She brushed dampness from her smock. “That damn frigging killer’s too spooky for me,” she said.
Chapter 10
“REGENT, the Li-Gallant is furious. I’ve never seen him so angry.”
“Santos, the Li-Gallant wanted you to think he’s furious. The man can be a half-decent actor when he wants to make the attempt. I wonder if he’s ever been on the stage.”
D’Embry leaned back in her floater with her eyes closed, half-turned on her side so that her full weight wasn’t on the hump of the symbiote. She’d had a bad, restless night; her chest had ached, her breath had been shallow and gasping, and nothing the symbiote pumped into her seemed to have much effect. She’d almost thought she could sense the parasite’s fear that she might die. Yet she hadn’t called the Center’s physician. Instead, she sat in her bed, fighting the pain. Eventually, in the early hours of the morning, it had passed. She’d been able to sleep, if not for long, before the almost-simultaneous reports of the finding of the ippicator and the attempt on the Li-Gallant’s life.
She knew who had to be responsible for both events. When she found the energy, she was going to be very angry herself.
D’Embry listened to McClannan pacing the room in front of her desk. “Let me guess, Santos,” she said. “He made the accusation that someone at Diplo Center—his implication is, of course, that it’s me—sent this lassari d’Favre after him. He was righteously indignant, threatening to sever his ties with the Alliance government.” Gods, she thought, I’d love a few more hours’ sleep. “He’s done it before, Seneschal. It’s not a new stunt.”
“Regent, if you read the report, you know that d’Favre was carrying Alliance scrip. I can see where that might make the Li-Gallant suspicious.”
“The Li-Gallant probably finds that as obvious as I do.” She did not open her eyes. “Alliance currency isn’t that hard to obtain on Neweden.”
“In those denominations, Regent? This is a poor world—who’d have that kind of resources?”
She knew, but she said nothing, knowing that if he’d bother to puzzle it out, he’d know as well.
“The Li-Gallant had other questions, as well,” McClannan continued. “He was asking if we’ve made any progress finding the ones responsible for wrecking the dinner party.”
“Hinting that we’re dragging our heels on it because it’s someone here, yah?” Sighing, she sat up, opening her eyes. McClannan was staring at her. He glanced away. “It’s raining out,” she said.
McClannan’s gaze went from d’Embry to the window. An eyebrow raised quizzically. “Yah, it is,” he said abstractedly. “Regent, what we’re discussing is a trifle more important than the weather. I want to send a full report to Niffleheim Center.”
“No!” D’Embry’s vehemence widened McClannan’s eyes and sent the Regent into a fit of coughing. She reached for a tissue, wiped at her mouth. “No,” she repeated, more softly this time. “It’s not worth the trouble and expense, Santos. We should deal with it here, unless you want Niffleheim to think we’re incompetent.” The tension in her chest eased slowly as the symbiote wriggled against her.
“Regent, with all due respect, there’s the possibility we may have someone high up in the staff who’s deliberately sabotaging us. I think that’s worth reporting. Niffleheim could check backgrounds to which we haven’t access.” His handsome face was intent and serious.
“You believe the Li-Gallant, then?”
“We can’t disregard that possibility.”
“Do you also suspect me?”
He waited a breath too long before replying. “I didn’t say that.”
“That’s good.”
“Then let me send the report, Regent. If nothing else, it will ease the Li-Gallant’s suspicions, show him we’re actually making an effort to help him.”
Once more, d’Embry leaned back gingerly. She looked at her hands—she’d neglected to put on her usual bodytint this morning. Her hands were pale, withered, cracked-skin claws. They mocked her with age and stiffness. She glanced up at McClannan so she would no longer see them.
“No,” she said.
He started to stalk away, disgust radiating from him. She let him get nearly to the door before speaking.
“Santos.”
He turned, his hand on the door’s contact. “Regent?”
“Be reasonable. If you wanted the Alliance off Neweden, how would you go about it? You’d do just what is now happening: try to make us seem culpable, try to place the blame for everything on the Diplos. You’d finance the Hag’s Legion. You might even fake an ippicator just for the chaos it could create in this society.”
“You think the ippicator’s faked? The report I saw—”
“Wait until you have more information before you commit yourself to an opinion, Santos. That’s what I intend to do, and that’s why I don’t want you to send a report. All you’ll do is cause unnecessary concern and trouble for us here.”
“You’re just concerned with your own reputation,” he said harshly. Then his face smoothed into blandness once more. “I probably shouldn’t have said that, Regent, but you’ll have to admit that it’s one appearance your refusal gives. Either that or you have something to hide.”
His accusation stunned her. Am I really doing that, at the bottom of it all? Is he right? She shook her head in denial, not trusting words. “Seneschal,” she said finally, “Neweden had very little trouble until the Oldins arrived. Now that they’re back, it’s beginning again.”
“It’s never stopped, Regent. Neweden’s been in upheaval for standards. Things seem to be finally reaching a head, that’s all. The Family Oldin is a convenient scapegoat for you.”
“If you believe that, Seneschal, then you’re more a danger to us than anyone.” Her voice was dangerously quiet.
He didn’t answer her. He slapped at the contact and the door irised open. He went out.
D’Embry closed her eyes again. Come on, symbiote. Do something so that I don’t care what the fool thinks. But she knew the parasite had no drugs for that. Worry burned at her stomach like acid.
• • •
Helgin had been fairly sure that the ploy wouldn’t work. He was surprised—Valdisa would accept the invitation to dinner aboard Goshawk. It nearly forced him out of his composure. “No business will be discussed at all, Thane. That’s what Gyll told me to tell you. It’s simply a dinner, conversation; a pleasant time.”
“Simply being there at all allows you to ‘impress’ me without speaking a word, doesn’t it? It’s a little more subtle that way, Sirrah Motsognir, but that’s still business,” she’d replied, but her tone was soft. Helgin had found that he liked her voice, her wry unwillingness to let him twist words. “Why does Gyll really want to see me?”
“I don’t know.” He could answer that truthfully. He didn’t know, because Gyll had never requested that Valdisa dine with him. Helgin wasn’t even sure why he’d decided to fool with such a deception, except that Gyll was increasingly gloomy about his failure to convince Valdisa to tie the Hoorka with the Family Oldin. Helgin suspected that Gyll’s moodiness went deeper than that; the Motsognir was certain that Gyll missed Valdisa the lover as well as Valdisa the Thane. Gyll had bedded his share of partners in the standards he’d been gone from Neweden—if nothing else, he’d seemed to be the rising new star in the Oldin firmament, and there were those who threw themselves at him only for that—but Gyll had formed no permanent relationships. He seemed to avoid them, in fact.
Helgin could understand that. The dwarves tended toward solitude as well. But seeing Valdisa again had altered that in Gyll; therefore, Gyll should be given all the opportunities he needed or wanted. That was simple enough. Gyll was a friend, as much of a friend as Helgin had ever had. A bit of deception in personal matters didn’t bother him: what was another small lie in the midst of much larger ones?
Valdisa had accepted his statement; Gyll, after all, had been known for his closemouthed secrecy concerning his feelings. “I
’ll come,” she’d said. “But no business, remember. No Family Oldin propaganda.”
No business, no propaganda. Helgin had hurried to tell Gyll what “Gyll” had just done. The Sula tried to scold Helgin halfheartedly, but his delight kept breaking out in a smile. “You little bastard,” Gyll had said at last, laughing. Helgin had bowed, grinning. “Someone’s gotta run your life for you, Gyll. You do such a lousy job by yourself.”
Now Helgin wasn’t so sure the idea had been that brilliant. He’d been trying to keep the conversation going for what seemed to be a century. It was tiring work; he’d already drunk half a liter of brandy, and his throat ached. He reached for the decanter again. “Don’t let Goshawk intimidate you,” he said to Valdisa, who sat solemn-faced at one end of the table. “It’s just a big hunk of metal that’s been made to look confusing to the casual eye—that’s just a way to dazzle the visitors.”
Valdisa sat stiffly in her nightcloak, the holo clasp of the Hoorka glinting in shiplight. Her gaze kept drifting to Gyll, uncertain; whenever they happened to meet eyes, they’d both look away. “It doesn’t intimidate me,” she said. “The reaction’s quite the opposite. The ship makes me feel claustrophobic, confined.”
“But living in a cave doesn’t?”
She made a sound that might have been a laugh. “That sounds silly, doesn’t it? But Underasgard feels comfortable, natural.”
There were uncomfortable moments of silence. Helgin pleaded silently with Gyll to say something. He didn’t. The Sula toyed with his food. “Did you ever have that problem, Gyll?” Helgin asked finally, desperate.
“Hmm?” Gyll glanced up at Helgin, who frowned at him. Belatedly, he shrugged. “No, I didn’t, I suppose.”
Helgin waited for elaboration. There was none. Valdisa had lapsed back into silence as well. Helgin sighed deep in his chest. He inhaled, filling his lungs.
“Hell!” he roared suddenly, slapping the table with an open hand. Liquid sloshed, china clattered; Valdisa’s hand, unbidden, went to the hilt of her dagger. Gyll started, half-rising and suddenly alert. “I’ve had it!” the dwarf shouted, standing on the seat of his floater. “I’ve tried to make this miserable dinner work, but it’s no good. You two can sit and converse with your spoons if you want, but I’m going to find someone with more conversational skills than your average stone. Enjoy yourselves.” He stormed out in the middle of a stunned silence, with a glare at each of them in turn. The door slid shut behind him.
Valdisa looked at Gyll. “Does he always do that?”
“He’s . . . volatile.” Gyll settled back into the cushions of his floater. “And, yah, he’s like that a lot.”
“It almost seemed that this hadn’t turned out the way he’d expected, as if he’d been trying to arrange things.”
“He likes to think he’s in charge of destiny, not Dame Fate.” Gyll hedged his answer. Damn the dwarf for his intrigues, and especially for leaving me with the shambles of them.
“Was this really your idea, Gyll?”
He would have lied, had she appeared angry or upset. But she merely gazed at him, head propped on chin, elbows on the table, a half-smile flitting at the corners of her mouth. He smiled back at her. “I never could lie to you,” he said.
“No, you couldn’t. Are you going to try doing it now?”
“No. Helgin planned it all.”
Her expression didn’t change. That cheered him. “Well, Gyll, he lies awfully well. How do you manage to trust him?”
“I don’t know always,” Gyll admitted, “but I do.”
Valdisa nodded. She turned her attention to her food again. Silence settled around them as she took a forkful of meat. Gyll cut his portion into small pieces but made no move to eat.
“You can go ahead,” Valdisa said. “You’re skinny enough.”
That brought back his smile. “Thanks. That wasn’t the case eight standards ago, was it?”
“You were out of shape,” she said matter-of-factly. “You look much better now.”
Valdisa took another bite, Gyll shoved the pieces across his plate. “Is what you said true, Valdisa—Goshawk makes you uncomfortable?”
“That sounds like an overture to business, Gyll.”
“I’m just curious.”
She sighed, glancing at him as if to be certain of his intentions, pushing her floater away from the table. He watched her. “Yah, it makes me uneasy,” she said. “That’s a better word, I think. I don’t like the sense of enclosure. Underasgard never gives me that feeling—and somewhere there’s a psychologist waiting to explain all the arcane symbolism behind that. I like knowing that the floor is just earth, not some metal deck with gravity conductors running underneath. I’m sorry, Gyll.” She shrugged at him. “I’m sure it’s a big, beautiful, wonderful ship you command, but I don’t like it.”
“You always were candid.”
“When I should have been diplomatic?” She smiled. “We were both that way. Maybe things would have been different if we weren’t.”
“You make it sound so final.” He could not keep the wistfulness out of his voice. You’re too damned honest, Gyll. Anyone can read you. Helgin’s words.
Her eyes narrowed, the lips thinned. “It’s a little too late for reconciliations, Gyll. Eight standards too late. I thought we both knew that already.”
“I don’t want to believe that.”
“You’re joking.” Her voice was flat with disbelief. “You can’t possibly mean that, Gyll. With all the problems between us, you think we could still be lovers or even friends?”
“Yes.”
“It won’t work. It can’t work.”
“You don’t want it to work, that’s all.”
She shook her head, her short hair moving. It was not so much denial as bewilderment. Gyll didn’t press her. He waited. He looked for a sign of optimism in her face, her hands, her posture. There was nothing. She sat rigid in her floater, fingertips touching on the table. He remembered those hands—they were rougher, more callused than before, thick with work. Practical, deadly. They had been loving as well; it was easy to forget that they also killed.
“Don’t say any more, Gyll. It’ll only make this worse.”
“I’m not trying to pressure you, Valdisa,” he said gently. He raised one shoulder in a desultory half-shrug. “Just trying to understand.”
“It’s damned obvious, I’d think.” Her voice began to rise a little; whether from anger or some other emotion, he couldn’t tell. Her eyes had a curious sheen. “Gyll, you left Neweden, you left your kin, and you left me. You can’t expect to come back and regain all or any of that simply because that’s the way you wish things would happen—there’s too much time and too much damage between us. Oh, damn it, I’ve told you all this before. Didn’t you listen?” She bowed her head, hand over eyes. “Please drop it, Gyll,” she said, her voice almost a whisper. “You made your choice.”
“I don’t regret my choice,” he said slowly, after a long pause. “That’s where you’re wrong, Valdisa. I find that I prefer most of my present life to my past one. I feel like I’ve gotten younger, not older. Gods, I used to brood about my age all the time. But there are still parts that I miss: you, the rest of the kin. And I’d like for you to have the opportunities I’ve had.”
Her head came up. “You’re back to business.”
He waved the objection aside. “On this topic, it’s not something I can entirely avoid.”
“Then change the subject.”
“To what? The finding of the ippicator, Alliance music, Trader fashion, what?”
“Anything at all. I don’t care.”
“If we could avoid tender subjects, would you think about staying here tonight?”
He didn’t really understand what compelled him to ask that; a whim, a sudden boldness. It sounded lame and melodramatically passionate to his ears, like a line in a bad play. In the play, the woman would turn in her seat, tears would brim in her eyes, and a shy smile would touch her lips. “I’
ve been wanting you to say that for so long,” she would say.
Valdisa frowned, and her eyes were dry.
“Gods, no,” she said.
Then she closed her eyes for a long moment. “I guess you deserve more explanation than that, though. Gyll, part of me would like to stay, the part that remembers Thane Gyll. But I don’t know that I love you anymore. I don’t even know if I like you, because I don’t know Sula Hermond at all. And going to bed with him won’t tell me much that’s important about him.”
Gyll felt foolish under her steady regard. He regretted his impulse. Think before actions, old man. That’s what you tell your people. “I’m sorry, Valdisa,” he said at last. “I suppose I was trying to presume upon the past. Too much.”
She was becoming aloof again, slipping into the role of Hoorka-Thane. It distressed him. Her back straightened, her gaze became remote. “No apology’s necessary, Gyll. I understand.”
He knew that any chance for intimacy was gone, destroyed. He knew that she would be Hoorka-Thane and he Sula for the remainder of the evening. He felt sadness for that, and he masked it with a false smile. “Would you like to see the rest of Goshawk while you’re here?” he asked. “I promise you; no business, just a tour.”
Her face told him nothing. Her features might have been a carving. “Just a tour,” she said flatly.
Chapter 11
GYLL DID NOT sleep well that night. His thoughts and dreams mingled, contentious. When the bell of his com-unit chimed, he was awake but tired. He knuckled his eyes, yawned. “Yah, Fischer?” he said to the darkness of the bedroom.
“Sula, the Regent d’Embry is calling for you. Line fourteen.”
“Tell her I’ll call her back in ten minutes.”
“She was quite adamant, Sula.”
Gyll closed his eyes, opened them again. He brushed hair back from his forehead. “Stall her for a few minutes, then. Off.”
He lurched from the bedfield, yawning again. He turned on the lights and dressed. Grimacing at the image in the mirror, he combed his hair perfunctorily. Then he sat at his desk and touched a contact; the screen pulsed into life. “I’m ready now, Fischer.”
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