“Sit down, all of you!”
the woman shouted. “Sit
down!
”
Most of the guests did so. Gyll hesitated, glancing at Helgin. “After-dinner entertainment, I suppose,” the Motsognir muttered, and shrugged. He sat, as did Gyll. McClannan had not moved; he stared at the lassari, stricken. Pieces of the ceiling littered the table in front of them.
“Better, better,” the woman said. She lowered the sting and looked slowly around the room. The sun was flickering, the clouds had vanished, there was a hole in the sky that revealed piping and wooden beams. “Isn’t this nice. Well, Li-Gallant, was it a good dinner? Was there enough food for that gross stomach of yours?”
D’Embry rose to her feet; Vingi remained silent. “I’m the Regent d’Embry,” she said coldly. “Who are you?”
“Does that matter to you, Regent? Well, I am Micha, and those behind me are part of the Hag’s Legion. Somehow, our invitations didn’t arrive for the dinner tonight. We’re sorry we’re late, but your guards were rather unfriendly.”
“I want all of you out of here.”
There was laughter from the lassari. “That’s not a request you can enforce, Regent. Your guards are all asleep in the corridor—try to call them.”
“If you’ve hurt any of them . . .”
“Hurt
them
like the Li-Gallant and his pack of pet killers hurt us?” She paused, and then she smiled. “We’re not barbarians, Regent, despite our image.”
Listening, Gyll felt helpless. Weaponless, outnumbered, there was little he or Helgin could do. If he could reach one of them before he was shot, get a sting, if Helgin could get to one as well . . . No. He squirmed in his seat, restless, a little frightened. The movement caused Micha to glance at him.
“Ahh, Sula,” she said. “How does it feel to know that your Hoorka are now nothing but the hired thugs of that pig down the table? Does it bother you? I hope so. And I hope it bothers you to have to sit there, helpless, wondering what we intend to do with you.” She glanced around the table. “I hope it bothers all of you.”
Gyll could see panic and shock in some of the guests now. The Li-Gallant, especially, seemed touched by fear. He was breathing too quickly, his bulk pressed back against his chair as if to be as far as possible from the threatening woman. His face was pale, his eyes wide. Gyll knew that the Li-Gallant did not expect to live. For himself, Gyll knew only that he would try to take someone to the Hag with him, should it come to that. Ransom for his soul.
“What do you want?” d’Embry asked. She alone had a voice; she, of all of them, was calm, had the shreds of her presence around her despite the situation.
“Perhaps we’re going to cut the hump from your back and see how long it takes you to die, Regent.” Micha grinned at d’Embry’s sudden intake of breath. “Or maybe we’ll give the Li-Gallant an immediate diet, remove some of that excess weight he carries. It would be simple, and even just, as well.” She shrugged, one-shouldered. “Oh, that’s lassari methods, isn’t it?—without honor. Your gods must weep for us.”
“You’d never get away with it,” Vingi stuttered.
“Resorting to
clichés
, Li-Gallant? Words—especially old, worn-out ones—are a poor shield against a sting. Well, unfortunately, you’re nearly right. Killing any of you in this way would only increase our difficulties. We’re not ready yet to take full advantage of your absence, Li-Gallant. I’d fear for the existence of all lassari if someone worse than you were ruler. We simply want to make a point. We want to be heard.”
Micha gestured harshly, scowling now, all pretense of her sarcastic good humor banished. Two lassari stepped from the mob behind her, carrying a long object wrapped in cloth. It was an awkward burden, for they staggered as they moved. Gyll recognized it—he’d seen it too many times. But before he could speak, the lassari cast it down on the floor, holding the ends of the cloth. A body rolled out onto the dirt—a thin, gaunt woman with sunken cheeks and a bloated belly. Her arms were empty bags of flesh, the muscles slack in a pouch of flesh. Those at the table were in an uproar, most standing now, their faces horrified.
“She died of starvation. We don’t know her name—no one does,” Micha said. “She’s lassari, so no kin cared about her. Her death was lonely and long. That’s what we wanted you to see.” She stared at them with somber and furious eyes. “I hope all of you enjoyed your meal.”
Again, she gestured. The lassari began to leave the room, Micha in their midst; the body, accusing, was left behind. Someone down the table was vomiting noisily. Gyll watched the lassari leave, the muscles in his stomach slowly unknotting. He glanced at d’Embry, her face reflecting a cool inner rage, and back to the departing intruders.
And he caught a glimpse of steel.
“Down!”
he shouted, flinging himself to one side. A throwing knife hissed through the air. He heard the
tchunk
as the blade struck the wall, and he rolled to his feet, certain that the weapon had been intended for the Li-Gallant.
But it was Helgin who sat in his chair, head turned to contemplate the knife just centimeters from his head. The weapon seemed to hover, shorn of its point, motionless, in the landscape of mountains.
Helgin wrenched the knife from the wall. His bearded face unreadable, he examined the blade, then tossed it onto the table. China clattered and broke.
“Wasn’t close enough to bother moving,” he said.
• • •
The best that could be said for Felling’s stew was that it was hot and took away some of the chill of Underasgard. It wasn’t particularly Felling’s fault that the Hoorka found it unappetizing: it was plain fare, but savory enough. He’d simply served the stew or something akin to it too often. But stew made use of meats and odd ends—it was the most economical way to cook, and Thane Valdisa insisted on economy.
McWilms toyed with the conglomeration on his plate like the rest. The bread, at least, was newly baked, and the mead was satisfactory, if slightly diluted. McWilms broke off a piece from the loaf and chewed enthusiastically, trying to convince his palate that this was an amazingly subtle combination of tastes.
His palate was not fooled.
The Hoorka were gathered in the common room off the kitchens. Apprentices, who would eat later, stood waiting along the walls, which were studded with glittering nodules of calcite deposits. From the kitchen could be heard the noise of the jussar applicants, doing their drudge work under Felling’s baleful eye.
McWilms sat at the Thane’s table with most of the elder kin: Serita, Bachier, Kristagon, Sholla, and others. Valdisa ate with them, and she seemed no happier than the rest with their menu. “Smile, Serita,” she said. “I told Felling to buy some groceries tomorrow with part of the money from your contract. Supper should be much better.” She stabbed at a piece of meat with her fork, and contemplated the gristle marbling it. “It should be better than this, certainly, with no offense to Felling, who’s doing the best he can.”
“Well, I’m glad to hear it,” Serita said. Her face was mottled with a bruise on one cheek, a remnant of her fight with Meka Joh after their return from the contract. Joh, his arm in a sling and a wrapping around a leg, sat elsewhere. “I was beginning to think we needed to expand into the thieving business and hit the food stalls at Market Square.” She mused on that for a moment. “Ric would have volunteered,” she added, a sadness in her voice. D’Mannberg had been one of her lovers, and his appetite had been the source of many well-intentioned comments among the kin.
The mention of his kin-father blunted what little remained of McWilms’s own hunger. He pushed the half-finished plate of stew away and laid down his bread. He glanced at the table: rough, gaps between some of the planks, scarred with gouges from idle knives, and stained with spilled food. It made him think of his apprentice days, when Felling would set them all to scrubbing down the tables. When Gyll had been Thane.
As if in counterpoint to his own thoughts, Bachier spoke wistfully from down the table. “Do you remember the feast we had when we first had a contract from the Diplos, under old Regent Vogel? Ulthane Gyll had Felling buy ice-steak for all the full kin. By She of the Five,
that
was a meal. I remember how the apprentices all looked forlorn when it was gone—no scraps left, just a few well-gnawed bones.”
McWilms laughed. “I was one of those apprentices, Bachier. And if you think we didn’t get to sample that dinner, you’re wrong. Old Felling’s eyes have never been fast enough to stop us from lifting a few choice pieces. Remember, Kris?—you were an apprentice then as well.”
“Tender and incredibly rich—and of course we took only the choicest morsels,” Kristagon elaborated. “We’d send the dregs out to the kin.”
The laughter rippled around the table, but McWilms noticed that Valdisa didn’t seem to share the amusement. He wondered at that. “What do you think, Thane?” he asked. “Are good times like those still waiting for us?”
She smiled back at him, but the gesture touched only her lips. Her eyes, with the fine time-wrinkles at the corners, seemed to be almost hurt. “You never know, Jeriad.”
“The Ulthane loved his food as well as the rest of us,” Bachier said. “Began to show on him a little toward the end, though—still, he always did well enough on the practice strips. Wonder how he looks now? Can’t have lost his skills too much, considering how he snuck in here recently.” Then, to Valdisa’s accusing stare: “We all know it had to be him, Thane. Who else would you have let leave peacefully after that?”
“The Ulthane looks very good,” McWilms said without thinking. He could feel Valdisa’s gaze on him now, and he didn’t dare look at her. He berated himself.
Fool, does such little mead go to your head so quickly that you can’t control your mouth?
“I saw him on a street in Sterka, going the other way,” he added as casually as he could. He picked up his bread again, broke off another chunk.
“Did he speak to you?” Valdisa asked sharply. Her voice was acid, stern.
“You told us to avoid the Traders,” he answered. It seemed to satisfy her, though she still looked at McWilms appraisingly.
“If
I’d
been one of the kin the Ulthane met on his way in, it would have been different,” Bachier said. “He wouldn’t have put
me
on the floor.”
Valdisa’s head snapped around to him. “Don’t be so damned sure,” she said. “You’re strong enough, Bachier, but the
Sula”—
she used Gyll’s new title with heavy emphasis—“has always been one quite able to counter strength with a move.”
“Thane—”
“No,” she interrupted. “I don’t know why the Sula returned here just to sit in the back caverns, but my orders still stand. I want all of you to leave him alone, and to tell me if he tries to contact any of you. And I hate this subject,” she added. “Let’s find another.”
“Thane,” McWilms said. He kept his voice gentle, casual. “The Ulthane isn’t Hoorka’s enemy, after all. He
did
create the guild, made us kin. We shouldn’t pretend that he doesn’t exist. Some of us had great affection for him . . .” His voice trailed off as he glanced at her.
He knew he’d gone too far, said too much. He could see it in the way Valdisa drew back, in the flush that crept up her neck, in the way her fingers curled around the arm of her chair. She hovered on the edge of anger, and he could see her fighting it. There was silence around the table. Slowly, Valdisa relaxed, the creases in her face softening. McWilms regretted, far too many times at this supper, his words.
“Thane, I’m very sorry,” he said. “Sometimes there’s an idiot working my mouth.”
She shook her head tightly. Her voice played with nonchalance and failed. “It’s all right, Jeriad. What you say is true. We shouldn’t forget our past or what the Sula has meant to us.” She nodded to the kin. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to get the money ready for Felling.”
Deliberately, Valdisa pushed her chair back from the table and rose. She bowed slightly to the kin and, walking a shade too quickly, left the room.
“Stuck your feet in it that time, didn’t you?” Serita said to McWilms when she had gone.
He didn’t answer. He stared into the darkness after the Thane.
• • •
The night was uneasy for Gyll. The dream at first was gentle and erotic. Kaethe was with him, as she had been the night he’d left with Helgin for Neweden. She was on top of him, moving, her eyes closed, lost in their passion. He reached up to touch her swaying breasts, and they were suddenly Valdisa’s; smaller, the texture of the skin rougher under his hands, and it was not Kaethe’s face that loomed over him but some strange melding of Kaethe and Valdisa—his two lovers, his two lives. In his dream, he did not care, but lunged with her as they sought release, and when they finally found it, he cried out as Kaethe/Valdisa laughed.
He woke, sweat-drenched, and oddly frightened of the dream. He forced himself to stay awake long hours after that, watching Neweden move beneath his ship. In time, he could not keep his eyes open, his tired body forcing him to return to his bed.
When he dreamed again, it was of lassari and dead women and knives of bright, sharp steel.
Chapter 7
T
HE NOTE HAD COME to Gyll in a most roundabout fashion, handed to a Diplo guard at Sterka Port by an apprentice Hoorka, and then given to one of the Family Oldin crew on their shuttle. When the shuttle returned to
Goshawk,
it was placed on Fischer’s desk, who gave it to Sula Hermond.
It said, simply: “Ten a.m., the river below the falls. Valdisa.”
The note did not seem to require an answer, and evidently Valdisa did not expect him to miss the appointment; she knew him that well. Gyll took the next shuttle down, wondering, memories of his odd dream and the fiasco of d’Embry’s dinner occupying his thoughts.
The falls spread cold mist over the morning. The wind shifted, and curtains of water spread across the river. The falls were pretty but unspectacular—some worlds were blessed with a hundred better scenes. The cascade clambered down the worn steps of the bluffs well outside Sterka. There was the normal amount of litter scattered about, remnants of old rendezvous. Gyll shrugged his jacket tighter around him. The mists beaded his hair. He ran a hand through the wetness, shook his head. He reached down and picked up a flat rock. He skimmed it across the roiling water.