Assassins' Dawn (36 page)

“Let me go, Sartas. Please.” Aldhelm slumped in Sartas’s grasp. His voice was dull. “Let me go. I won’t dishonor myself.” Sartas, slowly, loosed his hold. Aldhelm shrugged once, shaking his head, while the kin watched him warily. Aldhelm nodded to d’Mannberg.

“You can think what you want, kin-brother,” Aldhelm said. “It doesn’t matter when Hag Death breathes in your direction. And you were right. I wanted the most painful touch—I was angry, angry with myself
and
you. Still, I shouldn’t treat kin so badly. And I did
not
kill Gunnar.” He stood, hands on hips. “Believe it if you will.”

Then he turned and walked from the room. His kin, surprised and (perhaps) disappointed that a bloodfeud had not been declared, watched him go.

“Damn.” Cranmer exhaled shakily.

“Yah,” McWilms agreed. “An interesting recording you have there, scholar.”

D’Mannberg, released from the restraining hands of his kin, clicked off his vibrofoil, sheathing it forcefully.

“Bastard,” he muttered.

•   •   •

Valdisa cuddled the wort in her arms, stroking the serrated ear flaps gently. Orangish fur floated about her, clinging to the fabric of her nightcloak; she shook her head, sending hair flying. She could see scaly skin showing through bare patches on the wort’s shell. “When did it get this way?” she asked. “Have you named it yet?”

Gyll smiled at the multiple questions. “It’s been getting worse in the last few days, and Renier’s given me a salve that might help. The poor thing doesn’t seem to be in pain otherwise, though it’s still too weak to stand for long, and it doesn’t eat much. I don’t know . . . And I’m not going to name it yet—I don’t want to get attached to it just to have the Hag take it for Her own pet.”

Gyll sat on the edge of his bedfield, uniform shirt off, boots on the floor beside him, nightcloak thrown in one corner. He shrugged.

“You don’t like making commitments unless you’re certain of the outcome? Is that what you’re saying, Gyll? That doesn’t sound like the philosophy of the person that would have created Hoorka, not an idealist. After all, the Hag might have taken all Hoorka for pets, too.” A smile; she patted the wort.

“Yah.” He nodded in submission. “Let’s just say I haven’t found a name I like yet—it’s got nothing to do with being attached to the damn thing. Will you spend the night with me?”

“Make a commitment without being sure of the outcome? Never.” She stroked the wort a final time, sneezing as she did so, wrinkling her nose at Gyll’s sudden laughter. She placed the creature back in its cage. The wort growled once in protest, then lay on its side, panting. “So . . . We never had a chance to talk this morning, not with all the commotion. You wanted to tell me about Oldin?”

“Yah. I found her interesting. Very much so.”

A raising of eyebrows.

“Oh, yes,” Gyll continued. “She finds men with graying hair very sensual. She seduced me almost before I could walk in the door . . .” He stopped, grinning. “I was never very good at that type of fantasy, huh? She
is
striking in her own way, though that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about. And you needn’t look so innocent—you’ve gone to bed with people on a whim.”

“Hah. You’ve been spying.”

Gyll didn’t respond to her teasing. “It was all business. And she said a few things that we need to explore.”

“We?”

“Hoorka.” He leaned back on the bedfield. “You and I.”

“Mmm.” Valdisa crossed the room and sat next to Gyll, one leg up, facing him. She reached down to touch his thigh. “Then talk. You got payment?”

“Yah.” He shook his head. “That’s unimportant. What Oldin
did
hint at was an offer for a more challenging and open field for the Hoorka. She didn’t give any specifics, but the suggestion was there, if we wish to check it further.” He shifted position and Valdisa’s hand slipped from his leg. She made no move to put it back. “I think we should find out more, Valdisa.”

“Work with the Trading Families? The Alliance wouldn’t allow it, Gyll. D’Embry’d ban us from offworld work again.”

“I know she’d try.”

“Then why do you even think of considering it? Neweden’s ruled by the Alliance—if d’Embry wants Oldin gone, she just has to order it. If the Alliance bitch doesn’t want us to work Trader contracts—and she won’t—she’d have no difficulty stopping us.”

“You didn’t see what I saw on the ship, Valdisa. It was like . . . like having my eyes opened after being blind. Gods, that’s a common metaphor. Still . . . Listen, a long time ago I saw what I could do with a gang of common lassari, and I was satisfied with what I’d made for a while. Then I managed to get the Alliance interested in the Hoorka, thinking about the new vistas that would open before us if we could move beyond this one world—I thought
that
was my life-goal. You know I’ve been moody for some time: I think I was simply dissatisfied. That ship—the Trading Families dwell in a larger world than the Alliance, Valdisa. I saw a Motsognir—you know how rare they are. I encountered new spices, new smells, new sounds—
alien
things, from cultures totally unlike any the Alliance knows. And Oldin, in her own way, seems as if she might actually
care
about the Hoorka, to understand what I’ve set up. The way she describes the Families . . .”

“The way she describes the Families is probably the way she thinks you’ll like best. And the Alliance holds Neweden, not the Families.”

“For now.”

Valdisa laughed, but her laughter had little amusement in it. “Gyll, the Trading Families aren’t going to come and take Neweden from the Alliance. They have agreements, and the Alliance is too strong.” She rose, shaking her head. Gyll watched her, watched her turn and face him again. “I just received a contract from d’Embry this evening. Offworld—a place called Heritage. You see, Gyll, we
are
beginning to make real progress, to see the completion of what you set out to make. Vingi can’t really oppose us any longer—he has no leverage anymore. Gods, it’s all you worked for, and you’re still willing to consider this intangible offer of Oldin’s?”

“You didn’t see the ship.”

“I don’t need to.”

“Valdisa, Hoorka must—”

She severed his words with a violent movement of her hand.
“I’m
Thane, Gyll. Don’t tell me that Hoorka ‘must’ do anything.” As Gyll stared, startled by her sudden vehemence, she softened her tone, the lines of her face gentling. “You gave me the responsibility of leadership, neh? Because you didn’t want it. Has that changed?”

“I’m simply trying to give you some information.”

“But you insist that I act upon it, the way you want me to. No,” she said as Gyll began a protest, “you expect Hoorka to follow your lead, as it once did.”

“Were I still Thane,” he answered, choosing his words carefully, “I’d still listen.”

“Gyll”—wearily—“you gave up the title.”

“I was . . .” His voice trailed off.

“You’re feeling sorry for yourself.”

“Don’t tell me what I’m feeling, Valdisa!”
Gyll’s anger flared as quickly as had Valdisa’s. He sat, abruptly, a forefinger pointing in warning.

“Then don’t tell me what I have to do as Thane.” She wasn’t infected by Gyll’s quick rage. Her lips twitched with the beginning of a word, then pursed in concentration. “It has nothing to do with Oldin, does it, Gyll? You know it. It’s because I’m Thane. I
can
guess at how you feel. If you made a mistake in giving up the leadership, I’m sorry that you feel that way. But it’s not a mistake that can be rectified now. It all adds up to that, Gyll—your boredom with Hoorka matters, your moodiness, your lackluster performance on your contracts . . .”

“Aldhelm?”

“I don’t understand.”

“Has Aldhelm been talking to you, giving you tales about the Amari contract? Remember, Valdisa, Aldhelm was the one that counseled me to abandon the code in the Gunnar contracts; it was Aldhelm who was in Sterka the night Gunnar was murdered.”

“Gyll, that’s an outrageous accusation.” Her face echoed inner distaste. “I’m ashamed that you’d say that. Don’t you trust kin? How does the code-line go? ‘All Hoorka are kin. You must trust kin implicitly, above all else. Kin do not lie to kin, kin do not conceal their inner feelings from kin.’”

“I know the code.” Gyll swept an arm through the air as if waving away her words. “I wrote it, neh? I don’t need a recital.” Gyll struggled with his temper, wrestled it into grudging quiet. “Valdisa,” he continued, more reasonably, “I apologize for that. Let’s get back to the question of Oldin. I do find her offer tantalizing. The possibilities might be good for us.”

Valdisa’s stance was rigid, legs well apart, hands at her waist. “No, Gyll, I don’t think so. Neweden belongs to the Alliance. We have to work with them or they’ll confine us here, take away all we’ve worked for. Don’t you remember your own arguments with Aldhelm a half-standard ago? He wanted Hoorka to shift away from the Alliance too, even if his view was inward rather than outward. You refused to consider it—because of what the Alliance might do. We don’t know that the Trading Families can truly offer us anything. Oldin doesn’t run them, isn’t necessarily speaking for her grandsire, as far as we know. D’Embry has
real
power here, not just in words.”

“But if the offer is tangible, if it could give more power to Hoorka . . .”

“I don’t see how that could be, Gyll. Stay away from her. The Traders are devious. They’re also centered a long way from Neweden.”

“Is that an order?”

“Does it need to be?”

Stalemate. Gyll stared at Valdisa, willing her to yield as she once would have, to defer to his wishes and sit beside him again. He knew himself too well; the words of apology he should utter were chained. They couldn’t break loose of his pride. One of them had to give, Valdisa or Gyll—she to yield or he to nod his head in acceptance.

She didn’t. He wouldn’t.

Gyll glanced away, looking down at the thick-knuckled hands, at the too-paunchy waist beginning to creep over his belt.
Have I just lost her as friend and lover? Is this what I bequeathed her?—by She of the Five, she’s much as I was, as I still am. I
am
right, I
am
right this time, and I can’t get her to listen.
He glanced up; Valdisa had not moved. “If we can’t talk about it, we won’t, then. I’d still like you to stay with me tonight.” He already knew the answer.

Her eyes were suddenly very bright, very moist. She shook her head, the barest of motions, her lower lip caught between small teeth. “I don’t think so, Gyll. Part of me would like to, very much, but—” A pause. She hugged herself, staring at the ceiling, the wort, and finally back to Gyll.

“I don’t think so,” she said. “No.”

Chapter 7

“W
HO HAVE YOU been contracted to kill?”

“The rumors are that you’ve been retained by Moache Mining.”

“Can you tell us who contacted your organization on Neweden?”

“Why do you feel that the Alliance is willing to let the Hoorka work in social structures other than your own?”

The questions echoed in the steel vastness of Home Port. The three Hoorka, two full kin and an apprentice, did not answer. They watched a nervous Alliance official check their baggage and examine the traveling visas issued by Regent d’Embry, ignoring the cluster of reporters that had accosted them on their arrival on Heritage.

“Please, sirrahs—this isn’t a vacation world. We know it’s not that.”

“If it’s Moache Mining, then you have to be working for Guillene, and your victim has to be de Sezimbra. Why deny it?”

“Do you enjoy the killing, sirrahs?”

Sartas glanced up quickly. He swept his nightcloak over his shoulder, baring the much-used vibro that hung on his belt. Behind him, Renier and McWilms stood away from the Alliance official, their stance suddenly wary and erect. Sartas glowered at the gaggle of reporters. “I only enjoy,” he said, enunciating very slowly and clearly, “killing those who insult me and my kin.” His flat stare held the eyes of the man who had made the last remark. His right hand touched the hilt of his weapon.

The reporters were suddenly mute but for a nervous coughing and the shuffling of feet.

“Have you finished with us, sirrah?” Sartas turned back to the official. His manner was curt but polite: the Hoorka aloofness.

“You’re free to go. I hope you enjoy your stay.” The man’s last words trailed off into silence. He half-smiled, half-shrugged. “Habit,” he said.

Picking up their duffels, the Hoorka began moving toward the arched entrance of the port terminal. The reporters stood aside to let them pass. Except for one, they didn’t follow.

He was a short and stout man wearing a luminescent jacket and knee-length pants—Niffleheim fashion. He pursued the Hoorka, matching strides with Sartas. The assassin glanced at the man once but kept walking.

“Wieglin, with the
Longago Journal
,” the man said in identification. “Listen, there aren’t many secrets on Heritage. It’s a poor, lousy world. There aren’t but a handful here that I could even think of affording your services. It has to be someone with Moache, eh? Why deny it?” He panted in the effort to keep abreast of the longer-legged Hoorka.

“We haven’t denied
or
acknowledged it. The contract’s signer will be revealed if the attempt is successful.” Sartas spoke without looking at Wieglin. Renier, to his right, broached the entrance, the doorshields dilating.

“Ahh, the
attempt . . .”
The hot and dry air of Heritage assaulted them, billowing out the nightcloaks and sucking hungrily at the sweat that appeared on their brows. Harsh sunlight cast sharp-edged shadows at their feet. Sartas motioned and McWilms went to procure a flitter from a stand. Wieglin persisted, wheezing.

“You only attempt to kill the victim, like it’s a mystical game. Well, it won’t work here. Moache—Guillene—demands results, not sophistry. If they thought they could kill de Sezimbra and get away with it legally, they’d do it. Even Moache Mining has to play within some of the laws, and de Sezimbra’s too smart to have an accident. It’s only because the Alliance let you people out of your cloister. Death is too easy an answer to problems.”