They stuck close together, tried not to look around too much, and headed for Lionstone's spotlit Throne by the most direct route. Small bones crunched under their boots from time to time. They looked like they came from birds or animals. Or possibly small children. Some of them still had tatters of flesh and skin attached. Sometimes the people hanging from chains or transfixed on steel-bladed trees cried out to them as they passed, begging for help or death or just a little water. Silence and Frost stared straight ahead, and did not answer. They knew there was nothing they could do. Nothing they'd be allowed to do. Stelmach was crying quietly, sniffing back tears.
They'd been called back to Golgotha, and then down to the Imperial Palace, on direct orders from the Empress herself, using top emergency codes only ever to be used when the Throne itself was endangered. So of course they came, ignoring the rebels and their battles, ignoring cries for help from beleagured Imperial forces, driven by the urgency of their summons. They didn't know yet that the war on the surface had been lost, but it wouldn't have surprised them. They'd seen the live broadcasts from Virimonde, and even the Investigator had been shocked. Silence had said only a madwoman could have given such orders, and neither Frost nor Stelmach had reproached him. They discussed the rebellion on their way back to Golgotha, but their loyalty was never in doubt, despite all that had happened. They were sworn to the Iron Throne, and their Empress, and you didn't betray your honor just because things were going badly. Sometimes, when things were going really badly, all you had left was your honor.
And so they walked through Hell, through the heat and the mists and the suffering of the damned. There were no guards to accompany them, this time. Silence wondered if this was meant as a mark of trust, or if Lionstone was just short of guards. It didn't matter. They were here now, called back from disgrace, their ship and crew's honor restored. Silence had been hoping to use this opportunity to talk a little cautious sense into Lionstone. But having seen the Court's current incarnation, he wasn't sure that was possible anymore. The Court was an extension of the Empress's mind, and it seemed both had gone to Hell.
Finally they came to the Iron Throne. Jets of flame shot high up into the air, like fountains of fire, eerily silent, casting a crimson satanic aspect over Lionstone and her Throne. The maids clustered together at her feet, alert and snarling, metal claws flexing from under their fingernails, staring hungrily with their artificial eyes at the newcomers before the Throne. The burning angels stood silently, swords at the ready. Lionstone should have looked utterly safe and secure, but she didn't. She sat forward, right on the edge of her seat, staring grimly at the viewscreen floating before her, studying reports from the few Imperial-controlled channels still on the air, watching helplessly as her Empire fell apart around her. Silence and Frost and Stelmach came to a halt before the Iron Throne, and bowed deeply to her, and she acknowledged them with a mere flap of her hand. When she finally deigned to turn and look at them, her eyes were wide and staring, and her smile was strangely fixed, as though she'd forgotten just how one did such a thing.
'So, you're finally here. My Captain, my Investigator, my Security Officer. Sworn to me, to death and beyond. Traitors!'
'No, Your Majesty,' Silence said quickly. 'We are loyal to you. We always have been.'
'Then why did you keep secrets from me? Why did you try and hide what you've become? Why didn't you tell me about the powers you gained on the Wolfling World?'
Silence and Frost looked at each other, and then at Stelmach, who shook his head. He hadn't told. Silence looked back at Lionstone, and kept his voice even and calm. 'For a long time we didn't understand what was happening to us. It seems our time in the Madness Maze, brief though it was, was enough to change us on levels we still don't fully comprehend. We have done our best to serve you faithfully while we struggled for some kind of control over our new… abilities.'
'And what about you, Security Officer?' said Lionstone. 'I gave you specific orders to watch these two and report on them!'
'I have tried to do my duty as I saw best,' said Stelmach. His face was deathly pale, and his hands were shaking, but his gaze and his voice were unflinching. 'It was not a simple matter. There were… ambiguities to the situation.'
'Words,' said Lionstone, leaning back on her Throne. Her cold eyes moved back and forth across the three of them. 'Nothing but empty words. It's too late for such evasiveness now. I won't have it. The barbarians are pounding on the gates of Empire. I need weapons to hold them back while I plan how to undo my reverses. You're going to be those weapons. Tell me about your powers. Tell me everything. Or die here at my feet.'
Just for a moment, Silence considered defying her. She had no real power over them anymore. All the armed guards in her Court couldn't compel him or Frost to do a single damn thing they didn't want to. Not after everything they'd become. But the moment passed, as he'd known it would. She was his Empress. He and Frost had kept their powers to themselves out of a very real fear of ending up as lab rats. Possibly even vivisected lab rats. But the time for such weakness was past. He could recognize fate when it came knocking on his window. So he told the Empress, as clearly as he could, of the strange strengths and abilities and intuitions that he and Frost had manifested since their time on lost Haden, also known as the Wolfling World.
It took a while, not least because Lionstone kept interrupting, pressing him for details and explanations he didn't always have. As he spoke, two new figures appeared in the Court, breasting the sulfurous mists on their way to the Throne. First came Valentine Wolfe, the dandy in black with the long white face. He stopped a respectful distance away, quite happy to watch and listen while Silence spoke. His crimson mouth was stretched in its usual constant smile, and his heavily mascaraed eyes were fever-bright from the impact of the dozen drugs roaring through his veins. Valentine wasn't used to losing, and his recent reverses had stunned him. His response had been to amplify his whirling thoughts with stimulant after stimulant, trying to force his mind to come up with answers to his problems. The end result had been something of a chemical stalemate, where his thoughts crashed emptily together, canceling each other out. And so he'd come to Court; not just for his own safety, but because that was in the end where all the real decisions of Empire were made. Whatever happened here, he was confident he'd find some way to turn it to is advantage. He always did.
He had hoped to call on favors from his previous dalliance with the underground, but it hadn't taken him long to discover that the esper leaders had promised his head to Finlay Campbell, in return for the Campbell's services. You couldn't trust anyone these days. Still, it wasn't a complete loss. Finlay might yet die during the rebellion, with a little help, and afterward Valentine was confident he'd find some way to bargain himself back into the underground's good graces. Or, if things somehow went the other way, and Lionstone yet pulled off some miraculous victory, or more likely some form of compromise with the rebels, she would need someone to speak for her to the underground. Someone with good connections. And who better than the widely experienced Valentine Wolfe?
He laughed quietly, quite at home in Hell, and stood patiently before the Iron Throne, winking at the snarling maids. His body twitched and seethed with possibilities, his thoughts running a mile a second in all directions at once. So he stood still and said nothing. Let others speak. He would listen. He'd find a way to profit. He always did. And then let his enemies beware.
The second figure to appear was, of course, the Lord High Dram, Consort and Widowmaker. He looked rather battered around the edges. There were tears and scorch marks on his clothes, and blood, too, some of it his. He'd been driven from the surface fighting by one rebel victory after another. When the war machines stalled and the Mater Mundi manifested, Dram knew a lost cause when he saw one. He deserted his men, disguised himself, and made his way back to Court. He felt angry rather than guilty. Lionstone kept expecting him to do things that only the original Dram, with all his experience, could have pulled off. While he was only a clone, barely finished, trying to learn on the run and stay alive while men died all around him. It wasn't his fault he didn't know how to cope with overwhelming odds and strange new weapons and espers with the powers of gods. Even the original Dram had never had to face a ubiquitous Mater Mundi. And so he ran away and came home to Lionstone, like a child beaten by bullies at school, hoping not to be beaten again for losing.
A viewscreen chimed, and Lionstone quietened Silence with a sharp wave of her hand. She activated the screen, and General Shaw Beckett appeared. He looked tired, beaten down. There was chaos on his ship's bridge behind him, with people shouting and cursing and running back and forth. Alarm sirens were sounding. Beckett looked steadily out of the screen at Lionstone, and raised his voice to be sure his words could be heard clearly over the bedlam.
'Your Majesty, I have done my best to defend your Empire and yourself with all the powers at my command, but I regret to inform you that I have failed. The war in space is over. My fleet is scattered and destroyed, my ground forces have been overrun on all the worlds I can still get reports from, and I have nothing left to fight with. I
