Assassins' Dawn

by Stephen Leigh

  “Why? The damage to Neweden’s done. This world’s been pushed over the edge of change, and we can’t stop that now. And—you may have trouble with this, Gyll—I still wouldn’t trade the Oldins for the Alliance. Not at all. I’d gladly kill Renard, but I’d go back to FitzEvard afterward, not d’Embry.”

  Gyll shook his head. “You’re right. That’s hard to believe.”

  “It’s the truth. You’re the one that desires truth, O Righteous One.” His voice was full of scorn.

  “You’re damned right,” Gyll answered heatedly. “I’m frigging tired of this, Helgin. If I’m archaic and stupid, fine, but Neweden shaped me and I still believe in that outmoded concept of honor.”

  “Neweden lies worse than anyone, man. Look at the Li-Gallant if you want to see a slimy eel.” Helgin lay back again. His hand lifted, then fell, as if he wanted to reach for Gyll but was afraid that the gesture might be misinterpreted or rejected. “Gyll, you can’t go around bothered because the universe doesn’t conform to your idea of morality. It doesn’t work that way.”

  Fury was in Gyll now. A calm, distant part of himself recognized the anger for the catharsis it was; it boiled, driving his open hand against the medi-doc. The device rang with a metallic protest, shivering in its holding field. “Don’t give me this philosophical shit, Helgin!” he roared, feeling the words ravage his throat. “I don’t give a damn who’s lying or why, I just need to understand. What are we doing on Neweden, what does FitzEvard want with it?”

  Something had changed in Helgin’s eyes. Under the hedge of his eyebrows, they had narrowed, gone hard. He twisted a strand of his beard between thumb and forefinger, lips pursed thoughtfully. “Want to know what else I’ve done, Gyll? It’s more than just consorting with Renard. You remember Gunnar, Vingi’s old rival, killed in a most un-Neweden-like manner by an unknown assassin? That killer was me, Gyll. Me. Acting on FitzEvard’s orders. But then, you Hoorka don’t blame the weapons, do you? You’re just the weapons in someone else’s hands. That was me as well: a weapon in FitzEvard’s hands.”

  Gyll could not speak. He’d told himself that he would not be surprised by anything the dwarf could tell him. But this eight-standard-old confession startled him. “Why did you kill Gunnar?” he said at last.

  “Me?” Helgin started to sit up on his elbows, but then grimaced in pain and lay back once more—a flurry of varicolored dots flickered with his motion. “I did it because FitzEvard asked me to do it. Not told me, asked me—we Motsognir have our pride, after all.”

  “Then what were FitzEvard’s reasons?”

  “I forgot to ask him,” Helgin muttered, then shook his head. “Gyll, FitzEvard and d’Embry have had a running confrontation for decades. I don’t think it insignificant that Oldin would choose to come to Neweden when d’Embry’s Regent. Maybe that was entirely it—he wanted to cause d’Embry problems. Or maybe he really wants Neweden, for whatever purposes.”

  “It sounds damned petty.”

  “To you or me, yah. We ain’t FitzEvard, are we?”

  “What about the ippicator?”

  “I don’t know anything about it. Honestly.”

  Gyll’s fist beat a rhythm on his hip, a steady slap-slap-slap. Suddenly he stopped and swiveled on his toes. He began to walk toward the door.

  “Where are you going, Gyll? You didn’t tuck me in.”

  The door slid open as Gyll touched the contact. The light of the corridor beyond spilled into the room, falling short of the bedfield and leaving Helgin lost in gloom. “Can’t you ever be serious, Helgin?”

  “I’m always serious. Where are you going?”

  He answered truthfully, “I don’t know.”

  “Shut the door. Please.”

  Gyll stepped back; the door sighed mechanically and abandoned the room to twilight once more. “Make this quick, Motsognir. I’m suddenly not much in the mood for talking.”

  “I just want to know what you’re planning to do, Gyll. I ask as a friend, because I do care about you.”

  “I’ve declared bloodfeud against Renard, and any member of the Hag’s Legion. I intend to follow that up.”

  Helgin nodded. “You’re not going to quit Family Oldin, not going to try some heroics that’ll just be used by both sides?”

  “I don’t know what I intend to do. I’ll think about it, first. What worries me most isn’t you or me or the frigging Oldins. There are ten Hoorka here on the ship, ten of my old guild-kin, who came because they trusted me. I can’t leave them, and Valdisa won’t take them back from me, not if I know her at all. I trapped them here.”

  “I wouldn’t phrase it quite so pessimistically.”

  “I would.”

  There didn’t seem to be anything else to say. Gyll waited; Helgin lay still. The medi-doc purred to itself, and Gyll went back to the door.

  “You gonna tell them?” asked Helgin, behind him.

  “Who?” He did not turn.

  “Your Hoorka foundlings. You gonna tell them about all this?”

  “No. At least not yet.”

  “You see, you’re learning it too, Gyll—it’s better sometimes to lie or omit the truth.” There was no triumph in Helgin’s observation.

  “You might be right.” Gyll punched at the contact with a forefinger; the door opened. “But I hope you’re not.”

  He left.

  • • •

  Gyll sat at his desk for a long while, turning the thoughts in his mind like spadefuls of earth. He stroked the bumblewort in his lap, his feet on the desk—orangish fur floated through the room.

  “Fischer,” he said at last to the empty air.

  A click as a speaker activated: “Sula?”

  “Get me Thane Valdisa in Underasgard.”

  “Yes, Sula.” The speaker snapped off.

  Gyll swung his feet from the desk—the bumblewort chirruped in irritation. He tried to dump the creature off his lap, prodding the soft shell of its back. The wort braced its legs, not wanting to leave. Sighing, Gyll let it remain where it was, scratching its earflaps absently.

  Click. “I have Thane Valdisa, Sula.”

  “Thank you, Fischer.” Gyll activated the camera and flat-screen. Valdisa stared out at him, the broken walls of the caverns behind her. The view gave him only head and shoulders—a dark, wrathful woman. “I assume you’ve called to gloat,” she said before he could speak.

  He’d expected the bitterness, but had expected it to be encapsuled in the Neweden circumspection. He hadn’t thought she’d be so blunt. “Not to gloat,” he said. “Just to tell you that they’re here. And to give it one last chance with you.”

  “You still have the bumblewort, I see.”

  Gyll glanced down—the wort had put its front paws on the desk, peering up at the screen. Gyll rubbed its nose, and the wort ducked away with a shake of its head. “Yah, I still have the wort, and you’re evading the question.”

  She nodded. “You’ve told me all I need to know. They came to you. If you’re not gloating, I don’t see where we have anything further to talk about.”

  “Will you take them back, if they decide to return?”

  Her face changed with that. She became suspicious, puzzled, her lips drawing back slightly, her nose wrinkling. “Don’t you want them now that they’re there? No, I won’t take them back. They’ve made their choice; let them die with it.”

  “Let’s at least be reasonable about this, Valdisa.”

  “Reasonable?” She laughed, her face twisted. Her eyes seemed large, touched with moisture; the skin under her eyes was dark with a lack of sleep. “You’ve done the cruelest thing you could do to Hoorka, Gyll. You crippled us—who knows, maybe it’s the mortal wound you were after, but it’ll be a while before we die. If you wanted to watch Hoorka suffer, this’ll do it. All I have left are the dregs of the full kin and the apprentices. I haven’t enough people for a viable rotation; that means we might have trouble with some contracts. I may lose kin to thievery or lassari-traits—some of those I
have left are damned close to that now. The new Regent won’t even talk with me, much less try to open offworld options.” She seemed to run out of steam, her vehemence collapsing. Her shoulders sagged; the focus of her camera shifted slightly as she leaned away.

  “You’re allied with Vingi now. You won’t starve.”

  Her eyes widened. She shrugged. “I had to do it.”

  “That has destroyed Hoorka more than anything I’ve done.”

  “You’re not Hoorka. Don’t let it bother you.”

  Gyll snorted derision. “If I were staying longer, I’d dismantle the Hoorka myself—I could do it; go to the Li-Gallant, offer him the services of the Trader-Hoorka at a break-even rate, guarantee the death of a victim. I could even make it a point of our agreement that he outlaw the assassins’ guild called Hoorka. He’d do it, Valdisa.”

  “If you’ve become that vicious, you’ve changed a lot in the time you’ve been gone, Gyll.”

  “Oh, I’ve changed, Valdisa. Very much.” He looked away and back. “And I hate the Hoorka, Valdisa. The guild has outlived its usefulness. The society changed around it, and it’s no longer viable. Give it up.”

  “And come to you?”

  “You’ll be nothing but a tool for the Li-Gallant if you stay.” Neweden is gone, Helgin had said. I still wouldn’t trade the Oldins for the Alliance. The wort mewled at him. He stroked its shell.

  “And whose tool would I be there?” Anger colored her cheeks. “The Sula isn’t content with his small victory,” she said, breaking into the impersonal mode. “He wants everything.”

  “Valdisa, don’t cut me off like this. Let’s at least talk.”

  She had turned away from him. “The Sula is an ass. I don’t hear him anymore.”

  “Valdisa . . .”

  But her hand had already reached out. The screen went dark.

  • • •

  “Gods, McClannan, certainly you’re not serious?” D’Embry was startled into a half-shout. She could not believe what he’d said. “You’re talking about a man’s life, not some silly game.”

  McClannan shrugged. They were in her office, now rather bare. The d’Vellia soundsculpture was packed and crated, silent. The animo-paintings swirled unseen in boxes. Only the desk remained. The carpet was dying; she’d let her daily maintenance lapse since McClannan had mentioned in passing that he intended to have it removed after she left. He stood in front of her desk now, immaculate, wearing the robes of office that she’d always eschewed as too ostentatious, the sunburst symbol of the Alliance golden at his throat. He looked the proper image of a regal Diplo—the very type she’d always abhorred. He brushed at his lower lip with a thumb.

  “I didn’t expect your approval, m’Dame.”

  “That’s good. Then you won’t be disappointed. Why even tell me? I can’t even fathom your reasoning, man. A Hoorka contract for Sula Hermond’s life? It’s absurd.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  A spasm of pain shot through d’Embry’s chest. She closed her eyes against the stabbing hurt. These attacks had come more and more frequently over the last week, and the symbiote on her back seemed less quick to cope with them. Getting old and worn-out, woman, and McClannan’s taken away the reason you kept fighting: cause and effect. She wondered as well if the symbiote wasn’t wearing out, thinking that it would be just like a Trader item to do that. D’Embry grimaced, knotting a tiny fist on her lap. She could feel McClannan’s gaze on her, definitely less than sympathetic, somehow predatory. She bid her eyes to open, made her hands relax. “What good is this supposed to do, Regent?”

  “The Li-Gallant tells me that the Alliance needs to show that it is better for Neweden than the Family Oldin, that we’re stronger.”

  “And this contract is supposed to prove that? Excuse my stupidity, but somehow the logic escapes me.” A cold amusement rippled through her; she found it difficult not to laugh, scoffingly. “Not even a fool like Vingi would believe that kind of crap—and in any case, the Sula will simply buy out the contract. It will never be run.”

  “I don’t think he’ll pay it off.” He seemed too calm. That worried d’Embry, made the pain of her body recede.

  “He’d be crazy not to do so. The Oldins are easily rich enough, no matter how expensive you made the price. All you’d prove is that the Oldins are as wealthy as the Alliance.”

  “I have additional information, m’Dame.” Smugness tightened his smile. He waved a negligent hand. “It’s a calculated risk, admittedly, but I think he’ll run.”

  D’Embry shook her head. “McClannan, you’re talking about murdering a man.”

  “I’m talking about letting Dame Fate decide. That’s the way it works here, isn’t it? Let Dame Fate decide if he’s to live or die.”

  “It’s still a life.”

  McClannan adjusted the collar of his robe. He brushed at imaginary lint on the silken sleeve. “How many people will die if the Li-Gallant boots the Alliance off-planet? Given a free hand to deal with the lassari as he sees fit, how many will die? Let the Oldins do what they want, and how many more will go to see the truth of Neweden’s afterlife? You’ve said it yourself, m’Dame: wherever the Oldins go, turmoil and death follow. I’m trading one life against several.”

  “All your altruistic excuses aside, it’s still a life.” She could feel the beginnings of the pain again. She ignored it, breathing deeply despite the agony that caused her. Damn you, symbiote, take care of this. Do your frigging job. “And it still comes down to speculation on your part. You think this, you believe that. Are you willing to gamble for a life? I wouldn’t. I repeat—it’s not a game.”

  “Game or not, it’s already done.”

  “You can still cancel the contract. All that costs you is money; McClannan, I’ll pay that out of my pension if the expense worries you.”

  He hesitated. She saw it in the set of his chin, the slightly open mouth. She attacked before he could answer, sitting forward in her chair. “Do you really want the Sula’s body dumped at the gates of Diplo Center?” she asked. “That may work here, but you’ve never had to kill a man, never seen the blood. Hell, man, our whole thrust is that we offer peace and security—civilization. How would Niffleheim view this contract?”

  “Niffleheim allowed you to let the Hoorka work offworld.”

  “Not often, and only with great reluctance. After Heritage, never.”

  McClannan scoffed, his composure returning and confidence coming back to his voice. “Come, m’Dame. You stopped the offworld Hoorka contracts because of Niffleheim’s pressure, not your own altruism. So don’t lecture me about ethics and morality. Neither one of us is an expert in those fields.”

  She knew that she should not be angry, not if she wanted to convince him. She had to remain calm, yet control eluded her. She didn’t know why—the influence of the symbiote’s chemicals, a lack of patience that had increased as her health deteriorated, whatever . . . She could hear the snappishness in her voice; she immediately regretted it. “What field is your area of expertise, McClannan? Lying? Going over your superior’s head? Or are you just looking to increase your skill with murder?”

  McClannan drew himself up to his full height, glaring down the length of that classic nose at d’Embry. “I told you not to lecture me, old woman,” he said, his words clipped. His facade of respect for her was gone; what she saw behind that abandoned facade appalled d’Embry—Gods, I didn’t know he hated me that much.

  She softened her tone, trying to recover some of the ground she’d lost to anger. “I’m sorry, Santos. You’re right, that was uncalled for. Let’s talk about this rationally.”

  It did not mollify him. “I’ve no interest in talking any further, m’Dame. I’m the Regent; please allow me to make my decisions without interference.”

  She sighed; the pain was arcing through her and she felt nausea boiling in her stomach. “I’m just trying to show you that you’re making a decision you’ll regret. Santos, I do have the experience—it’s s
ometimes worth listening to.”

  “Tell me you’ve never made a decision you’ve regretted.”

  She kneaded her stomach. “I wouldn’t make that claim,” she said. “You know that.”

  “Then don’t claim that your advice is so valuable.” McClannan nodded to her. “I think you’ve said enough.” For an instant, his face showed concern as he looked at her. “You’re in pain. Should I call the Center doctor?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Then I’ll be about my business.”

  He turned and left the room. D’Embry waited until he was gone, then doubled over, “Oh, damn!” she muttered through clenched teeth.

  Chapter 18

  THE APPRENTICE HAD A LOOK of joy as he handed the flimsy to Thane Valdisa. “A contract,” he said, smiling.

  She didn’t look at it. She stared at the apprentice in reproof. “You don’t need to be so happy about it,” she told him. “The Hag will smile at you one day—those that gloat at death, She keeps. She of the Five will never snatch you back.”

  The apprentice ducked his head. “Go on, get back to your post,” Valdisa told him. As the boy left, she unfolded the flimsy, read the words there. She glanced up, still holding the paper, and seemed to gaze into an unseen distance.

  “What is the man thinking of?” she said in a whisper. “Gyll won’t run. He won’t run.”

  Chapter 19

  STEBAN WAS AWED. The port overwhelmed him with noise and fury—open spaces and huge machines. And his contract was even more unusual: the creator of Hoorka, that figure of the full kins’ tales. Steban had never met him; Gyll had gone before the Hoorka had chosen Steban from the ranks of jussar applicants. There was a certain thrill knowing that he would meet the man soon.

  It had taken time, longer than any contract he’d initiated before. First he’d had to pass the port’s Diplo guards, polite but insistent on knowing his business. He’d had to wait until one of them called Diplo Center and received clearance. Then, with a badge clipped to his nightcloak as a pass, he’d gone to the shelter beside which Goshawk’s shuttle rested. He contacted the unbelieving people there, insisting that he would speak fully only with the Sula. It was his first view of Traders—they seemed normal enough, burly men and women whose main tasks seemed to be moving boxes and taking inventories. They’d radioed the ship, evidently quite pleased to pass the responsibility upward. Then had followed a long wait; he’d watched the shuttle depart, and spent an hour talking with the Traders—he did not believe half of what they told him, tales of offworld sights and pleasures. He’d nodded politely, but kept a skeptical grin on his face.