Deathstalker 03 - Deathstalker War

character. Or so they tell me. I wouldn't know. Anyone who ever tried to make me suffer is dead and buried. Sometimes in several places."
    David sat behind the desk in the pokey little study and worked his way doggedly through the paperwork. Some work couldn't be avoided, if you didn't want to wake up one morning and find they'd finessed everything you owned out from under you.
    He took a spiteful pleasure in making his signature as indecipherable as possible. Strictly speaking, he should have sealed each paper with wax, and stamped it with his Family ring and crest, but Owen still had the ring, bad cess to the man. David had ordered a new Family ring made for him, but had yet to make up his mind on the final design. By the end, he was just skimming through the papers, to make sure he wasn't signing his own death warrant. Too many lines of dense print made his eyes ache. Kit sat off to one side, humming tunelessly.
    Kit liked to sing, but truth be told couldn't carry a tune if it had handles on
    it. However, since no one had ever dared tell him that, he remained blissfully unaware that he had a voice like a goose farting in a fog. And David didn't have the heart to tell him. For the moment Kit was amusing himself by staring unwaveringly at the Steward till the man all but squirmed in his buttoned-down shoes. The SummerIsle made the Steward nervous.
    Hell, the SummerIsle made everyone nervous.
    David signed the last page with a flourish and sat back in his chair with a theatrical sigh. He studied the Steward glumly as the man shuffled the papers together. The Steward reminded him of his many tutors (none of whom lasted long), who'd struggled with varying degrees of success to implant some useful learning into his rebellious young mind. Not a one of whom had ceased to remind him of his intellectual cousin Owen, the famed if minor historian. Owen was constantly held up as an example of everything David wasn't and knew he never could be. No surprise, then, that David had despised his elder cousin before they ever met. They weren't close, even by blood; Owen's father, Arthur, had a younger brother, Saul. Saul married Elouise, whose sister Margaret was David's mother. Under normal circumstances, David would have stood no chance at all of ever succeeding to the Family title, but the tainted inheritance of the boost killed a great many Deathstalkers before they ever reached maturity. So when Owen was outlawed, David found himself suddenly in possession of a title and responsibilities he'd never expected or really wanted.
    Especially if all he ever got to do as Deathstalker was sign bloody papers.
    The Steward finally nodded curtly, declaring himself satisfied for the moment, and David threw his pen out the window before the Steward could change his mind.
    "So," he said peevishly, "can I finally go to my dinner now, or is there some scrap of parchment left in the Standing that I haven't scrawled my name on?"

    "That is the last of the documents, my lord," the Steward said calmly. "But there is still a delegation of peasants waiting to meet you. You did say you would see them, my lord."
    "Did I?" said David, frowning. "I must have been drunk."
    "Let them wait till after dinner," said Kit. "That's what peasants are for."
    "No, Kit. If I promised, I promised. Where are they, Steward? Main hall? All right, lead the way. And don't dawdle, or I'll kick your ankles."
    The Steward gave him a bow calculated to the inch to be barely acceptable and led the way. David and Kit trailed after him. Kit sniffed loudly as his stomach rumbled.
    "For my birthday, let me kill him, David."
    David had to laugh. "Sorry, Kit, but much as I hate to admit it, I need him.
    He's the only one here who knows all the ins and out of running a Standing of this size. I wouldn't know where to begin. Replacing him would be a nightmare.
    He's made himself indispensable, and he knows it, the smug bastard."
    "Why are we seeing the peasants? It's not as if we have to."
    "Yes we do. Or rather, I do. Partly because I want the locals to like me. Owen could never be bothered with them, which was why he had no one to turn to when the Empress outlawed him. That's not going to happen to me. Then, the more contact and feedback I have with the locals, the less influence the Steward has.
    I want them looking to me for authority, not him. And finally, of late the peasants have been experimenting with a little local democracy, and I want to encourage them."
    "What the hell