Assassins' Dawn

by Stephen Leigh

  McWilms shrugged. He toyed with a napkin. “It took some time, yah. But it wasn’t that difficult or painful. The kin could afford the treatments then, even if the Regent hadn’t picked up the bills. It wouldn’t be so lucky for an apprentice now.” He looked up, and his smoky eyes were troubled.

  Gyll frowned. “I’ve heard rumors to that effect, and Valdisa hinted at it when I talked to her in Underasgard.”

  “That was you, then, that caused all the commotion. Valdisa wouldn’t talk about it afterward, but all the older kin said it had to be you, or the Thane wouldn’t have been so upset. She really laid into the entrance guards.” Jeriad smiled.

  “Are things really that bad, Jeriad?”

  McWilms’s smile faded as quickly as it had come. His gaze dropped back to the napkin wrapped in his fingers. “I shouldn’t complain, I suppose. But, yah, the contracts have gotten scarce, and most of them we do get are the Li-Gallant’s. We haven’t been offworld since Heritage. Our equipment suffers most of all. The flitters are old and eating into the treasury with repairs—we only have two that are at all reliable. The bodyshields”—Gyll saw a shadow of pain cross McWilms’s face—“are in poor shape. I’m convinced they cost Ric’s life on our last contract.”

  “I saw the smoke of the funeral. I didn’t know who . . . D’Mannberg’s gone to the Hag?” Gyll asked softly. “I’m very sorry to hear that.”

  “He was my kin-father. I guess you wouldn’t have known that; my initiation came after you left. He gave me the rites, sponsored me.” He’d dropped the mangled napkin. He rubbed at his right arm—the budded one—as if it pained him, as if some vestige of the former hurt lurked there.

  “I’m sorry, Jeriad.” Gyll reached out to touch McWilms’s right hand, still on the table.

  McWilms gave him a wan smile. “We all knew about the shields, Ulthane. It’s no one’s fault really; we knew their limitations, and Ric and I should have been more careful, neh? Thane Valdisa would have had them repaired if she could. It’s ironic; with the money from that contract, she did have two of them fixed.” With a visible effort, McWilms shook off his mood. He pulled his hand back, sat back against the wall of the booth. “How about the drink, neh? On me.”

  “After that tale? I’ve got all of the Oldins’ money to spend, Jeriad. I’ll waste some of it here.”

  Gyll looked up—the innkeeper seemed to be engrossed in a conversation at the bar, but he was not looking at the woman with whom he talked. His attention wandered everywhere but in their direction. He would not look at Gyll. The woman placed money on the bar and left, following another couple out the ornate doors. Gyll noticed for the first time that most of the patrons seemed to have departed—the inn was nearly empty now. The innkeeper finally glanced their way, an unhappy look in his eyes. Gyll waggled a finger to attract his attention. “Two mulled wines, if you please, sirrah.” The innkeeper nodded.

  The wine arrived a few minutes later. The innkeeper was ill-at-ease, serving them. Sweat dappled his generous brow. He wiped meaty hands on his apron. “We don’t often see Hoorka in here,” he said. His smile slipped in and out, uncertain, a false sun behind quickly moving clouds. “Can we expect to see more of your excellent kin in here in the future, sirrah?” He glanced from Gyll to Jeriad.

  McWilms stared at Gyll for a long moment, but Gyll could not read his expression. Then the Hoorka glanced up at the innkeeper. “I doubt it, sirrah,” he said with the exaggerated politeness of guilded kin. “I simply happened to see my friend here on the street. Your fine establishment was convenient and attracted us.”

  “Ahh, that’s sad news.” It hadn’t seemed to make him excessively unhappy. The tentative smile almost broke into a full grin, and there was relief in his voice. “I’m glad you chose us for a quick refreshment, though.” There was perhaps too much emphasis on the word “quick.” Gyll would have spoken, but a glance from McWilms made him sit silently.

  “We just wished to warm ourselves for a few minutes.”

  “Well, enjoy it, sirrahs.” The man sauntered back to the bar. Halfway there, he began whistling.

  They didn’t say anything for a moment, hands around the warmth of the mugs. Gyll was taken aback by the innkeeper’s unsubtle hints; McWilms seemed simply bemused.

  “That sort of thing happen often?” Gyll asked.

  McWilms nodded. “It was always there, Ulthane. Even when you were on Neweden last.”

  “Call me Gyll. I’m not Ulthane anymore.”

  “Gyll, then. You remember it—that vague hostility from the guilded kin. It’s gotten worse. A lot worse, sometimes. Nobody’s particularly overt, because the Hoorka are still feared, but they all know that we can barely lay claim to being high kin with our finances so tight. We couldn’t afford the tithing for the last election, so no rule-guild represents us on Council this session. Not that that matters; most kin look on us as allied with the Li-Gallant’s rule-guild. They won’t do anything to disturb Vingi, but they don’t like us.” McWilms sipped his wine. “Try it, Gyll. It’s pretty good.”

  “You don’t want to talk about this?”

  “None of the Hoorka would want to talk about it.” He sipped again. “Sometimes I feel like we’re on the down side of our evolution, like the Hoorka are going to be the lassari we once were.”

  “Because of your Thane and the way she’s handling the guild?”

  That brought up McWilms’s head. He started to speak, then shook his head and started again. “Is that what you’d like to think, Gyll?”

  “I’m trying not to think anything.”

  “It’s not her fault. It’s Neweden, and the way it’s changed.”

  “Then maybe Hoorka should change.”

  “That’s not what you used to say, is it?” Then McWilms gave a short chuckle. “Can we change the subject?—it depresses me. Tell me about the Family Oldin, Gyll. How do they function, what are you doing there, and who are these Trader-Hoorka I keep seeing around the port?”

  “Thane Valdisa wouldn’t want me to talk about them.”

  “She doesn’t have to know.” A pause. “Please, Gyll. I’m curious. It’s been ages since I’ve heard from you, and you know about the kin. How about you?”

  “All right,” Gyll said. And he spoke.

  • • •

  “That was pretty good, Renard. Do you always burn down half a district to make your points? If so, remind me to stay out of the fire-insurance racket.”

  “How was I to know that the Li-Gallant’d respond so frigging slow? I know you, dwarf; you’re not worried about all the innocent lives, are you?”

  It was a squalid and dingy room hidden in a warren of dark streets and buildings deserted by all but the poorest. Of the two men, only Helgin could stand upright. The illumination was a candle set precariously on a rickety table. A mattress festooned with snarled bedsheets was in one corner. Helgin’s bare feet scratched against the gritty dust of the floor. “Nice place you got here,” the Motsognir said. “How much is the rent?”

  “I’m only here for a few days—then we’ll go back to the old place. I’d be interested to know how you found it, though.”

  “I followed my nose. That plant-pet of yours stinks, remember?”

  Renard fondled the thick coil of the creature around his shoulders. He was sitting across the table from Helgin. Candlelight wavered across his face, glinting in his dark eyes. “Don’t hide behind insults, Helgin. What’s on your mind that you’d take the effort to find me? As I said, I doubt that you’ve been stricken with a conscience this late in your life.”

  Helgin shrugged. “You can’t effect change without some harm. I just don’t like seeing it done wholesale. You could have been more subtle, Renard.”

  “Is that you speaking, or FitzEvard Oldin?”

  “Me.” A throaty grumble.

  “Then don’t whine about my tactics, dwarf. I do what I feel I need to do. No more, no less, and Oldin pays me, not you.”

  “I’m FitzEvard’s representative
here.”

  “And that pet Sula of yours isn’t, neh? Don’t be upset; I know you have to show off for the Li-Gallant, don’t you? You even got some of my people the other night—the ones I wanted you to get, of course, but enough to satisfy Vingi. I didn’t mean for Dasta to burn, but I don’t have a hell of a lot of control over a riot, do I?”

  Helgin laughed. Renard continued to stroke his plant-pet, but slowly he smiled. “Oh, you deserve congratulations,” Helgin said. “You’ve put the Sula in a good light. I just don’t want you to overstep your bounds, to forget your role in this little drama. Don’t get the feeling that you’ve got the leading part, Renard. Don’t start thinking of yourself as powerful.”

  “You’re too damned ugly for the star role yourself, Motsognir.”

  Helgin grinned. He got to his feet. “Don’t make me angry, Renard. You can be replaced or eliminated altogether. It might even give me pleasure, if you goad me too much.”

  “I don’t worry about your threats.”

  “I think you’d better.” Helgin went to the door. Hand on the latch, he turned to look at Renard again. “Why is it we don’t get along? It’d be a lot easier if we did. You could try being properly subservient.”

  “Get out of here, dwarf.”

  “No answer, then?”

  “Out.”

  Helgin pulled the door open. Down a short corridor, sunlight gleamed through the uneven boards of another door. “Don’t be too zealous, Renard. Oldin wants something left of Neweden.”

  “Don’t trouble your tiny brain about it, Motsognir. Just get me the things I need.”

  “They’re being prepared. You’ll get them soon.”

  “See that I do. And if you’re done giving me your shit, I’d appreciate the privacy.”

  Helgin looked about the room. “You could always raise mushrooms. They need a lot of shit, too.” He laughed. Still chuckling, he went out.

  • • •

  “Well, Helgin? How did your meeting with that distributor go?”

  They were back aboard Goshawk, in Gyll’s cabin. Neweden wheeled below them, half-shadowed. Gyll cuddled his bumblewort in his lap, scratching its ear flaps gently. It hissed in contentment.

  Helgin was staring at the dark world outside the port. “Well enough, I suppose,” he said. “The man’s a penurious sort, but I managed to get some business done. You want the details?”

  “No,” Gyll replied. “Just put them on the com-unit, and I’ll go over it later.” He glanced at the broad back of the Motsognir. “You seem distracted tonight, Helgin.”

  “Just tired. The gravity here pulls on me too much.”

  “You haven’t insulted anyone in hours. You’ve been almost civil.”

  “Not funny, Gyll.” Helgin turned. The dwarf, with the side-to-side walk of the Motsognir, came over to Gyll’s chair. He reached out to pet the wort. It chirruped in ecstasy at the attention, rolling over heavily onto its back. Helgin kneaded the soft fur of its underbelly. “You took care of the tariffs for the last shipments?”

  “Yah. And I met someone as well—Jeriad McWilms. You remember him? One of the apprentices—the one that was almost killed on Heritage.”

  “Not really.”

  Gyll glanced at the dwarf. He’d been joking, but there was a moodiness to the Motsognir that he’d never seen before. Helgin was quiet, laconic. He looked up at Gyll, noticing his stare, and his eyes were almost angry, the walnut pupils darkened almost to black. “Well, did you talk to him? Is that what you’re waiting for me to ask? You want to brag because you were brave enough to ignore Valdisa’s warning? How can I show you how impressed I am?”

  Helgin pulled his hand away from the wort angrily. The animal screeched in protest at the roughness of the motion and jumped from Gyll’s lap. It went to a corner of the room and curled up, keening softly to itself.

  “Hey, Motsognir. Easy.”

  Helgin glowered at Gyll for a moment, unrepentant; then the rage seemed to leave him. He sighed deeply, rumbling an apology. “Sorry. I really am tired, Gyll. That’s all. Still not used to Neweden yet, neh?” He knuckled his eyes, yawned widely. “What’d McWilms have to say? Evidently it bothers you, or you wouldn’t have brought it up.”

  “Are you just impressing me with your perception, or do you really want to hear it?”

  Despite his mood, Helgin grinned. “That sounds like one of my lines. You’ve been working with me too long. Reverse the two clauses, though; it works better.”

  Gyll smiled. “Yah?”

  “You have to polish your insults. They don’t just happen. So . . . what did McWilms tell you?”

  Gyll leaned back in his floater. He put his feet up on his desk, clasped his hands behind his head. “What caught my attention wasn’t really anything he said, specifically. It was the whole tone behind his words, coupled with what I’ve seen and heard so far. I think I might hate the Hoorka, what they’ve become. It bothers me to see them regarded as Vingi’s private assassins, to see them treated like low kin, to see how poor they’ve become.”

  “Does that mean you’ll be able to convince them to go with us easily?”

  Gyll frowned. “If it were just that, probably yes. But Valdisa. . . she doesn’t want me to get close to them—or her—again. Today was just an accident, not a defiance. But maybe that’s what I should be: defiant. I don’t know, Helgin. I hate what I see.”

  “You can’t do a damn thing about it,” the dwarf grumbled. “You ain’t Hoorka; not that kind, anyway.”

  “But I created them.”

  “And you feel responsible.”

  “I feel like I might want to destroy them.”

  “And who the hell are you, one of the gods? I think you’re being a trifle melodramatic, Gyll. Besides, you’re here to recruit the Hoorka. They might be a little irritated if you start undermining them, and then FitzEvard would be angry with you, and he can act like a god a damned sight better than you.” Helgin shook his head. “Better just to be unemotional about it. Be silent and unmoved, like a rock. Like me.”

  Gyll laughed, and his laughter had an edge. “You’re no rock, Motsognir. You just hide your sensitivity and pretend it doesn’t exist. That rock of yours is only a stage prop.”

  Helgin snorted derision. The wort looked up, curious, from the corner. “I still wouldn’t try kicking it, Gyll. You might break your foot.”

  Chapter 6

  THE STATE DINNER was held in an ornate hall near the main entrance of Diplo Center. The high walls displayed a shifting landscape of arid beauty, melding imperceptibly at the corners. Above, the ceiling was masked by blue-gray streaks of cloud behind which lurked an orange sun. The clouds moved with the wall landscape, entering and leaving the room left to right. The people in the room could well believe that they sat on a small plateau high up in new and jagged peaks. Boulders sat here and there; the floor was earthen and except where the long table stood, was not level. One could see to the horizon in every direction; there, a long finger of topaz ocean, or a scintillating line of river snaking across windblown plain, and to the left the line of majestic and austere mountains marched into the haze.

  Gyll did not envy the people that had to clean this up afterward.

  Helgin walked to where the plateau, at the juncture of wall and floor, seemed to drop in a sheer, knife-edged peak. He leaned carefully forward, looking down. “Shit,” he said. He backed up a step and bent at the waist again, reaching out with a forefinger. He touched nothing, and—badly overbalanced—rocked back on his feet once more. He took a tentative step toward the cliff and repeated the process. This time his probing finger was halted by the invisible wall.

  “Hah,” he announced. “If anyone here has vertigo problems, their supper’s going to be all over the floor. Good thing it’s dirt.”

  Gyll held back a laugh. McClannan, standing beside d’Embry, looked annoyed. The Regent herself seemed politely amused while nearby waiters (actually some of the lower-echelon Diplo staffers recruited for the evening)
smiled but kept a discreet silence. Helgin moved to the door, which stood without visible support at one end of the plateau. He leaned as close to the wall as he could without touching it, peering around the back of the door.

  “Good,” he said. “You wrapped the diorama around the back as well. The thing even throws a shadow. Very good.” He tapped the wall with a fingernail. It gave off a sound like crystal. “Too damned good for Neweden.” The dwarf glanced from McClannan to d’Embry. “Who’s supposed to be impressed?”

  Gyll began to speak, but McClannan was quicker. “It obviously impressed you, did it not, though I can see where a much-traveled Trader might be jaded—”

  “Seneschal,” d’Embry interrupted. McClannan glanced at her; she smiled up at him too sweetly. “I’m afraid you’ve fallen into the Motsognir’s trap. He deliberately goads you. Do you not, sirrah?” she asked, turning to Helgin.

  The dwarf grinned at Gyll, who shook his head. Then he bowed deeply. “You render me transparent, Regent. It’s a fault of mine, I’m afraid; I like to see people make asses of themselves.”

  McClannan scowled. D’Embry, the hump of the symbiote concealed in glittering cloth that flickered uneasily from azure to scarlet, nodded back to the dwarf. “You see, Seneschal,” she said, “Traders are wonderful manipulators, and the Motsognir are most likely their teachers. FitzEvard, best of all, has learned his lessons.”

  Gyll cleared his throat. He was dressed in a close-fitting tunic and pants, white piped with blue. The color flattered him, the fit accentuated the lean hardness of his body. He spoke softly, pleasantly. “I’ve always found FitzEvard Oldin to be a man of his word, Regent.”

  “I don’t doubt that he is, Sula. If, for instance, he said that he would never kill you, he’d send somebody else to do the job.”

  Gyll bridled at that. His eyes narrowed, and the polite smile he’d worn as part of his costume dissolved. “You play the same games as the Motsognir, Regent. At least he doesn’t pretend to have the veneer of civility.”