“Rhetanseeds,” Oldin explained as Gyll reached for one. “They come from well out in the Cygnus sector, well beyond Alliance boundaries. Take one, it will be sufficient.”
“Sufficient for what?”
Her smile shone at him. “You don’t trust me, Ulthane?”
“M’Dame Oldin, the Hoorka trust only their own kin.”
To their right, the dwarf chuckled. “A good trait, Hoorka.”
Still smiling, Oldin shook her head. “Nevertheless . . . First, Ulthane, please call me Kaethe. I’m of the Trading Families, and we don’t follow Alliance mores, or any other of their rulings. And as for the rhetanseeds—ask the Motsognir. Helgin will tell you that they’re harmless.”
“I’ll tell you, Hoorka, that—so far—no one has ever experienced any ill effects. And I enjoy them myself.” Helgin whistled (lips pursed behind the forest of beard), and the tray came toward him, leaving Gyll staring at the seed in his fingers.
Gyll waited, watching as the Motsognir plucked a seed from the tray with a delicate touch made almost humorous by the squat thickness of his fingers, and dropped it into his mouth. Eyes glinting, he stared at Gyll as he chewed. He swallowed, overnoisily, and sighed in satisfaction.
Gyll placed the seed in his mouth, letting it roll on his tongue. It didn’t taste—it simply felt smooth. He bit, gingerly.
A welter of taste and smell assaulted him: cina . . . no, now it’s anis . . . too astringent, like lemon, no . . . mint and cloves; then there was a stimulation behind his eyes—light! that burst and faded through the spectrum; finally, a surfeit. It was as if he’d finished a fine, long meal. He was not unpleasantly stuffed, but satiated.
“Shit,” he said. Quite eloquently.
Oldin clapped her hands in delight. Her attire, responsive, changed to a webbing of scarlet veins in a field of black. The eye blinked massively. “The aliens—I can’t pronounce their name . . .”
“Kaarkg—whistle—seergrumble.” Helgin. “And I know your mouth. It’s more than pliant enough to wrap your lips around the name.”
“Eater of dung,” Oldin said pleasantly.
“Ravisher of month-old corpses,” Helgin answered, unperturbed.
Gyll stared. When Oldin turned back to him, the smile was still fixed on her lips. “As I was saying, Ulthane, the creatures used the seeds on extended trips, a form of quick sustenance. We’ve had great success with them as trade items.”
“She neglects to tell you that the seeds are nonnutritious to the human metabolism. That’s what you need to listen for, Ulthane, her unvoiced words.” Helgin grinned at Gyll from his hillock.
Gyll did not know how to react, whether to be angry or amused. He was caught up in a playlet for which he had no lines, snared in a net of words, all of which seemed important and none of which he understood. He did what he could: he slipped on the mask of his old self—the young Hoorka-thane—and let the cool aloofness of the Hoorka-way guide him.
“I came only to collect payment, m’Dame Oldin.”
“Kaethe.”
“M’Dame Oldin.”
Her mouth turned down, but her eyes danced. Her clothing stared.
“One for the Hoorka,” said Helgin.
Damn these people, what are they playing at? “The tales of aliens are quite interesting, but I’m here to collect payment for the contract on Cade Gies. You have the check, I’m sure.” The last sentence was a cold statement.
“Are the Hoorka always so mercenary and unsociable? You’ve not smiled since you came, and the lines of your face don’t fall naturally into the expression you’re wearing.” She gazed at him, the guileless eyes wide. Her hand brushed clothing-skin; lines of blue radiated out from the touch.
“M’Dame Oldin . . .”
A raised forefinger, languid. “Kaethe.”
He didn’t dispute the correction or acquiesce to it. “We were hired to perform an assassination. Thanks to Dame Fate, it was done. What else do we need speak of?”
“You’ll have your payment. Gratefully.” As if tired, the eye at her waist closed. “I was simply interested in you, Ulthane. You made the Hoorka from lassari criminals, and I’m aware that you’ve been attempting to advance the Hoorka beyond the domain of Neweden. The Alliance resists, does it not?”
“We’ve had a few offworld contracts.”
“But not many. Not to your potential. The Alliance is too cautious of you, too fearful, too parochial in outlook, Ulthane. That’s why the Alliance won’t let its citizens have much contact with the other races that dwell outside their sphere of influence. They’re intolerant of change and new ideas, and social systems that vary too far from their norm. That’s why Neweden has had so many problems with the Diplos.”
“But the Trading Families . . .”
Her smile shone, her eyes invited. “The Trading Families are far more open-minded about such things. We seek out the unusual and alien, after all. We’re more like you, Ulthane. Like Neweden-kin, we’re fiercely loyal to our families; we understand the concept of kinship, though we don’t segregate along occupational lines. We’ve no taboos with experimentation and new ideas—such things tend to be self-controlling. An unviable concept will extinguish itself or be extinguished. That’s not far from the manner in which Hoorka view their assassinations, is it not? You say that what’s meant to survive will survive. You’ve reason to be proud of yourself, Ulthane. The code is ingenious in the way it fits Neweden.”
Her praise warmed him, and he knew he shouldn’t let it do so. It was most likely that the flattery was false. Gyll tore his gaze away from her and found Helgin. The Motsognir frowned at him, though the eyes seemed to laugh. Helgin shrugged.
“Don’t look at me, Hoorka. I haven’t dressed like an expensive clown.”
Again, Gyll did not know how to reply. Neither of the two seemed to take offense at anything said, while to him and all Neweden, insult was a deadly game to play. “What are you after?” he asked finally. He kept the shreds of Hoorka composure around him—distant, always haughty—but he knew Oldin could read the bewilderment he tried to keep from his voice.
“You want Hoorka offworld.” Her voice soothed. “You want a chance to expand the opportunities of your kin.” The clothing-eye opened once more; in it, a too-thin Gyll reclined. “Fine. I believe that the leading Families can offer Hoorka more than the Alliance and d’Embry. We have our feuds, also, and we’re concerned with the concept of honor, and we offer a much larger arena than the Alliance, one virtually without boundaries.”
“D’Embry and the Alliance hold Neweden, and Neweden is our home.”
“They hold it for the moment, I’ll grant.” A pause. “Solutions can be found for that. You should at least consider us.”
“It’s not my choice, even if I were interested. I’m no longer Thane.”
“Ahh.” Oldin steepled her hands. She gazed at him over ivory fingertips. “Does that bother you?”
Damn, is it so obvious to all? Am I so transparent? “No,” he said, knowing he lied. “It’s simply a fact. I still have some small say in the affairs of Hoorka—they are my creation. But the old guard must give way sometimes.” He tried for half-jovial, felt it come out morose.
“You’re not old, Ulthane. The hair is graying, yes, and I’m sure you might find your reflexes a touch slower than they once were, but you’re far from old. Experience too, that has its advantages.”
His sudden irritation surprised Gyll. It was a complex compound, that ire, full of his own frustration at the night before, the wort, his inability to control the conversation with the Trader, Oldin’s teasing. Gyll stood, the veins in his neck standing out, his lined face ruddy. His hand went unbidden to his vibrohilt. “The woman talks incessantly and says nothing.” He spoke loudly, using the impersonal mode with bitter relish, knowing that it would spark kin to full anger.
But Oldin was not of Neweden. She didn’t move, didn’t appear in the least alarmed. “I’m sorry, Ulthane. I simply felt that I’d prefer to mak
e the offer to the creator of Hoorka, no matter who has the titular leadership. It’s your training and your guidelines they follow. Therefore it’s you that interests me. Perhaps I should have approached this another way. Tell the Thane, then; tell her I’d like to speak with her.”
Her gaze dropped to his vibro hand. Slowly, he let himself relax, let the arm fall to his side. He came as near to apology as he would allow himself. “All Neweden is quick to anger, m’Dame Oldin.”
“Kaethe.”—Helgin’s basso rumbling. The dwarf looked at Oldin and shrugged. “You would have corrected him, yah?”
“You anticipate me so well.”
“You’re not given to complexity. It was easy.”
A nod to the dwarf and she turned back to Gyll. “Kaethe,” she said.
“Kaethe.” Gyll gave in. “Irritability is a bad habit of mine.”
“No apology is necessary. She of the Five . . . Limbs, is it not? The goddess of ippicators?” She changed the subject without transition. It took Gyll a moment to recover, then he nodded.
“She is the patron of ippicators, and of the Hoorka.”
“It’s struck me as odd since we’ve been in Neweden orbit—why hasn’t your world made some effort to restore the beast of five legs? Its bones are one of your most valuable resources and surely enough genetic information has been recovered. I’ve seen the polished bones, and there’s nothing more enchanting. With a small stable of the beasts, you could continue to export them without worrying. Cloning.”
“I know of no cloning techniques which don’t require live tissue. The ippicator have been extinct for centuries.”
“Surely the vast resources of the Alliance . . .” There was a faint mocking tone in her voice. “Though perhaps they refuse to help you.”
“As far as I’m aware, they could do nothing. And besides, a live ippicator would upset Neweden’s theology.”
“Ahh.” Oldin rose to her feet, a quick and graceful motion that startled him. The dark fabric about her moved, the eye blinking in dull surprise. “I’ll let you go, Ulthane. I’m sure you’ve much to do. Helgin will get you the check for the Gies contract. And please talk to the Thane. The Trading Families might have much to offer you, the Oldins in particular.”
She came up to him. He could smell a faint musk. It was pleasant, but he didn’t know if it was a cologne or the clothing-creature. She smiled, grasping his thick-veined hand in hers. “Come back if you wish, Ulthane. I find the Hoorka fascinating. I’d welcome your company.”
He could only nod.
On the way down . . .
“Well, Hoorka, how do you like the enchanting Oldin?”
“How can you speak of her that way, Helgin? I’m surprised she keeps you in her employ.”
“You misunderstand our relationship. The Motsognir have their own means of support. I stay with her simply because I find her interesting, because we like each other.”
“You’ve an odd way of indicating affection.”
“She offers me adventure. New sights. A thrill of uncertainty. We never stay in one place too long. The Motsognir lust for that. We’ve never been a part of man’s empires. A Motsognir’d die of boredom in the Alliance. In that, Oldin’s right. The Alliance can’t like the Hoorka, Ulthane. Give them time, and they’ll start looking for ways to keep your people contained, safe and ineffective. The Alliance is just a gigantic inertia-machine seeking to preserve itself. Its vision is inward; it’s satisfied with the status quo. And the more it tries to preserve itself, the larger the cracks that are going to appear.”
“You talk like a philosopher, Helgin.”
The dwarf turned a yellow-laced eye toward Gyll. “You just have no ear for sophistry, Ulthane. You’re too used to people telling you the truth.”
They entered Neweden’s atmosphere. The planet welcomed them back with a roaring of mock thunder.
• • •
Outside the caverns, the sunstar had settled below the horizon. The night denizens prowled the hills. Deep in Underasgard, Gyll had gone to a spot far from the usual Hoorka lairs. He’d not expected to be disturbed there. He was mistaken in that assumption.
Gyll watched as Cranmer placed a bottle and two glasses on the rock beside him. The clink of glass against stone was loud in the stillness. To one side, a dimmed hoverlamp oscillated golden-green inside the barred cage of a headless ippicator skeleton. Light alternated with shadow on the walls of the cavern. On the rock, the bottle tilted dangerously. “What’s that?” Gyll asked.
“Lubricant.”
Gyll’s eyebrows rose quizzically. He cocked his head.
“You’re too literal sometimes, Gyll.” The smile did not leave that mouth. It seemed permanently affixed. “It’s wine. I thought it’d be a nice gesture. I haven’t seen much of you recently.”
“A lot going on.”
“And you haven’t talked to me about any of it. I thought I’d track you down and just talk—the wine’ll ease a dry throat.”
Cranmer sat. Gyll could see a slight wince as the coldness of the stones made itself felt through the fabric of Cranmer’s pants. “You people have to move this planet closer to the sunstar,” Cranmer said, noticing Gyll’s attention. “I’m always freezing.” Despite the heavy jacket he wore, Cranmer hugged himself.
“It keeps the wines chilled.”
“Was that a joke?” Cranmer asked with too much surprise in his voice. “Ulthane, you’re a constant revelation.”
“Cranmer, you’re a constant nuisance. If you’re going to stay, at least pour the wine.” Gyll’s voice was dull, as if with fatigue or disgust. He had turned away from Cranmer, staring at the ippicator’s skeleton, mesmerized. Cranmer pursed his lips appraisingly. He tugged the sleeves of his jacket down over his wrists, then began talking as if he’d noticed nothing.
“I was in Sterka earlier today,” he said, reaching for the bottle and pouring a goodly amount into each glass. “I’ve a few things you might be interested in hearing.”
He placed a glass beside Gyll. The Hoorka glanced at it, then returned to his preoccupied stance. Cranmer sipped his wine, watching, waiting, then shrugged. He settled himself on the rock. “D’Embry’s got Diplo security checking out Cade Gies. Seems she doesn’t like the thought that Oldin could have an Alliance citizen killed and not inform her as to the reasons. I don’t think it’s because of any affection for Gies or revulsion because of his death. D’Embry just doesn’t care to be left in the dark.”
Gyll grunted a reply. Cranmer glanced up to where the shadows of the ippicator’s ribs flickered on the jagged roof. He set his glass down. “I also heard that Potok is supposedly considering a truth duel. The gossip all over Sterka is that the Li-Gallant is responsible for Gunnar’s murder. The Domoraj joined the Dead yesterday, and that’s supposedly an indication of his shame with the Li-Gallant. Everyone expects the challenge to be given within a few days of the funeral.”
Gyll had slowly turned to face Cranmer. His face was in light, but a rib-shadow striped him from shoulder to chest. His head seemed to float in air. “Vingi and Potok would be the combatants?”
“Isn’t that the basis of truth-duel—the opponents have to be highly placed in the guilds, and the stakes enormous?”
“Yah.” A smile came and went. “That’d be a travesty.”
“Would it serve justice?”
Gyll shrugged. “Dame Fate is supposed to guide the hands and rule the outcome—that way the assertion is proved true or false. If you believe that the Dame does so, then yah, justice is served.”
“What about you, Ulthane? Do you believe?”
Gyll turned away again. “I believe it’s probably a well – calculated political move on Potok’s part. If he thinks he can best Vingi at truth-duel—and Vingi can’t refuse—he stands to gain quite a bit. I imagine a large monetary fine would be levied, maybe seats in the Assembly given up. It could ruin either guild. A risk, but a calculated one. And the people will be entertained, whether they believe or not.” He
stared into shadow, into the arch of bone.
“Cynical, Gyll.”
“I feel that way.” Once more he turned. Light raked across his lined face. “I saw Oldin this morning—she made me think about other possibilities. And afterward, I went into Sterka.” Gyll paused. His eyes narrowed. “If you’re recording this, Cranmer, turn it off. What I have to say isn’t for anyone else’s ears.”
Cranmer spread his hands in innocence. “You don’t trust my discretion?”
“No.”
A small grin. “Ah, well. I’ve not been recording, Ulthane.”
“Good. Cranmer, do you remember the night of Gunnar’s death? We were in the outer caves. I’d just killed a stalkpest.”
“Aldhelm came out—he was leaving the caverns.”
Gyll nodded. “He told us he was going to see an Irastian smith who was visiting Sterka. I checked all the local smiths, on a whim. I don’t know why I was so suspicious. None of the smiths had seen Aldhelm that night. None had kin visiting from Irast.”
“Aldhelm gave you no names. Maybe it was someone you missed. Maybe the smith was visiting true-family. That’s uncommon, but it happens.”
“Maybe Aldhelm lied. In which case, what was it he wanted to do in Sterka that he didn’t want to discuss with kin?”
Cranmer had no answer. He drank from his glass. “Have you talked with Valdisa about this?”
Gyll’s laugh was a short exhalation. “It’s always the same thing: ‘Have you talked with Valdisa?’ I sometimes even ask that myself. Once, once, Cranmer, that wouldn’t have been needed to be asked.” Gyll shook his head slowly. “I haven’t seen her since I returned. I was supposed to meet with her after seeing Oldin, but she wasn’t in Underasgard—some business with a kin-lord in Illicatta. I won’t see her until Gunnar’s funeral tomorrow.”
“Then confront Aldhelm. Talk to him.”
“No. It’s not my place.” There was an edge of bitterness in Gyll’s voice. “I’m not Thane, after all. And I’m not sure it’s something I really want to do. Aldhelm is kin; he knows what honor is, and we have to trust our kin to uphold that honor, neh?” Gyll—habitual—moved fingers through graying hair. “I don’t know, Sond. I don’t know. I’m not sure what I feel this moment. I’m of two minds. One part of me wants to leap in, take over the active role again, even if it means a confrontation with Valdisa. Egotistically, I think I’m the only one who truly understands Hoorka, what I meant it to be, what it should do. And the rest . . . Maybe I’m just being bitter. I keep thinking it’s all Valdisa’s problem now. Let her work it out. I can’t even say too much to her for fear that she’ll think I’m interfering, usurping her authority. We’ve already fought over that. And she is my friend, my lover. I don’t want to ruin that. She’s the closest to me of the kin. So what would you do, scholar?”
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