Assassins' Dawn (34 page)

“You talk like a philosopher, Helgin.”

The dwarf turned a yellow-laced eye toward Gyll. “You just have no ear for sophistry, Ulthane. You’re too used to people telling you the truth.”

They entered Neweden’s atmosphere. The planet welcomed them back with a roaring of mock thunder.

•   •   •

Outside the caverns, the sunstar had settled below the horizon. The night denizens prowled the hills. Deep in Underasgard, Gyll had gone to a spot far from the usual Hoorka lairs. He’d not expected to be disturbed there. He was mistaken in that assumption.

Gyll watched as Cranmer placed a bottle and two glasses on the rock beside him. The clink of glass against stone was loud in the stillness. To one side, a dimmed hoverlamp oscillated golden-green inside the barred cage of a headless ippicator skeleton. Light alternated with shadow on the walls of the cavern. On the rock, the bottle tilted dangerously. “What’s that?” Gyll asked.

“Lubricant.”

Gyll’s eyebrows rose quizzically. He cocked his head.

“You’re too literal sometimes, Gyll.” The smile did not leave that mouth. It seemed permanently affixed. “It’s wine. I thought it’d be a nice gesture. I haven’t seen much of you recently.”

“A lot going on.”

“And you haven’t talked to me about any of it. I thought I’d track you down and just talk—the wine’ll ease a dry throat.”

Cranmer sat. Gyll could see a slight wince as the coldness of the stones made itself felt through the fabric of Cranmer’s pants. “You people have to move this planet closer to the sunstar,” Cranmer said, noticing Gyll’s attention. “I’m always freezing.” Despite the heavy jacket he wore, Cranmer hugged himself.

“It keeps the wines chilled.”

“Was that a joke?” Cranmer asked with too much surprise in his voice. “Ulthane, you’re a constant revelation.”

“Cranmer, you’re a constant nuisance. If you’re going to stay, at least pour the wine.” Gyll’s voice was dull, as if with fatigue or disgust. He had turned away from Cranmer, staring at the ippicator’s skeleton, mesmerized. Cranmer pursed his lips appraisingly. He tugged the sleeves of his jacket down over his wrists, then began talking as if he’d noticed nothing.

“I was in Sterka earlier today,” he said, reaching for the bottle and pouring a goodly amount into each glass. “I’ve a few things you might be interested in hearing.”

He placed a glass beside Gyll. The Hoorka glanced at it, then returned to his preoccupied stance. Cranmer sipped his wine, watching, waiting, then shrugged. He settled himself on the rock. “D’Embry’s got Diplo security checking out Cade Gies. Seems she doesn’t like the thought that Oldin could have an Alliance citizen killed and not inform her as to the reasons. I don’t think it’s because of any affection for Gies or revulsion because of his death. D’Embry just doesn’t care to be left in the dark.”

Gyll grunted a reply. Cranmer glanced up to where the shadows of the ippicator’s ribs flickered on the jagged roof. He set his glass down. “I also heard that Potok is supposedly considering a truth duel. The gossip all over Sterka is that the Li-Gallant is responsible for Gunnar’s murder. The Domoraj joined the Dead yesterday, and that’s supposedly an indication of his shame with the Li-Gallant. Everyone expects the challenge to be given within a few days of the funeral.”

Gyll had slowly turned to face Cranmer. His face was in light, but a rib-shadow striped him from shoulder to chest. His head seemed to float in air. “Vingi and Potok would be the combatants?”

“Isn’t that the basis of truth-duel—the opponents have to be highly placed in the guilds, and the stakes enormous?”

“Yah.” A smile came and went. “That’d be a travesty.”

“Would it serve justice?”

Gyll shrugged. “Dame Fate is supposed to guide the hands and rule the outcome—that way the assertion is proved true or false. If you believe that the Dame does so, then yah, justice is served.”

“What about you, Ulthane? Do
you
believe?”

Gyll turned away again. “I believe it’s probably a well – calculated political move on Potok’s part. If he thinks he can best Vingi at truth-duel—and Vingi
can’t
refuse—he stands to gain quite a bit. I imagine a large monetary fine would be levied, maybe seats in the Assembly given up. It could ruin either guild. A risk, but a calculated one. And the people will be entertained, whether they believe or not.” He stared into shadow, into the arch of bone.

“Cynical, Gyll.”

“I feel that way.” Once more he turned. Light raked across his lined face. “I saw Oldin this morning—she made me think about other possibilities. And afterward, I went into Sterka.” Gyll paused. His eyes narrowed. “If you’re recording this, Cranmer, turn it off. What I have to say isn’t for anyone else’s ears.”

Cranmer spread his hands in innocence. “You don’t trust my discretion?”

“No.”

A small grin. “Ah, well. I’ve not been recording, Ulthane.”

“Good. Cranmer, do you remember the night of Gunnar’s death? We were in the outer caves. I’d just killed a stalkpest.”

“Aldhelm came out—he was leaving the caverns.”

Gyll nodded. “He told us he was going to see an Irastian smith who was visiting Sterka. I checked all the local smiths, on a whim. I don’t know why I was so suspicious. None of the smiths had seen Aldhelm that night. None had kin visiting from Irast.”

“Aldhelm gave you no names. Maybe it was someone you missed. Maybe the smith was visiting true-family. That’s uncommon, but it happens.”

“Maybe Aldhelm lied. In which case, what was it he wanted to do in Sterka that he didn’t want to discuss with kin?”

Cranmer had no answer. He drank from his glass. “Have you talked with Valdisa about this?”

Gyll’s laugh was a short exhalation. “It’s always the same thing: ‘Have you talked with Valdisa?’ I sometimes even ask that myself. Once, once, Cranmer, that wouldn’t have been needed to be asked.” Gyll shook his head slowly. “I haven’t seen her since I returned. I was supposed to meet with her after seeing Oldin, but she wasn’t in Underasgard—some business with a kin-lord in Illicatta. I won’t see her until Gunnar’s funeral tomorrow.”

“Then confront Aldhelm. Talk to him.”

“No. It’s not my place.” There was an edge of bitterness in Gyll’s voice. “I’m not Thane, after all. And I’m not sure it’s something I really want to do. Aldhelm is kin; he knows what honor is, and we have to trust our kin to uphold that honor, neh?” Gyll—habitual—moved fingers through graying hair. “I don’t know, Sond. I don’t know. I’m not sure what I feel this moment. I’m of two minds. One part of me wants to leap in, take over the active role again, even if it means a confrontation with Valdisa. Egotistically, I think I’m the only one who truly understands Hoorka, what I meant it to be, what it should do. And the rest . . . Maybe I’m just being bitter. I keep thinking it’s all Valdisa’s problem now. Let her work it out. I can’t even say too much to her for fear that she’ll think I’m interfering, usurping her authority. We’ve already fought over that. And she
is
my friend, my lover. I don’t want to ruin that. She’s the closest to me of the kin. So what would
you
do, scholar?”

Cranmer waited a long moment before replying. “I think I might drink my wine.”

Slowly, Gyll smiled. He glanced down as if seeing the glass for the first time. “You know,” he said, “that may just be the right solution.”

Chapter 6

A
n excerpt from the acousidots of Sondall-Cadhurst Cranmer. The following excerpt is from a conversation between Ulthane Gyll and Cranmer. The lack of background noise and the echoing resonance indicate that the conversation took place in a secluded area of the caverns. The dating of the segment is only approximate. It is included among several other undated recordings, all evidently clandestine.

EXCERPT FROM THE DOT OF 5.15.217:

“I think I might drink my wine.” (Cranmer)

“You know, that may just be the right solution. You’ll have to excuse my mood, Sond. It’s everything taken all together, not just one thing. I let myself get into these depressions, and then I have to come here and think myself out of it. It goes away in time.” (Here there is the sound of drinking, a clatter of glass on stone.) “But then you know all that already.”

“Still, I’m glad that you don’t mind talking about it.”

“I don’t mind because I trust you to go no further with it. And I have to admit that it’s sometimes nice to have someone listen, to talk out loud and hear myself try to explain—you can see the flaws in your logic. It wouldn’t work with everyone, though; you won’t let this get beyond the two of us.”

(Cranmer laughs with an edge of nervousness. After a moment, Ulthane Gyll joins in.)

•   •   •

“Gyll, your trouble is that you’re an idealist. Everyone else around you is a pragmatist.”

“Is that so bad?”

“It is when you constantly assume that they all think the same way you do.”

The two Hoorka were seated in the stands of the guilded kin, a part of the crowd filling Tri-Guild Church square. The lassari, gawking at the expensive display of mourning, huddled at the southern edge while the guilded kin were comfortable beneath a large weathershield near the church. It was not a pleasant day for Gunnar’s funeral. The sunstar shrouded itself in clouds and the sky wept, a constant drizzle. The lassari shifted restlessly under improvised shelters.

The censers, borne by a troop of young boys representing all the guilds sworn to Gunnar-Potok’s rule-guild, had just passed in golden splendor. The acrid fumes still hung in the air, a pall the rain was dissipating rapidly. The youths had looked frankly miserable. Their gilt finery had been soaked and clung to their skin, their breaths steaming in the chill air. The procession was moving slowly down the lane between the lassari crowds and the bleachers of the kin: a trio of pipes, followed by a phalanx of musicians with krumhorns and tabors; then the beast-dancers from Irast acting out for the fifth time that day—they were becoming rather bored—the death of the Great Ippicator, twirling with awkward arabesques in their five-legged costumes.

Gyll shifted in his seat, restless. “We need to talk, Valdisa. Oldin had an offer—I think we should hear it.”

“Yah?” Her gaze was on the beast-dancers. “It will wait until we get back to Underasgard. This isn’t the place for business. Besides, my butt’s gone to sleep.”

Following the beast-dancers, a large floater passed bearing the dignitaries of local guilds, a score of kin-lords. Those absent were most conspicuous. The Li-Gallant’s guards, as the policing force for Neweden, were present, but Vingi himself was not. Instead, the Li-Gallant had sent his recording secretary, pleading government business as an excuse. The Hoorka had also been asked to join the group on the floater, but Valdisa had cited their code’s insistence on strict neutrality and had instead sat with the mass of guilded kin in the stands.

A smaller floater followed, preceding the bier. In it, the Regent d’Embry stared dourly at the crowds. Her face, under the weathershield, reflected bland sympathy, a public mask. Rigid, she neither moved nor glanced about.

“Do you think we can really trust her, Valdisa?” Gyll nodded toward d’Embry. “Look at her, so stiff—and yet we let her hold the future of Hoorka.”

“We haven’t a choice in that, Gyll. That’s what you always told me.”

“Yah, but I don’t like it. If there were an alternative . . . I’ll bet she has to peel off that face every night.”

And last, the bier. It was flanked by all Gunnar’s kin, their faces chalky with white funeral paint. The rain, in their long march, had streaked and splattered the paint. They looked sufficiently mournful, the turquoise guild-robes tattered and rent, the shoulders dotted with random blotches and smears from the thick paste on their faces. The bier moved slowly, majestically. It was a floating cloudlet, pulsing a deep sapphire from somewhere in the fog that surrounded it. On the mist lay Gunnar, atop a pyre of scented wood. Grotesques, small imps, raced about the edges of the cloud, their miniature faces wracked with pain and grief. As the bier approached Tri-Guild Church, a hidden choir began the descant to the dead; the sapphire glow went amber, the Hag’s color. The choir reached a crescendo as Potok came forward toward the cloud-wrapped floater, bearing a torch. It hissed in the drizzle.

Suddenly, a flare arced out from the midst of the lassari. Screeching and wailing as it climbed, the projectile exploded high above the square, a false sun. Heads turned in shock, Potok stood in uncertain surprise, the choir faltered to a ragged halt.

The flare’s appearance was answered by a shout from the lassari. “Renard!” was the cry. The ranks of lassari seemed to boil, some trying to back away from the square, others surging forward. With the rest of the guilded kin, Gyll and Valdisa came to their feet in the stands as several lassari rushed the bier. They bore crude weapons. Rough hands shoved aside the startled Potok. A group of the lassari grasped through the clouds of the bier, pulling and tearing. The mist faded, revealing a bare skeletal framework of steel and wiring. The grotesques became mournfully immobile. The lassari pushed, the bier tilted.

A cry of anguish came from the guilded kin, now beginning to recover their senses. But they had no leader and hampered each other more than helped: the rush from the stands was slow, tangled. The lassari pushed again as Potok’s kin tried to stop them. The bier toppled in its field, canting over. The pyre broke loose, spilling wood and Gunnar’s body to the wet pavement. A roar of triumph came from the insurgents—“Renard!”—a howl of outrage from the kin.

Gyll watched the confusion in the stands, the chaos in the square. “Let’s go, Valdisa—we can’t do anything here.”

“But the damned lassari . . .”

“Vingi’s guards are coming. There’s enough confusion already. We’d only add to it.”

The guards moved, belatedly, attacking with crowd-prods and tanglefeet webs. But they were too far from the bier to get to the locus of turmoil; the lassari made use of the confusion to dart back into the mob. The crowd screamed as one—guilded kin and lassari—as the guards forced their way in pursuit, using their weapons indiscriminately.