Assassins' Dawn

by Stephen Leigh

  She could see that her words hurt him. He closed his eyes, as if to deny her existence, but the words still bludgeoned him. With an abrupt movement, a grunt of effort, he sat on the edge of the bedfield. He made a conscious effort to pull his stomach taut, and the unbidden vanity made him angry with himself and, more, disturbed that it was necessary.

  “Valdisa,” he said. “I think—”

  She glanced toward him, her trousers halfway up her thighs, hiding the mottled bruise. She stopped, glaring at him. “You’re getting flabby, Gyll. Your muscle tone is deteriorating, and you don’t seem to care. You move about as if half somewhere else. You spend too much time inside your head. What’s the matter with you?”

  He ignored her. “This all started playfully, Valdisa. We were joking with one another, laughing. I didn’t mean to hurt you, and I didn’t want us to start sniping at one another.”

  “It was you as much as me.”

  “I’m sorry for that.” He ventured a half-smile. Please, let’s forget this. I don’t want to think about it—it haunts me too much already. “You don’t have to leave yet. And besides, these are your chambers. I should be the one to depart, tossed aside.” He rubbed the gray fur of his chest with one hand. He lowered his head, looking at Valdisa from under the ridges of his eyes. “I’d like you to stay.” Softly.

  Valdisa shook her head, eyes closed and head raised. She inhaled deeply, through her nose, then let the air escape in a slow sigh. She stood, the pants falling to the ground around her ankles. She kicked them aside, pulling the tunic over her head once more.

  “Do I have an apology, Gyll?” She waited by the floater, hands on hips, just out of his reach. Her nakedness taunted him: the darkness between her thighs, the gold-brown areolas of boyish breasts.

  “I never meant to hurt you—and I’m always sorry when I do.”

  “You bastard,” she said. But there was a hint of a smile. She came to him; her lips on his, her tongue thrusting into his mouth, and her hands moving low on his body. Gyll tried to respond, but the argument, the recent lovemaking, his tiredness: all defeated him. Valdisa finally rolled away from him, and he reached out to touch her, beginning another apology.

  The bell to the room’s holotank chimed, a soft insistence. “Damn,” Gyll said. Valdisa gave him a glance he could not decipher, then called out loudly into the darkened room. “Yah?”

  “Thane Valdisa?”

  “Speaking.”

  “This is McWilms. I was listening to a holocast from Sterka. There’s news you should hear.”

  Valdisa sat, leaving Gyll’s side suddenly cold. “I’m listening. What is it, McWilms?”

  McWilms said it very simply, and its implications were more intense for the simplicity. “Gunnar’s been killed.”

  Chapter 3

  TWO ROOMS, a study in contrasts . . .

  . . . Gyll’s room, in the labyrinth of Underasgard, was a bare cavern, the walls unadorned dry rock—brown-gray with runneled streaks of some orangish mineral. His few furnishings were scattered about it in no discernible pattern: a bedfield, a floater sitting before a small metal desk at an oblique angle to the wall, a privacy screen in one corner that hid his rack of clothing, and a small wooden table on which sat a cage. The cage shimmered—scarlet lines indicating the perimeters of the field that enclosed a small animal. Gyll stood before the cage, looking down at the bumblewort. It mewled up to him with its small, triangular head and limped to the side of the cage, the large soft pads of its feet still cracked and lined with dark brown—dried blood where the rocks of the hills had torn its tender, unprotected skin. The fur on its soft shell was matted and dull. The wort moved slowly, breathing too quickly, illness showing in its dull gray eyes and the cough as it stopped—half-falling—to sit and stare up at him. Gyll shook his head, reaching down to scratch behind the large oval ears. The wort had been moving better yesterday.

  “Why don’t you get over this?” he asked it softly, with just the slightest hint of an echo from the bare walls. “If you want to die, you little bastard, you’re going to have to do it yourself. I won’t help you.”

  He stood there for long minutes, staring down at the wort without seeing it, petting the animal absently.

  . . . Vingi’s room echoed wealth. It was large, the walls soft and pliant with hangings that varied their patterns, the warp and woof fluid. His long desk dominated the room, placed carefully where a visitor would see it first. Its high polish mirrored the room in reverse. Only the inset screens of the Li-Gallant’s com-link interrupted that brilliance: no papers cluttered the surface, no stray verticals stopped the eye. The shape of the room—a parallelogram—the arrangement of the furniture, even the programmed movements of the hangings, all channeled the gaze to the Li-Gallant.

  He sat and watched his com-link, a wash of green from the unit casting its hue over his face, illuminating it from beneath. Vingi grinned his corpulent grin. The screen flickered with the evening’s news bulletins, all full of Gunnar’s death and its import to Neweden.

  The Li-Gallant sighed, sinking back into the pliant grasp of his floater. “Nisa,” he said.

  The light from the ’link went green to blue. “Li-Gallant?”

  “Have the kitchens send me a small glass of brandy—the bottle of Neasonier from Longago.”

  “As you wish.”

  “And make damned sure the lackey doesn’t sample it himself. Tell him I know the level of that bottle and I expect to find it lower only by my glassful. Have him bring it immediately. Off.”

  The glow from the ’link died. The Li-Gallant put thick hands behind his head. He closed his eyes.

  • • •

  Gyll was both hot and uncomfortable. The Hoorka had gathered in the cavern they used for meetings, and the coolness of Underasgard was tempered by the warmth of their bodies. The nightcloak Gyll wore chafed his neck. He cursed the impulse that had caused him to choose the new one over the bedraggled but soft old cloak. Nor could he seem to find a comfortable position in his chair. Even the mead set before him by a dutiful apprentice was warmer than he liked it. Gyll wanted nothing more than the oblivious comfort of sleep.

  It didn’t appear that sleep was something he would gain soon.

  The Hoorka had been called together by Thane Valdisa. The several elders of the guild sat around a battered wooden table marred with the rings of forgotten drinks. Hoverlamps threw erratic shadows over them. In one corner, Cranmer fiddled with his recording gear, a look of dissatisfied ire on his thin face. The rest of the guild-kin sat on the broken rock around the room, making themselves as comfortable as they could. Around Gyll, a score of unrelated conversations fought each other. He shook his head but could not blame them—the news had caused a flurry of speculation.

  Only Aldhelm seemed solemnly quiet. Unlike the others, seated in rude chairs around the table or slouched about the room, he stood against the rock wall of the entrance, his light eyes glancing from one to the other but always seeming to avoid Gyll. His long arms were crossed before his chest, the taut muscles of his forearms standing out in high relief. A gloomy air hung about him, a pall that ignored the brightness of the hoverlamps.

  Thane Valdisa entered last. She nodded to Aldhelm as she entered and strode quickly to her seat at the head of the table—with a smile to Gyll in the process. She waited for the talk to quiet.

  “I won’t bother with normal procedure here,” she said when all faces had turned toward her. “We all have heard the news by now, and Gunnar’s death may have problems for Hoorka, if it has the import I believe it will have.” She swept her nightcloak over one shoulder, moving in her seat. Her forehead was glossed with perspiration. Simply the walk, or is she that nervous? Gyll wondered. “I’ll let Aldhelm speak now, as he’s been in Sterka and has felt the mood there.”

  Valdisa waved a hand to Aldhelm, who pushed himself from the wall with his shoulders. His hands dropped to his sides. “It’s simple enough, Thane,” he said. “I heard the news while in the city, and I
stayed there long enough to find out what I could, since it seemed to be important to Hoorka.” He paused. Gyll saw his hands clench once, then relax. “I’ll tell you what little I’ve garnered. Gunnar was killed by an unknown assailant. The weapon was, by the description I’ve heard, probably a render. He or she was also very good—from what I was told, the butler posts around Gunnar’s grounds did not sound an intrusion alarm, nor did their equipment have any image of the assassin. There have been no bloodfeuds filed against Gunnar or his guild, and he wasn’t given a chance to defend himself honorably. It was a shameful murder. And the rumors have already begun. One of them in particular worries me. It’s not a pleasant thought, my kin, but the speculations include the Hoorka.”

  From the table, the deep voice of d’Mannberg dominated the room. “That only makes sense, since the Hoorka failed twice in the contracts with Gunnar. What did you expect them to think, man?”

  Aldhelm’s face went stony, his jaw clenching, the scar light on his cheek. When he replied, his voice was cool with careful politeness. “What I think isn’t important here. I’m concerned with what these rumors mean for us.”

  Valdisa spoke. “What do they say, Aldhelm?” Her fingertips drummed the tabletop, an impatient rhythm.

  He spread his hands wide. “I heard it said that the Hoorka were embarrassed by Gunnar’s double escape and that to redeem our gods’ favor, we killed Gunnar. And it was also whispered that perhaps we had done this to regain favor with the Li-Gallant.”

  Gyll shook his head. “No,” he said. “I can’t believe Neweden would believe such a thing. The Hoorka code is our shield, and we’ve never been accused of breaking it—if anyone believes we’d abandon it, how are they to place trust in Hoorka?”

  Aldhelm shrugged. “Maybe they don’t. Maybe we don’t give them enough reason to trust us, and give too much leeway to Dame Fate in our contracts.”

  “If we guaranteed success, we’d be no better than common lassari. I made the code to give us kinship, Aldhelm.”

  “Gunnar is not the only failed contract we’ve had recently, Ulthane Gyll. You”—with just the faintest emphasis on the word—“should be aware of that.”

  A frigid rage stabbed through Gyll’s composure. The hand went unbidden to his vibrohilt while the other grasped the arm of his chair with knuckles gone white. You’re a failed kin. Three times; not the victim’s doing, but your own incompetence. His own guilt echoed Aldhelm’s words, amplifying them and feeding his anger. He spat out his words. “We’ve had this argument before, Aldhelm, when I was Thane. We’re not mere assassins—we’re instruments in the hands of Dame Fate. Anyone can kill, anyone can do the dishonorable and hire a lassari to do the cowardly deed. We give the option of death with honor to both victim and signer. Some must escape, those lucky or fit enough to survive. It will stay that way.”

  Aldhelm stared down at Gyll, looking significantly at the Ulthane’s knife hand. “Survival cuts both ways, Ulthane Gyll. Sometimes to survive, one must change. I’m not afraid of change, and I suspect that the Li-Gallant will now be less likely to harass us.”

  “We do not change, Aldhelm!” Gyll shouted.

  “Kin-brothers, please . . .” Valdisa began to speak, softly, but Gyll interrupted her.

  “I’ll not have the Hoorka a guild that alters itself at a whim. By all the gods, I’ve finally got us offworld, made d’Embry and her damned Alliance acknowledge us.”

  “Be silent!” Valdisa pushed herself away from the table with her hands, standing abruptly. Her chair overturned behind her—the clatter of wood on rock was loud in the cavern. “Children,” she hissed, her eyes narrowed, “the Hoorka have more important business to discuss than your Hag-damned differences. The practice floor is open—afterward—for a duel, if that’s the only satisfaction the two of you will take. But, by She of the Five, we’ll keep this discussion germane to Gunnar’s death or I’ll have both of you doing apprentice work tomorrow. Gyll, I am Thane. Remember that, and let me run this meeting.”

  Silence. Before her anger-sparked gaze, both Gyll and Aldhelm bowed, first to Thane Valdisa, then, with a certain stiffness, to each other.

  “Better,” Valdisa said. “Better.” Behind her, an apprentice moved from the shadows to pick up her chair from the ground and replace it at the table. Valdisa sat, her hands folded in front of her. “Aldhelm, what’s the mood in Sterka?”

  Gyll watched, still angry, as Aldhelm strode to the end of the long table and leaned down, supporting himself, his fists on the rough top. “Bad. Confused. Angry. Very ugly for Hoorka. I could feel the hostility and hear the murmuring behind my back. I stopped in at a tavern to hear more, and only hesitantly did I get served, with the barest politeness due to a guilded kin.”

  “Were you threatened?”

  A look of scorn. “Not by the barkeep. The guilded kin won’t risk a bloodfeud with Hoorka, not yet. And lassari give me a wide berth.”

  Valdisa frowned. “I’d remind you that Eorl was Hoorka, and lassari killed him, neh?” She cocked her head in question, one eyebrow raised.

  Aldhelm straightened, his nightcloak falling around his body. He nodded to Valdisa. “You’ve made your point, Thane. Forgive me for my presumption.”

  Gyll watched as Aldhelm went back to his station by the entrance, his movements precise and easy. Is that why we could never stay close? He’s so stoic, so graceful, so confident and self-assured—what I’ve always pretended to be. Is it envy that causes me to dislike him, or is he truly as dangerous to Hoorka as I think?

  From farther down the table, another of the Hoorka—Sartas— spoke. “My bet is that the Li-Gallant is ultimately responsible for this. That man’s a shameless coward, a disgrace to guilded kin.” A murmur of agreement came from the others. “Who has better reason to want Gunnar dead?”

  “I don’t know that even the Li-Gallant would be that foolish, Sartas,” Valdisa said.

  Gyll nodded his agreement. “Gunnar’s rule-guild may well benefit from Gunnar’s death in this matter, Thane. I don’t credit the Li-Gallant with great intelligence, but he has the craftiness and the sense to have kept most of his power for years. He wouldn’t undermine his own position. It’s possible, I suppose, but . . .”

  Sartas drank from the mug in front of him. Then he thumped the drink back down. “Still, you have to admit that Gunnar’s death would give him great pleasure. He’s attempted this three times before, twice with us and once on his own. Vingi wanted Gunnar dead.” His long olive-tan face turned from Gyll to Valdisa.

  Gyll shook his head. He glanced back at Aldhelm. The man stood, leaning back against the wall, arms akimbo under his cloak and his attention on Gyll. Yet—Gyll didn’t know why, perhaps something in the man’s easy stance, his seeming nonchalance—the glimmering of a faint suspicion came to Gyll: it had been Aldhelm who had advocated the alteration of the code during the last contract on Gunnar, and it had been on that contract that Aldhelm and Gyll had experienced the filial confrontation which had driven a wedge between their friendship. And it had been Aldhelm that had failed in that first contract— and he had felt Gyll’s knife for that failure. Aldhelm was a good assassin, good enough to have evaded any safeguards that Gunnar could have set around his guildhouse.

  Gyll remembered the pack Aldhelm had when he’d gone out the night before. It was easily large enough to have held a render, and there was one in the Hoorka armory.

  No, you old fool, you’re letting your paranoia and dislike play games with your common sense. Surely Aldhelm wouldn’t do such a thing. But he fell silent, and he looked at Aldhelm with a new intensity.

  Valdisa had begun speaking during his musings. “ . . . This is all the more reason to continue with the ruling made last meeting. No kin will go into Sterka without my knowledge and permission. And you might do well to be sure that you have a companion, since all the attacks have been on lone Hoorka. You’re all well trained, but training means nothing to ambush or overwhelming numbers.” Valdisa glanced at Aldhelm. “We kee
p the code strictly. We perform as we’re supposed to. And we should make every attempt to do well—that would do the most to allay suspicions.” She waited; a breath. Someone coughed in shadow. Cloth rustled against stone.

  “We have a contract for tonight,” she continued. Gyll, torn from his inward contemplation, sat up sharply: he was next in the rotation. “It will begin, at least, in Sterka, so Vingi and those that speak against Hoorka will be watching. I can’t stress its importance enough, in light of what Aldhelm has told us.”

  Gyll knew that she was well aware of the rotation schedule, but she would not look at him. He fidgeted, wondering why she wouldn’t meet his eyes.

  “Who works tonight?” d’Mannberg asked.

  “I.” Sartas, from his seat, his dark eyes alight.

  “And I,” Gyll said softly.

  “Ulthane Gyll.” Valdisa turned to him now, one hand stroking her forehead as if in concentration. Her hand threw deep shadows over her eyes. “I have need of someone to meet Kaethe Oldin tonight. The woman owes us payment for last night’s contract. I’d like you to go. She’s an offworlder and of the Families, and I’d like to represent us with someone more than an apprentice.” She spoke too hurriedly, as if anticipating his anger.

  There was silence when she finished. Gyll looked down at his mug, his hands around it, the fingers stroking the ceramic smoothness. “I work tonight, Thane,” he said. His voice was low, his eyes still fixed on the mug. He waited. Don’t force this, Valdisa.

  “Gyll,” she began.

  He broke in, glaring at her. “Thane, don’t say it. I will work tonight.”

  She did not look away. Her words were suddenly cold with distance. “I’ll consider your feelings, Ulthane.”

  He allowed himself to relax slightly. “I thank you for that.”

  “Beyond that, I make no promises.”

  That was all she would say.

  • • •

  The radiance of a captured sun blazed about her, cloaking her naked body in bronze. She stretched out her arms to embrace the glow, basking in its warmth and feeling it, a thousand fingers, on her skin. She sighed, she squirmed in immodest delight.