Assassins' Dawn (74 page)

Gyll felt impotent, helpless. It had been different with the Neweden Hoorka. Then you knew what you were expected to do, knew what your victim might attempt. Everything was open, everything was one-on-one, personal. You and someone else. He hated crowd actions because they were impersonal and confusing. Lutana Creption was probably a better tactician with this situation.
I hate it. Give me the chase, the contract, the hunt.

The Trader-Hoorka nearest to him knew that something was awry. Gyll could sense it in the covert glances back at him, and he suddenly realized that he was pacing, hands behind his back, near the com-net. He forced himself to stand still, to wait. That was the hardest part of his present job—to delegate the authority and then just await results.

The com-net chimed. “Sula here.”

It was Lutana Creption. “We’ve found Culdoon. He’s just about alive; someone used an altered prod on him. He was behind a stack of crates in an alley a few streets away from the square.”

She said nothing else, waiting. Gyll knew that her thoughts were running parallel to his own. “Then they’ve got someone in the crowd,” he said. “Shit.”

“I’m sorry, Sula. And since they bothered to go after a sniffer, I’d worry about explosives first.”

“The two sniffers we have checking the lines aren’t enough, then. Send in all the perimeter crews and seal off the square to anyone trying to enter the lines. If they want
out,
fine, let ’em go, but let’s not get anyone else in danger.”

A brief silence spoke her uncertainty. “We’re going to have problems with that—these people keep coming to see the beast. They won’t like being turned back.”

“They’ll have to wait.”

“We’ll have trouble.”

“Then we’ll have to handle it,” Gyll snapped. “Seal off the square and send the sniffers in. If we need more bodies, use Vingi’s guards until Helgin can get here with more Hoorka.”

“Yes, Sula.” She did not sound pleased.

“Lutana, I know these people. I’m one of them. Be firm, but be very polite. Make sure your people frame everything with respect—they’re touchy about honor and you might find yourself in a fight by accidentally insulting the wrong person. But they do understand authority; they’ll obey if it’s handled correctly.”

He heard her sigh. “Polite but firm. Yes, Sula.”

“And gently, Lutana. I don’t want any innocents hurt because our people were clumsy.”

“As you say.”

Gyll cut the switch. The Hoorka nearby were looking at him again. He ignored them, pretending calm. He beckoned to one. “I’m taking a net patch. You stay by the com and relay any calls for me.”

“Yes, Sula.”

Gyll stuck the patch—a small, sticky pad—in place just behind his ear. He touched the vibro on his belt, made sure that it slipped easily in its sheath. Then he moved into the crowd, sprinkling apologies before him, though all but the high kin moved back from him without asking, recognizing the uniform as belonging to those running the spectacle. Though he had no clear idea of what he intended, it felt better to be moving, to be closer to any potential action.

Rising on his toes to peer above the crowd, he saw one of the sniffers two lines over. Excusing himself to those around him, he made his way over to the man. “Anything yet, Benoit?”

Benoit didn’t look up from the display screen of the bulky equipment strapped to his chest. “There’s a slight reading, Sula—I’m trying to vector it now.” He swiveled in place, his hands moving over knobs. He shook his head, grimacing. “I can’t get it isolated—wait! There it is. A hundred-twenty, hundred-thirty meters southeast. Crude stuff, but there’s got to be a lot of it if I’m picking it up this far off. Stuff’s leaking into the air like homemade. It’ll be volatile junk, Sula. Want to move closer?” He was speaking in a whisper now. Gyll had to lean forward to hear him above the crowd’s noise.

“Hold a moment.” Gyll touched the patch. “Lutana?” he said, subvocalizing. The patch’s reception was tinny but clear. Her voice seemed to reverberate in his head.

“Here, Sula.”

“Benoit’s got the intruder.” Gyll leaned over the screen and read coordinates to her. “Got that? I want you to start closing in on that area: shield up. Get as close as you can without alarming him. Benoit and I will start working our way in, and I’ll have him work with the other sniffers to get a more precise location. Don’t get too close or let him see you. And we could use a volunteer to take off shield and uniform, get close enough to give a visual description.”

“Should we still be polite?” He could hear an inflection through the patch that annoyed him—he would have to speak with her after this, and not mildly.

“You’d damned well better be if you don’t want a riot. Let me know immediately when your volunteer has that description.”

“He” turned out to be a woman. The description was relayed to Gyll: “Dark hair, close-cropped, not too clean. She’s wearing a loose leather coat, tan-colored, and she looks to be pregnant—that’ll be the bomb, I’m sure. Light blue pants, brown boots. She’s in line, looks a little nervous, keeps glancing around.”

Lutana Creption broke in. “I’ve got someone with a nightscope in a building along the square, Sula. He says it’s a bad shot; she’s packed in with the rest. Getting her out isn’t going to be easy, and the people around her aren’t wearing bodyshields. If she gets too nervous, we’re going to lose a hell of a lot of locals.”

“Let me think a second, Lutana.” The people around Gyll stared at the sniffer, at the white-haired Trader-Hoorka beside him. Gyll could feel their sublimated hostility—they were the Li-Gallant’s hirelings. “We’re the only safe ones out here—if we can surround her with shields, it’ll confine the damage.”

“Nobody’s safe if the blast throws us into something—the shields aren’t going to help with that, or the concussion.”

“It’ll take five or six of us, more if we’re not close. I’m one. How about you, Lutana?”

A pause, static-filled. “That’s two.”

“You got a few more daredevils in the squad?”

After a minute, she replied. “I’m stocked with fools.”

Gyll chuckled despite himself, wondering why he suddenly felt good again. “Fine. Is your spotter still there?”

“Yah, Sula,” came the voice.

“Your task is to fake a collapse—heart attack, anything that’ll give us an excuse to be hurrying in your direction. With that pretext, we should be able to move people aside, out of the way, and maybe even get to her before she does anything stupid. I doubt that she’s suicidal; if she can’t place the bomb and get away, we should be able to take her safely.”

“And if she decides to become a martyr?” Lutana Creption.

“Then we’ll hope the shields work. Gods, I wish we had the ship’s stores close; a paralyzer, stun-gas—there’s a dozen alternatives on the ship.”

“You couldn’t anticipate all the needs, Sula.” Creption’s voice was oddly respectful. It made Gyll smile quickly. “If we’d brought an arsenal, there’d still be problems. Your plan’s as good as the next.”

“That doesn’t make me feel better. Well, let’s see if it works. Make certain the shields are up and the ears are protected.”

The collapse was well-performed; the spotter was a decent actor. From his vantage point, Gyll could see little, but he heard the welling of loud voices, the sudden heightening of crowd-awareness as heads craned to see what had caused the commotion. “Let me through, please!” Gyll shouted as he began pushing toward the woman. Each person behind him was one less likely to be injured—the Oldin bodyshields were far superior to those Gyll had known on Neweden. They did not hinder a person much at all. For any explosive he could conceive of this woman having, they would shelter the fragile body from the initial burst and any shrapnel as well; though they well might be flung away like sticks, perhaps scorched from the blast, they would in all likelihood survive. Not the kin and lassari around the woman—they would be fragile dolls in a hurricane; broken, torn, and bloody.

Gyll could not get that red-imbued vision from his head. He struggled forward against the crowd’s resistance. Shadows from the hoverlamps threw crazy, erratic shadows over them; the buildings around the square loomed against moonlight.

Suddenly, he could see her. She clutched at the expanse of her belly, wide-eyed, her gaze skittering like that of a trapped animal. She was pretty in a disheveled way, not at all the hard, stoic woman he’d expected to see, but a woman-child, frightened. To his right, a knot of Trader-Hoorka were bending over a prone figure. Others came in, moving Newedeners aside, crowd-prods out. The woman was becoming more isolated, and he could sense her desperation, could see that she now knew that she was discovered and trapped. More of Gyll’s people arrived, shouldering aside those nearest the woman. He took a step toward her as the ring began to close.

“No!” she shouted, startling him. She whirled to flee, only to find Lutana Creption standing there. She swung about again, arms swinging, her coat flapping open—Gyll could see something strapped there. He lunged for her—his hand caught her sleeve, but she wrenched it away, cloth tearing. “Renard!” she cried, as if to the air. “You promised—” She said nothing more.

A flash of orange-white, a deafening “thu-
whump.”
Gyll’s shield went rigid in that instant—he felt himself being tossed, striking something, bouncing. The world whirled about him, dancing, tumbling; the echo of the explosion dinned in his ears through the plugs; his vision was lost in a welter of glaring afterimages. He hit something hard—even through the constriction of the shield his head snapped back.

Amidst a roaring, sight faded.

•   •   •

Someone had used his head for an anvil. He could taste the iron-tang of blood in his mouth, and his legs didn’t seem to want to work. Either he couldn’t open his eyes or he couldn’t see. He could hear vague noises, garbled speech. He hawked, spat up phlegm.

“Shit!” someone said. “I might’ve known you’d aim for me.”

“Helgin?” His throat rasped the word.

“No, your friggin mother. Who the hell do you think it is?”

“I can’t see.” Each word was a breath, an agony.

“Your eyes are bandaged, fool. Here, feel.”

Gyll felt someone take his hand, move it to his face. His fingertips touched soft cloth. Gyll sighed and tried to flex his legs—pain shot through him, but they moved.

“You certainly like to cause yourself unnecessary pain,” Helgin commented, “but you probably won’t settle down until I give you the details, right?—No, don’t answer; I know you. The medics say you’ll be fine, no thanks to your little attempt at heroism. Didn’t you ever hear about delegating authority? Staying in one piece is one of the advantages of doing that.”

“Couldn’t ask without . . .” His mouth was dry. He swallowed. “. . . going myself.”

“Damned nice of you. That’s gotten you flashburns on the face and hands, a small concussion even through your thick skull, assorted bumps and bruises, but nothing broken. You’ll have a hearing loss for the next several days—I’m damn near shouting at you now. They want you in the medi-doc overnight, but after that you’re on your own again.”

“The others?” He wanted water, anything.

“All our people are fine—all in much better shape than you. The blast killed nine bystanders and the woman, of course. There’s about thirty others in for various injuries; all of them should make it. It could have been a lot worse, Gyll. A lot worse. The Li-Gallant has managed to praise you and condemn you all at the same time.”

“Water?”

“Here.”

Something nudged Gyll in the lips—a straw. He sucked on it greedily, feeling the coolness soothe his throat. Helgin pulled it away before he finished. “That’s the whole glass, Gyll—you want more?”

“In a moment.” He could speak again. “She didn’t set it off, Helgin.” He licked dry lips, found them cracked and torn. “I saw her hands the whole time. I think she was using a transmitter—she called Renard—the Hag’s Legion. Then it went off.”

“We found some of the pieces. It was triggered by a remote switch.”

“Renard.”

Gyll could hear the Motsognir’s shrug, a rustling of cloth. “Most likely.”

“I want him.”

“Thought we weren’t going to interfere in Neweden politics?”

Gyll tried to sit up, couldn’t. He felt dizzy, and lay back, panting, until the spell passed. “This isn’t politics,” he said at last. “It’s filthy murder. Killing without the redemption of honor. I want that bastard.”

“D’Embry might have something to say about it. So might Vingi.”

“I want him. I don’t give a damn about the rest, Motsognir.”

“I don’t blame you. I want him too.” The dwarf sounded strangely fierce. “He was watching, you can bet. Watching, and waiting for the right moment.” He paused. Gyll stared at the darkness before his eyes until the Motsognir spoke again. “I think I can find him, as well. A week, Gyll, then we’ll go together, when you’re well. I’ll find him.”

“A week.” Gyll repeated the words.

He heard Helgin rise and walk away. More footsteps approached. A hand touched him on the shoulder. “Sula?” It was a gentle voice; a woman. “We’re going to move you back to
Goshawk
now.” There was a cold swabbing; something pricked his arm. A cold numbness began to spread over his chest. “I’ve given you a sedative for the trip—just let yourself sleep, Sula. You’ll be back on the ship when you wake.”

He felt himself being lifted. He swayed. The motion was curiously restful. He was moving—he could feel the breeze on his face.

And somewhere, he slowly drifted into dreamless sleep.

Chapter 12

I
t was the first time they’d made love.

Afterward, he kissed her and rolled from the bedfield. He came back with a hot washcloth and a soft towel. Gently he cleaned her. She hadn’t expected such tenderness from him—it surprised her, touched her. She stroked his face as he used the towel.

“Thank you,” she said. “That was nice.”

“Good.” His voice was husky, a bedroom whisper.

“Part of your code?” she teased.