Deathstalker 05 - Deathstalker Destiny

good company. He loved Constance with all his heart, and never ceased to be amazed that such a wondrous creature should love him. They'd fought against it, trying to deny the pull of their own hearts, because Constance was promised in marriage to the legendary hero Owen Deathstalker. Constance and Robert's love would have been a scandal.
    When news of Owen's presumed death first arrived, Constance and Robert were quietly relieved. Constance shed a few tears, because she had admired Owen, but
    they were more for show than anything else. Robert still worried from time to time that the Deathstalker might yet turn up again, which was why he permitted the wedding arrangements to proceed at such a pace. If Owen were to pull off one of his miraculous returns, Robert wanted to be happily married and established as King well in advance. He was almost sure the Deathstalker would understand.
    He'd always been an honorable man.
    Robert hoped very much that was the case. Because if Owen didn't understand… if he got angry… Robert tried not to think about that. He'd seen the reports from Loki. Of what the equally legendary Jack Random had done there. Of dead men hanging by their necks from city walls, like the strange fruit of hideous trees…
    If the honored and much admired professional rebel himself could go mad, then what of a man like Owen Deathstalker, who'd already lost so much? During the day Robert found many things with which to distract himself, but sometimes he woke in the night in a cold sweat, afraid to sleep again.
    He made himself concentrate on his current problems. They at least were something he could come to grips with. His servant Baxter was currently fussing around him, as they both studied the Campbell's new wedding outfit in the full-length mirror before them. Robert had wanted to be married in his old Fleet uniform, but that was shot down almost immediately. The new King-to-be had to be seen to be impartial to all past beliefs or influences. So instead he was wearing formal evening clothes; basic black with a golden cummerbund, and as many of Robert's military decorations as they could fit on his chest. Robert tried not to be too proud of his medals. He knew better men than he had died without any kind of honors, just for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
    Still, they did look awfully impressive, marching across his broad chest in
    multicolored rows.
    And yet… the high stiff collar irritated the underside of his chin, there was barely enough room in the jacket to flex his shoulders or take a deep breath, they'd put the crease in his trousers in crookedly, and his shoes were a size too large. For a first fitting it wasn't too bad, but unfortunately this was the sixth fitting, and they still hadn't got the details right. Robert sighed heavily. He tried a few poses in front of the full-length mirror, but they all looked like someone else. Robert turned almost despairingly to Baxter.
    "Right, that's it. Dump the monkey suit and dig out my old Captain's uniform. I am not going to appear at my own wedding looking like I hired my suit at the last minute."
    "Perseverance is the word for today, sir," murmured Baxter, entirely unmoved.
    "We're getting closer all the time. And I thought we'd agreed not to bring up the military uniform again. A constitutional monarch cannot wield real power, least of all military power. You'll grow accustomed to the suit, once a few more necessary changes have been made. You look very smart."
    "I look like a tailor's dummy! Clothes aren't supposed to hang this stiffly. It isn't natural. And do I have to wear this damned bat at my throat?"
    "A black bow tie is expected, yes, sir. Don't worry. I'll be there to tie it for you."
    Robert sighed, deeply. "It's going to be a long, long ceremony, isn't it?"
    "Undoubtedly, sir. The current program suggests at least two hours. Possibly more. Not including the formal reception afterwards. The scriptwriter's still working on your speech. But the lady is worth it, isn't she, sir?"
    "Oh yes," said Robert, smiling fondly across at Constance. "She is that."
    Somewhere else in the crowd, comfortably close to the buffet table, Toby Shreck
    and his cameraman Flynn were arguing quietly over whether Flynn's footage needed a voice-over from Toby, or whether they could get away with snippets of "found"
    conversation from the various people involved. And if the latter, whether they'd be better off writing and rehearsing the "found" dialogue in