Deathstalker 06 - Deathstalker Legacy

serving long enough to jeer at him, and throw things. One of them threw her room keys. Brett plucked them out of midair with practiced ease, and dropped her a wink.
    "Ruby Journey famously never had any children!" said a half-alien Random from the front row.
    "Everyone knows that!"
    "Jack and Ruby donated sperm and eggs before their last mission," said Brett, with exaggerated patience. "It was a charity thing."
    "Ruby wasn't known for being charitable either," said the half-breed, smirking all over his Gray face.
    "Not unless it involved killing people."
    "Oh, shut up," said Brett. "You're just jealous."
    And that was when the Paragon Finn Durandal strolled casually into the bar. Brett's first thought was to put such an impossible sight down to the absinthe. Drink enough of the green liquor, and you'd see all kinds of things. He only realized Finn was actually there in person when everyone else in The Three Cripples took one look at the new arrival, screamed as one, and immediately began running in all directions, heading for every exit the bar had and making a few new ones where necessary. For a moment it was pure bedlam, and Brett was so drunk, he actually hesitated before jumping down from the bar with the express intent of legging it for the nearest horizon, or possibly the one beyond. But that hesitation was all the time Finn needed to draw a bead on Brett Random and shoot him in the stomach.
    Brett looked down at the dart sticking out of his gut, recognized the distinctive green and white markings on the feathers, and just had time to mouth the words oh shit before the compressed air in the barrel of the dart shot the dose of Purge straight into his system. His whole body convulsed, slamming him back against the wooden bar, and then he was on the floor, kicking and screaming and begging for death.
    Purge was an industrial strength sobering agent, absolutely guaranteed to remove all toxins and intoxicants from a person's body in a matter of seconds, by the shortest route possible. Or to put it another way, via every orifice possible, including tear ducts and sweat glands. Didn't matter whether you were drunk, stoned, or in a parallel reality to this one, Purge would have you stone cold sober in under a minute, and make you regret every one of those fifty-odd seconds. Saying Purge had a dramatic effect was like saying the Empress Lionstone could get a bit tetchy on occasions.
    Finn watched the projectile vomiting from a safe distance, entirely unmoved, and when the nastiness was finally over, and Brett had been reduced to a sweating, quivering, trembling mess with his back propped up against the bar, Finn strolled casually over to join him, politely ignoring the smell, and drank the last of the absinthe.
    "Charming place you have here," he said. "Really quite charming. Such . . . ambience. And so many guilty consciences in one place . . . anyone would think they'd got something to hide. How are you feeling, Brett?"
    "Sober," said Brett. "I don't think I've been this sober since I was born. God, it feels awful. You bastard, Finn; I'll never be able to come in here again. And I was just about to get lucky, too. How the hell did you track me here'?"
    "I know lots of things I'm not supposed to. I just file it all away, until the time comes when I can make use of it. Get up."
    "Oh sure, just like that. Give me a hand?"
    "Not if you were drowning. Get up."
    Brett slowly levered himself to his feet, and really hoped it was just sweat trickling down his legs. He tried to glare at Finn, but didn't have the energy. "What do you want with me, Paragon? I'm just a con man. No one special. You can find a hundred like me in the Rookery. Well, a dozen . .."
    "I want you," said Finn. "You and no other. Though perhaps not quite so close, just at the moment. We really are going to have to find you a shower and a change of clothes before we leave. That's the trouble with dramatic gestures. There's always so much mess to clean up afterwards." His smile widened briefly.
    "Ask the ELFs at the Arena. If you know a good spiritualist. Now, Brett; you are going to work for me, for as long as I require it. Or; I can kill you, right here and now. Never let it be said that I didn't give you a free choice in the matter. Oh, don't look so glum, Brett. Stick with me, and I promise you protection from the law, more wealth than even you ever dreamed of, and the satisfaction of seeing all kinds of authority figures humbled and brought low. What