Assassins' Dawn (72 page)

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

G
YLL 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.”

“Here she is, then. Enjoy yourself, Sula.”

The screen flickered with interference and settled into the figure of d’Embry. Immediately, Gyll’s mood darkened—her face was skewed with anger. “I thought you to be more subtle and honest, Sula,” she said without preface.

“And I thought you more clear, Regent. What
are
you talking about?”

He could see the hump of the symbiote as she shifted in her seat. “Don’t be obtuse, Sula. I know you have your contacts on this world. You’re well aware of what occurs here: I’m speaking specifically of the attempted assassination of the Li-Gallant, and of the finding of a certain creature thought holy by Neweden—and that may well be more important than the other. There are already reports of small-scale disturbances in some of the cities here.”

Gyll punched up a side screen, scanned it. “In Irast, Sterka, and Remeale—a few deaths, a few injuries, some property damaged, mostly in the lassari sectors,” he said. “And the attempted assassin was named Enil d’Favre, killed by Vingi’s security people.” He glanced back at d’Embry. “It seems he had a goodly amount of Alliance scrip.”

D’Embry smiled without amusement. “There, you see. I knew you weren’t as innocent of the facts as you pretended.”

“Helgin gave me most of the news last night, among other items more important to our trading mission here. It didn’t mean that much to me, I’m afraid. The man never got close to the Li-Gallant, Regent. It’s a cowardly and dishonorable act, but unfortunately that’s become less and less important to Neweden. The Alliance’s influence, I fear. As for the ippicator, I’ll wait until the carcass has been examined before I venture an opinion there.”

His tone bordered on the jocular. It soured d’Embry’s face further. “Don’t go playing games with me, Sula,” she said sharply. “You know damned well that someone set us up to be blamed for d’Favre. That leads me to an obvious conclusion.”

“Let me tell you how I think on the matter, Regent. I have only your word that this assassin wasn’t one of your people. That’s all. And it leads me to make no conclusions at all, except that you’re upsetting yourself unnecessarily.” He said it forcefully enough, but inside the doubts arose to nag at him—the mission to Neweden was beginning to stink in his nostrils, a vague uneasiness that events were proceeding around him over which he had no control.

D’Embry’s cheeks flushed. She sat silent for a second, then struck the top of her desk—Gyll saw the motion, heard the slap of her hand below the edge of the screen. “Sula, I’m going to order
Goshawk
out of Neweden space. I know the damned pact, too: you can expect to have notice of a formal hearing before the arbitrators within four local days, as soon as I can get them here. I want you gone.”

“Regent, I think you’re moving too fast with too little evidence.” He spoke quickly, trying to sound calm while wondering why her words disturbed him so much.
What makes you so afraid of that, old man? Are you unwilling to admit that you’ve failed in your task, or are you frightened that the arbitrators might find that you’ve been duped?

“Evidence, man? Dame Fate would laugh at you. Funny how the Hag’s Legion springs full-fledged into open defiance just as you arrive; strange how assassins prowl the Li-Gallant’s grounds with Alliance scrip in their pockets, or that lassari burst into private gatherings on Alliance territory. Odd that an ippicator appears at a critical moment in the crisis. And the Family Oldin just happens to be there.”

“There is such a thing in this universe as coincidence.” He did not believe it, not really. He knew she wouldn’t, either. It sounded pompous and lame.

She laughed harshly, a syllable of derision. “I don’t believe you expect me to credit that.”

“It’s still true,” he persisted. “Consider how the arbitrators might choose. You’ve no evidence beyond the coincidence of timing. The Hag’s Legion call this Renard their leader. Who is he? And would I have aided the Li-Gallant after Vasella’s funeral if I intended to kill him a few weeks later? If my sources are as good as you claim them to be, then they’ve told me correctly that the Li-Gallant has as much as made a formal accusation against the Alliance for the assassination attempt.”

That struck her; he could see her go suddenly cold and distant. That was more frightening than her anger, for it was more the d’Embry that he remembered. “As for the ippicators,” he continued, “they are the pets of the gods, Regent, and the Family Oldin doesn’t claim godhood. Ippicators aren’t in our province.”