Gyll expected anger, expected d’Embry to turn cold and ask them—civilly—to leave. Certainly the expression on McClannan’s face was that of unmasked venom. But d’Embry simply waved a hand (glinting silver) in dismissal. “Sula,” she said, “the Motsognir insults simply because he enjoys getting the reactions; whether he says the truth or not doesn’t matter to him. I was Regent when FitzEvard Oldin came to Printemps. There was another Trader on that world as well, of the Family Shannon. They argued, and I was forced to intervene. FitzEvard vowed to me that he would do nothing to harm this man. He didn’t. In fact, FitzEvard was with me when an intruder killed the Trader Shannon. I could never prove anything, but both FitzEvard and I knew what had happened.” She paused a moment, and her face took on an aspect of sternness. She seemed to stand straighter. “Up to that time, I thought I liked Oldin well enough myself. We’d even flirted, and I’d considered letting it go further. He was handsome enough then—he probably still is; his type seems to age gracefully. He was slick, and he looked straight at me and lied with a smile on his face and we both knew he was lying. It didn’t bother him that I knew, as long as nothing could be proved.” She stopped and regarded Gyll. “I only tell you this to warn you about your employer, Sula.”
“I think I know him well enough already. And I also think your bias shows, Regent.”
The discussion went no further. The doorward chimed, and the Li-Gallant Vingi entered. He moved, as always, heavily, ponderously, each step deliberate and certain. Rolls of flesh jiggled under a wide and ornate belt; his multitude of rings flashed light. Behind him came the kin-lords of the other rule-guilds. Gyll searched the crowd for familiar faces as d’Embry nodded to the waiters to begin circulating with trays of hors d’oeuvres and wine. Gyll recognized only one of them: Sirrah d’Vegnes, who had been one of the underlings in Gunnar’s rule-guild standards ago, once one of the challengers to Vingi’s dictatorship. D’Vegnes wore the belt-holo of kin-lord now, and he was not at all the match of his slain predecessor. He fawned over the Li-Gallant, posturing. Gyll took a glass from one of the waiters, watching as d’Embry and McClannan moved among their guests. There were polite compliments on the setting of the room.
“You know what gives it away, Gyll?” Helgin startled Gyll out of his reverie. He looked down at the Motsognir. Helgin held two glasses of wine; as Gyll watched, the dwarf drained one and set it firmly upside down in the dirt.
“What gives what away?”
“The illusion of this room. The acoustics foul the pretense. This still sounds like a room, not outdoors. Too much presence, too much quick echo and reverberation. Once you notice it, you can’t be taken in again.”
Gyll made a face. “Thanks. I was rather enjoying it.”
“Well, that’s the trouble with illusions. They fall through too quickly.”
“Some people simply can’t appreciate beauty when they see it.”
“Some people just like being fooled,” Helgin retorted.
They stared at each other, half-smiling. Then Gyll shook his head. Helgin slapped him on the rump. They laughed.
“Well, it’s good to see that Traders, unlike our two Alliance hosts, get along well.” The voice was a low purr: the Li-Gallant approached them. Helgin nodded to Vingi, Gyll gave the low bow of kin. After a hesitation, the Li-Gallant bowed in return—though less fully—to Gyll. “What gives the two of you so much amusement?’
“We were just discussing the room.”
Vingi nodded massively, glancing slowly about. “It’s rather effective, isn’t it? It would be nice to have something on this scale in the keep. Could the Families do this?”
“We could do it easily enough,” Gyll replied. “I’ve seen Oldin dens that had much the same, if not on quite so elaborate a scale—mainly, we simply project holos beyond false windows. But I’m certain it could be duplicated without trouble.”
“Ah.” Vingi twisted a ring around a finger. He plucked a meatrind from a passing tray. “Perhaps I should price your equipment in comparison with that of the Alliance.” Daintily he placed the meatrind in his mouth.
“The Oldins will be cheaper,” Helgin said.
The Li-Gallant rolled the meatrind around his tongue appreciatively. He swallowed. “Yah, but will it continue to work after the ship has gone?”
“Simply make certain that we stay, Li-Gallant.”
“Perhaps I could. If it were worth my effort.” Vingi looked from Helgin to Gyll.
“We’ve no doubts as to your abilities, Li-Gallant,” Gyll said.
“Very polite of you to mention it, Sula.” A bell chimed. “But I think we’re being called to dinner. Maybe we can continue this conversation there.”
They had no chance. Vingi was seated next to d’Embry, at the head of the table. Gyll and Helgin flanked McClannan at the other end. Only Helgin relished that arrangement. He picked up a fork, examined the silver critically. “Not bad, Seneschal,” he said, polishing the tines on his sleeve. “It’s even clean.”
McClannan did not seem disposed to comment. He smiled, weakly, tiredly. He looked resigned to a trying evening.
The dinner was long and varied, a sampling of cuisine from many worlds of the Alliance. Portions were small but multitudinous. Gyll more than once found himself glancing quizzically at Helgin after a plate of unidentifiable something was set before him. Several others he recognized, though he’d tasted few of them before: cockatrice from Thule, spineballs, unijells, Terran beef, and even a puffindle from Neweden’s cold seas. Gyll was sated well before the last course—a pastry of questionable origin that tasted too sweet—but found that he could not resist sampling. Helgin ate everything placed before him, quickly, as if it might be taken away if he tarried.
McClannan talked with Gyll as they ate the pastry. “You know, Sula, what strikes me as the worst fault of the Families is their lack of a central government. We Diplos, for instance, answer to Diplo Center on Niffleheim, which in turn is under the leadership of the Legatus Primus and thence the entire Alliance structure. There is accountability for all our actions.”
“Which doesn’t prevent mistakes, but simply breeds cautious, slow, and mediocre Diplos.” Gyll toyed with his pastry, not looking at the Seneschal; crumbs flaked delicately away from his fork. “It’s my feeling that the looseness of Family society is its virtue, not the opposite.”
“I can’t agree.” McClannan leaned forward, pushing his plate away. His handsome face was eager. “It’s been proved time and time again that anarchy is no answer. Our entire history tells us that: all the times of a strong central government are the times of expansion. When there is none, human space is in shambles.”
“Every time of strong government, from the Reduxtors of the First Empire through Huard, has also ended in chaos. Everyone grabs for the power—spread it out, and there’s less chance of losing everything.”
“Still, you can’t blame the Interregnums on anything but Dame Fate. And it has always been a centralized government, one unified entity, that has brought us back out of those times.”
Gyll shrugged. “But in all that scrambling, we’ve yet to match the technologies of the First Empire . . .”
Gyll found that McClannan bothered him less as he began to know the man. That facile, easy handsomeness must have actually been a burden to him; Gyll suspected that McClannan had always been expected to be successful and had often fallen short of that mark. He was ambitious but not overly gifted with talents to aid that ambition. Gyll would not have wanted the Seneschal on his staff or anywhere in a position of importance, but if the man ever managed to make a friend, he would probably not be a bad companion: facile, and not deep. The polar opposite of d’Embry . . . Gyll made his disagreements in the discussion milder than he might have. “I might also point out, Seneschal,” Gyll continued, “that it was only the Trading Families that kept any glimmer of civilization alive during those dark times. Could the Alliance have formed at all without our work having given them the chance?”
&nbs
p; “You speak as a convert, Sula. All converts are more zealous and less objective.”
“Then let a nonconvert speak, man,” Helgin broke in. He dabbed at his plate with a forefinger, picking up stray crumbs. “The Motsognir have no allegiance to either the Families or the Alliance. For myself, having seen both, I far prefer the Families’ society.” He licked his finger.
McClannan made a poor attempt to mask his revulsion. “Without meaning offense, what do the dwarves know of human civilization? The Motsognir fled human space centuries ago after you stole the ship Naglfar from the Reduxtor Pieter III—you made your choice, then.”
“The Motsognir are as human as you, McClannan—and a hell of a lot smarter. We had no choice about being reengineered—that was an experiment of one of your precious strong central governments,” Helgin said darkly. His mouth twitched under the growth of beard. Gyll began to interrupt, hoping to head off the too-fragile temper of the dwarf, but the doorward chimed. Everyone at the table looked about. At the table’s head, a puzzled d’Embry gestured to one of the waiters. The man began to move toward the door, but it burst open in a gout of sparks, wrecked. Amidst shouts, a group of several lassari entered the room, holding crowd-prods and stings. Gyll jerked to his feet as, around the table, people frantically tried to scramble from their seats. The foremost of the lassari lifted her sting and fired at the ceiling. There was a crystalline explosion; a shower of broken sky rained down on the table. Someone screamed.
“Sit down, all of you!” the woman shouted. “Sit down!”
Most of the guests did so. Gyll hesitated, glancing at Helgin. “After-dinner entertainment, I suppose,” the Motsognir muttered, and shrugged. He sat, as did Gyll. McClannan had not moved; he stared at the lassari, stricken. Pieces of the ceiling littered the table in front of them.
“Better, better,” the woman said. She lowered the sting and looked slowly around the room. The sun was flickering, the clouds had vanished, there was a hole in the sky that revealed piping and wooden beams. “Isn’t this nice. Well, Li-Gallant, was it a good dinner? Was there enough food for that gross stomach of yours?”
D’Embry rose to her feet; Vingi remained silent. “I’m the Regent d’Embry,” she said coldly. “Who are you?”
“Does that matter to you, Regent? Well, I am Micha, and those behind me are part of the Hag’s Legion. Somehow, our invitations didn’t arrive for the dinner tonight. We’re sorry we’re late, but your guards were rather unfriendly.”
“I want all of you out of here.”
There was laughter from the lassari. “That’s not a request you can enforce, Regent. Your guards are all asleep in the corridor—try to call them.”
“If you’ve hurt any of them . . .”
“Hurt them like the Li-Gallant and his pack of pet killers hurt us?” She paused, and then she smiled. “We’re not barbarians, Regent, despite our image.”
Listening, Gyll felt helpless. Weaponless, outnumbered, there was little he or Helgin could do. If he could reach one of them before he was shot, get a sting, if Helgin could get to one as well . . . No. He squirmed in his seat, restless, a little frightened. The movement caused Micha to glance at him.
“Ahh, Sula,” she said. “How does it feel to know that your Hoorka are now nothing but the hired thugs of that pig down the table? Does it bother you? I hope so. And I hope it bothers you to have to sit there, helpless, wondering what we intend to do with you.” She glanced around the table. “I hope it bothers all of you.”
Gyll could see panic and shock in some of the guests now. The Li-Gallant, especially, seemed touched by fear. He was breathing too quickly, his bulk pressed back against his chair as if to be as far as possible from the threatening woman. His face was pale, his eyes wide. Gyll knew that the Li-Gallant did not expect to live. For himself, Gyll knew only that he would try to take someone to the Hag with him, should it come to that. Ransom for his soul.
“What do you want?” d’Embry asked. She alone had a voice; she, of all of them, was calm, had the shreds of her presence around her despite the situation.
“Perhaps we’re going to cut the hump from your back and see how long it takes you to die, Regent.” Micha grinned at d’Embry’s sudden intake of breath. “Or maybe we’ll give the Li-Gallant an immediate diet, remove some of that excess weight he carries. It would be simple, and even just, as well.” She shrugged, one-shouldered. “Oh, that’s lassari methods, isn’t it?—without honor. Your gods must weep for us.”
“You’d never get away with it,” Vingi stuttered.
“Resorting to clichés, Li-Gallant? Words—especially old, worn-out ones—are a poor shield against a sting. Well, unfortunately, you’re nearly right. Killing any of you in this way would only increase our difficulties. We’re not ready yet to take full advantage of your absence, Li-Gallant. I’d fear for the existence of all lassari if someone worse than you were ruler. We simply want to make a point. We want to be heard.”
Micha gestured harshly, scowling now, all pretense of her sarcastic good humor banished. Two lassari stepped from the mob behind her, carrying a long object wrapped in cloth. It was an awkward burden, for they staggered as they moved. Gyll recognized it—he’d seen it too many times. But before he could speak, the lassari cast it down on the floor, holding the ends of the cloth. A body rolled out onto the dirt—a thin, gaunt woman with sunken cheeks and a bloated belly. Her arms were empty bags of flesh, the muscles slack in a pouch of flesh. Those at the table were in an uproar, most standing now, their faces horrified.
“She died of starvation. We don’t know her name—no one does,” Micha said. “She’s lassari, so no kin cared about her. Her death was lonely and long. That’s what we wanted you to see.” She stared at them with somber and furious eyes. “I hope all of you enjoyed your meal.”
Again, she gestured. The lassari began to leave the room, Micha in their midst; the body, accusing, was left behind. Someone down the table was vomiting noisily. Gyll watched the lassari leave, the muscles in his stomach slowly unknotting. He glanced at d’Embry, her face reflecting a cool inner rage, and back to the departing intruders.
And he caught a glimpse of steel.
“Down!” he shouted, flinging himself to one side. A throwing knife hissed through the air. He heard the tchunk as the blade struck the wall, and he rolled to his feet, certain that the weapon had been intended for the Li-Gallant.
But it was Helgin who sat in his chair, head turned to contemplate the knife just centimeters from his head. The weapon seemed to hover, shorn of its point, motionless, in the landscape of mountains.
Helgin wrenched the knife from the wall. His bearded face unreadable, he examined the blade, then tossed it onto the table. China clattered and broke.
“Wasn’t close enough to bother moving,” he said.
• • •
The best that could be said for Felling’s stew was that it was hot and took away some of the chill of Underasgard. It wasn’t particularly Felling’s fault that the Hoorka found it unappetizing: it was plain fare, but savory enough. He’d simply served the stew or something akin to it too often. But stew made use of meats and odd ends—it was the most economical way to cook, and Thane Valdisa insisted on economy.
McWilms toyed with the conglomeration on his plate like the rest. The bread, at least, was newly baked, and the mead was satisfactory, if slightly diluted. McWilms broke off a piece from the loaf and chewed enthusiastically, trying to convince his palate that this was an amazingly subtle combination of tastes.
His palate was not fooled.
The Hoorka were gathered in the common room off the kitchens. Apprentices, who would eat later, stood waiting along the walls, which were studded with glittering nodules of calcite deposits. From the kitchen could be heard the noise of the jussar applicants, doing their drudge work under Felling’s baleful eye.
McWilms sat at the Thane’s table with most of the elder kin: Serita, Bachier, Kristagon, Sholla, and others. Valdisa ate with them, and
she seemed no happier than the rest with their menu. “Smile, Serita,” she said. “I told Felling to buy some groceries tomorrow with part of the money from your contract. Supper should be much better.” She stabbed at a piece of meat with her fork, and contemplated the gristle marbling it. “It should be better than this, certainly, with no offense to Felling, who’s doing the best he can.”
“Well, I’m glad to hear it,” Serita said. Her face was mottled with a bruise on one cheek, a remnant of her fight with Meka Joh after their return from the contract. Joh, his arm in a sling and a wrapping around a leg, sat elsewhere. “I was beginning to think we needed to expand into the thieving business and hit the food stalls at Market Square.” She mused on that for a moment. “Ric would have volunteered,” she added, a sadness in her voice. D’Mannberg had been one of her lovers, and his appetite had been the source of many well-intentioned comments among the kin.
The mention of his kin-father blunted what little remained of McWilms’s own hunger. He pushed the half-finished plate of stew away and laid down his bread. He glanced at the table: rough, gaps between some of the planks, scarred with gouges from idle knives, and stained with spilled food. It made him think of his apprentice days, when Felling would set them all to scrubbing down the tables. When Gyll had been Thane.
As if in counterpoint to his own thoughts, Bachier spoke wistfully from down the table. “Do you remember the feast we had when we first had a contract from the Diplos, under old Regent Vogel? Ulthane Gyll had Felling buy ice-steak for all the full kin. By She of the Five, that was a meal. I remember how the apprentices all looked forlorn when it was gone—no scraps left, just a few well-gnawed bones.”
McWilms laughed. “I was one of those apprentices, Bachier. And if you think we didn’t get to sample that dinner, you’re wrong. Old Felling’s eyes have never been fast enough to stop us from lifting a few choice pieces. Remember, Kris?—you were an apprentice then as well.”
“Tender and incredibly rich—and of course we took only the choicest morsels,” Kristagon elaborated. “We’d send the dregs out to the kin.”
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