“McClannan—for some reason or other—thinks Hermond will run. And in any case, that’s not the point. We’re talking about a moral position, Arthol, not a game of chance. And I wouldn’t be surprised if FitzEvard regards the contract as a violation of the Alliance-Trading Families Pact. He may even be right. You’re likely to have to fight a long legal battle, whichever decision Hermond makes.”
A hand, wavering in the mediocre transmission, came up to run a thumb along the line of his cheek. That’s bad—he’s got that frown to his mouth. You’ve lost, old girl. It’s just going to be words from here on unless you can come up with something good.
“I don’t think you’ve judged the situation correctly, Tha.” She strained to hear him against the storm of the background. The friendly warmth seemed to have seeped from his voice, though it might have been only her own perception. “Again, as I recall your Hoorka”—he stressed the word—“the signer of a contract is revealed only if the contract is successful, the victim killed. I think we all agree that this is unlikely to go that far, in which case, all FitzEvard has are his suspicions, and he’s not going to waste a lawyer’s fees on those.”
“So you’re willing to take the risk as well.”
“I think so.”
“If we were to lose Neweden, we lose the ippicator bones as well as the other resources of this world.”
“We won’t lose Neweden.”
She sighed. “What if Hermond should die, Arthol? What if it was learned that you’d been informed in advance of the contract? When FitzEvard raises the stink you know he’ll raise, your career will go down with McClannan’s, and you’ve got a lot farther to fall. You’ll lose everything.”
That threat was not a gambit she liked to play, both because it was weak and because it would lose her whatever affection the man might have for her. But she had no more strings to pull, no more favors to call in. All she had were empty bluffs, and a knowledge of a bureaucrat’s instinctive fear for his reputation.
Pettengill’s eyes had narrowed—in his fleshy face, that looked almost porcine. “I didn’t think you’d stoop to threats, m’Dame. It’s not like you. Why don’t we just forget you said that?”
Arthol, I’m sorry for what I’m going to do. Really I am. “Why don’t you worry about your future a bit?” she replied. “Diplo Center has a log of this call—that’s automatic. Even if I’m gone when the investigation starts, they’ll start checking the texts of all the incoming relays from Neweden in the past few months, and they’ll find that I just told you about the whole problem—unless you are going to say that you’ll erase the recordings after I sign off. In that case, Arthol, I’d ask you to consider that I could be making a copy here myself.”
There was no expression in his eyes; they’d gone distant and unreadable. “That’s a disgraceful attempt at blackmail. It shames you.”
“It does indeed,” she admitted. “Nevertheless, I’m doing it—call it trying to right a larger wrong with a smaller one. What are you going to do about it, Arthol? Are you going to play a game like McClannan, and let your career rest on the chance that Hermond won’t run, or that if he does, he isn’t killed? Let me remind you of another statistic—only about twenty-five percent of contracted victims escape the Hoorka if they run. That’s pretty low, isn’t it?”
When he hesitated before answering, she allowed herself a moment of hope, diluted by the manner in which she’d gone about it. But he shook his head at last. “You can’t bluff me that way, d’Embry,” he said, and even through the static she could hear the coldness in his voice. “Thank you, but I think I’ll decline your little scheme. We have to trust the people we put in charge—I think you’ve used a similar argument when people here have tried to have you removed, after the Heritage incident, for example. Listen to your own advice, m’Dame. Let McClannan make his own mistakes.”
“He’s already made them. You’ll find that out. Leave him installed as Regent, and you’ll lose Neweden within a standard.”
“That’s supposition only, and one that might easily be attributed to jealousy.” The speaker in her com-unit hissed and crackled. “And I think that Regent McClannan would be distressed at the cost of this relay. Unless you have further arguments, m’Dame . . .”
She did not. It was over. “You’ve just made a mistake, Arthol. It will be a big one. Remember that I told you that.”
“I’m not likely to forget this conversation at all. And I have a meeting in a few minutes.”
D’Embry nodded wearily. She made a curt good-bye and switched off the com-unit. She sighed wearily, sinking back in her floater, her eyes closed. “Well, old girl, you tried. At least you tried.”
Chapter 20
HE’D SENT MCWILMS ON BEFORE, following him by a few hours.
When Gyll stepped from the shuttle into the cool Neweden dusk, he scanned the flat expanse of the port. He put himself in the role of the apprentice who would be watching for him, charged with the task of keeping the contract victim in sight until the full kin took up the hunt near midnight. Remember, it doesn’t matter if the victim knows he’s being watched, but don’t expose yourself to danger. Observe, but stay your distance.
Gyll saw the apprentice almost at once. The boy leaned against an empty trailer, making no attempt to conceal his presence. Gyll could see the red slash on the nightcloak even through the murk of gathering night. He bowed in the boy’s direction; Gyll could not be sure, but he thought he saw an answering inclination of the hooded face. Gyll stretched unnecessarily, letting the boy see that he carried nothing but a sheathed vibrofoil—no suspicious bulges, no pack that might conceal sting or other weapons, not even the thick belt of a bodyshield. The apprentice would convey that information to Underasgard and Thane Valdisa. The full kin would be armed accordingly.
Gyll waved to the shuttle pilot and strode over the tarmac toward the gates nearest Diplo Center. Behind him, he could hear the footsteps of the apprentice. Gyll walked slowly, staying to the middle of the pedestrian lane, making no attempt to elude his shadow. The last glow of evening was in the sky, the first stars trying to overcome the lights of Sterka. The port beacons were on, turning the area into a glittering maze. There had been times when Gyll would have tarried to gaze at the scene, but he had no eye for aesthetics tonight. He gave his identification papers to a sleepy Diplo guard who perused them haphazardly and then waved him through the gates. Gyll went across the way and into Diplo Center, startling a night receptionist who had just come on duty and who seemed to have nothing better to do than to be certain that his hair was arranged satisfactorily.
“I wish to see former Regent d’Embry.”
“I’m sorry, she . . .” the receptionist began, and only then looked up. He swallowed his words abruptly and set down his comb. “Excuse me, Sula. I’ll ring her.” He had a brief, energetic conversation under the security hood of his com-unit, then turned back to Gyll. “She’s in her office, Sula. You may go right in.” Gyll nodded. He glanced back to the entrance of the Center; the shadowy form of the apprentice stared at him through the glass. Gyll made his way to d’Embry’s office.
It had changed since the last time he’d seen it. Only the desk was still uncovered, the remainder packed for shipment. D’Embry was in her floater, the room lights dimmed. Only her eyes moved when he entered.
“Sula Hermond,” she said. He was surprised at how weak her voice had become, at how frail she appeared to be in the cushions of her chair. Her skin seemed gray and almost translucent—under her tunic, the hump of the symbiote bulged. It seemed larger than before.
“M’Dame d’Embry.”
“I can’t help you, you know. I tried, but they wouldn’t listen, not McClannan, not Pettengill; no one. Except for McClannan, they all said that you wouldn’t run.” Her eyes closed slowly.
“Then McClannan was right,” he replied softly.
“Which proves that there is a first time for everything.” Her eyes opened again. She lifted a hand in a half-wave: flesh
tinted ice-blue. “Take a seat, Sula.”
Gyll went to the front of the desk, pulled a hump-chair from the floor, and sat. “You seem awfully damned relaxed for a hunted man,” d’Embry commented.
“The contract run is something I know, if always experienced from the other side before now.” He shrugged. “At least I know the rules of this.”
“But not of other things? Such as the role of a Sula?”
“I thought I knew them, m’Dame. It seems I might have been mistaken.”
She nodded as if she knew what he meant, or perhaps she was merely indicating that she had heard him; Gyll wasn’t certain. This was not the d’Embry who had been Regent. This was a slow old woman who lacked the flash and fury of the Regent. Defeated, he thought. The fight’s left her, and she’s given up. The realization forced Gyll to alter his planned speech—he wondered if he shouldn’t just forget this and begin the run now, save his breath for the hunt.
“It’s FitzEvard’s doing,” he said baldly. “All of it; Gunnar’s death, Renard, the Hag’s Legion, probably the ippicator as well. Oldin’s behind all the problems Neweden’s had recently. I don’t know his reasons—maybe just to spite you, m’Dame, to cause you difficulties.”
She smiled at that. “The difficulties I’ve had aren’t Oldin’s doing. I managed them myself.”
“M’Dame, Renard is in the pay of FitzEvard. The man’s been here a decade or more, off and on. Renard organized the Hag’s Legion, he’s made sure that the lassari stay discontented and angry. As for the killing of Gunnar, that was done by an Oldin assassin. And, m’Dame, when Kaethe Oldin was here, she once showed me an ippicatorian embryo engineered from a tissue sample in the Oldin Archives.”
Nothing. Nothing. Gyll had been certain that the revelations would goad her into rage, would rekindle the cold anger he’d seen in her before. It did not; she only nodded and clasped hands underneath her chin. “Why do you tell me all this now?” she asked, too quietly, too softly. “Two weeks ago . . . perhaps less . . .”
“M’Dame—”
“Sula, my access codes have all been canceled as of four hours ago. I can’t contact Niffleheim except through slow-time channels. McClannan wouldn’t know what to do with the information you’ve brought even if he were willing to listen to me. He’d most likely accuse the both of us of concocting the whole tale to discredit him.”
The blank hopelessness on her face appalled him. “I’m sorry, m’Dame.”
“Oh, so am I,” she said tonelessly. “Tell me, Sula, are you leaving the Oldins?”
He shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. I came here to repay the Oldins for lies spoken to me; I wanted to hurt them, to show them that I was angry. And I had a question to ask of you—I’d hoped that this would guarantee me the truth.”
“And the question?”
He’d been thinking of it since Helgin had told him of the deceptions, since McWilms had arrived with his contingent of Hoorka. Gyll leaned forward, intent. “Do the Hoorka have a future here—on Neweden, with the Alliance?”
She smiled faintly. “It would be simple to lie to you like all the rest, Sula. That lie would hold the satisfaction of hindering the plans of someone who’s given his allegiance to FitzEvard. You’re so open that you’d believe anything I told you, Sula. You should learn to curb that inclination; it may kill you someday.” She started to laugh, coughed once, then with a wracking spasm that drained her face of color. When she had recovered, she shook her head at him. “But I’m not going to lie to you, Sula, and you’ll just have to accept that I’m not going to tell you the truth, either. I’m not Regent. I can’t answer your question anymore. Nor am I Thane Valdisa, who holds the other half of the answer.”
“You know McClannan, know how he’ll react.”
“Sula, I never thought McClannan would betray me the way he did. So much for thinking that I know the man. All I know is what’s happened to me. I’ve grown old and decrepit in a world that’s changed. Maybe Hoorka’s done that as well.” She looked at him, her gray eyes rheumy. “And maybe not.”
“You won’t answer.”
“I can’t.”
“I think I knew the answer before I came here.” Gyll glanced around the room, not wanting to look at her. “M’Dame, if you could find a way to tell your superiors what I’ve said, the regency might well be yours again.”
“And then you could ask your question. Again.”
“I know you didn’t step down voluntarily.”
She laughed, dry and hoarse. “Still after your revenge, Sula? You do tempt me, but as I told you, I’ve no authority here, and I find that I’m glad it’s gone. Sula, if you’re going to continue with this nonsense of running the contract, then you’ll have your questions answered for you. I just pray that you’ll enjoy the solution. Or you can go to McClannan with this story of yours, but I think I should tell you that he’s the signer of the contract against you. He’s not going to believe you; he won’t want to. He’ll shake his head and smile nicely at you. He’ll see nothing but a potential trap, and he’ll laugh you from the Center.”
“So it’s McClannan’s contract.” Gyll smiled sadly. “Thank you for telling me—I would have always wondered. It makes sense.”
“McClannan’s a fool. I told him he couldn’t win this way. If you live, you add to the reputation of the Oldins; if you die, he stands a good chance of being removed by Niffleheim. I told him that; he wouldn’t believe me.”
“You seem to have good reasons for disliking the man, m’Dame. I trust your judgment. I won’t go to him.”
“But you’ll run.” D’Embry shook her head wonderingly. There was a slight tremor to the movement, a palsy.
“I’ll run.”
“You’re crazy, Sula.” She stared at him. “You come here with a tale all wrapped up like a present, FitzEvard caught in the bow. Yet you’re going to go back to that same man as one of his captains, if you manage to live through the night—because of a contract you could void in a moment. Sula, if you haven’t paid off the contract because you don’t want to take Oldin money, take mine. I won’t need it.”
“M’Dame, it’s neither money nor misplaced pride.”
“Then what?”
He shrugged. “I’m playing by my old rules once more before they’re no longer valid. I’m letting Dame Fate have Her way.”
D’Embry sighed. She looked down at her hands. “Sula, I never thought you really believed in that theology, or that, if you had, your recent standards away from Neweden would have destroyed your faith.”
“I thought the same.” He rose, with a groan of effort. His legs ached, as if already fatigued from the night’s run.
Her gaze had not followed him. “I find this foolish and wasteful.”
Gyll didn’t answer. He moved toward the door, opening it. “Sula?” she said behind him.
“Yah?”
“Good luck.”
• • •
The apprentice still waited by the main doors. Gyll passed the boy, who moved back away from him, then followed behind. The sky was almost fully dark now, the stars at the horizon obscured in skyglow. He moved at an easy pace toward Sterka’s busy streets. Gyll made his way toward the Street of Singers as Sterka changed from evening to night around him.
He came to the Street of Singers at an intersection a few blocks above Oldman Church. There, a figure in dark clothing, a bulky pack beside him, waved to Gyll.
“You’re late,” McWilms said, nodding to Gyll and watching the apprentice dodge into shadow—he knew that the boy would be calling for advice from Underasgard.
“There was something I had to do,” Gyll said curtly. He glanced down the street toward the church. “Are they there?”
McWilms nodded. “Four of them, counting Renard—I was lucky; I watched them going in.”
“What’s our best approach?”
“I don’t know, Sula. There’s a rear door and two side entrances, plus the windows. They can’t watch them all, but ther
e’s no way of knowing what they might have in the way of traps or alarms.”
“Then we’ll find out. You brought the equipment?”
McWilms tapped the pack beside him. “It’s all here.”
“Good. Follow me, and keep to the shadows as much as you can.”
“And your apprentice tag-along?”
“If Valdisa’s taught him well, he’ll stay out of the way. Let’s go, Jeriad.”
McWilms shouldered the pack. Gyll in the lead, they made their way back to the avenue paralleling the Street of Singers. The apprentice ducked back between two houses as they passed. Gyll and McWilms moved quickly down the street, ignoring the stares of the residents, watching from porches and steps. “One of them, any of them, might be Hag’s Legion, Sula. They could give a warning to Renard.”
“It’s a chance we take, Jeriad. You can leave if it worries you too much. This is my bloodfeud—you don’t have to be involved.”
“It’s my quarrel as well, Sula. Renard killed Ric, ultimately; who knows how many other kin have fallen to him? I’m going with you.”
At the end of the street, they turned between the buildings into an alley once used by Helgin. Oldman Church sat before them, dark-shuttered and quiet. The structure looked empty, deserted, like the houses nearest it. McWilms set his pack down once more, rummaged through it to find a bio-meter. He set the controls, checked the range; diodes flashed on the monitor. “I’m getting four readings, Sula,” he whispered. “It should be the same ones.”
The apprentice turned into the alley behind them, halted in a scraping of gravel. Gyll turned, scowled at him. “Keep out of this, boy,” he growled harshly. “It’s none of Hoorka’s business. Just be quiet.” Wide-eyed, the boy nodded, his gaze more on McWilms than Gyll. McWilms nodded to him. “You heard the Sula, Steban,” he said. “Do as he says—what we’re doing has no effect on your contract.” Again the nod; Steban slunk back into shadows.
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