“A personal part.”
“And a good Thane always follows his own rules.”
“Rules are made to be obeyed.”
She brought his head down, kissed him long and thoroughly. His hands moved on her body, arousing her again. She brought her arms around his shoulders, rolled him on top of her. “Don’t ever change that code.”
“You don’t change what works.”
Valdisa sat before the headless skeleton of the ippicator and watched the light of her hoverlamp shift colors along the bars of the ribcage. The cavern walls flickered gold and green. Thoughts raced, directionless, in her mind. She did not resist. She drifted helplessly with them.
Damn Gyll. Damn him for coming back, damn him for leaving. And, most especially, damn him for making her realize that she still cared about him. She thought she’d exorcised that ghost. She missed the intimacy which she hadn’t been able to find with any others among the kin, and she wished him gone so that the old pain would settle into dormancy again.
Go away, Gyll. You hurt me too much.
Drifting . . .
An ippicator—not long extinct, but newly dead. She of the Five, what is that supposed to mean? Why do You send Your pet back to this world—in the lore, it says that the world will dissolve into chaos. Is that what You intend?
Drifting . . .
You don’t change what works. And if it
doesn’t
work? The code would kill them, a long and slow strangulation as the society on which it was based changed around it. You have to do something, woman; you even know what it must be, but you don’t want to take the step, do you? You’re afraid.
You’re damned right I’m afraid. But I’ll do it.
“I’ll do it.” The sound of her voice brought her from her reverie. She was surprised so much time had passed since she’d come here; she was surprised to find that, unknowingly, she’d been crying. Valdisa sniffed, obliterating the wetness on her cheeks with the sleeve of her nightcloak.
She flicked the tether of the hoverlamp and the light obediently bobbed toward her. Letting it ride above her head, she began walking back toward the outer sections of Underasgard. Her contemplation had helped, though the strangely moving events of Neweden still puzzled her. At least it seemed clear to her what Hoorka must at last do.
Abandon the code of Gyll. Ally the guild with Vingi. Only that way would they survive. The Regent would be no help to them, and she did not trust the Oldins. She didn’t like the taste of her decision, but she could think of no other solutions.
She was very afraid that there were none.
Chapter 13
H
ELGIN HAD NOT WANTED Gyll to come with them. He cited the lingering effects of Gyll��s injuries: a slight limp, a ruddiness to the skin. Gyll told him curtly that the doctors had released him and he
was
going. They’d glared at each other for a moment, then Helgin had given in to the inevitable. Gyll was Sula, and could halt the entire operation with a word. Helgin bowed to that fact with a Motsognir’s normal ill grace, but he bowed.
It just made his intentions much harder to realize.
It was night. Dasta Burrough crawled with life. The five of them, in the dingy, tattered clothing of lassari, moved through the shadowy streets—Gyll, Helgin, and three of the Trader-Hoorka. Despite their guise, there were still stares and whispered comments—there was no disguising the Motsognir build. Dasta was worse than Gyll had remembered. Parts of it were now scarred, blackened rubble from what the populace called Vasella’s Fire; the rest was cluttered and filthy. Garbage piled uncollected against the buildings and in the central gutter of the street. Occasionally they would come across a wirehead sprawled unconscious in the pathway, oblivious of his surroundings. Jussar—youths caught between kinship and lassari—prowled in gangs, rowdy and noisy; the lassari and low kin walked the streets with an air of paranoid caution, weapons (for the kin) placed visibly on their belts. Prostitutes of both and indeterminate sexes cajoled and insulted from doorways and windows.
“Gods, I hate this place,” Gyll muttered.
“I don’t know; in some ways, I rather like it,” Helgin replied.
“You would.”
“Hey, it has a certain energy, a vivid, crude life.”
“Next you’ll be talking about the ambience.”
Helgin grinned. “I mean it, Gyll. Just because it’s dirty and squalid—which it is—doesn’t mean that it’s not a ‘good’ place. It has a feeling of secrecy, of adventure.”
“It’s squalid, yah, and the only things that lurk here are hatred and despair.”
“Both are honest emotions.”
“They’re not ones I care to experience.”
“Right,” Helgin said. “And which one of us wanted Renard’s ass?”
“It’s an honest emotion, dwarf.”
They turned where a narrow alleyway held darkness between two tall buildings. There, hidden behind a stack of broken crates, they checked their weapons: tanglefeet bombs, crowd-prods, two stun-grenades, vibros. Helgin had an ancient projectile weapon bolstered to his side. Gyll frowned at the sight of it. “You’ll only kill someone with that, Helgin. I’d rather have him alive.”
Helgin put his hands on his hips, belligerent. “I want something that’ll stop someone quick, if I need to. None of this junk’ll do that.”
Gyll stood, unmoving, for a moment, then shrugged. “Then be damned careful with it. I don’t trust revolvers, and they’re frigging noisy. They’re also not honorable weapons.”
“Neither’s a bomb.”
Gyll nodded. “Your point’s taken. Just be careful with it.”
“Don’t worry—just stay out of my way.”
Helgin did not say what he really thought—if all went well tonight, Renard would not be alive to tell his tale of treachery. He would be forever silent, and Gyll would never know of Helgin’s involvement in the Hag’s Legion. The Motsognir wanted Renard removed from Neweden; if this was the only way, so be it. The relative morality of the situation didn’t bother him. He’d long been pragmatic about such things.
Gyll gestured for silence. His hand moved in familiar patterns: the Hoorka assassin’s hand-code, the code he’d taught to the Trader-Hoorka as well.
Quiet. Helgin . . . lead.
They’d traded their lassari disguises for dark, form-fitting clothing. Their faces were darkened as necessary, and the blackened handles of their weapons hung within easy reach. They slipped from shadow to shadow like wraiths: down the alley, across the next street quickly and unnoticed, then into a warren of claustrophobic lanes. Helgin stopped them again just inside the mouth of another alley.
There.
He gestured to a doorway across the street and to their left.
Gyll signaled to one of the others to check the area. The man unslung a snooper, swinging it in an arc—all the monitors remained green. He shook his head.
?
Gyll queried Helgin, who frowned.
Something wrong,
the dwarf replied.
Pull back?
No.
Helgin glanced out at the street once more. No one moved down its short length. Few of the windows of the buildings were lit, and there were no streetlamps.
Traps?
he gestured to the Hoorka with the snooper, who swung it about again. Green.
No.
Trap?
Helgin asked again. The Hoorka, with a grimace of irritation, held out the snooper to the Motsognir. Helgin hesitated, but took the device. He tested all functions, then surveyed the street once more. All LEDs remained emerald. The dwarf’s shoulders slumped visibly; he handed the snooper back. The man took it ungently.
Gyll leaned out, glancing left and right himself. The snooper would have detected most alarms or suspicious concentrations of metal, but that left a hundred possibilities. He didn’t like the feel of the situation, and he knew that the others felt that unease as well. There was a subtle sense of something being awry: the street was too deserted, the task looking too easy. Gyll hesitated, half-tempted to call off the operation rather than walk into an ambush the snooper had missed. He’d expected
something
in the way of guards for Renard.
Weapons out,
he gestured at last.
You
—to Liana, the fastest of them—
go across. Quickly.
The woman nodded; she crouched, leaning, then ran, her footsteps loud in the stillness. Gyll watched the street, the windows, the rooftops. Lightly panting, Liana had flattened herself against a wall. She examined the buildings across from her, then gave a wave of her arm.
Clear.
Gyll glanced back at Helgin, received a shrug. He signaled to the others.
Let’s move.
The Motsognir, surprising Gyll with his speed, hit the door first—the wood splintered under his foot. Another kick, and it swung crazily open. Helgin was inside with the motion, rolling a hand-flare into the room as he ducked right. The others entered behind him in a rush, ready, but Helgin had already slid his weapon into its holster. The room was neat, shabby furniture set in place, the desk scarred but clean. There was no dust. It looked as if someone had set the room in order before leaving. Helgin kicked at a chair; it clattered to the floor.
The Motsognir turned to Gyll. His dark eyes glinted under thick eyebrows; he pulled at his beard.
“The bastard’s gone,” he said.
• • •• • •
It began as a routine visit to the Li-Gallant’s offices. Vingi’s signature was needed on a release form for those being treated at the Diplo hospital after the explosion in Tri-Guild Square. Afterward, McClannan and Vingi were to appear at a press conference. But the Li-Gallant steered the Seneschal aside into Vingi’s private office, and he had startled McClannan with his first words.
“You strike me as the ambitious sort, Seneschal. Why don’t you get rid of d’Embry?”
McClannan found himself momentarily speechless. The Li-Gallant grinned corpulently at him, fingers steepled under his trebled chin. Animo paintings swirled dizzily on the walls. McClannan decided to try for righteous anger. He put the expression on his face like a mask.
“That’s not the way the Alliance works, Li-Gallant. And she is my superior.”
The order of excuses did not escape the Li-Gallant, nor did McClannan’s attempt at judicious irritation fool him. He laughed under his breath, a snort of amusement. “Seneschal, please don’t assume that because I’m fat I’m also stupid. I’ve seen the Alliance work for decades now, and I know that you work much the same as Neweden, once you dig under the surface of your laws. I also know that d’Embry isn’t exactly in favor back on Niffleheim—she’s offended too many of
her
superiors, neh?” Vingi sat back in his floater; he fiddled with one of his many rings. “You should take a lesson from that, Seneschal. She’s achieved her reputation by defying those in power when she felt they were wrong. One must be selfish to achieve either reputation or power, and one must know when to go against those above you.”
McClannan did not disagree. He drew himself up to his full height and let his eyes narrow slightly as he smiled. It was one of his favorite poses. “It’s a dangerous course of action, as well.”
“One never gets anywhere without taking risks. That’s one of my axioms, Seneschal, as true here as in the Alliance. The danger may be physical or not, but it’s always there. Do you gamble?”
“I’ve been known to do so.”
“Then you must know that to win you always choose with an eye to the odds and to your luck. Do you feel lucky?”
McClannan allowed himself a small laugh. He shifted his position slightly, a model’s turn. Long, well-manicured fingers tapped at his belt. “I’ve done well enough. I’ve been lucky.”
Vingi nodded. “You know that there’s been continuous pressure from Niffleheim for d’Embry to resign, especially after that Hoorka contract on Heritage.”
A nod. Vingi studied McClannan—he didn’t like the man, found him to be as superficially intelligent as he was superficially handsome, but he knew that the man was pliable. His ambition was his weakness, and Vingi prided himself on his ability to exploit weaknesses. “Bring her down and
you
become Regent—you’re already being primed for that job. A word to the right ear, and the title is yours.”
Vingi watched McClannan lean forward as he said the words. The man could not keep the eagerness from that face; it made the handsomeness ugly, feral. “And what do I whisper to that ear, Li-Gallant? What more can I tell them? They’ve already heard all the rumors and have done nothing. They know what she does.”
The man’s vapid willingness to engage in treachery repelled Vingi.
Gods, the bastard doesn’t even bother to disguise it. He doesn’t worry about recordings or countertreachery or blackmail. He either discounts that possibility or chooses to ignore it. Either way he’s a fool, an easy fool. No wonder d’Embry despises him. Can he really be this gullible, or is he a trap within a trap? No . . . that’s not d’Embry’s way.
Vingi made no attempt to conceal his disgust. He looked up at McClannan with distaste in his eyes. “Are you always so ready to stab someone in the back, Seneschal? I’m looking for allies, not new enemies.”
McClannan looked confused now—why had the Li-Gallant suddenly retreated? “I’m not your enemy, Li-Gallant. Nor is the Alliance.”
“D’Embry’s help has always come grudgingly to me.”
“That will change when I’m Regent, I assure you.” There, McClannan thought; back to the subject.
“I get the same assurances from the Family Oldin—if I’m willing to rescind the treaty Neweden has with Niffleheim.” He’d expected that statement to have an effect. He was not disappointed. The studied posturing of McClannan gave way to incredulity. “You wouldn’t do that.”
“I would. All it takes is a vote of the Neweden Assembly. I own that particular institution.”
“But that’s never . . . Gods, the reputations of the Diplos of a world that left—”
Vingi pounced on the phrase.
“Your
reputation, Seneschal? That’s your alternative, man. Enhance your reputation or ruin it—it’s your choice.”