“Then you’ve made your choice, Sula. As I told you, all the forces here look to you as a part of the solution to Neweden’s problems. You can’t avoid the politics: whether there’s a reason or not, those in power all look to you. Their thoughts center around you. You’re involved, Sula, despite your protests.”
The two guards had increased their pace. One pointed to them. The woman slid around the bulk of the landing strut and ran. Gyll heard her footsteps, watched as Vingi’s guard took flight after her. The Diplo waited for a moment until pursuer and pursued had disappeared into a maze of idle machinery, then sauntered over to Gyll. The Diplo nodded to Gyll pleasantly. The badge on his tunic had the name Vorman inscribed on it—a miniature Vorman leered up at him from the holo ID. “Think he’ll catch her?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” Gyll answered. “She seemed fast and agile. Bet she has better wind, too.”
“Who was she?”
“She didn’t say,” Gyll said flatly. He’d already decided that he did not like this Vorman. “She was looking for a handout.” Gyll elaborated no further. Vorman nodded, staring at Gyll.
“My friend from the Li-Gallant seemed to think she might be Hag’s Legion.”
“I know the woman was lassari. She might have been involved with the Legion, I suppose. It is largely lassari.”
“Ahh.” Vorman nodded again. He smiled; it touched only his lips. “I don’t know how the woman got out here, Sula—as you know, all Neweden natives are restricted to the public area of the port.”
“Then shouldn’t you be chasing her as well?”
The smile became wider and still did not reach his eyes. Gyll’s dislike for the man’s false camaraderie increased. “It’s a purely internal problem for Neweden, isn’t it, Sula?” Vorman said. “At least as long as she was just here to ask for charity. Perhaps we’ll find out more if she’s caught.”
Gyll glanced back the way she’d gone. “My money’s on the woman,” he said. “Care to wager?”
“I think not.” Vorman shrugged. “I’ll have to make a report, though. The Regent insists on knowing what happens inside the port.” He glanced at Gyll and the smile vanished. “Especially where it concerns you, Sula.”
“It’s nice to know she cares.”
The smile returned. “And I’d been told that you had very little humor in you, Sula. Well, I’ll leave you to your work.”
Vorman walked away, moving toward the gates of Diplo Center. Gyll watched him leave. “Gods damn all officious assholes like you, Vorman,” Gyll muttered.
Then, puzzling over the incident, he went back to his crew.
Chapter 4
THE FUNERAL OF VASELLA was held in one of the hundred or so small churches dotting Dasta Burrough—the Church of the Vengeful Ippicator. Renard had chosen it, whimsically, for its name; certainly not for its grandeur. It was an uncomfortable choice in most ways, though that made Renard feel pleased rather than the opposite. Too many people were crammed into too small a space. The interior was hot despite the autumnal temperatures outside, and it was crowded. Renard’s clothes were sticky and damp. He’d left behind the plant-pet as rendering him too conspicuous, but was glad now that the creature’s burdensome weight didn’t add to his discomfort. Micha and Alex pressed beside him, too close. Still, the scene made him smile. Little annoyances bred anger, and the child of anger is violence.
Only the corpse of Vasella had room. Shrouded in plain glowcloth, it lay on a bier between the congregation and the altar, bedecked with flowers and small burial gifts. The mourners were almost entirely lassari and low kin, the residents of Dasta Burrough and Oversector and the wretched areas like them in all of Neweden’s cities. Squirming in his seat in the front pew, Renard could see them, filling the ranks of seats, lining the walls and clogging the aisles, seemingly about to overflow the balcony. Good, good. They’re already edgy and bitter, and this poor excuse for a church feeds their irritations. Good. The mourners shifted, fanned themselves, shouted across to friends, all under the cartoonish glare of a rendering of She of the Five that filled the rear wall. Behind the poorly drawn goddess, a simplistic sky tossed thunderheads jerkily from left to right. Renard smiled up at the visage, mockingly. He fingered the rough cloth of the hood on his lap—he’d brought the Hag’s Legion here with their faces concealed, for a squadron of Vingi’s guards had been just outside the church, filming all those who entered. There had been muttering and covert insults, but no trouble. Not yet.
The Li-Gallant plays into my hands. Again. As always.
The crowd quieted as the Revelate Brotsge walked slowly from the sacristy to the bier. Brotsge was old, frail of body, and foul-tempered, an old-line lassari who preached of eventual rebirth and reward for those who followed the mores of Neweden society. The revelate had been absurdly happy at receiving the overlarge tithing for the funeral service. Seeing the church, Renard could understand: it needed repair. It seemed to be held together with erratic strips of paint and prayer. Whatever the revelate’s usual congregation, they were neither large nor generous with what little money they had.
The revelate shuffled forward and put a trembling right hand on Vasella’s shroud. At his gesture, the lights in the church dimmed—haphazardly, for some went entirely dark and others stayed nearly full—while the sky behind She of the Five became twilight with a flickering of scratchy lightning. The Revelate Brotsge’s voice was as palsied as his hands. It reverberated tinnily through the church.
“We have gathered to send the soul of Urbana Vasella to our gods and their mercy.” He leered out to the people in what Renard assumed was Brotsge’s interpretation of a sympathetic smile. Renard frowned back, properly respectful and sad at this death of a friend. Micha leaned toward him slightly, speaking in a whisper. “I wish we could have done this outside. My pants are itching from all the heat.” Renard nodded back, still looking at Brotsge.
The revelate took his hand away from the bier and made the sign of the star over the body. “Sirrah Vasella prepares to meet She of the Five, who will snatch him away from Hag Death and prepare him for his next life here. She will take his j’nath, his essence, and mold it in a new form, one that mirrors the worthiness of his past lives. We should not grieve here, my friends, for Urbana is dead only for a little time, as the Gods count such things.”
“He’s dead! That’s all that matters, Revelate!”
The shout came from the packed rear of the hall, followed by scattered shouts of agreement. Restless, the congregation mumbled to itself. Heads craned to view the source of the interruption. Renard sat, silent and still, hands folded on his hood, ignoring the sweat and the heat and the closeness, watching the consternation in the face of the revelate. The man peered myopically out into the crowd, seeking the taunter. Brotsge blustered, scowling, the sound system amplifying his spluttering ire. As the gathering settled once more into restive, uneasy quiet, Brotsge gathered together the shreds of his composure once more, drawing himself up and glaring down at the assembled, his chin high. Renard leaned back, not letting the band of wetness down his spine bother him. This would be interesting.
Brotsge had motioned to his acolyte—a boy that could have been no more than ten. Obviously hot and uncomfortable in his voluminous, heavy surplice, the boy came over to the revelate, bearing a tray on which sat censer and spices, a flask of holy water. The boy kept glancing at the crowd, especially at the solemn rank of the Hag’s Legion. Brotsge cleared his throat, said something to the acolyte in a whisper. The child blanched, blinked heavily. The tray shook, but his attention was now entirely on the revelate. Brotsge took the flask and walked once around the corpse, now and then sprinkling the liquid inside over the shroud, all the while intoning the litany of She of the Five. Renard watched, impassive, biding his time and listening more to the whispers of the people behind him than to the ritualistic mutterings of the revelate. He wiped sweat from his forehead with his sleeve, folded his muscular arms at his chest.
Revelate Brotsge faced the
congregation once more. Sweat had made ragged strands of his white, thin hair. Dark circles of perspiration were visible under the sleeves of his outer garment. He bowed his head: Renard watched a droplet of sweat fall from the revelate’s head to the floor.
“We send Urbana on with our prayers and the blessing of She of the Five. We pray he will return soon, his j’nath purged by his passage.” His head still bowed, Brotsge waited for the traditional response: “All praise Her.” It came only from his acolyte. The crowd began the refrain, but came to a ragged halt as Micha—at a nudge from Renard—rose from her seat and spoke loudly.
“You’re quite mistaken, Revelate.” She had a strong, firm voice. It carried well in the mugginess of the church.
The revelate gaped at her, his mouth open comically. At his side, the acolyte giggled nervously. Brotsge flung a hand sidewise; it struck the boy on the cheek, silencing him and rocking the utensils on the tray. The revelate shut his mouth, straightened. He fixed Micha with a squinting glare. “M’Dame—” he began severely.
“Revelate,” Micha interrupted. Her audacity snapped shut his mouth again. In his seat, Renard grinned to himself. Good. The church was utterly silent, everyone’s attention drawn to the conflict. Even the swishing of improvised fans had stopped, forgotten. Micha’s words fell into the quiet like stones. “Vasella was a lassari, like most of us in the Legion, like most of those here today.” She swept her hands wide to include the gathering. “He had no wish to return to this miserable life on the vague chance”—she paused, as Renard had taught her—“that in this mythical next life he might return as guilded kin.”
“M’Dame—”
“No, Revelate. Vasella will return to us when the ippicators return, as all our lore tells us they will do, when the time has come to destroy this society the guilded kin have built to serve their own needs.” Another pause, and as Brotsge began to make some comment, Micha shouted over him. “Vasella would not want to be kin, not when it would mean defiling all he believed in. He would not turn around and spit in the faces of the lassari and low kin, who were as a family to him.”
At that, there were scattered applause and sounds of agreement from around the church. Only the row of the Hag’s Legion sat silent, unperturbed. Renard was pleased with the response. A little heavy-handed with the words, but she’s doing it well. Good and better.
Brotsge clapped his hands together. The sound, amplified, rang through the hall. Slowly the crowd settled before his obvious anger: a revelate, after all, was a person touched by the gods, an institution they had all been taught to respect. Only Micha stood, defiant, with the presence of the Legion behind her.
“Woman,” the old man said, “why do you persist in this blasphemy?” His use of casual address caused Micha’s face to tighten into a scowl. At Renard’s side, Alex started to rise, and Renard quieted him with a harsh gesture. He didn’t like having to do that—it showed his power over the Legion to a careful observer, and his safety lay in anonymity.
“Is it blasphemy to speak truth, Revelate?” Micha trembled, but she held herself. Renard leaned forward in his seat, ready to interrupt if he had to, but hoping it would not be necessary—it was not his intention to have the lassari anger vented here, in private.
“I speak the truths of She of the Five.” Revelate Brotsge nodded to her. “And I apologize for speaking to you so rudely, m’Dame. I only wanted you to listen.”
Renard sighed in relief. He slouched back.
Micha bowed to the revelate, the deep bow of equals. “Your apology is accepted, Revelate. Vasella was a devout man in his own way, and we of the Legion knew he would want the blessing of She of the Five. But he also believed that She meant for us to be more than chattel, that She didn’t want the lassari to vanish like Her ippicators. The guilded kin would like us to be content with the belief that we will someday be kin ourselves. They hope that will keep us in line, underneath them. And we will be kin, Revelate: we of the Hag’s Legion have pledged that. But we won’t receive recognition by being docile and waiting for that eventual reward.”
“My dear child,” Brotsge began—not an insult, but merely the perception of the elderly toward the younger.
Still, it caused Micha to toss her head back. She laughed, loudly, almost joyously.
“We’re not children, Revelate. None of us. We lost our innocence a long time ago, in the blood the Li-Gallant, the Hoorka, and all the kin have taken from us.”
“I know that this man’s death”—Brotsge indicated the bier with a grandiose gesture—“has bereaved you greatly.”
Micha smiled. “You’ll never suspect what his death means to us, Revelate.”
“Let us mourn him, then, m’Dame. Calmly, and without rage, as She of the Five would wish it.”
“His whole life was rage, Revelate,” Micha persisted. “He wanted a revelate’s blessing to take with him to the Hag. That’s all.”
“He has that,” Brotsge growled. He gripped the flask of holy water tightly, then seemed to realize for the first time that he was still holding it. He placed it back on the acolyte’s tray. “I’ve given him that blessing.”
“Then,” Micha said, “we will take him.”
At her signal, the Hag’s Legion stood and came forward, ignoring Brotsge’s protests. They took hold of the bier, lifting it to their shoulders. Petals of flowers littered the floor in a slow, bright rain. Brotsge, shouting, grasped at Alex’s arm, next to Renard. Alex grinned at the revelate as if amused and, with a shrugging motion, flung Brotsge aside. The acolyte, with a cry, abandoned his tray and clutched at the falling revelate’s robes. He did little good. Brotsge struck the floor hard, his head thudding against tile. The boy shrieked in fear; Brotsge—echoed by the sound system—howled in pain. “You can’t do this,” he screamed, holding his head. Bright, thick blood welled between his fingers. “You make a mockery of my church.”
Renard, adjusting the weight of the bier on his shoulder, glanced down at the man, at the boy holding him and attempting to stanch the flow of blood with his surplice. “You’re exactly right, Revelate Brotsge.” With his free hand, he placed the hood over his head. His voice muffled, he continued. “And we’ll continue to do so as long as the churches serve the guilded kin and not those who need comfort the most.” Renard’s eyes, cold and unsympathetic, stared from the ragged holes in the hood. “You’ve given Urbana his blessing. That was all we required of you.”
The bier lurched forward, Renard moving with it, his attention leaving the plight of the old man. Moving slowly, they stepped down into the main aisle and were immediately surrounded. The church was noisy and chaotic now; shouting faces, sweat-slick brows, raised hands. A rock arced over Renard’s head and the bier; behind him, he heard a crack as the missile struck the animo of She of the Five, then the bright clatter of shattered glass striking the floor. Around him, people cheered, jostling him. He grinned, the dangerous excitement of the crowd filling him with energy. A man near him shouted: “Down with kin!” Renard shouted back in kind, gleeful. The bier seemed very light; those nearest were reaching out to aid the Legion bearers. Above Renard, the bier rode like a raft on an uneasy, living sea. Someone ahead of them thrust open the doors to the church—they slammed back against their supports, askew; behind, to the side, there were more sounds of destruction, glass breaking, wood splintering. Renard could feel the chill touch of outside air.
Clamorous, moving; the crowd spilled from the church, down the wide steps to the street. As they came out into the night, into the soft illumination of the hoverlamps, Renard could see the squad of guards, still watching from across the way. They looked worried. Their hands stayed close to the handles of their crowd-prods, and one fidgeted nervously with a relay button on his lapel. The bier tilted dangerously as they came down the steps, and Renard had to give all his attention to the unseen footing beneath him. When he could look up again, he could see very little above the bobbing, restless sea of heads on every side of him. It didn’t matter. Events had,
so for, gone the way he’d planned. He knew what would happen, knew what must happen.
He waited for the first sounds of chaos.
• • •
Afterward, descriptions of the events (and, of course, the official assignment of the blame for the incident) would vary according to the sources consulted. The Hag’s Legion would hold that one of Vingi’s guards struck the actual first blow. The Li-Gallant’s Domoraj, before the interrogators of the Neweden press, would just as vehemently contend that it was a vile lassari who first made the confrontation a physical one.
Neither side would deny that what precipitated the fray was a photodot. One of the guards raised a camera to record the scene—all agreed on that point. Certainly the lassari were quite sensitive toward Vingi’s interest in Vasella and the Hag’s Legion, and especially the mysterious figure of their leader, Renard, who was rumored to have attended the funeral. Certainly (as well), the lassari were in a foul, bitter, and angry mood, especially concerning full kin. And (certainly) they felt the security of numbers, the pressure of their peers, no matter how well-armed the guards. There were a few hundred of the lassari mob, only twenty of the guards: ten-to-one odds tend to make even the most cowardly people brave.
Whatever.
Within a few moments of the photodot being taken, a melee had begun between the guards and the mourners around the bier. The guards reacted with the ingrained ferocity of guilded kin toward the social canaille: they fought viciously, with all the power at their command, and without restraint. That only incited the lassari further, fueling their anger.
The first sound Renard heard was the cough of a sting at close range, followed by a mass wailing as the crowd-creature of lassari shouted alarm and pain. People bucked back against the Legion members, the bier tossing alarmingly. Renard screamed at them to back away. “Put the bier down! Gently, gently—and get the hoods off. They only mark you now.”
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