me. All I knew was how to kill. No one ever liked me, or trusted me, even when they used me to get them what they couldn't get themselves. I never had a friend before you, David. I was never really alive, until you taught me how to live.'
David reached out and clapped a hand on Kit's shoulder, squeezing it reassuringly. 'It's too bright a day for such dark thoughts. Forget the past, Kit. No one here cares who you used to be, and no one from our past can reach us anymore. We're free to reinvent ourselves, to be who we want to be. Come on; race you back to the Standing. Loser buys drinks for everyone tonight!'
'You're on!' said Kit and gunned his engine. His flyer plunged forward, rapidly gaining speed. David roared with mock rage, and sped off after him. Together they disappeared into the distance, their laughter sounding clear and happy and untroubled on the quiet summer day.
They parked their flyers in the caves under the Deathstalker Standing, and made their way up through the great old house, arguing amiably about who'd won the race. As always, the result had been so close they finally agreed on a draw. Neither really cared about winning, which was a new experience for both of them. David looked around him approvingly as they strode through the wide stone corridors on their way to the great dining hall. The Standing had been in the Deathstalker Family for generations, on various planets. Owen had had the vast building transferred to Virimonde brick by brick and reassembled there when he bought the planet's Lordship. It was Family tradition that each new head of the Clan chose a new world for his or her Standing, but David couldn't be bothered. Virimonde suited him just fine, and it pleased him to rebel against Family tradition, even if only in such a small way. He didn't want to be just another Deathstalker.
David had spent a lot of time and effort in removing all traces of Owen's presence from the Standing. He was Lord now, and he didn't want anyone being reminded of his predecessor. So he had all of Owen's remaining belongings thrown out or burned, and did his best to fill the many rooms and halls with his own belongings. If truth be told, his own bits and bobs looked rather small and out of place in the great old house, crowded as it was with treasures and trophies from generations of Deathstalkers, but he wouldn't admit that to anyone but Kit. In the end, all that mattered to David was that the Standing and the world were his now, and by the time he'd finished, no one would remember that there had ever been any other Lord.
They'd almost reached the dining hall when the Steward intercepted them. David took one look at the thick sheaf of papers in the Steward's hand and groaned loudly. He hated paperwork, and made sure the Steward knew it, but still he insisted on dealing with the really important business himself. The Steward could deal with day-to-day things, but David didn't want the man making decisions that were the rightful province of the Lord of Virimonde. He didn't trust the Steward. He'd wasted no time in turning against Owen when the Empress outlawed him, and a man who betrayed one Deathstalker might well betray another.
The Steward was a grey man. Tall, stick-thin, and grey-haired, he wore grey clothes and presented a grey, passionless face to the world. His voice was a respectful murmur, his eyes were always respectfully downcast, but David could never quite escape the feeling that the man was silently mocking him. He seemed to care for nothing but the upkeep of the Standing and his precious never-ending paperwork, and sometimes gave the impression that he considered the Standing his, and the various Deathstalkers who passed through merely visitors. Deathstalkers may come and go, his bearing seemed to say, but I and my people remain. He snacked constantly on little pieces of bread without butter, and cracked his knuckles loudly if you kept him waiting. David detested the man, but tried to keep it to himself. He knew he couldn't run the Standing without him.
'More papers?' he said resignedly. 'Can't they wait till after dinner?'
'That's what you said at breakfast, my lord,' said the Steward in his calm, grey voice. As always, he made the title sound like an insult. 'The various matters here have, if anything, only grown more urgent since then. I must respectfully insist…'
'All right, all right,' said David. 'There's an office just off this corridor, isn't there? We can do it there. And this had better be really important, or I'll have you inventory all the silverware again. Kit, you stay with me. If I have to suffer, everyone suffers.'
'Wouldn't miss it for the world,' said Kit calmly. 'I love to watch the veins throb in your forehead as you struggle with the longer words. Besides, suffering's good for the character. Or so they tell me. I wouldn't know. Anyone who ever tried to make me suffer is dead and buried. Sometimes in several places.'
David sat behind the desk in the pokey little study and worked his way doggedly through the paperwork. Some work couldn't be avoided, if you didn't want to wake up one morning and find they'd finessed everything you owned out from under you. He took a spiteful pleasure in making his signature as indecipherable as possible. Strictly speaking, he should have sealed each paper with wax, and stamped it with his Family ring and crest, but Owen still had the ring, bad cess to the man. David had ordered a new Family ring made for him, but had yet to make up his mind on the final design. By the end, he was just skimming through the papers, to make sure he wasn't signing his own death warrant. Too many lines of dense print made his eyes ache. Kit sat off to one side, humming tunelessly. Kit liked to sing, but truth be told couldn't carry a tune if it had handles on it. However, since no one had ever dared tell him that, he remained blissfully unaware that he had a voice like a goose farting in a fog. And David didn't have the heart to tell him. For the moment Kit was amusing himself by staring unwaveringly at the Steward till the man all but squirmed in his buttoned-down shoes. The SummerIsle made the Steward nervous.
Hell, the SummerIsle made everyone nervous.
David signed the last page with a flourish and sat back in his chair with a theatrical sigh. He studied the Steward glumly as the man shuffled the papers together. The Steward reminded him of his many tutors (none of whom lasted long), who'd struggled with varying degrees of success to implant some useful learning into his rebellious young mind. Not a one of whom had ceased to remind him of his intellectual cousin Owen, the famed if minor historian. Owen was constantly held up as an example of everything David wasn't and knew he never could be. No surprise, then, that David had despised his elder cousin before they ever met. They weren't close, even by blood; Owen's father, Arthur, had a younger brother, Saul. Saul married Elouise, whose sister Margaret was David's mother. Under normal circumstances, David would have stood no chance at all of ever succeeding to the Family title, but the tainted inheritance of the boost killed a great many Deathstalkers before they ever reached maturity. So when Owen was outlawed, David found himself suddenly in possession of a title and responsibilities he'd never expected or really wanted.
Especially if all he ever got to do as Deathstalker was sign bloody papers.
The Steward finally nodded curtly, declaring himself satisfied for the moment, and David threw his pen out the window before the Steward could change his mind. 'So,' he said peevishly, 'can I finally go to my dinner now, or is there some scrap of parchment left in the Standing that I haven't scrawled my name on?'
'That is the last of the documents, my lord,' the Steward said calmly. 'But there is still a delegation of peasants waiting to meet you. You did say you would see them, my lord.'
'Did I?' said David, frowning. 'I must have been drunk.'
'Let them wait till after dinner,' said Kit. 'That's what peasants are for.'
'No, Kit. If I promised, I promised. Where are they, Steward? Main hall? All right, lead the way. And don't dawdle, or I'll kick your ankles.'
The Steward gave him a bow calculated to the inch to be barely acceptable and led the way. David and Kit trailed after him. Kit sniffed loudly as his stomach rumbled.
'For my birthday, let me kill him, David.'
David had to laugh. 'Sorry, Kit, but much as I hate to admit it, I need him. He's the only one here who knows all the ins and out of running a Standing of this size. I wouldn't know where to begin. Replacing him would be a nightmare. He's made himself indispensable, and he knows it, the smug bastard.'
'Why are we seeing the peasants? It's not as if we have to.'
'Yes we do. Or rather, I do. Partly because I want the locals to like me. Owen could never be bothered with them, which was why he had no one to turn to when the Empress outlawed him. That's not going to happen to me. Then, the more contact and feedback I have with the locals, the less influence the Steward has. I want them looking to me for authority, not him. And finally, of late the peasants have been experimenting with a little local democracy, and I want to encourage them.'
'What the hell for?' said Kit, honestly shocked. 'Peasants do as they're told. That's why they're peasants. Allowing them to make decisions for themselves is just asking for trouble. Not least from Lionstone. If she finds out…'
'She won't do anything, as long as the food keeps coming,' David said calmly. 'The Empire relies on what we
