“I’m getting ready to get some mocha. I need it.” The dwarf grumbled to his feet, but Gyll, moving quickly, grasped Helgin’s arm. He held the dwarf tightly, fingers whitening under the pressure.
“FitzEvard was talking to you, not me, Helgin. Something I didn’t understand.” His voice was harsh; deliberately, he softened his tone. His grip on Helgin’s arm loosened. “I think of you as my friend. Tell me what I’m missing here.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You found Renard rather easily.”
“I have contacts, just like you. And he wasn’t there, was he?” The dwarf pulled away, rubbing at his bicep. “Damn it, Gyll—you do that again and I’ll break that hand.” It didn’t sound to Gyll like the normal surliness of the Motsognir. The words had an edge.
“Would you lie to me?”
“What do you think?”
“I’d like to think you wouldn’t.”
“Good.”
“Then what was going on?”
The Motsognir hesitated. Gyll thought he would speak at length. Then the dwarf grinned and shook his head. “Nothing,” he said. “You want some mocha or not?”
“Then all I’m going to get from you is flippancy.”
“Mocha, too.” Then Helgin shook his head. “Gyll, I can’t give you a conspiracy that doesn’t exist, can I? Not unless you simply want some false collaboration for your paranoias. You should be glad we’re leaving Neweden, my friend. It’s making you see things.”
Chapter 15
H
ELGIN CAME TO SEE GYLL the next morning. “You checked with Camden in the bio section about the ippicator,” he declared without preamble. His feet set well apart, he stood in front of Gyll’s desk like an accusatory statue. Outside the port, Neweden threw the sunstar’s light at
Goshawk
; the glare slashed across the room between Gyll and Helgin.
“Of course I did.” Gyll had been standing behind the desk, reading a cargo manifest. He let the list fall to the desk. “What would you have done in my place? I was damned curious, having seen an ippicator on Kaethe’s ship. Helgin, I told you that I looked aboard the ship. I wasn’t hiding anything.”
“You were paranoid, you mean. You don’t trust me.”
“It never occurred to me that you might have something to do with it, Helgin; I thought it might be someone else aboard the ship. So who’s paranoid: me, or someone who’d sneak around to see if I’d been checking up on him?” Gyll paused, then tried to change the subject without segue. “We’re damned low on the power chips we’ve been selling the southern continent. Can we divert some from anywhere else? I’ve an order from the Irastian Coalition.”
“You don’t want to talk about it.”
“An astute observation, Helgin. We’ve a business to run.”
“I think you’re still looking for a conspiracy.”
“I think you’re the one that’s paranoid.”
With a growl, Helgin snatched the manifest from the desk, the white cloth of his tunic flaring as it entered Neweden’s reflected light. He scanned it quickly. “We could divert some of the shipments to Remeale—”
The com-unit chimed. Gyll held up his hand. “Just a moment, Helgin.” He touched a contact. “Yah, Fischer, what is it?”
“A call for Helgin from on-planet. The caller’s rather insistent, so I thought I’d track him down. Is he there?”
Gyll glanced at the Motsognir, who shrugged his shoulders. “He’s here, and he’ll take the call from this extension.” He activated the wall flat-screen. “I’ll leave you to your call, Helgin. We can work with the manifest when you’re done.”
“You don’t have to leave, Gyll. I’m not so paranoid that I worry about you hearing my private calls.”
Gyll laughed at the overdone hurt in the dwarf’s voice. “Fine. Whenever you’re ready, Fischer.”
The screen swelled with light, obliterating the planet’s illumination. A man stared at them—tall, dark, with the coil of a spiked plant-pet wrapped about his shoulders. The room behind him was nondescript; wooden walls barren of decoration. “Good morning, Helgin, Sula.”
Gyll saw Helgin’s stance go wide again, defensive, and he wondered at that. “Sirrah d’Vomiis, is it not?” the Motsognir said. His voice was unusually deep and soft. “What do you want?”
The man smiled, slowly. One large hand stroked the plant-pet; it quivered, the thin spikes moving. “I’ve not seen you for some time, sirrah. I thought perhaps we had further business we could conduct.”
The dwarf harrumphed. One foot scuffed the carpeted deck. “I’m afraid I’d written you off as an unreliable source, d’Vomiis.”
“I know I missed our last, ahh, meeting,” d’Vomiis replied pleasantly. His gaze flickered from the Motsognir to Gyll. “I apologize for that—it might have been mutually productive, in the right circumstances. I was wondering if I could make another appointment with you.”
Something about the man’s oily good manners bothered Gyll; it seemed to touch the Motsognir as well. The dwarf acted almost angry, as if the call irritated Helgin’s already evil mood. For Gyll’s part, this d’Vomiis was someone to whom he took an instant dislike, a gut reaction. There was nothing friendly about his smile—it was simply a uniform he put on to conduct business, and the plant-pet seemed a malevolent thing to wear—perhaps that was it.
“Is the meeting to be with the Sula Hermond as well?”
“I’d hate to waste the Sula’s time for business that the two of us are quite capable of handling, sirrah. I’m sure his time is quite important, and, in any case, what I have to say is only speculation.” The hand slid along the barbed length of the plant-pet, the smile remained fixed in place.
“Where?” Helgin queried, curt and gruff.
“The Street of Singers in Sterka, near Oldman Church. There’s a small market square there that I’ve made my center of trade.”
“When?”
“Would eight tonight be convenient, Sterka time? I regret it can’t be sooner—I’ve another meeting.”
“I’ll be there, but this had better be worth my time, d’Vomiis.” He spoke in a growl. Gyll began to speak, swallowed the words.
“I think it will settle all the questions we’ve had, sirrah.” D’Vomiis nodded to the Motsognir, then to Gyll; the half-bow of kin to kin, a Neweden politeness. “My thanks, sirrah. I’ll leave you to your tasks. Until eight, then.” His hand left the coil of the plant-pet and stabbed at something below the screen. He faded.
Neweden light asserted dominance again, aquamarine.
“The Street of Singers isn’t in the best area of Sterka. Mostly low kin.” Gyll spoke to Helgin’s back; the Motsognir still stared at the screen.
“I know the city well enough.”
“He’s one of our brokers? I don’t recall his name on the lists.”
“He wants to set up an arrangement. I’ve kept putting him off.” Helgin turned, and his bearded face was fiercely jovial. “The man doesn’t know when he’s been bilked. I sold him a lot of faked T’Raith trinkets to see how he’d do. He had to fight to break even on the deal, but he’s still interested.”
“I’m surprised, after all that.”
Helgin grinned. He spread his hands wide. “He thinks he can turn the tables on me, that’s all. I’ll teach him another lesson entirely. What do you think, Gyll? Am I the teacher type or not?”
“You’ve taught me a few things.”
“Hah, you see.”
“And you’ve always made sure that you still know more than me.”
Helgin chuckled. “That keeps me in a job. It’s the most important lesson of all.”
• • •
The Street of Singers might once have been aptly named. That was no longer the case. Helgin heard no songs, and the only images the street would have evoked would have made sad and dreary verses. “Shabby” was the best word for the place; not barren and wrecked like Dasta Burrough, but the melancholy ugliness of riches gone to seed, of beauty neglected until it has turned plain and old. The area had been wealthy enough once—he could see it in the lines of the ill-kept houses, in the spaciousness of the trash-filled yards. A few houses here and there still reflected the pride of their owners, but those were increasingly rare as he approached Oldman Church. That name, at least, seemed appropriate: the old ones sat on porches or stared from windows as he passed: empty, sagging faces.
The street was dark, as well. Many of the hoverlamps lay in shards, vandalized. Others were simply not functioning. The few that were still lit only seemed to accentuate the night, to deepen the shadows.
More and more Helgin was filled with foreboding, more and more Renard’s arrangements had the smell of a trap.
He didn’t care. An expected trap was not as dangerous as the one tripped unknowingly. He was prepared. It was seven, not eight; early enough to catch them off-guard. He swaggered down the middle of the street. He whistled, off-key, pursing his thick lips, a sound muffled in the tangle of his beard. He nodded to the wrinkled visage of an elderly woman in a window to his left, almost cheerful.
Oldman Church sat at the end of the Street of Singers, blocking the lane. Old, gray-wood, two-storied; it was as dreary as an old matron’s face, half its windows gone, though a battered glow-sign proclaimed the times of service. Approaching the building, Helgin moved to the right side of the street, slowing, taking to the cover of the houses nearby. He slid the battered revolver from underneath his tunic, checked the cylinder. He chuckled. From the shadows, he bellowed, “Renard!”
The street seemed startled into silence. From the next block over, a dog barked at the noise, but there was no reply. Helgin waited a few minutes, then called again.
Nothing.
He grunted as he shoved away from the sheltering wall with his shoulders. He eased out into the street, cautious, his ancient weapon ready. He did not expect the trap to be sprung, not yet. The street was deserted, but too public. Inside, that’s where Renard would be, waiting. Helgin wondered what it would be—something mechanical, or an ambush, a person waiting with a sting? One, two, or a multilayer of tricks? The man had all day to prepare the place. Or would there be nothing, just Renard, maybe that woman of his?
You’ll find out, won’t you, Motsognir?
He examined the door and its frame carefully, using the thin beam of a pocket flash. Rotten wood, mostly, and a rough job of carpentry at that—Oldman Church must have been built later than the rest of the neighborhood. Low on the right there was a strip of wood that had a different grain than the rest. Helgin stood to one side, pushing at the door with the barrel of his gun. It swung open easily, and there was a quiet hiss and a soft
tchunk
as two small darts embedded themselves in the wood to the left of the door. Compressed air, triggered by the opening of the door. Damned clumsy—only a fool would have walked straight in and been caught by that. Helgin knew that if he examined the tips of the tiny slivers of metal, he’d find them poisoned. Renard was outlining the rules of the game. Go back now, and there’d be no further contact between them, and Helgin would be telling Renard that he’d won. Go farther, and there would come a final confrontation.
Helgin hesitated. There were a thousand ways to kill a man with traps, and there was no possibility that, armed and defended as he was, he could find them all. If Oldman Church was a maze of such things, the Motsognir would die. But that wasn’t Renard’s way, if he knew the man at all. He liked to see his killings, even if he didn’t do them himself. He’d be here, to watch, maybe to take a hand.
No, not traps. An ambush.
And it was not a Motsognir trait to be subtle. There is a certain power to a straight overhand thrust when your opponent expects a feint and a jab. Standing to the side of the door, he called into the black interior. “Awfully clumsy, Renard. I want you, my friend, but if you think I’m going to walk into this pit, you’re wrong. I’ll find you some other time.”
Silence; then the sound of someone moving in the darkness beyond the door. “Why wait, dwarf? I’m here now, and you’ll be leaving soon. I could hide where you’d never find me in the time you have left. This may be your only chance.”
“What, to meet you with all your friends?”
A low, quick laugh was his answer.
Not going in, that’s for certain. Now to back out with a whole skin.
A scraping of wood above alerted him. He was almost too late, despite that. He whirled, moving aside, the revolver up. He heard the cough of the silenced sting before he saw the man leaning from the window. He felt a searing pain in his side as the ground next to him erupted in pouts of dust. He fired; the noise was deafening. The man screamed, dropping the sting and falling back inside the building. Helgin wasted no time wondering whether he’d hit the man or simply scared him with the noise. He grabbed the sting from the ground and ran, limping, feeling the wound in his side tear further. His tunic was wet, torn, dark with blood. He dodged between two houses, halted there a moment. He tore the tunic away, shivering in the cold air, probed the wound with tentative fingers—deep, but essentially superficial, he told himself, hoping he could believe it. The loss of blood worried him the most. He wrapped the shreds of the tunic around the worst of it, knotting the fabric viciously.
Best you can do, old son.
He checked the clip of the sting: five shells left. He thrust the revolver into his belt. The sting was a better weapon for this, a bit more comprehensive in its coverage: it didn’t require much aiming, as the pellets spread.
He could hear them. Running footsteps, a panting breath.
So much for your damned appraisals, Motsognir. Public or not, he’ll kill you here and blame it on the Hag’s Legion. You shouldn’t have come, shouldn’t have come.
The thought thundered in his head.
He turned, began to run again. His side ached, already tightening, making him slow. He ignored the pain. Coming out from between the houses, he checked the next street. The dog he’d heard before was barking furiously now—he could see the animal in a front yard two doors down. It was facing back, between the houses. He decided to risk the street. Groaning, he bolted across the pavement and back between two buildings. He was halfway down the narrow space before he really saw the fence—board, both high and well-constructed. He made an attempt to scale it from a running start, his fingers scrabbling for the top. He did not make it, didn’t come that close, and he felt a stabbing of pain from his wound, a gushing flow of blood. He collapsed, his back to the fence, sting across his knees. He squinted against the pain, fighting the onslaught of unconsciousness and shock.
Superficial, was it? Fool, fool!
When his vision cleared again, he struggled to his feet, blessing the low Motsognir center of balance and cursing the heavy Neweden gravity. He went back toward the street, one hand on the nearest building for support.