Assassins' Dawn

by Stephen Leigh

  “That’s kind of you, Regent.”

  “It has nothing to do with kindness,” she barked suddenly. The effort cost her. She coughed violently, a spasm that bent her over. Her body shook, racked, and the symbiote shivered beneath the glowcloth tunic. Then, still hunched over, she cleared her throat, dabbed at her mouth with a tissue. Slowly she sat up again. Her gaze was angry, as if she dared him to comment on her weakness. “I know you damned Traders, and especially the Oldins. You’d have started spouting the fine clauses of the Alliance-Families Pact, then cried ‘foul’ to Niffleheim Center. You’d’ve caused me more trouble than I want to think about, and in the end I still might have had to endure your presence. I’m a realist, Sula.” She put more emphasis on the title than was needed. “I don’t believe in giving myself the aggravation, not at my age, not in my situation. You’re here, and that’s bad enough. But I can deal with you.”

  “Regent—”

  “No, please indulge me. I don’t know why you’ve come back to Neweden. I’d like to think that it was merely to see your old homeworld again, but I don’t believe that. You’re with the Oldins, and they don’t work that way. I do know that I won’t tolerate disruption here. There’s enough of it already, with Renard and his Hag’s Legion. This isn’t the same Neweden you left. Be very careful, Sula.” Again, that strange inflection, as if d’Embry mocked him.

  She allowed Gyll no chance to retort. With a harsh gesture, she broke the contact. The holotank swirled with jagged color, then collapsed into darkness. With the dimming of the room, the globe of Neweden pulled at Gyll’s attention. He contemplated it for a long time in reverie, leaning back in his floater. He shook his head.

  “Welcome home,” he told himself.

  Chapter 2

  THE LI-GALLANT VINGI’S OFFICE was as Gyll remembered it: large, shaped so as to channel the eye to the Li-Gallant’s desk and the massive floater behind it, the walls crawling with ambulatory colors of mobile tapestries. Ostentatious, and too rich for the world. The expansive window to one side gave a view of the keep’s gardens, a landscape of topiaries and intricate beds of flowers. The grounds were a buffer separating the Li-Gallant from the tiresome sight of his lessers, a vista of fertile soil, none of the products of which were at all anything but decorative.

  A waste on a world where people sometimes starved.

  The Li-Gallant reminded Gyll of those gardens. Bloated like a puffindle, and ornamental. Flesh, only thinly concealed, hung from his ponderous frame. His body shook with each movement; he wheezed, his chin was trebled. Rings adorned each of his thick fingers, his manicure was immaculate. The eyes, small and almost lost, were clear and alert, and the tiny mouth was set in what might have been a smile, might have been a smirk.

  The Li-Gallant didn’t rise from his floater behind the desk as he would have been compelled to do if Gyll had been guilded kin—as he had done before when Gyll was kin-lord of the Hoorka. Vingi remained seated, hands steepled just below his mouth. “My secretary gave your title as ‘Sula,’ Sirrah Hermond. Is that correct?” Vingi asked the question without preliminaries, without the amenities that, on Neweden, marked the beginning of a conversation between equals. It was, Gyll realized, another small statement. Not quite insult, not quite blatant enough to give cause (to another Newedener) for bloodfeud, but fixing the parameters and giving notice to Gyll of his status.

  As familiar as he was with the tactic, a spark of anger began to grow inside Gyll. As antagonistic, as predictable as ever, the Li-Gallant. The man has damned few attacks, but he’s not loath to use them. “The title’s correct, Li-Gallant,” Gyll answered. “It marks me as head of the Oldin military arm.” Gyll smiled back at the Li-Gallant and, with a trace of satisfaction he could not help feeling, pulled a floater from near the wall and sat without invitation before Vingi’s desk. He crossed his legs, laced his fingers around his knee.

  The Li-Gallant’s reaction was pleasing. Gyll knew what buttons to push in this society—it was one of the few advantages of living in a static and formalized system; emotions were easier to manipulate. Vingi’s face reddened, his flabby arms pushed his bulk back from the desk, the mouth began to open. Gyll, still in his relaxed pose, shook his head into the beginning threat. “Li-Gallant, remember who I am and what I do. And who I was. We’re both past our physical primes, but I’ve kept in training. No matter how fast you think you can call your guards, you’d be dead before they arrived. I’ve made that threat here before to you, Li-Gallant. You know I meant it then. Do you want to take the chance that I’m bluffing now?”

  Gyll spoke blandly, slowly, while Vingi stared. The Li-Gallant’s hands made a short convulsive movement. He swallowed. Then he sat back once more and pulled his floater to the desk. He smiled a predatory smile.

  “You still know the Neweden mentality, Sula, but you speak like an offworlder. No guilded kin would be that blunt, not to me.”

  “I’m not guilded kin.”

  “True. You’re lassari, unguilded. I remember Thane Valdisa appearing in council to announce your ouster from the ranks of kin. She spat on the floor when she spoke your name.” A pause. “She seemed very angry.”

  “She had reason to be,” Gyll replied. He’s trying to provoke his own reactions, searching for a weakness to exploit. Don’t let him see it. “Li-Gallant, let’s start over again. I think we can both respect one another’s positions, even if we’re no longer part of the same culture. You’re much more intelligent than you pretend to be at times; you know as well as I that Neweden’s ways are not the ways of the rest of humanity.”

  Vingi nodded. He twisted a ring around a finger, watching reflected light flare in the gemstone. “And that was spoken like the Oldin woman, not the old Hoorka-thane. Which are you, Sula: kin or trader?”

  “Both,” Gyll said. “And neither. But more trader than kin. I’ve renounced citizenship in the Alliance, and Thane Valdisa left me no alternative but to leave Hoorka. I’m of the Family Oldin, Li-Gallant. They have my allegiance.”

  Vingi seemed not to have heard Gyll’s reply. He was still staring at his ring, as if lost in the facets of the stone. “I use the Hoorka quite a bit, Sula. I’ve heard it whispered that the lassari consider your old assassins to be my hirelings, my own elite guard. And of course that feeling has its roots back when you were Thane, when you failed twice to kill my rival Gunnar on my contracts—the guilded kin thought then that you’d allied yourself with Gunnar. When Gunnar was killed in a cowardly murder, then they thought I’d finally paid you enough to join with me. Now your Thane Valdisa fights against the image, trying to prove that the Hoorka are indeed neutral, but it’s more and more difficult, since the Hoorka are poor, except when I furnish them funds via contracts.”

  “I’ve heard those rumors as well, Li-Gallant. The part of me that was kin hates them.” He’s still looking for your sore points—tell him some of the truth, but not all of it.

  “You hate it, neh? And do you intend to do something about it? I wouldn’t like opposition, Sula.” His tone was almost jovial as he said the words.

  Gyll said nothing for a moment. He wondered if it would be this way for the rest of his stay on Neweden. First d’Embry, now the Li-Gallant. Always chipping at the wall, always trying to provoke a reaction, always trying to hurt. “That’s all past, Li-Gallant. History. One can’t change that.”

  “Well, Sula, because of Hoorka’s history, the guilded kin view your old assassins with much suspicion; because of the whispers that Hoorka—under your direction as well as Valdisa’s—from time to time ignored the code of neutrality you built for them, has led to a decline in their status and wealth. They may be feared; they’re no longer respected.”

  “As I said, Li-Gallant, my loyalty is now to the Oldins, not the guild Hoorka. Not anymore.”

  “Not even though they’re your own creation?”

  Despite himself, Gyll felt irritation roughen his voice, pull his mouth into a frown. “Li-Gallant, if I felt that Hoorka were a corruption of all
that I’d set out to create with them, I’d be happy to destroy the guild, or let them be destroyed by you. I don’t know that such is the case—I haven’t been on Neweden for some standards, and I haven’t kept in contact with Hoorka.” He’d unlaced his fingers and put both feet on the floor, leaning forward slightly from the waist. Fool, you’re giving yourself away. You’re showing him just how much you are interested in Hoorka, in Neweden. He made an effort to calm himself, to put his back against the floater’s cushions.

  The Li-Gallant looked pleased with himself. “So you’ve returned to meddle in Neweden’s affairs.”

  Calm. Gyll made himself smile. “No. The Family Oldin survives by selling our goods, and I know Neweden. I came to see you because it’s only good policy to speak with those in charge of the worlds we service—it smooths potential problems. Kaethe Oldin told me of the, ahh, arrangements she made while she was here. I’m prepared to double that fee—and the exact amount of the stipend will not be disclosed to the council. Your guild, and you as kin-lord, will be the prime benefactors.”

  That had been Kaethe’s suggestion. She’d gauged the man well. The Li-Gallant’s eyebrows rose slightly, the lips pursed, contemplative. He made no attempt to conceal his satisfaction. His greed was almost palpable. That bastard’s more avaricious than you’d imagine, Gyll. I knew him better than you in that sense, and his drive for wealth overrides the rest. That’s the key to him.

  “When Kaethe Oldin was here,” Vingi said, “she sold me an alien trinket: the Battier Radiance. It’s broken.”

  “And it will be repaired without charge,” Gyll replied. “The Family Oldin honors their commitments, Li-Gallant. If you recall, it wasn’t by choice that we left here the last time.”

  “Nor will it be this time, neh?”

  Gyll shrugged. Vingi laughed.

  “Ah, well. The Oldins brought me luck—I rule Neweden unhampered now, Sula, except for a few paltry groups of malcontents, and I have the Hoorka to take care of them, neh?” He laughed again. Gyll smiled, hoping that he looked convincing. He didn’t enjoy deceit, wasn’t particularly good at it when he tried, no matter what d’Embry might think he’d learned from the Oldins. Kaethe used to laugh when he tried to hide anything from her—Gods, you’re so transparent, Gyll, she’d said. It took all of his effort not to rise and leave this corpulent vulture. The thought of Helgin’s mocking taunts stopped him more than the surety of FitzEvard Oldin’s displeasure.

  “Fix the Battier, Sula, and have the funds you’ve spoken of transferred to my account. My secretary can handle the arrangements.” Vingi shifted position in his floater as if restless. Gyll, taking that as a sign that the interview was at an end, rose. The Li-Gallant’s gaze stayed with him, speculative. Gyll inclined his head. “Yah, Li-Gallant?”

  “I’m not given to intrigue and circumspection, Sula. You know me well enough to expect bluntness. In fact, you probably consider me too direct, too readable. To an extent, you’re right. I’m not overly devious. Even my enemies give me credit for that.” Pause. The Li-Gallant put his fingertips together under the swell of chins. Reflections stuttered on his rings, shivered on the walls. “Why are you really here, Hermond? I’m not a fool. You’re a hell of a lousy salesman—Kaethe Oldin had a much better patter and was better-looking, as well. You’re too dour and agreeable. I doubt that you’re on Neweden entirely to sell Trader junk. Why, then?”

  “You’re mistaken, Li-Gallant.”

  “You’re the Sula, head of the military, by your own admission. Why send you on a simple trading mission?”

  “You misunderstand the structure of the Families. Yah, I’m Sula, but the Families don’t segregate along occupational lines as strictly as we”—Gyll smiled at his unintentional slip—“as you here on Neweden. There are no guilds as we know them. Everyone, even the soldiers, even the leaders such as FitzEvard, take their turns on the ships. I was sent to Neweden because I knew the planet, knew the society. And, as FitzEvard told me, there’s not a whole lot for me to foul up here.”

  “That was almost plausible, Sula.” Vingi nodded. “It was even fairly well said, well rehearsed. But Kaethe Oldin hinted to me of plans that the Family Oldin had for Neweden, and she said that I might well fit into them.”

  “Then she’s neglected to tell me of them. I seek only trading opportunities, Li-Gallant.”

  “I think not.”

  “Li-Gallant, all I can say is that the Family Oldin finds Neweden quite satisfactory. For trade. Or they wouldn’t have sent me here.”

  Gyll smiled at the Li-Gallant and bowed in salutation—the bow of equals, of kin. Vingi slowly rose, with a groan of exertion. He stared at Gyll, measuring him for a long moment, then returned the bow.

  “You will keep me informed of your progress here, Sula. And we’ll talk further, I’m sure.” There was no interrogative in his voice.

  “Certainly, Li-Gallant. I can assure you that you stand very high in the estimation of Family Oldin.”

  “As you are in mine, Sula. Just remember who it is that controls this world.”

  • • •

  The Regent d’Embry wished that Santos McClannan would shut up. Too many things about her seneschal annoyed her. His voice was mellifluous and pleasant—that annoyed her. He was handsome in a superficial, cosmetic manner despite (she told herself that she wasn’t simply being petty) an odd asymmetry to his long face. That annoyed her as well. He was efficient, if somewhat prone to overstepping his limits of authority, and he was invariably polite, no matter what he was saying to her.

  That annoyed her most of all.

  “I know it’s not my place to criticize, Regent, but I think you’re going to find that allowing the Traders, especially the Family Oldin, back on Neweden was a tragic mistake.” McClannan had been staring out the window toward the port, where a Goshawk shuttle was unloading cargo. Now he turned back to d’Embry, a smile of inoffensive apology touching the corners of his full lips. She returned the smile—if he wanted to play the game of excessive politeness, let him; she wasn’t inexpert herself—and sipped from the cup of mocha on her desk. The dark liquid shivered with the involuntary tremor of her hand. She wished she could lean back in the floater, but the chair’s back was high and contacted the hump of the symbiote. She was afraid of hurting it, fearful that she might dislodge the bloodroot despite the doctor’s assurance that the symbiote was quite unfragile.

  “There’s the slight problem of legality,” she answered. Her voice was soft; she didn’t seem to have the energy to speak more forcefully anymore. “By the Alliance-Families Pact, the only captain I can refuse is Kaethe Oldin. Not unless I have due cause.”

  McClannan’s smile widened, showing white and perfect teeth. He sat on the edge of her desk—another annoyance—and beamed down at her. “Ahh, but that’s an easy thing to acquire, that due cause. We both know that—a little money spread in the right places, a violation of the Pact swiftly enters the records, and this Sula Hermond is gone. And so are our troubles.”

  “But it still wouldn’t be right, and it wouldn’t be that easy, despite all your assurances. The Li-Gallant, for one, would scream in rage. I know that the Oldins bribe him with a percentage of their profits, and FitzEvard would never allow Sula Hermond to leave until every legal and illegal channel had been pursued. We’d only give ourselves more aggravation.” She looked at him, blinked slowly. “There are chairs in the room, Seneschal.”

  “Pardon me, Regent.” He stood slowly, seemed to hesitate, then extruded a hump-chair from the floor. He sat again, crossing his legs. Over steepled hands, he regarded her. “M’Dame, what’s better, pragmatically? To follow the regulations blindly, or, by a bit of selective blindness, avoid larger potentials for trouble? The Oldins are interfering bastards. Despite the Pact, they stick their noses in the politics of every world they visit. They undermine our influence, subvert the locals, and do us no good whatsoever.”

  “Damn it, McGlannan, I know the Oldins better than anyone!” D’Embry’s breath
ing stuttered with her outburst. The symbiote squirmed on her back in response. She covered her discomfort by picking up her cup and pretending to study the contrast of her fingers (tinted lime green today) against the delicate porcelain. “And are such quasi-legal questions the things they ask in the Academy nowadays? Seneschal, I know the Oldins, and, believe me, you underestimate them.”

  “Yet you’ve allowed them to return.” McClannan shook his handsome head carefully, his hair staying delicately in place. “When the Oldins came here last, they helped the Hoorka assassins kill a head official of Moache Mining. Gunnar, Vingi’s rival, was killed, and Vingi was able to seize dictatorial powers. The lassari organized under the unknown person Renard—whom we still haven’t captured—and lassari attacks on the guilded kin increased tenfold.” He continued to gaze at her, still without much expression, as if talking to himself. She sniffed, set the cup down, and tapped her fingers near the switch for her com-unit, hoping he would take the hint.

  He didn’t. “Niffleheim Center had to explain to Moache Mining why nothing was done to catch the persons responsible for slaying their man, and this whole planet’s social system was rocked. It’s still rocking. You were nearly removed from this post. You had to call in every last political favor you’ve earned over the decades to keep this regency—and if the Legat Gioneferra weren’t your friend, it still wouldn’t have been enough. I know that, Regent. You were the talk of Niffleheim that standard. Now tell me about legalities, about why we should let Sula Hermond and the Oldins back here.”