Deathstalker 08 - Deathstalker Coda

actually posted generous bounties for the heads of those determined visitors who insisted on trying to sneak in. Mistworld could have made itself rich by trading on its legend and commercializing its fame, but had chosen not to.
    If Owen had been there, he would have found much in Mistport to recognize. The place hadn’t changed that much in two hundred years. It was still mostly made up of squat, old-fashioned buildings composed primarily of stone and timber. There were unmistakable modern touches, in the bright streetlamps that pushed back the haze of the mists, and the low antigrav vehicles that moved through the narrow cobbled streets. But coal-fired barges still chugged slowly along the river Autumn that meandered through the heart of the city, and the Watchmen still patrolled in pairs because it was safer that way. There was law on Mistworld, but like Brett’s education, it was a sometime thing. The people bustling through the streets in their heavy furs and cloaks paid no attention to Kramer or the people with him.
    “Hey, I’ve just noticed something,” said Brett.
    “Then why did you tread in it?” said Rose.
    Everyone then had to stop and wait while Brett scraped his boot clean with great thoroughness. Kramer glowered impatiently, but for once Brett out-glared him. When he was sure he’d finished, Brett gestured around him.
    “I meant, where are your statues? Half the heroes of old passed through this city on a regular basis during the Great Rebellion, and I haven’t seen a single statue to any of them. Not even Owen, who by all accounts saved this city single-handed half a dozen times.”
    “We don’t believe in them,” Kramer said shortly.
    “Statues, or heroes?” said Lewis.
    “We don’t need statues to remind us of what Owen and Hazel d’Ark did here,” said Councillor Goldman. “We remember. We always will. We are their legacy, not some idealized piece of stone. We do have a few hospitals dedicated to St. Beatrice. But that’s different.”
    No one had an answer to that, so the rest of the journey passed pretty much in silence. They ended up at a simple tavern, deep in the heart of the city. It seemed a pleasant enough place, and deliciously warm and cozy after the bitter cold of the streets. Lewis and his companions headed straight for the open roaring fire in the huge stone fireplace, while Kramer talked with the inn’s owner, a short fat butterball of a man dressed in cheerfully clashing colors. Lewis and Jesamine took it in turns rubbing the feeling back into their numbed hands, pulling anguished faces at the stabbing pins and needles. Brett had turned his back on the fire, and stuck out his backside to enjoy the full benefit of the heat. Rose alone seemed entirely unaffected by the cold or the new heat. The inn’s other customers ignored them, not even bothering to lower their voices.
    The inn’s owner led his new customers into a side room, and bustled happily about making sure everyone was settled and had a mug of something hot and soothing and deceptively alcoholic in their hand. Hot food was promised shortly, and plenty of it. He gave Rose plenty of room, but then, everybody did. Lewis and his companions sat with Kramer and Goldman at the main table, while the other Mistworlders sat together a little way off. The host asked if they had everything they wanted, and Brett raised a hand.
    “What was that animal I saw on the hanging sign over the door as we came in?”
    “That, sir, is a Hob hound. The inn is named after the creature, and a terrible thing it was, sir. This establishment has been known as the Hob Hound for over a hundred years, famous for good wines and spirits. Used to be called the Blackthorn, in my grandfather’s day, but he renamed it to celebrate the death of the very last Hob hound. Nasty creatures they were, sir; killed for sport as much as appetite, or so I’m told. Anyway, they were hunted down to extinction, and good riddance to them all. It’s said some damned fool wanted to preserve a breeding pair, for a zoo. My grandfather shot him, just to be on the safe side.”
    He caught Kramer glaring at him impatiently, and remembered he was urgently needed elsewhere. He bustled off, and the meeting proper began. The Council of Mistport, and by extension all of Mistworld, turned out to consist of Kramer and Goldman, and another man and woman who slipped quietly into the empty seats left for them. Out of her shapeless furs, Goldman turned out to be a