Deathstalker 03 - Deathstalker War

to tear the place apart, and Chance with it, but he hadn't. Much as he hated to admit it, Abraxus was the best these children—genetically damaged and idiot savant espers with terrible pasts and little future—could hope for.
    Just another product of Empire rule. Owen turned to glare at Chance, founder and manager of the Abraxus Information Center. Chance was a large muscular man, almost as broad as he was tall, wearing black leathers with metal studs. Half his face was hidden behind a complex and very ugly tattoo. His smile was meaningless, his eyes were too bright, and he didn't blink often enough. Owen often wondered if Chance had been crazy before he started Abraxus, or if endless exposure to death and suffering had sent him over the edge. Either way, Owen maintained a safe distance, and kept his hand near his sword. Chance nodded abruptly to him.
    "Knew you'd be back, Deathstalker. What can I do for you this time?"
    "Don't you know?" said Owen. "You must be slipping, Chance. I have questions that need answering."
    "That's what we're here for," said Chance. "I feel I should point out you exhausted all your credit the last time you honored us with your presence. And
    my prices have risen dramatically. You understand how it is; small businesses always have to fight to stay afloat."
    "Your business exists because my father's money made it possible," Owen said flatly. "Technically, as his only heir, I inherited Abraxus."
    "You were outlawed," said Chance. "All assets attached to the Deathstalker name were confiscated by the Empress. And besides, this is Mistport, where possession is every part of the law. Abraxus is mine."
    Owen smiled humorlessly. "I think you have me confused with someone who gives a damn. I'm back in Mistport to revitalize the old Deathstalker information network, and make it part of the ongoing rebellion again. And that very definitely includes you and Abraxus. Since, for my sins, I'm one of the people currently leading the rebellion, Abraxus answers to me. So if you want to keep your presumably very well paid managerial position, I strongly suggest you stop pissing me about. Got it?"
    "You couldn't run Abraxus without me," said Chance. "The children are mine, body and soul."
    "They'd soon get over you. Children are so very… adaptable, after all."
    Chance thought about it. "You'd risk ruining my operation, just to get control?"
    "Of course," said Owen. "I'm a Deathstalker. We have a long history of getting our way, and to hell with where the chips fall."
    Chance sniffed. "What do you want to know, Deathstalker?"
    "That's more like it. I have a question."
    "Keep it specific, if you want a specific answer. My children are espers, not oracles."
    "Ask them who killed my father," said Owen. "Which person, specifically?"
    Chance nodded, and made his way slowly down the central aisle, looking
    speculatively from one child to another. Owen watched impassively, hiding his own surprise at the question he'd asked. It hadn't been the one he intended to start with. He was here to ask about his father's information network. He hadn't known how badly he wanted the name of his father's killer until he heard himself say it. His father had been cut down in the street by an assassin in the pay of the Empress, and at the time Owen hadn't really been surprised. Just assumed that one of his father's many plots and intrigues had finally caught up with him. Mostly, Owen had just felt annoyed at the disruption the sudden death had brought to his previously well-ordered life. He hadn't asked who the killer was.
    He hadn't cared, then.
    Arthur Hadrian Deathstalker, tall and handsome and ruthlessly charming, had delighted in schemes and intrigues, sometimes apparently just for their own sake. Which meant he hadn't had much time to spend on his son. When he remembered he had a son and heir, he ran Owen's life with an iron hand, doing as he thought best and to hell with what Owen might want. His was not a cheerful presence, and their few conversations increasingly deteriorated into blazing rows. The Deathstalker never understood that his son considered himself a scholar, rather than a warrior. When Owen heard that his father was dead, his first feeling was one of relief. He was finally out of his father's clutches and free to be his own man at last.
    It was only in recent times that Owen had finally begun to understand the forces that had moved and driven his father. Just by being the Deathstalker, Arthur had many enemies