Assassins' Dawn

by Stephen Leigh

  Cranmer waited a long moment before replying. “I think I might drink my wine.”

  Slowly, Gyll smiled. He glanced down as if seeing the glass for the first time. “You know,” he said, “that may just be the right solution.”

  Chapter 6

  An excerpt from the acousidots of Sondall-Cadhurst Cranmer. The following excerpt is from a conversation between Ulthane Gyll and Cranmer. The lack of background noise and the echoing resonance indicate that the conversation took place in a secluded area of the caverns. The dating of the segment is only approximate. It is included among several other undated recordings, all evidently clandestine.

  EXCERPT FROM THE DOT OF 5.15.217:

  “I think I might drink my wine.” (Cranmer)

  “You know, that may just be the right solution. You’ll have to excuse my mood, Sond. It’s everything taken all together, not just one thing. I let myself get into these depressions, and then I have to come here and think myself out of it. It goes away in time.” (Here there is the sound of drinking, a clatter of glass on stone.) “But then you know all that already.”

  “Still, I’m glad that you don’t mind talking about it.”

  “I don’t mind because I trust you to go no further with it. And I have to admit that it’s sometimes nice to have someone listen, to talk out loud and hear myself try to explain—you can see the flaws in your logic. It wouldn’t work with everyone, though; you won’t let this get beyond the two of us.”

  (Cranmer laughs with an edge of nervousness. After a moment, Ulthane Gyll joins in.)

  • • •

  “Gyll, your trouble is that you’re an idealist. Everyone else around you is a pragmatist.”

  “Is that so bad?”

  “It is when you constantly assume that they all think the same way you do.”

  The two Hoorka were seated in the stands of the guilded kin, a part of the crowd filling Tri-Guild Church square. The lassari, gawking at the expensive display of mourning, huddled at the southern edge while the guilded kin were comfortable beneath a large weathershield near the church. It was not a pleasant day for Gunnar’s funeral. The sunstar shrouded itself in clouds and the sky wept, a constant drizzle. The lassari shifted restlessly under improvised shelters.

  The censers, borne by a troop of young boys representing all the guilds sworn to Gunnar-Potok’s rule-guild, had just passed in golden splendor. The acrid fumes still hung in the air, a pall the rain was dissipating rapidly. The youths had looked frankly miserable. Their gilt finery had been soaked and clung to their skin, their breaths steaming in the chill air. The procession was moving slowly down the lane between the lassari crowds and the bleachers of the kin: a trio of pipes, followed by a phalanx of musicians with krumhorns and tabors; then the beast-dancers from Irast acting out for the fifth time that day—they were becoming rather bored—the death of the Great Ippicator, twirling with awkward arabesques in their five-legged costumes.

  Gyll shifted in his seat, restless. “We need to talk, Valdisa. Oldin had an offer—I think we should hear it.”

  “Yah?” Her gaze was on the beast-dancers. “It will wait until we get back to Underasgard. This isn’t the place for business. Besides, my butt’s gone to sleep.”

  Following the beast-dancers, a large floater passed bearing the dignitaries of local guilds, a score of kin-lords. Those absent were most conspicuous. The Li-Gallant’s guards, as the policing force for Neweden, were present, but Vingi himself was not. Instead, the Li-Gallant had sent his recording secretary, pleading government business as an excuse. The Hoorka had also been asked to join the group on the floater, but Valdisa had cited their code’s insistence on strict neutrality and had instead sat with the mass of guilded kin in the stands.

  A smaller floater followed, preceding the bier. In it, the Regent d’Embry stared dourly at the crowds. Her face, under the weathershield, reflected bland sympathy, a public mask. Rigid, she neither moved nor glanced about.

  “Do you think we can really trust her, Valdisa?” Gyll nodded toward d’Embry. “Look at her, so stiff—and yet we let her hold the future of Hoorka.”

  “We haven’t a choice in that, Gyll. That’s what you always told me.”

  “Yah, but I don’t like it. If there were an alternative . . . I’ll bet she has to peel off that face every night.”

  And last, the bier. It was flanked by all Gunnar’s kin, their faces chalky with white funeral paint. The rain, in their long march, had streaked and splattered the paint. They looked sufficiently mournful, the turquoise guild-robes tattered and rent, the shoulders dotted with random blotches and smears from the thick paste on their faces. The bier moved slowly, majestically. It was a floating cloudlet, pulsing a deep sapphire from somewhere in the fog that surrounded it. On the mist lay Gunnar, atop a pyre of scented wood. Grotesques, small imps, raced about the edges of the cloud, their miniature faces wracked with pain and grief. As the bier approached Tri-Guild Church, a hidden choir began the descant to the dead; the sapphire glow went amber, the Hag’s color. The choir reached a crescendo as Potok came forward toward the cloud-wrapped floater, bearing a torch. It hissed in the drizzle.

  Suddenly, a flare arced out from the midst of the lassari. Screeching and wailing as it climbed, the projectile exploded high above the square, a false sun. Heads turned in shock, Potok stood in uncertain surprise, the choir faltered to a ragged halt.

  The flare’s appearance was answered by a shout from the lassari. “Renard!” was the cry. The ranks of lassari seemed to boil, some trying to back away from the square, others surging forward. With the rest of the guilded kin, Gyll and Valdisa came to their feet in the stands as several lassari rushed the bier. They bore crude weapons. Rough hands shoved aside the startled Potok. A group of the lassari grasped through the clouds of the bier, pulling and tearing. The mist faded, revealing a bare skeletal framework of steel and wiring. The grotesques became mournfully immobile. The lassari pushed, the bier tilted.

  A cry of anguish came from the guilded kin, now beginning to recover their senses. But they had no leader and hampered each other more than helped: the rush from the stands was slow, tangled. The lassari pushed again as Potok’s kin tried to stop them. The bier toppled in its field, canting over. The pyre broke loose, spilling wood and Gunnar’s body to the wet pavement. A roar of triumph came from the insurgents—“Renard!”—a howl of outrage from the kin.

  Gyll watched the confusion in the stands, the chaos in the square. “Let’s go, Valdisa—we can’t do anything here.”

  “But the damned lassari . . .”

  “Vingi’s guards are coming. There’s enough confusion already. We’d only add to it.”

  The guards moved, belatedly, attacking with crowd-prods and tanglefeet webs. But they were too far from the bier to get to the locus of turmoil; the lassari made use of the confusion to dart back into the mob. The crowd screamed as one—guilded kin and lassari—as the guards forced their way in pursuit, using their weapons indiscriminately.

  The lassari (and some of the kin), angered now, began to resist, fighting back as well as they could. Someone—a plant-pet wrapped about his shoulders—shouted and lassari moved away to harry the guards. People milled in the square, seeking escape, seeking an outlet for anger, seeking someone to strike.

  Chaos held sway. The drizzle became a downpour.

  M’Dame Tha. d’Embry was furious. A thundercloud of emotion preceded her into Diplo Center. The staff glanced up from terminals and desks as she rumbled through: they quickly decided that to pretend ignorance was the best course. The sight was tragicomic, though a glance at the enraged face forbade laughter. D’Embry’s dress tunic was disheveled, soiled, and wet. Her weathershield belt was broken, the casing cracked. Her white hair hung in limp strands, the mouth was cemented with deep wrinkles. Her eyes arced fire.

  Heads stayed down, attentive to their tasks.

  She stormed into her office, leaving behind a wet legacy of her passage, and barked at the com-unit on the
desk. “Karl, get in here. Bring a warm towel. Several of them. Now.”

  D’Embry turned and glared out her window. A shiny-wet Sterka Port stared back, blanketed in thick clouds. The skull of a large ippicator gazed blindly through the rain, a gift from the Hoorka. A symbol of this world, it seemed to laugh at her. “A damned barbarian place,” she muttered. “Gods, I’m sick of it.”

  Karl entered, towels in hand. He gave one to d’Embry with a carefully expressionless face.

  “Don’t stare, Karl. It’s not polite. And I know you saw the procession on the holotank.” She fixed him with a sour gaze.

  “Yah, m’Dame.”

  D’Embry scowled. Karl made no elaboration. She glanced down; Karl held a flimsy in one hand. “What’s that?”

  “A contract proposal for the Hoorka,” he answered, holding it out to her. “It came over the relay from Niffleheim while . . .” He hesitated. “While you were out.”

  D’Embry glared. She toweled her hair, ignoring the flimsy, then saw that the towel was stained with her pinkish bodytint. “Damn.” She threw the towel to a corner and snatched the flimsy with a wiry hand.

  “It could be important, m’Dame. A Moache Mining official is the signator.”

  “Screw Moache Mining—and don’t look at me that way. I know the meaning of the word.” She tossed the paper to her desk, shaking her head. “The frigging Hoorka keep nagging me, and the whole structure of Neweden seems to be cracking around me. You saw that lassari outburst, Karl. Someone—some one—orchestrated that. It wasn’t just a spontaneous upwelling. That was a person’s name the lassari were yelling. It was planned, by this Renard, to hit right where Neweden would feel it the most. The incident will enrage the guilded kin and harden their attitude toward the lassari, and it’ll inflame the kinless. It couldn’t have been better designed to cause this world grief.”

  She suddenly slumped into her floater with a sigh, as if all energy had deserted her. Seated, she cupped her chin in her hands, shaking her damp head. “The damned contract can wait a few hours—I’m not so sure that I want the Hoorka to work this. I don’t want to see or hear anything having to do with Neweden or any of its idiotic people for the next two hours. See to it, Karl.”

  “M’Dame . . .”

  “Do it.” She didn’t look at him. She stared at the replica of d’Vellia’s Gehennah standing in one corner of the room. The door hushed shut behind Karl.

  “You could’ve retired to that estate on Arlin. Remember that, you fool old lady. You asked for this assignment. You couldn’t trust it to anyone else, could you? You had to go and ask for it.”

  • • •

  It was normal and customary for Hoorka to engage in practice bouts. There was, in fact, an unofficial ranking among the kin as to who was the most proficient with vibrofoils. Gyll and, later, Valdisa, had done nothing to stop this covert hierarchy despite the fact that it was not covered in the Hoorka code. Their silence on the matter promulgated its continuation.

  Normally, a match drew little attention. Even Cranmer, after recording diligently the first several that followed his arrival, had stopped dropping by the practice room. The kin who happened to lie in the area might stop to throw in a comment and the results certainly traveled quickly in the gossip of the kin, but few set aside other activities to become a spectator.

  The bout between Aldhelm and d’Mannberg was the exception. Aldhelm was generally acknowledged to be one of the best Hoorka with vibrofoil and he was the unofficial leader of the duelists. The kin would seek out his matches to stare and search for weaknesses to exploit. D’Mannberg’s presence amplified the interest: Aldhelm and d’Mannberg had for some time been at odds. The last time they had fought, it had gone strangely. Aldhelm, to the surprise and shame of his kin, had put a display of his prowess ahead of adherence to the etiquette of kin-dueling. Before Thane Gyll, Aldhelm had hurt and angered d’Mannberg unjustifiably. Since that time, the rancor had lain between him and d’Mannberg.

  The sympathy was with d’Mannberg. The betting favored Aldhelm.

  Cranmer was fiddling with his equipment, watched by a skeptical McWilms. The apprentice grimaced at the tangle of holocameras and controls. “Have you placed the cameras correctly?”

  Cranmer glanced back over his shoulder. “I’ve been doing this for a decade. Since before you joined the Hoorka.”

  “You told me that last time, but the ’cube was all jumbled. Poor placement.”

  “For an apprentice, you’re damned impertinent. Are you gonna help or just offer your expert advice?”

  “I’ll help. You’re going to need it to get set up in time. Aldhelm’s just come in.”

  D’Mannberg was already present, stripped to the waist. He was simply huge—a tall and massive man, his hair and beard shining red in the glow of the light-fungi that lined the room. To the casual eye, he appeared obese—his kin knew better. D’Mannberg was surprisingly fast for his weight, and the flesh masked muscle rather than fat. Aldhelm, readying himself to one side, was more traditionally muscular with a wedged torso. He slid his vibrofoil from its sheath; it whined through the air. The light-fungi tinged his skin, perspiration sheened his back.

  D’Mannberg readied his own weapon, clicking it on. The orange-tipped marker shot from the hilt to its full extension, defining the length of the nearly invisible wire. The blade thrummed its power. He deactivated the blade, watching Aldhelm loosen up. “You still want the match, Aldhelm?”

  Aldhelm glanced at d’Mannberg, the scar standing out on his face. He gave a noncommittal smile. “Who have you gotten to judge it, kin-brother?”

  D’Mannberg turned, surveying the kin who were beginning to crowd the perimeter of the strip. “I’d have asked Ulthane Gyll or Thane Valdisa, but neither is here. Sartas?”

  Sartas nodded his willingness, stepping forward. Both Hoorka handed their weapons to Sartas. He examined each blade, locking them on the practice setting—the vibro would sting enormously, but would not cut flesh. The desire to avoid a touch was quite real; painful welts would still form. Sartas touched the foils together: sparks hissed and flared, dying on the earth of the cavern floor. He handed the weapons back and strode over to a rack of vibrofoils, taking one out and activating it.

  “Take your places, kin-brothers,” he said, standing in mid-strip. His olive face moved from Aldhelm to d’Mannberg. “The match is five touches. All code strictures apply—a lost weapon may be recovered without penalty and the entire body is a valid target. The two of you will disengage when I call halt, or you’ll face my blade. Remember that it’s not on the lower setting.” He paused. “Ready?”

  They nodded, assuming the en garde position.

  Sartas lowered his vibro and stepped from the strip. “Begin.”

  Beat, beat: a wailing shook the cavern, sparks rained to the ground. D’Mannberg, seeing Aldhelm’s foil in the fourth guard, attacked in the high outside line to be met by a beat parry. Riposte, parry, and counter-riposte: there was a whining slap, loud in the room, as Ric’s blade found Aldhelm’s bicep.

  “Halt!” Sartas stepped forward, knocking away the foils. “Touch for d’Mannberg.”

  Aldhelm stood back, his face sullen, a hand kneading his arm. Ric grinned. “That’s payment for the last time we met, neh? I’m not as slow as you might think, and you’ve given me a fair amount of incentive. She of the Five doesn’t care for those who ignore the etiquette.”

  Aldhelm’s face was emotionless. “One touch doesn’t make a match, either. And you’re a large target.” Then, too slowly, “Kin-brother.”

  A mumbling from the spectators: those Hoorka as yet unsure of the depth of ill-feeling between the two were quickly convinced. Cranmer, behind the shelter of his equipment, pursed thin lips. “What’d you think, McWilms?”

  The youth’s eyes were alight. “Aldhelm looked lethargic, sleepy. That was very sloppy work on his part. But keep recording, Sond, keep recording. This looks like it might be good.”

  “You’re a bloodthirst
y bastard.”

  “Yah, ain’t I.” He grinned.

  Sartas scowled at the verbal exchange between Aldhelm and d’Mannberg. He slapped his vibro at the floor, kicking up dirt. “Sirrahs, please return to your positions. And watch your tongues. We’re kin here, and while I’m judge, you’ll act it.” His dark eyes moved from man to man. Slowly, they both bowed to him.

  “Take your positions again, then.” He waited, then stepped back once more. “Begin.”

  This time Aldhelm was more cautious and less sleepily overconfident. He seemed to be awakening to full arousal, more aware of the match. His vibrotip danced now, flickering as he probed d’Mannberg’s defense, backing the larger man slowly down the strip with short, frantic attacks that never let d’Mannberg regain the initiative. Still, all the attacks were successfully met. Aldhelm moved forward, then lunged into the open line, his body extended. D’Mannberg, swiftness belying his bulk, leapt backward and the vibrotip missed. He grinned at Aldhelm.

  Now Ric counter-parried and riposted, taking the right of way. Bare feet hushed against the earth, sweat varnished their skin and made dark strands of their hair. Foils slapped and wailed.

  “D’Mannberg’s improved. A lot.”

  “Ulthane Gyll’s been working with him. That, and he has a revenge to seek here. And Aldhelm still doesn’t seem to be fully alert.”