Deathstalker 01 - Deathstalker

luxuries and comforts for the upper classes, and security and stability for the lower classes. Unless you were a clone or an esper or some other kind of unperson. Unless you upset someone with connections, or couldn't meet your quotas, or fell ill once too often.
    There was no place in the lower orders for the weak, or the troublesome, or the unlucky.
    It seemed to Owen that he had always known this, but never really thought about it before. As long as his cushioned world went on uninterrupted, he hadn't had to. He couldn't say he hadn't known. He was a historian, and he knew more about
    the realities the Empire was based on than most. How corrupt had the Empire become that the living hell of Mistworld could be such an improvement? Owen sighed. His head was starting to ache again, probably from too much frowning.
    He'd think more about this later. He had a feeling he'd have lots of time to think about things in the future.
    The Blackthorn tavern turned out to be a pleasant surprise. It was cosy and comfortable without being cramped, and had obviously had a lot of money spent on it. The fixtures and fittings were of the highest quality, and there was a pleasant sense of sanctuary in the smoky room from the harshness and pain of the world. Owen leaned against the long, highly polished bar, sipping an adequate wine, and tried to ignore the vicious pins and needles of returning circulation.
    The Blackthorn was crowded but full of good cheer, and the noise was almost but not quite overpowering. Everyone had to shout to be heard, and those who weren't shouting were singing, with more verve than accuracy. Owen found it all rather charming, in a rustic sort of way, and was quite prepared to stay there as long as was necessary, if not longer. Particularly if the wine held out.
    Hazel was talking earnestly with the Blackthorn's owner, a tall willowy platinum blond called Cyder. They were head to head at the other end of the bar, apparently lip reading as much as listening. Owen studied Cyder curiously. She seemed a strangely delicate flower to be running a tavern in a cutthroat area like the one he and Hazel had just walked through. According to Hazel, it was called Thieves' Quarter, and Owen wasn't a bit surprised. Presumably Cyder had a small army of well-trained muscle standing by ready to jump on anyone who made a nuisance of themselves. Owen had spent some time unobtrusively trying to spot them on the general principle that if trouble was to come his way, he wanted to
    at least have some idea of which direction it was coming from. He hadn't had any luck. Everyone looked equally violent and disreputable.
    And then Cyder looked past Hazel directly at Owen, and he stopped with his drink halfway to his lips. In that moment she looked harsh and uncompromising and very dangerous, with the coldest blue eyes he'd ever seen. The moment passed, and then she was smiling at him and beckoning for him to join her and Hazel. Owen emptied his glass and moved unhurriedly down the bar to join them. He had no doubt that Cyder had deliberately allowed him to see the ice beneath her surface, but he wasn't at all sure why. Perhaps to impress on him that she was someone to be taken seriously. Owen gave her his most charming smile as he arrived and kept his hand near his gun.
    Cyder lead the way to a private room up on the next floor, a small unadorned room with comfortable chairs and a crackling fire. Owen sat as close to it as he could bear and tried not to look too interested as the two women discussed Hazel's old times in Mistport. Much of it seemed to have been either disreputable or illegal, and Owen couldn't say he was at all surprised.
    Eventually the two women caught up to the present and smiled fondly at each other.
    "You've put a lot of work into this place," Hazel said finally. "I can't believe this is the old snake pit where I used to drink."
    "I came into some money," said Cyder, smiling demurely. "I've been able to…
    indulge myself."
    "Where's Cat?"
    "Around. People make him nervous." Cyder shot Owen a mischievous glance. "Does this young gentleman know about your checkered past, Hazel? Have you told him how you made most of your money here in Mistport?"

    "No, and you're not to tell him. He doesn't need to know."
    "It's a perfectly honorable profession. We've all done a few things we don't like to remember when money gets short."
    "That's as may be." Hazel glared at Owen. "And you can wipe that look off your face. I know what