Assassins' Dawn

by Stephen Leigh

  Where guilds and pride were concerned, tempers flared easily but carefully—the offended person might be a better fighter than you. Most demonstrations were noisy but well-behaved. After their time of shouting and preening for the news services, the crowds faded and died, the people melting back into the streets.

  So the guards watched with a bored and uninterested demeanor as the vanguard of the protestors edged to the base of the steps. A chant was shouted in ragged unison, though no words could be easily discerned. Two beats—a strong accent followed by a weaker one, then a pause—a waltz protest. The signs moved with the chant, upraised to the sunstar in the phosphorus zenith.

  One guard fidgeted in his pockets, pulling forth a packet of mildly intoxicating candies from the south coast. He offered one to the nearest companion.

  The chant of the crowd waxed and ebbed, a tide-swell that moved in its own rhythm, a thousand-throated beast wailing distress to the silent facade of the Hall. Few details stood out in the Brownian motion of the protesters: a flash of iridescent cloth; a person near the front, taller by a head than his neighbors and further individualized by a spiked plant-pet growing like a living collar around his neck; the uneven summits of the signs pooling thin shadows on those below. The far edge of the crowd was not sharply defined, but faded into a perimeter consisting equally of interested but unmotivated spectators and those using the demonstration as an excuse for play—youngsters running happily through the legs of adults; streetkids, jussar.

  Had it been like the hundred protests before it, this would have been a short-lived commingling that would have died quickly from the lack of response from the Hall and the failure of the Neweden news services to arrive (the holo networks had been prudently notified by the march’s organizers, but knowing Vingi’s present mood, had declined the offer).

  But the former demonstrations didn’t have the Nean “riot” and the furor of the Assembly meeting the day before. These gnawed at Vingi’s thin tolerance for opposition. The guards had been sternly instructed to disperse and scatter any large gatherings before the Hall. Following those directions, they began walking slowly down the steps with their crowd-prods loose in their holders, but with a good-natured casualness designed to dispel any ill-feelings among the people.

  It didn’t work.

  The guards pushed into the front ranks, shouting in voices almost inaudible to the bulk of the crowd to move on, that all gatherings had been forbidden for the immediate future, and to lodge their complaints via the more officially correct channels. The guards weren’t gentle, nor were they particularly cruel—they were simply doing what they had been assigned to do. They pressed forward, and the amoebic crowd bent with the pressure, the people gathered at the contact point stepping backward into those behind them. The perimeter was moved back from the steps and then—forced by the wall of bodies behind them and the normal reaction of people hemmed into too small a space—stopped and pushed back against the guards. It became quickly and painfully obvious to those dutiful people that Vingi had overestimated the amount of co-operation they would receive, and that they should have called for disperser screens. It occurred to them that the aura of authority given them by their uniforms and guild-affiliation was a fragile thing and had deceived them into thinking themselves impervious to harm.

  And then, quite suddenly, they had no time for thinking.

  A guard went down (stumbled or pushed? It was a question that would remain unanswered when the incident was reviewed by the Li-Gallant) and the tone of the crowd-creature’s voice changed. The timbre became deeper, more threatening. The tall man with the plant-covered neck strode through the tumult around the downed guard. He bent down, struggled against some unseen adversary, and emerged with a hand grasping a crowd-prod. He waved the instrument high, and cheers greeted his gesture of victory. Those nearest the guards, encouraged, began actively resisting. The guards pulled prods from their holders, using them liberally. Screams of genuine pain lanced the general din. The situation degenerated.

  The focus of the disturbance wandered and swelled as members of various guilds found reason to fight with others. There was no single source—it was no longer even guards against the crowd, but an amalgamation of several small altercations with no definite boundaries. Combatants changed at whim.

  When the edges of the riot had spread to the shield-barrier skirting Port property, the Alliance Diplos were sent out from the Center. M’Dame d’Embry had watched the fighting after being pulled from a staff meeting by a harried aide. She quickly ordered her people to stop any possible destruction of Alliance property. If the locals wanted to fight, excellent, but no Alliance holding would be harmed. The Diplo security forces used tanglefeet bombs and gas to stop the fighting and began dragging the participants away from the central melee. By the time reinforcements arrived for Vingi’s harassed guards, the Diplos had settled the disturbance considerably. The Diplos withdrew back to the Center, leaving the job of caring for the wounded and arresting the appropriate number of guild-members to Vingi’s more interested hands.

  In time, the last remnants of the crowd had departed—walking or carted—and the area before the Hall was left to the wind, which idly toyed with scraps of paper. Bored guards, the new shift, lounged against the pillars of the Hall, staring with unfocused eyes at the birds foraging for crumbs on the steps. A few representatives, officious and hurried, nodded to the guards as they entered the doors.

  All in all, just another day.

  • • •

  The practice room of Underasgard was a long, meandering room of the caverns, wandering crookedly and lit primarily by two parallel strips of light-emitting fungi that receded—like a badly designed painting—in a shaky v of deep perspective. The muzzy, warm light from the fungi was heavily greenish. A few hoverlamps, filtered to compensate to some degree, were distributed around the room to offset the odd coloration. A moving person walked through varying shades and tints. Racks of practice weapons lined the walls, and if the choice of weaponry seemed antiquated, it was because the Thane felt that the art of epee, foil, and saber kept the Hoorka in better physical condition, and because the proliferation of shields against most projectile and beam weapons made the blades of the romantic eras once again useful. The floor of the cavern was softer and more resilient than the hard-packed seal of the living quarters. Sound dampeners dotted the ceiling at intervals. These were the most recent addition to the room, added because the din of mock fighting echoed terrifically through the caverns and disturbed the rest of any sleeping Hoorka.

  A good number of the kin could generally be found here, either practicing, watching, or gathered in the rest area at one end of the room. This day was no exception.

  The Thane, Valdisa, and Cranmer were standing near the central practice strip in a group of Hoorka that included Ric d’Mannberg. D’Mannberg had signed to use that strip for a long-vibro exercise. Aldhelm, who was to work with him, hadn’t yet arrived.

  Cranmer was carrying a camera—the tri-lensed apparatus of a portable holo. He adjusted a vernier, squinted into the eyepiece, and checked the room lighting. Somewhere inside the metal casing, a motor purred. Taking his eyes from the viewpiece, Cranmer stared critically at the lines marked on the floor of the cavern.

  “Someday you’re going to have to let me work against one of your apprentices,” he said.

  An undercurrent of laughter rippled through the Hoorka standing around him, dominated by d’Mannberg’s booming chuckle. A heavy, massive man with blond-red hair and a thick beard, he looked perhaps more ponderous than dangerous. It was a deceptive appearance.

  “Yah, laugh, you arrogant bastard.” Cranmer turned to d’Mannberg, a comically stern frown on his face and his light tone leaching any possible sting from his words. “We scholars have our own attributes. I’ve a lot less flesh to move around, for one.”

  Stepping forward, he poked a finger into d’Mannberg’s stomach. It was obvious by the sudden widening of his eyes that he was startled when
his finger was repulsed by strong muscles—the gray-black folds of the Hoorka uniform were barely dented.

  “You could always run between my legs and reach up, I suppose,” d’Mannberg retorted into Cranmer’s amazement. Cranmer’s lack of stature led to many—too many, to Cranmer’s view—comments about his shortness.

  Cranmer gazed at his ineffectual forefinger, then stared appraisingly at d’Mannberg. “I doubt that it would do much good. Nothing to hold on to.”

  D’Mannberg winced.

  “The scholar has a sting.”

  “At least I have something.” As the Hoorka laughed, Cranmer shook his head, a grin on his face. “You understand,” he observed at large, “it will be noted in my eventual paper that the Hoorka seem to find the crudest sort of humor appealing. Unsophisticated and rowdy, lacking taste and refinement, and indulging in gutter humor of the lowest variety. I can visualize a group of Hoorka sitting about the caverns, exchanging puns and sexual metaphors . . .”

  “One must have some type of social intercourse,” said Valdisa, smiling overmuch.

  “Sirrahs and dames, can we get our minds attuned to business?” the Thane broke in roughly. He tempered the reproof in his voice with a mock shaking of his head, but the joking conversations died. The Thane nodded toward the door leading to the Hoorka living quarters. “Aldhelm is coming.”

  Watching Aldhelm walk toward them, the Thane felt indecision hammering at him. The unresolved conflict of the contract night lay like a barrier between them through which only the most innocuous comments could pass, a pall of caution. How should I speak to him? What can dissolve that curtain? The questions remained unanswered.

  As Aldhelm came up to the group of Hoorka, he acknowledged the Thane’s presence with the barest salutation. “Thane, Valdisa; how are you?”

  As Valdisa said her hello, Aldhelm glanced about and noted Cranmer’s recording gear and the Hoorka waiting to see the practice bout. “An oddly popular exercise,” he said drily. “Are you ready, then, Ric?”

  “Definitely.” D’Mannberg stretched and grunted.

  Aldhelm and d’Mannberg stripped to the waist. As Aldhelm straightened and threw his tunic to the ground, the Thane caught his eye. The two locked gazes, nearly glaring, until Aldhelm shook his head with a rough motion and broke the contact. Spectators began moving away from the practice strip and the Thane felt Valdisa shift position until she stood next to him. Her hand touched his thigh with a light, accidental brush held a fraction of a second too long. Suddenly sensitive to such things, the Thane could feel her warmth along his right side as he watched Cranmer film the preliminaries. He started, hesitantly, to put his arm around her shoulders, then changed his mind. He brushed his hair back.

  Half-naked, Aldhelm was impressive: a wedge of a torso with sharply defined muscles and a firm abdomen. He moved as if he were all too well aware of his physical impression, striding carefully erect and with a certain equipoise that suggested he was expecting an assault from an unseen assailant. The Thane compared it mentally with his own self—that figure he examined critically and vainly in the mirror of his room. The Thane was beginning to lose the tone and vigor of his younger days, despite his constant exercising. No, he thought, in all honesty I don’t exercise as I once did. I can’t summon the same enthusiasm for it. He remembered a time when he would have been eager to face the challenge of an Aldhelm, but now . . . He shook the thought away.

  D’Mannberg and Aldhelm had exchanged their vibros, checking to see that each had been adjusted and locked to the practice setting. A half meter from the end of the grip to the tip, the long-vibro was a hybrid of sword and knife. Set correctly, they would sting but not cut. That was incentive enough to avoid being touched, for the welt it would leave behind was painful and slow to heal. Having checked the weapons, they returned them to each other and repeated the process: calibrate, twist the locking ring on the hilt until it clicked and moved forward, test against a fingertip—a mistake could easily cost flesh. D’Mannberg winced and shook his hand as the vibro slapped against his finger, eyes half-closed. The two Hoorka bowed to each other, and because the Thane was watching, to him. If the Thane noted that Aldhelm’s bow was less deep than d’Mannberg’s, he said nothing.

  The combatants began to cautiously circle each other, hands outspread, bare feet hushing against the floor. As they moved, the varied color of the lights swept over them, faint washes glazing the flesh tones: green-white, then a pale purple. From another strip on the far end of the room, steel rapiers could be heard clashing with a faint ringing, but still louder was the hard breathing of Aldhelm and d’Mannberg, the low thrumming of their vibros, and the slithering of their feet on the packed earth.

  D’Mannberg attacked first. A thick arm darted forward, quicker than one might have expected from the sheer mass it carried. Through a gauze of vermillion to decaying green: the vibros met with a protest of hissing rage and a few blue-white sparks that fell—a dying parabola—to the ground. Aldhelm quickly showed his superior strength. His parry combined with d’Mannberg’s forward momentum to throw the larger man off-balance. D’Mannberg barely missed being nicked as he stumbled and recovered. Cranmer, filming from the side nearest them, suddenly found himself too near the combat and quickly moved backward. Laughter from the watching Hoorka pursued him. D’Mannberg, his eyes on Aldhelm, smiled ruefully in response to the amusement, thinking it directed toward his clumsy attempt to pass Aldhelm’s guard. He shook his head in self-chastisement.

  Aldhelm’s grim expression never matched the light-hearted comments around him.

  The Hoorka thrust quickly, and d’Mannberg barely had time to bring his vibro up. Their weapons shrieked agony as Aldhelm’s free hand reached out and grasped d’Mannberg’s vibro hand at the wrist. He twisted, viciously, and with a yelp of pain and surprise, d’Mannberg dropped his blade. Aldhelm kicked it aside as d’Mannberg shook free of Aldhelm’s grip and backed away, holding the injured wrist.

  (Murmured approval from the watchers. Valdisa leaned close to the Thane and whispered “That was a good move. He’s quick, isn’t he?” The Thane grunted assent as she pressed his hand with her fingertips.)

  Sweat was beginning to bead on Aldhelm’s skin. On his shoulders, the fungi-lights glistened wetly. D’Mannberg, his face radiating his disgust at being so easily caught, expelled an irritated breath and reached down casually for his fallen vibro. Aldhelm, a step away, thrust at the exposed chest, and the tip of the vibro touched d’Mannberg just below the ribcage. The slap of vibro against flesh was loud in the caverns and d’Mannberg, shocked, bellowed his hurt. His fingers closed on air short of the vibro hilt; he rolled to the ground and kicked out with his legs. His left foot struck the forearm of Aldhelm’s vibro arm. The weapon shivered and nearly dropped before Aldhelm could grasp it firmly again. His hand chopped at Aldhelm’s leg, missing by millimeters.

  “Aldhelm!” The admonishment came unbidden from the Thane, startling everyone—including himself—with its vehemence. The Hoorka-kin standing about added their own vague protest at Aldhelm’s seeming disregard for practice etiquette. It was well and good to use any advantage when seriously threatened, but in practice the adversary had the right to recover a dropped weapon unless such a rule was stated beforehand. It saved people from unnecessary hurt. Aldhelm seemed too serious, too intent on showing his prowess and humbling d’Mannberg. And it’s my fault. “Damn,” said the Thane aloud.

  The Thane’s shout had turned Aldhelm, and in that moment d’Mannberg regained his footing. Shouting his anger, he rushed Aldhelm, getting his burly arms about the Hoorka’s shoulders and bearing the smaller man down with sheer weight. On his knees, Aldhelm half-turned in d’Mannberg’s hold and freed his vibro, bringing it around until it touched d’Mannberg’s bicep. A yelp of pain: involuntary moisture filled d’Mannberg’s eyes. He held on with desperation, but his grip had been weakened, allowing Aldhelm to turn to face him. Aldhelm lashed out with knee and vibro. His leg struck hard at d’Mannberg’s thi
ck waist, and d’Mannberg fought for breath, backing away from the threatening vibro. Sweat, rainbow-hued, rained on the floor. The hair of both men was matted to their heads, dark with moisture. D’Mannberg started forward to attack again, but his feet slid on the slick floor; in that instant, Aldhelm thrust his vibro and touched d’Mannberg’s massive chest. D’Mannberg gulped for air, his eyes wide and pained. He flailed at Aldhelm, and this time struck his wrist— Aldhelm’s vibro skidded across the strip. D’Mannberg struggled to rise and pursue his advantage.

  A hand caught at Aldhelm’s shoulder from behind as he reached for his fallen weapon, slipping once on the sweat and then gripping tightly. Aldhelm shook off the restraint with a violent motion and spun on his toes to face his new attacker—the Thane. Anger etched the lines of the older man’s face even deeper. His lips were drawn back slightly from his teeth and his body was braced, the legs spread.

  “Enough, Aldhelm.” His voice lashed at the man. “You’ve managed to make your point, whatever it was supposed to be. Do you mind telling me what you’re trying to prove that’s worth a kin’s pain?”

  Aldhelm’s vibro was held at his side, still activated. He stared at the Thane, a berserker rage in his eyes—dilated pupils, eyelids drawn far back. He blinked once, then again, and suddenly seemed to recognize the Hoorka ruler. His voice was almost too normal, too calm and even. “I’m a competent fighter, Thane—that’s all I wished to show my kin. They needn’t treat me as a nouveau or an apprentice.”

  “And you feel a need to demonstrate that? I’ll admit it here before the rest of Hoorka, if it eases your childish temper. Or do you wish me to call a general meeting and stand up before the kin to say ‘Aldhelm can fight, if he sometimes forgets to think’?” The Thane tapped a forefinger to his temple.

  With the last words, Aldhelm’s face moved as if struck. His hands clenched the vibro hilt convulsively.