Deathstalker 03 - Deathstalker War

luxurious interior of the train, and tried hard not to seem impressed.
    "Nice," she said, "in an overbearing sort of way."
    "That's the aristocracy for you," said Owen. "They don't like to settle for anything less than perfection. Even if the surroundings aren't the first thing on your mind. Normally, if you're using one of these trains, you're too busy worrying about what nasty surprises Lionstone is going to hit you with once you get to Court. Sometimes the Court can be more dangerous than Lionstone is, which takes some doing. God knows what it looks like now, given her present mood.
    Still, no point in hanging about. Come, my lady Hazel, your carriage awaits."
    "I am nobody's Lady," said Hazel, stepping warily through the open door into the train's carriage.
    "That's for sure," Owen said gallantly.
    Once inside, Giles sat down on the nearest seat and put his feet up. Hazel headed straight for the built-in bar, and Owen paid careful attention to the code panel set beside the door. The correct codes announced who you were, how many were in your party, and your level in Society. Without the right codes, the train wouldn't go anywhere. A really wrong code would activate the security systems, and the gas jets fitted in the carriage, and the only place you'd go after that would be the morgue. Oz claimed to have codes that would not only get them to the next station in perfect safety, but would also override the security systems, so that the gas jets couldn't be activated from the outside. Owen
    wasn't quite as convinced of that as he had been.
    "Trust me," Oz said calmly in Owen's ear. "Your father's research was very thorough. The codes are correct. Just punch in the numbers as I give them to you."
    Owen growled something indistinct under his breath, and did as he was told. The last number went in, and Owen braced himself for any hissing from the gas jets.
    He'd already decided that at the first whiff of anything suspicious, he was grabbing Hazel and leaving this carriage, even if he had to punch a hole through the solid steel wall to do it. But nothing happened, or at least, nothing unpleasant. The door slid shut, the engine fired up in its sealed compartment, and the train moved smoothly off. Owen looked around him, feeling there was something else he ought to be doing, and then shrugged and went to sit down beside Giles, who was leaning back in his luxuriously appointed seat, eyes closed, feet casually crossed before him, the epitome of relaxation. Owen sat on the edge of his seat and bit his lower lip. Trains gave him travel sickness.
    Hazel had the bar open and was working her way through the decanters. She took a healthy swig from each till she found something she really liked, then came back to sit down opposite Owen and Giles, clutching the decanter to her. Owen gave her a hard look. Hazel wasn't in the least put out and offered him a sip. Owen politely declined. Giles opened an eye, looked at Hazel and the decanter, sniffed, and closed his eye again. Hazel made a rude gesture at him that Owen was glad Giles didn't see. He could feel his face getting warm. Giles had made it clear to Owen on more than one occasion that he didn't approve of Hazel.
    Entirely unsuitable as a match for the last of the Deathstalker line. He said it once in front of Hazel, and Owen had to restrain her from punching his ancestor
    out. Giles had got very sniffy, and said that just proved his point. Hazel had shrugged Owen off, said something very unkind about inbreeding in the aristocracy, and stalked off in a huff. Owen had been torn between a shouting match with his ancestor or hurrying after Hazel to calm her down, but in the end decided discretion was the better part of valor and left them both to their own devices. Some arguments you just knew you were never going to win.
    "You know, this has almost been too easy," said Hazel, lowering the decanter and wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. "I mean, considering this is the only means of access to Lionstone's Court, I was expecting the station to be stuffed with security measures. Instead there's no armed guards, you punched in a few numbers, and off we went. That doesn't sound to me like the paranoid Iron Bitch we all know and loathe."
    "Lionstone has always believed simple is best," said Owen. "It doesn't take much to make these trains secure. Once they've started, there's no way of getting off, the carriage is sealed, and the gas jets in the ceiling can be activated by the