definitely excluded. He waited impatiently on the steps outside, debating whether to carve his initials into the door or the brickwork. Chance made an appearence just a few moments too late, looked at his door, and winced, then led Owen down the exterior stairway and off into the dizzying maze of narrow streets that made up the center of Mistport. The mist had thinned, but a fine annoying sleet was falling, turning the snow underfoot into slippery slush and mud. Owen stuck close behind Chance and tried not to think what he was doing to his expensive new boots.
They passed out of Merchants Quarter and into Guilds Quarter, and the streets and buildings improved almost immediately. There were proper pavements and regular streetlights, some of them even electric. The buildings were decorative as well as functional, and the people passing by looked of a much richer, if not necessarily happier, class. Chance finally came to a halt outside one of the older Guild Halls, and paused a moment so Owen could study it and be properly impressed. It was a squat, sturdy building with three stories, high Gothic arches, wide glass windows, and hundreds of wooden rococo doodlings in every spare inch. The gutters ended in great carved stone gargoyles, water spouting from their mouths, giving the unfortunate effect that they seemed to be vomiting on the people below. Or perhaps it was deliberate. It was a Guild Hall, after all. Owen didn't have the heart to tell Chance he'd seen more impressive privies at Lionstone's Court, so he just nodded thoughtfully, to show he'd finished being impressed, and gestured for Chance to lead the way in.
There were two armed guards at the front door. They bowed respectfully to Chance, and ignored Owen. He didn't kill them. He didn't want to make a scene. Yet. Inside, the main foyer was large and comfortable and extremely respectable. There was much polished wooden wall paneling, and a richly waxed floor that gleamed brightly in the light of the electric lamps, set not so much as to provide light but so that they could be admired the more easily. The various furnishings and fittings were luxurious to the point of opulence, and the whole place positively smelled of money, like an old family bank. Owen felt almost homesick.
As they strode in the doorway, stamping their boots on the metal grille and brushing the sleet and snow from their cloaks, a butler strode imperiously toward them, wearing an old-fashioned cutaway frock coat, a powdered wig, and a practiced sneer of utter condescension. Chance showed the butler his business card, and the man bowed briefly, a mere tilting of the head. He took Chance's and Owen's cloaks between thumb and forefingers and handed them over to a flunky who'd dashed forward to receive them. He then demanded they turn over their respective weapons to him, too, and that was when the trouble started.
'I don't hand my weapons over to anyone,' said Owen.
'Don't make a fuss,' said Chance, unbuckling his belt and handing over his sword. 'It's nothing personal. Just standard security. Everyone does it.'
'I'm not everyone,' said Owen. 'And my weapons stay with me. They'd feel naked without me.'
'I must insist,' said the butler, in icy tones. 'We don't let just anyone walk in off the street, you know.'
Owen punched him out. The unconscious butler's body made a satisfyingly loud thud as it hit the waxed floor some distance away and slid a few yards before coming to a halt. People everywhere turned to look. A few looked quietly approving. Security guards with drawn swords appeared from hidden doorways, only to stop dead as Owen let his hand rest ostentatiously near his energy gun.
'He's with me,' Chance said quickly. 'Much as I wish he wasn't. He is expected.'
The security guards looked at each other, shrugged, and put away their swords, clearly deciding that this was someone else's problem. Everyone else in the foyer came to the same conclusion, and the polite murmur of conversation resumed. Owen nodded graciously around him as the unconscious butler was dragged away.
'Please don't do that again,' said Chance. 'First impressions are so important.'
'Exactly what I was thinking,' said Owen. 'Now get a move on, or I'll piss in the potted plants.'
'I wish I thought you were joking,' said Chance. 'This way. Try not to kill anyone important.'
They pressed on into the depths of the Guild Hall, Chance leading the way in something of a hurry. The surroundings remained determinedly lush and expensive. Servants and real people hastened back and forth on silent errands of great importance. Speaking was apparently discouraged, save for the occasional hushed whisper. Owen felt very strongly that he would have liked to sneak up behind some of them and shout Boo! in their ears, just to see what would happen, but he didn't have the time. Maybe on the way back.
They all looked very neat and businesslike. Their outfits were a bit dated, but this was Mistport, after all. They all seemed to know Chance, and never missed an opportunity to bestow a lip-curling sneer in his direction whenever they thought he wasn't looking. Chance ignored them all magnificently. They finally came to a dead end, personified by a grim, entirely unsmiling secretary behind a desk in an outer office, set there to protect her boss from unwanted visitors. She was slim and prematurely elderly, and looked tough enough to eat glass. The guards probably sharpened their swords on her between shifts. Her clothes successfully erased any sign of femininity, and her gaze was firm enough to shrivel weeds.
'If you don't have an appointment, there is nothing I can do for you,' she said, in a tone cold enough to make penguins shiver. 'You may make an appointment if you wish, but I can tell you now that Mr. Neeson has no openings in his calendar for the next several weeks.'
Chance looked at Owen. 'This is as far as I can get you. Some obstacles are simply too great. Please don't hit her.'
'Wouldn't think of it,' said Owen. 'I'd probably break my hand.' He leaned over the desk to stare into the secretary's flinty eyes. 'I am Owen Deathstalker. My father's money paid for this business. I've come to call in the IOU. Right now.'
The secretary didn't flinch, though one eyebrow twitched briefly at the name Deathstalker. 'I see. I'm sure that normally Mr. Neeson would be only too happy to see you, but as things are, my desk is completely full…'
Owen stepped back, drew his sword, raised it above his head and brought it hammering down with all his boosted strength behind it. The heavy blade sheared clean through the wooden desk, cleaving it into two jagged halves that fell away to either side of the secretary. Chance shook his head slowly. Owen put his sword away. The secretary cleared her throat.
'I think you should go right in, Lord Deathstalker. I'm sure Mr. Neeson can find a few minutes to see you. I'll make sure you're not disturbed. Would either of you care for tea or coffee?'
'Make it a brandy,' said Owen. 'A large one. Mr. Neeson's going to need it.' He grinned at Chance. 'You just have to know how to talk to these people. My Family has been practicing for centuries. Personally, I've always thought I'd make a great diplomat.'
'You're not in yet,' said Chance. 'This is just the outer office. Beyond that door is the antechamber. The real watchdogs will be waiting there.'
'Well, if they get a bit snappy, I'll throw them a bone. Which one would you miss least?'
They passed through the connecting door and found themselves in a small, bare chamber. Between them and the far door were three large, muscular men. Each one had a heavy ax in his hands. The men looked calm and very professional. The axes looked as if they'd seen a lot of use. Chance looked at Owen.
'An interesting problem in tactics. No room to maneuver, and absolutely no point in trying to talk to them. You might take out one with your disrupter, but the other two would be on you before you could even raise your sword. And a sword is no use against axes. I am, of course, unable to assist you. I have to maintain my position of strict impartiality. You understand.'
'Of course. Normally if I was facing three Neanderthals like these, I'd be impartial as hell, too. But unfortunately for them, I am in something of a hurry, not to mention a really bad mood, and I can just use someone to take it out on. Watch and learn.'
He stepped forward, empty-handed, and the three guards came to meet him, axes raised. It was all over in a few seconds. Owen punched out the first guard, swiveled on one foot and kicked the second in the groin. And while the third was still raising his ax, Owen stepped forward, grabbed two handfuls of the man's shirtfront, and headbutted him in the face. Chance's jaw dropped. Owen stood there, not even breathing hard, looking around him with quiet satisfaction. The three guards sat or lay moaning on the floor, all looking very upset.
'You're right,' said Chance. 'You'd make a terrific diplomat. No one would dare disagree with you. I've never seen anyone move so fast. What the hell are you?'
'I'm a Deathstalker, and don't you forget it.' Owen strode over to the far door and rattled the door handle. It was locked. He tut-tutted loudly and hit the door with his shoulder. It burst inward, one hinge torn right out of the wooden frame. Owen pushed the door back, carefully straightening it up again, and smiled at the half dozen men sitting around the long table before him. 'Knock, knock,' he said brightly. 'I'm Owen Deathstalker, and you're in big
