The Return of the Emperor (Sten #6). Allan Cole

      “Not true,” Mahoney had said. “They haven’t a clue to where the goodies are. That’s why the council wanted to pick you up—and anybody else who might’ve had a private beer with the Emperor—then gently loosen your toenails until you told them The Secret.”

      “They’re clottin’ mad.”

      “So they are. Consider this, boy. The entire universe is bonkers,” Mahoney said. “Except for me and thee. Heh... heh... heh... and I’ll be slippin’ slowly away in a bit if you don’t find a bottle and uncap it.”

      Sten followed orders. He drank—heavily—from the bottle before handing it to Ian.

      “Ring down for another one. If your prog circuits are DNCing now, it will get far worse.”

      Again, Sten followed orders. “Okay, Mahoney. We are now on the thin edge.”

      Mahoney chortled. “Not even close yet, boy. But proceed.”

      There was a tap at the door. “Y’r order, sir.”

      Mahoney was on his feet, a pistol snaking out of his sleeve. “A little too efficient.” He moved toward the door.

      “Relax, Fleet Marshal,” Sten said dryly. Then turned to address the door: “It’s open, Mr. Kilgour.”

      After a pause, the door came open, and Alex entered pushing a drink tray and wearing a disappointed expression.

      “Did I noo hae y’goin’t frae e’en a second?” he asked hopefully.

      “You gotta do something about the way you talk, man.”

      “Thae’s some think it charmin’,” Alex said, mock-hurt.

      Sten and Alex looked at one another.

      “How close did they get to you?” Sten asked.

      Kilgour told them of the near-ambush and the battle in the icy streets.

      “Ah’m assum’t,” he said, “frae the fact th’ warnin’ wae in gen’ral code, nae whae Sten and I hae set up, y’re responsible f’r tippin’ me th’ wink.”

      “I was,” Mahoney said.

      “Ah’m also assum’t, sir, thae’s reason beyon’ y’r fas’nation wi’ m’ girlish legs an’ giggle. Who d’ye want iced?”

      “Quick thinking, Mr. Kilgour. But sit down. You too, Admiral. The debriefing—and the plan—will take awhile. You’ll guess the target—correction, targets—as I go along. The suspense will be good for you.”

      Mahoney began with what had happened to him from the day of the Emperor’s funeral, when he had looked at the Council of Five standing on the grassy knoll that was the Emperor’s grave and knew that he was looking at five assassins.

      He hesitated, then told them the impossible part. After the funeral, he had gone into the Emperor’s study, dug out a bottle of the vile swill the Emperor called Scotch, and planned a quiet, private farewell toast. Stuck to the bottle was a handwritten note:

      “Stick around, Ian. I’ll be right back.”

      It was in the handwriting of the Eternal Emperor.

      Mahoney stopped, expecting complete disbelief. He got it, masked on both men’s faces by expressions of bright interest—and a slow shift by Sten toward Mahoney’s gun-hand.

      “That’s—very interesting, Fleet Marshal. Sir. How do you suppose it got there? Are you saying the man who got assassinated was a double?”

      “No. That was the Emperor.”

      “So he somehow survived getting shot a dozen or so times and then being blown up?”

      “Don’t clot around, Sten. He was dead.”

      “Ah. Soo he ris’t oot’n th’ grave’t’ leave ye a wee love note?” said Alex.

      “Again, no. He must’ve left instructions with one of the Gurkkhas. Or a palace servant. I asked. Nobody knew anything.”

      “Let’s ignore how the note got there for a sec, Ian. Are you listening to what you’ve just been saying? Either you’re mad—or else you’ve joined up with that cult that goes around saying the Emperor has lived forever. And remembering six years plus is a long time for you just to be sticking around. Which is how long it’s been.”

      “Neither one—or maybe I am bonkers. But will you keep listening?”

      “ ‘Mought’s well. Whae’s time’t’ a clottin’ hog?” Kilgour said. He poured himself a drink of quill—but still kept a wary eye on Mahoney.

      Mahoney went on. He had made his own plans that day. He was going after the privy council.

      “Did you consider maybe they’d think you were the type to carry a grudge?” Sten asked.

      “I did—and covered my ass.”

      Mahoney put in for early retirement. The privy council, in the mad rush to get rid of the bloated and incredibly expensive military after the Tahn wars, was more than willing to let anyone and everyone out, few questions asked. Sten nodded—that was exactly how he and Kilgour had been able to slip into retirement and obscurity.

      The council was especially happy to be rid of Mahoney, who was not only the Emperor’s best-loved Fleet Marshal, architect of victory, but also once head of Mercury Corps—Imperial Intelligence—for many, many years.

      “But I didn’t want them to think I was going to create any mischief. I found a cover.”

      Mahoney’s cover, loudly announced, was that he planned to do a complete biography of the Eternal Emperor, the greatest man who ever lived. That plan fit quite well into the council’s martyr-building.

      “What I was, of course, doing was building my stone bucket. Hell if I knew what I would do with it—but I had to do it.”

      Mahoney dived into the archives—he planned to spend a year or so researching The Early Years. By then he figured the council would have lost interest in him, and he could go for the real target. A little sheepishly, he told Sten and Alex that he had always loved raw research. Maybe—if things had been different, and he had not come from a military family—he would have ended up poking through archives trying to figure out The Compleat History of the Fork. Or something.

      He was not the first, the hundredth, or the millionth person to bio the Emperor. But he discovered something interesting. All of the bios were crocks.

      “So what?” Sten asked, disinterested. “If you were up there on the right hand of God, wouldn’t you want everybody to make nice on you?”

      “That is not what I meant.” Mahoney said. He had seen a pattern. Biographers were encouraged to write about the Emperor. However, they were mostly of the type who would work hard to either find Deep-seated Humanity in Tamerlane, or else write a psychological biography of the poet Homer.

      “Let’s say there might have been a great number of sloppy historians. But somehow their work was still encouraged. They won the big contracts. Their fiche were picked up for the livies. And so on and so forth.

      “I’m telling you, lads, no one was really encouraged to look at source material—that hasn’t somehow, and I quote, vanished in the mists of time, end quote.”

      “So what was our late leader trying to hide?”

      “Damned near everything, from where he came from to how he got where he is. You might spend a lifetime daring insanity trying to make sense out of the seventeen or eighteen thousand versions of events, each of them seemingly given the Emperor’s imprimatur.

      “I’ll just mention two of the murkiest areas, besides where the clot the AM2 is. First is that the son of a bitch is—or was, anyway, immortal.”

      “Drakh.