Assassins' Dawn (37 page)

“Leave us be.” Sartas tried to ignore the man, hooding his face with the nightcloak and staring out at the sun-baked landscape. Already, he missed the coolness of Neweden’s day.

“I’ll leave in a minute, after I say my piece. I’ve been on this world for the last three months because I know there’s a story here in what de Sezimbra’s been doing, because I know that Guillene’s hand is bearing down too much on these people. He bleeds them as dry as the sands. Yah, it’s all legal since they’re indentured laborers, and all of ’em signed the documents. That doesn’t—or shouldn’t—make them chattel. De Sezimbra’s working to change all that. The money you get from this job is going to be tainted with the blood of every man and woman on Heritage. Guillene is a foul bastard.”

“If the victim—
whoever
he or she is—is meant to live, Dame Fate will see to the preservation of life.”

“I’m sure that’s comforting to all involved. Those who de Sezimbra was helping will hug their children and tell them ‘Don’t worry, he was destined to die.’ That’s a real balm.”

The flow of words came to a halt as Sartas and Renier, without a word, strode toward their flitter, now stopped a few meters away. The Hoorka threw their luggage in the compartment and swung into the blessed air conditioning of the car. The flitter, in a swirling of dust, left Wieglin behind, hands on hips.

“Welcome to Heritage, eh?” Among themselves, they could finally relax. Renier grinned at Sartas.

“I always thought other worlds’d be exotic, beautiful places. So much for that fantasy. I’m already looking forward to the return. The heat’s going to kill me.”

They rode through the streets of Home, Heritage’s only city. The rest of that world’s settlements were the metal expanses of the mining platforms, rumbling colossi moving inexorably across the landscape and leaving behind a trail of pits and broken rock. Home was a collection of small, squat buildings, sitting in the eternal dust, squalid and hot and noisy. Children playing in the bare yards turned to watch the flitter pass; curious eyes stared at them from shuttered windows. Once, a rock flung by an unseen hand cracked off the windshield; a few blocks farther on, garbage rained down on them from a second story window. The people they saw were mostly sullen, unsmiling, as drab as the buildings around them. Their unspoken dislike was palpable. Only the rich rode flitters, and the rich had to be somehow connected with Moache Mining. The tension burned at the Hoorka like the noon sun.

But when the flitter passed the columns of a high, black shield-wall surrounding Park Hill, the vista changed: desert to tropical oasis. Here, hedged by lush greenery and verdant lawns, lived the upper echelon of Heritage. The severity of the sun was masked by foliage as the dreariness of the indentured workers was hidden from the officials of Moache and the offworld visitors. The Hoorka drove past a grove of bubble trees and onto the grounds of the hostel. Sartas, already disturbed by the world, concluded their business with the clerk brusquely, grabbing the keys to their rooms.

“Let’s get this over with.” He scowled. “Quickly.”

•   •   •

De Sezimbra’s house stood in the lee of small brown hills a few kilometers from the outskirts of Home. The building was a low, small affair, a few outbuildings as attendants. Shabbily constructed, as well, McWilms noted as he approached. McWilms was both hot and tired after the walk from Park Hill. Sartas had not allowed him use of a flitter, an annoyance he’d nursed from irritation to exasperation on the walk. His nightcloak stifled him, his undertunic was wetly irritating with circles of perspiration, and his patience was at a low ebb. He wanted nothing more than to complete his task and get back to the comfortable and dark rooms at the hostel. He kicked at road dust.

He was certain that he was being watched as he turned from the road onto the path leading to the house. He could feel the pressure of a stare from the outbuildings, from the polarized windows of the house. He forced himself into the role of the aloof, disdainful Hoorka.
Like Aldhelm or the old man himself. Don’t let them know how you feel; become an instrument in the hands of She of the Five Limbs.
He tried on Sartas’s scowl, found that it fit, and went to the door.

A flat viewscreen was set in the metal of the door. It had already been activated by the time he stood before it: swirling tongues of abstract color were tangled there. A voice came from the screen. “Your business?” it asked curtly, a basso query.

McWilms stared at the screen with narrowed eyes, the scowl a mask. “My business is only with Sirrah Marco de Sezimbra. I would speak with him, and in the flesh.” He found himself lowering his voice to compete with the dark tones of the doorwarden; he cracked only slightly.

“And if he doesn’t wish to see you?”

“It would be to his advantage not to refuse.”

Silence. The screen went to a bland gray-blue. A few seconds later, the door irised open, jerking into its slots. McWilms recognized the man who stood behind it, but checked the bio-monitor on his belt as a matter of course. The light on the monitor glowed emerald—the man was de Sezimbra. McWilms made a deep obeisance. “Sirrah de Sezimbra.”

“You have the advantage of me, I’m afraid.” Marco de Sezimbra was tall, dark-skinned, and handsome. He half-smiled at McWilms, his eyes gentle and puzzled. “I apologize for my ward. He tends to be rather surly with strangers—Heritage being what it is.”

“I’m Apprentice McWilms of the Hoorka, and the apology isn’t necessary, sirrah,” McWilms said without the smile that would have made his words friendly. He found himself liking the man, a quick affection. Not, he told himself, that it would affect his performance. And if de Sezimbra appeared overtly amiable, those around him were more cautious. A man and a woman stood behind and to either side of de Sezimbra, holding stings with the muzzles pointed unwaveringly at McWilms. The apprentice nodded inwardly. “My own task is small and I stress”—with a glance at the man’s armed companions—“that I intend no harm. Marco de Sezimbra, your life has been placed in the hands of the Hoorka and our patron, She of the Five Limbs.”

A quizzical stare, a furtive glance at his companions—de Sezimbra clenched and unclenched his hands. “I don’t understand.”

“A contract has been signed for an attempt on your life.” McWilms was patient but dourly serious.
It’s easier on Neweden. What I’ve already said would have been more than enough. The man doesn’t yet realize . . .
“The contract will begin at 14:17 local time and end at 23:10; that’s the local equivalent of twelve Neweden hours. Your life lies with the whims of Dame Fate. Should you still be alive at 23:10, Hoorka will pursue you no longer.”

“Your organization means to kill me?” He seemed on the verge of astonished amusement, as if he still weren’t certain that this wasn’t a cruel jest.

“The Hoorka have no personal interest in your death. We work for others. We’re simply instruments in the hands of another person.”

From behind de Sezimbra, the woman spoke. “And if we kill you now, you with the small task?”

“Rowenna—” de Sezimbra began, but McWilms interrupted.

“I’m but an apprentice, m’Dame, a messenger. My fate is always in the hands of the Dame. But my death won’t affect the contract. I’ve nothing to do with it—that’s the task of full kin. And there are other options. You may still buy out the contract.”

“How much is it?”

“Ten thousand—that’s what the signer paid.”

De Sezimbra smiled sadly. “He’s obviously richer than me.”

“Then you must trust Dame Fate.”

“What of my friends, the others living here?” De Sezimbra indicated the area with a nod. He didn’t seem overly upset or surprised. It was as if he’d been expecting something of the sort; now that it had happened, he could remain calm.

McWilms knew now that he truly liked the man. Most of the victims were quivering and fearful when told of the contract. He found himself hoping that the Dame would be kind. “The contract is only for
your
life, sirrah. If you’re protected, we’ll attempt to kill only you, but no promises can be made. Other people have been killed before, when they interfere with the Dame. Even Hoorka have died—and we expect you to defend yourself. It’s your choice. We adjust our strategy to the situation, for the victim must always retain his chance.”

“If I run? By myself?”

“Then none of those here will be harmed, and my kin will carry less.”

A nod. De Sezimbra’s gaze had an inward look. Rowenna, the sting still directed at McWilms, shook her head vehemently. “You can’t do it, Marco. I won’t let you.” Her voice was quiet, the face haggard. “It’s Guillene,” she said, looking at McWilms as if she expected confirmation. “It’s that frigging Moache bastard. The coward can’t even do his own dirty work . . .”

His lover, then. Or she wants to be. The way she stands near him, the possessiveness in her gaze
 . . . “If the contract is successful, the signer will be made known.”
Calm, always calm.
“If Sirrah de Sezimbra lives, then, by the code, we’ll reveal nothing and simply leave Heritage. It’s not a person’s destiny to know beforehand by whose hand he’ll die.” The last sentence was stiff, a quotation.

De Sezimbra was caught in an icy peace. He nodded to McWilms as pleasantly as he might to a dinner companion. “I should be grateful, I suppose,” he said, speaking to all of them. “We knew the danger of coming here and trying to stop the injustice. I thought we’d simply be deported on some trumped-up charge. This . . .” A mournful shaking of his head. “It could’ve been a simple, brutal murder, as well. At least this way I seem to retain some chance. I don’t understand why Guillene would do it this way, but I’m glad.”

He seemed to come back to himself then. The eyes flicked back into focus, the melancholy half-smile returned to his mahogany face. He nodded to McWilms. “Is that all you have to tell me?”

“Just one thing more.” McWilms reached under his nightcloak, watching the two with the stings. Then his hand came out, proffered toward de Sezimbra as if for a handshake. De Sezimbra took the hand, then suddenly drew back—his palm was wet. The muzzles of the stings came up. Rowenna seemed on the verge of firing, but de Sezimbra shook his head. “No, I’m not harmed.” He glanced at the hand; the moisture was rapidly drying. “At least I don’t think so. A tracer?” he asked.

McWilms nodded.

“I could wash the hand.”

“It’s not that easily removed.” McWilms glanced at Rowenna, her face a rictus of anger and concern. “We don’t wish accidental deaths. In our own way, we Hoorka are very reverent of life.” He moved back a step, squinting against the sun. “My task is done. I wish you luck, Sirrah de Sezimbra.”

“And I wish your people none, Apprentice McWilms.” De Sezimbra almost smiled. “I’d like to talk with you again, though. At 23:11, perhaps?”

McWilms made another, deeper obeisance. “May She of the Five Limbs watch you.” With that, he turned and walked down the dusty path, retracing his steps. He heard the door creak shut behind him, heard the beginning of Rowenna’s protest.

He didn’t go far. He’d scouted the terrain earlier, finding a hidden niche between two boulders on a hill that gave him a view of the house. Cursing the sun and the heat, he settled down to wait.

He did not wait too long. Almost an hour later, the door to the house opened and de Sezimbra stepped out, a pack on his back. McWilms smiled.
I knew he’d be alone. He’s too proud and sensitive to let the others aid him—and he’s an effective enough leader to make his word stand against all the arguments. Good. Sartas and Renier can have the hunt of knives, since he isn’t carrying a bodyshield. They’ll be pleased.

Unaware of McWilms’s surveillance, de Sezimbra settled the pack on his shoulders and walked west, toward the wind-swept foothills and the falling sun.

It was 14:33.

•   •   •

16:51. Sartas and Renier readied themselves in their rooms. McWilms had been reporting back to them at fifteen-minute intervals. The preparations had been minimal, since McWilms had informed them that de Sezimbra was both alone and carrying no bodyshield: an extra nightcloak for the possible body, the tracker for the dye on the victim’s body, a tachyon relay (the purchase of which had depleted the Hoorka treasury, but which Valdisa insisted was necessary by the code)—it transmitted the arrival of dawn at Underasgard. No stings, no bodyshields, nothing but the vibros. Both of the Hoorka were satisfied with that. It was one of Ulthane Gyll’s tenets that killing should be a personal matter, an intimate deed. It’s only then that one understands the responsibility involved. A sting, an aast, even to some extent the Khaelian daggers, all allowed the wielder to stand back from the moment of death, to cloak the Hag with distance.

Not tonight. They would face Her at handsbreadth.

They were waiting for the flitter. Heritage seemed to sense the beginning of the contract, the nearness of the Hag. When Sartas and Renier had come into the lobby, everyone had turned to look—a group of people staring over a game of vari-resolve, a couple playing a hologame, those simply reading on the floaters.

“The rumors must have spread. Now we’re the vicious, nasty Hoorka,” whispered Renier.

“Yah. And we’ll eat the flesh of the victim afterward.” A scowl. “Just simple, bloodthirsty monsters.”

They moved from shade into the bright heat. A man stood near the entrance to the hostel, one hand shielding his eyes. In the lushness of Park Hill, he was an anomaly, dressed in clean but plain and cheap clothing, his feet bare rather than sandalled, his hair cropped close in the fashion of the miners. He saw the Hoorka, blinking against the furnace of the sky.

“Sirrahs,” he called out.

Sartas paused, Renier behind. “We’ve no time for chatter, sirrah.” Sartas began to turn away to wave to the approaching flitter, but the man moved a step toward the Hoorka, still speaking.

“You can’t do this.” The tenor voice quavered, and the man took another tentative step, within an arm’s reach of their nightcloaks. “De Sezimbra is a good man.”

“Good men die as easily as bad ones. That’s not our concern, and we haven’t time to argue philosophy.” Renier was gentler with the intruder than Sartas would have been. He and Sartas turned to move toward the flitter, but the man stepped in front of them; nervously, but deliberately. “In the name of humanity, you can’t do this.” His voice was quiet; it was more effective because of that. “They won’t say it, most of ’em, ’cause they’re afraid of Moache and Guillene. But de Sezimbra is someone who helped us. We don’t want to see this happen.”