Free Deathstalker 03 - Deathstalker War by Simon R. Green Page A

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