Deathstalker 01 - Deathstalker

up as Owen advanced on him. And then Hazel grabbed his sword arm and pulled him to a halt.
    "Hold it, Owen. You don't understand."
    "I understand these children are in hell!"
    "Yes, maybe they are. But there's a purpose to this. I've seen this kind of thing before."

    Owen hefted his sword and then lowered it reluctantly. "All right. Explain it to me."
    "Chance could do it better. Stay here and I'll go get him. Promise you won't do anything till you know the whole story."
    "No promises," said Owen. "Get Chance. And tell him if I don't like what he has to tell me, I'm going to kill him right here and now."
    Hazel patted his arm reassuringly as one would an angry, dangerous dog and hurried down the central aisle toward Chance. Owen's hand clenched tightly round his sword hilt in rage and frustration. He'd never seen anything like this, even in the worst hellspots of the Empire, and he was damned if he'd let it continue.
    He walked slowly down the aisle, looking from face to face, seeing only a kind of desperation in their gaunt features. One young teenager was stirring restlessly under his restraining straps, muttering fiercely to himself. Owen leaned over the bed to listen to the quiet, breathy voice.
    "Brave notes in screaming shocks… The pale harlequins are swarming again… Dear lost shoes and delicate monks are dancing round the summerstone…"
    Owen straightened up, obscurely disturbed. It was clearly gibberish, but it bordered on the edge of meaning, as though he might understand it if he just listened long enough. He looked up to see Hazel coming back with Chance and raised his sword just a little. The two of them stopped a respectful distance away, though Hazel seemed more impressed by the drawn sword than Chance. Owen smiled coldly at the big man. It didn't matter how big he was, or what he had to say. Someone was going to pay for what had been done to the children.
    "The restraining straps are there to protect them," said Chance, his voice flat and unimpressed. "The children are espers, but they can't always handle what their minds show them. One boy clawed out his eyes rather than see. I don't take
    chances with them anymore. All these children are retarded to some extent or other. Idiot savants with limitless memories and wide-ranging telepathy. Their minds roam freely out over the city while their bodies rest here, trawling the thoughts of the population and picking out what nuggets of information I require.
    "Their families sell them to me when they can no longer look after them, and I put them to work. There's no room on Mistworld for the weak or the handicapped.
    If they weren't espers, and therefore potentially useful, they'd just be abandoned in the cold and left to die. As it is, I look after them, and they look after me. Few of them last long. By the time I get them, they've already had hard, brutal lives. Fortunately for me, there are always more to replace those who burn out. Don't look at me that way, Deathstalker. I care for them all while they're with me. What comes before and after that is beyond my help.
    "Perhaps now we can get down to business. My children told me you'd be coming, and why. You don't have much time. If my espers knew you'd be here, you can bet that others do, too. The penalty of living in a city full of telepaths with loose lips is that there's damn all privacy. Not that I have any right to complain, of course. It is, after all, how I make my living. You needn't worry about payment. The previous Lord Deathstalker had an account with us. He left instructions that if you ever turned up here looking for help, I was to assist you in locating Jack Random and send you to him. Are you going to stand there holding that sword all day, Deathstalker, or will you allow us to help you?"
    "I'm still thinking about it," Owen said harshly. "How did you link up with my father?"
    "He made Abraxus possible. It was my idea, but his money. He saw the advantages
    right off, and all I had to do to repay him was make sure he got a copy of whatever information my children turned up. Your father was a visionary: never afraid to experiment."
    "He was never afraid to make a profit," said Owen, reluctantly sheathing his sword. "Usually at someone else's expense. How many children have died here since you started Abraxus?"
    "Too many. But they would have died anyway. I keep them alive as long as I can.
    It's in my interest to do so."
    Owen looked at Hazel. "You're being very quiet. Don't tell me you