Assassins' Dawn (26 page)

He had only a brief second to glimpse the night-veiled face at the window before the soundless blast of a render tore the substance of the glass into dust and then struck him. His face contorted in agony so intense it did not truly register as pain. The render shredded the fabric of his chest, the living cells ruptured and smashed. Gunnar fell backwards over his desk, his flailing arms scattering the cards of his Tarot. The body, unwilling to admit the reality of its death, jerked spasmodically, then finally lay still.

The face at the window (an elusive and vague outline, a monstrosity of fluid shape) stared into the room for a few long seconds before dropping from sight.

Alarms, far too late to help Gunnar, wailed through the house.

•   •   •

Morning.

The sunstar lathed the Kotta Plain with heat and light. The silent call of dawn woke the small encampment of Dead. Drowsily, they rose at the light’s beckoning, gathering their chimes and censers and bells. Someone—an emaciated young man, the filth of the five-day journey across the plain on his body and a scraggled, matted beard of indeterminate age masking lips cracked bloody with heat—began a plainchant, a dirge of greetings to the Hag. The morning offering to their patron rose from the several throats to be snatched away by a westerly breeze.

They readied for the day’s march. Though no one spoke to another—conversation was also a thing of life—they knew that they would reach Remeale before the sunstar set again, and perhaps the Hag awaited some of them there. If not, they would seek Her beyond. It was a simple axiom: the encounter with the Hag was inevitable. Until that time, the Dead paid no attention to those that still sought their living dreams on Neweden.

Even the living would one day find the Hag waiting for them.

They were standing now, waiting for one of their number to take the initiative and begin the march. A fume of incense wafted ahead of them, and they were now assembled in ragged order. The chant wavered, then altered itself. It had been noticed that one of their number lay still and unmoving in the grass—a woman, dressed in a soiled, torn tunic. She had been with them for some time, and the Hag had come to her during the long night. They chanted their praise to the Hag. Still singing, the Dead began the slow, inexorable parade to nowhere, leaving the body on the grass of Kotta Plain.

When the noise of their passage had subsided into a faint treble chiming (the Dead now dark specks wavering in the heat of the horizon), the carrion eaters came. They padded toward the abandoned campsite and the burnt circle of grass, moving with habitual caution, stopping every few seconds to sniff the air which reeked of human spoor.

They found the gift that had been left them. If they praised any god for the bounty, they did not say.

They merely feasted.

Chapter 2

E
xcerpt from the acousidots of Sondall-Cadhurst Cranmer, taken from the notes of his stay with the Hoorka assassins of Neweden. The access to these notes are with the kind permission of the Niffleheim University Archives and the Family Cranmer.

EXCERPT FROM THE DOT OF 2.27.216:

“I’d thought that the Thane—no, dammit, Gyll isn’t Thane anymore; I’ll learn that one day soon—I’d thought that Ulthane Gyll had managed to stagger toward some even keel with the Hoorka, but that optimism might have been premature. It’s partially his own fault, I admit, and he’d probably admit it also: his ambitions for Hoorka, to see them implanted offworld and escape the bounds of Neweden, are likely to lead to problems. And despite his resignation and the conferral of power to Valdisa, I suspect that Gyll still tries to guide the Hoorka through her, thus removing the guilt of failure by one place.

“No, that’s unfair as hell to Valdisa . . . Gyll is probably learning that if he wanted to use her as a figurehead, she will not play that game with him. She’s a strong-willed person in her own right; I hope I’m wrong, but I expect the two to come to some confrontation over that.

“The Hoorka are still not politically stable. Certainly the Li-Gallant Vingi holds a grudge against them, as it’s an ill-kept secret that it was
his
contract for Gunnar’s death that was twice failed. Or, as Gyll would probably say: ‘Gunnar was blessed by Dame Fate.’ Since the Li-Gallant holds the reins of power on Neweden, the Hoorka are not going to be given any concessions in their quest to become independent of Neweden, though Gunnar’s rule-guild is gaining in support, by all indications I’ve seen. The problem that’s making all that significant is the caste-bound social system of this world. In time, there might have been a slow, natural progression away from the idea of guild-kinship, but the Alliance has put too great a strain on the structure—cracks are beginning to appear, for Neweden finds itself no longer alone. In particular, the lassari are responding to this and becoming militant, no longer content to accept their role as the dregs of Neweden society.

“Now if I can remember to correlate and substantiate all this in the eventual paper . . .”

(Here there is the sound of glass against glass and liquid being poured. The transcriber was turned off; when the recording resumes, the time-tone indicates that it is a few hours later. Cranmer’s speech is noticeably slower and muffled.)

“The, ahh, social structure here hasn’t been subjected to outside influences in centuries: the planet was only on the outer fringes of the Huardian Empire and never knew the yoke of that Tyrant’s oppressions; before that is the long darkness of the Interregnum, with only a modicum of contact from the Trading Families. And Neweden was settled only after the First Empire fell apart—that’s
your
area of expertise, Bursarius—yah, I know you’ll listen to this when I ship it back to Niffleheim, and I’m not going to meddle with that pot of history.

“A point. Is there any significance to the fact that Neweden was settled not by a normal outward push of humanity, but by a group of exiled bondsmen?

“Wandering again . . . I’m glad I’m the only one that has to listen to these dots, and I apologize to my future self for all the maunderings. And of course to you, Bursarius. You still there?

“Umm . . . I know I wanted to say something else. Oh—the Hoorka code still bothers me, despite all of Gyll’s rationalizing. It sets them apart from the common criminals and makes them viable in Neweden society, but it also makes them susceptible to damage from outside change. When Neweden society eventually shifts, as it’s going to, I’m afraid the Hoorka will find themselves just one of the corpses in the pile.

“By all the gods, that’s a gory image there. Too much binda juice again . . .”

(Here there is the sound of Cranmer drinking, followed by another refilling of his glass. At that point, the transcriber was shut off once more.)

•   •   •

M’Dame Tha. d’Embry, Alliance Regent for the world Neweden, was not pleased with the way the day had gone thus far. She’d awakened to a dismal rain that left the sky a uniform, wan gray. There was also a constriction in her chest that made breathing difficult until she grudgingly let the autodoc in her room minister to her for a few minutes. Her left arm still felt the prick of the unit’s sensors, and the constriction, while lessened, was still there, a faint shallowness of breath when she exerted herself. And the rain had not stopped when she’d reached her austere offices in Diplo Center. Outside her window, the ranks of clouds sat unbroken across the sky, and water pooled on the flat expanse of Sterka Port.

The news, when she’d asked Stanee for her report of the night, had not been encouraging: Gunnar had been killed, assassinated by an unknown assailant in his own guild-house. She’d drawn back from her viewer in genuine shock. Murder, the cowardly slaying of someone without declaration of bloodfeud, was a very rare occurrence on this world. It was far too easy to gain satisfaction through duel. And Gunnar’s rule-guild was second in power only to that of the Li-Gallant Vingi. It had been reputed that Gunnar would one day wear the robe of the Li-Gallant; it could not happen now. D’Embry decided she would not like to see this morning’s Assembly meeting.

A dim suspicion formed in her mind. “Stanee, is there any indication that the Li-Gallant might have been involved in the murder?”

The face in the viewscreen—amber hair short at the sides and cascading unshorn down the back, lips and earlobes and eyelids touched with shimmering lapis lazuli; all the latest fashion done correctly but without dimming the counter-impact of a plain face—frowned below d’Embry’s field of view. “No, m’Dame, though let me check with Intelligence.” A moment’s pause, then Stanee looked up once more. “By all reports, all of the Li-Gallant’s guard force is accounted for last evening; the Domoraj had some festivity. Unless Vingi used a hireling, maybe a lassari . . .”

D’Embry cut off her speculations with a wave of her veined hand. “No, I doubt it. Let it go, let it go.”

“Will there be anything else, m’Dame?”

D’Embry ran a hand through dry, whitened hair, glancing sourly out the window to the damp morning. “No. You may return to your other duties.”

“Thank you, m’Dame. Oh, Karl’s asked me to remind you that Kaethe Oldin of the Trading Families has entered the Center. You’d asked to see her today. Did you want her sent up immediately?”

“Shit,” d’Embry said, loudly, then smiled at the shock Stanee tried unsuccessfully to mask. “Surely, child, you didn’t think we relics lack the words to utter a curse?”

A tentative grin.

“Send her in, Stanee. I wish I could avoid it today, but why ruin a perfectly awful morning.” She sighed, then frowned as a twinge of pain accompanied her next inhalation. “That’s all.” She reached out with a quick gesture. The screen flickered and went dark, receding into the floor. D’Embry sat back, gingerly testing her breathing and awaiting Oldin’s entrance.

Kaethe Oldin was tall and rather too heavy for the standards of Alliance beauty—the legacy of low-gravity life. Yet she carried it well. Her demeanor spoke of confidence in her appearance. The face was angular, a denial of the body’s weight. Above high cheekbones, her eyes were large, dark, and impressive. The woman evidently knew the impression they made, for her eyebrows were gilt, drawing immediate attention to the walnut pupils below. The stamp of FitzEvard Oldin, head of the Oldin conglomerate, was in his granddaughter. Her attitude told d’Embry more than she wished to know—Oldin strode into the Regent’s office with no hint of timidity, nor did her gaze move from the Regent to the soundsculpture in a corner of the room or the animo-painting on one wall; her entire presence exuded purpose. When she stood before d’Embry’s desk, it was with one hand on her hip, the other thrust into the pocket of her pants.

“M’Dame Oldin, the Alliance is always pleased to welcome a member of the Trading Families.” The words came fluidly from her, but the Regent’s intonation was deliberately cold and removed.
It’s so easy to fall into after all the standards of practice—that aloof Diplo manner. It’s been so long that it sometimes becomes the reality and not the mask. And it’s far too late for me to change.
“I once knew your grandfather. You remind me of him.”

Oldin flicked her gaze over d’Embry, and the Regent felt as if she’d been dissected, judged, and dismissed: yes, her grandfather’s legacy. He’d had the same disdain for the Alliance, the same subliminal declaration of challenge. D’Embry didn’t find the realization particularly satisfying.

“Yah, he’d mentioned that you had banned him from Crowley’s World after a disagreement over trading rights. He said to give you his regards, Regent.” Oldin’s voice was bitter honey; a slow, pleasant alto that hid all the meaning behind her words. With her attitude, with her tone, Oldin reminded d’Embry that the Trading Families were not part of the Alliance, that, at best, the two factions enjoyed an uneasy truce.

“I hope you didn’t find my request inconvenient.”

“It wasn’t particularly convenient, Regent—I’ve duties aboard
Peregrine.
But the Alliance rules here, doesn’t it?” Oldin smiled.

“Rule is a poor word, m’Dame. The Alliance is more flexible than that. We oversee, advise, or leave a world as it wishes.” D’Embry folded her hands on her desk—fingers tinted yellow-orange with bodypaint—and allowed herself to sit back in her floater. “Would you like to sit?” She touched a stud on her desk, and a hump-chair extruded itself from the carpet.

“I’ll stand if you don’t mind, Regent.” Oldin glanced at the chair, then back to the older woman. Again a slight smile touched the edges of her mouth.

Bitch. Like FitzEvard, yah.
“As you wish.” D’Embry shrugged. “And since this
is
an inconvenience to you, I’ll be brief and frank.” Deliberately, she stared at Oldin, meeting her dark eyes. “As a matter of course, I receive all Hoorka contracts here, since they’ve applied for and been granted temporary offworld visas. Your name was on the contract the assassins worked last night.”

“Everyone knows that, Regent. The body of Gies was given to me at my shuttle on the Port. The Hoorka made no secret of that—it’s part of their code, is it not?” Her gilt eyebrows flashed reflected light, but she did not blink or look away.

“Cade Gies was an Alliance citizen and an offworlder to Neweden.” D’Embry’s voice held a cold edge; she pulled her gaze away in anger, glancing at her window. Rain sheeted down the glass. When she looked back, Oldin was examining her hands, unconcernedly; long, thick fingers, broken nails.

“Gies
was
an Alliance citizen,” Oldin replied, emphasizing the past tense with a nod. She shoved a hand back in her pocket, put the other on her hip. “And I’m of the Families, and
your
allegiance is to Niffleheim. But we’re all on Neweden. It seemed fitting that I, ahh, deal with our conflict, Gies and I, in Neweden manner. That’s the Trader way, Regent. When I’ve dealt with aliens, I’ve tried to adopt at least a superficial gloss of their customs. The Alliance would not understand that.” D’Embry opened her mouth at the unsubtle hint of Alliance xenophobia, but let the woman finish. “I wanted to see the Hoorka work, in any case. They’re an interesting group, don’t you think?” Oldin’s voice was casual, lazy.