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.”
He grimaced and sat on the edge of the desk.
“You going to tell me or just keep going around it awhile longer?” She smiled again; slow, gentle. “I don’t have all day, Jeriad. And I’m a big girl. What are you holding back?”
He sighed. “Yah. Well, I thought it was interesting enough that the Family Oldin owns the ship. Not Peregrine, though. Goshawk. When I heard, I checked with Diplo Center, and learned two more interesting items about the ship. First, there are paramilitary people aboard her, ostensibly the ship’s guard. At least that’s the rumor.”
“I doubt that’s so unusual. The Families don’t trust the Alliance. They’d keep their own guards.”
He didn’t look at her. He examined his hands closely. “They call themselves Hoorka, these guards,” he said.
McWilms heard the intake of breath, but when he looked at Valdisa, her face was emotionless. She returned his gaze flatly, with little emotion in her voice. “That’s indeed one interesting item, kin-brother. What’s two?”
He took a breath, looking away from her again. “Ulthane Gyll is in charge of the ship. He calls himself Sula now, but it has to be the same person—Gyll Hermond.”
Valdisa looked down at her desktop, feeling McWilms’s gaze on her again. She fiddled with an acousidot holder and sat back in her floater. She looked up at him from under her eyebrows. Her eyes had an unusual sheen. “Damn,” she said huskily. “He’s back.”
“I thought,” McWilms ventured, “that maybe you’d be glad to hear that.”
“Hag’s teats, Jeriad!” Valdisa slapped the desk with an open hand. “I had to strip him of his kinship when he left. He didn’t leave me any choice. Why should I be happy to see him again?” Abruptly she laughed, a quick breath, and glanced at McWilms bemusedly. “I’m a fine example to you, neh, losing my temper like that. I’m sorry, Jeriad. I guess I wasn’t ready for it.”
“I understand. And I didn’t bother to think about how you might feel. I’ll take half of the blame, anyway—easier to share it, neh?”
Valdisa smiled at him, and phrased a question even as her lips turned down again. “Are you glad he’s returned?”
“He created Hoorka, even if he later left us. And he was always fair with me. He taught us all a lot, and I’m grateful for that at least.”
“But do you want him back?”
McWilms shrugged. “It’s not my decision, is it?”
“He’ll cause trouble, that’s all.” Then she laughed once more, fully this time. “Listen to me, talking about my old lover as if he were an enemy, as if he weren’t once kin.” She shook her head. “Leave me alone for a while, will you, Jeriad? I want to think about this, so I won’t be so startled when someone brings it up next time.”
“Whatever you wish, Thane.” McWilms rose. His nightcloak fell around him, swirling. “I have to do the blood-duty for Ric, anyway.” He faltered a little on the last words. He swallowed too hard. Valdisa looked up at him.
“We all miss Ric, Jeriad.”
“Yah.” Sharp, quick. “It’s the damned Li-Gallant and his contracts. He enjoys making us appear to be his hirelings. Ric hated that.”
“He feeds the Hoorka. How many other contracts do we get?”
“He makes us look like his lackeys. Ulthane Gyll hated Vingi.”
“Enough, Jeriad,” Valdisa said warningly. She softened her tone. “Do the blood-duty for your kin-father.” She stared at him, at the shadows the hoverlamp threw on his lean face. “If you’re not too busy with Nisa, would you want to keep your Thane company tonight? I know it’s been some time, but I . . .” She stopped, wondering why she felt that she had to explain it to him.
“Yah,” he said before she could speak again. “I’d like that.”
“You’re sure you’re well enough?”
“If you don’t mind a slow lover.” He indicated his chest, his leg. “I can’t support myself very well.”
“A slow lover sounds preferable, and there are ways around having to have you support yourself.” She rubbed at the back of her neck, smiling faintly, stretching in her floater. “Thank you, Jeriad.”
“You don’t have to thank me. I don’t expect the pleasure to be quite that one-sided.”
/> His grin made her laugh despite herself. “Get out of here.”
She was still smiling when the door slid shut behind him. Slowly the smile slid into frown. She closed her eyes, forehead propped on hand.
“Damn that man,” she whispered. “He would come back.”
• • •
Helgin glared at Gyll from under thick-ridged brows. Pupils shot with yellow regarded the Sula, taking in the grimy pants, the slashed tunic, the stain of dried blood at his side. “For a person with a hole in him,” the dwarf growled, “you’re damned cheerful.”
“Just a scratch, Motsognir. You’ve given me worse in practice.” Gyll glanced back at the prickly skyline of Sterka. Around them, the port was busy in a thin drizzle. A tram clattered past full of trader goods from the hold of their shuttle. “How’s business?”
“That’s what you’re supposed to be worrying about, rather than looking for ways to kill yourself.” Gyll started to speak, but Helgin interrupted. “I know. We’ve received an invitation to a costume ball, and you’re going as a corpse.”
“Helgin . . .”
“Business is well enough, I suppose.” Helgin squatted on the tarmac in the shadow of their craft. Rain was spotting the pavement around them. “Is the Li-Gallant responsible for the scratch, or did you just stumble into thornbushes?”
“You don’t give me enough options. It was a lassari attack.”
Helgin raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. “A damned strange thing to have happen, your first day back here.” The dwarf picked a pebble loose from the field, flicked it away with a stubby forefinger. “Of course, it’s probably just coincidence—they do have a god here for coincidences, don’t they?”
“Don’t make more of it than it is, Helgin.” By his tone, it was obvious that Gyll didn’t care to elaborate on the incident any further. Helgin chuckled.
“Which means that you’re worried about it, too.” The roar of his amusement was blunted by the shriek of a transport leaving the field. Helgin raised his voice to carry over the tumult, shouting. “Face it, Gyll. Neweden’s not going to look upon you with a friendly eye; not the Regent, not Vingi, not your precious Hoorka-kin. Nobody. All those too many gods you have here are going to be pissing their bedsheets, worried about what you mean to do here. They ain’t gonna like you.” The Motsognir chuckled again as a frown deepened the lines of Gyll’s face.
“I don’t particularly like the idea, either, Helgin.”
“But you’re willing to go along with it because you know that Oldin, despite his personality flaws, is right.”
“I suppose.”
“Then sharpen your knives, Sula.” Helgin spat on the ground. He stared at the result critically. “You’re gonna need ’em.”
Chapter 3
THE LIGHT OF GULLTOPP, like some silvered liquid, flowed over the figure of a man moving in the forest near Underasgard. The nocturnal creatures were making their nightly chorus of chirps and howls; the intruder added little noise to the concert. He moved swiftly, quietly, sure of his ground. He halted once near the end of the broadleaves. Staying to the whispering darkness of the shade, he peered into a clearing beyond. There, a tall, slender column of stone stabbed the sky, a cluster of glass-eyed receptors at its summit: the dawnrock of the Hoorka assassins, the announcer of life and death. Beyond the dawnrock, the opening of Underasgard loomed like a gaping mouth half-hidden in a fold of hills. From the darkness of the caves, he could sense watchfulness, eyes regarding the night. The man crouched under the broadleaves for long minutes, breathing softly, staring at the maw of Underasgard, rubbing a pliant leaf between thumb and forefinger. After a time, he let the leaf, torn and broken, fall to the ground. The faint scent of the foliage clung to his hand.
He stood, dappled with Gulltopp’s brilliance. His clothing echoed the night, and a hood left his face in eternal shadow.
In time (always carefully, always with deliberate slowness), he moved to the western side of the clearing, staying just inside the cover of the trees. There, he spent a few minutes arranging a small pile of dead leaves and twigs, leaving it sitting inside a circle of bare earth. Turning his back to Underasgard, he puffed a thin cigar alight—he’d found them offworld; the tobacco addiction wasn’t well-known on Neweden—and placed it carefully in the twigs. He took a small pouch from his belt and added a pinch of dark powder near the cigar. A thin coil of smoke was already curling upward. As carefully as before, he made his way back to the other side of the clearing. Once more, he crouched, waiting. A ruddy light flickered among the trees where he’d left the cigar. It faded, then pulsed again before becoming a steady, wavering glow. He could smell the sweet smoke. He watched the entrance of Underasgard.
Someone stepped from the tumble of rocks into the clearing, wearing the black-and-gray nightcloak of the Hoorka. The man could hear the faint whine of an activated vibro; moonlight shuddered on the vibrowire. The Hoorka stared at the fire, turned and said something toward the cavern mouth, then ran quickly across the clearing into the broadleaves’ shadow.
The man smiled, rising to his feet. Still in a half-crouch, he ran toward the entrance. He paused momentarily, in a listening attitude, then vaulted over a boulder into Underasgard.
The Hoorka on duty—an apprentice—reacted far too slowly. The intruder kicked aside a vibrofoil that, belatedly, the apprentice drew from its sheath. Unactivated, the hilt clattered away into darkness. A swift hand movement followed the kick, without delay, and the apprentice slumped, wobble-kneed. The intruder caught him, laid the boy down gently. His thin, gnarled hands pulled up an eyelid, felt the flutter of heart underneath the cloak. Then he stood. Under the cowl of his hood, his eyes stared, watching for movement in the twisting corridor leading back into the caves where the Hoorka lived.
Nothing. Empty, silent night lay there. With a glance back at the apprentice, he moved deeper into the Hoorka-lair.
Twice, he had to disable lone assassins walking the maze of tunnels; each time, luck was with him. He had no difficulty, and his attacks were as silent as he could have wished. He skirted the brilliance of the common room, with its sounds of many voices. Finally he came to a doorshield with the Hoorka-Thane’s insignia set above it. He stood there a second, contemplative, as if suddenly unsure of himself. It was at odds with his previous demeanor.
And at that moment, the alarm sounded, a hooting ululation like Hag Death’s wail. The intruder bounded into shadow—thankful that Underasgard was always shadowed—not waiting to see the woman that rushed from the Thane’s room. Instead, he moved deeper into the labyrinthian system of caves, away from the areas frequented by the assassins, away from the welling uproar.
He smiled, as if with some secret amusement.
• • •
“You’re sure no one saw you?”
Helgin took off his cloak with a sweeping motion that stirred a small breeze in the dankness, and threw the garment into a corner of the room. He glared at the speaker and the two people sitting in shadow behind the man. “What do you take me for, Renard? When I don’t care to be seen, I can be much more elusive than you—after all, who did Kaethe send to do her dirty work here? It wasn’t you, was it? She knows your abilities.”
Renard grimaced. His skin was the color of tea; he was stockily built, but rather tall. In the wan glow of a half-shuttered hoverlamp, the outline of his figure was indistinct, but Helgin could see the thorny spines and thick coil of a plant-pet around his shoulders. Renard stroked the thing as he talked.
“Keep your voice down, Motsognir.”
“Are you worried, Renard?” The dwarf grinned lopsidedly at him. If anything, Helgin’s voice was a trifle louder, raspy as always. It carried well. “I saw the people you had hidden outside. One on the roof across the street, another down the way pretending to be casually leaning from a window. Right? You need to teach them better, but they’ll keep away any of Vingi’s guards. And I lost the two others that trailed me from the port, lost them way back on the outskirts of Dasta.
”
“Vingi’s people?” It was the woman behind Renard. She stepped up into the light. Helgin looked at her appreciatively—then decided she looked too serious.
“No,” he said curtly. “Diplos. The Regent’s lackeys.”
He could see the relief pull at the woman’s face. “Good.”
“Don’t deceive yourself, m’Dame. What the Diplos know, Vingi will eventually find out. He has a better intelligence network than you might think.” Helgin turned back to Renard. “Do these two have to be here?”
“They’re part of my cell.”
“Tell them to wait outside.”
Renard stared at the Motsognir, one hand idly petting the beast around his neck, smoothing down the fleshy spines. Helgin looked back at him blandly, one hand on his hip. The tableau held; then Renard jerked his head in the direction of the door. “Micha, Alex. Please.”
The two gave Helgin appraising glances as they passed him. The dwarf waited until the door had shut behind them, then went over, opened it again, glanced outside, and latched it. He pulled a chair from the side of the room to the table behind which Renard stood. He sat.
“How long have you been here this time, Renard?”
The man’s eyes narrowed. “Three standards, almost. I was gone for nearly five. Why?”
“FitzEvard worries about his hirelings, that’s all. Doesn’t want them to become too involved in their work and forget who’s ultimately the benefactor of all you’ve been doing.”
“Are you making an accusation, or just noise? I don’t frighten that easily, man.”
Helgin’s eyes widened in mock surprise. “Frighten you, Renard? Me try a silly tactic like that?”
“Just tell FitzEvard I haven’t forgotten.”
“I understand you lost Vasella.”
Renard grimaced. His hand left off its stroking; a tremor ran the length of his living collar. “Yah, the damned Hoorka . . .”
Helgin shook his head in exaggerated sadness. “Now, you see, that’s just the problem—you shouldn’t let yourself get so perturbed. Your job is to see that the low kin and lassari stay angry. What’s going to anger them more than losing a folk hero? You want Vingi to do exactly what he’s doing. And you could certainly stand to have a martyr to play with, especially when it’s not you.”
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