They turned back to Oldman Church. “I like the nearest side entrance, Jeriad. No windows nearby—if we can get in, we might be able to surprise them.”
McWilms raised a shoulder. “One way’s as good as another.”
“Get out the snooper and bodyshields—leave the rest of the pack here for now.”
They buckled on the bodyshields, checked that their vibros were loose in their sheaths. Quickly, with all the skill of silentstalk, they slipped unseen to the side of the church. His back against the paint-peeling wall, Gyll used the hand-code. Snooper. He gestured at the door.
McWilms aimed the snout of the device at the wooden door. A dot of scarlet showed on its face—he held the monitor toward Gyll, who sighed inwardly. Going to one knee, he examined the door carefully. He found nothing to indicate the alarm detected by the snooper. It’s inside, he signaled to McWilms.
Other door?
No. Gyll hesitated, weighing his options. The likelihood was that all entrances were guarded or alarmed—it was just as likely that there was no way around it short of sophisticated electronics which would take hours to receive from Goshawk. Time was a commodity he did not have. At the same time, those inside would be expecting nothing: Renard, from what Gyll knew of him, was arrogant enough to expect no trouble from Gyll despite the declaration of bloodfeud; the man would not be here otherwise. And his contacts were probably good enough that he knew of the contract against Gyll. He, like the rest, would be expecting Gyll to be sitting safely in his ship. Other side, Gyll signaled to McWilms. Give me a feint, then leave.
McWilms looked at Gyll askance. Dangerous.
Do it. The gesture was harsh. Gyll’s eyes brooked no further argument. After a moment, McWilms slid away around the far side of the building. Gyll waited, his vibro now out but unactivated. A minute, two: he heard a crash of splintering wood and the distant burr of the alarm. On the second floor, lights flashed on. He heard the sound of running footsteps, moving away from him. Gyll moved back a step, kicked—the frame gave way, the lock still attached, the door swinging open. Gyll switched on his bodyshield and moved inside.
Adrenaline surged through him, excitement raced in his head. He felt young again, invincible. He felt good.
A set of stairs led upward down a short corridor, light spilling down the steps. Gyll moved toward them, staying close to the wall. There were no shadows on the stairs—no one standing at the top. Gyll moved up them quickly, pausing on the third step to raise on his toes and scan the landing above him. There, the stair opened out onto a balcony that circled the church, a few doors opening off it. Hoverlamps, all lit, were spaced at intervals around the balcony. One of the doors to his right was open; in the light of the room beyond, shadows moved. Two people, he estimated. He moved toward the door.
When he was next to it, he put his back to the wall, reached in his pocket for a coin. He flipped it over the balcony’s edge; the coin clattered on the floor below. “Micha?” someone called from the room. It was a deep voice, one that Gyll recognized: Renard. Gyll waited. He could hear the sound of a whispered consultation in the room; if Renard was the type of leader Gyll thought him to be, it would not be Renard that went to investigate the noise.
A man stepped out; a thin, wiry lassari. Gyll moved, hammering at the man’s throat with the hilt of his unactivated vibro. The man choked, gasping, his knees buckling as Gyll shoved him aside, switching on his vibro as he moved into the room.
Renard was waiting. The sting fired even as Gyll moved. The Trader-made shield, far more supple than those the old Hoorka had employed, went rigid only for a second as slugs hammered into the walls and tore the life from the man Gyll had disabled. Then Gyll could move again.
He faced Renard.
The man’s smile was nearly a grimace, showing teeth white against his skin. The plant-pet was coiled around massive shoulders, the sting held in large hands, its muzzle trailing a thin line of smoke. The man was bearlike, imposing. Renard threw the sting aside.
“The bodyshield indicates a lack of trust, Sula,” he said, moving away from Gyll as the Sula advanced. Renard pulled his own vibrofoil from a sheath on his belt; the air was loud with the double howl of the weapons. Renard went into a guard of two—foil down and to the right of center: an unorthodox guard, one designed to throw off an opponent’s timing. “You require a warning when such weapons are used on Neweden, don’t you? I’m afraid I neglected to post it.”
“Distrust works when one deals with a dishonorable opponent, Renard.”
“Honor is a manmade virtue, Hermond. It has no existence by itself. I deal with my enemies by whatever method works.”
“This method failed, Renard. I intend to settle our bloodfeud now.”
Renard circled to the center of the room, Gyll moving to keep him away from the door. The foil was still down, waiting for Gyll’s move. Gyll thrust with deliberate slowness; Renard’s blade whipped up and slapped the thrust aside with a screeching of metal. Renard immediately riposted, a straight counterthrust. Gyll backed a step, batting Renard’s foil aside as sparks flared. They halted, Renard’s foil back in guard two, Gyll’s up in a more traditional guard of four.
Gyll thrust once more, and this time when Renard parried, Gyll went around the movement in a circular parry, down and then over as he advanced. Renard backed, his vibro flailing. The weapons screamed. Gyll did not let Renard rest this time. He went into a compound attack, never letting the other man take the initiative. Twice he thought he had the man, his foil piercing Renard in the forearm, nicking his chest. Blood showed on Renard’s shirt, ran down his arm, slowing his movements. Gyll advanced, confident.
And Renard again did the unexpected. With his free hand, he snatched the plant-pet from his shoulders and whipped it into Gyll’s face as he stepped forward. Gyll ducked away too late—the animal’s spines lacerated his cheek and temple, narrowly missing his eyes. Gyll blinked away blood, trying to watch Renard’s weapon.
The plant-pet flailed at Gyll again. Gyll blocked it with his left arm, barbs digging into his forearm, letting Renard’s momentum carry the man toward him. He brought his foil up; Renard’s blade deflected the thrust and Gyll’s vibro only nicked Renard’s side. They were now nearly corps-a-corps, the vibros thrumming madly. Gyll leaned back, kicked. His foot found Renard’s knee. The man howled in pain, staggering and dropping the limp body of the plant-pet. Gyll thrust at the man through Renard’s frantic defense. The vibro found Renard’s chest; Gyll leaned into the thrust, pulled back, lunged again.
Renard moaned, spitting a foam of blood. He fell backward, collapsing into a sprawl, his vibrofoil chattering on the floor. Gyll picked up the weapon, turned it off.
There was a sound behind him; a footfall. Gyll whirled, vibrofoil moving. Sparks flared with a clattering of blades. “Sula!”
Gyll stepped away, seeing McWilms. “Damn it, I told you to leave—you could have gotten yourself hurt.”
McWilms flicked his vibro off, sheathed it. Gyll did the same; the room was suddenly very still. “The two that came after me were easy,” McWilms said. “One was a woman, who was the better of the two, and a foolish man who kept getting in her way. I thought I’d see if you needed help. I notice you don’t. That’s Renard?”
Gyll wiped at his face with a sleeve—it came away scarlet. Blood dappled his hands. “That’s Renard,” he acknowledged.
“Your face looks awful—some of the cuts are deep. Should I call the ship?”
“I have other things to do tonight. The cuts can wait.”
“All Neweden will thank you for that man’s death.”
“He didn’t die for Neweden.” Gyll looked about the room. He found paper, took a stylus from his pocket. I, Sula Gyll Hermond, did this, he wrote, as Neweden law required. My declaration of bloodfeud is over. He laid the paper on Renard’s corpse. “Bastard,” he said. “Cowardly, dishonorable offworlder.”
Still looking at the body, he spoke to McWilms. “Thank you, Jeriad,” he said. “I know y
ou didn’t have to help me with this. Go to the Assembly and notify them of the outcome. I’m sure the Li-Gallant will be anxious to hear the news.” He turned, wiping a trickle of blood from his eyes. “And do me one more favor. Give me your tunic.”
“Sula?”
“There’s a homing dot under the collar of mine—I found it before I left Goshawk. Tell Helgin for me that this is none of his business.”
“As you wish.” McWilms pulled his tunic off, handed it to Gyll. “Sula, none of the kin will think less of you if you come back to the ship now.”
Gyll did not answer him. He stripped off his tunic, put on McWilms’s.
“I’ll be back after dawn,” he said.
Chapter 21
GYLL SUSPECTED THAT there were now two apprentices—Steban behind, and one other ahead of him with the detector for the dye on his hands: in accordance with the code, the detector would function only when Gyll was more than two hundred meters distant from it. Closer, and the detector ceased functioning, giving him the chance due him by Dame Fate. Fine; they would know in what direction and how far away he was if they lost him—unless he could get beyond the unit’s range. As he remembered, they were not exceedingly powerful, perhaps twenty or thirty kilometers at best.
Gyll began to increase his pace; he heard Steban shift abruptly into a trot to stay with him. Gyll swung around the first corner, turning right and breaking into a run. Startled pedestrians stared as he jostled his way around them—a gray-haired man, his face scored and bloody, dressed in dark Trader costume. Gyll turned right again, then settled into a walk once more. That feint should have drawn in the other apprentice—Steban would have relayed the news of the sudden flight. Yes, there she was across the street, peering desperately about in the inviolate circle Newedeners habitually gave Hoorka. She saw him in the same instant; Gyll saw her whisper into the relay button on her collar. A few seconds later, he heard the panting approach and sudden stop of Steban. Good. Now they’ll both stay closer, afraid they’ll lose me again. Gyll resumed his leisurely strolling, moving slowly toward the center of Sterka. He glanced at a time display in a storefront: 9:37. In a little more than two hours, the full kin would take up the hunt.
For the next hour and a half, Gyll made a sauntering tour of the city, stopping first at a public facility to clean his face and stanch the flow of blood. He bought a flavored ice from a street vendor, sat on a bench and watched a juggler perform, shopped in several stores. Now and then he would turn abruptly, move at a trot for a brief time, darting and turning but always stopping after a few minutes. He faked weariness then, pausing as if short of breath in full sight of the apprentices. They stayed very near him, especially in crowds, sometimes both abreast of him, sometimes behind, but always within a few quick steps. Gyll saw no other Hoorka—he once made a dash when both apprentices were momentarily obstructed, knowing that they would call in any third, unseen watcher. They did not. He wondered what they were thinking, his shadows, of this crazy old man who sometimes seemed to forget that his life was dependent on the whims of Dame Fate, and who did not have the breath to elude them for long.
11:15. By now, the full kin would have been wakened and made ready. A flitter would be sitting near the dawnrock, ready to take them to Sterka and a meeting with the apprentices. He had to make his move now.
A mistake common to most victims was that they, oddly enough, became complacent under the loose and benign surveillance of the apprentices. They would try to elude the shadows at first, but after a few failures, simply stop trying—most of the apprentices were used to that pattern. Gyll had followed it as well; all his runs had been earlier in the night. For the last half-hour or more, he’d simply walked. He knew he could not outrun the girl, who was faster than Steban. Still, Steban most likely had better wind than Gyll. So a straight course was out of the question. Gyll needed to be able to dodge and twist, confuse them, present them with too many variables. The best place for that was in the streets nearest Market Square, bordering on Dasta. Faster now, he began heading in that direction.
Opportunity came early. The apprentices moved closer to him as the streets became narrow and more crowded. Ahead, the avenue rose in a series of long steps, curving to the right and, at the top, passing over another street in a low bridge. Suddenly Gyll broke into a run, heading toward a knot of people around a fruit stall. The apprentices moved behind him halfheartedly, waiting for him to run out of breath as he had every time before. Gyll halted, leaned over as if catching his breath, watching as the apprentices slowed to a walk. Then he pumped into a full run, shouldering his way through the customers around the stall. Shouts of anger pursued him. The apprentices were caught flat-footed, additionally hampered by the annoyed crowd. Gyll saw a side street, ducked into it, and then into a shop where a bemused clerk glanced at his scratched face quizzically. Gyll moved back into the dark recesses of the shop, followed by the gaze of the curious clerk. He pretended to examine merchandise—sexual toys—while keeping the window in the edge of his vision.
“Many of our customers like our stock of masks, sirrah. They can keep an, ahh, overzealous partner from making too visible a mark.” The clerk stared at Gyll’s face, a smile touching his lips.
“No, thank you.” Steban trotted past, glanced quickly through the window of the store, but missed Gyll in the shadows. Gyll moved toward the door. He peered out, up and down the street.
“There’s no need for shame, sirrah,” the clerk said behind him. “We cater to a natural function. No one here will think less of you whatever your preferences for stimulation.”
Gyll laughed. “Then I’ll be back,” he said, stepping into the street. The apprentices were not in sight. Gyll backtracked, staying close to the buildings in case he needed to hide quickly. He vaulted the low bridge, landing easily on the street below. At a jog now, he made his way back to the wealthier business sectors.
His luck held. He saw no sign of the Hoorka apprentices. Hopefully, they would spend the next several minutes looking for him in Market Square before the tracer told them that he was no longer close. By then, it would be too late.
Forcing himself to move calmly, to meld with the people around him as best he could, he went to a transit stop and boarded a public tram, taking it from central Sterka to its last stop on the southern outskirts of the city. Overhead, he knew, a Hoorka flitter would pass the tram, moving toward Sterka and the apprentices.
Gyll left the tram, moving from the small secluded station that served the farmlands around Sterka. A flitter-rental outlet stood nearby. Gyll rented one of the machines—an old flitter well past its prime—and flew south across the fields toward Underasgard, perhaps five kilometers away in the hills. He put a hand in his pocket, fingering the small round pellets there that had come from his ship’s armory. I’m sorry, Valdisa, but it’s time to end this farce. By now, the full kin would have learned from the chagrined apprentices that Gyll was gone. The tracer would be used to find him—if he was very lucky, he was already beyond its range, and the Hoorka would have to guess which way he’d gone. Given that, Gyll could, by lying low and continuing to move, most likely elude the Hoorka without confrontation and greet the sunstar free and alive. He did not count on that luck, though; if he was still within the detector’s range, they knew which way he was heading, and he had only a small time in which to do what he intended to do. He raced the flitter as fast as it would go, landing finally in a clearing near Underasgard.
The cavern mouth looked as it always did. The dawnrock stood impassive under the stars, Gulltopp’s light throwing its shadow across the grass. The cave entrance yawned darker than night under a wrinkled brow of rock. Gyll knew that the guards would be there and watching—after his last visit here, the vigilance would be tighter. He knew that the old trick he’d employed then would not work again. No—this time it would have to be a headlong confrontation; Gyll would need luck. He muttered a brief prayer to Dame Fate, the old words passing his lips strangely. Praying again; next you’ll
be bowing low to full kin and getting out of their way like a lassari.
He made a circuitous approach to the mouth of Underasgard, moving as quickly as he could without making excessive noise. It took all of his standards of expertise in the skills of silentstalk, but at last he crouched behind a boulder just outside and to one side of the caves. He took a deep breath, held it, listening intently: no talking, but he could hear two shallow breaths, amplified by stone. Gyll reached into his pocket once more, took out a vial wrapped in cotton. He removed the protective covering and tossed the vial into the cave mouth. A tinkling of glass, a sharp hissing: Gyll waited a few minutes, then swung over the boulder and darted into the cave. Two apprentices lay slumped on the ground there, breathing deeply in sleep. Gyll smiled and moved deeper into Underasgard.
He knew the ways well. He slipped easily past the inhabited sectors into the less-traveled corridors. He broke the seal on a glow-tube, following its bluish light over the rough trails of broken stone. Slabs tilted beneath his feet, falling back with an echoing, dull clank. The noise did not bother him; there were no listeners here but the cave animals. He passed through a cavern where the light of the glow-tube failed to reach the walls, leaving him surrounded by leering darkness, where a cold wind blew past him like Hag Death’s breath. He came, in time, to the cavern of the headless ippicator, and there he stopped, shock and anger welling inside him.
Bones were missing; not many, but a few. Gyll’s eyes narrowed, and he walked nearer the skeleton. It was not disturbed or defiled—whoever had removed the bones had been reverent and careful—and by the tracks, the intruder had worn boots, such as those the guild-kin wore.
Abruptly, he knew who it had been, and knowing that, why. “Valdisa,” he breathed. “Is it so bad that you’d sell what is sacred to the kin?” A chill not of the cavern went through him. D’Embry had said that he would have his answer if he ran the contract—he knew now. The code was cracked and broken, a vestige that would soon be gone entirely. Dead, like the ippicators themselves. “Valdisa, She of the Five will leave you with the Hag forever for this,” he whispered, then straightened, inhaling. No time, no time—do what you came to do.
Assassins' Dawn Page 66