Free Stardogs by Dave Freer Page B

Puk and the Blob didn’t happen every day, even if he was some sort of distant cousin to the Blob. You could afford to turn into a lard-lump like that if you were the Emperor. If you were just a pretty-boy beefcake like himself on a thin spy’s salary you had to work out in the gym every day to keep being pretty. He knelt. It was not a mistake despite the fact that this was not a formal reception. The Blob liked to be reminded of his power, even now, nearly twenty years after he had seized it. “My Lord Emperor. How may I serve you?”
    The Emperor was well enough pleased by the fawning to be gracious. The fat face nearly creased to a smile. Graciousness of course didn’t extend as far as offering the man a seat. “We need your services, Viscount Brettan. We are sure Selim has already briefed you.”
    The handsome aristocrat nodded warily. He wondered if he dared question why he had received such rapid promotion in the schemes of the Empire. “Yes Sire. Of course I’m willing, Sire… but why me?”
    “A modest man, eh Selim?” said the Emperor.
    “It is a useful trait, my Liege. Captain, you’re being used for this because you are an agent in place. Moving new men in would cause suspicion. The majordomo is of course also an agent, but he also spies for the League. He does this with our consent… but it reduces the degree to which he trustable. As for the two bodyguards… Hayley is a good executioner, but he doesn’t have the brains we require for this. Albeer is loyal, but just hasn’t displayed the right attitude for this aspect of security work. Squeamish. He was dumped there, I’m afraid. Anyway, any or all of them may be corrupted by the League. But you’ll have a team among the crew of the barge. Good, safe, clean men. You be able to deal with the Yak easily enough. There are only four of them. I sat in on their planning,” said Selim Puk.
    “But don’t fail us, Brettan. If you bring us a Stardog, we’ll make good again all that the League robbed you of… but don’t fail us.” It was said so mildly that if anyone other than the Blob had said it, it wouldn’t have been a threat.
    Martin Brettan knew it for what it was. His face paled slightly. “I won’t fail you, my Emperor.”
    “Good. You are dismissed, Brettan,” said the Emperor.
    The Viscount bowed and turned. As he walked away he heard the Emperor say to the head of security. “Selim, that problem with that son of mine. A possible solution has…” The heavy nail-studded door of the private audience chamber closed behind the Princess’s escort. Rivulets of sweat touched the stiff fabric of his tunic as his tense shoulders began to relax. He walked past the last of the hawk-eyed guards. He’d have given a great deal to have heard which of the Emperor’s sons was in for the chop this time. A lot of people would have given a great deal of money to know who not to position themselves behind. With five of the seven sons still surviving the dynastic battle was hotting up. Martin Brettan suspected Prince Vartan would be next to go. There were rumours about certain expensive and hopelessly addictive drugs drifting around, hooked to that young man’s name.

    The Viscount was wrong. A drug problem meant that Vartan could be manipulated, true. But the Emperor was more concerned by a subtle and nearly successful attempt on the life of his own Imperial person. Prince Jarian had to go. Young Jarian was only sixteen, but then, by that age, he, Turabi, had already eliminated his own brother and his father and mother.

    Sam Teovan had the meeting and training session with the wine-nosed old toff patsy himself. He didn’t like him. The fellow was too old and too damn soft. But Sam’s instincts held that the old fart wouldn’t chicken out on them. Not while they had all that black on the old boy’s son. Still, the man was a weak link. Sam resolved to put no faith in him. The man’s purpose really had been as a double-check on all the other