EXCERPT FROM THE DOT OF 11.16.211:
“Sirrah Allin, you were one of the original Hoorka.”
“Yah. I can remember when Gyll—the Thane—came to us.”
“What did the band do before the Thane organized you as a guild?”
“I did the same’s I did after. I killed. Only difference was that I didn’t take the person’s money. Sometimes the old way was better—we didn’t need no contract.”
“But you were lassari then. Isn’t the kinship better?”
“Yah, I suppose. Ain’t much choice when you’re lassari: steal, do the shitwork kin throw at you, or starve. Good choices, neh? I stole. Got more that way, got to stick knives in kin.”
“You didn’t have to kill, did you? I mean, there was no compelling reason for you to do so. From what I understand, most of your band refrained from that, if for no other reason than the fact that the guilded kin pursue murderers far more than thieves. You were an exception.”
“The ones the Hag eats don’t talk. That’s how half the suckers get caught and lose their hands. Killing keeps ’em quiet. It’s safer to kill.”
“Did you enjoy it, find it pleasurable?”
(A longish pause.) “You look at me like I’m some kind of specimen, scholar.”
“I meant no offense. I’m interested in your feelings. I’ve heard it said that you don’t find your task as Hoorka at all, ahh, distasteful.”
“You could find out. I’d arrange a demonstration for you. The Thane could get other scholars later.”
(There is a nervous rustlng of flimsies. Cranmer clears his throat.) “Ahh, that won’t be necessary.”
“Too bad. I tell you, scholar, I don’t mind the killing. Not at all. People will go to the Hag anyway—maybe she’ll like me better when my time comes, neh? After all, I send her so many . . . It’s better now, with the run. It gives it a thrill, like a hunt. The bastards might get away from you unless you’re careful, if you ain’t good. The killing, the last part—I don’t mind it at all. Does that bother you, little man?”
“No.”
(A remark that might be made here—Cranmer was never known as a man given to foolish bravery. Given that, his following remarks can only be attributed to errant imprudence.)
“But some might think that it’s an indication of some, ahh, mental misalignment. The Alliance—well, if you were on Niffleheim, you’d’ve been wiped.”
“Ain’t on Niffleheim, are we? And on Neweden, you can’t insult kin and expect to be untouched.”
“It wasn’t an insult. It was just a statement.”
“So I’m not even smart enough to know the difference? Scholar, you wag your tongue too much. Let me take it out for you.”
(The next few minutes on the dot are quite confused. There is a scuffling of feet, chairs clatter to stone, and Cranmer shouts for the Thane. There is the sound of a struggle, a yelp in pain in Cranmer’s voice, and a muffled exclamation. The recorder is—possibly—knocked to the ground, for the next sound is Cranmer.)
“Hello? Oh, good. It still works. Thank you, Thane. I . . . well . . .”
“You’re not much of a fighter, Sond. You’d better get that cut seen to. Allin, you’ll apologize to Cranmer, and you’ll keep your temper in Underasgard.”
“Your scholar insulted me, Thane. I had the right—”
“The scholar’s not from Neweden. He doesn’t yet understand us. Man, do I have to treat you like a child? Go to my rooms and wait for me.” (The sound of the door opening and closing.)
“Thane, I didn’t mean to cause trouble. I should have been more careful in what I said to him.”
“We all have to learn, Sond. But I’d suggest you learn Neweden ways or learn to fight. Preferably both.”
• • •
“Karl, get Oldin. Now.”
“Surely, m’Dame, but it will take a few minutes.”
“Just do it.”
D’Embry quivered with fury. She could not stop the trembling of the thin hand she held out in front of her. Muttering a curse, she gave up the effort.
Damn that scheming bitch!
She wanted no more calls like the last. It had come from Diplo Center on Heritage. Heritage’s Regent, Kav Long (she remembered him as a vaguely competent secretary doing menial tasks when she’d last visited Niffleheim) had been curt and scornful.
“I thought you had Neweden under control, d’Embry,” Long had said, with no preamble.
“I do.” She’d been puzzled and irritated with the morning’s interruption.
Long had laughed without amusement, his face creased by static—the transmission was none too good; something in the Einsteinian jump always did that. “Guillene was killed last night, d’Embry. It couldn’t have been more than one or two assassins. They entered Moache grounds, disabled several guards and the household staff, and killed the man in his bed. Very neatly: the throat was slit. He was dead too damn long before we got there, too—the brain’d deteriorated beyond the point of saving. Some of your frigging assassins got loose.” The blond face quavered, lost in electronic storming.
She had protested, but the vague suspicion that Long was right already had formed in her mind. “That’s impossible. Listen, you young fool, the Hoorka haven’t any craft capable of it, and Sterka Port is tight—I can guarantee that. Guillene wasn’t exactly loved by the Moache employees or by de Sezimbra’s associates, was he? I’d suggest you look closer to home, Long. You can get assassins on any world.”
He’d exhaled in disgust. “I’ll admit that. I’ll admit that vibros are common enough, too, but let’s be realistic. It wasn’t anybody here—none of them would be that good. That leaves your black and gray wonders. Moache Mining is upset.” He laughed nervously, and d’Embry realized at that instant where his anger originated. “Hell, they’re a lot more than just upset. They’ve already bypassed the Center here and gone straight to Niffleheim. You know they’re going to listen there. Moache’s got the money to make ’em do it. You goofed, m’Dame. Niffleheim’ll have your head.” A pause, a snarling of static. “Mine, too.”
Kav Long cut the contact.
Oldin. It had to be through Oldin.
“M’Dame, I have Oldin.”
“Good,” she snapped. “Karl, I want you to go through the records of all the satellite net stations. See if you can find the slightest indication that a Trader craft might have left Neweden space. And do it quickly.”
“Yah, m’Dame.”
D’Embry took a deep breath, running her hands through her thin, white hair. She settled herself in her floater, arranged the ippicator necklace on her blouse. A vein-laced hand reached out, touched the contact on her desk.
The screen of the com-link pulsed light and settled. Kaethe Oldin smiled beatifically out at her. Oldin’s eyebrows were today slivers of platinum, shimmering. Half the face was in cosmetic shadow. The glossed-mouth moved. “M’Dame d’Embry, what can I do for you?”
“You sent a Hoorka to Heritage, Trader Oldin. You allowed Guillene to be killed.”
Eyebrows, glittering, rose in surprise. Her head half-turned, but the gaze was fixed on d’Embry. “That would be a violation of the Trader-Alliance pact, Regent. Certainly you don’t think me stupid enough to ruin my business here by running a ferry service for assassins? The Hoorka can hire Alliance vessels, and Grandsire FitzEvard would have my head if I lost revenue.”
“Let’s not play games, Trader Oldin.”
She’s good at it—Just the right expressions, the correct stance between indignant surprise and amusement. If I didn’t know it had to be her
. . . “I’m awfully tired of games.”
“Games, Regent? Are you making a formal accusation, then? If so, I demand my right to refute the proof of misconduct.” Again, the smile, infuriating. “If you’re not making the accusation, then I think you’re mistaken as to who’s playing a game.”
D’Embry forced down a retort: she breathed once, slowly, knotting her hands together. “Trader Oldin, the Hoorka have no interstellar craft. No Alliance-registered ships have gone to Heritage in the last few days—I’ve checked. You are the only possibility left.”
“Has the orbital net noted one of the boats from
Peregrine
leaving for anywhere but Sterka Port?”
“No,” d’Embry admitted ruefully. “But what one person can design, another can find a way around. Believe me, Trader, I’ve no delusions as to your capabilities.”
“I thank you for the compliment, m’Dame, but I still suggest you owe me an apology.” Oldin said it sweetly, a sugared voice.
“Ulthane Gyll has been to
Peregrine,
Trader. The first time was only for a few hours. He went again two days ago; he didn’t return until yesterday evening.”
“That constitutes no crime, Regent. As you know, I’ve used the Hoorka myself. I wanted Ulthane Gyll to see the ship, to see the goods we had. Then I asked him to stay overnight. He was kind enough to accept my offer. I find him quite charming, actually.”
“Trader Oldin, this is a serious matter.” D’Embry’s voice was rising. She forced herself back into the icy demeanor she affected before her staff.
Calm, calm. You’re falling right into the bitch’s hands. That’s exactly what she wants from you—anger and the loss of control. She’s most likely recording the conversation.
“I realize that you consider the situation serious, Regent. Is Moache Mining putting pressure on you? I would wager that Niffleheim called and wanted a scapegoat produced to drag before the Directors, and it’s your job to find one or be used yourself. I can understand your anxiety to place the blame on the Trading Families, m’Dame. I’d be doing the same were I in your position. People have spat on us for centuries: the Alliance, the Free Worlds, Huard. Why change now—we’re convenient gypsies, there and gone again.”
“You plead your case eloquently, Trader. One would think you’ve given it much thought. Did you know you’d need to defend yourself?” She wanted Oldin, wanted that ship out of Neweden space.
“What of the other guilds, m’Dame?” Oldin continued as if she hadn’t heard d’Embry. “Some of them are rich enough to have bought or hired the needed ship—silence can be bought, too. Maybe they ferried Hoorka in hopes of future favors. Or maybe one of your Alliance ships logged a false destination code. Or maybe Guillene was killed by one of his own.” Behind Oldin, some out-of-focus person bustled past, carrying something that looked halfway between snail and dog. Oldin glanced at him, snapped an unheard order, then turned back to d’Embry. “My log is available to you, Regent. Call and ask for our pilot or the Motsognir Helgin. We can send it to you within a day or so.”
“I
do
want that log, Trader. I can tell you that now. I want it by noon.”
“Regent, it will take—”
“Noon, Trader. A failure to comply will indicate that you are not willing to cooperate with the local authority. That can result in your expulsion from Neweden space. That’s in the pact, too.” D’Embry allowed herself to enjoy the look of irritation that crossed Oldin’s face, wiping away the smug half-smile. The Regent was certain that the log would show exactly what Oldin intended it to say, even with the lack of notice: there would be no record of a
Peregrine
boat leaving Neweden orbit. D’Embry wouldn’t prove anything, but if it caused Oldin
any
discomfiture, she found it worthwhile. Somewhere inside, a small voice chastised her—
you’re getting petty, old woman, hurting back because you’ve been hurt.
And the answer
yah, doesn’t it feel good?
Oldin seemed to begin a statement, then swallowed the word with a twitch of her mouth. She stared at d’Embry. “Regent, I protest—”
“You may protest as much as you like,” d’Embry said. “As Regent, I’ll give your protestations the attention they deserve. Just be sure that your log reaches me in the next few hours. By noon. That’s all, Trader Oldin.”
With a sense of childish enjoyment, d’Embry snapped the contact. The petulant face of Oldin disappeared in static. The screen went black.
• • •
Ulthane Gyll looked at the silent, expectant faces around him and put a foot up on the stool’s seat. Most of the full kin were there, seated or standing around the table. Only Thane Valdisa was absent. That caused him pain. She’d said that she would not come—
this is your show,
she’d told him,
not mine. It’s not pettiness on my part, Gyll. But I didn’t want it. Not the way it was done.
He had tried to convince himself that her absence would not make a difference.
“Guillene is dead,” he said simply, without preamble. “I killed him. She of the Five has fed on his blood.”
Gyll was surprised at the amount of satisfaction he heard in his voice. He’d not thought he would feel that way; it had taken him so much effort to will the blade to move. But now that it was done . . .
The kin said nothing for a long moment, though Gyll could see smiles on some of the faces, nods of pleased relief. The debt to a kin-brother was settled. Serita said it for them all, a throaty few words, half-whispered. “Good. Then it’s over.”
“Did he die easily, Ulthane?” d’Mannberg asked.
Gyll shrugged. “He died,” he said.
D’Mannberg’s thick hands clenched. “He knew it was Hoorka?”
“I knew that he’d been informed of the bloodfeud, and I didn’t kill from hiding. He was awake. He knew.”
“And who gave you the ride?” Bachier, down the table. “Certainly not the Regent?”
“Neh.”
Certainly not, and it’s why Valdisa was wrong in this. The Regent would never have let her do it.
“I talked to Trader Oldin—it was due to her generosity. And that’s not information to go outside the kin, either. Nor is this: I’ve talked to Oldin about other possibilities for Hoorka.” He didn’t know why he said that; he’d not intended to discuss Oldin’s offering publicly, not until he and Valdisa had arrived at a decision. He pulled his nightcloak around him, wondering if it hadn’t been a mistake.