Assassins' Dawn (73 page)

“I’ve heard rumors that say otherwise, Sula.”

Gyll wondered at that, whether she knew more than he thought concerning the samples in the Oldin Archives, or whether she was simply playing with words. He’d told Valdisa of the episode with Kaethe, eight standards ago. If Valdisa had told others of the embryonic ippicator he’d seen, or mentioned it to the Regent herself, then the charade was over—he had implicated himself, a lie of omission. He hated lies, but they seemed to be all around, and untruths were sometimes the easy path.

But he knew he was safe when she spoke. “Sula, you’ve gained yourself time, but don’t fall into delusions. You’re right; I haven’t enough evidence, and I thought I could frighten you into leaving on your own.” She paused. “I
will
get that evidence, Sula, and if you’ve violated the pact, I’ll have you and all the Oldins prosecuted. I’ll hound you with legalities and fines and whatever else I can find. Are you certain you don’t want to leave now?”

“I haven’t finished my work here.”
But if last night was an indication, you have.

D’Embry shook her head. A hand came up to cup her chin; the fingers were tinted aquamarine. “Sula, you puzzle me. You’re either totally ignorant of what your people are doing, or you know and don’t care.”

“I know my ship
and
my people,” Gyll said stiffly. “I’ll take responsibility for them.”

“And you still haven’t lost that prickly Neweden pride.”

“It offends me to be unjustly accused, yah.”

She said nothing to that. He saw her reach out as if to sever the contact, but then her hand drew back. “I wasn’t bluffing, Sula. I’m going to dig for that evidence.”

“I never thought you were bluffing, Regent. That idea never even occurred to me. You won’t find anything.”

“You can’t believe that.”

“I do.”

He could tell that she didn’t believe
that,
either. The Regent mused for a moment, clearing her throat noisily, as if she suddenly found it difficult to breathe. “As you wish, Sula. I understand that the Li-Gallant intends to display the ippicator in Sterka Square a few days from now.”

“Yah, and he’s employed me to be in charge of security. It seems he doesn’t trust the Diplos. Helgin is already on-planet, making arrangements for the viewing.”

“You know that it’s simply a political maneuver on his part. It has nothing to do with your expertise.”

“You’re entitled to that opinion.”

She nodded, her face stony. “Then I’ll leave you to your tasks, Sula.” She peered at him strangely for a moment. “You know, Sula, there are times I can almost believe you.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” Gyll replied, his voice without inflection.

“And because of that, I feel very sorry for you. FitzEvard doesn’t care what happens to those he uses, so long as he gets the results he’s after.”

“I’ve often heard the same about you, Regent—with no offense intended.”

He had hoped that she would show some reaction to that, show hurt or anger. But she did nothing beyond a slow nod. “Yes, I’m sure you have,” she said firmly. He thought that she was finished and began to make his leave, but she continued. “I meant what I said about feeling sorry for you, Sula, and that bothers me. It’s not good to have sympathy for your enemy.”

“I don’t consider us enemies.”

“Then that’s even worse, Sula.”

•   •   •

“You know, Gyll, I’ve never had anything that could be construed as a religious experience.”

“Well, dwarf, all of Neweden gets one of those today.”

They were inside the circle of Trader-Hoorka surrounding the body of the ippicator. Behind them, a shield sparked at the four corners of the large hover-plate on which the beast reposed. The ippicator stank; Gyll was glad that the breeze blew in his face and that the day was overcast and cool.

“Did you know that Vingi wanted to restrict the viewing to the guilded kin—the fool. No low kin, even, and certainly not the lassari and jussar.”

“I’m glad you talked him out of that notion.”

“I’d’ve
beat
him out of it before I’d have let you put our people out—this place would have been absolute chaos. He would have had a running battle for us to deal with. He’d had his private viewing, and that was all he cared about.”

Tri-Guild Square was a static ocean of humanity. In convoluted paths defined by glowing beacon-lines, they trudged slowly up to gaze at the dead beast. Trader-Hoorka moved them along, not letting anyone gaze overlong. “Do we have lights, Helgin? We’re going to be here all night.”

The dwarf laughed. “All night, and the next day and the next: Vingi now wants it kept out here for three days. The scientists are screaming to get their hands on it, the revelates are spouting contradicting prophecies and doing their own screaming for ‘relics.’ Gods, I hope the refrigeration units in the plate hold up—if that thing gets any riper, no one will be able to get within fifty meters of it. You could have reminded me that Neweden law forbids the use of preservatives.”

“One gives to Hag Death all She wants—or She comes after you.”

“She wants the ippicator badly, then.”

Gyll laughed. “Has there been any trouble yet?”

“Neh. Your setup is working fine. We’ve vendors all along the lines, as you suggested, and guards are circulating prominently. There’s been a few skirmishes and more than one bloody nose, but not much else. It’s strange; I expected worse, especially after the violence just finding the thing caused.”

“I did, too. One would think a Parousia would have a strong impact. You’d think the Hag’s Legion would have thought of it.”

“Maybe they have—we shouldn’t get smug yet.”

Gyll turned to look at the beast again, the myth made real. It was ugly—the skin left by the carrion eaters was a sickly, splotched orange with a dull sheen. The five legs were stumpy and ungraceful; he could see the probe in the fifth leg where the animal sensed burrowing insects and animals—its food. The snout was well-formed for digging; a hard, thin proboscis complemented the long claws of the forefeet. It looked dumb, stupid; the eyes were porcine and small, the braincase narrow. Not an imposing sight, really. And it was small, no longer than a man, much smaller than the skeleton that lay in the caverns of Underasgard.

A young specimen, or one just out of the nutrient tank.

The presence still filled Gyll with foreboding. He didn’t like looking at it. He studied instead the faces of those who stared at the creature. If he was looking for signs there, he fared no better. He saw shock, awe, fear; a hundred variations on each. The ippicator might be a portent, yes, but Neweden seemed unsure exactly what it heralded.

Gyll glanced back at Helgin, who, hands on hips, was glaring at the crowds. “When I first heard about this ippicator, I scoured
Goshawk,
looking for proof it had been made there.”

Helgin did not turn. He still watched faces: an old woman weeping, a jussar with a defiant gaze and an open mouth that belied the angry eyes. “You did, eh? Find anything?”

“No. But then, I didn’t expect to.”

A revelate shuffled forward, ecstatic, his lips moving in silent prayer, followed by a guilded kin in his finery, his stare contemplative. “Decided you could trust me, then. Is that it?”

“I decided that if you or anyone else had wanted to hide it, FitzEvard could have arranged that easily enough.”

Helgin made as if to spit on the pavement, scowling, then seemed to recollect where he was. He swallowed loudly. “Gyll, that sounds oddly like you’re making an accusation.”

“Don’t be angry, Helgin.” Gyll put a hand on the dwarf’s shoulder. He could feel muscles bunching underneath. “I’m simply letting you know what I’m thinking—trusting you with my paranoias. I’m sure you’re willing to share such things with me, as well.”

“Hmm,” the dwarf grumped, sniffing. “Why don’t you just ask me outright: ‘Helgin, did you have anything to do with that ugly bag of bones in back of us?’ Or shouldn’t friends be that direct?”

Gyll ignored the jibe. “D’Embry’s sure that it’s our doing, somehow. And she’s reason to be concerned. There are the riots, and religious zealots left and right proclaiming the end, lassari who look on the ippicators as a sign.”

“Sterka’s been quiet.”

“You sound disappointed, Motsognir, and you’re changing the subject.”

“I thought you’d gotten your answer.”

“I suppose I have. I’m sorry, Helgin. It’s just that the creature back there bothers me.”

“I thought you were over the god-madness of Neweden. Damn, Gyll, next you’ll be getting a revelate to shrive you.” The Motsognir kicked at the pavement. He set his hands on his hips again. “Don’t give me this crap, Gyll. That thing’s just an animal, and a very dead one. It doesn’t
mean
a damned thing. If I thought it’d taste good, I’d carve it up for steak.”

Gyll’s mouth was compressed tightly, his brow was caned with lines. He tried to smile; the effort was a failure. “Most of the people here would say you blaspheme, Helgin. I’d keep my voice soft.”

“I don’t believe in signs or gods.”

“It doesn’t matter what
you
believe. What matters is that Neweden does.”

“Well, fine, maybe we’ll have some excitement. This is damned boring.”

“We’ll have more than you want, I’d wager.”

•   •   •

Gyll’s prophecy seemed in error by night. There were skirmishes and scuffles, the usual results of having too many people in a confined space, but no real difficulties. As the sunstar slid behind the spires of Tri-Guild Church, hoverlamps were lit, transforming the square. The crowds had not eased; there were always more to replace those who had left. Floodlamps cast their blue-white glare on the ippicator. Near midnight, Gyll sent Helgin back to
Goshawk.
Gyll stayed, still uneasy, and—though he would not have admitted it to the Motsognir—unwilling to leave the presence of the five-legged beast. He was surprised that he saw none of the Neweden Hoorka among the crowds. She of the Five, goddess of the ippicators, was the patron of the guild, his own choice. The ippicator should have aroused great interest in the devout among the Hoorka, even if Valdisa had been noncommittal about it. He wondered if perhaps, for some reasons of her own, she had ordered the Hoorka to stay away.

Gulltopp was riding at zenith, Sleipnir was hauling itself up toward its brother moon. Everything was double-shadowed outside the blaze of light around the ippicator. The night chill had caused Gyll to put on a jacket—light but warm, with the emblem of the Oldins blazoned at the chest: a stylized bird of prey clutching at a world with its claw. The crowds, hours into the viewing, showed no signs of declining. Around the square they shuffled, following the beacon-lines, waiting for their few seconds of closeness.

“Sula?” She was a woman in the white tunic and pants of the Trader-Hoorka. She held her crowd-prod nervously, twisting it in her hand. Gyll thought he remembered her name.

“You’re Alden Hessia?”

“Hestia,” she corrected. “Sula, I’ve been making the perimeter check. We’re missing one of the sniffers.”

Gyll was immediately concerned; the sniffers were Trader-Hoorka equipped with explosive-detection devices. The equipment was not capable of sensing anything particularly sophisticated, but Gyll had not expected sophistication of Neweden. Certainly, as Thane, well-versed in Neweden’s offensive weaponry, he had known nothing that would elude a good sniffer. That one of them was missing filled him with foreboding—he could see the fear in Hestia’s eyes, as well.

“What’s the name of the sniffer?” He searched the crowd near him as if the man might suddenly appear there. The faces suddenly had an ominous cast. They no longer pleased or entertained him.

“Culdoon.”

“Culdoon . . . Damn, he’s been no trouble beforehand. You know him better, though. He couldn’t have gone off by himself, taken a rest while his officer was somewhere else?”

“He’s not that type, Sula. I know him pretty well.” Hestia was confident of her evaluation. Her round face was taut with earnestness. “I’d have looked more if I’d thought that. I came here right away.”

“How long has he been missing?”

“I’m to check every hour—no longer than that.”

Gyll pursed his lips in concentration. “Yah. Hestia . . . get another sniffer to cover Culdoon’s post. Tell Lutana Creption to get her squad and sweep that sector: see if she can find Culdoon. And tell the Lutana to get her squad’s sniffer moving in the lines—they aren’t moving too fast, so our intruder can’t be too far in; no more than a quarter of the way. Neh . . .” Gyll abandoned that thought. “He might be paying to get closer—best to check all the way from the beast out. I’ll get the people here to slow the lines down—that’ll buy us time, since we can’t clear the crowds without starting a riot.” He was thinking out loud, realized it. Adrenaline made his voice tense and quick. “Move, Hestia—let me make arrangements. Go!”

The woman saluted and moved off at a run. Gyll went to the com-net and called
Goshawk.
Quickly he advised Helgin of the situation. “It may just be someone sleeping on duty, but I’ve a bad feeling, Helgin.”

“I’ll be down as soon as I can, Gyll, but it won’t be soon enough, if you’re right.”

“Then let’s not waste time talking. You contact the Li-Gallant, tell him to be ready to provide medical assistance and additional guards if we need ’em. Hurry, Motsognir.” Gyll cut the contact and touched the code for Lutana Creption. She answered his call gruffly.

“Creption here.”

“Lutana, this is Sula Hermond. Any news?”

Her voice immediately became less irritable. “I’ve begun the sweeps, Sula. I’ll let you know immediately if we find Culdoon. If he’s asleep or having fun with some local, he’ll wish he
had
been ambushed.”

“You have a sniffer in the lines?”

“Yes.”

“Our intruder will be halfway in or better—they’ll have known how long they had before the sniffer was missed. Get another sniffer off the perimeter and into the lines. Let me know if anything’s spotted. And make sure everyone’s using a shield.”

There was very little he could do beyond that. He could watch the faces that came up to stare at the ippicator and wonder if one of them harbored something other than reverent curiosity. He could worry. What was the intruder—if there was one—planning? Did he take out the sniffer because he had explosives, and if so, what type, where would they be placed or thrown? Could it be a red herring, a diversion to lead them away from the real focus of trouble? Could it, please Dame Fate, be nothing at all?