Assassins' Dawn (27 page)

“On other worlds of the Alliance, a ‘conflict’ doesn’t have to end in death. Gies wasn’t a physical man nor was he easily given to entering arguments. I knew the man slightly, m’Dame Oldin, and I’d be curious as to the nature of your altercation.”

D’Embry’s voice had risen and she found herself sitting forward in her chair, her back erect. The chest pain of the morning returned, suddenly, and she found it difficult to take a deep breath. She forced herself to relax.
Be calm, old woman. You’re giving her exactly the reaction she wants.

Oldin watched the Regent. She shifted her weight from one foot to another, staring as the Regent made an effort to control her pique. “There’s nothing you can do about it, Regent. I violated no laws, and Cade Gies was given every opportunity that would have been given any Neweden kin—or that
you’re
going to give other Alliance citizens by allowing the Hoorka offworld work. Are you going to inquire into the disputes for every Hoorka contract? The argument between Gies and myself is my own business—I won’t bother you in your areas of authority; please give me the same consideration. I’m here to sell my stock, nothing else.” Oldin paused. “With all due respect, Regent.”

“All of Neweden falls under my authority, m’Dame.”

“It must be a heavy burden.” Oldin’s voice was just shy of open sarcasm, but her eyes danced under the golden eyebrows. “If there’s nothing else to discuss, Regent, I do have work on
Peregrine.”

As Oldin began to turn (the stocky body eclipsing the rain-smeared window), d’Embry stopped her with a tapping of fingers on wood. “Trader, Neweden is not an open port. You’ll abide by all the regulations and restrictions here. I can assure you that I’ll be watching you.”

Oldin spoke over her shoulder without looking back at the Regent. “That’s as Grandsire Oldin said it would be. I can quote verbatim the text of the Families-Alliance Pact—all of the Oldins can. It was drummed into our heads very early. I
know
the rules of this game, Regent.” And she walked away with a casual, quick stride, barely giving the door time to dilate.

D’Embry, after the door had shut once again, thumped her fist against the desk.
“Games!”
she shouted. “The woman speaks of
games!”

•   •   •

“This is no longer a game, Li-Gallant—it has happened too often for us to remain complacent. The facts are known to all of you: a Hoorka contract was signed for the death of Gunnar. Twice, he escaped the assassins. Ricia Cuscratti, the betrothed of Gunnar, was slain by as-yet unknown assailants. Now Gunnar himself has been shamelessly murdered, a deed without honor done in a most cowardly manner. Is there anyone here that wonders why all my kin cry out for the blood that is our due?”

Potok stood in the Assembly Hall, resplendent in the shimmering turquoise robe of the rule-guild. The sleeves of the robe were ripped and tattered: the sign of his grief. The seven windows of the dome above him, each rendered by a rival artisan’s guild, were dull with rain, the colored, shifting glasses wavering with collected water. The sunstar hid behind shifting clouds, unwilling to illuminate the murals. Potok flung his arms wide, displaying his raveled, savaged robe.

The Assembly was unusually quiet. Normally the representatives of the various rule-guilds heckled and insulted one another, interrupting the order of business. But now the echoes of Potok’s stentorian voice died unchallenged in the vast chamber as the representatives stared at him, afraid to break that silence: the death of Gunnar had shaken them all, for it violated the foundations of Neweden. If Gunnar could be killed in this manner, what protected their own selves?—the thought, uneasy, ran through all their minds.

“There is a vile cancer gnawing at the vitals of our society.” Potok let his voice drop into a rasping half-whisper. It pulled the Assembly forward in their seats, made their eyes squint in concentration as they strained to hear him. Again, Potok found himself wishing he had Gunnar’s gift for words—this speech had been written by de Vegnes, and Potok could sense that, cliché ridden, it lacked the fury the subject should have possessed.
My voice of fire and steel,
Gunnar had once said, referring to Potok. But now that voice was deprived of the mind behind the words, shorn of substance.

Still, it could have its effect.

“There are those among us that would drag Neweden down into chaos, would destroy all that guilded kin have striven to create. My fellows, Neweden has at its core the idea of honor and truth. We do not hide behind our hatreds or our loves. Yet Gunnar has been taken from us, taken by a dishonorable act. It insults us, it laughs at us. No matter how high or powerful, if we wish to keep Neweden as it should be, we must find that diseased part and
cast it out!”

His voice had risen to a thundering crescendo. He spoke with a grimace of rage; a fisted hand struck his palm with fury. He waited, but no one dared to mar the quiet. To the rear of the hall, someone muffled a cough with a hand.

“My guild-kin mourn. We weep. We are lost in sorrow. Our sadness is greater than any words I can speak. Gunnar was guild-father to us all. He cannot be replaced. But he may rest in the assurance that he will be revenged. I vow now that he will be given a companion for Hag Death. My guild declares bloodfeud. When this coward’s name is known, we demand our satisfaction. Give him to us, as you would a common lassari.

“We cannot be comforted, we cannot be placated. We demand”—a pause—“that the government of Neweden extend all its powers to find the killer of Gunnar. This unknown person struck not only at Gunnar, but at each and every one of us. He struck at the heart of Neweden, and Neweden must show her anger.” Potok slumped forward suddenly, as if weary. His voice was a harsh whisper. “I can say no more to you.”

Now he sat, his arms dropping to his sides as the sunstar slid from behind a cloud momentarily, lighting the dome with brief shafts of colored light. The first tentative waves of applause broke, then became a flood as the rest of the Assembly, in a rare showing of mutual support, acted as one.

(De Vegnes leaned forward toward Potok, sitting stolid and solemn as the ovation continued. “That was a nice touch, waiting for that rift in the clouds,” he whispered. “I noticed you watching for it. Good timing, Potok.” Potok did not reply, but the faint hint of a smile raised the corner of his mouth.)

The applause cheered him. Even the Li-Gallant, who had little affection for Potok and his rule-guild, found it politically advisable to force his massive bulk from his floater on the dais and add to the storming of hands. When the clamor began to show signs of abating, he sat quickly and gaveled for attention, the amplified thud of wood on wood sharp in their ears.

“The Assembly is grateful for your words and sympathetic to your feelings, as you must know, Representative Potok.” Vingi’s voice was ponderous, as heavy as the frame from which it emerged. Corpulent, huge, the Li-Gallant fingered his several chins as his rings flashed light. “You may rest assured that my guard force will do everything in its power to find this person. I will command the Domoraj to begin immediately. Gunnar will not go to Hag Death unattended. We’ve always had the greatest respect for him.” Vingi folded his thick hands on the desk before him, staring down at the Assembly.

Potok exhaled noisily, a sarcasm that only de Vegnes, beside Potok, could hear. Nodding at the Li-Gallant, Potok whispered sidewise to his kin-brother: “They’ll probably be just as effective in this as they were when he vowed to find Ricia’s killers.” The murderers, who had slain her when Gunnar was first involved in a Hoorka contract, had never been apprehended. “I suppose I have to be polite, though.”

Potok stood once more, bowing slightly to the Li-Gallant as etiquette required. “We extend our thanks, Li-Gallant. The skills of your Domoraj and his force are well documented.”
Let him chew on that and see if it adds up to a compliment.
“My kin and I will endeavor to find this dungheap of a person as well. The formal declaration of bloodfeud will be posted before the Assembly tomorrow—a blank certificate until we have a name. We ask also that a formal day of mourning be declared for all Neweden, an official recognition of all that Gunnar has done for this world. It seems appropriate.”

Now, for the first time since Potok had begun speaking, Vingi’s face revealed his quick irritation, his mask of sympathetic attention slipping. A scowl bared his teeth. His fingers clenched once and he moved back in his floater, the chair dipping in the holding field as his bulk shifted. It was only a moment, then his face took on once more the aspect of intent seriousness. His voice, when he replied, was as soft as fur.

“It’s unfortunate that such an action is not within this Assembly’s province. We’ve no machinery to set such a day aside—we can ask that all guilded kin abide by our wish, but it is a matter of their own discretion. Beyond that”—he raised his arms in a shrug—“we have no power.”

Potok flashed anger. His voice, a whip, lashed at the Li-Gallant. “Do you say, Li-Gallant, that you simply don’t wish the Assembly to make such a motion? All we ask for is the gesture. The guilds will always act as they wish.”

“We’ll give all that’s within our power.” Vingi nodded to Potok, his trebled chin waggling.

“And that is nothing.”

“This is an Assembly of the rule-guilds of Neweden, man. I understand your grief and sympathize with your great loss, but we have other duties here. Would Gunnar have wished us to stay idle?”

“You will not make the motion?”

“We can’t walk away from the responsibilities we have for the death of one man.”

“And what is more important than
your
life, Li-Gallant?”

Vingi smiled. In him, it was not a gesture of mirth. “We ignore a great many insults when in session, Representative, and your sorrow must be taken into account. But I won’t ignore covert threats. Withdraw your words.”

“Will you make the motion?”

Potok stood defiant, hands on hips, the tattered sleeves visible to all. Vingi stared at the man. Neither moved, neither spoke.

The Vingi sighed. “With the understanding that this will be entirely voluntary to all guilds, I make the motion. I’ll have the cleric draw up a proclamation and have it posted. It will be by order of the Li-Gallant, and I’ll not call for a vote on this. Are there objections?”

Silence.

“And for your part, Potok?” Vingi scowled down at the man.

Potok, hiding his satisfaction, bowed deeply to the Li-Gallant. “I spoke far too hastily, I’m afraid. I hope that you realize that my mind is addled by grief, and forgive me.” Then, under his breath: “You slimy bastard.”

Only de Vegnes heard.

•   •   •

Valdisa was a warm softness beside him. Gyll still breathed heavily from their lovemaking, sweat cool on his chest. She cuddled into the curve of his arm, resting a moment, then—with a low growl of mock anger—turned to nip the flesh of his shoulder with strong teeth.

“By the Hag’s left teat—” Gyll slid away from her, rubbing his shoulder as the bedfield rippled around them. On his flesh, the impression of her teeth showed white, fading slowly to a dull red. “That
hurt.
What did I do—or didn’t I do—to deserve that?” His face was creased in overdone bemusement, the lines about his eyes deepening.

He was answered by an unrepentant giggle.
“That,”
she said, very deliberately, “was for your lack of support during the council meeting last night. A little help from you”—she held thumb and forefinger a centimeter apart—“and Bachier wouldn’t have made that firm a challenge. You know as well as I do that he was just testing me.”

“You have to pass such tests yourself.”

“This one wasn’t necessary.”

She knelt on the bed, her head slightly tilted, her short hair tousled. Gyll could see the yellow-brown mark of a bruise on her left thigh, a reminder of the fight with Bachier.

“Is this what you think of when we’re making love?” Gyll tried to turn the subject, discomfited by her sudden seriousness.

If he expected an apology, he was disappointed. “Yes,” she said. Then, as if to take the sting away, she shook her head, grimacing. “No, not entirely. I’m sorry, Gyll. But if I can’t expect support from my favorite lover . . .” She shrugged, turning her head away.

“I didn’t agree with you. It was that simple. Why should the guild-kin need the Thane’s permission to go into Sterka when they have no other duties to perform in Underasgard? I never requested—”

“Perhaps you should have,” she interrupted, turning back to him. She uncrossed muscular legs, sitting with hands on knees. Her dark eyes challenged him, her chin held upward defiantly.

He reached out for her with a hand. “Valdisa,” he began.

She backed away, swiveling from the bedfield with a lithe movement. She went across the room to the floater that held the disorganized pile of their clothing, pulling her tunic from underneath the tangled heap. As Gyll watched silently, she straightened the garment, pulling the sleeves out.

“Gyll,” she said, “there wasn’t any resentment of the Hoorka until we failed to kill Gunnar. That made us look as if we’d allied ourselves with his rule-guild. That’s when all this started.”

“Neweden knows the code—” he began as she raised her arms, pulling the tunic over her head. Then she stopped, her head just emerging from the cloth.

“Yah, by the code, some of the victims must escape. But Gunnar was important, a rival to the Li-Gallant. I can understand the reasoning the guilded kin followed. If I were outside the Hoorka, I might wonder myself. Certainly Aldhelm thinks we acted wrong.” She tugged the cloth down, pulling it over her small breasts and shaking her head to free her hair from the high collar. “And then Eorl was killed by lassari, or so we both think. We’ve yet to avenge his death. He still stands alone before the Hag. The Hoorka can’t afford any more Eorls.”

“And your ruling will prevent that?”

One corner of her mouth lifted: irritation. “Must we argue this again?”

No. How many mistakes did you make as Thane yourself, how many arbitrary decisions made simply because something had to be done, right or wrong! You made yourself resign because of those uncertainties . . .
But his pride had already spoken for him. “You began the argument.” He didn’t like his voice. It sounded petulant, weak.