Assassins' Dawn (68 page)

“Hello, Gyll.”

He’d not heard her approach in the clamor of the falls. She wore the Hoorka nightcloak, the hood up. “Chilly out here,” he said.

“Sorry.”

“Your note didn’t give a reason for this . . .” He didn’t know what to call it.

“You talked to McWilms.”

There was a flat and curiously dispassionate accusation in her voice. Gyll could sense her body under the cover of the nightcloak; muscles flexed, ready to move at need, as if the confrontation would of necessity be physical. All he could see of her were her eyes and a strand of hair curling down over her forehead.

He didn’t bother to deny her charge—he didn’t lie easily; Helgin had told him many times how transparent he was when he tried. “Did Jeriad tell you?”

“He didn’t have to.”

“Don’t blame him,” Gyll said. “We really didn’t seek each other out. It was just a chance meeting on the street, and I invited him to have a drink. I know you asked me to stay away from the kin, but I don’t find anything horrible in talking to Jeriad. Have some compassion, Valdisa. He’s an old friend.”

The wind blew mist back into their faces. Valdisa turned away before he could see if there was a reaction to his words in her eyes. When she finally looked back, there was a troubled hardness to her stare. “I’ve as much compassion as any of the kin, Gyll,” she said. “At least that’s what I tell myself. But the Thane sometimes isn’t allowed to show it or respond to it. She has to be a bitch.” Now she swept the hood back, turned down the collar. Mist swept down eagerly. “I don’t like it, but it’s necessary. You should know that.” Slowly, faintly, she smiled. “I
do
understand, Gyll. I don’t really mind.”

Gyll smiled tentatively back. “Good. I’d hate to have you angry with me. We’ve done that to each other too often in the past.”

“I’m not angry.”

“Then can we move out of this damned mist?”

She laughed, her face sheened with water. “Certainly.”

Down the riverbank, they found a sheltering wall of cliff. There was a small hollow where the wind could not find them. Narrow, it brought them close together of necessity, and each of them pressed their back to stone to lessen the intimacy. Gyll stared out at the river, not at her face, suddenly too near his own. “I assume you had some other purpose with the note than just giving me a shower?”

“I want to know more. I want to know why you’ve come back, what you intend to do.”

“I thought I’d told you.”

“Maybe. I’m not sure
you
know. From what I gathered from Jeriad, he seems to think that you’re rather perturbed by Hoorka, by what you’ve seen since you got here.” She said it carefully, neutral. Her gaze sought his, but she seemed only attentive, waiting for his answer.

“Yah. I don’t like it. I especially don’t like what people keep telling me.” Her eyes would not let him go.

“What is that?”

“That the Hoorka belong to Vingi.”

Lines creased her forehead, her lips tightened into a scowl. “You’ve been listening to the wrong sources, then. Give me some credit, Gyll. I’ve followed your code, strictly. If that gives Hoorka the appearance of being Vingi’s, then it’s the code’s fault, not mine.” The timbre of her voice changed, tinged with spite. “You weren’t around to see how that might come about.”

Gyll reached out a hand, touched her shoulder through the nightcloak, amazed at the texture of the material—he’d remembered it as softer. Valdisa flinched away from his touch, and he let his hand drop back. “No, I wasn’t around,” he said softly. “And I’ve learned quite a bit since then—about myself, mostly. For one, I’ve learned that you shouldn’t let pride speak before necessity. I know I would never have said this before, but maybe the code needs to be changed.”

The mildness of his answer only seemed to feed her ire. She made a sound of disgust deep in her throat, taking a step out of the hollow and back. She glared at him. “Gods, the Family Oldin’s done wonders for you, hasn’t it? The bitch Kaethe feeds you her dreams, and FitzEvard substitutes his own vision for yours. What’s happened to you, Gyll? You’re not the person I made love with, the proud Hoorka-Thane. Do the Oldins unman all their employees?”

Fury raced through Gyll, a blind, white heat. But he did not move, didn’t instinctively reach for the sheathed blade at his side as he once would have done. He willed himself into some semblance of control—the same rules he’d imposed on his Trader-Hoorka.
Think before action. There’s usually more time than you believe, and deeds aren’t easily undone.
He tore his gaze away from Valdisa’s challenging eyes. He breathed deeply, listening to the rushing dance of the river. “I don’t understand this, Valdisa,” he said at last. “I don’t understand why we insist on making each other angry.” Bleak, he turned to face her. “And, by the Dame, you succeed in it. You succeed admirably. But I don’t kill anymore, and I only fight when there’s no other recourse. If you’re trying to goad me to that extent, it won’t work. I won’t let it.”

She didn’t believe him; he could see it. Her stance mocked him, her face scoffed. “You’re Sula, head of a military force. You tell me that you don’t fight, don’t kill?”

“I teach.”

“You send others to do your dirty work, then, like the Li-Gallant.”

He visibly recoiled from that accusation, sagging against the rock of the cliff as if wounded. A jagged finger of stone dug into his back. Wearily he shook his head. “I still believe much of what Neweden taught me, Valdisa. The blame for any death rests with the person that ordered that killing, no matter who held the weapon. But I avoid such a final decision if I can avoid it, and the Oldins seem to prefer that approach.”

“It’s more devious.”

“It’s more effective.”

“Then why in the hell do you want my Hoorka? What good can we do you? We kill, Gyll. That’s what you set us up to do, trained us to be—assassins. Nothing more.”

“I’d like to retrain you, use your skills in other ways . . .” He shrugged, thrusting away from the wall with his shoulders. They were very close. He could smell the spice of Valdisa’s breath. “And, in any case, killing is still a needed skill.”

Her gaze searched his face, curiously soft. He began to wonder if her anger had merely been a sham devised to destroy the vestiges of their old affection. “Gyll . . .” she began; then her lashes came down to shield those eyes, drawing deep lines at the corners. “Just what is it that you’re offering?”

“Comfort, challenge, a new meaning to our kinship.” He paused, wondering how to phrase what he wanted to say. “Maybe even to see if we can be friends—or more—again.”

“Those are just words, Gyll. They don’t mean anything.”

He smiled. “You’re right. You want specifics: the Hoorka here would be the nucleus of a special-forces division within my current group, for use when one or two people are needed—for subversive work, perhaps even assassinations, though I would prefer not. We’d move you from Neweden to a planet near OldinHome that I’ve made my base. You’d be in charge of the kin, Valdisa.”

“But subject to your orders.”

“To FitzEvard Oldin, through me.”

“Or just you, if you decide something needs to be done. The Oldins would back you, wouldn’t they?”

“I suppose that’s possible,” he admitted.

“And we’d be back to where we were eight standards ago.”

“Was it so bad?”

She sighed, and he knew that she was finally beyond the reflexive Neweden anger. A melancholy smile drifted over her face and she cocked her head, listening to the distant thunder of the falls. “I’ve changed a lot too, Gyll, if not in the same ways you have. For me to do this would be the same as admitting I’ve ruined Hoorka, and I simply don’t believe that. We’ve had bad times recently—I’d admit that to anyone—hell,
Neweden’s
had bad times, but the kin are still together. I’ve talked with d’Embry about new offworld contracts and I’m hopeful that she’ll consider them. We’ve had two contracts in the last half-standard that weren’t Vingi’s. I’m not going to admit defeat, Gyll, and that’s what you’re asking.” She passed her hand through her hair, raining droplets on the ground. “No, it wasn’t all bad between us, Gyll. I enjoyed being with you, learning from you, being your lover. It was a good time. But we also had our differences; they drove us apart then. I figure the same thing would happen now, and I’m getting too old to want to take that kind of chance.”

“You sound like I did,” he said. “Eight standards ago.”

She grinned. “Maybe.”

“And I’ve found that I was wrong in that thinking. Valdisa, the Oldins are what Hoorka needs to grow. The Alliance is only a dead end, Neweden is just a blind alley. We suit the Families, they suit us. From everything I’ve seen and heard here, the Hoorka will be lassari shit in another few standards, dead like the ippicators. Let me at least make my offer to the kin, let them decide.”

The grin had fallen from her face. “No,” she answered; then again, softer. “No.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t trust the Family Oldin.”

“Then you don’t trust me. Gods, you sound like d’Embry.”

“Maybe she’s right.”

Gyll scuffed a heel against rock. He sighed, a long exhalation. Valdisa waited as he looked upward at the mist-driven sky. Then she did something that surprised him. She took a step, pressing against him, her arms around him in a firm hug. A moment, and then he responded, clasping her against him. The sudden affection brought back a flooding of memory. He bent his head down to kiss her, but she had moved back again. “Why did you do that?” he asked.

“I wanted to do it while I still could,” she answered. Gyll didn’t know what to say to that. He stood there, shifting his weight uncertainly until she spoke again. “You were a fine lover, Gyll, but you never were very easy with affection. You’d always say nothing, or the wrong thing.”

“You could give me another chance at it. You could let me talk with the kin.”

“With
my
kin,” she emphasized. “It’s not their decision to make, Gyll. I’m Thane, and I’ve said no.”

“Valdisa, I don’t like what Hoorka has become. It makes me sick to think of the guilded kin reviling my creation. I want that to end, one way or the other.”

Her anger was back before he’d finished speaking. A minute ago, he’d thought there was a chance. But all that vanished, riven, with the rage that twisted her face. She clambered away from the hollow, into the wind and mist, her hair tousled, the heavy fabric of the nightcloak swirling.
“Damn
you, Hermond. You’ve no more sensitivity than a frigging stone. All you can think about is how things affect you.”

“And what are you doing?” he asked mildly.

“You believe I’m just as selfish, neh?” She put her hood up against the wind. “Maybe I am. Maybe I can’t stand the thought of losing my little tithing of power. If it is, so be it. No, Gyll. That’s going to remain my answer to you. No. If I find that you’re trying to go around me, I’ll take actions. We were friends and more—I’d hate to see us become enemies.”

“Valdisa,” he persisted. “Everything I see of Hoorka here makes me angry.”

“And what bothers you most is that you have no power over it. Well, you gave that up voluntarily, Gyll. You understood Neweden and Hoorka fit it very well, but you went looking for power elsewhere. It’s a shame, because I don’t think you understand the Families and the Alliance much at all, and I’m afraid they’re going to swallow you whole.”

“Then come with me and help me understand.”

“Stay away from us, Gyll.”

“Hoorka was my creation.”

“And we’re past you now. Sula Hermond is not kin, and he has nothing to do with us.”

He ignored her tone, her use of the impersonal mode. “I’m not certain of that.”

“Stay away, Sula.” Her lips narrowed. She spat out the words as if they burned her tongue. “Or I’ll kill you. I swear it, Gyll, I’ll use my knife.”

She turned in the middle of his reply, the nightcloak moving around her with finality. He made no effort to go after her. He listened to the sound of her boots against rock, his head leaning back against the cold stone. Finally, he could hear nothing but the soughing of the river; still, he did not move. It was only when the sunstar, climbing, found him that he kicked himself away from the cliff and began the walk back to Sterka.

•   •   •

“Li-Gallant, I want to apologize.” The words tasted like gall. D’Embry didn’t care for Vingi’s office, didn’t like the discomfort in her chest and the headache with which she’d awakened, didn’t enjoy the half-smirk on the Li-Gallant’s face. “I don’t know how that disturbance happened last night, but I’m damned well going to find out.”

“There is an old adage on Neweden about closing the cage after the moonwailer has gotten out.”

D’Embry watched as the Li-Gallant laced thick fingers together. All of his face frowned except for the eyes: they openly laughed at her. She tried to find a comfortable position in her floater; the movement threatened to split her head. A hammer thudded behind her skull.
Damn it, symbiote, do something.
“Li-Gallant, we thought that the security arrangements we had were more than sufficient, and we were on the Center grounds, as well. That’s Alliance territory.”

“Evidently your captains were wrong about the security, and lassari don’t care for territorial semantics.”

Fine, be difficult about this, you bastard. You’re enjoying it. Gods, symbiote, aren’t you going to ease this throbbing?
“What can I say, Li-Gallant? From what we’ve reconstructed so far, the lassari knew the layout and location of the guards perfectly. We’ve made the assumption that one of the guards—or one of the guests—was sympathetic to the Hag’s Legion or was bribed. All of the Diplo staff are undergoing psych evaluation—we’ll get our subversive and punish him to the full extent of Alliance law. They couldn’t have gotten in and out without help.”

“That fact worries me more than the rest, Regent.” His slow regard moved down to the sea-wash illumination of his desk terminal. Green light swirled the lines of his face. Then he looked at her again. “You look pale this morning. I trust that the excitement and apprehension haven’t been too much for your, ahh, condition.” He arrayed himself in comic concern.