Assassins' Dawn

by Stephen Leigh

  He didn’t encourage her. He didn’t resist.

  Valdisa kissed his mouth, but his lips were unpliant; she could feel his muscles stiffen. Then, as suddenly, he relaxed, the tension sloughing from his body. His arms came around her, and he sigh-groaned as she clasped him. Her fingers searched for the fastener to her tunic, found it, and tugged.

  Cloth fell away with a whisper.

  His hands cupped her breasts, circled one nipple with a forefinger, and then felt the smoothness of her back. The Thane sighed. “I’ve missed you,” he said in a harsh whisper. “I wouldn’t let myself admit it, but I knew it inside.”

  “I would have come. Any time.” Her voice was soft in his ear, and her hands roamed his body.

  “I know. I don’t know why—”

  Valdisa stopped his voice with her mouth.

  Chapter 9

  TRI-GUILD CHURCH threw sharp-spiked shadows across the pavement of Market Square. The palpable darkness shivered as the crowds moved through it and lifted its borders onto their shoulders. Its keen edges and protrusions should have caught and impaled those walking below, but the best the shadows could do was impart a temporary chill, a premonition of unguessed doom.

  McWilms entered the shade and immediately missed the sunstar—it was a chilly morning prescient with impending winter and snow. Though the sunstar lent a psychic warmth to the air, it seemed unable to warm the earth with its distant fires. Even the Hoorka uniform (with the red sleeve that signified his apprentice status: that would be gone soon, McWilms hoped) could only blunt the cutting edge of the cool wind. McWilms glanced at the spires of the church and shivered unreligiously. It was a massive building, ornate with flowering spires and graceless arches—he would be in its shadow for some minutes before entering the realm of the sunstar again. He cursed the builders for having chosen such an inconvenient site for their place of worship, then as abruptly asked She of the Five to protect him from his blasphemy.

  McWilms did not mind hedging his skepticisms.

  He moved through a welter of people, accepting the open area that seemed to move with him as part of the deference due him as a Hoorka. He had to admit that such things were aspects of being a Hoorka that thrilled him: the sense of grudging respect that other kin gave him, even as an apprentice. A young man with kin, such as himself, would under normal circumstances have far less status in Neweden society. But he was Hoorka, however lowly in that guild, and the fear of the Hoorka extended even to him. He had, now and again, deliberately sought out the more crowded streets of Sterka just to feel the aura of power that surrounded him; he would watch the people step—grudgingly—from his path. Fear laced with loathing would congeal their faces. It was . . . pleasant.

  Today was the height of autumn’s Market Days, when the outlying farming guilds brought in their harvested bounty. The streams of people that normally used the square each day was doubled and trebled, swelled into rivers, joined into seas. The noise grew as the Days went on and buyers attempted to wheedle prices from impassive and unsympathetic growers. Modified chaos: Neweden locals found the Days to be pleasant diversions in their lives, offworlders shook their heads and mumbled—inaudibly—comments concerning backward societies and their engaging oddities.

  McWilms, after broaching church-shadow and entering the morning sun once more, found the truth to be somewhere between the two poles. He had been sent on an errand by the Hoorka in charge of the kitchens, and could not tarry overlong to enjoy the sights for fear of that master’s justifiably-famous wrath. McWilms found a fishmonger’s stall and watched the haggling. He pretended not to notice that he stood in an anomaly: a small open space all his own.

  Behind a counter stocked with frozen sea creatures, the monger was arguing vehemently with a woman concerning the quality of a spiny puffindle that, admittedly, appeared undernourished. The monger quoted a price; the woman, in a greenish pearl wrap, snorted derision. She offered the man half that price, prodding the puffindle’s side with a forefinger to make her point. Vapor from the cooling circuits in the counter swirled between them.

  McWilms stepped closer, shouldering through the crowd with less courtesy than the guild etiquette required and watching as anger turned to carefully-masked irritation on their faces. People moved away with controlled distaste; the monger looked up from behind his stall. His features revolved through an interesting gamut of emotions: anger at being interrupted during a sale, quick shock at seeing the young man was a Hoorka, and finally a gelid shielding of all facial contortions that left his face blandly amiable. He stepped back and to one side, wiping his hands nervously on his stained pants; he ignored the woman, who glanced at the Hoorka apprentice, shut her mouth sullenly, then went back to prodding the cold scales of the puffindle as if trying to awaken the fish from liquid dreams.

  “What can I do for you, young sirrah?” The monger’s voice was deferential, but everything about him, from the skittish eyes to the tapping fingers to the manner in which he stood under his slickcloth awning, spoke of impatience, or possibly unwillingness to deal with Hoorka.

  An older Hoorka might have been amused or angry in turn with the man’s attitude, but McWilms was unused to the subtleties in other kin’s reactions to Hoorka. He didn’t notice. He smiled.

  “I’d like to buy all of your stock for my kin.”

  Eyebrows sought new heights on the monger’s forehead, then clambered down once more. He closed his eyes in thought. “For my entire selection? I’d have to charge you 150C. And that’s a fine price, too.”

  “For whom, sirrah? You? I didn’t ask you to empty the oceans. I can offer you 75C.” The Hoorka master Felling had given him 120C, but had threatened to double McWilms’s work load if he came back with less than 15C of that amount. The master was known for his gruff manner and gentle ways, but McWilms intended to take no chance on his good humor.

  The monger looked pained at the offer. (And behind and around him, McWilms could hear the mildest undercurrent of speech as the kin around him realized that the Hoorka intended to buy all of this monger’s stock. The woman next to the apprentice stopped examining the puffindle to watch.)

  “75C wouldn’t pay my transportation costs here, much less the rest of my expenses. Sterka is an expensive city in which to stay during Market Days, sirrah.”

  “Other people are selling here.” McWilms indicated the gaily-colored stalls around the square. “I could see if perhaps their overhead is lower than yours.”

  The monger cogitated. “For the Hoorka—a fine guild—I could go, perhaps, to 125C.”

  Too slowly, Mc Wilms started to turn away. The people crowded near him stepped back into those behind them, startled.

  “100C, then,” the monger called out.

  Mc Wilms stopped and turned around. “You’d deliver it to Underasgard?” he said over his shoulder, still poised to leave.

  The pained look returned to the monger’s face.

  McWilms, hearing nothing, started to move away once more.

  “I’ll deliver, sirrah. For 105C.”

  McWilms stepped back to the counter. “That sounds acceptable,” he said. The two finalized the arrangements and tabulated the fish the monger had brought. Scrip changed hands; as it did, people began moving away from the stall, going off to search for other mongers as it became obvious that the Hoorka deal had been completed. The pique on their faces was evident. Finally, McWilms put his purse back under his cloak and moved back into the crowds, walking in his inviolate space.

  He went from the temporary stalls of the various mongers toward the street emptying into the square from the north, its taverns and small guildshops attracting a large share of the revelers. He had time, since he had completed his task earlier than Felling could have expected, and the sights were intriguing to a boy whose true family had lived in a rural district of Illi. Events moved at a quicker pace here in Sterka, and as a Hoorka-kin, he had the added thrill of fear/respect. The wares of the Market Days shouted for his attention. He could see, on a
shop ledge protruding out into the walkways, a selection of offworld items imported by Alliance traders, a meatfruit ball with its scaly, yellowish rind, a pile of Bosich exoskeletons (spiked and brilliantly colored). The sculptor’s guild had opened the doors to the studio adjoining the street; inside he saw apprentices polishing a huge lifianstone sculpture partially hidden in shadow—it seemed to be two men locked in a fervent embrace; one thin, the other stocky—and he heard the soft tchunk of a chisel striking the soft stone. From somewhere ahead, the breeze brought the yeasty aroma of bread, a free advertisement for a bakery. Sights, sounds, smells: Sterka abounded in them during Market Days. McWilms reveled in the sensory surfeit.

  (Yet he hadn’t noticed the person who watched his movements through the crowds. The man was dressed in the uniform of a guilded kin—a belt with a holographic buckle adorned his waist, but the hologram was shattered and the guild insignia that should have been visible was lost in a welter of varied images and depths—and the uniform was not of any familiar guild in Sterka. Not that this in itself was unusual during Market Days; travelers filled the city. The man received no second glances. A person, noting him, might think he came from the far south, for certainly no nearby guilds used such odd boot fasteners on their pants. That was as he wished it. As McWilms walked past him, the man abandoned his post by the silversmith shop and plunged into the crowd after the apprentice.)

  McWilms was absorbed in the bustling of the Days. The sunstar spilled its warmth into the street as it hauled itself toward the tenuous pinnacle of the zenith. The apprentice had no mind for strife, and trusted the Hoorka-fear to keep others from hindering him. So he was unprepared to see a man suddenly stumble into the pocket of open space around him.

  McWilms caught a brief, dizzy glimpse of blue-green eyes, clutching hands, and a broken holobuckle at the man’s waist. Stubby fingers grasped at his clothing—heavily—and a booted foot caught his shins. McWilms stumbled backward, falling to the ground as the man caught his balance and plunged back into the crowded street. McWilms cursed and got to his feet (around him, he saw open smiles and—judiciously distant—a snickering from some onlooker). It was too late. The man was gone and the people standing around him were too closely packed to easily pursue the man. The apprentice dusted off his clothing, trying vainly to collect the shards of his wounded pride. He straightened his clothing where the man’s fingers had clawed at him. Paper crackled under his belt.

  McWilms pulled an envelope from where it had been stuffed between belt and uniform. He stared at it.

  It was addressed, in a spidery hand, to the Thane.

  • • •

  “You’ve both seen the note. I’d like your thoughts on it.”

  The Thane looked at Aldhelm and Valdisa, seated in floaters in the Thane’s room. Aldhelm held the slip of paper in his hand. He looked down at it, his eyes scanning the words once more, and shook his head.

  “So Gunnar would like to meet you privately,” he said. “I don’t care for the idea, Thane. No matter that he says he has information that might interest us. You can’t go to see him or have him come to Underasgard. Vingi wouldn’t hesitate to consider that as more circumstantial evidence against us, and he’d drag us before the Assembly on a charge of illegal conspiracy. He couldn’t win, of course, but the residual damage that the charge might do to Hoorka . . .” He shook his head again and held the note out to the Thane, who reached forward to take it from him. “We can’t afford this, Thane. And believe me, Gunnar will be trying to extract a price. He’s no better or more altruistic a man than the Li-Gallant.”

  “You’re not at all curious about this ‘substantial offer for the good of Hoorka’ or”—his fingers scratched along the paper—“‘information which may have the greatest import for you’?”

  “I’m admittedly curious, Thane, but not enough to wish to compromise Hoorka,” Aldhelm replied. “There are higher allegiances than curiosity.”

  The answer disturbed the Thane. He’d asked Aldhelm and Valdisa to come to his rooms, thinking that perhaps by taking Aldhelm into his confidence he could bridge some of the growing rift between them—and because he knew that Valdisa would understand that ploy and aid him. By the code, the Hoorka-thane was not bound to take advice from any other Hoorka unless he should call a full Council meeting. But advice was helpful—even if he had, for the most part, made his decision. If it would help the uneasy relationship between Aldhelm and himself, so much the better.

  Except that it wouldn’t work.

  Aldhelm seemed only mildly concerned with Gunnar’s sudden interest in the Hoorka, and was evidently disinclined to investigate this offer of his. But the Thane wished to know what prompted it. The challenge of the note tugged at him, as he knew Gunnar had intended it to do. It was full of enigmatic terseness.

  No, he wouldn’t let it endanger Hoorka, if that’s what it came to; yes, Aldhelm was right about Vingi’s probable reaction to any meeting between the two guild-heads. It would be a powerful alliance, that of the Hoorka and Gunnar’s Ruling Guild. Vingi would be forced to deplete much of his resources and capital to defeat them should they join in actual treaty. Neweden might see a guild war to rival the Great Feud of the last century. If the Thane hadn’t the vision of an offworld Hoorka-guild, hadn’t the goal of making the assassins something more than a planetbound curiosity, it would be tempting.

  Perhaps too tempting.

  The possibilities were not attractive.

  “I was thinking of possibly arranging the meeting, nonetheless,” the Thane said. Aldhelm’s face clouded over with the words; Valdisa, sitting cross-legged in her floater, tilted her head in surprise. The Thane hurried to continue.

  “I’ve no intention of actually dealing with the man. I simply wish to know more about this proposal. And I’m most interested in knowing what information he claims to possess that would make us consider such a rash move as to consider a proposal from his guild. The information—it might be important to Hoorka.”

  “But most likely not,” said Valdisa. She unlaced her legs and stretched them, folding her hands on her lap. The Thane could read those movements—she always tried to appear relaxed when her thoughts were actually in turmoil. It could fool those who knew her casually, but it worried the Thane. “I don’t know if it’s worth the risk, Thane. It’s Gunnar that Vingi would prefer to eliminate, not Hoorka. If we can avoid angering the Li-Gallant any further, he’ll leave us in peace. We’ve done nothing to anger him before now, despite his damned paranoia.”

  Aldhelm had turned to look at Valdisa as she spoke. Now he glanced back at the Thane, nodding his agreement. “M’Dame is right, Thane. Let Gunnar wonder why we failed to answer his note. And salve your curiosity with your kin.”

  So we must disagree again. Perhaps I should give in . . . “I have to disagree with the two of you on one point. Vingi does consider us a threat to his guild, if only because—now that the possibility has occurred to him—we will always be a potential enemy for his rivals to ally with. It was through us that Gunnar escaped”—with those words, Aldhelm’s eyes narrowed—“and just his suspicions are enough. He would like to see us unguilded and hunted down like lassari criminals.”

  “Does that mean that you intend to see Gunnar?” Aldhelm shifted his weight in the floater, a preamble to rising.

  I should give in. Their stand makes as much sense as mine. The Thane nodded in mute acknowledgment. He waited for angry words, for violent disagreement.

  Nothing.

  Aldhelm rose slowly from his floater. A finger ran idly from forehead to the tip of his nose, then finally curled around his chin. He stood, stretching. “I still think it unnecessary and possibly dangerous to Hoorka. But I don’t think I can change your mind, Thane. At least I haven’t been too successful at that recently. I trust you have the good sense to avoid the meeting being made public—that’s the primary danger.”

  “I intend to take precautions.” Is it going to be this easy?

  Aldhelm shrugged. “T
hen there’s nothing more to say. I hope you dredge the information from the man. Good day, Thane, Valdisa.” He left the room, walking slowly. The door closed behind him with a sibilant hissing.

  The Thane glanced at Valdisa, catching her profile as she looked at the door. She must have felt his eyes upon her, for she spoke without looking at the Thane.

  “He’s right. You know it, don’t you? The potential doesn’t match the danger involved.”

  “I don’t agree,” he said, more stiffly and formally than he’d intended. It hurt her visibly, and he cursed his social clumsiness.

  “Then, as Aldhelm said, there’s nothing more I can say.”

  “Valdisa, I’m sorry. I swear to She of the Five I am. I don’t mean to trod all over your feelings.”

  “You never do. That’s the problem.”

  She wouldn’t smile.

  • • •

  The Thane had never met Gunnar before but had seen him—as had all Neweden—any number of times on Assembly holocasts. For all that, he had been prepared to see some vague difference in the man, some masked dichotomy between the image and the reality. Gunnar looked neither taller nor shorter, thinner nor more rotund than he did in the holotanks. He had the same affably neutral half-smile, the unsteady doe eyes, the bluffly handsome features and well-tended body of the holo-Gunnar. There was nothing about him to shock the senses and make the Thane realize that the man he was facing was alive and not simply another random arrangement of light and shade beamed in the holotank at Underasgard.

  Their meeting seemed to be a clandestine cliché. They met in one of the narrow and dark alleys of the Dasta Borough of Sterka, a section of the city inhabited largely by lassari. The Thane had eschewed his Hoorka uniform, choosing instead a cloaked outfit of some silky material that felt strangely cool against his skin. Gunnar, waiting for them, was muffled in a dull wrap that twisted and knotted in an indecipherable pattern around his body. The Thane wondered how—if he ever removed the clothing—he would put it back on.