With a glance of smug contempt, the Motsognir seated himself on a low rise in the carpet as Oldin came into the room. Her face had the delicate hardness of a porcelain doll, the skin silky with an ivory sheen. Her startling eyes were caught in subtle blue, trapped below gilt eyebrows. Here the gravity was heavier than it had been in the rest of
Peregrine
—Gyll decided it was for his benefit—and Oldin moved with a ponderous grace, seemingly uncomfortable in the Neweden-like pull. But it was what she wore that compelled Gyll’s attention: it moved, sluggishly. An eye (veined like a bad hangover, a dead black pupil the size of a thumbnail in which Gyll saw himself dimly reflected) gazed back blandly at him from her thick waist. As Gyll stared, it blinked, slowly. A dull black skin covered Oldin’s body from ankle to neck, the edges quivering slightly: the amoebic clothing flattered her, thinned the weight that a lower normal gravity and a variant standard of beauty had allowed her to keep. Gyll doubted that she was comfortable.
For effect,
he thought. He stared at the eye.
“Ulthane Gyll, please make yourself comfortable. I’ve been wanting to meet you for some time now.” Her smile dazzled. She noted the direction of his gaze, and the smile widened.
The Motsognir cracked his knuckles, one by one, loudly.
“Helgin,” she said, still staring at Gyll, her voice warm, “does not approve of this meeting. You’ll quickly learn that Motsognir don’t mask their feelings.”
“Helgin also does not appreciate being referred to as if he weren’t here.” The dwarf looked at them, thick eyebrows lowered over deep-set eyes, beard scraggling down his chest. “You’ll quickly learn, Ulthane Gyll, that Trader Oldin masks her feelings all too well.”
Gyll glanced from one to the other. Oldin didn’t appear disturbed by the dwarf’s manner, and Gyll, for his part, felt a sudden liking for the Motsognir—something in the gruff manner appealed to him.
A light touch—
by She of the Five, her hands are smooth. Has she ever done manual labor?
—directed him into the room. Gyll pulled away, not wanting to have her clothing contact him.
“You may sit where you like, or have a floater if you prefer.” She watched as Gyll chose a spot near but not too near her on the carpeted hills. “I’ve had refreshments sent up.”
As if on cue, the door to her chambers opened and a hover-tray slid in. It came to a halt before Gyll. He looked down at a dish of lustrous, silver ovals, like a nut encased in mother-of-pearl.
“Rhetanseeds,” Oldin explained as Gyll reached for one. “They come from well out in the Cygnus sector, well beyond Alliance boundaries. Take one, it will be sufficient.”
“Sufficient for what?”
Her smile shone at him. “You don’t trust me, Ulthane?”
“M’Dame Oldin, the Hoorka trust only their own kin.”
To their right, the dwarf chuckled. “A good trait, Hoorka.”
Still smiling, Oldin shook her head. “Nevertheless . . . First, Ulthane, please call me Kaethe. I’m of the Trading Families, and we don’t follow Alliance mores, or any other of their rulings. And as for the rhetanseeds—ask the Motsognir. Helgin will tell you that they’re harmless.”
“I’ll tell you, Hoorka, that—so far—no one has ever experienced any ill effects. And I enjoy them myself.” Helgin whistled (lips pursed behind the forest of beard), and the tray came toward him, leaving Gyll staring at the seed in his fingers.
Gyll waited, watching as the Motsognir plucked a seed from the tray with a delicate touch made almost humorous by the squat thickness of his fingers, and dropped it into his mouth. Eyes glinting, he stared at Gyll as he chewed. He swallowed, overnoisily, and sighed in satisfaction.
Gyll placed the seed in his mouth, letting it roll on his tongue. It didn’t taste—it simply felt smooth. He bit, gingerly.
A welter of taste and smell assaulted him:
cina
.
. .
no, now it’s anis
. .
.
too astringent, like lemon, no . . . mint and cloves;
then there was a stimulation behind his eyes—
light!
that burst and faded through the spectrum; finally, a surfeit. It was as if he’d finished a fine, long meal. He was not unpleasantly stuffed, but satiated.
“Shit,” he said. Quite eloquently.
Oldin clapped her hands in delight. Her attire, responsive, changed to a webbing of scarlet veins in a field of black. The eye blinked massively. “The aliens—I can’t pronounce their name . . .”
“Kaarkg—
whistle
—seer
grumble.”
Helgin. “And I
know
your mouth. It’s more than pliant enough to wrap your lips around the name.”
“Eater of dung,” Oldin said pleasantly.
“Ravisher of month-old corpses,” Helgin answered, unperturbed.
Gyll stared. When Oldin turned back to him, the smile was still fixed on her lips. “As I was saying, Ulthane, the creatures used the seeds on extended trips, a form of quick sustenance. We’ve had great success with them as trade items.”
“She neglects to tell you that the seeds are nonnutritious to the human metabolism. That’s what you need to listen for, Ulthane, her unvoiced words.” Helgin grinned at Gyll from his hillock.
Gyll did not know how to react, whether to be angry or amused. He was caught up in a playlet for which he had no lines, snared in a net of words, all of which seemed important and none of which he understood. He did what he could: he slipped on the mask of his old self—the young Hoorka-thane—and let the cool aloofness of the Hoorka-way guide him.
“I came only to collect payment, m’Dame Oldin.”
“Kaethe.”
“M’Dame Oldin.”
Her mouth turned down, but her eyes danced. Her clothing stared.
“One for the Hoorka,” said Helgin.
Damn these people, what are they playing at?
“The tales of aliens are quite interesting, but I’m here to collect payment for the contract on Cade Gies. You have the check, I’m sure.” The last sentence was a cold statement.
“Are the Hoorka always so mercenary and unsociable? You’ve not smiled since you came, and the lines of your face don’t fall naturally into the expression you’re wearing.” She gazed at him, the guileless eyes wide. Her hand brushed clothing-skin; lines of blue radiated out from the touch.
“M’Dame Oldin . . .”
A raised forefinger, languid. “Kaethe.”
He didn’t dispute the correction or acquiesce to it. “We were hired to perform an assassination. Thanks to Dame Fate, it was done. What else do we need speak of?”
“You’ll have your payment. Gratefully.” As if tired, the eye at her waist closed. “I was simply interested in
you,
Ulthane. You made the Hoorka from lassari criminals, and I’m aware that you’ve been attempting to advance the Hoorka beyond the domain of Neweden. The Alliance resists, does it not?”
“We’ve had a few offworld contracts.”
“But not many. Not to your potential. The Alliance is too cautious of you, too fearful, too parochial in outlook, Ulthane. That’s why the Alliance won’t let its citizens have much contact with the other races that dwell outside their sphere of influence. They’re intolerant of change and new ideas, and social systems that vary too far from their norm. That’s why Neweden has had so many problems with the Diplos.”
“But the Trading Families . . .”
Her smile shone, her eyes invited. “The Trading Families are far more open-minded about such things. We seek out the unusual and alien, after all. We’re more like you, Ulthane. Like Neweden-kin, we’re fiercely loyal to our families; we understand the concept of kinship, though we don’t segregate along occupational lines. We’ve no taboos with experimentation and new ideas—such things tend to be self-controlling. An unviable concept will extinguish itself or be extinguished. That’s not far from the manner in which Hoorka view their assassinations, is it not? You say that what’s meant to survive
will
survive. You’ve reason to be proud of yourself, Ulthane. The code is ingenious in the way it fits Neweden.”
Her praise warmed him, and he knew he shouldn’t let it do so. It was most likely that the flattery was false. Gyll tore his gaze away from her and found Helgin. The Motsognir frowned at him, though the eyes seemed to laugh. Helgin shrugged.
“Don’t look at me, Hoorka. I haven’t dressed like an expensive clown.”
Again, Gyll did not know how to reply. Neither of the two seemed to take offense at anything said, while to him and all Neweden, insult was a deadly game to play. “What are you after?” he asked finally. He kept the shreds of Hoorka composure around him—distant, always haughty—but he knew Oldin could read the bewilderment he tried to keep from his voice.
“You want Hoorka offworld.” Her voice soothed. “You want a chance to expand the opportunities of your kin.” The clothing-eye opened once more; in it, a too-thin Gyll reclined. “Fine. I believe that the leading Families can offer Hoorka more than the Alliance and d’Embry. We have our feuds, also, and we’re concerned with the concept of honor, and we offer a much larger arena than the Alliance, one virtually without boundaries.”
“D’Embry and the Alliance hold Neweden, and Neweden is our home.”
“They hold it for the moment, I’ll grant.” A pause. “Solutions can be found for that. You should at least consider us.”
“It’s not my choice, even if I were interested. I’m no longer Thane.”
“Ahh.” Oldin steepled her hands. She gazed at him over ivory fingertips. “Does that bother you?”
Damn, is it so obvious to all? Am I so transparent?
“No,” he said, knowing he lied. “It’s simply a fact. I still have some small say in the affairs of Hoorka—they
are
my creation. But the old guard must give way sometimes.” He tried for half-jovial, felt it come out morose.
“You’re not old, Ulthane. The hair is graying, yes, and I’m sure you might find your reflexes a touch slower than they once were, but you’re far from old. Experience too, that has its advantages.”
His sudden irritation surprised Gyll. It was a complex compound, that ire, full of his own frustration at the night before, the wort, his inability to control the conversation with the Trader, Oldin’s teasing. Gyll stood, the veins in his neck standing out, his lined face ruddy. His hand went unbidden to his vibrohilt. “The woman talks incessantly and says nothing.” He spoke loudly, using the impersonal mode with bitter relish, knowing that it would spark kin to full anger.
But Oldin was not of Neweden. She didn’t move, didn’t appear in the least alarmed. “I’m sorry, Ulthane. I simply felt that I’d prefer to make the offer to the creator of Hoorka, no matter who has the titular leadership. It’s your training and your guidelines they follow. Therefore it’s
you
that interests me. Perhaps I should have approached this another way. Tell the Thane, then; tell her I’d like to speak with her.”
Her gaze dropped to his vibro hand. Slowly, he let himself relax, let the arm fall to his side. He came as near to apology as he would allow himself. “All Neweden is quick to anger, m’Dame Oldin.”
“Kaethe.”—Helgin’s basso rumbling. The dwarf looked at Oldin and shrugged. “You would have corrected him, yah?”
“You anticipate me so well.”
“You’re not given to complexity. It was easy.”
A nod to the dwarf and she turned back to Gyll. “Kaethe,” she said.
“Kaethe.” Gyll gave in. “Irritability is a bad habit of mine.”
“No apology is necessary. She of the Five . . . Limbs, is it not? The goddess of ippicators?” She changed the subject without transition. It took Gyll a moment to recover, then he nodded.
“She is the patron of ippicators, and of the Hoorka.”
“It’s struck me as odd since we’ve been in Neweden orbit—why hasn’t your world made some effort to restore the beast of five legs? Its bones are one of your most valuable resources and surely enough genetic information has been recovered. I’ve seen the polished bones, and there’s nothing more enchanting. With a small stable of the beasts, you could continue to export them without worrying. Cloning.”
“I know of no cloning techniques which don’t require live tissue. The ippicator have been extinct for centuries.”
“Surely the vast resources of the Alliance . . .” There was a faint mocking tone in her voice. “Though perhaps they refuse to help you.”
“As far as I’m aware, they could do nothing. And besides, a live ippicator would upset Neweden’s theology.”
“Ahh.” Oldin rose to her feet, a quick and graceful motion that startled him. The dark fabric about her moved, the eye blinking in dull surprise. “I’ll let you go, Ulthane. I’m sure you’ve much to do. Helgin will get you the check for the Gies contract. And please talk to the Thane. The Trading Families might have much to offer you, the Oldins in particular.”
She came up to him. He could smell a faint musk. It was pleasant, but he didn’t know if it was a cologne or the clothing-creature. She smiled, grasping his thick-veined hand in hers. “Come back if you wish, Ulthane. I find the Hoorka fascinating. I’d welcome your company.”
He could only nod.
On the way down . . .
“Well, Hoorka, how do you like the enchanting Oldin?”
“How can you speak of her that way, Helgin? I’m surprised she keeps you in her employ.”
“You misunderstand our relationship. The Motsognir have their own means of support. I stay with her simply because I find her interesting, because we like each other.”
“You’ve an odd way of indicating affection.”
“She offers me adventure. New sights. A thrill of uncertainty. We never stay in one place too long. The Motsognir lust for that. We’ve never been a part of man’s empires. A Motsognir’d die of boredom in the Alliance. In that, Oldin’s right. The Alliance can’t like the Hoorka, Ulthane. Give them time, and they’ll start looking for ways to keep your people contained, safe and ineffective. The Alliance is just a gigantic inertia-machine seeking to preserve itself. Its vision is inward; it’s satisfied with the status quo. And the more it tries to preserve itself, the larger the cracks that are going to appear.”