Assassins' Dawn (58 page)

It had taken time and much argument, but FitzEvard, under pressure from Gyll, Helgin, and Kaethe Oldin—Gyll’s lover and FitzEvard’s granddaughter—had at last relented. Kaethe was banned; she could not go, but Gyll and Helgin would return to Neweden. FitzEvard had even smiled when he told them. Gyll would be in charge of the ship, and it would operate as any Oldin trading mission—except that Gyll would seek to recruit his old guild as well.

Gyll knew what he had to offer—far, far more than squalid Neweden, the world Gyll had once thought as all. Far more than the Alliance offered. Gyll could see now why all the Trading Families disliked the Alliance. If the Alliance died, Gyll would not grieve. If what Gyll did here helped to negate its influence, he would be pleased.

Gyll had found several truths about himself in the time since he’d left Neweden. Paramount among them was that he enjoyed being a leader.
The
leader, the one who commanded, who created. He’d given that up when the guild of Hoorka had faced political problems on Neweden, when it seemed that he had dealt with them poorly—and he had found that he was bored and restless, and that he could not keep his hands away from the reins of leadership. That had led to his conflict with Valdisa, to whom he’d given the Thane-ship. It had driven them apart, driven Gyll from his kin, and the troubles of Neweden had given the Hoorka less and less work.

He would amend that all now, if he could.

He could not change Neweden, but he could change Hoorka. It would have to be slow, have to be careful, but he was confident. He was Sula now, not Thane, and the title suited him better.

If d’Embry knew,
Goshawk
would swiftly be seeking some other port. Meddling, she would call it, interference with Alliance business. Gyll did not enjoy lying, but he was slowly finding that it was sometimes necessary. If he had to lie to get Hoorka, he would do it.

As he walked, Gyll let the impressions soak into him, comparing them with remembrances of standards past. He strolled slowly (though the small uneasiness he had felt earlier would not go away), observing. It seemed to Gyll that it was the people as well as the city that had changed. Yes, much was still similar: lassari still drew back from him, as they were supposed to do, the guilded kin nodded politely even as they stared at his clothing and the strange emblem on his belt where the holo of the guild insignia should have been. It seemed that there were perhaps more lassari now, more low kin whose shabby clothing proclaimed the poorness of their guild. And the churches—Neweden had always been haunted by piety and a multitude of gods from which to choose; that trait seemed to have become more pronounced in the time he’d been gone. Neweden was, as the scholar Cranmer had written, “surprisingly rich in gods for a damned poor place; it must be the cheap rent.” Gyll was most surprised at the number dedicated to She of the Five Limbs, goddess of the extinct ippicators and also patron of the Hoorka. It seemed that a cult had sprung up around Her. Whatever, every block he walked had its church, of one god or another.

Gyll could only speculate on what that might mean, whether it was due to the solace provided by religion in bad times and the promise it gave of eventual reward, or because, by becoming a member of the clergy, a person became something between guilded kin and lassari. To become a minister of the gods had always been one way of improving your lot if you were lassari, and that was why the regulations regarding the establishment of churches were strict here: high taxes, an avalanche of paperwork, and constant proof of a sufficient congregation.

He knew FitzEvard Oldin would be pleased either way. It meant that things were not all well on Neweden.

There was something odd in the way Gyll was regarded by those he passed, something subliminal. He could sense hostility from the lassari even as they stepped out of his direct path, and the guilded kin seemed wary rather than strictly polite. Twice, he saw the green-robed Magistrates of Justice judging a duel, a crowd gathered around the conflict—that had always been a rare scene when he’d last been here. And though kin had always gone armed on the street, the weapons were now more prominent, placed boldly at the hip as if in defiance and challenge. Guild-kin walked together in bands, as well, traveling with companions rather than alone. The sense of worry came back to him, stronger now. He stopped and glanced behind him: guilded kin went in and out of the door of a bakery, a pack of jussar youths lolled against a wall, two women argued prices with a vendor of sweetmeats, a group of kin (the Sterka Jewelers’ Guild, by their buckles) scowled their way around the obstacle of his body. Nothing there to feed his paranoia. Gyll shrugged and continued his aimless strolling.

A building he did not remember blocked his path. He turned left, found that the street died after a few blocks, forcing him to go right, down an alley to another street. He knew where he was, roughly if not precisely; somewhere on the edges of Dasta Burrough, one of the lassari sectors. Gyll didn’t care for the sights or the smells, and that nagging feeling of being pursued still insinuated itself. The street was less crowded now. He stepped around a sated wirehead sprawled near the central gutter, moved into shadow and out again, now making his way up a series of wide steps. He kept his hand near his dagger even as he cursed his uneasiness, then justified it by recalling what he had taught his new Hoorka.
To an extent, fear is good. Only a fool is truly unafraid, and fools tend to die quickly in a crisis. Don’t allow fear to cripple you or make you change your tactics, but don’t shut it out, either. Listen to it.

He turned left at a crossing street, then left again, trying to find his way back to the street of shops without admitting defeat and retracing his steps. He came to the mouth of an alley. The houses near him were empty and dark, ruinous, and the street was oddly deserted. Something about the scene, something in his fear and the net of shadows around him made him hesitate. Maybe the scent of rotting garbage and dampness welling from the alleyway: Gyll took a false step forward, waited, thinking that in a moment he would feel rather foolish.

The feint saved him.

A hand holding a crowd-prod stabbed air where he should have been—that first glimpse of the prod showed Gyll that the weapon had been altered, and the ugly blue-bronze scorch marks at the tip indicated that the alteration was likely to be deadly. Gyll caught sight of his attacker; a thin, sallow face, a gray bodysuit with a tear at one shoulder. The man took a quick step from the alley. A dagger held in the left hand followed the prod, slicing at Gyll. He sidestepped, feeling cloth tearing as the dagger’s edge slid along his side; in the same motion, Gyll grasped the man’s dagger hand at the wrist. He twisted, hard, and brought the hand down and his knee up. The weapon went clattering away as the man yelped in pain. Another lunge with the prod; Gyll went with the move, falling backward and bringing up his legs sharply into the man’s midsection, propelling him back over Gyll’s head. Gyll lurched to his feet, sliding his own dagger from its sheath, crouching, watching as his assailant groggily regained his footing. It took the man several seconds, but Gyll did not move toward him. He waited, breathing quickly but easily.

There was no guild holo on the man’s buckle, no identifying insignia anywhere on him. The ripped bodysuit seemed to be plain dress available anywhere. “Back off now and this won’t go further, lassari,” Gyll said. “Think about it, man; if I’d wanted you dead, I had plenty of time.”

The lassari grimaced, whether in pain or answer, Gyll could not tell. He shuffled his feet, his fingers loosening and tightening on the prod’s handle. “You’re bleeding, offworlder.”

“Don’t mistake a scratch for anything else.”

The lassari straightened, the crowd-prod now held down at his side. He nearly smiled—the edges of his mouth curved upward. “You were almost Hag-kin. You’re quicker than you look to be, old man.”

“For a frigging coward who’d attack without warning, you don’t move nearly as quickly as you need to. With your skills, you’ll be Hag-kin yourself soon enough.”

The smile vanished. Thin shoulders shrugged under frayed cloth. “Give me another chance, offworlder. I’ll be glad to show you the ways of Neweden. A personal introduction to our gods, neh?” The man spat on the pavement between them. In another time, that would have sent Gyll into a rage: Neweden reflexes. Now it almost amused him, a futile, empty insult. It didn’t touch him, didn’t mean anything. “You’re blocking my way, lassari,” he said simply. “I’m not really interested in proving to you that I’m good with this blade, but I am. Very. It’s your choice.”

The lassari shifted weight from one foot to the other. He seemed to turn the decision over in his mind; thought twisted the narrow face into a mask, a snarl. Gyll braced himself, certain that he’d be attacked once more—
when you were Thane, you wouldn’t have hesitated when the man was done. You’d have finished it, and not had to worry.
He hoped the man would back down, was afraid he wouldn’t. He had no real fear of the man—he was inept and clumsy—but he didn’t want to begin his stay on Neweden with another death. He’d killed too many here already. On the bad nights, they crowded his sleep.

The lassari took a step away from Gyll. Then, as if that movement broke the stasis of confrontation, the man fled, turning and running. The sound of his flight echoed from the buildings.

Gyll straightened. The muscles of his back were sore, and he tried to convince himself that it was a result of the unaccustomed drag of Neweden’s gravity that made him ache. He examined his side—the dagger had barely broken the skin, though now that the adrenaline surge was gone, he could feel the pain. He frowned. The dagger the lassari had lost was stuck halfway in a pile of garbage the wind had gathered against the curb. Gyll picked it up—a cheap thing, the blade filed from some stock metal, the hilt just tape over the bare steel. Rough, but effective enough; a lassari weapon like a thousand he’d seen before. Gyll stuck it in his belt. He began walking.

There were people around him before he’d gone two blocks. He mused on the attack. Once before, such a thing had happened after leaving the Li-Gallant. Coincidence? Gyll shrugged back the phantoms of speculation and looked about him. He could see the spire of Tri-Guild Church transfixing clouds. He moved toward it, ignoring the stares his torn, bloody tunic caused.

He wasn’t really aware that he’d slipped back into the old Hoorka aloofness. It didn’t matter what others might think: let them stare if it pleased them.

•   •   •

McWilms was noticeably bursting with some news. He smiled, his eyes danced, and though he feigned nonchalance by leaning up against the cool rock of Valdisa’s chambers in Underasgard, his body didn’t seem to be at rest. His hands fidgeted with the clasp of his nightcloak, his boots scuffed the packed earth of the floor. Valdisa, pushing the hoverlamp away from her desk, looked up at him with a quizzical smile.

“Fine, Jeriad. I’ll bite. Has the Li-Gallant overpaid his last contract and not noticed? Or did Nisa finally agree to go to bed with you?”

“Gods, Thane, she did
that
weeks ago. You’re not very observant.” He laughed, and Valdisa could not help but join his amusement. McWilms hadn’t been smiling much in the past few days, since the death of d’Mannberg. He’d limped about the caverns in dour silence, keeping to himself, accepting solace from no one. She was glad to see the sorrow beginning to come to some proper perspective. Hag Death was a harsh god—She struck often here, and Dame Fate wouldn’t interfere. Grief was good, a needed release, but she didn’t care to see one of her best kin-brothers disabled by it.

“Weeks ago, was it?” she said. “Really? And was the reality better than the fantasy?—everyone saw you lusting after her.”

He simply grinned. “I didn’t come in here to tell you about my love life—but she didn’t complain.”

“That’s hardly a tribute, simply discretion. So, what’s got you so bouncy? Come, Jeriad, you can’t wait to tell me—I see it in your eyes.”

“Hah, you’re just jealous because I got to Nisa first.” McWilms shouldered himself from the wall and came over to the desk. He still favored his wounded leg. He picked up a crystalline ball with a piece of polished ivory set inside—an ippicator’s bone—and hefted it from hand to hand. “The Trading Families have sent another ship here. It’s in orbit, and their shuttle’s docked at the port.”

The depth of her reaction to his announcement shocked Valdisa. The words brought back unwilled, unwelcome memories, none of them pleasant. She ran a hand through dark hair cropped close to her head and tried to keep her expression in some semblance of normalcy.
The frigging Families. I haven’t thought of them for ages, haven’t thought of what they did to Gyll and me.
She attempted a smile that felt tentative and false.

And which did not fool McWilms. His own buoyant satisfaction dissipated instantly. He frowned, set the ball down. “Thane, I’m sorry. Damn, I didn’t think . . .”

She waved a deprecating hand. “Don’t worry about it, Jeriad.” She affected unconcern. “What about this Trader’s ship? It’s not the
Peregrine,
is it; Kaethe Oldin’s craft?”

Suddenly she could see that he was reticent to continue. He slipped back into the hesitant lethargy that had followed the Vasella contract. It was more than simply Ric’s death; all the Hoorka were experiencing it to some degree—the hardly veiled intimations that the Hoorka-kin were the Li-Gallant’s minions in all but name was at the root of the depression. The other contracts with guilded kin had slowed. Vingi’s name was on most of their work, and their treasury was pitifully low. The fact that their code of neutrality—Gyll’s code—forced them to these straits didn’t reduce the gall. Valdisa nodded to McWilms. Her dark eyes encouraged him. “Out with it, Jeriad. You were aglow with the news a moment ago. It can’t be just the arrival of a Trader ship. What’s the rest of it?”

“No, Thane.” He gathered his nightcloak around him as if the cool air of Underasgard chilled him. The cloak was bulky around the bandages lacing his side. “And if I wasn’t such a damned idiot, I’d’ve realized how you’d feel about it.”