“I didn’t expect your approval, m’Dame.”
“That’s good. Then you won’t be disappointed. Why even tell me? I can’t even fathom your reasoning, man. A Hoorka contract for Sula Hermond’s life? It’s absurd.”
“I don’t think so.”
A spasm of pain shot through d’Embry’s chest. She closed her eyes against the stabbing hurt. These attacks had come more and more frequently over the last week, and the symbiote on her back seemed less quick to cope with them.
Getting old and worn-out, woman, and McClannan’s taken away the reason you kept fighting: cause and effect.
She wondered as well if the symbiote wasn’t wearing out, thinking that it would be just like a Trader item to do that. D’Embry grimaced, knotting a tiny fist on her lap. She could feel McClannan’s gaze on her, definitely less than sympathetic, somehow predatory. She bid her eyes to open, made her hands relax. “What good is this supposed to do, Regent?”
“The Li-Gallant tells me that the Alliance needs to show that it is better for Neweden than the Family Oldin, that we’re stronger.”
“And this contract is supposed to prove that? Excuse my stupidity, but somehow the logic escapes me.” A cold amusement rippled through her; she found it difficult not to laugh, scoffingly. “Not even a fool like Vingi would believe that kind of crap—and in any case, the Sula will simply buy out the contract. It will never be run.”
“I don’t think he’ll pay it off.” He seemed too calm. That worried d’Embry, made the pain of her body recede.
“He’d be crazy not to do so. The Oldins are easily rich enough, no matter how expensive you made the price. All you’d prove is that the Oldins are as wealthy as the Alliance.”
“I have additional information, m’Dame.” Smugness tightened his smile. He waved a negligent hand. “It’s a calculated risk, admittedly, but I think he’ll run.”
D’Embry shook her head. “McClannan, you’re talking about murdering a man.”
“I’m talking about letting Dame Fate decide. That’s the way it works here, isn’t it? Let Dame Fate decide if he’s to live or die.”
“It’s still a life.”
McClannan adjusted the collar of his robe. He brushed at imaginary lint on the silken sleeve. “How many people will die if the Li-Gallant boots the Alliance off-planet? Given a free hand to deal with the lassari as he sees fit, how many will die? Let the Oldins do what they want, and how many more will go to see the truth of Neweden’s afterlife? You’ve said it yourself, m’Dame: wherever the Oldins go, turmoil and death follow. I’m trading one life against several.”
“All your altruistic excuses aside, it’s
still
a life.” She could feel the beginnings of the pain again. She ignored it, breathing deeply despite the agony that caused her.
Damn you, symbiote, take care of this. Do your frigging job.
“And it still comes down to speculation on your part. You
think
this, you
believe
that. Are you willing to gamble for a life? I wouldn’t. I repeat—it’s not a game.”
“Game or not, it’s already done.”
“You can still cancel the contract. All that costs you is money; McClannan, I’ll pay that out of my pension if the expense worries you.”
He hesitated. She saw it in the set of his chin, the slightly open mouth. She attacked before he could answer, sitting forward in her chair. “Do you really want the Sula’s body dumped at the gates of Diplo Center?” she asked. “That may work here, but
you’ve
never had to kill a man, never seen the blood. Hell, man, our whole thrust is that we offer peace and security—civilization. How would Niffleheim view this contract?”
“Niffleheim allowed you to let the Hoorka work offworld.”
“Not often, and only with great reluctance. After Heritage, never.”
McClannan scoffed, his composure returning and confidence coming back to his voice. “Come, m’Dame. You stopped the offworld Hoorka contracts because of Niffleheim’s pressure, not your own altruism. So don’t lecture me about ethics and morality. Neither one of us is an expert in those fields.”
She knew that she should not be angry, not if she wanted to convince him. She had to remain calm, yet control eluded her. She didn’t know why—the influence of the symbiote’s chemicals, a lack of patience that had increased as her health deteriorated, whatever . . . She could hear the snappishness in her voice; she immediately regretted it. “What field
is
your area of expertise, McClannan? Lying? Going over your superior’s head? Or are you just looking to increase your skill with murder?”
McClannan drew himself up to his full height, glaring down the length of that classic nose at d’Embry. “I told you not to lecture me, old woman,” he said, his words clipped. His facade of respect for her was gone; what she saw behind that abandoned facade appalled d’Embry—
Gods, I didn’t know he hated me that much.
She softened her tone, trying to recover some of the ground she’d lost to anger. “I’m sorry, Santos. You’re right, that was uncalled for. Let’s talk about this rationally.”
It did not mollify him. “I’ve no interest in talking any further, m’Dame. I’m the Regent; please allow me to make my decisions without interference.”
She sighed; the pain was arcing through her and she felt nausea boiling in her stomach. “I’m just trying to show you that you’re making a decision you’ll regret. Santos, I
do
have the experience—it’s sometimes worth listening to.”
“Tell me you’ve never made a decision you’ve regretted.”
She kneaded her stomach. “I wouldn’t make that claim,” she said. “You know that.”
“Then don’t claim that your advice is so valuable.” McClannan nodded to her. “I think you’ve said enough.” For an instant, his face showed concern as he looked at her. “You’re in pain. Should I call the Center doctor?”
“No, thank you.”
“Then I’ll be about my business.”
He turned and left the room. D’Embry waited until he was gone, then doubled over, “Oh,
damn!”
she muttered through clenched teeth.
Chapter 18
T
HE APPRENTICE HAD A LOOK of joy as he handed the flimsy to Thane Valdisa. “A contract,” he said, smiling.
She didn’t look at it. She stared at the apprentice in reproof. “You don’t need to be so happy about it,” she told him. “The Hag will smile at you one day—those that gloat at death, She keeps. She of the Five will never snatch you back.”
The apprentice ducked his head. “Go on, get back to your post,” Valdisa told him. As the boy left, she unfolded the flimsy, read the words there. She glanced up, still holding the paper, and seemed to gaze into an unseen distance.
“What is the man thinking of?” she said in a whisper. “Gyll won’t run. He won’t run.”
Chapter 19
S
TEBAN WAS AWED. The port overwhelmed him with noise and fury—open spaces and huge machines. And his contract was even more unusual: the creator of Hoorka, that figure of the full kins’ tales. Steban had never met him; Gyll had gone before the Hoorka had chosen Steban from the ranks of jussar applicants. There was a certain thrill knowing that he would meet the man soon.
It had taken time, longer than any contract he’d initiated before. First he’d had to pass the port’s Diplo guards, polite but insistent on knowing his business. He’d had to wait until one of them called Diplo Center and received clearance. Then, with a badge clipped to his nightcloak as a pass, he’d gone to the shelter beside which
Goshawk’
s shuttle rested. He contacted the unbelieving people there, insisting that he would speak fully only with the Sula. It was his first view of Traders—they seemed normal enough, burly men and women whose main tasks seemed to be moving boxes and taking inventories. They’d radioed the ship, evidently quite pleased to pass the responsibility upward. Then had followed a long wait; he’d watched the shuttle depart, and spent an hour talking with the Traders—he did not believe half of what they told him, tales of offworld sights and pleasures. He’d nodded politely, but kept a skeptical grin on his face.
And now he stood before Sula Hermond himself. Steban arranged his face in the neutral aloofness Thane Valdisa had taught him, and bowed deeply to the man. Sula Hermond didn’t appear overly prepossessing; he was old, to Steban’s eyes, his hair gone mostly white. His eyes were more sad than anything else, as if some old mood had settled there, wrapping itself in folds of quiet and sorrow. Still, the body was lean, taut with well-toned muscles, and there were tracks of old knife scars on his hands. Steban felt that he’d probably like the man. He could understand why Thane Valdisa had once been his lover. “Sula Gyll Hermond?” he asked when their gazes met.
“Yes,” the old man replied quietly. A strong voice, Steban thought, but I doubt that he raises it often. A man who rules by strength of friendship rather than fear. Steban glanced down at the bio-monitor on his belt—a light glowed green: positive ID.
“Your life has been claimed for Dame Fate and She of the Five, Sula. We of the Hoorka have received a contract naming you as the victim.” Steban’s voice was dispassionate, made distant by the rote recitation of memorized, well-rehearsed words. His eyes were half-closed, as if he rummaged in his head for the text. “You have several options—”
Sula Hermond had raised one hand, a gentle interruption. Steban wondered—this is the man who created the assassins, gave them their skills, had killed more himself than any of the rest, more even than the famous Aldhelm? Sula Hermond acted like a shy teacher. “I know the routine,” he said, and he smiled. “You say it well, too—you’ve done the lessons properly.”
In confusion, Steban smiled back, then immediately replaced the smile with the mask of Hoorka aloofness. He knew that Sula Hermond saw the slip and was amused by it; the man’s smile grew larger. “Do you wish to negate the contract, Sula?” Steban asked. Thane Valdisa had told him to expect payment. Steban was already fumbling for the pouch on his belt in anticipation.
“I think not.” Softly, always softly.
Steban looked up, bewildered now. He let the flap of the pouch drop. The old man still smiled at him, sad and gentle. “Sula, I thought—”
“—that I would pay,” Gyll finished for him. “I know.” Steban did not understand. From the tales he had heard, from what he’d seen here today at the port, the Family Oldin was wealthy. Surely the Sula misunderstood him. He shook his head. “Sula, if the contract is paid out, you will not be hunted.”
The smile was still there, but harder-edged now, the eyes gone distant. “I realize that, son. Don’t forget who wrote the code.” The man took a deep breath, straightening and stretching, and Steban realized that, despite the Sula’s age, he would be a formidable opponent. He looked quick and devious. “It would be amusing,” the Sula continued, “to ask Thane Valdisa what she would do if I were to simply take this shuttle back to
Goshawk
and sit. Would she rent a shuttle herself and come knocking at the door? Do the Hoorka have the powered suits and heavy artillery she’d need to breach the hull? Boy, I tell you, the Hoorka wouldn’t have the money, the people, the equipment, or the expertise.
I
could do it, she could not. The sunstar would rise laughing at the guild-kin.”
Sula Hermond had become more and more perilous to Steban’s eyes as the old man spoke, less the kindly teacher and more the vaunted assassin of Hoorka tales. Now he sighed, a long exhalation, and leaned back against the rough wooden wall of the shed, arms folded at the chest, and he was once more the gentle elder.
“But I won’t do that,” he said. “You’ll tell Valdisa this, boy: I’ve neglected the gods of Neweden long enough—
my
gods, whether I want them or not—and I intend to do penance for that neglect. I’ll put my life in Dame Fate’s hands. I will run—tell Valdisa that it will end in the hunt of knives, and that I quite intend to see the sunstar rising tomorrow. Tell her that—you can remember it all?”
Steban nodded. He’d forgotten the Hoorka mask again; his mouth hung open.
“Good. You’ve done your duty then, boy. I know the rules of this game, if not some of the others I’ve been forced to play recently. At least I should be good at it. You have some tracer-dye with you. Use it, and you can go.”
Sula Hermond extended his hands toward Steban. The apprentice fumbled again under his nightcloak, pulling forth a small vial. He touched the cap—a fine mist covered the hands, a quickly drying dew. “Fine. Now give my words to the Thane.”
As Steban turned to leave, Sula Hermond called after him. “Tell her one more thing, apprentice. Tell her that he who creates has leave to destroy, as well. I don’t like what Hoorka has become. This will be the last hunt.”
“Sula?”
“Just tell her that.”
Steban left the shelter. He was confused, his mind a tumult. He could not decide what he had just seen, which Sula Hermond was the true one: the harsh assassin, the gentle old man.
• • •
They stayed—a static triangle—as far apart in the room as they could. Gyll was seated behind his desk; Helgin, looking battered and bruised, was in a floater snuggled in the corner nearest the door; McWilms, his attention divided between the other two and the view of Neweden through the port, stood, arms akimbo, leaning against the outside wall.
“It was a good little joke, Gyll,” Helgin said. His voice was hoarse, his face—what could be seen of it under the beard—was mottled with a gold-brown bruise. He twisted his beard around a finger. “A wonderful little joke. Hah, hah,” he said with leaden precision. “Now please tell me that you weren’t serious.”
“I am. I’ll run the contract.”
“Don’t push the joke too far, Gyll; I might not think it’s funny anymore. I might even start believing that you’re telling the truth.”
“I know it surprises you when people do that.” Gyll glanced at Helgin. The Motsognir stared back, impassive. “It’s the truth. I want to go through with it.”
“Valdisa will be one of the Hoorka, Sula.” McWilms spoke, shrugging away from the wall. He didn’t look comfortable to Gyll, as if the fit of the Trader-Hoorka uniform bothered him, or as if he were forced to be privy to a private quarrel in which he had no part. “We, ahh, didn’t exactly leave her with many good full kin. She’ll be one of those hunting you, almost certainly.”