The Domoraj grinned uncertainly into Vingi’s hilarity. If the Li-Gallant was happy, he was happy. Or at least he hoped so. The Domoraj ground his incisors softly.
• • •
Being a Neweden native and once a kin-lord had its advantages. Gyll heard the news—perhaps—before the Li-Gallant or the Regent d’Embry. Certainly the word came to him before the kin and lassari of Neweden, who awoke to the startling news in the morning.
A newly dead ippicator had been found.
Gyll didn’t know what thoughts might run through the minds of those on the ball of mud below
Goshawk
, whether Neweden might turn to piety or destruction. A dark and disquieting suspicion grew in his own head, causing him to push the bumblewort from its comfortable seat on his lap and pace his room. The wort howled thinly at him for the neglect, but Gyll ignored the creature. He stopped before his viewport and glared down at Neweden.
He’d seen an ippicator once before—alive: in a nutrient tank aboard
Peregrine,
Kaethe Oldin’s craft. She had told him then that the ippicator, cloned from ancient tissue samples in the Oldin Archives, had been destroyed. Gyll had insisted on that, knowing what the creatures meant to both economy and theology on Neweden. She had promised, and he had witnessed what he’d thought had been the beast’s end.
She had promised. Now he wasn’t certain that Kaethe’s promise had meant anything beyond the bare words. He didn’t like the feeling that he might have been duped, that he might not be in control of everything that happened aboard his ship. A slow fury began to build in him; the bumblewort, perhaps sensing this, left off its useless protest and sulked underneath the desk.
“Damn!”
Gyll slammed his open hand against the port—a smudge obscured Neweden. Gyll stormed from his cabin, following the tortuous corridors of the ship to the biological section.
“Camden!” Gyll shouted as he entered the small lab. His sharp tone caused the woman there to start and lift puzzled eyes from a com-unit.
“Sula, what can I do for you?” she asked. She wiped her hands on her smock; the Sula made her nervous. She found his presence intimidating. He was always polite but never friendly; the crew whispered that he’d been an assassin for standards, that—though they’d never seen him in a fight—he enjoyed killing. The smell of blood, a bitter tang, always seemed to be about him, although she knew it must be only her imagination. She smoothed her smock over her chunky figure, trying to smile.
Gyll was in no mood for amenities. He was far less polite to Camden than he had been. “Call up your inventory,” he said sharply. He strode over to the com-unit, swiveled the terminal so that it faced him. “Get this junk off the screen.”
Camden stared at him, then reached out for the keyboard with a stubby finger. The screen flashed emerald and went blank. “What are you looking for, Sula? Maybe I can help.”
Gyll brushed her offer aside with a wave of his hand. “I’m not sure. Just get me the inventory files.”
He busied himself with the lists for the next hour, occasionally asking Camden to explain an obscure entry to him. She gave him the answers with a growing curiosity. Finally, he rubbed weary eyes and leaned back from the terminal. He slapped at the powering contact, and the unit sank into the desk.
“You look tired, Sula. Tea? Mocha?”
His fury had been dulled by frustration. He’d seen nothing in the inventories to indicate that the ippicator might have been manufactured on
Goshawk,
but he wasn’t going to fool himself—if someone had wanted to hide the equipment and supplies in the com files, it could have been done easily enough under another access. Hell, it might not have been entered at all. Gyll wasn’t going to find it. “I
am
tired,” he said to Camden. “Tea would be nice.”
Camden, with a strange glance at him that he couldn’t decipher, went to a small plate set on a counter. In a few minutes, water was boiling. “I could help you more if I knew what it was you’re looking for, Sula,” she said, her back to him. “This
is
my bay, and I know everything that’s here.”
“I know,” he replied. “But I don’t want to tell anyone at this point—I don’t need gossip.” He realized how that must sound to her and tried to apologize. “I’m sorry. It has nothing to do with not trusting you. The only trust I’m worried about is my own, I suppose.”
Camden brought back cups. Stains were set in the china, blotches of discoloration. She saw him glance at them. “Don’t worry,” she said. “They’re sterile. You won’t get poisoned.”
Gyll smiled. He sipped at the tea noisily. “Hot.” He set the cup down. “Camden, have you or anyone else used the nutrient tanks lately?”
She thought a moment, the cup steaming in her thick hands. “Just me, and not too recently. Last time was a week or so ago, when that clumsy dockhand—what’s his name? . . . ahh, Dani, I think—lost three fingers forgetting to fasten a shield. Before that . . .” She shrugged. Gyll was scowling, and she kept the questions she wanted to ask him inside—the Sula didn’t seem to be able to tolerate an interrogation.
“Damn,” Gyll muttered. “By the Hag . . .” He glanced at Camden, caught her staring at him. She glanced away hurriedly. “Where else on
Goshawk
could someone clone a large animal, say, three meters long or more?”
Camden shrugged again. “Nowhere. You’d need too much equipment that’s only available here. I’d know about it.”
Gyll sighed. He tapped fingers on the desk, then abruptly swung to his feet, startling Camden with the motion. Tea sloshed over the rim of her cup. Gyll didn’t notice her discomfiture. He nodded to the woman and stalked out of the lab without another word. Openmouthed, she gazed after him. “Thanks for the tea,” she said under her breath.
She brushed dampness from her smock. “That damn frigging killer’s too spooky for me,” she said.
Chapter 10
“R
EGENT, the Li-Gallant is furious. I’ve never seen him so angry.”
“Santos, the Li-Gallant wanted you to
think
he’s furious. The man can be a half-decent actor when he wants to make the attempt. I wonder if he’s ever been on the stage.”
D’Embry leaned back in her floater with her eyes closed, half-turned on her side so that her full weight wasn’t on the hump of the symbiote. She’d had a bad, restless night; her chest had ached, her breath had been shallow and gasping, and nothing the symbiote pumped into her seemed to have much effect. She’d almost thought she could sense the parasite’s fear that she might die. Yet she hadn’t called the Center’s physician. Instead, she sat in her bed, fighting the pain. Eventually, in the early hours of the morning, it had passed. She’d been able to sleep, if not for long, before the almost-simultaneous reports of the finding of the ippicator and the attempt on the Li-Gallant’s life.
She knew who had to be responsible for both events. When she found the energy, she was going to be very angry herself.
D’Embry listened to McClannan pacing the room in front of her desk. “Let me guess, Santos,” she said. “He made the accusation that someone at Diplo Center—his implication is, of course, that it’s me—sent this lassari d’Favre after him. He was righteously indignant, threatening to sever his ties with the Alliance government.” Gods, she thought, I’d love a few more hours’ sleep. “He’s done it before, Seneschal. It’s not a new stunt.”
“Regent, if you read the report, you know that d’Favre was carrying Alliance scrip. I can see where that might make the Li-Gallant suspicious.”
“The Li-Gallant probably finds that as obvious as I do.” She did not open her eyes. “Alliance currency isn’t
that
hard to obtain on Neweden.”
“In those denominations, Regent? This is a poor world—who’d have that kind of resources?”
She knew, but she said nothing, knowing that if he’d bother to puzzle it out, he’d know as well.
“The Li-Gallant had other questions, as well,” McClannan continued. “He was asking if we’ve made any progress finding the ones responsible for wrecking the dinner party.”
“Hinting that we’re dragging our heels on it because it’s someone here, yah?” Sighing, she sat up, opening her eyes. McClannan was staring at her. He glanced away. “It’s raining out,” she said.
McClannan’s gaze went from d’Embry to the window. An eyebrow raised quizzically. “Yah, it is,” he said abstractedly. “Regent, what we’re discussing is a trifle more important than the weather. I want to send a full report to Niffleheim Center.”
“No!” D’Embry’s vehemence widened McClannan’s eyes and sent the Regent into a fit of coughing. She reached for a tissue, wiped at her mouth. “No,” she repeated, more softly this time. “It’s not worth the trouble and expense, Santos. We should deal with it here, unless you want Niffleheim to think we’re incompetent.” The tension in her chest eased slowly as the symbiote wriggled against her.
“Regent, with all due respect, there’s the possibility we may have someone high up in the staff who’s deliberately sabotaging us. I think that’s worth reporting. Niffleheim could check backgrounds to which we haven’t access.” His handsome face was intent and serious.
“You believe the Li-Gallant, then?”
“We can’t disregard that possibility.”
“Do you also suspect me?”
He waited a breath too long before replying. “I didn’t say that.”
“That’s good.”
“Then let me send the report, Regent. If nothing else, it will ease the Li-Gallant’s suspicions, show him we’re actually making an effort to help him.”
Once more, d’Embry leaned back gingerly. She looked at her hands—she’d neglected to put on her usual bodytint this morning. Her hands were pale, withered, cracked-skin claws. They mocked her with age and stiffness. She glanced up at McClannan so she would no longer see them.
“No,” she said.
He started to stalk away, disgust radiating from him. She let him get nearly to the door before speaking.
“Santos.”
He turned, his hand on the door’s contact. “Regent?”
“Be reasonable. If
you
wanted the Alliance off Neweden, how would you go about it? You’d do just what is now happening: try to make us seem culpable, try to place the blame for everything on the Diplos. You’d finance the Hag’s Legion. You might even fake an ippicator just for the chaos it could create in this society.”
“You think the ippicator’s faked? The report I saw—”
“Wait until you have more information before you commit yourself to an opinion, Santos. That’s what I intend to do, and that’s why I don’t want you to send a report. All you’ll do is cause unnecessary concern and trouble for us here.”
“You’re just concerned with your own reputation,” he said harshly. Then his face smoothed into blandness once more. “I probably shouldn’t have said that, Regent, but you’ll have to admit that it’s one appearance your refusal gives. Either that or you have something to hide.”
His accusation stunned her.
Am I really doing that, at the bottom of it all? Is he right?
She shook her head in denial, not trusting words. “Seneschal,” she said finally, “Neweden had very little trouble until the Oldins arrived. Now that they’re back, it’s beginning again.”
“It’s never stopped, Regent. Neweden’s been in upheaval for standards. Things seem to be finally reaching a head, that’s all. The Family Oldin is a convenient scapegoat for you.”
“If you believe
that,
Seneschal, then you’re more a danger to us than anyone.” Her voice was dangerously quiet.
He didn’t answer her. He slapped at the contact and the door irised open. He went out.
D’Embry closed her eyes again.
Come on, symbiote. Do something so that I don’t care what the fool thinks.
But she knew the parasite had no drugs for that. Worry burned at her stomach like acid.
• • •
Helgin had been fairly sure that the ploy wouldn’t work. He was surprised—Valdisa
would
accept the invitation to dinner aboard
Goshawk.
It nearly forced him out of his composure. “No business will be discussed at all, Thane. That’s what Gyll told me to tell you. It’s simply a dinner, conversation; a pleasant time.”
“Simply being there at all allows you to ‘impress’ me without speaking a word, doesn’t it? It’s a little more subtle that way, Sirrah Motsognir, but that’s still business,” she’d replied, but her tone was soft. Helgin had found that he liked her voice, her wry unwillingness to let him twist words. “Why does Gyll really want to see me?”
“I don’t know.” He could answer that truthfully. He didn’t know, because Gyll had never requested that Valdisa dine with him. Helgin wasn’t even sure why he’d decided to fool with such a deception, except that Gyll was increasingly gloomy about his failure to convince Valdisa to tie the Hoorka with the Family Oldin. Helgin suspected that Gyll’s moodiness went deeper than that; the Motsognir was certain that Gyll missed Valdisa the lover as well as Valdisa the Thane. Gyll had bedded his share of partners in the standards he’d been gone from Neweden—if nothing else, he’d seemed to be the rising new star in the Oldin firmament, and there were those who threw themselves at him only for that—but Gyll had formed no permanent relationships. He seemed to avoid them, in fact.
Helgin could understand that. The dwarves tended toward solitude as well. But seeing Valdisa again had altered that in Gyll; therefore, Gyll should be given all the opportunities he needed or wanted. That was simple enough. Gyll was a friend, as much of a friend as Helgin had ever had. A bit of deception in personal matters didn’t bother him: what was another small lie in the midst of much larger ones?
Valdisa had accepted his statement; Gyll, after all, had been known for his closemouthed secrecy concerning his feelings. “I’ll come,” she’d said. “But no business, remember. No Family Oldin propaganda.”
No business, no propaganda. Helgin had hurried to tell Gyll what “Gyll” had just done. The Sula tried to scold Helgin halfheartedly, but his delight kept breaking out in a smile. “You little bastard,” Gyll had said at last, laughing. Helgin had bowed, grinning. “Someone’s gotta run your life for you, Gyll. You do such a lousy job by yourself.”