Deathstalker 01 - Deathstalker

didn't have a throat to clear. "I really feel I should remind you, Owen, that the new files I discovered hidden in my memory were quite specific concerning an establishment in Mistport that you should visit in order to find help." The AI paused, and when it spoke again it sounded almost apologetic. "I also have a name to go with the address. But you're not going to like it."
    Try me," said Owen resignedly. "I'd be hard-pressed to name anything about this situation I do like."
    "The name is Jack Random."

    "He's here? On Mistworld?" Owen thought hard. "How the hell did he get tangled up with my father's intrigues? I wouldn't have thought they were in the same class."
    "A good question, Owen, for which I have as yet no satisfactory answer."
    "You've got really polite since Hazel came aboard," said Owen accusingly.
    "Are you complaining?"
    Owen thought hard. His head was beginning to ache. Jack Random: the professional rebel. Legendary warrior. He fought the system. Any system. He'd been fighting the Empire for more than twenty years, leading one rebellion after another on any number of planets. He was a spellbinding orator, with a keen eye for injustice, and never had any trouble finding more hotheaded fools to follow him to death or glory. And so it went for many years. But the decades passed, and the Empire stood as strong as ever, and people remembered the many lost battles rather than the few triumphs, and they stopped listening. The price on Jack Random's head became increasingly tempting, and the bounty hunters went after him in earnest. He'd been forced to drop out of sight, and no one had seen him for years.
    "Trust my father to hook up with one of the biggest all-time losers," said Owen.
    "Even I have more sense than to tie myself to Jack Random. By all accounts a legendary fighter and hero, but a piss-poor general. Hazel, I place myself in your hands."
    "In your dreams, aristo," said Hazel. "But please, Owen, watch your step and leave all the talking to me. If the people we're going to see get even a hint of who you really are, we are both dead."
    "Relax," said Owen. "I am not without experience. I know how to comport myself in public."

    "That's what I mean! You can't go around using words like comport; it's a dead giveaway. Look, don't say a word, and I'll pass you off as my deaf-mute cousin."
    Owen looked at her. "Don't do me any favors."
    "Trust me," said Hazel. "I won't."
    Owen kept his mouth shut and his eyes open as Hazel led him through the narrow streets of Mistport. The city was in a hell of a state. Rebuilding was going on everywhere he looked, and the people seemed uniformly sour and tight-lipped.
    From the look of the place, Owen didn't blame them one bit. The stone and timber buildings leaned out over the street like drunken old men apologizing to each other. There was mud and filth in the street, and the smell was appalling. A thick fog pearled the air in sheets of gray, so that lamps burned brightly at irregular intervals, even though it was getting on toward midday. People filled the streets, huddled under heavy furs and cloaks, looking straight ahead and using their elbows with practiced skill.
    Owen and Hazel kept the hoods of their cloaks pulled well forward, so that their faces were hidden in shadow. No one stared at them or showed any curiosity; apparently, anonymity was a common state in Mistport. Owen trudged on through the mud and slush and beat his gloved hands together to force out the cold. He'd taken the heaviest clothes from Sunstrider's wardrobe, but there hadn't been a lot of choice. Owen glared at Hazel's back ahead of him. She was striding along like it was just another day. Owen muttered to himself and struggled to keep up with her, elbowing people out of his way with grim satisfaction. Nobody said anything. Apparently that was common practice, too.
    Hazel dragged him from one low dive to another in search of old acquaintances, but no one wanted to talk. After the recent troubles, everyone was busy looking
    after their own affairs. Hazel kept plugging away, while Owen's spirits drooped.
    He couldn't even talk to Oz for company; they'd agreed to keep communication to a minimum for security's sake. You could never be sure who was listening in on Mistworld. He scowled unhappily and pulled his cloak tightly around him. It was all taking too long. Finally Hazel came up with a name, if not a location: Ruby Journey.
    "Never heard of her," said Owen.
    "No reason why you should have,