Assassins' Dawn (47 page)

That brought back the bright spot of anger in Gyll’s mind—Guillene. Guillene had insulted Hoorka, and by insulting the guild, had insulted Gyll. The weapon that had killed Sartas had been aimed at all of them. “Hoorka will amend that mistake.”

Helgin frowned. “Killing Guillene isn’t going to solve anything.”

“It will send a companion for Sartas to Hag Death. It will comfort his soul. It will calm my kin’s rage.”

“It will kill one man and do nothing to change the reasons Sartas was killed. You’re too caught up in mythology and fate, Gyll, or at least you play that game.”

“It’s not a game to Neweden.”

“And you’ll never learn that Neweden isn’t the universe.”

Gyll spat his disgust, a guttural oath. “You think words can change—” he began, but a bell chimed on Illtun’s console. The BP’s head snapped up and he motioned to Helgin to take his seat. “No more useless arguing,” Illtun said. “It’s jumptime. Settle yourselves. I’ll wake you on the other side.”

He turned away from them. Deep in the bowels of the ship, thunder began to growl.

Frustration filled Gyll. He wanted to turn to Helgin and give vent to his resentment, to ask why—if Helgin felt this way—he would let Oldin send Hoorka to Heritage. But his head began to spin, as if he were suddenly dizzy. His eyes seemed to no longer work. He was being flailed by strands of pure color, torn by subsonic bellowing that grew ever louder. Gyll moaned, and as a yellow wash of tendrils snaked through the stars outside the port, all went dark.

•   •   •

He was still angry, but his ire had nothing to do with Guillene.

Gyll had needed all his skills at silentstalk. There had been only one way into the confines of Park Hill—through the streets of Home. Even in the darkness of early morning, the avenues had not been deserted. He’d kept to the back ways, staying in shadow and simultaneously cursing his nightcloak for adding to the tropical heat and appreciating its dark cover. He was another fragment of night, moving through the grime and squalor of the outer sector. Helgin had urged him to use a light-shunter as additional camouflage or to at least dress like the rest of the populace, but Gyll had declined both options curtly. Dressing as a Heritage native would cause him difficulty once inside Park Hill, and the light-shunter would simply weigh him down. He’d gruffly reminded the Motsognir that Oldin had been willing to trust Hoorka expertise, and that the twentieth code-line stated that all cannot be anticipated: always take what is needed for the known hazards and trust skill and ingenuity for the rest. Extra equipment is extra hazard. Helgin had nodded in slow agreement, and Gyll had taken pleasure in reminding the dwarf that this was one of the code-lines that he and Oldin seemed so intent on having the Hoorka abandon. Helgin had merely bared his teeth in an unamused smile. “They catch you, Gyll, and the Diplos’ll throw the Oldins from Alliance trade. Kaethe will find Grandsire FitzEvard manifestly not pleased, and his displeasure is never forgotten.”

“It seems a terrible chance to take, then, on something that doesn’t directly concern her.”

“Don’t worry,” Helgin had replied. “She thinks she’ll get something out of it, or she wouldn’t have offered.”

He made the transition from Home to Park Hill; filth to ornate cleanliness. He kept near the side of the road, ready to seek a hiding place if threatened, but Park Hill seemed caught in slumber. He pressed on, moving in the shadows.

He thought of Sartas and the torn body that had lain in the Cavern of the Dead: it had not even been recognizable as his kin-brother. And McWilms, still and silent in the antiseptic womb of the med-pad, covered with the crusted scabs of lacerations, the sheets empty where an arm should have been.
Guillene.
If he could keep the fury kindled, if he could see Sartas and McWilms when he stood in front of the man, it would be an easy kill, then. He’d do it gladly.
Another one to the Hag, another to join the dance that you began . . .

The guards at Guillene’s gates were simple: a hypodart of tranquilizer shot from the cover of nearby bushes—though Gyll garnered a few scratches even through his nightcloak; the thorns were sharp. Gyll hurried across the lane to the fallen men. There was a sharp buzzing in his ear, and he checked the snooper at his belt. A diode burned red—the gate was alarmed, and (swinging the snooper in an arc) the top of the fence. It took several seconds for the random field generator of the snooper to find a setting to blind the alarms. Finally, the diode went green and Gyll slipped inside, dragging the guards after him one by one. The gate closed behind him.
Soon, Sartas. Soon.

Heritage’s groundcover was pleasure, quiet and soft, hushing under his slippered feet. There were parts of Neweden where snagglegrass, crackling underfoot, was nearly as effective an alarm system as any electronic device. The snooper remained quiet, and Gyll could sense no other guards on the grounds as he crossed the lawn. It seemed ludicrously easy to him—the rich on Neweden swathed themselves in protection.

The house was dark but for a few windows on the third floor. The structure was built of native stone; it felt warm to his touch, still radiating the fierce heat of the day. Gyll slipped around the house, looking for a side entrance. A door: the snooper shrilled in his ear, and once again Gyll paused to let it find the combination of signals to open the door quietly. He heard the soft click of an inner lock and touched the door’s contact. It yawned open. Gyll waited, sheltered in darkness, dartsling ready. No one came to investigate. He slipped inside.

It was quiet and cool. A sweet, smoky aroma hung in the air. He seemed to be in the kitchen; dishes were piled on a sonic washer, ovens lined the wall, a cup of mocha sat on the sideboard. Gyll looked closer at the cup. It steamed, still very hot. Someone was very near, then, or would be returning shortly. Either way, he had to move.

The third floor—he knew that must be the bedrooms. He needed to find the way up. The tense excitement of the hunt gripped him again. His mind clutched at the feeling, willing it to stay.

Gyll moved through a plush landscape. The house was filled with evidence of the company’s money. The walls were friezed with animo-screens, all still and quiet now; the furniture was massive and glittering. He could see the umber gloss of malawood, the more expensive red-brown of teak. An old pipichord filled one wall with keyboards, pull-stops, and brass foliage. Lifianstone statues stood in static poses along a hall, a monstrous holotank filled the center of another room, chairs in disarray around it.

He found trouble only once—as he came to the top of the ramp leading to the second floor, he heard a voice just down the hall and the click of an opening door. He had no time—he froze, ready to fire a dart. A man—muscles in Gyll’s belly relaxed as he saw that it was not Guillene—chuckled to himself as he entered the hallway. The man didn’t look in Gyll’s direction. Gyll watched him walk away, entering another door farther along. The door shut behind him.

It seemed that Dame Fate was watching Gyll. Nothing could go wrong. The feeling bothered Gyll. It all was too easy, too pat. At any moment he expected to be set upon; the back of his neck prickled under the collar of his nightcloak, but when he looked back, he saw nothing.

The snooper shrilled at him as he set foot on the third-floor ramp: someone above. Gyll barely had time to move back before he heard footsteps and off-key whistling. Gyll put his back to the wall, dartsling readied. He watched the floor—
he’d told them a hundred times in practice sessions: if you’re around a corner, the first part of a person you’re likely to see is the foot or a hand. Watch the floor, watch the wall at about waist level—it will give you an extra half-second to react, and it may keep you alive.

He saw the worn tip of a leather boot and stepped forward, already firing. The man had no chance. The hypodart spat, the man crumpled, and Gyll caught him before he reached the floor, lowering him quietly. He glanced at the face—not Guillene. He moved the man away from the ramp and his escape route, then darted cautiously up the ramp, listening.

Still nothing. This floor was smaller than the others—one large chamber in which he now stood, the far wall glimmering with ice-colors from which a cool breeze emanated. In the middle of the room, floaters were arranged around a large table. Two doors led off the room. The place looked and felt empty, but Gyll had the snooper survey it. Nothing. He went to the nearest door and thumbed the contact. It hissed open.

A kitchen. Gyll left the door open, moving to the next. He touched the contact, feeling the tenseness grip his stomach again. He knew already, before the door opened.

Yes. He looked into a bedroom dimly lit by a shuttered hoverlamp. On a bedfield of rumpled sheets, a man and a woman slept. As Gyll stepped into the room, the woman woke, staring at him with startled, sleep-rimmed eyes, her mouth just opening in the beginning of a query. She knuckled at her eyes, sitting up, pulling the sheet over her breasts.

The dart hit her then. The mouth closed, suddenly, and she fell back. Gyll let the door shut behind him and moved to the bed, but the man didn’t awaken. He opened the shutters on the hoverlamp, letting the light fall on the man’s face. A smear of wetness trailed from the mouth; he smiled in his dreams.

Guillene.

Gyll stared at him, assessing the man who had killed Sartas.
About my age, and that body hasn’t seen much work. If he’s cruel, it’s a mental cruelty, and others do the work for him. Sartas, I hope you enjoy his company. Make him your slave before the Hag.

He let the snooper check the room, found two alarms and deactivated them. Then he pocketed the dartsling and slid his vibro from its sheath. He activated the weapon; the luminous tip darted out, trailing the wire. Its growl filled the room and woke Guillene.

The man turned in his sleep, moaning, and his eyes opened—blue-green, with flecks of brown. He saw Gyll. Guillene bolted upright, the bedfield rippling. The woman jounced with it, oblivious.

“Who the hell are you? Where is Cianta? I told him to . . .” Guillene seemed to see the vibro in Gyll’s hand for the first time, and his voice faded to a whisper. He glanced at the drugged woman slack-jawed beside him. “Mara?” he said. He did not touch her.

“She won’t wake.”

“You killed her?” For the first time, genuine fright showed in him; he looked as if he were about to scream. He slid away from the woman, as if the fact that she might be dead and that close to him frightened him more than the rest. Gyll knew then that he’d never had to see the results of his orders, never had to deal with the mess.

“She’s done nothing to Hoorka,” Gyll answered. “She’s not dead. We don’t kill the innocent if it can be helped.” When Gyll named the Hoorka, Guillene had gasped, an involuntary intake of breath. He looked as if he were about to shout. Gyll put the vibro near his throat. “Don’t yell, man. No one in the house will hear you; they’re all like her.”

“If you want valuables . . .”

“I simply wanted for you to be awake, so you can tell the Hag who was responsible.” The vibro moved, menacing. Guillene leaned as far back from Gyll as the bedfield allowed. The sour odor of urine suddenly filled Gyll’s nostrils. He looked down to see the sheets wet at Guillene’s waist. His nose wrinkled in disgust.

“I can give you money, Hoorka. Far more than the contract.” Guillene seemed not to notice that he had fouled himself. His voice was pitched high, he spoke too fast. “I’m worth nothing to you dead. Let me live, and I’ll enrich your organization. It will do you more good in the long ran.”

Gyll didn’t want to argue with the man. He tried to force himself into anger, and found that it had gone. “You’re a poor trade for Sartas, man,” he said. “You don’t deserve the quick death of the knife.”
And words make a poor substitute for action. Remember Sartas; remember McWilms’s face, the empty sleeve.
“Dame Fate must want you. She made it easy for me.”

“Kill me, and nothing changes, Hoorka. It doesn’t alter this world in the least. Moache will send someone else.”

“I don’t care about this world.”

“They’ll know who did this, Hoorka. The Alliance will seek your people out, because Moache will want them to do it. You can’t hide your presence, and you’ll just destroy your guild—that’s the price of using your weapon.” Guillene pressed his back against the wall. The dampened sheets dragged at him. He looked down at the vibro, not at Gyll, his chin pressing against his neck.

“Sartas’s honor demands it.” The scarlet rage had not left entirely. It was still there, masked by his disgust/pity for Guillene. He nurtured it in his mind as he would nurse a spark on tinder, willing it to grow, to leap into burning—to make the vibro move.
Stop the talk, man. Do what you wanted to do, what you told Valdisa you must do.
“This is for the Hoorka you killed and the apprentice you maimed. Tell Hag Death that Ulthane Gyll sent you to Her.”

“You don’t even know that I did this.”

The man’s bravado took Gyll aback. He let the vibro move away and heard the trembling breath of Guillene. “Who else?” Gyll spat. “You’d go to the gods with a lie on your tongue?”

“Hoorka,” Guillene said. His voice trembled. “Your people killed de Sezimbra. His people would have had more reason for revenge.”

“You
killed de Sezimbra. Not Hoorka.” But the vibro didn’t move.

Guillene seemed to take hope. The chin rose, the eyes met Gyll’s for an instant, as if in a plea, but the voice was stronger. “Hoorka, I give you my word. I’ll spend what I have to and find the guilty ones, drag them to you with their confessions.”

Gyll knew the man lied. He could feel it in the words. He summoned up the image of Sartas’s body.
That’s what those lies bring,
he told himself.

Guillene still spoke, as if the voice could stop the thrust of vibro. “Hoorka, things don’t work the same on other worlds. You can’t expect us to do as you would. Gods, man, if you Hoorka haven’t learned that, then you’re all fo—” Guillene stopped. His eyes widened.