Deathstalker 06 - Deathstalker Legacy

wanted so desperately, they moved secretly and indirectly behind the scenes, undermining important people and institutions with a push here and a bribe there, spreading fear and confusion among their many enemies. And always pushing in many small and subtle ways for the return and reestablishing of the Clans to their rightful positions.
    Their greatest triumph to date was the creation of a phenomenally successful vid soap, The Quality. It ran twice a day on all the major channels, with an omnibus edition at the weekend; a supposedly historical series, set in pre-Rebellion days, concerned almost wholly with sex, sin, and scandal among the aristocracy of Lionstone's time. All fictitious names, of course, and nothing even remotely based on reality. It was very romantic, very glamorous, and very popular.
    The series featured larger-than-life characters in gorgeous costumes, impossibly handsome and radiantly beautiful, scheming and plotting and falling in and out of love and in and out of bed. And billions of people watched every episode. The Quality were the people you loved to hate and secretly admired, and even the most minor characters had massive fan bases. Their look dictated fashion, and their catchphrases were on everyone's lips. The show spawned dozens of style and gossip magazines, and made everyone involved very rich indeed. Money was coming in so fast that even the media accountants couldn't hide it all.
    As a direct result, the general image and popular perception of the aristocracy had never been better.
    Which was, after all, the point.
    The Shadow Court had its people everywhere. They knew all about Finn Durandal. What he was doing, and what he planned, even if some of his actions and intentions frankly baffled them. Many in the Shadow Court were still undecided as to whether the Durandal was fiendishly clever, or a complete looney tune.
    This particular Session of the Shadow Court had been specifically called to decide what (if anything) should be done about him.
    "I say bring him in," Tel Markham proposed flatly. "As things stand he's an unknown factor, a wild card, accountable to no one. Who knows what he might do, in the name of his wounded pride? He might think he's being subtle, but left to his own devices it's only a matter of time before the powers that be will notice that he's not at all the man he used to be. Bring him in, make him one of us, and then we can guide and control his efforts. He has a right to be here. His people were Quality once."
    "The Lord Durandal was a hero, back in the old days," said a woman in a black silk mask liberally spotted with sequins. She fanned herself languorously with a paper fan decorated with erotic images. "He went into the Darkvoid in search of lost Haden, and was never seen again. I say we have this character written into our soap; play up the legendary qualities of the Durandal name. So that if we do choose to embrace young Finn, the public will already be conditioned to adore his aristocratic name."
    "What makes you think Finn would want any part of us?" said a clear deep voice, from a man so fat he lay reclining in an antigrav chair, floating beside the table. Someone that size should have been immediately identifiable, and it bothered the others immensely that even after all these years, they still had no idea who he might be. The fat man smiled wetly, spreading his huge soft hands in an expansive gesture. "Finn has his own plans, and his own intentions, and might not take kindly to the suggestion that he should subordinate his desires to ours."
    "Sweeten the pot enough, and he'll come to us," Tel Markham said confidently. "There are definite limits to what he can hope to achieve, with his limited resources and the kind of rabble he's gathering about him. The Rookery is fine for providing specialist advice and cannon fodder, but to bring about the kind of revenge he hungers for, he's going to need widespread popular support; and for that he's going to need an organization like ours."
    "Approach him," said a woman whose silk mask had been cunningly fashioned into a stylized bird of prey. "Sound him out; see if he's what we think he is. From a safe distance, of course."
    "Of course," said Tel Markham. "He'll never know how far deep he's in ... until it's far too late for him to say no."
    Brett Random mooched around Finn Durandal's living room, looking for something decent to drink. He pushed back a few likely looking panels in the walls, uncovering a speed