“You keep using that and your skin’ll look like a lizard’s.”
Kaethe laughed from within her bath of light. She reached out and touched one of the four metallic posts that surrounded her. The throbbing aura began to die as the posts receded into the carpeting of the floor. “You’re too sour, Helgin. You make up in foulness what you lack in height.”
“Wisdom from the bitch?” Helgin, a Motsognir Dwarf, scowled up at Oldin, staring at her with eyes the color of smoke, his gaze unremittingly critical as it moved from crown to feet. She endured his inspection, smiling. “You’re ten kilos too fat for Neweden—if you didn’t choose your clothes carefully, you’d never get a second glance. And the Battier Radiance hasn’t made a damned bit of difference. It’s a passing fad for the stupid and gullible. That skin’s destined to get old just like the rest of you.”
“I’ll shrivel up and look like a Motsognir?”
“I’m as human as you.”
“So you claim.” She laughed. Bending at the waist, she touched the Motsognir’s head with cool lips. “Where would I be without your pessimism, Helgin?”
Helgin backed away from Oldin, two quick steps. She grinned down at him, and he turned his head to spit on the rug of the compartment. “You’d still be your grandsire’s whore, spreading your legs for his captains.”
Kaethe pursed her lips. “So touchy,” she said, as if to an unseen observer. She walked away with her long-legged stride; in the reduced gravity, she seemed to glide. The room was large, by ship standards, as comfortable as her rooms at OldinHome. Deep, soft rugs covered the plating of the floor in subtle earth hues, the deck itself sculpted into irregular hills and valleys— there was no need for other furniture here. The only reminder that Kaethe was on a ship rather than planetbound was a circular viewport that covered most of the ceiling. There, in a sea of darkness flecked with star-foam, Neweden floated, attended by its two moons, Sleipnir and Gulltopp. In this, her refuge, music would come at Kaethe’s bidding, the walls would shift, the lighting would respond to her moods; here, she had no pretensions, and here she allowed few visitors. The crew, most of her staff, prospective buyers of the goods stored in Peregrine’s vast holds: these she would see in the ostentatiously gothic office, two decks below.
Kaethe stretched, yawning, and turned. Abruptly, she sat, lounging back against a carpeted hillock. Helgin followed her graceful movements, glowering at her. He had the typical build of the Motsognir Dwarves, that half-mythical race wandering the frontiers of human space (and, it is rumored, far beyond) since the Interregnum, when the First Empire died and left humanity in darkness. An experiment in genetic manipulation, they had been bred for the heavy planets. The Motsognir were nearly as broad as they were tall, standing about a meter in height, with thick-bunched muscles. Their strength was legendary, as was their vile temperament. The Motsognir, by preference, tended to stay with their own; to see one was something to tell one’s children.
“Your trouble is that you’re too sure of yourself. What are you going to do when you fail?” Helgin was as hirsute as the rest of his kind. He tugged on the full beard that masked his large mouth.
“I don’t plan on failing.” Kaethe closed her eyes, relaxing. Stretching out her legs, she hugged herself, then let her arms go to her sides. “I don’t care how much you scoff, Helgin—the Battier makes me feel regenerated and alive, and you saw that it worked for the Nassaie.”
“The Nassaie are avian, not human. You heard what Nest-Tender said. He didn’t think the Battier would work for us, and wouldn’t guarantee there’d be no side effects.”
“But we’ve sold ’em.”
“Fools will buy anything,” Helgin grumbled, a voice like rock scraping rock.
“Don’t be so damned tiresome, Motsognir. Maybe the Battier could give you a little height—then you wouldn’t have to worry about knocking your teeth out on somebody’s knee,” she said sweetly.
“I’d bet on my teeth before your knee, Oldin.”
A smile. Eyes still closed, she waved a lazy hand toward him. “Did you send someone to get the geological reports Gies left with Renard?”
“I did.”
“Good. I’ll want to see it in a few hours. Now that Gunnar is dead, we make the shift toward Vingi—and the Hoorka still intrigue me.” She rolled to her side. Kaethe glanced at the Motsognir, standing—thick legs well apart, arms folded across his broad chest—near the door. “I read the profiles on their leaders. You might commend whoever got them for you—quite good. Gyll Hermond is no longer Thane?”
“No, but I suspect that he’s still their guiding force. They are his creation.”
“I want to meet him then. Get him here.”
“You have the most gentle way of making a request.”
“Yah. But you’ll do it, won’t you.” The last was a statement, not a question. Her face, for all its smiling, held little amusement. She seemed more tired than anything. “And soon, Helgin.” Kaethe lay again on her back. “And have Renard told that I want another report soon. He’s had enough time to give us an update.”
In self-imposed darkness, she listened to the Motsognir: a harsh breath, the beginning of another retort, then a guttural obscenity. Helgin’s heavy stride hushed on carpet—even in the light gravity, he sounded ponderous—and the door slid open with a hiss.
“Helgin.”
She could feel his eyes on her.
“When you’ve made the calls, find me a lover,” she said. “And make sure he’s tall.”
Helgin snorted derision. “You need to become more self-reliant.” The door shut behind him with the sound of serpents. Kaethe laughed.
She opened her eyes. Above her, Neweden basked in the radiance of the sunstar. She stared at the world.
• • •
The Domoraj Sucai could barely hear Vingi’s whining mumble. He scowled in irritation, trying to pierce the auditory murk that fouled his ears. Snatches of song clutched at the Li-Gallant’s words; his own thoughts, thundering, drowned them.
Vingi himself seemed to be encapsuled in a shifting cage of sapphire flame that, gelatinous, moved about him slowly. The Li-Gallant’s desk rolled like the open sea, but Vingi did not seem to notice. The Domoraj thought that peculiar but decided not to mention it. Why bother? The Li-Gallant, dear bastard that he is and putting bread in all the kin’s mouths, should be allowed his whims. Quiet, quiet; what is he saying?
Ignoring the muted orchestrion that insisted on playing in the back of his skull, the Domoraj—head of Vingi’s guard—cocked his head with intense concentration.
“. . . to my attention that you’ve, well, taken up some odious habits, Sucai,” Vingi said. “I’ve been told you’ve used lujisa, other drugs—man, how do you expect to guide my guards in this state?”
I don’t. I don’t want to. Then: Did I speak that aloud? No, he’s still talking. The flames around him are larger now. How can he not feel the heat?
“. . . understand why this sudden sloth, this abuse. What’s going on inside your head, kin-brother? You were my most trusted captain, one with whom I could be honest . . .”
Inside my head? Listen: There is a trumpet sounding like green-white shards of ice, and a crystalline note that smells of spices. You hear velvet or taste fire. I don’t have to think of the disgrace you—no, there is the smell of silken cloth against my skin.
“. . . since the lassari I had you hire to kill Gunnar a half-standard ago failed. I’ve grieved over that decision a hundred times, Sucai, believe me. I know it caused you considerable pain to send a shameful lassari rather than declaring bloodfeud. But the Li-Gallant must always hold a larger view. It was for the good of Neweden—it gives you no disgrace. Believe that, Domoraj—you should feel no shame.”
Shame is a ruby spear. It slices through you and you can’t see the lifeblood on the stone. It stays, gigging you whenever you move, and you can’t tear it out.
“. . . and any dishonor should fall to me. Not you. You were following your k
in-lord’s orders, as any dutiful kin-brother would. When you reported the failure, I was glad the attempt had failed. Do you wish time to think this through, Sucai? Do you wish my help? I could set up an erasal at Diplo Center—d’Embry would do that for me, and the Alliance has an excellent psych unit. Answer me, Domoraj, please.”
Sucai struggled to pierce the fog in his head, the hues and tints that chased each other behind his eyes. He spoke, hesitantly, his voice a harsh whisper, his fingers knotting and moving in his lap as he sat before the Li-Gallant.
“I . . . forgive me, Li-Gallant, but I feel . . . disgraced. You’ve brought shame to me . . . I’m sorry, I wasn’t ready when you called for me today . . . I was the instrument of shame.” The ruby spear. “I’ve tried . . . a few times since, to talk with . . . our gods. They—” Sucai stumbled over the words, his tongue moving, his face contorted as if he were about to weep. “They . . . don’t answer me.”
Vingi was speaking again, but the Domoraj could not hear him. A wind like emeralds whispered in his ears, twisting around the ruby spear that impaled his chest and pulling so that the weapon wrenched inside him. He shook his head and the storm abated, moving away. Sucai stared at Vingi and saw that a forest of dark towers had sprung up around the Li-Gallant, each with a scarlet light on its craggy summit. “. . . an erasal whether you wish it or not. As the kin-lord, I command it. You’re of no use to me in this state, Domoraj. That, above all, should bring you the most shame.”
The spear . . .
“Go and rest. Tell Domo d’Meila to come here at once. He’ll be in charge during your absence.”
Sucai sat for a moment as the slow realization that he had been dismissed filtered into his consciousness. Vingi, his face like melted ire, gazed back at him. The baleful, laughing eyes of the dark towers about the Li-Gallant surged, flaming about Vingi without harming him, cold. The Domoraj lurched to his feet, nodding in salutation and wonder. He turned to leave, as Vingi, fluid, became tall, thinner.
The carpet whispered quiet insults under Sucai’s feet. The door showered him with warm mockings. The air, shrieking, bit into him with a thousand small teeth.
Chapter 4
An excerpt from the acousidots of Sondall-Cadhurst Cranmer. This is an early transcription, dating from the time well before Valdisa became Thane, long before the term “Hoorka” would become a curse throughout the Alliance. It is best to remember that Cranmer was neither a technician nor a fighter, that his views on things military were those of a sheltered layman. Cranmer had never taken a life.
EXCERPT FROM THE DOT OF 8.19.214:
A rustling of paper.
“Here, Valdisa. These are the specifications I was talking about—I had the Diplo librarian dig them out of the Center files. The holocube’ll give you an indication of what the damn thing looks like—that’s somebody’s hand by the stock, so you’ll get the sense of scale.”
“Sond, did you see how heavy this is?” (Her voice holds an obvious amusement—laughter is near the surface of her words.)
“It’s no heavier than a long-maser, Valdisa; I checked. The Alliance uses LMs as standard equipment.”
“And they also use powered suits. This would weigh down a Hoorka.”
“Perhaps, but look at the advantages. You sight through this, and when the trigger is depressed, the weapon uses a range-finder coupled with the heat-seeker to determine distance—you can also override the automatics if you need to. A beam’s generated in both spire-chambers—here—and the two beams fuse at the indicated distance. All the destructive power is generated there, since each of the beams by itself is harmless. You can fire directly through your own people and not worry. The range is good, too, and a bodyshield won’t keep this one out if it’s tuned finely enough.”
“Sond—”
“No, let me finish, m’Dame. I may be a scrawny little aesthete to your eyes, but damn it, I can see applications here. If you were within sight of your victim, you could use this and be certain of a kill.”
“Sond, that’s just the point. The whole thrust of the Thane’s code is that the victim is always given a proper chance to escape—we never overbalance the odds. This gadget might be as effective as you claim; if it is, it’s too effective. You misunderstand Neweden ethics, but then you haven’t been here long. There’s too much honor involved in a bloodfeud—it’s a very personal thing.”
“That’s just what you Hoorka circumvent: the personal contact of a person with the one he wants to kill.”
“That’s why you see us using a variant on a blade so often. To Neweden, killing is, as I said, a thing of honor, an individual matter. To be truly honorable, you have to be closely involved in the other’s death: you never strike without warning, and your enemy must have the same chance as you. You have to understand the finality of death, how much pain is involved. This toy of yours—well, the more impersonal and distant the call to Hag Death is, the more unlikely you are to hold back. Killing becomes too common and easy a solution. You have to see the blood, Sond, watch the blade sink into flesh, hear the grunt of pain, and feel the life flow away into the Hag’s claws. Many people won’t do that, and that’s good.”
“Yah, I understand that point—mind you, I don’t necessarily agree with it, but I understand what you’re saying. That’s still exactly what you Hoorka allow. You’re a means of depersonalizing combat, of making killing distant and secondhand.”
“Which is why we won’t guarantee the death of a contracted victim. It would make it too easy, and we’d insult both the honor of the signer and their gods. It’s also why we give the body of the victim—if there is one—to the contractor and make his name a matter of public record. Then he sees the results of his actions and receives the consequences. We’re not murderers, just weapons.”
“Yah, yah, I’ve talked to the Thane and received the same lecture.”
(Valdisa laughs again.) “Well, if you show him these plans, you’ll hear it one more time.”
(Here there is the sound of paper being torn.) “Then I’ll save my ears.”
• • •
The last three times you have not killed—the thought nagged at him as Gyll stared at the panting bumblewort. He’d come back from the meeting to find the wort on its side, moving feebly, the fog-gray eyes moving dully as it stared up at him. He’d forced it to drink some water, watched it lap halfheartedly at the offering.
“You should put the poor thing out of its misery, Gyll.”
Startled, he turned from the wort to see Valdisa leaning against the doorjamb, her nightcloak swept over one shoulder. He found that her presence made the tension return, and he made an effort to appear relaxed, stroking the wort. He wondered if he fooled her.
“You surprised me,” he said. “I thought I’d let the door shut.” Under his hand, the wort chirruped plaintively; he made his caress softer, slower. The snub nose came up and nuzzled his hand wetly. From the mouth, the slender whip of its tongue rasped around his forefinger, tugged once, then released.
Gyll shook his head. “Come in, Valdisa.” He still looked down at the wort. “I assume you’ve come about the contract.”
“Yah.” She nodded, pushing herself erect with a quick motion. She went to the floater that sat by his bed.
Gyll was silent, observing her. In the months since he’d given her the title of Hoorka-thane, she’d changed. She smiled less, she laughed less; an aura of moodiness enveloped her in a smoky embrace. He felt responsible and slightly guilty—it was his burden that she’d assumed, because he no longer wanted the problems of leadership. He’d given it to her, and it had sunk its talons deep in her soul.
He stroked the wort a last time, scratching under the delicate skin of the earflaps, and sat on the bed. Valdisa watched him with dark, veiled eyes, her face carefully arranged and neutral.
That hurt worse than anything she might have said.
“How’s the wort?” she asked at last. They both knew it for the avoidance it was, and Gyll found it difficult
not to lash out at her circumspection. He began to speak, harshly, then swallowed his irritation with a visible effort.
“No better. I doubt that it’ll live much longer—its ancestors may have been able to fend for themselves, but we’ve bred the worts into something that can’t be undomesticated and wild. I’m surprised this one’s lived as long as it has, since it had to have been abandoned in Sterka. It keeps fighting.” He stared at her, waiting.
Valdisa nodded. Her lips tightened once, parting with an intake of breath as she started to speak. She glanced at the wort’s cage, as if unwilling to meet Gyll’s eyes. He made no effort to make it easier for her. He waited, belligerently silent.
“You know what I’m going to say.” Eyes the color of old, much-polished wood: they accused him.
“I suspect—but you’re going to have to say it, Valdisa.” He shrugged. “I’ll tell you that your logic is wrong, though. Yah, I’ve failed on the last three contracts I’ve worked. It happens—it has to happen. By the code—my code—the Hoorka must give the victim a chance to live. If they stay alive, then the Dame wants them to do so. They deserve life. If not—then let them join the ippicators in death and dance with the five-legged beasts before the Hag.”
“That’s very poetic, love, but it’s not all of it.” She shook her head, the short, dark hair moving.
Gyll raised an eyebrow in question, making the creases in his lined forehead deeper, and running a hand through his graying hair. He looked down at himself and pulled his stomach in.
She was still not looking at him. Her fingers plucked imaginary lint from the black and gray cloth of her sleeve. “I’ve talked to the kin that worked those contracts with you, Gyll. They all told me that you seemed listless, unenthusiastic. You seemed to be going through the motions. And they said you complained of tiredness . . .” She glanced up, her mouth a grimace of censure. “I think that you’re questioning yourself—whether you still believe in Hoorka.”
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