“It’s your only way, Shipmaster.” Valdisa glanced at McWilms. His face told her nothing. He seemed impatient, yet at the same time almost gleeful, as if this reception vindicated his feelings about the contract. “If you try to stop us,” she continued, “more than Shroyer might die. The Hoorka don’t want that; we’ve no interest in killing anyone but our victim. Come between us and him, and you endanger yourself. How valuable can one man be, set against the potential loss of many others?”
Le Plath mulled that over, one large hand stroking a thick-stubbled chin. “I understand what you say, Hoorka, but we had wanted the Li-Gallant to know that we would have paid the fine for Pauli’s insolence.”
“The victim was offered that alternative,” McWilms said. “That’s our code.”
“Then Pauli never spoke of it to me. He’s that way.” His gaze rolled back and forth between them. “What’s the price of Pauli’s life?”
McWilms looked at Valdisa. “Two thousand,” she said.
“A small cost for a life, isn’t it? It would seem that the Li-Gallant only wanted a lesson taught.”
Valdisa shrugged. “Whoever signed the contract set the price, not Hoorka,” she said. “And only he knows his reasons.”
“Well, let me see.” Le Plath turned. Hands on hips, he faced the ranks of spectators. “You heard the Hoorka-kin. We need two thousand to save Pauli. He’s done things for most of you; now you do something for him. I’ve a hundred here myself—what about the rest of you?”
They dug into pockets. Others went to nearby houses to return with their offerings. Le Plath counted it all in his deliberate, methodical manner; cajoling, pleading, threatening until, by small increments, the entire amount was collected. He handed the thick wad of scrip to Valdisa. “Two thousand,” he said, simply. “Do you wish to count it?”
Valdisa took the money silently. She held it a moment, then thrust it into a pocket of her nightcloak. “Ritti,” she said.
The apprentice jerked into alertness. “Thane?” His voice broke on the word.
“Is Steban watching Sirrah Shroyer?”
“Yah, Thane.”
“Then go find him. Both of you will tell Sirrah Shroyer that the contract can be voided due to Shipmaster Le Plath’s intercession. See if that is acceptable to him.” Turning to the Shipmaster, she bowed. She spoke with unaltered, uncaring aloofness. “We’ll wait for our apprentices in our flitter, Shipmaster, then return to Underasgard. Good night, Sirrah.”
His smile was wry and twisted. “The Li-Gallant bleeds us dry whether Pauli lives or not, it would appear. We’re poor here, m’Dame, and that two thousand is more than the taxes we might have paid—that we’ll have to pay anyway. Either way, you’ve hurt us.”
“You’ve given the man back his life. That’s what you wanted, that’s what you’ve accomplished. If that doesn’t please you, Shipmaster, then there’s nothing the Hoorka can do for you.” Distant, always distant, as the Hoorka must be.
“We just continue to feed the Li-Gallant’s hunger.”
Valdisa allowed a hint of anger to color her voice. Her eyes danced warningly, her hand near her weapon’s hilt. “Do not mistake the Hoorka for the Li-Gallant’s guild, Shipmaster. The Hoorka will keep your money, and return the signer’s fee. And remember that this signer is always unknown unless the victim is killed. You may make what assumptions you will, but keep them to yourself. If you have a grievance with the Li-Gallant Vingi, then declare bloodfeud against the man.”
“I’m not so foolish, m’Dame.”
“Then listen to your lack of foolishness and be quiet.” She turned to McWilms. “Let’s go back to the flitter, kin-brother.”
They moved back into the sibilant grasses, toward the flitter in its circle of harsh light. They walked in silence for several strides; then McWilms spoke, a whisper that Valdisa almost did not hear.
“Two thousand?”
Valdisa’s mind was still on Le Plath’s stubborn insistence on lecturing the Hoorka. She snapped back at McWilms carelessly. “Yah, two thousand,” she spat.
“Awfully little money, isn’t it?”
“You take what you can get. It puts food on the table.”
“The Li-Gallant’s food. A mere scrap from his larder.”
Valdisa whirled about. Sand scattered beneath her boots. “That’s it, Jeriad,” she hissed. “Say anything more and I’ll have you working with the apprentices tomorrow.”
“Thane—”
“I mean it, man.”
McWilms nodded. He was suddenly very formal, as if talking to guilded kin outside the Hoorka. “I apologize, Thane. I didn’t intend to insult you or your leadership. I will admit that I wish you’d decided to let Sula Hermond talk to the kin, but I haven’t said so in front of the others. And I won’t. I’ll keep our disagreements private.”
She did not say what she thought: You’d damned well better, too. She simply nodded to him in return. “Thank you for that,” she said, as stiffly as McWilms.
The wait for the apprentices was long, freighted with a smothering, charged silence.
• • •
Gulltopp had slipped below the horizon. Sleipnir was yet to rise. The night was as dark as Neweden ever was under open sky. There were only the distant, aloof stars.
It pleased him. It was necessary.
He could see Vingi’s keep just ahead, white stone stark under the glare of floodlamps. The building cast a reflected glow into the surrounding gardens, and he liked that very little. He wished now that he’d used some of the money they’d given him to purchase a light-shunter. Greed gets me every time—by She of the Five, the scrip’s half-gone already. But no, he rationalized. Vingi’s guards will swarm all over Neweden after this, looking for suspicious purchases. There wasn’t time to do it right, and he was better off this way.
And if he could do this, his name would be remembered in the annals of Neweden forever. Fame and wealth: the ultimate combination. Enil d’Favre, set alongside the greatest names in history. Enil d’Favre, liberator of the lassari (that had a nice alliterative ring to it), hero of the social restructuring, destroyer of the tyrant.
Assassin of Vingi, the last Li-Gallant.
D’Favre moved from shadow to shadow, crouching, his eyes keen for a sign of the guards, his ears preternaturally alert. His sting thumped at his waist, its heavy presence a comforting reassurance. So far it had been easy, slipping over the wall into the garden and avoiding the sleepy guards. He’d seen nothing to worry him, nothing—no sudden flaring of lights, no wail of alarm, no increase in activity around the grounds. Easy. D’Favre wondered how Vingi had managed to live this long, if his security was so lax. He visualized the moment when he’d pull the trigger. That obese body would be torn by the slugs. He’d aim for the head, watch the brains splatter . . . No, hit him lower, in the stomach. Let him see you, let him feel the pain, then give him the coup de grace. In his vision, there was very little gore. It was almost sterile and clean—d’Favre had never seen a body struck by the violence of a sting.
Fifty meters, and he would be at the keep’s left wall, in shadows between the floodlights. He hunkered down behind a prickly shrub, studying the ground between himself and the wall. No cover at all, just open grass. Still, all the windows there were polarized black or were unlit. Nobody was watching.
Easy.
He thought he heard a noise to his right, a rustling of wind or a footfall. D’Favre went rigid, suddenly frightened, the fear twisting his stomach until he thought he might moan from the pain. He bit his lower lip, trying to breathe softly and slowly, straining to hear more.
Nothing. He relaxed again, the muscles unclenching, his bowels loosening. He smiled to himself. Fool. You’re the one creeping in the night. They should be afraid of you. Enil d’Favre, the night-monster. He shifted his feet, balancing on his toes, his weight leaning forward for the run.
And then sudden harsh light pinned him. His head came up, he gaped in terror, almost falling. “Don’t move!
” someone shouted at him, too loud, too near. Even as his sphincter relaxed involuntarily and he soiled himself, he fumbled for the sting at his side. He fired wildly in the direction of the voice, his eyes squinting against the revealing glare. The noise of his weapon pounded at him, the recoil bucking the muzzle upward; a voice cursed in darkness.
A blow hammered at him, throwing him to the right, then back to stunned equilibrium as another blast slammed into his chest. He was vaguely aware that two concussions had accompanied the pain. His head lolled down and he saw the ruins of his chest and body. It was not clean, and there was too much gore. He vomited blood as he fell.
It became very dark, the light narrowing into a globe, then a pinpoint like a star. He reached to grasp the tiny sun, but it eluded him and winked out.
Enil d’Favre was lost in night.
• • •
“What was his name, Domoraj?”
Vingi did not like being summarily awakened in the middle of the night. He’d thrown on a robe and then grudgingly trudged out to his office, where the Domoraj Kile, head of his security force, waited for him with news of the attempted assassination.
“Enil d’Favre, Li-Gallant. A lassari from Dasta. No previous record of him in the Magistrate’s files except for the normal minor lassari offenses. He had a press release—handwritten—in one pocket, taking credit for your death in the name of the Hag’s Legion.” The Domoraj held up a paper from a pile of oddments on a cloth draped over Vingi’s desk. Vingi frowned at the note in disgust—there were ugly stains on the paper. He made no move to touch it.
“Did you need to bring all this in here?” he asked.
The Domoraj looked visibly disturbed. A tall and too-thin man, when under stress, his Adam’s apple bobbed restlessly, and his jaws twitched. The Domoraj ground on a molar before replying. “I’m sorry, Li-Gallant. I thought you might need to see the lassari’s effects, and I thought . . .” He stopped abruptly, realizing that Vingi’s sleepy stare was fixed on him. He swallowed; the bulge of his throat danced.
“Please don’t think, Domoraj. It’s too late at night for that. You’ve done your job splendidly, I’m sure, though a live prisoner might have been a trifle more useful than this collection of artifacts.” Vingi paused to ascertain that his criticism had the proper effect on the Domoraj; the Li-Gallant was willing to trade a certain amount of effectiveness for servility in his guards. The Domoraj was the essence of fear when in the presence of his kin-lord, and Vingi knew that the man passed down his shame at being thus treated by employing strict and harsh measures with his own subordinates. The chain of dominance gave Vingi moments of pleasant contemplation.
“He fired on us, Li-Gallant. For the protection of our kin I couldn’t afford gentleness.” The Domoraj spoke forcefully enough, but his face was woebegone.
At another time, Vingi might have enjoyed playing out the scene, toying with the Domoraj, seeing how the man balanced between fright and confidence; tonight, he was tired. Vingi wanted only his bed and the kin-sister who was warming it. He tugged at the expanse of his robe. “I’m not doubting your judgment, Domoraj, just commenting on the whims of Dame Fate. I assume you’ve something else to show me in this pile?”
The Domoraj’s face took on a feral expression. He slid over to the cloth and stood behind it, like a merchant displaying his wares. “D’Favre had quite a bit of money in his possession, Li-Gallant. Quite a lot.”
Vingi glanced wearily at the pouch the Domoraj held. “So he was paid. That’s hardly surprising.”
The Domoraj’s eyes gleamed. He seemed to pounce on the Li-Gallant’s words. “Ah, yes. But the money is not Neweden currency, Li-Gallant. It’s all new Alliance scrip.” His bony chin came up in triumph; he dumped the contents of the pouch on the desk—brightly colored paper fell.
Then Vingi laughed, a full-throated roar that demolished the Domoraj’s triumph and set his throat back to quivering. “By all the gods, that’s really clumsy. Domoraj, you must see that this ploy’s far too obvious. I doubt that the Hag’s Legion, if they sent poor d’Favre, expected me to truly believe that they were privy to Alliance scrip, in d’Embry’s employ. I don’t doubt that they stole it somewhere, but to have us think that d’Embry . . .” He roared again. “That is good. Well, Domoraj, I’ll play the game a bit and see what it gets me. Alliance scrip . . .”
The Domoraj grinned uncertainly into Vingi’s hilarity. If the Li-Gallant was happy, he was happy. Or at least he hoped so. The Domoraj ground his incisors softly.
• • •
Being a Neweden native and once a kin-lord had its advantages. Gyll heard the news—perhaps—before the Li-Gallant or the Regent d’Embry. Certainly the word came to him before the kin and lassari of Neweden, who awoke to the startling news in the morning.
A newly dead ippicator had been found.
Gyll didn’t know what thoughts might run through the minds of those on the ball of mud below Goshawk, whether Neweden might turn to piety or destruction. A dark and disquieting suspicion grew in his own head, causing him to push the bumblewort from its comfortable seat on his lap and pace his room. The wort howled thinly at him for the neglect, but Gyll ignored the creature. He stopped before his viewport and glared down at Neweden.
He’d seen an ippicator once before—alive: in a nutrient tank aboard Peregrine, Kaethe Oldin’s craft. She had told him then that the ippicator, cloned from ancient tissue samples in the Oldin Archives, had been destroyed. Gyll had insisted on that, knowing what the creatures meant to both economy and theology on Neweden. She had promised, and he had witnessed what he’d thought had been the beast’s end.
She had promised. Now he wasn’t certain that Kaethe’s promise had meant anything beyond the bare words. He didn’t like the feeling that he might have been duped, that he might not be in control of everything that happened aboard his ship. A slow fury began to build in him; the bumblewort, perhaps sensing this, left off its useless protest and sulked underneath the desk.
“Damn!” Gyll slammed his open hand against the port—a smudge obscured Neweden. Gyll stormed from his cabin, following the tortuous corridors of the ship to the biological section.
“Camden!” Gyll shouted as he entered the small lab. His sharp tone caused the woman there to start and lift puzzled eyes from a com-unit.
“Sula, what can I do for you?” she asked. She wiped her hands on her smock; the Sula made her nervous. She found his presence intimidating. He was always polite but never friendly; the crew whispered that he’d been an assassin for standards, that—though they’d never seen him in a fight—he enjoyed killing. The smell of blood, a bitter tang, always seemed to be about him, although she knew it must be only her imagination. She smoothed her smock over her chunky figure, trying to smile.
Gyll was in no mood for amenities. He was far less polite to Camden than he had been. “Call up your inventory,” he said sharply. He strode over to the com-unit, swiveled the terminal so that it faced him. “Get this junk off the screen.”
Camden stared at him, then reached out for the keyboard with a stubby finger. The screen flashed emerald and went blank. “What are you looking for, Sula? Maybe I can help.”
Gyll brushed her offer aside with a wave of his hand. “I’m not sure. Just get me the inventory files.”
He busied himself with the lists for the next hour, occasionally asking Camden to explain an obscure entry to him. She gave him the answers with a growing curiosity. Finally, he rubbed weary eyes and leaned back from the terminal. He slapped at the powering contact, and the unit sank into the desk.
“You look tired, Sula. Tea? Mocha?”
His fury had been dulled by frustration. He’d seen nothing in the inventories to indicate that the ippicator might have been manufactured on Goshawk, but he wasn’t going to fool himself—if someone had wanted to hide the equipment and supplies in the com files, it could have been done easily enough under another access. Hell, it might not have been entered at all. Gyll wasn’t going to fin
d it. “I am tired,” he said to Camden. “Tea would be nice.”
Camden, with a strange glance at him that he couldn’t decipher, went to a small plate set on a counter. In a few minutes, water was boiling. “I could help you more if I knew what it was you’re looking for, Sula,” she said, her back to him. “This is my bay, and I know everything that’s here.”
“I know,” he replied. “But I don’t want to tell anyone at this point—I don’t need gossip.” He realized how that must sound to her and tried to apologize. “I’m sorry. It has nothing to do with not trusting you. The only trust I’m worried about is my own, I suppose.”
Camden brought back cups. Stains were set in the china, blotches of discoloration. She saw him glance at them. “Don’t worry,” she said. “They’re sterile. You won’t get poisoned.”
Gyll smiled. He sipped at the tea noisily. “Hot.” He set the cup down. “Camden, have you or anyone else used the nutrient tanks lately?”
She thought a moment, the cup steaming in her thick hands. “Just me, and not too recently. Last time was a week or so ago, when that clumsy dockhand—what’s his name? . . . ahh, Dani, I think—lost three fingers forgetting to fasten a shield. Before that . . .” She shrugged. Gyll was scowling, and she kept the questions she wanted to ask him inside—the Sula didn’t seem to be able to tolerate an interrogation.
“Damn,” Gyll muttered. “By the Hag . . .” He glanced at Camden, caught her staring at him. She glanced away hurriedly. “Where else on Goshawk could someone clone a large animal, say, three meters long or more?”
Camden shrugged again. “Nowhere. You’d need too much equipment that’s only available here. I’d know about it.”
Gyll sighed. He tapped fingers on the desk, then abruptly swung to his feet, startling Camden with the motion. Tea sloshed over the rim of her cup. Gyll didn’t notice her discomfiture. He nodded to the woman and stalked out of the lab without another word. Openmouthed, she gazed after him. “Thanks for the tea,” she said under her breath.
Assassins' Dawn Page 55