Michael Flynn - On the Razor’s Edge

«Close the door!»

No. Then he’d know we heard him.

The faint footfalls approached the entry, and stopped.

There was time for two breaths, then a voice said, “Knock, knock.”

Dumbfounded, the scarred man made no reply, and the voice said with some asperity, “You’re supposed to say ‘Who’s there?,’ Donovan.”

Donovan did not recognize the voice. He shifted his grip on the teaser. “Who’s there?”

“Gwillgi.”

Donovan did not ask, Gwillgi who?

Gwillgi Hound carried a dazer, which more than trumped Donovan’s teaser. The scarred man put his weapon away without being asked. Gwillgi did not and was not asked.

The Hound gave the impression of a great deal of energy packed into a small space, like a spring compressed. He was short, dark visaged, and bore a pencil-thin mustache on his lip. His cheeks and chin were a bed of short, sharp bristles. When he smiled, his teeth showed, but not to any comforting effect.

He studied Donovan from topaz eyes that resembled aperture crystals for a laser. “I don’t believe we’ve formally met, Donovan. Or should I say, ‘Geshler Padaborn’?”

Donovan retreated to the egg-chair that hung before the holowall and lowered himself into it. He had met his share of Hounds—Bridget ban, Greystroke, Cerberus, and others—but none had inspired the feeling of utter dread as did Gwillgi. If the little man was a compressed spring, he was a spring wound of razor wire.

The Hound gestured and a second egg-chair descended from a recess in the ceiling and hung before the holowall. Gwillgi captured the wall in a glance while he seated himself.

“Did you come here to kill me?” Donovan asked.

Gwillgi’s smile showed canines. “If I had, you’d ne’er have asked that question. Death is best served briskly. Anyone who makes it a play is a fool.”

The Fudir relaxed just a little, although he could think of three reasons why Gwillgi might delay an assassination. “I’m on vacation,” he said, resurrecting a portion of his bravado. “Come back when I’m on the clock again.”

“On the clock…?” Gwillgi considered the phrase, deduced its meaning. “Let’s say you’re on call, why don’t we? I’ve got some questions. You can answer them, or you will answer them.”

“Do I have to choose?”

Gwillgi barked. It might have been a laugh. “I can see what she meant. Now, let’s start at the top, why don’t we. Are you Geshler Padaborn?”

“I … don’t know.” Donovan tensed unwillingly.

The human dynamite pursed his lips. “Well. There goes my script. I expected one of three responses, but that wasn’t one of them. How could you not know…? Ah.”

“Yes, you must have read the report I gave Zorba three years back.”

The Hound nodded. “How many are you, inside that cantaloupe?”

“Nine—that we know of.” He grinned nervously. “We’ve got you outnumbered.”

Gwillgi grunted. “Sure. But you’re sitting all bunched up. Is Padaborn one of your nine?”

“Might, or might not be. We … destroyed one a couple years ago that was, well, dysfunctional.”

Gwillgi raised an eyebrow. “Interesting. I’ve never spoken with the survivor of a successful suicide attempt.”

Donovan shrugged. “It might have been Padaborn, but…”

“But you don’t think so.”

“I’m starting to remember things that Padaborn might remember.”

“You think there might be more personas awakening?”

Donovan turned wistful. “Ten was such a nice round number.”

“So’s twelve. More divisors. Could mean you’re still two short.”

“Present company planty nuff, sahb.”

Gwillgi nodded. “Padaborn or no, how high up in the revolutionary cabal are you?” When Donovan hesitated, Gwillgi cocked his head, and the cocking of Gwillgi’s head was enough to elicit words from any man.

Donovan took a deep breath. “The Revolution plans to crack me open and suck me dry. They think I know something they want to know. That’s why I’m on vacation.”

Gwillgi pursed his lips, tilted his head. “That’s forthright.”

The Fudir spread his hands. “Have I ever lied to you?”

“On Yuts’ga you engaged in battle on the rebel side and fought Sèanmazy to a draw. That was impressive.”

“How did you know—”

“I’d been following Domino Tight. He was a coming man among them and bore watching. Then he was killed in a back alley in Cambertown and I switched to my number two target: a loyalist named Pendragon Jones.”

“Killed? But he…”

“Yes. Tight proved remarkably chipper for being so recently and thoroughly deceased. And then, the lagniappe: an unexpected guest appearance by Bridget ban’s old lover. Well, one of them. And in the role of the storied Padaborn, no less.”

“You were watching—”

“Of course. I arrived late because of an assassination in downtown Cambertown. The mums hit the lyres all over Yuts’ga and the Confederation cashed out short a minor official. The rebels are trying to maneuver their own people into key offices, aren’t they?”

“I’d rather not betray anyone.”

Gwillgi waved a hand. His nails were almost like claws. “That would be a neat trick, and I wouldn’t mind watching you try. But let me suggest my own name at the top of the list of those you’d not betray. Which side are you working for?”

“I’m working for Donovan buigh.”

Gwillgi ran a fingernail along the barrel of his dazer. “Don’t try for ‘cute,’ Donovan buigh. You haven’t the dimples for it.”

Donovan flapped his arm. “I was out of the Long Game. Out of it! All I wanted was to visit my daughter on Dangchao Waypoint and mend some fences with her mother. That’s all. I was kidnapped and brought here against my will.” He started to say more but decided not to add any further complications. “I have some debts and obligations now.”

“So your promise is suddenly worth something?”

“You’re here as the Kennel’s observer,” countered Donovan.

“It’s a big Spiral Arm. We don’t want the Confederation to fall unless we know which way it will topple. And that means we need to know what the sides are, who is on which, and how the victory of either would affect the League.”

“And now I’m your focus.”

“My interests are varied. I still want to know who put Humpty Domino back together again. But why and how you got not only into it but apparently into a leadership position does pique my curiosity somewhat. Old man Gidula picked you up. He’s a clever sod. He wins every battle by being late and picking up the pieces. I knew he’d bring you to Terra, so—”

“So you watched the Forks from remote viewers up atop Kojj Hill.”

Gwillgi wagged the dazer at him. “I’m impressed.”

“You left a footprint.”

“Mmm, well. Can’t get them all.”

“And your lander’s skid pressed into the ground when you concealed it in a hidden meadow.”

“And from that you knew it was me?”

“I knew it was someone. No offense, I was hoping it would be someone else.”

Gwillgi finally made his weapon disappear. “Kidnapped, you say. I could smuggle you back into the League. You could brief Black Shuck personally, then go to Dangchao and learn if Bridget ban will shoot you or not.”

“Well…”

“Well?”

“It’s gotten complicated.”

“Oh, good.” Gwillgi swung a leg over his knee and clasped his hands over it. “I was afraid it was all too simple. Tell me more.”

So Donovan told him more. He just didn’t tell him all.

Later, they dined at a restaurant overlooking the Go-Gates from Mount Morn on the northern cliff. The mist from the falls of the Qornja where it passed between the two cliffs created rainbows over the gorge, and it seemed as of the faerie bridge above them were supported on an arch of light.