Assassins' Dawn (79 page)

The dog was still barking. Suddenly, it went silent. He peered around the corner of the building. Lights were on now in several of the windows, but the residents stayed judiciously inside and hidden. Bloodfeud was a sacred custom on Neweden—you learned not to interfere in others’ quarrels lest they become your own. They might watch, but they would not help. Helgin couldn’t see the dog; he could only assume that its owner had taken it inside, or that Renard had rendered it permanently quiet. Helgin watched the street. Someone crossed it a hundred meters to his left, running in a crouch—too far for the sting, and the noise of the handgun would point to him like a finger.
Damn, they’ll be coming at me from the back as well.
He felt the beginnings of despair and found he did not like the emotion.
Go out in the street again and they’ll take you; stay here and you’re trapped. A hell of a choice, dwarf.
He backed down the way he’d come, toward the fence.

There were windows. He tried them, one by one; all were locked. If Renard didn’t know where he was, the shattering of glass would tell him, and a house was as much of a trap as this place—perhaps worse, for he’d have to deal with those inside.
Better to wait, at least for the moment.
He went to the fence and huddled into a corner of it, both weapons ready now, watching the opening to the street and listening for a sound.

It was the latter. Someone began climbing the fence from the far side. Helgin held his breath, not moving except to bring up the sting. Head tilted backward, he watched the city-glow of the sky. The silhouette of a head and shoulders appeared, with a hand holding a weapon to the right. Helgin aimed, pressed the trigger. The sting bucked, jamming hard into his shoulder, there was a dry cough from the silencer. The head was gone; there was the sound of a body falling to earth.

Amateurs, and a damned good thing—it might keep you alive.
He struggled to his feet once again, using the sting as a crutch.
Now the windows; that body’ll tell them exactly where I am. Move!

He didn’t have time.

A figure appeared at the street end of his cul-de-sac, hesitating a second and then whirling back. Helgin whipped the sting up and fired; the pellets scored paint, sent chips of masonry flying. He let himself fall to the left as the figure glanced around the corner—a line of brilliance arced across the alley; Helgin could smell paint blistering, the tang of scorched wood.
Oh, fine, he’s got a hand-laser, and
you
came with a frigging handgun that can’t hit much beyond thirty meters. Good choice, Motsognir, and I hope you live to regret it.
Helgin fired once more from his prone position. He had not thought of hitting the man—he could only hope to keep him back.

Someone was at the fence again: Helgin turned in time to see a head disappear. He aimed at the fence where the climber might have been, groaning as the sting jolted his shoulder once more. He was breathing heavily now; his side was soaked with blood. He could not even feel fear—the certainty that he was going to die was simply there, a cold realization. All he could do was delay the inevitable. He lifted the sting, thinking that it suddenly felt heavier, that the night was dimmer. He aimed for the corner once more, fired, then pointed the muzzle at the fence—this time there was only the click of the trigger striking an empty chamber.
Hell, you can’t even count anymore, can you?
He let the sting drop, pulled the revolver from his waistband.
Keep them
down; that’s all you can do. It won’t help you. You’re going to find DwarfHome before you expected, Motsognir.

He lurched along the wall, staggering, his hand against the bricks, making his way to a window. Without aiming, he fired at the street end of the space.
Keep them down.
He thought he heard a sound behind him, and shot at the top of the fence, splintering wood. He continued his slow progress toward the window.

He didn’t see the sting, just heard the scrape of a footstep. Kicking against the wall, he flung himself backward—the sting spoke; pellets struck him in mid-leap. He rolled, helpless, the shock of impact knocking the handgun from his grasp. Through pain-fogged eyes he could see a man standing near him, bringing up the sting again. Helgin tried to lever himself to his feet; his legs would not cooperate. He could only stare at the death awaiting him.

But the man was suddenly down himself, as Helgin heard the characteristic whine of a vibrofoil. Helgin blinked, unbelieving.
By the great god Skafidur, not dead! Not dead yet!

“Gyll!” he tried to shout. His voice sounded like a cracked whisper. “The fence . . .” He thought he was going to go under. He fought the darkness.

Gyll stepped forward between the houses. He had a vibro in one hand, a hand-laser in the other. He wore the night-clothing of the Trader-Hoorka. A black cap covered his grayed hair, and his hair and face were grimy with soot. “It’s taken care of,” Gyll said. “Fischer’s back there.” Gyll whistled—there was an answering call from the far side of the fence. Gyll went to Helgin, switching off the vibro, holstering the laser. He went to one knee. Helgin grinned up at Gyll through a face twisted with pain.

“You took your damned time,” he said. He tried to laugh, found that he had to grit his teeth against the pain.

“You went there early.” Gyll’s hand probed Helgin’s side, his face grim. “How can I have you followed when you don’t follow the only schedule I knew—d’Vomiis had said eight.”

“I was being smart.”

“It looks like it was a real good idea, too.”

“No thanks to you, I almost died.”

“Next time, ask me to come along.” He looked up from his examination of Helgin. “You’ll live, I suppose, though that’s a nasty side wound, my friend. You’ve lost a lot of blood, and that last shot chewed up your right leg pretty well.”

“Don’t look at me with that long face, then, or are you lying to me?”

“None of the lies today came from me. You’ll live.” A groundcar screeched to a halt on the street. Trader-Hoorka leapt out.

“Then why so solemn, Gyll?”

“I killed that man. I haven’t taken a life for standards, dwarf.” Gyll’s voice was gruff, angry. “I find that I don’t like the feeling. I don’t like it at all.”

“Gyll—”

“Shut up, Motsognir.” Gyll waved to the Hoorka—they came at a run, bearing a litter. One began attaching a portable med-pack to Helgin’s chest, grimacing as she tore away the red-stained remnants of his tunic. They placed the dwarf on the litter. As it began to rise on its hover-tethers, Helgin beckoned to Gyll. “Is one of them Renard?” he asked.

“I wouldn’t know. I’ve never seen him.” There was a strange sadness in Gyll’s eyes. He looked older.

“Yes, you have.” Helgin swallowed with an effort. He tried to turn on his side; one of the Hoorka gently nudged him back. “I talked with him this morning. The man who called. D’Vomiis.”

Gyll’s eyes went hard. He seemed to withdraw farther into himself. “D’Vomiis,” he said, detached, distant. “Neh, he’s not one of them. No.” He paused a moment. “I think you’ve a lot to tell me, dwarf.”

“You won’t like it.” Helgin tried to smile. “Why don’t we just take a walk instead. Let me hop off this litter—”

“I think you’re going to talk to me.” Gyll waved a hand at the Hoorka—the litter moved toward the groundcar. Gyll watched them leave. Doors slammed, the engine purred into life, its headlights carving the darkness. The beams swung as the driver turned and drove away.

Gyll walked slowly over to the body of the man he’d killed. He still held the sting, sprawled faceup, the eyes caught in eternal surprise. The man was young, good-looking in a rough way, perhaps still jussar. There was a lot of blood, black in the darkness; vibros were not clean weapons. Gyll reached down, squatting, and gently closed the eyes. “I didn’t know you,” he said quietly. “Enemies should always know each other.” He spoke to himself, his hand still on the man’s face. Sighing, he rose to his feet.

“But then,” he said, “so should friends.”

Chapter 16

G
YLL DID NOT GET BACK to
Goshawk
as quickly as he had expected or hoped. One of his aides drove up to him as he entered the field gates of Sterka Port.

“Sula?”

He inclined his head in acknowledgment. “Yah, Levitt? What is it?”

The young woman spoke over the purr of the groundcar’s motor. “There’s a group here to see you, Sula. They won’t talk to any of the rest of us.”

“Who are they?”

Her dark face remained noncommittal. “Hoorka,” she said. “Neweden Hoorka.” Her eyes tracked him up and down, taking in the smudged and bloody uniform, the quickly and inexpertly wiped face. He knew he should change.

“Thane Valdisa?” he asked. He couldn’t keep the hope from his voice. The intensity of it surprised him, but the beginning of Levitt’s headshake quelled the optimism.

“Others,” she replied. “Nine or ten of ’em. The one that does the speaking for the group is called Jeriad McWilms.”

“Where’d you put them?”

“Out at the shuttle shelter—it’ll be a bit before the shuttle gets back: we took the Motsognir right up to the ship.”

“Take me out there, then.” He swung into the open cab as Levitt accelerated away. He was tired; he rubbed at his eyes.
Too much happening at once, old man. They don’t give you a chance to rest.
Gyll didn’t want to face another crisis tonight. All he wished was the oblivion of sleep. He felt sick, sick at having killed a man he didn’t know, sick because Helgin was hurt, sick because there seemed to be duplicity all around him, even from the Motsognir, whom he’d trusted most of all. He approached the shelter with little enthusiasm.

The Hoorka-kin smiled as he entered, the smiles going flat as they saw him. McWilms, concern on his face, bowed low to Gyll, who returned the bow sketchily, perfunctorily. “I’m sorry, Ul . . .” McWilms stopped himself. “Sula,” he corrected. “I didn’t mean to have you disturbed at work. Are you all right? The blood . . .”

“It isn’t mine,” Gyll said wearily. “I’m just tired. What can I do for you, Jeriad?” He glanced at the others: Serita Iduna, Bachier, others he recognized, apprentices when he’d left the guild.

“We’ve left Hoorka,” McWilms replied simply.

Gyll didn’t know how to reply. He felt awkward, slow; all of his reactions, dulled. “Jeriad, you surprise me . . .” He brushed at his clothing.

“Sula, we’re here to join you,” Serita broke in. “Some new recruits, neh?” She grinned.

“Does Valdisa know?”

The faces registered a varying range of emotions: neutrality, open distaste, hurt. McWilms seemed to be recalling something unpleasant; Serita’s olive face still smiled, but the smile was forced now; Bachier frowned. “She knows,” Bachier said. “She knows very well.”

“The Thane was quite angry,” McWilms interjected. “She made threats, she cursed us—and you. There was nearly a confrontation with the rest of the kin. It was rather ugly, Sula.”

“Why did you leave?”

McWilms looked at the others. He rubbed his right arm: a nervous habit. “The Hoorka . . .” he said haltingly, “aren’t what they once were. You knew that. It’s worse now, Sula. Valdisa’s made a deal with the Li-Gallant; we’re now a part of his rule-guild, under his control. It’s not the same now. It’s all cracked and changing. Why wait for it to fall apart?” He paused, shrugged. “We’d like to go with you.”

“She’s abandoned the code,” he said, almost a whisper. Anger surged through him; he forced it down.

“At least parts of it, Sula. And who knows how much longer the rest will hold? We’d rather move with the opportunities you offer.”

He should have felt some triumph. Instead, Gyll almost laughed, mockingly. This no longer mattered: the bright future he’d thought he was offering his old kin was tarnished now, blighted by the deceptions of Helgin, which in turn threatened further lies, other actions done behind his back by people he’d thought he trusted. If he hated what Valdisa had done to Hoorka, he hated it because it had become something other than what he’d intended. But there was no deliberate deception there; simply a change in the framework in which she operated. It seemed that the Family Oldin might have misrepresented itself from the beginning.

He didn’t know which was worse.

Gyll had little enthusiasm to give McWilms and his fellow defectors. He was too tired to think, too exhausted to deal with it.

“I’ll tell my chief aide Fischer that you’re here,” he said at last. “He’ll see to you all, make arrangements.”

Gyll could see puzzlement and disappointment in McWilms’s face, and he forced a wan smile to his lips. “I’m sorry,” Gyll said to all of them. “I know you’ve all taken a huge chance on my recommendation, and now I’m not showing much enthusiasm for your courage.” He ran a hand through his hair—it came away sooty. “I’m very glad you’re here, but it’s been a long, difficult, and strange evening for me.”

“We understand,” Serita said. “The woman—Levitt—told us some of what had happened. We’re sorry that the Motsognir was hurt.”

“It’s very different, what we have to do for the Oldins,” Gyll said. “I had to kill a man tonight, with no warning, with no honor. He was someone who was no personal enemy of mine, for whom I had no contract.”

“He was attacking a friend,” McWilms said. “That seems reason enough.”

“It should be,” Gyll answered, “but it wasn’t.”

Chapter 17

T
HE ROOM WAS DARK, the port partially shuttered, though in any case it showed only the salt-on-velvet of stars, looking toward the band of spilled light that was galaxy center. The gravity was set very low—Gyll had to watch his step lest he push too hard and flounder in air for an instant. The bedfield was a white mass in the center of the room, over which hovered the spiked bulk of a medi-doc.

Gyll paused at the door, hesitant. He did not look forward to this confrontation. He didn’t want to hear the words.

“You look like you’re waiting for a funeral, and I’m not planning to die. You want to come in instead? If you’ve got ale with you, I’ll even give you a kiss.” Helgin’s voice was hoarse and weak. Gyll could see the dwarf, his beard dark against the sheets, eyes gleaming in starlight.