Still kneeling, she let go of the weapon. Hands at her sides, she began the invocation of She of the Five Limbs. The yellow-white hilt caught the torchlight. It shone, lustrous.
The sunstar was in Gyll’s eyes—a bad position, but he couldn’t move without making it obvious that he expected a fight. Kryll spat on the ground at Gyll’s feet. “You can’t do this, boy. I won’t let you.”
Gyll widened his stance, waiting. “No one can tell me what I can or can’t do. If you people don’t listen to me, we’re going to stay lassari shit. I can make us guilded kin, but you’re going to have to do things by my code.”
Kryll laughed—yellowed teeth, cracked lips. “Man, you’re a frigging idiot. Oh, a good fighter, I’ll admit that, but you’re a dreamer first. I’ve killed five men, two of ’em guilded kin. It may not have made me rich, but I’m better off than those idiots just dying in Dasta. We’re comfortable out here, away from Sterka. Keep your damned stupidities to yourself.”
“Kryll, if I have to kill you to get what I want, I’ll do it. The Li-Gallant’s guards’ll even pay me for the body, neh?”
Kryll laughed again. He pulled an ugly, battered crowd-prod from the belt-loop at his waist. Gyll had seen him use it before. The prod had been altered, the limiting circuits taken out. It used the full charge of the battery with a touch. It charred the flesh, perhaps even killed. Kryll waved the weapon at Gyll. “You bother me too much, boy. C’mere, and I’ll teach you what happens to lassari with dreams.”
But quite another lesson was taught, and Kryll was not the professor but the student.
Valdisa took the dagger from Aldhelm’s breast and sheathed it again. She reached over the body and took the bone chips from the eyes. Though the body was too high-placed for him to see, Gyll knew that the eyes would be open, allowing the j’nath, the essence of the soul that is left behind when breath departs, to exit when the flames released it. Summoned by the invocation, She of the Five would take the j’nath and incorporate it into Herself. The ippicator chips were placed in Aldhelm’s hands, an offering. Valdisa bowed her head, rising to her feet. Spreading her arms wide, she intoned the benediction.
“Our brother Aldhelm goes to join She of the Five Limbs. Let all kin give praise.”
With the others, Gyll repeated the response. “Let all give praise.” The phrase echoed through the cavern.
“He will give Her the love of kin.”
“Let all give praise.”
“He will intercede with Her for Hoorka.”
“Let all give praise.”
The litany continued, phrase and response, for several minutes. Then Valdisa lowered her hands. She bowed deeply to the body of Aldhelm and descended the pyre.
That kind of conversation always seemed to happen after lovemaking.
Darnell had cradled her head in his shoulder, sighing. Tangled, faintly damp hair spread over his chest; the chill air of Underasgard cooled the sweat on his body. Gyll touched the headboard—covers obediently slid over them. “Thank you,” Darnell said. She snuggled closer. “That’s much better.”
Gyll hmmmed agreement.
“I saw the uniforms. They’re dark and somber.” Her voice was sleepy, lazy. “You think they’ll make much difference, Thane?”
“Yes.” He was emphatic. His fingers kneaded her smooth – muscled back. “They’ll give us an identity, a unity. I think it’ll draw us closer, probably closer than the kin of most guilds.”
“Some of the others don’t like the fact that you didn’t consult the rest before you made the decision.”
“It was my decision to make. You have to grasp for what you think is right—whether it actually is or not—or you’ll lose the leadership.”
“And if the decision’s wrong?”
“It doesn’t matter. It’s all in the act itself. You have to do what you think is right, regardless of consequences. Otherwise, you lose the respect of the rest; more importantly, you’ll probably lose your respect for yourself. And that’s worse.”
“You sound as if you’ve thought out all the answers.”
“I have. I’m Thane. I intend to stay Thane.” He lay back, hand under head, relaxing. It was all going so well. Li-Gallant Perrin hadn’t been able to ignore their application for guild status: the future of Hoorka would come to a vote in the Assembly within one phase of Sleipnir, and Gyll had talked with several of the rule-guild heads. It looked hopeful. He pulled Darnell closer, smiling. Yah, very well. He rested, content.
Serita handed the torch back to Valdisa. The flame dimmed, then flared. Shadows slid over Valdisa’s face. She looked at Gyll. “Ulthane,” she said, “will you send Aldhelm on? I think he would prefer it.”
Gyll nodded, rising to his feet. He shook sooty dirt from his nightcloak and walked over to Valdisa, taking the torch from her. He wanted to hug her—the face was so tragic, so hurt. Tears had left faint tracks on her cheeks. Valdisa stepped away from him, going to join the silent kin; Gyll turned to the pyre. The aroma of sandalwood and oil was heavy. He looked up at the body. “Aldhelm”—a whisper—“I wouldn’t have it this way. I’m sorry. I wish we could have remained friends, kin-brother.”
He touched the flame to the base of the pyre. Nothing happened for a moment, then a small flame appeared, wavered, and surged. Crackling, hissing; the fire leaped from log to log, climbing. The buffeting heat drove Gyll back while the eternal night of Underasgard was banished from the cavern. The smell of smoke and oil filled the room. Gyll knew that the dark cloud of Aldhelm’s funeral would now be rising from the vents of natural chimneys in the room, a fuming from the slopes above Underasgard’s mouth. The wind would smear the soot and ash across the sky.
In reverse order of their entrance, the Hoorka filed from the room. Gyll, standing beside Valdisa, touched her arm. She smiled sadly at him; Gyll pulled her to him with one arm. She touched her head to his shoulder. Through the pall of smoke, Gyll could see Cranmer—coughing and sneezing—getting ready to vacate his perch.
Their turn came. Gyll squeezed Valdisa, then walked ahead of her from the Cavern of the Dead. At their backs, logs collapsed in on each other. A frantic gathering of sparks danced their way to the roof.
Chapter 12
An excerpt from the acousidots of Sondall-Cadhurst Cranmer. The following transcript is from one of the earliest recordings of the Hoorka dots. The subject, Redac Allin, was one of the original Hoorka, a member of the lassari thugs taken by the young Gyll Hermond. The dot was quoted by Cranmer in the first treatise on the Hoorka, Social Homogenization: The Hoorka in Neweden Society. (Niffleheim Journal of Archaeo-Sociology, Marcus 245, pp.1389-1457.) Cranmer, in his notes, recorded that he wished to do a later full-holo interview with Allin, but the man was slain a few weeks later during a contract. His passing was not particularly mourned, even by the Hoorka-kin.
EXCERPT FROM THE DOT OF 11.16.211:
“Sirrah Allin, you were one of the original Hoorka.”
“Yah. I can remember when Gyll—the Thane—came to us.”
“What did the band do before the Thane organized you as a guild?”
“I did the same’s I did after. I killed. Only difference was that I didn’t take the person’s money. Sometimes the old way was better—we didn’t need no contract.”
“But you were lassari then. Isn’t the kinship better?”
“Yah, I suppose. Ain’t much choice when you’re lassari: steal, do the shitwork kin throw at you, or starve. Good choices, neh? I stole. Got more that way, got to stick knives in kin.”
“You didn’t have to kill, did you? I mean, there was no compelling reason for you to do so. From what I understand, most of your band refrained from that, if for no other reason than the fact that the guilded kin pursue murderers far more than thieves. You were an exception.”
“The ones the Hag eats don’t talk. That’s how half the suckers get caught and lose their hands. Killing keeps ’em quiet. It’s safer to kill.”
“Did you enjoy it, find it pleasurable?”
(A longish pause.) “You look at me like I’m some kind of specimen, scholar.”
“I meant no offense. I’m interested in your feelings. I’ve heard it said that you don’t find your task as Hoorka at all, ahh, distasteful.”
“You could find out. I’d arrange a demonstration for you. The Thane could get other scholars later.”
(There is a nervous rustlng of flimsies. Cranmer clears his throat.) “Ahh, that won’t be necessary.”
“Too bad. I tell you, scholar, I don’t mind the killing. Not at all. People will go to the Hag anyway—maybe she’ll like me better when my time comes, neh? After all, I send her so many . . . It’s better now, with the run. It gives it a thrill, like a hunt. The bastards might get away from you unless you’re careful, if you ain’t good. The killing, the last part—I don’t mind it at all. Does that bother you, little man?”
“No.” (A remark that might be made here—Cranmer was never known as a man given to foolish bravery. Given that, his following remarks can only be attributed to errant imprudence.)
“But some might think that it’s an indication of some, ahh, mental misalignment. The Alliance—well, if you were on Niffleheim, you’d’ve been wiped.”
“Ain’t on Niffleheim, are we? And on Neweden, you can’t insult kin and expect to be untouched.”
“It wasn’t an insult. It was just a statement.”
“So I’m not even smart enough to know the difference? Scholar, you wag your tongue too much. Let me take it out for you.”
(The next few minutes on the dot are quite confused. There is a scuffling of feet, chairs clatter to stone, and Cranmer shouts for the Thane. There is the sound of a struggle, a yelp in pain in Cranmer’s voice, and a muffled exclamation. The recorder is—possibly—knocked to the ground, for the next sound is Cranmer.)
“Hello? Oh, good. It still works. Thank you, Thane. I . . . well . . .”
“You’re not much of a fighter, Sond. You’d better get that cut seen to. Allin, you’ll apologize to Cranmer, and you’ll keep your temper in Underasgard.”
“Your scholar insulted me, Thane. I had the right—”
“The scholar’s not from Neweden. He doesn’t yet understand us. Man, do I have to treat you like a child? Go to my rooms and wait for me.” (The sound of the door opening and closing.)
“Thane, I didn’t mean to cause trouble. I should have been more careful in what I said to him.”
“We all have to learn, Sond. But I’d suggest you learn Neweden ways or learn to fight. Preferably both.”
• • •
“Karl, get Oldin. Now.”
“Surely, m’Dame, but it will take a few minutes.”
“Just do it.”
D’Embry quivered with fury. She could not stop the trembling of the thin hand she held out in front of her. Muttering a curse, she gave up the effort.
Damn that scheming bitch!
She wanted no more calls like the last. It had come from Diplo Center on Heritage. Heritage’s Regent, Kav Long (she remembered him as a vaguely competent secretary doing menial tasks when she’d last visited Niffleheim) had been curt and scornful.
“I thought you had Neweden under control, d’Embry,” Long had said, with no preamble.
“I do.” She’d been puzzled and irritated with the morning’s interruption.
Long had laughed without amusement, his face creased by static—the transmission was none too good; something in the Einsteinian jump always did that. “Guillene was killed last night, d’Embry. It couldn’t have been more than one or two assassins. They entered Moache grounds, disabled several guards and the household staff, and killed the man in his bed. Very neatly: the throat was slit. He was dead too damn long before we got there, too—the brain’d deteriorated beyond the point of saving. Some of your frigging assassins got loose.” The blond face quavered, lost in electronic storming.
She had protested, but the vague suspicion that Long was right already had formed in her mind. “That’s impossible. Listen, you young fool, the Hoorka haven’t any craft capable of it, and Sterka Port is tight—I can guarantee that. Guillene wasn’t exactly loved by the Moache employees or by de Sezimbra’s associates, was he? I’d suggest you look closer to home, Long. You can get assassins on any world.”
He’d exhaled in disgust. “I’ll admit that. I’ll admit that vibros are common enough, too, but let’s be realistic. It wasn’t anybody here—none of them would be that good. That leaves your black and gray wonders. Moache Mining is upset.” He laughed nervously, and d’Embry realized at that instant where his anger originated. “Hell, they’re a lot more than just upset. They’ve already bypassed the Center here and gone straight to Niffleheim. You know they’re going to listen there. Moache’s got the money to make ’em do it. You goofed, m’Dame. Niffleheim’ll have your head.” A pause, a snarling of static. “Mine, too.”
Kav Long cut the contact.
Oldin. It had to be through Oldin.
“M’Dame, I have Oldin.”
“Good,” she snapped. “Karl, I want you to go through the records of all the satellite net stations. See if you can find the slightest indication that a Trader craft might have left Neweden space. And do it quickly.”
“Yah, m’Dame.”
D’Embry took a deep breath, running her hands through her thin, white hair. She settled herself in her floater, arranged the ippicator necklace on her blouse. A vein-laced hand reached out, touched the contact on her desk.
The screen of the com-link pulsed light and settled. Kaethe Oldin smiled beatifically out at her. Oldin’s eyebrows were today slivers of platinum, shimmering. Half the face was in cosmetic shadow. The glossed-mouth moved. “M’Dame d’Embry, what can I do for you?”
“You sent a Hoorka to Heritage, Trader Oldin. You allowed Guillene to be killed.”
Eyebrows, glittering, rose in surprise. Her head half-turned, but the gaze was fixed on d’Embry. “That would be a violation of the Trader-Alliance pact, Regent. Certainly you don’t think me stupid enough to ruin my business here by running a ferry service for assassins? The Hoorka can hire Alliance vessels, and Grandsire FitzEvard would have my head if I lost revenue.”
“Let’s not play games, Trader Oldin.” She’s good at it—Just the right expressions, the correct stance between indignant surprise and amusement. If I didn’t know it had to be her . . . “I’m awfully tired of games.”
“Games, Regent? Are you making a formal accusation, then? If so, I demand my right to refute the proof of misconduct.” Again, the smile, infuriating. “If you’re not making the accusation, then I think you’re mistaken as to who’s playing a game.”
D’Embry forced down a retort: she breathed once, slowly, knotting her hands together. “Trader Oldin, the Hoorka have no interstellar craft. No Alliance-registered ships have gone to Heritage in the last few days—I’ve checked. You are the only possibility left.”
“Has the orbital net noted one of the boats from Peregrine leaving for anywhere but Sterka Port?”
“No,” d’Embry admitted ruefully. “But what one person can design, another can find a way around. Believe me, Trader, I’ve no delusions as to your capabilities.”
“I thank you for the compliment, m’Dame, but I still suggest you owe me an apology.” Oldin said it sweetly, a sugared voice.
“Ulthane Gyll has been to Peregrine, Trader. The first time was only for a few hours. He went again two days ago; he didn’t return until yesterday evening.”
“That constitutes no crime, Regent. As you know, I’ve used the Hoorka myself. I wanted Ulthane Gyll to see the ship, to see the goods we had. Then I asked him to stay overnight. He was kind enough to accept my offer. I find him quite charming, actually.”
“Trader Oldin, this is a serious matter.” D’Embry’s voice was rising. She forced herself back into the icy demeanor she affected before her staff. Calm, calm. You’re falling right into the bitch’s hands. That’s exactly what she wants from you—anger and the loss
of control. She’s most likely recording the conversation.
“I realize that you consider the situation serious, Regent. Is Moache Mining putting pressure on you? I would wager that Niffleheim called and wanted a scapegoat produced to drag before the Directors, and it’s your job to find one or be used yourself. I can understand your anxiety to place the blame on the Trading Families, m’Dame. I’d be doing the same were I in your position. People have spat on us for centuries: the Alliance, the Free Worlds, Huard. Why change now—we’re convenient gypsies, there and gone again.”
“You plead your case eloquently, Trader. One would think you’ve given it much thought. Did you know you’d need to defend yourself?” She wanted Oldin, wanted that ship out of Neweden space.
“What of the other guilds, m’Dame?” Oldin continued as if she hadn’t heard d’Embry. “Some of them are rich enough to have bought or hired the needed ship—silence can be bought, too. Maybe they ferried Hoorka in hopes of future favors. Or maybe one of your Alliance ships logged a false destination code. Or maybe Guillene was killed by one of his own.” Behind Oldin, some out-of-focus person bustled past, carrying something that looked halfway between snail and dog. Oldin glanced at him, snapped an unheard order, then turned back to d’Embry. “My log is available to you, Regent. Call and ask for our pilot or the Motsognir Helgin. We can send it to you within a day or so.”
“I do want that log, Trader. I can tell you that now. I want it by noon.”
“Regent, it will take—”
“Noon, Trader. A failure to comply will indicate that you are not willing to cooperate with the local authority. That can result in your expulsion from Neweden space. That’s in the pact, too.” D’Embry allowed herself to enjoy the look of irritation that crossed Oldin’s face, wiping away the smug half-smile. The Regent was certain that the log would show exactly what Oldin intended it to say, even with the lack of notice: there would be no record of a Peregrine boat leaving Neweden orbit. D’Embry wouldn’t prove anything, but if it caused Oldin any discomfiture, she found it worthwhile. Somewhere inside, a small voice chastised her—you’re getting petty, old woman, hurting back because you’ve been hurt. And the answer yah, doesn’t it feel good?
Assassins' Dawn Page 38