than brothers, sworn to each other to death and beyond. They stood together in the crowd of courtiers, ignored by their neighbors, and studied Dram dubiously.
'I could take him,' said David. 'And either of us would make a better Warrior Prime.'
'True,' said Kit. 'But you only get the job through popular acclaim, so I think we can forget about that. Maybe if we were to perform some outstanding act of bravery or note, things would be different. But we're never allowed a chance at anything like that. Still, maybe there'll be a war soon, against the rebels or the aliens. Always good chances for improvement in a war.'
'There's also an equally good chance of being sent home in a box with some important pieces missing, just for standing in the wrong place at the wrong time. Wars are a little too arbitrary for my taste. I'd prefer something a little less dramatic.'
'Hello,' said Kit suddenly. 'I spy a familiar face. Thomas le Bihan, Member of Parliament for Thornton North, as I live and breathe. Our sometime patron. I do believe he's trying to pretend he hasn't seen us. Let's wander over and embarrass him, for the good of his soul.'
Kit and David moved easily through the packed crowd as people drew back to give them plenty of room. Le Bihan ignored them as long as he could, and then sighed heavily, turned, and bowed to them both. He was a great bear of a man, with a barrel chest and a spade beard and a good reputation with the sword, but even he deferred to the terrible two. Kit and David bowed in return and smiled easily at him. His own smile wasn't quite as successful. They'd needed a patron to get them established in the Arena and had chosen him to do the necessary on their behalf. He hadn't been given a choice in the matter, but he knew better than to argue.
'Hello boys,' he said cautiously. 'To what do I owe the honor of this confrontation? I already told you it's too soon for another match. It isn't easy finding people to fight you these days. You have one of the longest winning streaks in the Arena's history.'
'We want to know why we're not popular,' said David. 'We win again and again, but we still haven't won the adulation of the crowds. They clap and cheer all right, but they don't worship us like they do the Masked Gladiator. Maybe you should get us a match against him. We want to be loved, Thomas. What's the problem?'
Le Bihan sighed. 'You want the truth? Very well. Your trouble is you don't give a damn for anyone but yourselves. You kill in the Arena for your own pleasure, not the crowd's. You're concerned with winning, not with giving the audience a good show. On top of that, the Kid's a psycho, and you're a Deathstalker. No one wants to get too close to either of you in case it rubs off. You could fight the Masked Gladiator with both legs strapped behind your back and your head in a bucket, and you still wouldn't win their hearts. You are officially bad news. There are people who won't even talk to me, just because I agreed to become your patron. No one trusts you, no one likes you, no one even wants you around. People cross their fingers when you cross their path, because that's bad luck. Now, if you'll excuse me, I don't want to be seen talking to you anymore. I have my own future to consider.'
'Don't hold back, Thomas,' said David. 'Tell us what you really think.'
'I've killed men for less,' said Kit coldly.
'I know,' said Le Bihan. 'That's your problem. Now, can I go, or are you going to kill me with your bare hands right in front of the Empress?'
'It's a thought,' said Kit.
'Let him go,' said David.
Kit shrugged, and Le Bihan took the opportunity to make his escape. Kit looked after him coldly. 'He insulted us.'
'By telling us the truth? That was what we asked for. Now, calm down and get that look out of your eyes. The Empress is watching. Let's not give her any more excuses to be annoyed with us. I don't think she's in a very good mood today.'
Kit sniffed. 'It's times like this I wish we were still part of the underground. I quite liked being a subversive.'
'We both agreed it had got too risky,' said David. 'After Hood turned out to be Dram, it would have been suicide to stay on. By getting out when he did, it became just his word against ours, and Lionstone didn't want the scandal. We can always rejoin. If only Dram really had died…'
'But he didn't.'
'Apparently not. Certainly hasn't mellowed any, wherever he's been of late. He must have spoken about us to Lionstone, though. That's why I'm being shipped off to Virimonde.'
'You don't have to go,' said Kit, looking down at his feet.
'Yes, I do. Officially, it's a step-up. I'm being put in charge of one of the Empire's main food-producing planets. And it is my legacy, as the Deathstalker. If I did refuse to go, Lionstone might be able to use that to take my title away from me.'
'But if you go,' said Kit, 'I'll be alone again.'
'Then, come with me,' said David. 'It'll put an end to our chances for advancement for a while, but we'll be called back fast enough once the war starts and Lionstone realizes she can't afford to stay mad at us. We are the heads of our Families, after all.'
'We're both the ends of our lines. We have no one but each other.' For the first time, Kit SummerIsle looked up to meet David's eyes. 'You're the only friend I've ever had, David. I'll go with you to Virimonde or the Rim or the end of everything.'
'Let's not get pessimistic,' said David. 'You come with me. We'll have some fun. Wine, women, and as many indigenous creatures as we can kill before our arms get tired. And just in case the Empress does decide to change our banishment from Court to exile as outlaws, we could both use someone to watch our backs.'
Kit smiled. 'You always were the practical one, David.'
'One of us has to be. Besides, if Lionstone was foolish enough to send anyone after us, we'll just send them back to her in a selection of very small boxes. With postage owing.'
'Right,' said Kid Death. 'But if the Iron Bitch was going to have us killed, she'd have tried something by now. Probably had poison slipped in our food or a fragmentation grenade hidden in the toilet. She won't have us killed. There'll always be work for the likes of us: accomplished fighters who'll kill anyone, for any reason. You'll see. Once the war starts or the political infighting gets a bit too dirty, she'll call us back, and we'll get to kill and slaughter our way to influence and position. Personally, I can't wait.'
David looked at him affectionately. 'You worry me sometimes, Kit, you really do. Still, as long as I've got you with me, I don't have to worry you're off chasing Valentine again.'
'I will kill him,' Kit said softly. 'He will take a long time to die, and at the end I'll make him beg me to finish it. He betrayed me.'
David maintained a diplomatic silence. Kit had used his cyberat links in the underground to discover the Campbells' secret deal with the rogue AIs on Shub. He passed this on to Valentine, in return for the promise of a great deal of money. Valentine used the information to help him overthrow the Campbells, and then cut all his links with Kit, denied he owed him a penny, and defied him to do anything about it. And since Valentine was now head of the first Family in the Empire, if Kit were to kill him, the Empress would have his head, even if she had to send a small army after him to get it. Kit SummerIsle ground his teeth and meditated on the values of patience. Valentine wouldn't stay in favor forever.
'Come with me to Virimonde,' said David. 'We'll have some fun, outrage the locals, and make plans on what we'll do to the likes of Valentine when he finally falls from grace. Things are always changing.'
And that was when the corpse appeared out of nowhere before the Iron Throne. It stood on its own two feet, head proudly erect, though the flesh was rotting on its bones. Lionstone gasped and shrank back in her Throne, and that was the first clue anyone had that this wasn't another of the Empress's little jokes or surprises. The corpse turned and smiled at the courtiers, and there were several screams. The foul-smelling thing looked like it had been dug up after several weeks in the ground, its purplish and dead-white flesh cracked and corrupt, decayed down to the bone in places, held together with gleaming high-tech augmentations. It was a Ghost Warrior: lifeless material resurrected and maintained by computer implants. An Emissary from the rogue AIs on Shub.
But worst of all, there was enough of the face left for it to be recognizable. It was the body of Jacob Wolfe. A shocked whisper ran through the Court as people realized who it was. People looked to Valentine to see his reaction.
Various emotions stirred within him, not least surprise. But deep down he was a little relieved that the mystery of his father's disappearance had finally been solved. A Ghost Warrior was bad, but he could cope with
