Chapter 13
HELGIN HAD NOT WANTED Gyll to come with them. He cited the lingering effects of Gyll��s injuries: a slight limp, a ruddiness to the skin. Gyll told him curtly that the doctors had released him and he was going. They’d glared at each other for a moment, then Helgin had given in to the inevitable. Gyll was Sula, and could halt the entire operation with a word. Helgin bowed to that fact with a Motsognir’s normal ill grace, but he bowed.
It just made his intentions much harder to realize.
It was night. Dasta Burrough crawled with life. The five of them, in the dingy, tattered clothing of lassari, moved through the shadowy streets—Gyll, Helgin, and three of the Trader-Hoorka. Despite their guise, there were still stares and whispered comments—there was no disguising the Motsognir build. Dasta was worse than Gyll had remembered. Parts of it were now scarred, blackened rubble from what the populace called Vasella’s Fire; the rest was cluttered and filthy. Garbage piled uncollected against the buildings and in the central gutter of the street. Occasionally they would come across a wirehead sprawled unconscious in the pathway, oblivious of his surroundings. Jussar—youths caught between kinship and lassari—prowled in gangs, rowdy and noisy; the lassari and low kin walked the streets with an air of paranoid caution, weapons (for the kin) placed visibly on their belts. Prostitutes of both and indeterminate sexes cajoled and insulted from doorways and windows.
“Gods, I hate this place,” Gyll muttered.
“I don’t know; in some ways, I rather like it,” Helgin replied.
“You would.”
“Hey, it has a certain energy, a vivid, crude life.”
“Next you’ll be talking about the ambience.”
Helgin grinned. “I mean it, Gyll. Just because it’s dirty and squalid—which it is—doesn’t mean that it’s not a ‘good’ place. It has a feeling of secrecy, of adventure.”
“It’s squalid, yah, and the only things that lurk here are hatred and despair.”
“Both are honest emotions.”
“They’re not ones I care to experience.”
“Right,” Helgin said. “And which one of us wanted Renard’s ass?”
“It’s an honest emotion, dwarf.”
They turned where a narrow alleyway held darkness between two tall buildings. There, hidden behind a stack of broken crates, they checked their weapons: tanglefeet bombs, crowd-prods, two stun-grenades, vibros. Helgin had an ancient projectile weapon bolstered to his side. Gyll frowned at the sight of it. “You’ll only kill someone with that, Helgin. I’d rather have him alive.”
Helgin put his hands on his hips, belligerent. “I want something that’ll stop someone quick, if I need to. None of this junk’ll do that.”
Gyll stood, unmoving, for a moment, then shrugged. “Then be damned careful with it. I don’t trust revolvers, and they’re frigging noisy. They’re also not honorable weapons.”
“Neither’s a bomb.”
Gyll nodded. “Your point’s taken. Just be careful with it.”
“Don’t worry—just stay out of my way.”
Helgin did not say what he really thought—if all went well tonight, Renard would not be alive to tell his tale of treachery. He would be forever silent, and Gyll would never know of Helgin’s involvement in the Hag’s Legion. The Motsognir wanted Renard removed from Neweden; if this was the only way, so be it. The relative morality of the situation didn’t bother him. He’d long been pragmatic about such things.
Gyll gestured for silence. His hand moved in familiar patterns: the Hoorka assassin’s hand-code, the code he’d taught to the Trader-Hoorka as well. Quiet. Helgin . . . lead.
They’d traded their lassari disguises for dark, form-fitting clothing. Their faces were darkened as necessary, and the blackened handles of their weapons hung within easy reach. They slipped from shadow to shadow like wraiths: down the alley, across the next street quickly and unnoticed, then into a warren of claustrophobic lanes. Helgin stopped them again just inside the mouth of another alley. There. He gestured to a doorway across the street and to their left.
Gyll signaled to one of the others to check the area. The man unslung a snooper, swinging it in an arc—all the monitors remained green. He shook his head.
? Gyll queried Helgin, who frowned.
Something wrong, the dwarf replied.
Pull back?
No. Helgin glanced out at the street once more. No one moved down its short length. Few of the windows of the buildings were lit, and there were no streetlamps. Traps? he gestured to the Hoorka with the snooper, who swung it about again. Green. No.
Trap? Helgin asked again. The Hoorka, with a grimace of irritation, held out the snooper to the Motsognir. Helgin hesitated, but took the device. He tested all functions, then surveyed the street once more. All LEDs remained emerald. The dwarf’s shoulders slumped visibly; he handed the snooper back. The man took it ungently.
Gyll leaned out, glancing left and right himself. The snooper would have detected most alarms or suspicious concentrations of metal, but that left a hundred possibilities. He didn’t like the feel of the situation, and he knew that the others felt that unease as well. There was a subtle sense of something being awry: the street was too deserted, the task looking too easy. Gyll hesitated, half-tempted to call off the operation rather than walk into an ambush the snooper had missed. He’d expected something in the way of guards for Renard.
Weapons out, he gestured at last. You—to Liana, the fastest of them—go across. Quickly. The woman nodded; she crouched, leaning, then ran, her footsteps loud in the stillness. Gyll watched the street, the windows, the rooftops. Lightly panting, Liana had flattened herself against a wall. She examined the buildings across from her, then gave a wave of her arm. Clear.
Gyll glanced back at Helgin, received a shrug. He signaled to the others. Let’s move.
The Motsognir, surprising Gyll with his speed, hit the door first—the wood splintered under his foot. Another kick, and it swung crazily open. Helgin was inside with the motion, rolling a hand-flare into the room as he ducked right. The others entered behind him in a rush, ready, but Helgin had already slid his weapon into its holster. The room was neat, shabby furniture set in place, the desk scarred but clean. There was no dust. It looked as if someone had set the room in order before leaving. Helgin kicked at a chair; it clattered to the floor.
The Motsognir turned to Gyll. His dark eyes glinted under thick eyebrows; he pulled at his beard.
“The bastard’s gone,” he said.
• • •• • •
It began as a routine visit to the Li-Gallant’s offices. Vingi’s signature was needed on a release form for those being treated at the Diplo hospital after the explosion in Tri-Guild Square. Afterward, McClannan and Vingi were to appear at a press conference. But the Li-Gallant steered the Seneschal aside into Vingi’s private office, and he had startled McClannan with his first words.
“You strike me as the ambitious sort, Seneschal. Why don’t you get rid of d’Embry?”
McClannan found himself momentarily speechless. The Li-Gallant grinned corpulently at him, fingers steepled under his trebled chin. Animo paintings swirled dizzily on the walls. McClannan decided to try for righteous anger. He put the expression on his face like a mask.
“That’s not the way the Alliance works, Li-Gallant. And she is my superior.”
The order of excuses did not escape the Li-Gallant, nor did McClannan’s attempt at judicious irritation fool him. He laughed under his breath, a snort of amusement. “Seneschal, please don’t assume that because I’m fat I’m also stupid. I’ve seen the Alliance work for decades now, and I know that you work much the same as Neweden, once you dig under the surface of your laws. I also know that d’Embry isn’t exactly in favor back on Niffleheim—she’s offended too many of her superiors, neh?” Vingi sat back in his floater; he fiddled with one of his many rings. “You should take a lesson from that, Seneschal. She’s achieved her reputation by defying those in power when she felt th
ey were wrong. One must be selfish to achieve either reputation or power, and one must know when to go against those above you.”
McClannan did not disagree. He drew himself up to his full height and let his eyes narrow slightly as he smiled. It was one of his favorite poses. “It’s a dangerous course of action, as well.”
“One never gets anywhere without taking risks. That’s one of my axioms, Seneschal, as true here as in the Alliance. The danger may be physical or not, but it’s always there. Do you gamble?”
“I’ve been known to do so.”
“Then you must know that to win you always choose with an eye to the odds and to your luck. Do you feel lucky?”
McClannan allowed himself a small laugh. He shifted his position slightly, a model’s turn. Long, well-manicured fingers tapped at his belt. “I’ve done well enough. I’ve been lucky.”
Vingi nodded. “You know that there’s been continuous pressure from Niffleheim for d’Embry to resign, especially after that Hoorka contract on Heritage.”
A nod. Vingi studied McClannan—he didn’t like the man, found him to be as superficially intelligent as he was superficially handsome, but he knew that the man was pliable. His ambition was his weakness, and Vingi prided himself on his ability to exploit weaknesses. “Bring her down and you become Regent—you’re already being primed for that job. A word to the right ear, and the title is yours.”
Vingi watched McClannan lean forward as he said the words. The man could not keep the eagerness from that face; it made the handsomeness ugly, feral. “And what do I whisper to that ear, Li-Gallant? What more can I tell them? They’ve already heard all the rumors and have done nothing. They know what she does.”
The man’s vapid willingness to engage in treachery repelled Vingi. Gods, the bastard doesn’t even bother to disguise it. He doesn’t worry about recordings or countertreachery or blackmail. He either discounts that possibility or chooses to ignore it. Either way he’s a fool, an easy fool. No wonder d’Embry despises him. Can he really be this gullible, or is he a trap within a trap? No . . . that’s not d’Embry’s way. Vingi made no attempt to conceal his disgust. He looked up at McClannan with distaste in his eyes. “Are you always so ready to stab someone in the back, Seneschal? I’m looking for allies, not new enemies.”
McClannan looked confused now—why had the Li-Gallant suddenly retreated? “I’m not your enemy, Li-Gallant. Nor is the Alliance.”
“D’Embry’s help has always come grudgingly to me.”
“That will change when I’m Regent, I assure you.” There, McClannan thought; back to the subject.
“I get the same assurances from the Family Oldin—if I’m willing to rescind the treaty Neweden has with Niffleheim.” He’d expected that statement to have an effect. He was not disappointed. The studied posturing of McClannan gave way to incredulity. “You wouldn’t do that.”
“I would. All it takes is a vote of the Neweden Assembly. I own that particular institution.”
“But that’s never . . . Gods, the reputations of the Diplos of a world that left—”
Vingi pounced on the phrase. “Your reputation, Seneschal? That’s your alternative, man. Enhance your reputation or ruin it—it’s your choice.”
“You’re bluffing.” McClannan didn’t sound convinced. “The Alliance has much more to offer than the Family Oldin.”
“You’re just spouting the party line, McClannan.” Vingi’s voice was suddenly harsh and strident. He spoke quickly, as if delivering a lecture to an errant student. “You, like most of the Diplos, know very little about the Trading Families, the Oldins in particular. Your d’Embry is an exception to that, and that’s why she fears FitzEvard so much. As for me, Seneschal, I’m a pragmatist and an opportunist—I pretend to be nothing else. I plan, and I take what’s offered to me. An example; I spoke with Thane Valdisa of the Hoorka yesterday. She’s going to ally the assassins with my guild, and I intend to take them. The Hoorka will give me fear, and I can use that fear to enhance my own standing. So if you think I’m bluffing, Seneschal, simply turn around prettily and walk out of this office and I’ll see you at the press conference in ten minutes. What I’ll have to say to the reporters isn’t in the script you’ve been given.”
Vingi waited, staring at the man before him, unsmiling. McClannan grimaced. His eyes squinted, then relaxed. His gaze could not stay with Vingi’s steady regard. He studied his hands, turning them over and curling the fingers. But he did not move toward the door.
“I can tell Niffleheim that the only alternative to losing Neweden to the Family Oldin is to replace d’Embry?”
Got him. Vingi nodded slowly. “One should always tell the truth to one’s superiors—if it serves him to do so.”
Tight-lipped, McClannan nodded in return. “I’ll do it,” he said, simply.
Vingi smiled. With a groan of effort, he hoisted himself from his floater and arranged the expanse of his clothing. “Then let’s go to the damned conference and pretend to be signing papers.” A pause. “Regent McClannan.”
• • •
The day was windy and cool, with spatters of rain from scattered clusters of cloud. Few people braved the weather this afternoon. Tri-Guild Square was nearly empty. Even the Mason’s Guild, which had been repairing the jagged hole in the pavement, had retreated before the elements. McWilms walked past a temporary barrier of ropes, ignoring the sign warning him back. He gazed at the last mute remnants of the ippicator’s visit—the beast was now under study in a government lab.
McWilms didn’t know what he was looking for here—a sign, perhaps, a symbol, something to give him direction.
The last several days had been nothing but arguments in Underasgard. It had begun with the display of the ippicator. Many of the kin had wanted to see the mythical beast, the visible sign of She of the Five. But Valdisa had refused them permission to go. Too many people, she’d said. A potential hazard. Their presence might spark a confrontation. Her arguments had fallen with dull precision, and she had ignored all discussion on the subject.
Hands in the pockets of his nightcloak, McWilms stared down at the hole. Rain had pooled there, and not much work had been done thus far. He tried to imagine the violence of the explosion, how it must have been, bodies flung, blood everywhere. He could not visualize it well—his experience of death had always been closer, with a knife or a hand weapon, individual. As a Newedener, he didn’t truly understand this distanced, random killing that the Hag’s Legion had employed. It was foreign, alien. No honor was there; they didn’t even know who might be sent to the Hag. Who had they been after?
The argument about the ippicator had not been the last. A few days later, she had told the kin that she intended to alter the code—Hoorka would align itself with Vingi’s rule-guild. They would still accept contracts on the same terms from anyone, but the Li-Gallant would have the approval of them. A roar of protest had followed—they were then no better than the Li-Gallant’s personal assassins, and how soon after this would they no longer give Dame Fate Her chance, but agree to kill anyone contracted, without the victim’s chance of escape being given? Valdisa had been cool, logical; she’d opened the guild’s books to all of them, shown them how badly Hoorka fared. It would not get better; Neweden was changing. Ulthane Gyll had said you don’t change what works, but his code no longer worked here.
Neweden was changing. Had changed.
His ignorance bothered him more and more. Neweden society, after centuries of only slow evolution, had altered drastically. He could feel it. Neweden was more and more an alien place with alien mores, and none of the guilded kin had experience of that. Ulthane Gyll had become one of the outsiders, but he knew, McWilms was convinced. Valdisa wanted the Hoorka to remain ignorant; that, to McWilms, led to the death of the guild as certainly as the Thane’s alliance with Vingi, as Neweden’s contact with the Alliance had dealt a fatal blow to its society.
As the ippicators had died, unable to cope with evolution. But now an ippicator ha
d returned, god-sent. What did it portend? If the gods of Neweden had any control, it meant something. It must.
McWilms couldn’t read meanings from shattered tiles and broken ground. The square had been washed clean—nothing except the mute hole remained to show the violence that had erupted there. McWilms scuffed a piece of tile over the crumbling edge—it splashed in the muddy pool.
It began to rain again, cold and hard, beading on the cloth of his nightcloak. McWilms pulled the hood over his head, moving back over the barrier once more. His head down against the wind-driven shower, he went to the center of the square, where the ippicator had been displayed. Blinking water from his eyes, he looked around the square. Tri-Guild Church was lopped off at mid-spire by low clouds. A few uncomfortable-looking kin hurried diagonally across a corner, cloaks flying. Incongruously, a break in the clouds let the sunstar touch a cluster of tall buildings a few blocks away, light sliding quickly up the sides. The gap closed as McWilms watched; Sterka became dreary again.
Suddenly McWilms laughed, loud and long. His amusement echoed from the buildings around the square. “Gods,” he said, “I’m looking for signs in the weather, omens in the dirt. Jeriad, you’re quite an ass.”
Chapter 14
“I WANT TO SEE that frigging son of a bitch McClannan. Now!”
D’Embry slapped the com-unit’s contact without waiting for her secretary’s answer. She could feel the hot flush of anger on her cheeks. She leaned back, breathing hard and loud. The symbiote squirmed on her back, and slowly she felt her breathing ease again, her face cool. When she felt somewhat normal, she bent forward with a groan and picked up the flimsy on her desk. Her hands trembled as she glared at it, the paper rustling so that she could hardly read the words. She didn’t need to see them; they had burned their image into her mind the first time they’d been read.
EFFECTIVE IMMEDIATELY: IN APPRECIATION OF YOUR LONG SERVICE TO THE ALLIANCE AND THE DIPLOMATIC RESOURCES TEAM, AND CONSIDERING YOUR UNCERTAIN HEALTH, YOUR RESIGNATION HAS BEEN ACCEPTED. ALL BENEFITS ACCRUED TO YOU ARE NOW RELEASED PENDING YOUR ARRIVAL AT NIFFLEHEIM CENTER. YOU ARE TO GIVE REGENT MCCLANNAN ACCESS TO ALL DIPLO CODES AND RECORDS, AND FACILITATE THE QUICKEST TRANSFER OF POWER TO HIM. REPORT TO NIFFLEHEIM CENTER ON 6:22:225. PASSAGE ABOARD THE CRUISER MENGELO HAS BEEN ARRANGED, DUE IN NEWEDEN ORBIT 3:5:225. DEAR LADY, SOMETIMES EVEN THE ELDEST HAVE TO GIVE WAY.
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