Assassins' Dawn (52 page)

“Your true-father was executed?”

“Sent to the Hag unguilded and without honor, as he deserved. It doesn’t hurt to say that, Cranmer. Neweden isn’t and shouldn’t be kind to murderers—it’s the foulest thing to do when you can declare bloodfeud and retain your honor and your vengeance. Man, I’m not kidding you—if I met my true-father tomorrow I’d prick him with my blade, and it wouldn’t be a fast death.”

“Hell, Thane, the Hoorka slay, what—fifty, sixty people a standard? I know your objection, too, so don’t say it. You’ve no personal grudge against those people; you don’t even know them. Even I might be able to kill someone who’d provoked me a great deal, but I doubt that I could go out and kill without provocation—do it for pay.”

“In a war you’d be killing, and doing it for pay. Cranmer, you ought to think before you talk.”

“Still, I have to persist. The Hoorka aren’t at war.”

“Hag’s ass, Cranmer. Then why do you bother with us? You can find an assassin on a hundred worlds, but you chose to look at the Hoorka—if you didn’t think us different, you wouldn’t bother.”

“Do you enjoy your work?”

(Here there is a long pause. Hermond seems to be about to reply, then stops in mid-syllable.) “I don’t enjoy it, scholar. I also don’t necessarily dislike it. It’s what I’ve been trained for, and it’s all subject to the gods’ wishes.”

“That’s all? Thane, I think I know you better.”

(A breath-sigh.) “And you won’t rest until I say more . . .”

(Laughter. But it is only Cranmer’s gaiety that is heard.)

“Fine, Sond. I’ll tell you something, then, but if it ever goes past this room, if it’s ever whispered to anyone else, I’ll have you given to the Hag in pieces. At times, every once in a while, I wonder if I’d do this again, if I’d create the Hoorka. And I ask myself if all the souls I’ve sent to the Hag aren’t going to be waiting for me when it’s my turn.”

•   •   •

Long before they could be seen, the presence of the Dead was announced. First, a faint and distant chant like the sound of a muffled chorus; then, as the soughing chant became louder and more distinct, the acrid smell of the too-sweet incense invaded the air. Nostrils wrinkled, heads began to turn . . .

The procession of the Dead snaked through the outer streets of Sterka toward the ornate arch that signified the boundary of Neweden’s capital. They ignored the fine, soaking mist the morning had brought.

There, near the Avenue of Taverns, a band of jussar had gathered under the weathershield of the Inn of Seven Ogres. This was the group’s daily ritual, however confined by the weather—the flaunting of their carefree status, neither kin nor kinless, a loud display of self. They wore little despite the chill drizzle; the day had the promise of summer’s heat and the clouds near the horizon looked broken, a possible herald of late sun. Fluoro-patterns swirled on bare chests, around the nexus of nipples; chains of heavy, dull links draped over the right shoulders and wrapped twice around the waists. On their wide belts, sheathed vibros were prominent. The jussar jostled one another (the inn-master looking out in disgust but not having the heart to cast the youths out into the rain) and annoyed the passersby. They made their comments with a caution native to them: jussar were tolerated past the point of other guild-kin—and certainly beyond the constricted limits of lassari—but they were by no means inviolate. Despite the patience shown them, jussar died as often as kin in insult-born arguments.

The slow tidal swell of the Hag’s chant came to them, mixed with the subsonic drone of the port’s machinery and the assorted waking-sounds of Sterka. They laughed. The Dead were easy prey on a miserable day, a harmless butt for jest and gibe. As the procession came into view down the long expanse of the avenue, the jussar strolled out onto the wet pavement, splashing each other, cursing, laughing. They arranged themselves in a ragged double line, a gauntlet through which the Dead would have to pass. The Dead paid them no attention, continuing the march with eyes focused ahead or half-shut, their mouths moving in the endless mantra. The jussar harried them, shouting insults, pushing against them, the boys fondling obscenely the female Dead, the girls taunting the men with bare breasts and suggestive touches.

They received little reaction, but it was a pleasant enough diversion.

Until . . .

One of the jussar, mouth open in a giggling shout, stumbled up against a Dead One—a burly man who looked as if he might once have been a laborer or mercenary. The man’s torn shirt revealed the squared firmness of taut musculature. He staggered back as the jussar shoved against him to regain his balance, but the Dead One retained his footing with a deft movement. The jussar, still giggling, pushed at the man again, easily, half-turning away as he did so, obviously expecting no resistance.

The Dead One did as none of the Dead had done before: he reached out with a meaty hand, clamped fingers on the jussar’s shoulder, pulling him back. “Hey!” the jussar said, angrily, as he turned, but the Dead One’s fist stopped his words. The boy held his nose in pain and surprise, blood trickling from one nostril and over the fingers. For a moment, the tableau held, the jussar sniffing in consternation, the Dead One with his hand still fisted at his side, his composure shattered and his mouth slack with surprise. The chant-bell the Dead One held in his other hand dropped to the pavement with a dull clunking.

The jussar, with a scream of rage, hauled the man from the Dead’s procession. The rest of the Dead walked on, seemingly uninterested in their fellow’s plight. The group of youths surrounded him, leering; he made no further resistance, head down, hands at sides. The jussar closed about him. Fists rose and fell, the whine of a vibro shrilled. They beat him bloody and senseless, leaving him in the puddles of the street.

The Dead, uncaring, went through the arch and away from Sterka. They would seek Hag Death elsewhere.

•   •   •

The Regent d’Embry laced her fingers together on her bare desktop. The fingers were alternately blue and red—bodytint shimmered at the interface of color.

“I’m glad all of you were able to be here on such short notice,” she said. “This business could have been conducted over com-units, but I prefer the more personal contact.”

The two Hoorka seated across from her looked everywhere but at the Regent. Kaethe Oldin, cloaked in a heavy and glaring-orange cape, had her back to the rest of them, intent on the d’Vellia soundsculpture in the corner of the room. D’Embry was slightly puzzled by the attitude of the Hoorka. All her reports had said that Gyll and Valdisa were quite close, lovers, yet the two were seemingly at odds: it showed in the way the Ulthane leaned away from Valdisa, in the covert glances the woman sent toward him. D’Embry shrugged mentally. She felt
good,
for once; she would allow none of this to bother her, not a tiff between the Hoorka, not the presence of Oldin, not the dreary rain that pattered on her window. She’d not realized just how much the annoyance of Oldin had permeated her moods.

“You’re kicking me off Neweden.” Kaethe spoke without turning from the sculpture. As the others glanced at her—d’Embry with a sudden, unbidden scowl—Kaethe touched the artwork with an appreciative forefinger. She took a step toward the desk. Under the metallic arch of her eyebrows, her face revealed no distress. “It doesn’t matter greatly to me, Regent. I’ve been thrown out before. You’re by no means the first to do so; the Families are quite used to it. How long do I have?”

D’Embry determined once more that she would not let Oldin antagonize her. She regarded the woman blandly—no one noticed the whitening of flesh under the bodytint as her hands clenched together more firmly. “Since you’ve anticipated me so well, I won’t bother with niceties, Trader Oldin. I want
Peregrine
and you and all your paraphernalia out of orbit and heading away tomorrow.”

Oldin glanced toward Gyll. D’Embry saw the contact and wondered at it. Valdisa too looked at Gyll. “By the terms of the pact”—Kaethe returned her attention to d’Embry—“I’ve a right to know why you’re taking this action.” She stepped forward again, so that the full cape touched the edge of d’Embry’s desk. The cloth was distressingly bright; d’Embry found the color hideous and most unflattering to Oldin’s skin.

“For our part, I wonder why you’ve asked the Hoorka here,” Valdisa said.

“Your guild is peripherally involved in this, and I’ve other business to discuss after Trader Oldin has left. However, if you want to leave until we’ve concluded this . . .”

“No, Thane Valdisa, by all means stay. It’ll be an education for you.” Oldin smiled, but there was little friendliness in the gesture. Still, of the four, she alone appeared relaxed, neither uncomfortable nor impatient. Oldin glanced about, reached down to extrude a hump-chair from the floor, and seated herself heavily and too quickly. “I’ll never accustom myself to this much gravity,” she said. She arranged the cape loosely around her. “Set out your case, Regent.”

“Very well.” D’Embry turned cold gray eyes to Oldin. “First, there is the matter of two voided guarantees on items purchased by Neweden citizens.”

“That’s petty, Regent.” Oldin dismissed the point with a wave of her hand. “That can easily be rectified.”

“I don’t doubt that, Trader. But there is also the Hoorka contract you signed against Cade Gies. In itself, I can do nothing about that, as much as I find it distasteful. But . . . in his work for the Alliance, Gies had access to the Center terminals. We’ve discovered that he had abused that privilege, having illegally obtained records from the archives. There was some attempt at deception, but the man was rather clumsy, and his access-code has been traced. We’ve searched his office and rooms thoroughly, but have been unable to find the printouts of that information he acquired. We also have found that Gies ‘purchased’ several expensive Trader items—they were in his rooms. He could not possibly have afforded them on his salary.”

“I see your implications, Regent—you needn’t go any further with this. I have heard no proof that I’m in any degree responsible for the alleged espionage.”

Oldin leaned forward in her seat. Elbow on thigh, she cupped her chin in her hand. With the same faint mocking smile, she waited. “And what else, Regent?” she asked.

“There’s another matter, which may or may not be directly related to the first: the death of Sirrah Guillene on Heritage.”

D’Embry, anticipating, saw the glance between the two Hoorka. It confirmed her suspicions—the Hoorka were involved in Guillene’s murder. She felt no anger. From what she had heard of Heritage and Moache’s practices there, Guillene was not someone that would be greatly mourned. Still, it irritated her that Valdisa and Gyll would have circumvented her authority in that manner.

Oldin slouched back in the chair. “That’s just rancor on your part, Regent. I know Niffleheim’s been screaming about that one, and I think you’ve been listening to your own paranoia.”

Damn the woman. So frigging smug . . .
The thoughts surged, and d’Embry choked them down, trying to retain the good humor, the anticipation of success. “Ulthane Gyll was ferried up to
Peregrine
the day Guillene died. He was there for quite some time.”

“That’s not exactly an offense.” Oldin glanced at Gyll, the smile widened. D’Embry watched Valdisa watching Gyll.

“Yet you have to admit that it arouses suspicions,” she said. “I’ve no delusions about the Families’ wiles—you could have easily slipped past our monitors.”

“Proof, Regent?”

D’Embry shrugged. “I’ll admit that I have very little at the moment. Still, I’ve forwarded a record of my order to Niffleheim. I asked you here so that you’re legally informed and to see if you wish to have a court examination to determine the justification of the eviction order. By the pact. Do you want it, Trader? I assure you that if you say yes, I’ll have my people begin digging, very hard. I think we both know what will be found.”

“There’s nothing to find, Regent. Believe me. I guarantee it.” For a brief second, their eyes met, locked in interior battle. Then Oldin’s lips lifted in her mocking smirk, and she leaned back “But
Peregrine
was leaving soon in any event. Our sales have slowed, and your port charges aren’t cheap. I’d already told Ulthane Gyll of that intention. Having you bring together the courtmasters and arranging for my defense would take up more time than I’d planned to spend on Neweden. It’s simply not worth the trouble, Regent. I’ll obey your damned order.” With a groan of exertion, she stood. The cape settled around her knees “Which means that I’ve much to arrange. Is that all, then Regent?”

“Almost, Trader Oldin. I’ve heard that you may have extended an invitation to Hoorka, some offer.”

Oldin pursed her lips, nodding. “Good, good. Your sources are excellent, and I compliment you, Regent. I’ll have to check the tongues of some of my crew. But . . . any agreement between the Hoorka and Family Oldin is only my business and theirs.”

D’Embry looked from Oldin to the Hoorka. Valdisa stared into a blank corner of the office. Gyll examined his callused hands. “Oldin’s right,” he said. “It’s not the concern of the Alliance.”

“As long as the Hoorka are based on Neweden,
everything
the Hoorka do affects the Alliance.” D’Embry’s voice had the inflections of a teacher scolding a child. It snapped Gyll’s head up. His mouth was a tight line, but he said nothing.

“You see, Ulthane—the Alliance always works on bluster and force.” Oldin, near the door, grinned back at them. “They try so hard to make you fear them, so that you do what they say and don’t upset their nice, safe, little boundaries.”

“Trader Oldin, if you wish to see force, keep
Peregrine
in orbit after tomorrow.” Softly.

Oldin shook her head. A brief coruscation, her eyebrows caught light. “It’s not worth it, Regent. I’d love to be the one to teach you a lesson about overestimation of abilities, but it’ll have to be postponed for now. Grandsire would be upset if I endangered the pact without his permission. You played out the scenario nicely, though, timed it just right. It will look like you succeeded in getting rid of me, when all you had to do was wait a few more weeks. I’m certain it’ll look good on your record. Niffleheim can say to Moache, see, we got rid of the nasty troublemakers.”