Micha was shoved up against him. He grabbed at her sleeve, and she twisted to hug him quickly, her face a mixture of fear and pleasure. “It’s going as you said it would.” Someone ran past them, yelling wordlessly, blundering into the bier. Alex, cursing, pulled the man free.
“We have to get ourselves out now,” Renard answered Micha. He could not keep a quick smile from his face. The night was loud around them, alive with pain and fright. “Tell the others to leave. Go separately, then stay in hiding for the next few days. I’m going to stay here for a few minutes, then go myself. Move!”
“Not without a kiss.”
“If this excites you, m’Dame, then you’re a disgusting creature.” But he smiled again as he said it.
“I’m disgusting.”
He kissed her, quickly, roughly, then thrust her away. “Now, get moving.”
“I’m gone.” She laughed back at him, her eyes crinkling in delight. “I hope Vasella doesn’t mind being left here.”
“He’s being comforted by the Hag. He doesn’t care. Now, will you go.”
She left him without another word, slipping her way through the pushing, milling throngs. Vasella’s flowers were being trampled underneath; the shroud had slipped to reveal the face of the corpse, shining with the funeral oils for the cremation. Renard nodded to Vasella’s body and moved away, back to the steps of the church where he could survey the scene.
The fighting had spread, the nucleus of the conflict still in the streets. At least two of the guards were down, dozens of lassari lay still on the pavement. It was no longer simply lassari against kin—it was riot. On the opposite side of the street, Renard could see a knot of people around a storefront. The holo-display had been shattered, looters moved through the wreckage. A sting spat once, then again—screams came from around a corner of the church. Renard ducked behind a pillar. A group of lassari came running up the steps toward him. They flung some noisome, pungent liquid in a bottle at the broken doors of the church. Glass splintered, the liquid splashed. Renard, suddenly frightened, ran, as a crude torch, flame guttering, was tossed into the spreading pool. The front of the building exploded with light and heat, bright searing flame. Smoke roiled up, billowing, hiding the moons. Over the roofs of the nearest houses, Renard could see the flashing strobes of approaching cruisers. Reinforcements had been summoned.
Renard wiped at his pants—some of the oil had splashed onto him. He no longer wanted to stay: this mess would continue just as well without him. He made his way around the church and into the warren of dark streets.
The mob howled at his back. Sirens shrilled in answer.
• • •
“Damn you, Santos, I can’t believe you just sat here and watched this without waking me.”
D’Embry was furious, and fury made her weak. The symbiote wriggled on her back, restless, no doubt pumping sympathetic chemicals into her to leech that rage, and she wanted none of the parasite’s solace. Not now, not when the screen of the com-unit showed her Dasta Burrough in flames, not when she could look out her office window and see the smudge of smoke in the sky and the distant smear of erratic light.
McClannan was at the window now, gazing out. He turned to face d’Embry, who sat in her usual floater. “Regent,” he said far too calmly, “I contacted the Li-Gallant’s office. No one there wanted our assistance in any way, not even our fire-fighting apparatus. That ties our hands—we aren’t allowed to interfere in local affairs without the Li-Gallant’s explicit permission. We didn’t have it, so I saw no reason to rouse you from a comfortable bed.”
He seemed eminently logical. He looked handsomely innocent. He even smiled, an offer of reconciliation. She despised his easy manner. “I don’t believe this,” she said again. Yellow fire spat at the viewscreen, and glowing sparks coiled heavenward. “Death and destruction on this scale hasn’t been seen here since that typhoon six standards ago. There’s a small-scale battle being fought between lassari and kin, and you didn’t think it warranted awakening me.” She let sarcastic amusement lash at him, a bitter marveling at his stupidity. “McClannan, my dear Seneschal, what would impel you to get me out of bed? Does Diplo Center have to burn first? And wherever did you get the idea that you were competent to make any kind of decision?”
McClannan’s face took on a pained expression. It still looked like a regal mask. “I’m sorry you feel that way, Regent. Believe me, I only had your comfort and well-being in mind.”
“I don’t want comfort!” She shouted the words, and the effort reminded her that, indeed, she was still tired and that it was early in the morning. She sagged back in her seat, mindful of the hump of the symbiote on her shoulders. She put her hand on her forehead, her elbows on the padded arms of the chair. She closed her eyes and concentrated on breathing.
“Get me the Li-Gallant,” she said wearily. “Not his office, not some damn underling, but Vingi himself.”
“Regent—”
“Do it.” She didn’t have the strength to do more than whisper the words. Come on, parasite. Do your job and give me some help. She could feel its faint movements, could—somewhere under the surface of her consciousness—feel its presence, tandem with her own. A soothing coolness spread through her chest; she could breathe without pain. She kept her eyes closed. In the background, she could hear McClannan fidgeting with her com-unit, then his low, too-pleasant voice speaking. Someone replied, he spoke again. D’Embry stopped listening, her attention on her body, on her breathing, on all the small pains that added up to a nagging uneasiness.
“Regent?”
Maybe it is getting to be time. Maybe this next visit, Aris wouldn’t be just a pleasurable prison but a home.
“Regent?”
She started. The hands came slowly down to rest on her desk; she opened her eyes. “Yes?”
McClannan was staring at her quizzically. “The Li-Gallant will be on in a moment.”
“How do I look, Santos?”
“Perhaps you’d want me to talk with him,” he ventured softly. “You do look as if you’ve been awakened in a rush.”
“Good. I’m ready, then, Seneschal.”
The Li-Gallant looked almost jolly. He nodded at the screen and pursed thick lips at d’Embry. “You look tired, Regent. Surely a small problem such as a fire in Dasta hasn’t kept you up? It’s a task for the local government, neh?”
“Frankly, Li-Gallant, I slept through the beginning of it.”—with a glance at McClannan—“I assume the initial problem was Vasella’s funeral?”
Ponderously Vingi nodded. Behind him, d’Embry could see his office and the shadowy figures of his guild-kin bustling about. “That’s not exactly a difficult supposition to make. Yah, it was Vasella’s funeral. The lassari—unprovoked, I might add—attacked the guards I’d sent there to protect those very same lassari from any harassment. But then, you can’t teach gratitude to the lassari, Regent; they’ll just turn and bite you.”
“How many of them did you have to kill for their ingratitude, Li-Gallant?”
Vingi nearly smiled. “I see that your lack of sleep hasn’t blunted your tongue, Regent. There has been some loss of life, I regret to say. Two of them were my kin.” The Li-Gallant, abruptly, looked quickly and impossibly sad. It nearly made d’Embry laugh. For once, she was glad of the numbing effect of the symbiote.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” she said. “But I pray that you haven’t let it affect your judgment. You are dealing with the problem calmly, I trust.”
“I want the people responsible for this outrage, Regent. The Hag’s Legion, as you must know, are the ones to blame, not me.”
“Still—”
“Your humanitarianism is well-known, Regent, if perhaps a trifle misplaced in this situation.” A hand bright with rings came up to brush the Li-Gallant’s hair back from his forehead. “And, in any case, at this moment my people are doing very little.”
“You can’t just let Dasta burn, Li-Gallant.” Anger and dread rose in d’Embry’s thr
oat. Adrenaline banished fatigue. “I won’t let you do that. We have both the equipment and the people to work it here in the Center. I’ll send them down.”
“That won’t be necessary, Regent.” Again, Vingi smiled. “I’ve already received another offer of assistance, and I’ve accepted it.”
“And whose might that be?”
“Sula Hermond of the Traders, Regent. He and his Trader-Hoorka. They’ve offered to secure the area, snare any of the rioters they find, and be certain that the fires are contained.”
“Traders? Gods, Li-Gallant, Hermond was kin. He’ll kill them . . .”
“Just as I would?” Vingi finished the sentence for her. “You forget, Regent, that I’ve decided that I like the Neweden Hoorka. Maybe Hermond’s people will be just as helpful to me, neh?”
A vague burning knotted d’Embry’s stomach. She clenched her teeth against it. Her breath was shallow and unsatisfying again. “Li-Gallant—”
“M’Dame, why do you persist in trying to do my job as well as your own? I’ve given Sula Hermond the task, not your Diplos; we’ll see how well he does. Without interference.”
“You’re indeed right, Li-Gallant. We will see. I hope for his sake that I enjoy the scene. Good morning to you, Li-Gallant.”
With a feeling of childish glee, she slapped the disconnect contact. The Li-Gallant’s startled face faded into darkness. D’Embry rose slowly and walked hesitantly over to the window. She leaned there, hands against the sill. Smoke was light against the backdrop of the night sky. It threw a pall over the city-glow of Sterka. “Santos, get a flitter readied. We’re going to Dasta.”
“Now, Regent?”
“Now.”
“Regent, please, the exertion . . .”
“It won’t kill me, Santos. And if it does, you can bungle the regency to the best of your ability. Get the flitter, Seneschal.”
“I just don’t see—”
“I know you don’t. Get the flitter.”
She remained silent to the rest of his protestations. Finally, with a sigh of resignation, he called for the vehicle.
• • •
“Hey, Gyll! Enemy approaching behind us.”
Helgin shouted loudly enough that d’Embry and McClannan heard the bellow. The Motsognir swung off his perch on an overturned flitter and strode toward the bank of screens where Gyll stood. Gyll glanced up, startled, then laughed when he saw the Regent and her Seneschal making their way toward him, flanked by Trader-Hoorka guards. “Damn it, dwarf,” he said. “You had me thinking there was a horde of lassari bearing down on us.”
“Lassari you could handle. The Regent’s more trouble than that.” Then the Motsognir bowed low to the approaching d’Embry. “Good morning, Regent. Out for a stroll? A little too warm for Neweden, don’t you think?”
D’Embry didn’t appear to be amused. Her face was pinched, drawn. She frowned, and her walk was stooped and halting. Gyll stepped forward to greet her, dismissing the escorts with a hand signal. The Hoorka nodded to him and walked away. “Regent, Seneschal,” he said, bowing. “I can only assume that you’ve talked to the Li-Gallant.”
“You’re quite right, Sula.” D’Embry’s voice was husky. Gyll had never heard her sound so weak or tired. “It worried me enough that I felt I had to come here.”
“What would you like to see first?” Helgin had taken a seat on one of the consoles. LEDs flickered angrily under him. “The torturing of the prisoners, the maiming of children, or the despoiling of the dead?” He grinned.
Gyll glared at the Motsognir, who shrugged, then turned back to the Regent. “You’re welcome to look, as long as you stay out of the way of my people.” He gestured widely to indicate the area. They were set up in the middle of Charing Cross, a main intersection just outside Dasta. A bank of five large screens stood in an arc before them, each displaying a different scene. Before the screens was a maze of wiring and the bulwarks of the consoles. Several people in the uniform of the Trader-Hoorka sat before them, intent. Hoverlamps, full open, bathed the area in brilliance, making the darkness around them dense in contrast. Traders moved about, shouting, talking, rushing, but all with a sense of order, of studied calm. The stench of smoke was in the air, heavy and suffocating. Flames flailed at the sky far down the street. Just overhead, a firebus shrilled past; the wind of its passage buffeted them. Gyll did not speak until it had passed.
“What can I show you, Regent?”
“How many lassari have been killed?” If her voice was weak, her eyes were not. At her side, McClannan shifted uneasily. He seemed uncomfortable.
“Forty, possibly more,” Gyll answered. “It’s difficult to keep an accurate count in all this confusion, and there may well be bodies in some of the buildings that have burned and collapsed. We won’t have any kind of accurate count until the fires are out and my people can get in there safely.”
“How many will you kill before then?”
Gyll took a deep, hissing breath. Behind him, he heard the slap of Helgin’s feet on the pavement as the dwarf jumped down from the console. “How many innocents has your Alliance killed, old woman?” the Motsognir thundered. “On Longago, on Heritage . . .” McClannan looked as if he were about to step up between d’Embry and the Traders. “Oh, good,” Helgin said, now standing alongside Gyll. “That’s it, McClannan. I’d love to splatter that noble beak all over your face.”
“Helgin!” Gyll shouted. He placed a hand on the dwarf’s shoulder. Helgin glowered, but subsided into low muttering. “Regent, before you start making remarks that make you sound like an idiot, please let me show you what we’re doing. Make your judgments after you’re aware of the facts.”
D’Embry’s face was more sour than before. She coughed suddenly, and Gyll realized that some of her evident irritation stemmed from the environment, that she was uncomfortable. The symbiote shivered under her tunic—the sight made Gyll slightly ill-at-ease himself. He wondered, again, how that would feel, to be linked with the parasite. D’Embry cleared her throat liquidly. “My pardon, Sula. Please conduct your tour—it seems that the Li-Gallant wants you in charge here.”
“With good reason,” Helgin commented.
If d’Embry heard, she made no answer. Gyll led them forward into the glare of the hoverlamps. “The fire’s starting to come under control,” he said, gesturing at one of the screens. A firebus hovered in the midst of flame and smoke, a demon from hell; as they watched, it loosed a cloud of its own that fell into the inferno. The fire gouted, then began to subside. “A flame inhibitor we’ve developed, Regent. We’ve sold it to several of the Alliance governments. We could have stopped a lot of this destruction if the Li-Gallant had called us in earlier. Several blocks of Dasta will be leveled, but it won’t spread further. My Hoorka made a sweep of the critical areas first—we’ve set up aid stations for those burnt out of their homes. We’re not killing them, Regent.”
He didn’t give her time to reply. He swiveled, pointed at another of the displays. “There’s still some minor skirmishing going on with lassari rioters, but it’s all disorganized and scattered now.” The screen looked down on a filthy, wreckage-strewn lane. Several men and women, lassari or low kin by their clothing, were running from a phalanx of Trader-Hoorka. The group halted suddenly in mid-flight as another squad of the Hoorka turned a corner before them. Tanglefoot bombs went off; the lassari fell in a writhing, fouled heap. Gyll’s people, using neutralizing sprays carefully, separated them one at a time and led the lassari away. “We’ll be taking them to the building just to your left. Some of the Li-Gallant’s guards are there, and the captives are checked against a master file of known insurgents. If they aren’t matched, and if we’ve no actual evidence of any unlawful acts, they’re taken to one of the aid stations. If they do match . . .” Gyll shrugged. “Vingi’s people are in charge past there. They take them, and if you’ve a quarrel with that, talk to the Li-Gallant. Neweden has its own legal codes, after all. But no one’s being killed here, and none of the Trader p
ersonnel are doing harm to anyone unless we’re attacked first. I’m not going to lose any of my people if it can be avoided, Regent, but I’m also not starting a vendetta against the lassari.”
Gyll turned away from the screens. A woman hurried over to him, said something to Gyll in a low tone. He answered her, slowly, quietly. She left. Gyll stared at d’Embry.
“And unless I’m mistaken, Regent, I’m owed an apology.”
D’Embry gazed at the bank of screens, at the rush of people, at the dwindling shroud of smoke. She seemed to breathe too quickly, but she nodded. “You have it, Sula. I spoke far too hastily. All I can say is that Neweden does that to a person.”
“Oh, hooray,” Helgin said without inflection or excitement. D’Embry’s sharp stare flickered over the dwarf. “That’s a good look,” Helgin remarked, hands on hips. “I’d be quaking in my boots if I were wearing them. Keep working on it.” He flexed his toes on the pavement. They cracked.
Unexpectedly, d’Embry smiled, even as McClannan scowled. She laughed. “Sula, Motsognir, you don’t know how relieved I am to see this. I expected . . . Well, let it go. You’re going to cause me royal headaches with the Li-Gallant because of your damned efficiency, but at the moment I don’t care.” She laughed again. McClannan stared at her in amazement. “I really don’t care,” she repeated, shaking her head.
“Regent, perhaps we’d better leave. The Sula is busy here, and tomorrow’s schedule’s rather hectic.” McClannan came out of his stunned silence, bending over d’Embry like a solicitous nursemaid. Gyll thought for a moment that she would snarl at him, but she glanced at the man with an odd tolerance. The symbiote, some sedative it put in her? Everyone knows she can’t stand McClannan. Or is she truly pleased with what she sees here?
“All right, Santos,” she said. “We’ll leave the Sula to his duties. But let me first ask if you, Sula (and Sirrah Motsognir as well), would dine with me. I’ll be having a supper with the Li-Gallant in a few weeks.”
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