Deathstalker 06 - Deathstalker Legacy

before the Ceremony has to start, and Douglas, you still haven't changed into your official robes yet. Lewis, take him away and get him ready, and don't be afraid to use threats, intimidation, and brute force as necessary. I'll work on Jes. Trust me; that makeup is all wrong for the Court's lighting. Come on, people!"
    "Anne ... I don't know what I'd do without you," said Douglas.
    "I do," said Anne. "And the prospect horrifies me. Move!"
    They all got to their feet. Jesamine smiled at Lewis. "See you later, Deaths talker."
    "I hope so," said Lewis. "And just for the record; you didn't look in the least plump."
    It was finally time for the great Ceremony, for the grand Coronation of a new King for the greatest Empire that Humanity had ever known. The vast open floor of the Court was packed from wall to wall with humans and espers and clones and robots and aliens, all standing shoulder to shoulder. There was no one on the raised dais yet but a handful of servants doing some last-minute fussing over the gleaming golden Thrones, but there was a real feeling of anticipation in the air. The live orchestra squeezed into one corner was busily tuning up, the floating cameras of the official media were getting into savage butting contests as their remote operators fought it out for the best angles, and the Church Patriarch had gone so white in the face that he'd had to be given a little something by the Court medic.
    St. Nicholas was right there in the front row; part payment for putting on the Santa Claus outfit in the first
    place. At his side and towering over him was a rather disconcerting alien called Saturday; a reptiloid from the planet Shard, who'd pushed his way to the front because absolutely no one felt like stopping him.
    Saturday stood eight feet tall, with a massive, heavily muscled frame covered in dull bottle green scales, heavy back legs, and a long lashing tail that everyone gave plenty of room because it had spikes on it. He had two small gripping arms, high up on his chest, under a great wide wedge of a head, whose main feature was a wide slash of a mouth absolutely crammed with hundreds of big pointed teeth. He looked like he could have eaten the entire orchestra in one sitting, and then polished off the choir for dessert.
    Saturday (apparently he'd had trouble grasping the concept of individual human names, "On my planet we all know who we are.") insisted on chatting with St. Nick, who did his best to be polite and attentive, while fighting down an entirely atavistic instinct that kept yelling at him to run for the trees.
    "On Shard, mostly we fight," Saturday said proudly. "There's lots of prey to hunt and kill, when it isn't ganging together to hunt and kill us, and for sport we fight each other. I think sport is the word I want. Or possibly art . . . Survival of the fittest isn't just a theory on Shard. I was sent here as my planet's representative because this whole concept of Empire, of sentients cooperating in peace, fascinates us.
    We've never really progressed beyond alpha dominance. And this whole concept of armies and war just makes my heart fly! Everyone back home is really excited! I'm sure we can learn so much from you.
    Even if you aren't green."
    "Ah," said St. Nick. "Good. Jolly good." He really hoped the alien wasn't going to ask him who he was supposed to be. He didn't want to have to try and explain the concept of Christmas to the reptiloid.
    Some things were just obviously lost causes from the start.
    "I do miss my home," said Saturday wistfully. "I've never been away before. Ah, the sweet slaughter in the Spring, and the steam rising from the bloody carcass of one's enemy first thing in the morning . . . The sudden surprised screams of a mating ritual.. . Ah, to be on Shard, when the blood is rising and there's murder in the air! I've been fighting in your Arenas, just to keep my claws in. All comers, any odds. But it's not like the real thing. They won't even let me eat my kills! And as for this regeneration tech; I have to say, I'm appalled, I really am. What's the point in killing someone if they don't stay dead?"
    St. Nick had to admit he was stuck for an answer on that one.
    Not that far away, also in the front row of the crowd by right, Lewis Deathstalker was having a rather uneasy conversation with a short, rather unsettling fellow m shabby gray robes who would only admit to the single name of Vaughn. He cheerfully admitted to being a gatecrasher, and loudly defied anyone to