacable and unstoppable. He carried a curved sword in each hand, but wore no armor. He didn't need any. He was an Investigator.
Technically, he was supposed to give up the title once he'd retired from the Service, but no one was stupid enough to tell him that to his face. Clans often acquired their own
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