Funeral Games (Far Star #3) Read online

  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Also by Jay Allan

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  CHAPTER 1

  KERGEN VOS SAT SILENTLY, STARING OUT OVER THE GRANDEUR OF the main hall, a magnificent space of polished marble, giant columns, and a vaulted ceiling soaring fifty meters above the mosaic floor. The walls were covered with faded frescoes, the work of an artist long dead and forgotten. The monstrous structure projected an image of imperial power and majesty that had long been a fraud in the Far Stars, a façade with no real strength behind it.

  And that’s why he was here.

  Vos had come to this fringe of human habitation to change all that, to finally bring the wild planets of the Far Stars under the iron control of the emperor. He was determined to gain the victory that had eluded his predecessors, to become the man who brought this last cluster of independent worlds in all of mankind’s dominions to heel.

  The existence of this defiant frontier was an affront to the imperial dignity—and a symbol that men could resist the dominion of empire. Vos knew it was a false symbol, though—that nothing could stand before the might of the empire—and he intended to prove that on the bodies of his enemies.

  The hall was silent, but it had been filled just a few moments before, the throngs of petitioners craving his favor jockeying for attention alongside petty courtiers basking in the reflected glow of the emperor’s chosen representative. Those of real rank could obtain private access to the governor, meetings at which things could be actually be accomplished. But the grand levees were for the commoners and the low-ranking merchant classes. The huge assemblies were a pointless affair, largely for show. Nothing would be done in response to most of the appeals of those in attendance but the illusion of access, of justice, had its uses.

  Vos cared little for the rabble that had just left the hall, but despite his coldness and efficiency, a part of him long buried couldn’t help but sympathize, at least a little. Once upon a time, he hadn’t been that different from them. The lower classes clung to their hope still. They flocked to the capitol to present their cases, to seek redress when the local nobles seized their farms and meager possessions, casting them out into the streets. What they didn’t understand was, the noble who had stolen from them had already paid for direct access—and thus had the governor’s stamp of approval on their actions. The poor, the untitled—there was no justice for them. Not in the empire.

  Not in any nation that ever existed, Vos thought.

  No, what the peasants didn’t understand was how the system worked . . . or how, long ago, Vos had worked his way through it. How he had hacked and clawed—in some places, literally—to be sitting where he now was. That, like the nobles, he had bought his way to preeminence, albeit with cunning and blood, rather than money and influence. And that’s why he could only sympathize so much.

  Because weakness—begging in public, like these miscreants—accomplishes nothing. I took what I needed and created my own justice.

  He leaned back against the cold hardness of the governor’s chair. He was still wearing his ceremonial robes, the formal uniform of his office. The position of imperial sector governor carried with it a considerable amount of pomp and ceremony, an aspect of the job Vos had always hated. He understood the use of spectacle in the implementation of power, but he always felt foolish when duty demanded he go forth clad in the full regalia. Such theatrics might be understandable in the empire proper, where the iron rule was complete, and therefore ceremony was crucial. Out here, though . . .

  The hat was the worst of all, unwieldy and uncomfortable—a ludicrous, bejeweled bit of foppery that was so heavy his neck ached for hours after wearing it. Now, though, he was free to pull it from his head and cast it aside. He twisted around, trying to work out the kinks.

  The images of imperial power were fictions because the governor controlled only six worlds from his headquarters on Galvanus Prime, a tiny foothold in a frontier full of pirates, mercenaries, and rogue adventurers. The insignificant cluster of imperial planets was a mockery, a symbol more of the empire’s impotence in the Far Stars than its great power, and it chafed Kergen Vos to no end. I don’t need costumes, he thought angrily. I need weapons! Ships! Men!

  And, for the first time since he arrived on Galvanus Prime, he was starting to get just that. His plans were almost in motion, and by the time he was finished, he would ensure the imperial flag was planted on every world in the Far Stars—and the unruly Rim-worlders who occupied those planets would know their place, finally bowing down to their rightful master.

  Vos sighed softly and shifted his weight, trying vainly to get comfortable in the massive chair. He knew it was futile. Three years in this detestable place, and he’d never managed to find a position that lessened the discomfort of that infernal seat. But the powers that be had centuries before decided that magnificence was more important than comfort. The bejeweled golden chair of the governor was hard and uncomfortable, but it was worth a planet’s ransom, and like so much else, it spoke silently of the wealth and majesty of the empire.

  The session had been a long one—indeed, it had gone on all day, and Vos was exhausted. Now, at last, he was alone with his thoughts. The levee had been more than the whining and complaints of the lower classes. He had heard many reports, too, filtered the truth from the blatant exaggerations and propaganda, and he had given his commands. His minions had been briefed and dispatched. The routine business of administering the small cluster of imperial worlds was done. But there was no time for sleep, for now Vos had to attend to business he viewed as far more important.

  Soon it would be time to launch the final phase of his plan to gain dominance over the sector. Soon the black-and-gold flag of imperial authority would fly unfettered in the breeze of every planet in the Far Stars. And soon he would return to the empire in triumph, and the way would be opened for him to ascend to even further heights of power and influence.

  How far I have traveled to have arrived here, in this most unlikely of places . . .

  As it had with the peasants moments before, his mind drifted back, the years peeling away like the pages of an old-style book. Before he was governor. Before he was an agent of the empire. To the filth-infested streets of Belleger and a penniless orphan eating from piles of garbage and surviving on what he could steal.

  Belleger was a cursed world. It had committed the most grievous of sins—it had rebelled against the empire. For a brief, defiant few months, the flags of revolt flew over its cities, and the leaders of the insurgency gave speeches and led throngs of cheering citizens through the streets in the stirring spectacle of one massive rally after another. They pulled down statues of the emperors, murdered the imperial legate, and burned his palace. Belleger was free of tyranny, they declared defiantly.

/>   But the glory had proven to be short-lived. The imperial battleships soon arrived, and the legions landed, bringing with them death and destruction unimagined. The rebellion died in fire, its leaders executed, the streets cleared with massacre after massacre. The pitiless imperial soldiers fell on the civilians with a savagery so terrible, its memory was seared into the very souls of those who survived. It was as if the gates of hell itself had opened, and every nightmare contained within had burst forward, to feed on the very life of a world and its people.

  Belleger was in ruins. Its industry had died in the fires along with half its citizens. Those who remained, crawling through the rubble, struggled to survive amid the chaos, fighting over scraps of food and killing each other for an imperial copper. Even when the troops stopped their massacres, the dying continued, with disease, starvation, and violence in the streets taking a steady toll.

  Vos had been a penniless boy then, weak, scared, cast out into the streets when the imperial soldiers slaughtered his family. His parents had been tailors, well regarded locally and moderately prosperous. The young Kergen had expected nothing grander than to follow in the family trade. But any hope of that ended the day he stood in the wreckage of his family home, staring at the burned bodies of his parents. Then the terrified boy stumbled out into the streets, seeking survival any way he could.

  There were others like him, the lost children. They were like animals, acting on instinct. Feral. They gathered together, their fear driving them into a huddled mass. But weakness added to weakness did not equal strength, and in time, all of them died.

  All save Kergen Vos, who learned to survive.

  He’d watched his companions as they fell. The boys quickly, from the elements and disease, but also in violent altercations, battles over food or a dry place to stay . . . or doomed attempts to establish dominance over the group. The girls went more slowly, too often amid scenes of unspeakable debauchery and brutality. Some few survived for a time, as slaves mostly, in the brothels that served the imperial garrison.

  Not Vos, though. No, not only did he survive, he prospered.

  He curried favor with the imperial troops, sold out his companions, stole from them what little of value they’d managed to find. He murdered them in the dark to silence their tongues, to prevent anyone from learning what he had done. He turned them in to the imperial garrisons, accusing them of whatever offenses he could invent. In postinvasion Belleger, as in most of the empire, accusation was largely tantamount to guilt, as least for the poor and those without influence and allies.

  He collected coin for leading the imperial enforcers to the prettiest of the young girls—and a few of the boys as well—to feed the appetites of the soldiers. And the imperial agents further paid him for his assistance—a few coins of no consequence, but a fortune in that time and place—and to spy on his fellow citizens and report anything suspicious.

  It was the latter—the agents—who truly captured his imagination. The soldiers were omnipresent, patrolling the streets, milling about the garrison. They were all-powerful to the helpless and oppressed citizens, but Vos realized immediately they themselves were minions, servants, subject to constant discipline and draconian punishment if they failed in their duties. Apart from a few pleasures designed to sustain morale, they were only marginally better off than the broken, desperate citizens of Belleger.

  But the agents were something else. They were rarer than the soldiers, more discreet. They were smart, educated. They wielded considerable power, and they possessed seemingly endless coin, one of the main tools of their trade. Money and information—that was power. Vos had been captivated from the start, mesmerized by the cosmopolitan swagger of the operatives.

  Even as he scraped in the garbage for food, he began to imagine a future for himself, one far beyond the daily routine of a tailor. He scrambled to get the attention of the agents, gathering information everywhere he could, selling it—sometimes even giving it—to the operatives. Relentlessly, he worked his way closer, became useful to them. Then one day, after he’d alerted the agents to a particularly dangerous group of surviving rebels, he was approached by one of them, impressed by the young boy’s ability to consistently produce information.

  Thus began his rise, from the depths of despair and poverty to . . .

  To where? he thought, pulled from his memories for a moment. How high do I dare to imagine myself? What reward, what positions of power and honor, what wealth, might the emperor shower on the man who brings the Far Stars to heel? The man who crushed this affront to imperial honor?

  The man who had done terrible things, committed unspeakable acts of cruelty as he ascended the ranks of imperial intelligence.

  For there had been no rewards for gentleness, no place for squeamish morality in the imperial service. Vos had struggled at first, especially on Belleger, where he had betrayed his former companions, climbing over their broken bodies to secure his own escape from the destitution and squalor. But he’d quickly learned to deal with such feelings. He hadn’t created the universe, nor was he responsible for the fact that mankind lived under the iron boot of imperial rule. His choice had been a simple one: live—and die—in the filth and deprivation of the streets, or find another way, place himself above the sheep who stampeded to their doom and carve out a better place, build his own power and prosperity.

  He chose himself, whatever the cost to those around him.

  It wasn’t that he’d lost all ability to feel. There had been guilt and self-doubt, of course—arising in the dark nights, when he was alone—but those moments had mostly been long ago. Yes, Vos was still occasionally troubled by the things he did, the decisions he made. But he had made his choices in life, and for the most part, he had made his peace with them.

  He stood up slowly, twisting his torso, stretching to loosen his aching muscles. He’d been seven hours in the infernal chair, and his body was rebelling. He put his arms over his head, stretching his aching muscles. It was time to do his real work. Time to plot the final conquest of the Far Stars.

  “Augustin Lucerne is a brilliant man, a military genius of almost unmatched skill. And he has built a cadre of enormously capable officers around him.” Mak Wilhelm sat across from Vos, poking at the food on his plate with only marginal interest. He’d just arrived, back from nearly six months of constant travel through the Far Stars, and he was only on Galvanus Prime for a few days. Then he was heading to Vanderon, to finally put matters with the Far Stars Bank to rest.

  “Even if your effort to . . . remove him . . . is successful,” he continued, “do we have any reason to expect his successor will be less formidable? His generals are highly skilled.”

  “Indeed, Mak, they are extremely capable soldiers . . . though none of them are a match for their commander’s abilities. But Lucerne presents a danger far beyond his tactical skill. He is incorruptible. He has a vision, and a dedication to see it realized no matter what. He is charismatic, an inspirational leader. One of his generals could lead the army, almost certainly. But none of his officers can hold something like the Far Stars Confederation together, not for the long term. Without Lucerne, his diplomacy will crumble. The Primes will squabble with one another, and they will begin to fear and envy Celtiborian power.” He paused and smiled.

  “Even his soldiers will begin to fight among themselves. They are loyal to Lucerne, out of respect, admiration, fear. Because they have served him for decades and walked with him through fire. But there is no one among their ranks all the others will accept, no clear successor save Astra. And for all her impressive abilities, she is not truly a soldier. She cannot take power alone—she must have one of the senior generals stand with her, someone with military credentials to back her claim to the succession.”

  “A marriage, perhaps?”

  “That would be a logical move. But the others will attempt to prevent a rival from taking such a step. They will fight each other over Astra, knowing the one who wins her hand has the clearest road to claiming
Lucerne’s power. And some, at least, will go to extreme measures to prevent any of their rivals from attaining such a dominant position.

  “You can take the killer off the battlefield, but he’s still a killer.”

  Vos stared at his longtime ally, holding a forkful of Lusanian fangfish. “If Lucerne dies, it is likely his forces will fracture, that civil war and a struggle between his key subordinates will result. And as it continues, it will accelerate. As the confederation crumbles into ruin, even those who had banded together out of respect for their departed leader will find themselves at odds. It may not be immediate, but it will happen. Human nature will begin to assert itself.

  “Augustin Lucerne’s magnificent army, the product of three decades of war and struggle, will destroy itself.”

  Vos reached out and took his goblet in his hand, drinking deeply. “And we will help them move in this direction, Mak. We will aid in creating and expanding those fissures, ensuring no one among them succeeds in filling his master’s shoes.”

  “You plan to intervene in their conflicts.” Wilhelm had picked up his fork while Vos was speaking, but he put it down again. “No . . . it’s more than that.” He thought for a moment. “You are going to provide support to one or more of the claimants.”

  “Very good, Mak.” Vos was chewing as he spoke. Unlike that of his subordinate, Vos’s normally sparse appetite was, for once, excellent. “In most situations, I would choose a single man to back, the most capable among those susceptible to corruption. But we do not want a victor here. We want chaos, a descent into entropy. And that is best served by supporting multiple claimants.” He turned and stared at Wilhelm. “And once you complete your work on Vanderon, we will be able to provide much of that aid in a clandestine fashion, utilizing the good and unquestioned offices of the Far Stars Bank.”

  “An extraordinary plan, Excellency.” Wilhelm’s tone was sincere, but there was a hint of concern there too.

  Sensing his subordinate’s hesitation, Vos said, “Out with it.”

  “It’s just . . . how can you be sure Lucerne’s soldiers will react as you anticipate? After all, they must be aware of our machinations by now—the senior leadership, at least. They will suspect our involvement in Lucerne’s death. Perhaps they will band together, look toward us with vengeance in their hearts?”