Deathstalker

A Wedding

It was hot under the lights of the Arena, but then it always was. The Masked Gladiator lay on his back on the bloodied sands, looking up at the angel hovering above him on outstretched wings and wondered if he was going to die after all. He rolled to one side, grunting with the effort, and the angel's clawed feet missed him by inches as it swooped past. The Masked Gladiator lurched to his feet, sword at the ready once again, and studied the soaring angel dispassionately. Whoever had gengineered the angel had put a lot of thought into it. The wide feathered wings and a touch of psychokinesis enabled it to fly effortlessly, which meant it could attack from all kinds of interesting directions at incredible speeds. The claws on its hands and feet were long and curved, strong enough to tear right through his steelmesh armor, and more than enough to gut him quite efficiently, or rip out his throat in a moment, if he left it undefended. He watched the angel fly, half-silhouetted against the lights of the Arena, and the air was dry and hot as hell itself.

The angel swept back and forth around him, darting in and out, always staying out of reach of his sword. The creature had to be tiring just as fast as he was, but it showed no signs of slowing its attack. It swept in close, the battering air from its widespread wings throwing him to the sands again with brutal force. Somehow he clung onto his sword and got to one knee again, then the angel seized him from behind with muscular arms and carried him up into the air. The fierce grip forced the breath from his lungs, but at least his arms were still free. The sands swept by below him with dizzying speed, and he looked away.

He could feel the angel's panting breath on the back of his neck, and he slammed his head back into the angel's face with all his strength. He felt as much as heard the angel's nose break, and warm blood sprayed over his helm and shoulders, but its hold didn't weaken. The Gladiator wondered hazily what the damned creature intended to do to him, and then he saw looming up before him the pennant hanging from its pointed steel pole, and he knew. All the angel had to do was drop him on the pole at this speed, and it would be over. And impalement was a slow, nasty way to die. He only had a few seconds. He couldn't cut behind him with his sword with any strength, or reach the arms that held him, so that only left one option. He gritted his teeth, reversed his sword and thrust it deep into his own side, out his back and on into the guts of the angel behind him.

The angel screamed, and blood coursed down between them. They fell from the air like a stone and crashed to the unyielding sands. The Gladiator hit first, and the impact drove the sword deeper into the angel. It pushed him away, and he jerked the sword out of both of them. The angel screamed again as they rolled apart, and their blood fell heavily on the sands, but the Gladiator had chosen the location of his wound, and though he was hurt badly, and bleeding like a stuck pig, still he wasn't seriously disabled. It wouldn't kill him for quite a while yet. He blocked out the pain with the ease of long training and spun on the angel as it lay thrashing on the sands, clutching at its bloody stomach, wings fluttering helplessly. The sword had taken it deep in the guts and opened up a wide wound when it was jerked free. The Gladiator knelt over it, raised his sword with both hands, and brought it down on the angel's neck with all his remaining strength. The sword bit deep, severing the spine, and the angel's movements collapsed into juddering twitches.

The Gladiator looked down at it, his bloody grin hidden behind his featureless steel helm. The angel was no danger to him anymore. He cut its head off anyway, just in case. He got shakily to his feet and held up the head for all to see. The angel's beautiful face was a mask of horror, and blood flowed down the Gladiator's arm from the severed neck. It felt warm and soothing. He turned slowly round in a circle, still blocking the pain, and the crowd went mad, cheering and shouting and baying their approval. The severed head showed up well on the giant viewscreen above the ranked seating.

The Masked Gladiator bowed courteously to the crowd's roar and missed a step as his head went suddenly light. Enough playing to the crowd. Time to get the hell out of the Arena while he still could. It wouldn't do his image any good at all if he had to be carried out on a stretcher. He couldn't feel the blood he was losing, but he could see it coursing down his legs. He stomped off toward the nearest gate, rocking dizzily with every step, but still clinging to the angel's severed head. Maybe he'd have it stuffed and mounted.

The crowd cheered as he went, a tall and lithely muscular man with no crest or insignia on his armor, and an anonymous steel helm hiding his face. A mystery wrapped in an enigma, as always. There were many who would have paid a pretty sum to know just whose face the helm concealed, but there were many more who delighted in his secret and connived at all levels to preserve it, even from agents of the Empress herself.

The Masked Gladiator strode through the gate, the force field dropping just long enough for him to pass, then springing up again behind him, invisible and inviolable. He strode on through brightly lit corridors, one hand placed protectively over the wound in his side. He nodded tightly to the fighters and trainers he passed, cool and calm and collected. It wouldn't do for word to get out that he'd been seriously wounded, especially by his own hand, even if it had won him the match. There were any number of vultures who'd attack in a moment if they thought he was weak. The Masked Gladiator had a lot of enemies. Mostly people who'd bet against him. He strode on, grunting at the sudden stabs of pain that were getting past his control, and his head seemed very far away. The angel's severed head bumped against his leg as he walked, leaving a spattered bloody trail on the Floor behind him, but he didn't give a damn. Let the Arena staff earn their money for a change.

Then the door to his private chambers was right there before him, though he didn't remember getting there. He'd be safe on the other side of that door. His privacy was ensured by the Arena management, and his own oft-repeated statement that he'd kill anyone who tried to spy on him or otherwise bother him. He hit the security plate with the palm of his free hand, and the door opened as the computer recognized his palmprint. He staggered through the door, and it shut itself behind him. His mentor and trainer, Georg McCrackin, hurried toward him, worry plain in his face. The Gladiator smiled and threw him the angel's head.

"Hi, honey; I'm home."

And then the strength went out of his legs, and Georg dropped the head and caught him just before he hit the ground. Things got rather confused after that, and the next clear thought came as Georg was helping him out of the regeneration machine. He was still wearing his armor, but the pain in his side and back was gone, along with the injuries. There wouldn't even be any scars. He grunted his approval. Excellent device. Worth every penny of the medium-sized fortune it had cost him. He grinned at Georg McCrackin, who was busy fussing over removing the armor, and looked at himself in the full-length mirror on the wall. He looked pretty damn intimidating, if he said so himself. He stood there quietly a moment, winding down, emerging slowly from the persona of the Masked Gladiator, and letting his other self come to the surface again. And then he took off his helm to reveal the calm face of that most notorious fop, Finlay Campbell.

If his father could have seen him, he'd have had a stroke. The thought never ceased to amuse Finlay. He'd been playing his double role long enough that he took much of it for granted, but that particular wrinkle never failed to raise a smile. He stripped off the last of his armor and let Georg take it away, and then stood nude before the mirror and stretched slowly, as unselfconscious as a cat. Sweat was drying on his chest and arms, and he absently accepted a towel from Georg and mopped at his body while his mind was elsewhere.

Georg McCrackin had been with him for years, as was his right. He'd been the original Masked Gladiator, before he finally tired of it and bequeathed the helm and the legend to his pupil and successor. No one ever knew. He mopped at Finlay's back with another towel, a dark and brooding figure muttering quietly about the stupidity of taking needless risks.

"I always feel good after a kill," Finlay said almost dreamily. "It cleans out the system, purging all the dark thoughts and impulses."

"Just as well," said Georg dryly. "If you couldn't quench your thirst for blood in the Arena, no one would be safe. Probably wipe out half the aristocracy in duels. I knew you were a natural-born killer the first time I saw you fight."

Finlay looked at him. "Are you telling me you didn't enjoy your time on the sands as the Masked Gladiator?"

"No. But I fought for the challenge; you do it for the thrill. There's a difference. Which is why you'll find it a lot harder to step down than I did. But eventually even your appetite will grow cold, and then it will be your turn to pass on the helm and the legend to another fool with blood in his eyes and a devil in his heart."

"Maybe," said Finlay, in a tone that suggested he rather doubted it but didn't feel like arguing. "It's all my father's fault, you know. I knew I was born to be a warrior, even as a child. I'd fight anyone at the drop of an insult, no matter how much bigger they were. I won a surprising number of tights, too. I'd have been happy in any branch of the Service, fighting the Empress' enemies. But no, I was the eldest, and the heir, and that meant I couldn't be allowed to do anything that might risk my precious skin. I still received excellent training in the use of the sword and the gun, that was part of my heritage and couldn't be denied me, but it was never enough. Not nearly enough. I needed something more to fire my blood, stir my senses, make me feel alive…

"I fought my first duel when I was fifteen. Cut the poor bastard to ribbons. It felt so good, so right. After that, a bodyguard went everywhere with me and fought my duels on my behalf. You can guess how popular that made me with my peers. I'd never been exactly admired before, but after that I was a pariah. I've a lot to thank my father for.

"It was a long time before I thought of the Arena. I slipped my bodyguard's leash, bribed my way past the Arena staff, and fought my first match under a hologram mask. Nothing fancy, no frills; just sword to sword. And when it was over, and I was alive and he was dead, it was like coming home. I developed my fop persona to keep anyone from finding out about my little secret. After all, if it became public it would be a major scandal: an heir to one of the greatest Houses, fighting all comers in the Arena… dear Father would have an aneurism on the spot."

"You never told me any of this before," said Georg. "I knew most of it, of course. Made it my business to know. But you never wanted to talk about it, so I never pressed the point. What brought this on all of a sudden?"

Finlay shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe I just got a taste of my own mortality out there today."

Georg sniffed. "About time. Just because you've always won, it doesn't mean you can't lose. You've been getting cocky lately. If there's one thing the Arena teaches us all, it's that it doesn't matter how good you are; there's always someone better."

"Like who?" challenged Finlay, throwing aside his towel and reaching for his other persona's clothes.

"Well, Kid Death, for one. He's the new Summerlsle now. You keep well clear of him. He's crazy."

"And that makes him unbeatable?"

"In practice, yes, because he wouldn't care about dying himself if it meant he could take you with him. For once in your life, listen to what I'm telling you. I didn't train you to be the best in the Arena just to lose you to a genius madman with a sublimated death wish."

"Point taken." Finlay sat down on a nearby bench to pull on his knee-length leather boots. "I have been getting a little obsessed with the fighting, just lately. The Arena feels so clean and uncomplicated after the endless intrigues and politicking in high society. Every word has a dozen meanings, every statement a dozen levels, and you can't turn around without tripping over a conspirator murmuring in a traitor's ear. Luckily my Family, and everyone else's, considers me a coward as well as a fop, so mostly I get left on the sidelines as not worth bothering with. There'd be no glory in defeating the likes of me in a duel, and I haven't the wit to be trusted in a conspiracy. I always knew that persona would come in handy. It keeps me out of intrigues, protects my secret, and affords me endless amusement. Ah, life is good, Georg. Though death is more fun."

"Hang on to that good mood," said Georg. "You're going to need it. In case you've forgotten, and you probably have, you asked me to remind you that you have a wedding to attend this afternoon. It sounds pretty important; only for direct members of the Families involved. A distinctly minor noble such as myself wouldn't even get past the door."

"Now don't get touchy," Finlay said briskly, putting the finishing touches to his outfit and regarding himself thoughtfully in the full-length mirror. "You wouldn't like it anyway. No excitement, no bloodshed; just determinedly polite voices, fattening finger food, and inferior champagnes. It is a rather important occasion, I suppose, if you're interested in such things. A cousin of mine, Robert Campbell, is to marry one Letitia Shreck, and thus bring the two Families together. An arranged marriage, of course, for cold and practical political reasons. The two Clans have been at each other's throats for as long as anyone living can remember, but right now we find ourselves in need of mutual support against common enemies, so all the bloody hatchets are to be buried in a wedding. It'll all end in tears, of course, but no one gives a damn about that. Doesn't matter if they never see each other again, really, as long as they donate sperm and egg to the body banks and remain officially married. Poor Robert and Letitia. Never even met each other, as far as I know."

Georg smiled. "You're going to find it terribly quiet and dull after today's excitement in the Arena."

"Not necessarily. There are times when Family gatherings can be more dangerous and loaded with traps than anything you'd find in the Arena."

Georg shrugged. "I keep well clear, myself. A minor son of a minor House, too small to be noticed, that's me."

"If only they knew," said Finlay, smiling. "Sooner or later you're going to get tired of being civilized, and the Arena will call you back. You can't fight it; it's in the blood."

"No," said Georg. "I woke up from that nightmare and found peace. I'm just hanging on here till you do, too."

"Then you're in for a long wait," Finlay said flatly. "I couldn't give this up if I wanted to. It's all that keeps me sane."

Georg raised an eyebrow. "Given where we are, and what you do, sane is a relative term."

And then they both looked round sharply as the door swung open behind them. Which should have been impossible. The security system on the door was supposed to be state of the art. Finlay snatched up his sword Morgana, still bloody from the angel's death, and Georg produced an energy gun from somewhere. A nun walked through the door, all billowing black robes and folded hands, with the hood pulled down low to hide her face. Finlay didn't relax, and Georg didn't lower his gun. The Sisters of Mercy were common enough in the corridors under the Arena, but even so there was no way she should have been able to get past the door. She stopped a respectful distance away, the door swung shut behind her, and for a tense moment everyone held their position. And then the nun raised her slender, aristocratic hands and pushed back her hood, and Georg and Finlay relaxed with almost explosive releases of breath. Finlay put down his sword, and Georg made his gun disappear again.

"Evangeline!" said Finlay, hurrying toward her. "You promised you wouldn't come here again. It's too dangerous."

"I know," said Evangeline Shreck. "But I couldn't stay away. I had to be with you."

And then she was suddenly in his arms, and they were kissing with a passion that heated the small changing room like an oven. Georg looked briefly heavenward, shook his head, and moved off into the adjoining room to give them a little privacy. Left to themselves, the two lovers clung together like children lost in a storm. Finlay's heart ached in his chest, and he couldn't seem to get his breath. It was always the same when he held her in his arms; he could never really believe that someone as special as her could care for him as much as he cared for her. The Arena warmed his blood, but Evangeline burned in his heart like a pure, white-hot flame. Her familiar scent filled his head like a drug, but she was real and solid in his arms, her hands digging into his back as though she feared she might be dragged away at any moment. She was his love, his one and only love, and he would have killed for her, died for her, or anything else she might require.

And it might come to that someday, for their secret love was forbidden. He was heir to the Campbells, and she was heir to the Shrecks, two Families at war for generations. The current arranged marriage that afternoon, between two minor cousins of no importance to anyone, had already almost spilled over into bloodshed a dozen times. And for the two heirs to marry: unthinkable. One House would inevitably be engulfed by the other, though not without mass slaughter on both sides. He was Campbell and she was Shreck, and they must be mortal enemies to their death, and beyond.

Except they had met by accident, both wearing masks, not knowing who the other was till it was far too late, and they had both fallen in love. It happened so quickly, but it changed their lives forever. Now they lived for what few brief meetings they could snatch in private, knowing always that were they to be discovered, it would mean shame and probably death for both of them. Some scandals simply could not be allowed.

Finlay held her in his arms and buried his face in her hair. It smelled so good. She seemed so small and vulnerable, at the mercy of great grinding forces that cared nothing for her, or love. If he could have, he would have walked away and somehow lived with the pain rather than endanger her, but he couldn't any more than she could. She was everything he ever dreamed of or hoped for, and losing her would be like tearing out his heart and throwing it away. She nestled against him like a small child, like a frightened animal, her breathing gradually slowing with his.

"You took too big a risk coming here," he murmured finally in her ear. "You could have been followed."

"I wasn't." She wouldn't look up at him. "I used an esper to be sure. And who'd recognize me in this outfit? There are always Sisters of Mercy here, caring for the injured and the dying. No one ever remembers the face of a nun. I had to come, Finlay. I heard about the creature they set on you. I had to be sure you were safe."

"I keep telling you, you've got nothing to worry about. I'm the best, love. It wasn't even close today."

"You keep saying that, but anyone can have a bad day, make a wrong move. I wish…"

"I know. But I can't give it up. As much as I need you, I need this, too. It's part of what makes me me. I couldn't walk away from this and still be the man you love. Evangeline…"

"I know. It's just that I worry so much. I never thought there'd be anyone like you in my life, someone who mattered so much to me. I hate everything that comes between us."

"Don't." He pushed her gently away from him, so that he could look into her face. Her dark eyes held him like a fist. "You're always with me, my love. You're always in my thoughts. I even took your middle name to christen my sword."

"Thanks a whole lot," said Evangeline dryly. "Other lovers get gifts of flowers or jewelry. I get a sword named after me."

"It's a good sword—"

"And that makes all the difference." A cloud fell across her face, and she pushed herself away from him. "How's your wife, Finlay?"

He blinked uncertainly. "Fine, as far as I know. We don't see any more of each other than we have to, these days. She has her life, and I have mine, and as long as we don't actually have to meet each other, we get along great. What brought this on, love? You know I never loved her, or her me. It was an arranged marriage to consolidate a business deal. I'd divorce her in a minute if I thought there was any way you and I could be together. Why are you asking me about her now?"

"Because you and I are going to be at the wedding this afternoon. Our presence is required. But what about her; what about Adrienne? Will she be there, too?"

"Yes, she will. But knowing dear Adrienne, she'll get stuck into the booze the minute she gets there, and will quite probably be entirely potted before we even get to the ceremony. Don't worry, my love; we'll have our chance to be together, as long as we're careful. Very careful. They must never know about us, Evangeline. I know you hope things will change between the Clans, but they won't. They'd fight a war over us, if they knew."

"Worse than that," said Evangeline. "We'd never see each other again."

He took her in his arms and stopped her words with his mouth. And then for a long moment they just stood there together, holding each other tightly, so tightly no one would ever be able to tear them apart.

The most mismatched and politically sensitive wedding of the Season was held in a ballroom belonging to Clan Wolfe. Given the complicated web of deceit, intrigue and vendetta that connected the Campbells and the Shrecks, it was as near as they could get to neutral ground. Both Families had longstanding arguments with the Wolfes, but they weren't actually openly fighting at the moment. They weren't allies, and probably never would be, but it was a case of better the minor enemy you know than the friend who might turn on you. So the Wolfes hosted, for an extortionate price, and the Campbells and the Shrecks promised to be on their best behavior. The Wolfes posted extra guards, just in case.

Both Families brought with them a small army of guards, protectors and back-watchers, along with a not so small army of cousins, sycophants and hangers-on. In high society, the size of one's entourage in public was vitally important. It showed one's strength. It wouldn't do for one's enemy to get the idea one couldn't command loyalty among one's retainers. It wouldn't be… healthy. Besides, all the Families loved a show.

The ballroom itself was large and ostentatious, decorated on walls and floor and ceiling to the point of overkill. This was nothing unusual. There were pillars of silver and gold, draped with delicate strands of ivy carved from jade, and the floor was a single huge mosaic of major Wolfe ancestors and triumphs, composed of simple slabs of marble exactly an inch wide. One square inch being all most people could have afforded. The walls displayed ever-changing hologram scenes, chosen at random by the House computers from whatever exterior views were currently considered interesting or fashionable. The ceiling was a holo of the night sky, with stars scattered thickly like diamonds on black velvet. Few of the guests noticed. They were more interested in watching each other.

Finlay Campbell was there with his wife, as required. Neither of mem were particularly happy about it. They'd had a blazing row on their wedding day, and things had gone rapidly downhill ever since. They'd only agreed to the arranged marriage under the greatest of pressures, and a few not terribly discreet threats. They would have had each other assassinated long ago, if they could only figure out how to get away with it, but the Imperial espers had taken all the fun out of inter-Family murder. So the marriage continued, under protest.

In the meantime, they kept as far apart as possible and met only on formal occasions that demanded their presence. Like this one. The only things they had in common were their two children, five and six years old respectively, already holy terrors by all accounts. The product of laboratory conceptions and births, they spent their early years under Family-approved nannies and were currently attending Family-approved boarding schools. Strong Clan loyalty was made, not born, and the Family believed in starting early. They also didn't want to risk any interference from the parents.

Finlay often thought wistfully of his son and daughter. He enjoyed their company, when he could, and had a feeling he might have made a good father for them, given the chance. But as in so many other things these days, it was Not Allowed. Finlay sighed quietly and looked around him, hoping for diversion if not inspiration. He himself was the height of fashion, as always, from his shocking pink cutaway frock coat to his fluorescent face and shoulder-length metallicized hair of burning bronze. His cravat was midnight blue silk, fashionably badly tied to show one did it oneself, his velvet cap was jet-black with a single peacock's feather, and he regarded the scene through a pair of jeweled pince-nez spectacles he didn't need but which added just the right touch. He also carried a sword on his hip, as custom required, but though the hilt and scabbard were crusted with precious stones, only Finlay knew the blade in the scabbard was perfectly serviceable, and not in the least ornamental.

The wedding was due to take place in half an hour, and the ballroom was crowded. Bright colors shouted at the eye every way Finlay looked, interrupted here and there by the flickering holograms of those who couldn't attend in person. Most Family members were scattered across the Empire on Clan business, but they attended the wedding in spirit to show their solidarity and catch up on the latest gossip. One voice still rose above the general din, and without looking round Finlay knew it had to be his wife, Adrienne. She had one of those laser beam voices that can cut through anything. Not for the first time, Finlay thought if the Family could just find some way of harnessing it as a weapon, they'd make a fortune. He turned slowly, resignedly, and sure enough there was Adrienne, holding court before a group of minor nobles' wives, who looked like they'd rather be somewhere else. Anywhere else.

Adrienne was of average height and just a little more than average weight, but made her presence known by being the loudest, both visually and audibly, person in any gathering. She wore a long black gown, partly because she thought the color suited her pale skin, but mostly because that way she could claim to be in mourning for her marriage. It was as far off the shoulder as she could get it without actually have it tall around her knees, and it was split up the sides as far as her hips. It looked like it would take one good sneeze for it to tall off.

She had a sharp face, all planes and angles and angry scarlet mouth. Her eyes were narrow and perhaps just a little too close together, and she had the smallest, most up-turned nose that money could buy. She had a mop of curly hair, shining bright gold like a distress beacon. Her movements were sudden and abrupt, like a striking bird, and she treated each conversation as an enemy to be dominated and brought to heel. It was possible she might have heard of tact somewhere, but if she had, she'd never been seen to bother with it. If she'd been a man, her mouth would have bought her a hundred duels. As it was, there were those who suggested broadening the term man to include Adrienne Campbell, on general principles.

She had a large drink in her hand, from which she took large gulps in between hectoring her audience, and God help the servants if they weren't there to refill her glass when she needed it. She looked about the magnificent ballroom and shook her head disgustedly.

"God, this place is a dump. I've seen livelier funerals, and better catered. I'd pour this wine down the toilet, but I'd swear someone already beat me to it. And would you look at the groom? I've seen men being prematurely buried who looked happier than he does. And the bride; she's a child! Probably have to give her wedding night a miss so she can finish her homework. I take it someone has taken her to one side and filled her in on the facts of life? Like one, always use a contraceptive, and two, always get it in writing and preferably witnessed. Look at her; poor thing looks as confused as a blind lesbian in a fish market. Still, a good lay should put some color in her cheeks. Not that she'll necessarily get one from that long drink of tap water she's marrying."

Adrienne went on like that for some time, pausing only when she absolutely had to, to breathe or drink or glare at someone who didn't look like they were listening to her intently enough. Finlay watched admiringly, from a distance. He appreciated a good performance, and Adrienne was certainly on form this afternoon. Mind you, after enduring several years of such verbal battery at close range, he'd acquired a certain immunity. Others were not so fortunate. More than one of the ladies in Adrienne's current audience looked as though they were thinking wistfully how easy it would be to drop something really unpleasant but not necessarily actually fatal in Adrienne's drink when she wasn't looking.

Finlay completely understood the impulse. Adrienne's voice had the carrying quality of an airstrike and was usually about as welcome. People arranging parties and other social gatherings had been known to get extremely inventive when it came to producing reasons why Adrienne shouldn't attend, everything from outbreaks of plague to social unrest, but it didn't make any difference. Adrienne turned up anyway. As a Campbell by marriage, she couldn't be excluded, and she had very thick skin. And it had to be said, the more attention they paid to her, the less they paid to Finlay Campbell. Which wasn't always a bad thing.

He gazed about the crowded ballroom, packed with all the bright flowers of the aristocracy going through the familiar ritual dances of intrigue and seduction, politics and gossip. Everywhere there were brightly shining fluorescent faces under gleaming metallic hair, and clothes cut to the extremes of fashionable taste. They struck Finlay as so many chattering birds of paradise, or prettily painted toys with hidden sharp edges. There was no depth in them, no passion or commitment to anything but the pleasure of the moment. They were only saved from outright decadence by their short attention spans and inbred laziness. True debauchery was hard work, and most just couldn't be bothered. Finlay despised them all. They knew nothing of courage, or the true extremes of life and death, except in their carefully orchestrated code duello, where honor was often satisfied with first blood. Finlay watched them all with an empty smile on his face and contempt in his heart.

He looked desperately about him in search of diversion, and his gaze lighted on the Wolfes. The Wolfe himself was absent, along with his new wife; a courtesy, so that whatever happened they could officially ignore any behavior that might threaten the neutrality of the occasion. But Valentine, Stephanie and Daniel were there, looking as though they'd much rather be somewhere else. Finlay smiled slightly. Of course, all three of them had arranged marriages of their own coming up in the very near future. Presumably their father had insisted they attend to gain a few pointers on the terrible fate that awaited them. Stephanie and Daniel were standing together, ostentatiously ignoring their respective betrothed, who were currently chatting amiably together and getting on like a house on fire. Valentine stood alone, as always, tall and slender and darkly delicate, wearing a plum-colored coat and leggings. With his long dark curly hair and painted face, he looked like nothing so much as a rich but bruised fruit from some unhealthy tree. Beyond the mascaraed eyes and wide crimson smile, his face seemed polite but partly absent, as though his thoughts were somewhere else. Finlay didn't like to think where that might be. Valentine had no wineglass in his hand, presumably because there wasn't a wine in the room potent enough to jolt his jaded appetites.

Finlay decided he'd better find someone to talk to before someone really boring settled on him, and the Wolfes looked as interesting as any. Besides, Valentine intrigued him. They'd both attended the same school at the same time, but that was pretty much all they had in common, then and now. As far as Finlay could remember, Valentine had been a normal enough child, with no hint of warning of what he was to become. But then, that was probably true of him, too. He strode casually over to the Wolfes, as though he just happened to be drifting in their direction, nodding and smiling to those he passed, every movement the epitome of grace. It wasn't difficult. One of the first things he'd learned in the Arena was how to control his every movement. He noted the admiring glances as he passed and felt only the satisfaction of a good disguise. He was the height of fashion: a brilliant mirror in which people saw only what they expected to see.

He stopped before Valentine and bowed with a flourish. The Wolfe heir nodded courteously in return, the heavy black eye makeup and scarlet mouth standing out starkly against his pale skin. That particular look hadn't been fashionable in years, but having found something that appealed to his inner nature. Valentine was apparently loath to change it. Finlay wondered with a sudden flash of insight whether the painted face might be as much a mask as the one he wore. And if so, what other, stranger, Valentine might lie behind it. A disturbing thought. Whatever lay behind the mask, it would have to be pretty damned strange to outdo his everyday persona. Finlay smiled dazzlingly.

"You're looking very yourself, Valentine. I must say, I'm always surprised to see you actually up and about these days. Of course, if you were taking half the things you're supposed to be taking, I'd expect you to be wheeled in on a stretcher with a drip in your arm and tubes up your nose."

"I try to maintain a careful balance between my inner and outer worlds," said Valentine easily. "I see my condition as a continuing work of art, with drugs the colors of my palette. And every work of art must be seen by an audience to be truly appreciated. Not that most people understand or appreciate the effort and hard work involved in an ongoing performance."

"I do understand," said Finlay. "No one appreciates the sheer effort involved in being at the cutting edge of fashion. But you seem to be thriving on the pressure, Valentine. Perhaps you could give me the name of your chemist."

Valentine studied him silently for a moment, his face entirely expressionless, and Finlay wondered what he'd said. Something had thrown the Wolfe heir off balance. Finlay decided to change the subject, whatever it was, rather than have it pursue some end he wasn't sure he wanted to reach.

"I understand your wedding is scheduled to take place soon, Valentine. Any help I can offer, having been through the ghastly business myself?"

"Why thank you, Finlay, but I think I have everything under control. The flowers have been ordered, the bridesmaids chosen, and I have designed a rather special fruit punch for the occasion that should open a few eyes. I myself shall be wearing white, with a veil, and perhaps just a dash of belladonna for scent. I've taken care to inform my intended of this, so that our outfits won't clash."

"I'm sure she was very appreciative of that," said Finlay dryly.

"The last I'd heard," said Valentine, "she was offering quite a handsome reward for anyone willing to assassinate me, and if that doesn't work out, I understand she has professed a complete willingness and determination to do the job herself with whatever weapons happen to be at hand on the wedding day. She's currently trying to stir up a vendetta between her Family and mine, but since her parents helped arrange the match in the first place, due to the rather large dowry that comes with me, she's not getting very far."

"She sounds very… resolute."

"Oh, yes. I do so admire a woman with spirit."

"You must introduce me to her, Valentine. Someday."

"No sooner said than done. Here comes the lady now. Doesn't she look splendid?"

Finlay looked round sharply. A tall gangling woman in her late twenties was advancing on them, wearing a bright scarlet gown with gold and silver trimmings to show off her perfect pale skin and naturally red hair. Finlay had to wonder if perhaps the fashion for fluorescent skin and metallicized hair was over. Things changed so fast nowadays. The young lady slowed to a halt before him and Valentine, quivering with suppressed emotion, her eyebrows sunk in a truly ferocious scowl. Her mouth was an angry straight line that spoke of barely controlled rage. Finlay found his hand had dropped automatically to the sword on his hip. His instincts knew a genuine threat when they saw one. He bowed politely, and she shot him a look of undisguised venom. Finlay felt a sudden urge to check how far he was from the nearest exit. She had the look of someone who threw things. Heavy things. Valentine seemed entirely unperturbed and smiled courteously.

"Finlay Campbell, may I present Beatrice Cristiana, soon to be my bride."

"Eat shit and die, clown," said Beatrice. "And you can put that hand away because I have absolutely no intention of shaking it. I'd rather French kiss a leper than touch any part of you. With all the drugs boiling through what's left of your system, even your sweat's probably addictive. I received your latest communication; I think the veil is an excellent idea. May I also suggest a muzzle and a chastity belt, because you're not getting anywhere near me. I personally will be wearing a decontamination suit and carrying an electric cattle prod instead of a bouquet."

"I really must introduce you to my wife," said Finlay.

"Isn't she wonderful?" said Valentine happily. "I do like a woman with spunk. We were made for each other, Beatrice. Just think what our children will be like."

"You have a better chance of winning the Church's annual Sobriety and Good Citizenship award than you have of fathering a child on me, Valentine. I do not believe in laboratory fertilizations, and if you ever bring your disgusting parts anywhere near me, I will cram them into a blender. This is a political marriage only, Valentine. And now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go and find something really fragile and expensive that I can throw at a wall." She shot a brief glance at Finlay. "Do you have any idea what you look like? And I'd wipe that expression off your face, Finlay Campbell, if I were you, or the wind might change and you'll be stuck that way."

And she stomped off, disappearing back into the crowd, which kept trying to get out of her way, but just weren't fast enough on their feet. Finlay realized he was holding his breath and let it out in a long sigh. He looked at Valentine, entirely lost for words, but the Wolfe heir seemed unperturbed. He flicked an invisible fleck of dust from his cuff and smiled at Finlay.

"She'll come to appreciate my little ways. Eventually."

Not too far away, Evangeline Shreck, tall, slender and positively waiflike in an off-the-shoulder gown, watched her beloved Finlay talking with the notorious Valentine Wolfe and felt an almost overpowering urge to rush over and rescue him. Or at least protect him. Valentine looked to her like nothing more than a corpse in a carnival mask, a Harlequin in heat, all that was sick and corrupt in current society. But she couldn't even go near Finlay without good cause. Even allowing for the imminent marriage that was to link the Campbells with the Shrecks, there was still much bad feeling between the two Houses. It was a miracle no one had thrown down a formal challenge yet. It would look odd at best, and suspicious at worst, if she were to just walk up to Finlay and start chatting with him. Officially, they'd only ever met in passing on occasions like this. People would raise their eyebrows and make comments. They might even ask questions. Evangeline forced herself to look away, and there was her father, standing beside her. She composed herself quickly and hoped her small involuntary start would be taken for surprise rather than guilt.

Lord Gregor Shreck smiled at her fondly and patted her on the arm with his chubby hand: The Shreck was a short, round butterball of a man, all bulging flesh and deepset eyes, with a constant, quietly unnerving smile. It amused him to indulge himself, and he cared nothing for fashion, which in turn cared nothing for him. He was not a sociable man and as a rule avoided all gatherings he wasn't absolutely obliged to attend. He had never been popular or courted, despite his high station and prestigious connections, and he didn't give a damn. He had other, private concerns.

"Can I get you a drink, my dear?" he said kindly. "Something to eat, perhaps? You know how it worries me when you don't eat."

"I'm sure. Father, thank you. I don't want anything."

The Shreck shook his head unhappily. "You must keep your strength up, my dear, or you'll waste away to skin and bone. You want to look nice for your papa, don't you?"

The hand on her arm closed warningly tight, and she made herself smile and nod. It wasn't wise to make him angry. For all his surface jollity, the Shreck had a foul temper, and nasty, inventive malice. So she let him fuss over her and tried to remain as remote as she could without antagonizing him. It was a tightrope she'd gotten used to walking, but it never got any easier. The Shreck looked around at the noisily chattering crowd and scowled.

"Look at them: happy as the day is long, and not a brain between them. Eating my food and drinking my wine, and my poor niece is still a brainburned savage, a maid to the Iron Bitch. They're happy enough to stuff their faces at my expense, but not one of them would agree to support me in trying to get my niece back, no matter how I pleaded. They don't know how special to me she was, just like you, Evangeline. But I'll get her back somehow, and have my revenge on those who refused me."

And as quickly as that, the clouds left his pudgy face, and he let go of her arm. It throbbed dully, aching from the fierce grip, but she didn't dare rub at it. It wasn't wise to distract him when he was in one of his good moods.

"Still," he said, beaming widely, "I expect great things of this wedding. Dear Letitia makes a lovely bride, and Robert Campbell is supposed to be a fine, upstanding young man. I've never had much time for the Campbells, any of them, but it must be said they have good connections with interesting and important people. And with our two Houses united by this marriage, those connections should drop right into my lap. In return, all we have to do is watch their backs, and protect them from unexpected attacks, while they jockey for position over the mass-production contracts for the new stardrive. Some of whose revenues will undoubtedly end up flowing in my direction. Things are looking up, Evangeline. Soon I'll be able to give you all the splendid presents I always wanted to. You've been very patient with me, listening to all my promises and never complaining, but once our ship comes in, you shall want for nothing, my dear, nothing at all. And all I ask in return is that you love me. Is that so much to ask?"

"No, Father."

"Is it?"

"No, Father," said Evangeline steadily. "You know I honor you as my father and show you all duty. My heart belongs to you."

Gregor Shreck smiled at her fondly. "You look more like your dear mother every day."

Evangeline was still trying to come up with a safe and neutral answer to that one when they were joined by James Kassar, the Vicar of the Church of Christ the Warrior. Tall and muscular and positively radiating physical superiority, the vicar looked very smart in his jet-black military surplice, and didn't he know it. The Empress had given the Church her official support when she ascended to the Iron Throne, and the Church in return supported her with all its vast political power. It had followers throughout the Empire and was now the nearest thing the Empire had to an official Church. It named her Warden of the Stations of the Cross, Soldier of All Souls, and Defender of the Faith, and put its military training schools at her disposal. In practice, this meant the Church of Christ the Warrior had supplanted all other religions, in public at least, and its influence reached everywhere. The Empress excused the Church all taxes, allowed it to tithe its people as it wished, and used its Jesuit elite commandos to stamp out traitors in her name. So no one argued with the Church much. Not in public.

James Kassar was a rising name in the Church. He distinguished himself as a marine for several years, stamping out the Empire's enemies with unyielding determination, whatever the cost. He rose rapidly to major, and then heard the call and transferred to the Church, where he turned his zeal to locating and persecuting all those who opposed the one true Church. And if in his enthusiasm he sometimes strayed outside the law, or wiped out a few innocent bystanders along with the true targets, well, you can't make omelets, and all that. He was a rising star, so no one said anything.

Or at least, no one who mattered. It was a great honor for the Campbells and the Shrecks that he had agreed to officiate at this wedding, and he made sure everyone knew it. Lord Gregor bowed courteously to him, and Evangeline bobbed a curtsey.

"Good of you to honor us with your presence, Your Grace," said Gregor smoothly. I trust all is to your satisfaction?"

"Then you trust wrong," said the Vicar sharply. "Never seen so many degenerates and parasites in one room before. A spell in the Services would put some backbone into them. Doubt half of them have seen the inside of a Church since they were christened. Or could recite the catechism of the Warrior, if pressed. But as long as the aristocracy still cuddles up to the Empress, long may she reign, they can afford to cock a snook at the Church. But that won't last forever."

"Quite," said the Shreck. "May I offer you a glass of something?"

"Never touch the stuff. The body is a temple and not to be defiled with noxious substances. I assume all the details for this wedding have been thoroughly checked out, Shreck? I have other engagements following this, and if I have to change my schedule, someone's going to suffer for it and it isn't going to be me."

And that was when the wild-eyed zealot appeared with a crack of thunder in the middle of the ballroom as though from nowhere. He wore only a ragged loincloth, and his bare skin was crisscrossed with old and recent scars. He wore a crown of thorns upon his brow, and blood ran down his face in sudden little rushes as his features moved. He had a starved aesthetic look, and his eyes gleamed with the fire of the true fanatic and visionary. The stunned crowd started to react to his appearance, and then fell silent again as flames leapt up from nowhere, licking around the zealot without consuming him. He glared about him, and people shrank back, but when he spoke his voice was surprisingly calm and even.

"I am here to protest against the continuing slavery of espers and clones! I protest against the desecration of the one true Church of Christ the Redeemer! Christ was a man of peace and love, but if he were here now to see what you do in his name, he would turn his face away from us in despair. I do not fear your guards or interrogators; I have dedicated my life to the Lord, and I give it up now as a sign to you that espers and clones have a strength and faith of their own and will not be denied!" He paused then, looked around him, and smiled slightly. "See you all in hell."

His body burst into flames, bright and searingly hot. Those nearest him fell back from the terrible heat, but in the heart of the flames the zealot's smile never wavered, even as the fire consumed him. It was all over in a moment, and the flames and the heat died down to nothing. All that remained was a greasy stain on the floor, and a few ashes floating on the air, and a single discarded hand that had somehow fallen outside the devouring flames. It lay on the ballroom floor like a single pale flower, fingers outstretched as though in one last appeal for reason.

"Esper scum," said Vicar James Kassar. "Saved us the trouble of executing him. Pyrokinetic, obviously, but how did he get in here? I was assured this ballroom was protected by esp-blockers."

"So it is," said Valentine, stepping forward. "I am not entirely certain what has happened, but as senior Wolfe present, I can assure you that my security people are investigating the breach even as we speak."

"That's not good enough, Wolfe," snapped Kassar, studying Valentine with undisguised contempt and disgust. "Whether he teleported in or was smuggled in, he must have had inside help. Which means you have a traitor here, Wolfe. I'll detail a company of my men to help find him. They've had a lot of experience in finding traitors."

"Thank you," said Valentine, "but that won't be necessary. My people are quite capable of doing all that's necessary without disturbing my guests."

It took the wide-eyed guests a moment to realize that Valentine had just refused the Vicar permission to bring his hard men in. This wasn't exactly unknown, but it was pretty damn rare. You upset the Church at peril of your soul and your body, these days. And James Kassar in particular wasn't used to being defied. His face reddened, and he stepped forward to glare right into Valentine's mascaraed eyes.

"Don't cross me, boy! I shed no tears for one more dead esper, but I have no tolerance for traitors, no matter where they may be found. And high station is no protection against the will of the Lord."

"How very reassuring," said Valentine, and then said nothing more. The moment lengthened and the tension grew. The Vicar scowled at Valentine.

"You look like a degenerate. Wipe that paint off your face."

Everyone stared at the two men, breathless in the spectacle of two legendary wills clashing. And then Valentine took one more step forward, so that his face was right before Kassar's. His crimson smile widened, and his dark eyes didn't waver at all.

"Lick it off."

Kassar looked at him, his mouth a tight white line. His hand hovered over his sword, but he didn't draw it. If he did, and killed the Wolfe heir in his own home, he would be committing the Church to full vendetta against Clan Wolfe. Rich and influential as it was, the Wolfes couldn't hope to stand against the full might of the Church for long, but… if the Wolfes did somehow win the contract for the new stardrive, and the Church had to come cap in hand to Clan Wolfe for the new starships… Kassar turned his back on Valentine and walked away, and everyone started breathing again. Valentine smiled at Gregor and Evangeline.

"My apologies for the unwelcome intrusion. My people will take care of it."

The Shreck sniffed. "Damn esper filth. If he hadn't killed himself, I'd have had him shot. We're too soft on espers. You can't trust them."

"They're still people, Father," said Evangeline softly. "Like clones."

"Better not let the Vicar hear you say that," said Valentine easily. The position on espers and clones is quite clear. They exist only as the result of scientific progress and are therefore property. The Church won't even admit they have souls. Now, if you'll excuse me…"

He bowed low, and turned and walked away. A murmur of quiet congratulations surrounded him as he moved through the crowd. The Church had been putting pressure on all the Families just recently over tithes and was not as popular as it might have been among the aristocracy. Gregor waited until Valentine was safely out of earshot, then grabbed Evangeline by the arm again, squeezing hard till the pain made her gasp.

"Never do that again. You must never draw attention to yourself with such views on espers or clones. Neither of us could afford an investigation into your background. No one must ever find out about you."

He gave her arm one last shake and then released her and stalked away, his face an angry red. People hurried to get out of his way. Evangeline put her hand to her aching arm, alone in the middle of the crowd, but then she always was. Evangeline was a clone, grown secretly by her father to replace the original Evangeline, who had died in an accident. His eldest daughter had been his favorite, and he couldn't bear to live without her. And since no one had seen her die but him, he used a great deal of money and influence and had his dead daughter cloned. He taught her everything she needed to know, then cautiously released her into society. After a long but vague illness. She did well. She'd always been a quick study. Or so her father told her. Everyone accepted her as the real Evangeline. They had no reason not to. But a single gene test was all it would take to reveal her true origin, damning herself and her father. Replacement by their own clone was the aristocrat's ultimate nightmare. She'd be destroyed (not executed, only people were executed), and her father would be stripped of his tide and banished.

She hadn't told Finlay Campbell she was a clone, even though he'd trusted her with the secret of his other life as the Masked Gladiator. She hadn't worked up the courage yet. She loved him, she trusted him, but… But. Would he still love her if he knew she was only a clone? She liked to think he would, but… She smiled humorlessly. If she couldn't trust him with that, how could she tell him about her links to the clone and esper undergrounds? That was, after all, why she'd turned off the Wolfe esp-blockers, so that the elves could smuggle the zealot in…

She knew her thoughts were drifting this way and that, but she didn't seem able to control them. She owed so many loyalties to so many people: her father, the undergrounds, Finlay… and failing any one of them could lead to her disgrace and death. She had to watch every word, every action, different lies for different people. Sometimes she just wanted to scream for everything to stop, for all the pressure to go away, but she couldn't. She couldn't afford to be noticed doing anything unusual. Occasionally she thought of killing herself, but then she always thought of Finlay and how safe she felt in his arms. One day she would tell him, and then… One day.

She looked up to see Finlay casually approaching her, as though he just happened to be drifting in her direction. Her heart speeded up, and a betraying warmth flushed her cheeks. Finlay stopped before her and bowed courteously, and she nodded coolly in return. Just two heirs to different Clans who happened to have met in a public place. Finlay smiled at her, and she smiled back.

"My dear Evangeline," said Finlay easily. "You're looking very well. I trust the unfortunate incident with the esper didn't upset you unduly?"

"Not at all, Finlay. I'm sure Wolfe security already has things well in hand. You're looking quite splendid yourself. Is that another new outfit?"

"Of course. I do so hate to repeat myself. As one of the secret Grand Masters of fashion, I have an obligation to be innovative and shocking at all times. It's in my contract. Your hand is empty; could I perhaps get you a small glass of punch?"

Evangeline shook her head firmly. She'd seen the punch. It was bright pink, reportedly extremely alcoholic, and had hits of unidentified fruit floating in it. Some of them seemed to be slowly dissolving. And given that the punch had been provided by the Wolfes, there was always the chance Valentine had spiked it with something dramatic and disconcerting. Most of the guests had had the sense and foresight to bring their own drinks. Finlay smiled and produced a delicately worked silver flask from an inner pocket. He removed the cap and poured her a generous drink. Evangeline sniffed it inquiringly, then grinned at the warm aroma of good brandy. She sipped it carefully and allowed her eyes to meet Finlay's. She could feel her breathing quickening, and when she handed the cap back to Finlay for him to drink, his fingers lingered on hers.

"Now that our two Families are to be joined in marriage, perhaps we shall have occasion to meet more often," murmured Finlay.

"That would be most pleasant," said Evangeline. "I am sure we might discover some interests in common."

"Right now what you've got in common is a good stiff drink, and I'd kill for some," said a familiar loud voice. Evangeline didn't need to look round to know who it was.

There was never any doubt of Adrienne Campbell's presence. Evangeline and Finlay shared one last understanding glance, and then turned to face Finlay's infamous wife. Adrienne pointedly held out an empty glass, and Finlay filled it to the brim with brandy. She took a good gulp and nodded approvingly.

"One of your few virtues, Finlay. You're vain and shallow and have absolutely no idea how to treat a lady, but you do know your booze. If it wasn't for your wine cellar, I'd have divorced you years ago. Evangeline, my dear, haven't seen you to talk to in absolutely ages. That's a very… striking outfit you're wearing. Do feel free to come to me for advice on style and presentation at any time." She held out her glass to Finlay for a refill, and he obliged without comment. Adrienne's capacity for drink was legendary even in a court noted for its excesses. She smiled nastily at her husband over the glass. "Good brandy, Finlay. I like my booze like I like my men: strong, mysterious and tempting."

"Really," said Finlay. "I wouldn't know."

"Damn right you wouldn't," said Adrienne. She looked back at Evangeline, who had to fight to keep from flinching. "It's time you were looking for a husband for yourself, my dear. Your father monopolizes your time far too much. Husbands can be boring, irksome and a general pain in the ass, but you have to have one if you want to get on in society. Personally, I wouldn't be without one, especially when it conies to picking up the tab. Now, if you'll excuse me, I really ought to have a word with our nervous bride and groom. Someone has to tell them the facts of life."

"And who better than you?" murmured Finlay.

Adrienne smiled. "Quite."

She stalked off through the crowd, opening up a path for herself through sheer strength of personality. Her intended prey didn't even realize she was coming. The groom, Robert Campbell, was currently being supported and encouraged by his cousin Finlay's brothers, William and Gerald Campbell. Robert's father had been the Campbell's younger brother, who died three months previously in an accident the Family still didn't like to talk about. Mostly because it was so damn embarrassing. In order to keep Robert and his branch of the Family from becoming a laughingstock, a marriage had been hastily arranged that would serve the dual purpose of establishing Robert in society and help close the gap between the Campbells and the Shrecks. And of course, if something should go wrong, Robert was the most expendable member of the Family at present.

He was average height, as fighting fit as years of military training could make him, and at seventeen old enough to marry, but not old enough to object to the marriage. He was still trying to get used to how much his world had changed. One moment the Shrecks were a deadly enemy to be fought on every occasion, and now here he was marrying one. But he was old enough to understand politics and know his duty. Especially since William and Gerald kept explaining it to him.

William Campbell was tall, thin and intense, and the bookkeeper of the Family. It was a job that couldn't be trusted to an outsider, but which most members usually avoided like the plague, on the grounds it was far too much like hard work, and if they'd wanted to work they wouldn't have been born an aristocrat. Fortunately William found numbers both more interesting and easier to deal with than people, so he was perfectly suited to the job. He didn't get out much, but he meant well, and occasionally surprised people with his firm grasp of politics. He was a Campbell, after all.

Gerald, on the other hand, was the Family mistake. There's one like him in every Family. Too dumb to be entrusted with the important stuff, but too senior to be just ignored. The Family had been trying to find a place for him all his life, with absolutely no success. Gerald was tall, blond and handsome, and a complete bloody disaster no matter what he did, and everyone knew it but him. The Campbell himself had been heard to say, only partly in jest, that the best thing to do with Gerald would be to make a gift of him to a Family they were really mad at.

"Do try and at least look cheerful," said William to young Robert. "This is a wedding, after all, not the dentist's."

"Right," said Gerald. "At the dentist they take something out. Here you get to put something in. Get my drift, eh?"

Robert smiled politely, and just a little desperately. He had the look of a small animal caught in the headlights of an oncoming car. He pulled at his frock coat to straighten it and fiddled with his cravat. His dresser had assured him he looked both dignified and fashionable, but he wasn't sure of either. He felt very much he could have used a stiff drink or several, but William wouldn't let him. Valentine had offered to slip him a little something, but he'd declined. He didn't think he was ready to deal with one of Valentine's little somethings. Probably no one but Valentine was.

"You've been through the rehearsals," said William reassuringly. "Nothing to worry about. Just say the words, kiss the bride, and it'll be all over before you know it. Remember you have to lift the veil first, though. You'd be surprised how many people forget that. Sometimes I think we're getting a little too inbred. Brace up, not long to go now."

"And then you can settle down to getting to know your bride," said Gerald. "Something to look forward to, eh? Eh?

"Gerald," said William, "go get Robert a drink."

"But you said he shouldn't have any."

"Then go and get me a drink."

"But you don't drink."

"Then go and get yourself a bloody drink, and don't come back till you've drunk it!"

Gerald blinked a few times and then moved away in the general direction of the punchbowl, looking just a little confused. As always. William looked at Robert and shrugged.

"Don't mind your Uncle Gerald, boy. He means well, but he should have been dropped on his head as a baby. It's not entirely his fault that he's about as much use as a one-legged man in an ass-kicking contest. Is there… anything you want to ask me before the ceremony? I mean, I am a married man…"

"That's all right," said Robert quickly. "A lot of people have already talked to me about that. Everyone's been very free with their advice. The only advice I could really use is how to get out of this."

William smiled and shook his head. "Sorry, but that's not on. Duty calls. The Campbell sets the rules, and we have to follow them. If we didn't, where would we be? In complete bloody chaos, and all the other Families would charge in like sharks scenting blood in the water. Or do they taste it? I've never been sure. Anyway, whatever else we may be, we're Campbells first. Always. If it's any help, I felt much the same before my wedding, and I've been happy enough. I suppose."

"Keep on encouraging him like that, and we'll have to drive him to the altar with whips," said a loud, carrying voice.

Robert and William Campbell looked up to see standing before them Adrienne Campbell, large as life and twice as loud. William flinched visibly, and was still trying to find the right words with which to introduce Adrienne when she stepped forward, brushing him aside and smiled at Robert.

"Hello, Robert. I'm Adrienne, Finlay's wife. I'm the one you've probably been warned about, and you should believe every word. Mostly they try and keep me away from public functions on the grounds I embarrass them. Personally, I've never been embarrassed in my life. Fortunately for you, they couldn't keep me out of a wedding this important. You come with me, dear. There's someone I want you to meet."

"fir…" said William.

Adrienne rounded on him, and he fell back a step. "Did you want to say something, William? No? I didn't think so. You rarely do. Come along, Robert."

And she took him by the hand in a viselike grip and led him off through the crowd. Robert went along with her. It seemed like the safest thing to do, if he ever wanted his hand back. They passed through the outskirts of the crowd, followed all the way by scandalized whispers, and then through a side door that led into a quiet sitting room decorated with antiques of considerable age and complete hideousness. And there, among the antiques like a single flower in a garden of weeds, sat Letitia Shreck, his bride-to-be. She jumped up the moment they entered, then stood quietly with eyes modestly downcast. She was sixteen years old and very pretty, with hints of a more mature beauty to come. The long white wedding gown made her look very fragile, like a delicate porcelain figure standing alone on a shelf. Robert looked at her and then at Adrienne with something like shock.

"I know," said Adrienne briskly, "you're not supposed to meet before the ceremony, but they'll overlook it this time rather than have me make a scene in front of everybody. They tend to overlook quite a lot rather than have me make a scene. I can be very good at scenes, when I put my mind to it. Anyway, I brought you two together so you could talk, so get on with it. I'll run interference at the door. You've got about twenty minutes before they come and drag you off to the ceremony, so make the most of them. Just… chat together; you'll be surprised how much you've got in common."

And with that she disappeared out the door, pulling it firmly shut behind her, leaving Robert and Letitia standing looking at each other. It was very quiet in the room. They could hear the murmur of raised voices beyond the closed door, but that might as well have been on another world. For a moment that seemed to last forever, neither of them moved, and then Robert cleared his throat awkwardly.

"Would you like to sit down, Letitia?"

"Yes. Thank you."

They sat down on chairs facing each other, careful to maintain a proper distance between them. Robert searched for something to say that wouldn't make him sound like a complete idiot.

"Letitia…"

"Tish."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I… prefer to be called Tish. If that's all right."

"Yes. Of course. Call me Bobby. If you like." They looked right at each other for the first time, and Robert smiled suddenly. 'Tell me, Tish, do you feel as uncomfortable in your outfit as I do in mine?"

She laughed immediately, then put her hands to her mouth, looking at him to check he wasn't shocked. Reassured by his smile, she lowered her hands and smiled back at him.

"I hate this dress. If it was any tighter, it would be inside me. I haven't dared to eat or drink anything. I don't think there's anywhere for it to go. And every time I go to the toilet, I have to take two maids with me to unlace everything. I've been going rather a lot. I think it's nerves. And of course if I say anything, or try to complain, they just say it's traditional, as if that solved everything."

"Right!" said Robert as she paused for breath. "If I hear the word tradition one more time, I think I'll scream. I was told I was getting married about six hours ago. How about you?"

"Same here. I suppose they thought if they gave us too much time to think about it, we'd run away or something."

"They weren't far wrong," said Robert dryly. "This isn't at all what I thought I'd be doing when I got up this morning. If I had known, I'd have headed for the horizon so fast it would have made their heads spin. Of course, that was before I met you. I thought… well, I don't know what I thought, but you… you're all right."

"Thanks," said Letitia. "You really know how to compliment a lady, don't you?"

Robert grinned. "Well, actually, no. I've been a military cadet most of my life. It's expected for those in the Family unlikely ever to inherit. You don't get to meet many women in military training. How about you? Did you have anyone special… in your life?"

"There was someone, but… that's all over now. They found out about us and stopped us seeing each other." Letitia smiled wryly. "He was one of my bodyguards. I'm not allowed out much, either. Not since the Empress started raiding the Families for maids. I knew poor Lindsey, the Shreck's niece who disappeared. She was so bright, so funny. Nowadays they keep us under guard as much as possible. Understandable, I suppose, but it makes for a very quiet life."

Robert nodded. "And now, here we are, about to get married. It's going to seem strange, having lifelong enemies as my in-laws."

"Same here," said Letitia, clapping her hands together suddenly and grinning wickedly. "Do you Campbells really eat babies for breakfast?"

"Oh, every day. Beats the hell out of bran flakes."

"Maybe we'll bring our Families together, like we're supposed to. Stranger things have happened. Bobby…"

"Yes, Tish?"

"If I have to marry someone, I'm glad it's someone like you."

"Same here, Tish. Same here."

She put out her hand, and he took it gently, enfolding her small slender fingers in his. And they sat there, smiling together, for an endless moment. And then Adrienne came bustling in.

"All this time, and you've only got as far as holding hands? I don't know what's wrong with you young people these days. I'd have had him pinned up against the wall by now. But time's up, I'm afraid. Finlay sent me to fetch you, Robert. Urgent Family business, and your presence is required."

Robert gave Letitia's hand one last squeeze and got to his feet. "Family business is always urgent, especially when it's inconvenient. I'm glad we had this chance to talk, Tish. I'll see you shortly."

"Bye," said Letitia, and blew him a kiss. Robert snatched it out of midair, put it in an inner pocket over his heart, and only then allowed Adrienne to lead him away.

It turned out to be quite a Family gathering, all squeezed together in a side room, with guards outside the door to make sure they wouldn't be disturbed. Finlay was there, at his most outrageously foppish, studying Adrienne through his pince-nez as though she were a stranger. William and Gerald were arguing quietly but heatedly, barely stopping to nod to Robert as he closed the door behind him. He took in their earnest faces, and his heart dropped. Something bad was in the wind. He could feel it. Finlay cleared his throat, and everyone looked at him.

"The Campbell himself cannot be here in person," he said flatly. "He's had a communication from our allies on Shub. It came via a series of espers, so we're pretty sure it wasn't intercepted. It seems that some other House has discovered our connection with Shub."

"Wait a minute," said Robert. "Hold everything. What's this about Shub? What allies have we got on that hellhole?"

"You have a right to know," said Finlay. He sounded surprisingly articulate, for once. "Now that you're to be a central part of Family business. But you cannot discuss this with anyone outside the Family; not even your wife. No one must know. Our existence as a House depends on this. For some time now, we've been secretly intriguing with the rogue AIs on Shub, in defiance of Empire policy. The Enemies of Humanity have been passing us designs for advanced technology to help us win the contract for mass-production of the new stardrive in return for us making the drive available to them. They are desperate to remain the Empire's equal, and we need to contract. Our finances are somewhat depleted at the moment."

"To be exact," said Adrienne, "we're in deep shit. If we don't get the contract, we're ruined. Bankrupt."

William winced, but nodded. "We must win the contract if we are to survive as a Clan. Everything depends on it."

"Anyway," said Finlay, "it appears someone has found out. They can't have any definite proof yet, or they'd have turned us in to the Empress. And we'd all be facing a quick trial and a lingering execution."

"Can you blame them?" said Robert hotly. "We're working with the AIs on Shub? They're dedicated to wiping out Humanity in its entirety, and we're giving them the new stardrive? Is it just me, or is this completely bloody crazy!"

"Please don't shout," said Finlay. "This has all been discussed and decided at the highest Clan levels. We have absolutely no intention of giving them the drive, whatever happens. We are ambitious and desperate but not, as you say, crazy."

"In the meantime," said Adrienne, "it's vital we find out who knows our secret. That's why you're here, Robert. We're already running several clandestine operations to discover our enemy, and you're uniquely suited to investigating the Shrecks. But you're not to discuss this with your wife. She may be marrying into the Campbells, but for now she's still a Shreck. Use her, but don't trust her. Don't look so shocked, dear. This is Family business, and the Family always comes first."

"It's important we discover how much our enemy knows," said William. "Anyone who knows too much must die. The safety of the Clan is at risk."

"What's the Campbell doing?" said Gerald anxiously. "Why isn't he here? He should be making these kind of decisions, not us."

"He's busy reassuring the AIs through the esper link," said Finlay. "We don't want them doing anything impulsive, or… unfortunate. We're only valuable to them as long as our connection remains a secret. He took a hell of a risk sending a messenger here, but it was important we know immediately. From now on, we don't go anywhere without guards, and no one is to go off on their own. Our new rival might try to kidnap one of us to pump that person for information and put pressure on the rest of us. You're especially at risk, Robert; you're not as used to this game as we are. We can't put you in seclusion right after your wedding; that would look just a little suspicious, like we had something to hide. But from now on, you and your new wife will have a double security presence. If she asks why, point out how easily that esper zealot broke in. Now, let us return to the celebration, before our absence becomes a talking point. Smiles and laughter, everyone; no point in putting weapons in our enemies' hands. After all, it's not certain they know that we know they suspect. You're looking puzzled, Gerald. Don't let it worry you. Just stick close to us, and if you feel like saying anything, rise above it. William, keep an eye on him. If he opens his mouth, stamp on his foot."

Adrienne looked at him thoughtfully. "Since when did you become such an accomplished conspirator?"

Finlay smiled at her dazzlingly. "It's in the blood, my dear. I am a Campbell, after all."

He took Robert by the arm and led him back into the crowded ballroom. Everywhere faces smiled and heads bowed, and Robert nodded numbly to them all. Some weren't really there, of course. Attending in person was a compliment and a privilege; the less well connected usually had to settle for sending a holo. If nothing else, it helped to cut down on duels. Nothing like a wedding to bring out old Family quarrels. Robert thought about that to keep from thinking about anything else, but it didn't work. He pulled his arm free of Finlay and gave him a hard look.

"Just how much danger are we in, Finlay? How much danger am I putting Letitia in by marrying her?"

"Not much more than she's already used to. She is a Shreck, after all, and they have a history of intrigue that makes us look timid. Now forget about all that and concentrate on your wedding."

James Kassar, Vicar of the Church of Christ the Warrior, called the gathering to attend him in the kind of voice usually reserved for a parade ground, and the two Families separated out to form two groups, so that they could look down their noses at each other. They left a narrow aisle between the two groups, and almost before he knew it, Robert was heading for the aisle, surrounded by Finlay and William and Gerald, all looking very stern and respectable. The bride was brought forward to walk beside him, surrounded by women of the Shreck Family. Letitia arrived amid a crowd of whispered jokes and comments and stifled laughter, but Robert's companions stayed straight-faced, as custom required. Robert was grateful for that, at least. He had a strong feeling that just at this moment, even a bad joke would collapse him into howls of hysterical laughter. And then he and Letitia were walking down the aisle side by side, alone at last, both looking straight ahead and concentrating desperately on the moves and words they'd learned at rehearsal.

They came to a halt before Kassar, resplendent now in a purple gown, who bowed curtly and began the wedding service in a calm, businesslike tone. Personally, Robert preferred it that way. It made both the Vicar and the service seem less awe-inspiring. The words were familiar from any number of Family weddings Robert and Letitia had attended since childhood, and they made their responses in calm, dignified voices. Everything went smoothly, and Robert even remembered to raise the veil before he kissed her. All that remained was the ceremonial tying of the knot. Kassar gestured for the page boy to bring forward the ceremonial golden cord on its platter. He wrapped the cord loosely about both their wrists, binding them together, and then called forward the Church esper. Before the Church could give its blessing, and thus validate the marriage, it was important that both parties were proved to be who they said they were. Nobody ever said the word clone, but it was never far from anyone's mind.

Many of the guests stirred uneasily. The esp-blockers had been shut down for this moment, and the threat of outside attack was that much greater, but mostly the guests were concerned that their own little secrets might be detected and exposed by the esper. Everyone had something to hide. They needn't have worried. The esper knew better than to let his thoughts stray. There was a Church guard standing off to one side with a gun trained on him. So he concentrated on the bride and groom before him, and everything was hushed. Until his head came up sharply, and he stepped back a pace. Kassar glared at him.

"What is it? Is there a question of identity?"

"No, Your Grace," said the esper quickly. "They are who they claim to be. It's just that I sense not two minds, but three. The Lady Letitia is pregnant. And not by the groom."

For a moment there was a shocked silence, and men uproar filled the ballroom. Robert stared open-mouthed at Letitia, who stared numbly back at him. Had there been someone special? he'd asked. And she'd said yes. Kassar tore the golden cord from their wrists and threw it to one side. It seemed like everyone was shouting and screaming at everyone else, and swords were appearing in hands. Space grew around the white-faced bride as people fell back rather than be contaminated by her presence. Adrienne tried to get to her, but was held back by the crush of the crowd. For bringing a sullied bride to a joining of Clans, the Shrecks would be ostracized by society. It was the ultimate insult.

The Shrecks were yelling that they knew nothing of it, but no one was listening. Robert started toward Letitia, not knowing what he was going to say or do, only drawn on by the misery in her face. And then Gregor Shreck burst out of the crowd, the golden wedding cord in his hands. His face blazed with fury, and Letitia shrank back from him. Before anyone knew what he planned, he had the golden cord round Letitia's throat and pulled it tight Her eyes bulged as she fought for breath, and she clawed helplessly at the Shreck's wrists. He swung her round, put his knee in her back and tightened his hold, the muscles standing out in his arms. Robert plunged forward to stop him, but then strong arms were holding him back, no matter how he struggled. William and Gerald held him firmly, their faces cold and dispassionate.

Letitia's face was horribly red, and her tongue protruded from her mouth. There was shouting and some screaming from the crowd, but no one went to help her. Robert fought savagely, but William and Gerald held him fast. He called her name, and didn't know he was crying. Letitia sank to the floor, held up only by the Shreck's strangling grip. The ballroom slowly grew silent as the end drew near, until the only sounds in the chamber were Gregor's panting breath, Letitia's last choking gasps, and Robert's racking sobs. And then her eyes rolled up and she was silent, and Gregor slowly relaxed his grip. She fell limply to the floor and lay still.

Gregor turned to face Finlay, his face red from his exertion, his breathing unsteady. "I make apologies for my Clan and present this death as atonement. I trust this is sufficient?"

"It is," said Finlay Campbell. "Honor is satisfied. We will discuss the choosing of another bride at a later date that the wedding may proceed in the future. This ceremony shall be forgotten and never referred to again."

He nodded to William and Gerald, who released Robert. He stumbled forward to kneel at Letitia's side. Finlay gathered up the rest of the Campbells with his eyes and led them out of the ballroom. The Shrecks followed, and the Wolfes, and finally the Vicar James Kassar and his people, until only Robert Campbell was left, kneeling by his dead bride, holding her still white hand in his.

Outside in the corridor, Gregor Shreck looked across at his favored daughter Evangeline. Let her take a lesson from this. He'd kill her, too, if he had to, to keep his secret safe. He'd done it before. He smiled slightly. He'd murdered the original Evangeline because she wouldn't love him as he loved her, as a man loved a woman. He was the Shreck, and he would be obeyed.