Assassins' Dawn (66 page)

“Does that mean you’ll be able to convince them to go with us easily?”

Gyll frowned. “If it were just that, probably yes. But Valdisa. . . she doesn’t want me to get close to them—or her—again. Today was just an accident, not a defiance. But maybe that’s what I should be: defiant. I don’t know, Helgin. I hate what I see.”

“You can’t do a damn thing about it,” the dwarf grumbled. “You ain’t Hoorka; not that kind, anyway.”

“But I created them.”

“And you feel responsible.”

“I feel like I might want to destroy them.”

“And who the hell are you, one of the gods? I think you’re being a trifle melodramatic, Gyll. Besides, you’re here to recruit the Hoorka. They might be a little irritated if you start undermining them, and then FitzEvard would be angry with
you,
and he can act like a god a damned sight better than you.” Helgin shook his head. “Better just to be unemotional about it. Be silent and unmoved, like a rock. Like me.”

Gyll laughed, and his laughter had an edge. “You’re no rock, Motsognir. You just hide your sensitivity and pretend it doesn’t exist. That rock of yours is only a stage prop.”

Helgin snorted derision. The wort looked up, curious, from the corner. “I still wouldn’t try kicking it, Gyll. You might break your foot.”

Chapter 6

T
HE STATE DINNER was held in an ornate hall near the main entrance of Diplo Center. The high walls displayed a shifting landscape of arid beauty, melding imperceptibly at the corners. Above, the ceiling was masked by blue-gray streaks of cloud behind which lurked an orange sun. The clouds moved with the wall landscape, entering and leaving the room left to right. The people in the room could well believe that they sat on a small plateau high up in new and jagged peaks. Boulders sat here and there; the floor was earthen and except where the long table stood, was not level. One could see to the horizon in every direction; there, a long finger of topaz ocean, or a scintillating line of river snaking across windblown plain, and to the left the line of majestic and austere mountains marched into the haze.

Gyll did not envy the people that had to clean this up afterward.

Helgin walked to where the plateau, at the juncture of wall and floor, seemed to drop in a sheer, knife-edged peak. He leaned carefully forward, looking down. “Shit,” he said. He backed up a step and bent at the waist again, reaching out with a forefinger. He touched nothing, and—badly overbalanced—rocked back on his feet once more. He took a tentative step toward the cliff and repeated the process. This time his probing finger was halted by the invisible wall.

“Hah,” he announced. “If anyone here has vertigo problems, their supper’s going to be all over the floor. Good thing it’s dirt.”

Gyll held back a laugh. McClannan, standing beside d’Embry, looked annoyed. The Regent herself seemed politely amused while nearby waiters (actually some of the lower-echelon Diplo staffers recruited for the evening) smiled but kept a discreet silence. Helgin moved to the door, which stood without visible support at one end of the plateau. He leaned as close to the wall as he could without touching it, peering around the back of the door.

“Good,” he said. “You wrapped the diorama around the back as well. The thing even throws a shadow. Very good.” He tapped the wall with a fingernail. It gave off a sound like crystal. “Too damned good for Neweden.” The dwarf glanced from McClannan to d’Embry. “Who’s supposed to be impressed?”

Gyll began to speak, but McClannan was quicker. “It obviously impressed
you,
did it not, though I can see where a much-traveled Trader might be jaded—”

“Seneschal,”
d’Embry interrupted. McClannan glanced at her; she smiled up at him too sweetly. “I’m afraid you’ve fallen into the Motsognir’s trap. He deliberately goads you. Do you not, sirrah?” she asked, turning to Helgin.

The dwarf grinned at Gyll, who shook his head. Then he bowed deeply. “You render me transparent, Regent. It’s a fault of mine, I’m afraid; I like to see people make asses of themselves.”

McClannan scowled. D’Embry, the hump of the symbiote concealed in glittering cloth that flickered uneasily from azure to scarlet, nodded back to the dwarf. “You see, Seneschal,” she said, “Traders are wonderful manipulators, and the Motsognir are most likely their teachers. FitzEvard, best of all, has learned his lessons.”

Gyll cleared his throat. He was dressed in a close-fitting tunic and pants, white piped with blue. The color flattered him, the fit accentuated the lean hardness of his body. He spoke softly, pleasantly. “I’ve always found FitzEvard Oldin to be a man of his word, Regent.”

“I don’t doubt that he is, Sula. If, for instance, he said that he would never kill you, he’d send somebody else to do the job.”

Gyll bridled at that. His eyes narrowed, and the polite smile he’d worn as part of his costume dissolved. “You play the same games as the Motsognir, Regent. At least
he
doesn’t pretend to have the veneer of civility.”

Gyll expected anger, expected d’Embry to turn cold and ask them—civilly—to leave. Certainly the expression on McClannan’s face was that of unmasked venom. But d’Embry simply waved a hand (glinting silver) in dismissal. “Sula,” she said, “the Motsognir insults simply because he enjoys getting the reactions; whether he says the truth or not doesn’t matter to him. I was Regent when FitzEvard Oldin came to Printemps. There was another Trader on that world as well, of the Family Shannon. They argued, and I was forced to intervene. FitzEvard vowed to me that he would do nothing to harm this man.
He
didn’t. In fact, FitzEvard was with me when an intruder killed the Trader Shannon. I could never prove anything, but both FitzEvard and I knew what had happened.” She paused a moment, and her face took on an aspect of sternness. She seemed to stand straighter. “Up to that time, I thought I liked Oldin well enough myself. We’d even flirted, and I’d considered letting it go further. He was handsome enough then—he probably still is; his type seems to age gracefully. He was slick, and he looked straight at me and lied with a smile on his face and we both knew he was lying. It didn’t bother him that I knew, as long as nothing could be proved.” She stopped and regarded Gyll. “I only tell you this to warn you about your employer, Sula.”

“I think I know him well enough already. And I also think your bias shows, Regent.”

The discussion went no further. The doorward chimed, and the Li-Gallant Vingi entered. He moved, as always, heavily, ponderously, each step deliberate and certain. Rolls of flesh jiggled under a wide and ornate belt; his multitude of rings flashed light. Behind him came the kin-lords of the other rule-guilds. Gyll searched the crowd for familiar faces as d’Embry nodded to the waiters to begin circulating with trays of hors d’oeuvres and wine. Gyll recognized only one of them: Sirrah d’Vegnes, who had been one of the underlings in Gunnar’s rule-guild standards ago, once one of the challengers to Vingi’s dictatorship. D’Vegnes wore the belt-holo of kin-lord now, and he was not at all the match of his slain predecessor. He fawned over the Li-Gallant, posturing. Gyll took a glass from one of the waiters, watching as d’Embry and McClannan moved among their guests. There were polite compliments on the setting of the room.

“You know what gives it away, Gyll?” Helgin startled Gyll out of his reverie. He looked down at the Motsognir. Helgin held two glasses of wine; as Gyll watched, the dwarf drained one and set it firmly upside down in the dirt.

“What gives what away?”

“The illusion of this room. The acoustics foul the pretense. This still sounds like a room, not outdoors. Too much presence, too much quick echo and reverberation. Once you notice it, you can’t be taken in again.”

Gyll made a face. “Thanks. I was rather enjoying it.”

“Well, that’s the trouble with illusions. They fall through too quickly.”

“Some people simply can’t appreciate beauty when they see it.”

“Some people just like being fooled,” Helgin retorted.

They stared at each other, half-smiling. Then Gyll shook his head. Helgin slapped him on the rump. They laughed.

“Well, it’s good to see that Traders, unlike our two Alliance hosts, get along well.” The voice was a low purr: the Li-Gallant approached them. Helgin nodded to Vingi, Gyll gave the low bow of kin. After a hesitation, the Li-Gallant bowed in return—though less fully—to Gyll. “What gives the two of you so much amusement?’

“We were just discussing the room.”

Vingi nodded massively, glancing slowly about. “It’s rather effective, isn’t it? It would be nice to have something on this scale in the keep. Could the Families do this?”

“We could do it easily enough,” Gyll replied. “I’ve seen Oldin dens that had much the same, if not on quite so elaborate a scale—mainly, we simply project holos beyond false windows. But I’m certain it could be duplicated without trouble.”

“Ah.” Vingi twisted a ring around a finger. He plucked a meatrind from a passing tray. “Perhaps I should price your equipment in comparison with that of the Alliance.” Daintily he placed the meatrind in his mouth.

“The Oldins will be cheaper,” Helgin said.

The Li-Gallant rolled the meatrind around his tongue appreciatively. He swallowed. “Yah, but will it continue to work after the ship has gone?”

“Simply make certain that we stay, Li-Gallant.”

“Perhaps I could. If it were worth my effort.” Vingi looked from Helgin to Gyll.

“We’ve no doubts as to your abilities, Li-Gallant,” Gyll said.

“Very polite of you to mention it, Sula.” A bell chimed. “But I think we’re being called to dinner. Maybe we can continue this conversation there.”

They had no chance. Vingi was seated next to d’Embry, at the head of the table. Gyll and Helgin flanked McClannan at the other end. Only Helgin relished that arrangement. He picked up a fork, examined the silver critically. “Not bad, Seneschal,” he said, polishing the tines on his sleeve. “It’s even clean.”

McClannan did not seem disposed to comment. He smiled, weakly, tiredly. He looked resigned to a trying evening.

The dinner was long and varied, a sampling of cuisine from many worlds of the Alliance. Portions were small but multitudinous. Gyll more than once found himself glancing quizzically at Helgin after a plate of unidentifiable something was set before him. Several others he recognized, though he’d tasted few of them before: cockatrice from Thule, spineballs, unijells, Terran beef, and even a puffindle from Neweden’s cold seas. Gyll was sated well before the last course—a pastry of questionable origin that tasted too sweet—but found that he could not resist sampling. Helgin ate everything placed before him, quickly, as if it might be taken away if he tarried.

McClannan talked with Gyll as they ate the pastry. “You know, Sula, what strikes me as the worst fault of the Families is their lack of a central government. We Diplos, for instance, answer to Diplo Center on Niffleheim, which in turn is under the leadership of the Legatus Primus and thence the entire Alliance structure. There is accountability for all our actions.”

“Which doesn’t prevent mistakes, but simply breeds cautious, slow, and mediocre Diplos.” Gyll toyed with his pastry, not looking at the Seneschal; crumbs flaked delicately away from his fork. “It’s my feeling that the looseness of Family society is its virtue, not the opposite.”

“I can’t agree.” McClannan leaned forward, pushing his plate away. His handsome face was eager. “It’s been proved time and time again that anarchy is no answer. Our entire history tells us that: all the times of a strong central government are the times of expansion. When there is none, human space is in shambles.”

“Every time of strong government, from the Reduxtors of the First Empire through Huard, has also ended in chaos. Everyone grabs for the power—spread it out, and there’s less chance of losing everything.”

“Still, you can’t blame the Interregnums on anything but Dame Fate. And it has always been a centralized government, one unified entity, that has brought us back out of those times.”

Gyll shrugged. “But in all that scrambling, we’ve yet to match the technologies of the First Empire . . .”

Gyll found that McClannan bothered him less as he began to know the man. That facile, easy handsomeness must have actually been a burden to him; Gyll suspected that McClannan had always been expected to be successful and had often fallen short of that mark. He was ambitious but not overly gifted with talents to aid that ambition. Gyll would not have wanted the Seneschal on his staff or anywhere in a position of importance, but if the man ever managed to make a friend, he would probably not be a bad companion: facile, and not deep. The polar opposite of d’Embry . . . Gyll made his disagreements in the discussion milder than he might have. “I might also point out, Seneschal,” Gyll continued, “that it was only the Trading Families that kept any glimmer of civilization alive during those dark times. Could the Alliance have formed at all without our work having given them the chance?”

“You speak as a convert, Sula. All converts are more zealous and less objective.”

“Then let a nonconvert speak, man,” Helgin broke in. He dabbed at his plate with a forefinger, picking up stray crumbs. “The Motsognir have no allegiance to either the Families or the Alliance. For myself, having seen both, I far prefer the Families’ society.” He licked his finger.

McClannan made a poor attempt to mask his revulsion. “Without meaning offense, what do the dwarves know of human civilization? The Motsognir fled human space centuries ago after you stole the ship
Naglfar
from the Reduxtor Pieter III—you made your choice, then.”

“The Motsognir are as human as you, McClannan—and a hell of a lot smarter.
We
had no choice about being reengineered—that was an experiment of one of your precious strong central governments,” Helgin said darkly. His mouth twitched under the growth of beard. Gyll began to interrupt, hoping to head off the too-fragile temper of the dwarf, but the doorward chimed. Everyone at the table looked about. At the table’s head, a puzzled d’Embry gestured to one of the waiters. The man began to move toward the door, but it burst open in a gout of sparks, wrecked. Amidst shouts, a group of several lassari entered the room, holding crowd-prods and stings. Gyll jerked to his feet as, around the table, people frantically tried to scramble from their seats. The foremost of the lassari lifted her sting and fired at the ceiling. There was a crystalline explosion; a shower of broken sky rained down on the table. Someone screamed.