Book 1 - Shadowline by Glen Cook Page A

tempestuous
admonition.
    The officer’s failure was beyond Cassius’s
comprehension. He never let his hatred of the Dees impair his
trust. The Dees were a raggedy-assed gaggle of hypocritical
thieves, boosters, and news managers. They were a waste of
life-energy. But . . . Cassius suppressed his
feelings because he had faith in Storm’s judgment. This watch
officer had not been with the Legion long enough to have developed
that faith.
    Should Storm ever fail, openly and
dramatically . . . Cassius did not know what he
would do. He had been with Storm so long that, chances were, he
would bull right along in the official line.
    Storm surveyed his sons again. He awarded Lucifer one of his rare
smiles. The fool had been trying to kill his own wife.
    Storm thought of Pollyanna, shuddered.
    He had to let them off easy. This pocket revolt was his own
fault. He should have passed the word about the woman.
    He did not think much of himself just then. He had done his
usual trick, not letting anyone know what he was doing or why. He
was screwing up too much lately. Maybe he was getting old. In this
business survivors eliminated the margin of error.
    He locked gazes with Lucifer. His son stepped back as if
physically shoved.
    Lucifer was just six years older than Mouse. He was large and
well-built, like his father, but his mind had his mother’s
bent.
    Lady Prudence of Gales had been a High Seiner poetess and
musician in the days when her people, the mysterious Starfishers,
had not completely retreated into the interstellar deeps. She had
come to the Fortress as an emissary, recalling Prefactlas, begging
for help to save her sparsely populated, remote homeworld from
Sangaree domination.
    She had touched Storm with naked trust. No man knew where to
find the elusive Seiners. She had given him that secret in the
naive hope that that would move him to help. She had cast the dice,
betting everything on a single roll . . . And
she had won.
    And Storm had had no cause for regrets.
    He remembered Prudie better than most of his women. A hot,
hungry little morsel in private. Cool, competent, and occasionally
imperious in public, and daring. Bedazzlingly daring. Never before
or since had anyone cozened the Iron Legion into fighting on
spec.
    He had pulped the Sangaree on her world. She had given him a
son. And they had gone their separate ways.
    Storm had known countless women, had fathered dozens of
children. His parents had had no concept of fidelity either. Three
of his brothers had had different mothers. Michael Dee had had a
different and mysterious father.
    Frieda Storm was guilty of her indiscretions, too. She did not
press Storm about his.
    So Lucifer had been an artist born. And he was good. His poetry
had appeared with that of giants like Moreau and Czyzewski. The
visualist Boroba Thring had done a kaleidoshow based on
Lucifer’s Legion epic,
Soldaten
, using one of Lucifer’s
Wagnerian scores as background music. But Lucifer considered
writing and composing mere hobbies.
    He was determined to prove himself a soldier. It was a vain
ambition. He did not, as they say, have the killer instinct.
    The free soldier had to act without thought or remorse. His
antagonists were professionals. They were quick and deadly. They
would permit him no time for regrets or reflection on the barbarity
of it all.
    Storm forgave Lucifer’s shortcomings more readily than he
did those of sons with no talents. He had hopes for the boy.
Lucifer might someday find and become true to himself.
    Benjamin and Homer were twins. Storm’s only children by
Frieda, they were, in theory and their own estimation, his
favorites. They were rebels. Their mother defended them like an old
bitch cat her kittens.
    Probably my fault they’re delinquents
, Storm thought.
They’ve been men for decades and still I treat them like
boys. Hell, they’re grandfathers
.
    This extended life leached a man’s perspective. The twins
were as unalike as night and day. Storm