Assassins' Dawn (51 page)

“Well, she talks well enough. I’ll grant that.” Helgin moved against the gear. Grime smeared his back. “And she’d probably not mind talking with you, usually. But her real weakness is for short men with beards.” He leered under the lush foliage of facial hair.

“Helgin, I don’t know how to take you. I tell you again: You’d die on Neweden.”

“You can pretend that if you like.” The dwarf lurched upright. He stretched out his arms, seemed to see the dirt marbling the fabric for the first time, and grimaced. He rubbed at it. “You want to come inside? It’s warmer.”

Gyll shrugged. They entered the shuttle, went to the small lounge. Helgin walked over to an ornate chest sitting on the room’s table and opened it. In a bed of bluish velvet, glass clinked. “Want a drink, Gyll? I’ve some brandy from Desolate that is better than fair.”

Gyll stood, hesitant, but Helgin had already begun pouring. He handed one of the glasses to Gyll. The pungent odor wrinkled Gyll’s nose; he sniffed, swirled the liquor. Helgin watched.

“Yah, that’s the proper way—it doesn’t do you a damn bit of good, but it looks nice,” Helgin said. “Have a seat. You look distressed.”

Gyll frowned, not sure whether he should be annoyed or flattered at the dwarf’s concern. He watched the brandy move in the glass. “You talk too openly, Motsognir.”

“Are you going to be stuffy again, Hoorka? You need to learn that people who have an affection for you aren’t likely to jump behind your defenses and leave your ego in rubble. Either that, or you need to conceal your face better. And if that insults you, then so be it. Gods, I get tired of you Newedeners.”

“I’m sure they’re none too pleased with you,” Gyll replied.

Helgin grinned. It was infectious. After a moment, Gyll could only smile back. Shaking his head, he sat in the nearest floater. Helgin sat across from him. “I don’t understand you, Helgin. If you were one of my people, if you were guilded kin, then we’d have been in more than one fight over your atrocious lack of manners.”

“And I’d’ve won most of them, which wouldn’t have proved anything or have bettered those manners.” Helgin drained his glass in a gulp. He grimaced, then smacked his lips and reached for the bottle.

“Is that the way you were taught to drink a brandy?” Gyll shuddered in sympathy.

“Ahh, you see, that’s where you’re wrong again. That
is
the way to drink a brandy on Desolate—quickly, before the sun takes it or dust settles on it or somebody tries to take it away. It’s all in your cultural set.” He poured. “Why’d you want to see Oldin?”

Gyll rotated the stem of the glass between thumb and forefinger; he took a sip. The brandy warmed its way down his throat. “Valdisa and I talked again,” he said at last. “Actually, we had a bit of a disagreement. She doesn’t see any value in having Hoorka go with the Trading Families.”

Helgin downed the second glass with an abrupt motion. He wiped at his lips with the back of his hand. “And where does that leave you?”

“I don’t know,” Gyll admitted. He sipped again, relishing the fiery tartness of the liquor.

“Do
you
see a value in it?”

“Yah.” He said it easily, surprising himself.

“Then there’s no problem. You go.” The dwarf leaned back, then reached forward again for the bottle. Gyll could see a streak of oily filth on the floater’s back. Helgin looked at the remainder of the brandy appraisingly, then set it down again.

“You don’t understand, Helgin. It’s not that easy. She
is
Thane. I’ve no authority over her; I gave all that up. She’s the leader of my kin. She’s also my lover, my friend. I risk losing all that. And she may well be right—it could all be a waste of time. Kaethe’s simply vague about the possibilities, and in any event it’s not her but her grandsire that would make any decision.”

“Gods, you people make everything so complicated for yourselves.” Helgin rose from his floater. He paced the room, pulling at his beard. “Everyone makes their decisions based on their fears. You’re afraid of Valdisa, so you chain yourself to Neweden. Your Li-Gallant’s afraid to lose his power, so he raids the helpless lassari to demonstrate his capabilities. D’Embry’s afraid of Niffleheim, and Kaethe—she’s afraid of FitzEvard. All the choices predicated on fear, never on hope.”

“What are you afraid of, Motsognir?” Gyll tugged at his nightcloak; he set the brandy glass on the arm of the floater. “All you do is talk.”

“Nothing here frightens me.”

“Then you don’t know Neweden very well.”

Helgin nodded. He halted his aimless wandering of the room and stood in front of Gyll. Gyll couldn’t decide whether the dwarf was irritated; he glowered under the bristling of eyebrows, but he seemed to always glower.

“I know Neweden better than you might think, Gyll,” Helgin said. “Better than maybe yourself. What event has occupied the minds of guilded kin for the last several months?”

“The killing of Gunnar, I suppose.” Gyll could not fathom where Helgin was heading.

“Do you know who killed him?”

Lines deepened in Gyll’s forehead. He leaned forward in his floater, feeling his stomach tensing. “You claim to have that knowledge, Motsognir?”

Helgin nodded; his beard moved on his soiled tunic. “Beyond any doubt.”

Gyll could only think of Aldhelm, of the way he’d looked, transfixed on d’Mannberg’s foil, the pain etched on his face.
Leave the Hag-kin alone. Let him rest.
“I’ve no interest in that.”

“I couldn’t tell you, in any case. And knowing wouldn’t change any of the results. I’m pleased you don’t ask. That’s an advance in your perceptions.”

“And all you’ve done is brag again, without having proved a thing.” Gyll snorted in disgust. “And you spout sophistry like a university professor. You’re a deep man, Helgin, for one so short.”

“Then let me tell you something else.” Helgin reached for the brandy with deliberate nonchalance. He poured himself another glassful, watching Gyll. Gyll sat in what he hoped was an attitude of stolid unconcern. He was growing tired of the Motsognir’s posturing. Helgin looked as if he were about to drink, then lowered the glass slightly. His dark eyes regarded Gyll over the rim. “You
need
to go with Kaethe, Gyll. She makes noises like she’s very interested in whether you do so or not, but in reality I tell you that it doesn’t really much matter to her. It can’t, because she has to do what FitzEvard wishes. But you
need
the Trading Families, if you really are concerned with the survival of Hoorka. Neweden doesn’t yet realize it, but Gunnar’s death is a watershed. Neweden was slowly changing, but his death has tipped the balance. With Gunnar gone, with Potok in exile and his rule-guild in disgrace, Vingi has a free hand, and he’s not clever enough to use it well. Neweden is going to undergo a wracking change and the Hoorka—if they want survival—are going to need as many options as they can gather.”

“That may or may not be, but Valdisa doesn’t want it. And I only have your word that this ‘change’ will occur. That doesn’t mean much, does it?”

There was silence for a moment. Gyll stroked the bowl of his brandy glass. He glanced up, but Helgin was peering into the depths of his own dark liquid as if some answer were hidden there. Then, with that same casual toss, the dwarf drank. His eyes closed for a second, then he threw the glass aside. It shattered in a corner.

“Get up,” he said.

Gyll hesitated, uncertain as to the Motsognir’s intention. The knot of tension in his stomach returned. He rose, slowly, looking down at the dwarf.

“Get out your vibro.”

“Helgin—”

“Get it out,” Helgin growled, hands on hips. A sandalled foot scuffed at the floor impatiently.

Gyll moved his nightcloak aside with a practiced swing, unsheathing the vibro in the same movement. He held it before the dwarf, unactivated. The Motsognir nodded, then stepped back. He spread his hands apart, crouching.

“Turn it on and come at me.”

“Helgin, I don’t—”

“Do it.”

Nearly, he did not. Almost, he turned and walked away. But the dwarf started a mirthless laugh as Gyll’s hand dropped, and that brought the vibro back up. Gyll touched the stud on the hilt and the vibrowire slicked out to dagger length: threatening, for unlike the foils, the dagger could not be adjusted to a lesser setting. Its low murmur shivered in his hand. Gyll saw that Helgin’s attention was now focused on the weapon. “It’s not going to prove anything, Helgin.”

“Don’t worry, Hoorka. You’re not going to touch me. You’re too old and too fat for that. Look at your waist—you’re out of shape. Try it.”

“You’re a fool.”

“Then let me be one. I’ll prove it otherwise. Come at me, or does even this kind of challenge frighten you?”

Gyll wasn’t angry. The taunts were too transparent for that. He was only puzzled. Yet he did move forward, letting his instincts guide him but still holding back: he did not want to harm the dwarf. Helgin backed away as Gyll advanced, then suddenly rolled and kicked in one gliding motion. Gyll winced as Helgin’s foot caught his wrist, moving the vibro aside and nearly tearing it from his hand. Instinct ruled: he jabbed at the Motsognir, but the dwarf was too quick. The vibro sliced air, and Helgin was past and on his feet again before Gyll could turn.

“You see, Hoorka. You’re not nearly as good as you like to think.” Still in that low crouch, Helgin sneered. His teeth gleamed in lamplight, mocking.

Gyll said nothing, but now he too set his balance lower, the vibro moving before him in a small, tight circle. He closed cautiously, backing the dwarf to the wall, not letting him slip past. Helgin swept out an arm, cuffing at Gyll’s knife hand. Gyll cut at the hand, and Helgin came at him, a blur of motion, shouting. Gyll felt pain lance his forearm as Helgin struck him; grunting, he slashed, felt the vibro touch, and then Helgin hit him again. He couldn’t hold the vibro this time—he heard it clatter away from him.

They faced each other, breathing heavily. Beneath torn cloth, a jagged line of blood showed on Helgin’s arm. Gyll stared at it, and in that hesitation, Helgin could have attacked or dove for the vibro. He did neither. The Motsognir abruptly straightened. He began the usual grin, but midway it was inverted into grimace. He touched his injured arm gingerly, looked at the blood on his finger as if he could deny its existence. “Well,” he growled.

“I’m sorry, Helgin.” Gyll shook his head. “You . . . goaded me. I didn’t mean . . .”

“Yah. Don’t worry, Hoorka. I’ll live. And I could have still taken you. You gave me too much time, and you’ve a lot to learn about using your hands and feet as weapons. If you want proof . . .” Again, Helgin went into that crouch, but Gyll shook his head once more.

“I don’t want to fight you.”

Helgin stared at Gyll.

“Let’s call it even,” Gyll continued. “You disarmed me, and, yah, I’ll even admit you’re far better than I would have thought, and I wouldn’t want to face you on even terms. I don’t consider you a braggart any longer.”

Helgin nodded, pursing his thick lips. He scratched at his beard. “You don’t like killing, do you?”

Gyll forced down irritation. “I don’t like unnecessary bloodletting. That’s all.”

“Ahh.” Helgin said nothing more. Rubbing his arm, he strode past Gyll back to his floater. Gyll went to where the vibro lay, picked it up, and sheathed it again. He sat.

“If both you and I were fools,” Helgin said, “that little exhibition would prove that I’ve always spoken the truth to you. But I don’t consider you a fool—you can think what you want about the rest. But . . . I repeat, Gyll, you need to go with Oldin.”

Gyll did not want to return to that subject. “You need your arm attended to.”

Helgin glanced down. Blood had soaked into the raveled edges of cloth. “It’s a scratch. And you’re avoiding the statement.”

“I can’t do much about it. You say it’s for the sake of Hoorka. Fine. But if I go against Valdisa, then I’ve done quite a bit to harm Hoorka myself, just by that act. Either way, I seem to lose. And if I’m here, at least I have a chance to give her advice.”

Helgin made a disgusted sound. “You need to learn another lesson, Gyll. Worlds and politics don’t matter. It’s the individuals involved in them. You need to worry about yourself first. A little healthy selfishness never hurt anyone.”

“I’m done talking about it.”

A dour head shake; Helgin leaned forward, poured Gyll more brandy, then sat back holding the bottle. “Then we’ll talk about something else. Have you ever seen rockfoam from Karm’s Hole? It puts a polished ippicator bone to shame . . .”

They were still talking about nothing when Kaethe returned to the shuttle a few hours later.

Chapter 14

A
n excerpt from the acousidots of Sondall-Cadhurst Cranmer. The following was a very informal recording—much like some of the others, it was most likely done without Gyll Hermond’s knowledge or consent. The “Ramulf” spoken of appears in the Neweden Chronicles as a minor thief executed on 9.19.214—evidently some discussion of this was used by Cranmer as a device to probe Hermond.

EXCERPT FROM THE DOT OF 9.20.214:

“. . . but you have to realize, Sond, that Ramulf is—eh,
was
—just a friggin’ lassari. Man, you can’t expect better from the kinless.”

“They’re just people like the rest. Thane. The fact that you’re part of a guild doesn’t alter your basic personality.”

“You say that, but I notice that you tend to avoid lassari, too.”

“I would have thought you’d be more sympathetic toward them.”

“Hmm? Explain yourself, scholar.”

“As I understand it, your family was lassari. Your father . . .”

“My
true-father
—” (Here Gyll pauses, as if pressing home a point) “—was lassari, yah. But that relationship, true-father to biological son, doesn’t have much importance on Neweden. Once you’ve reached puberty, you’re jussar and free to find guild-kin. My true-father and my true-mother died lassari—I don’t hide that fact from anyone because it doesn’t bring any shame to me. If he’d had even a spark of creativity . . . but his mind didn’t work that way. Understand: he was an offworlder, trained to kill, yah, but narrow-minded and stupid. He didn’t have the cultural set for Neweden. I grew up here—Neweden is ingrained in me. My true-father was dirt, a common thief. I’m glad he bothered to train me as he did, but I’d still spit in his face if he were alive. He’s lassari. I could synthesize his training, his skills, and I saw that I could devise something out of it that would be viable here.”