Assassins' Dawn (43 page)

“Aldhelm . . .” Gyll could feel dread twisting his bowels. He could almost smell the Hag’s breath in the odor of stale sweat and bitter steel, the faint tang of lifeblood. Aldhelm grimaced in agony.

“By the Hag—” he muttered through clenched teeth. He looked up at Gyll, pain clouding his eyes. “Ulthane . . .”

“Don’t talk, man. Rest. We’ll get you to the Center Hospital.” Gyll glanced up as Valdisa thrust her way through the kin around the fallen assassin. She took a quick look at Aldhelm—her mouth a line of concern—and snapped orders to the kin. “Iduna, get the flitter ready. Cranmer, get on your Center link and tell them we’re coming. You three—get a floater for Aldhelm. Move!” She knelt beside Gyll, touching Aldhelm’s hands lightly and moving them aside. She winced as she saw the wound.

“Ulthane, Thane . . .” Aldhelm’s voice was weak; it brought their heads down. “I didn’t kill Gunnar. I’ve no reason to lie, now. Believe me, I didn’t kill him.”

“Nobody thinks you did,” Valdisa said. She looked at Gyll, her glance angry. “Now be still. Let Bachier take care of the bleeding.”

Gyll and Valdisa moved aside as Bachier—now in charge of the healing for the guild since Renier’s death—began to minister to Aldhelm. They went to d’Mannberg.

His wound was surface. It bled profusely, but the damage was slight. “Is he—” d’Mannberg began.

Gyll shook his head. “It’s an ugly wound, Ric.”

D’Mannberg threw the hilt of his foil to the ground. It bounced among the kin’s feet. “Thane, Ulthane, I didn’t mean for that to happen. It was just a blind thrust, and if he hadn’t been moving . . .” A lode of pain thinned his mouth, furrowed his brow. He blinked away sweat. “We’ve lost too many kin. I didn’t care for Aldhelm, I admit; we fought all the time of late. But I wouldn’t have deliberately . . .”

“We know.” Valdisa laid a hand on his shoulder—the flesh was cool, wet. “Get the rest of them out of here, Ric, and get your shoulder looked at,” she said. “And make sure Cranmer’s stopped filming.”

“It’s not enough to lose Eorl and Sartas,” she said as d’Mannberg began moving the Hoorka from the cavern, as Aldhelm, moaning, was placed on a floater and rushed away. “We have to find ways of killing ourselves. He’s not going to make it, is he?”

“I don’t think so.” He couldn’t think of a gentler way of saying it, and he didn’t feel like lying.

Valdisa swore. “Damn it, Gyll,” she said at last. “Why did you give me all this?”

“Would you want me to take it back?”

Her chin trembled for a moment, flesh puckering. He thought she might cry, but she shook her head again. “I don’t think so, Gyll. But do you want it?”

When he didn’t answer, she moved away from him, watching as the last of the kin left the cavern. Then, the room silent and empty, she did cry. Gyll, stricken, didn’t know how to comfort her. He could only hold her, hand snared in her hair, pulling her to him.

•   •   •

Tri-Guild Church was a blaze of pageantry. The immense space held within its fluted walls was a welter of light from drifting hoverlamps in field-holders high above the crowds. A phalanx of stained-glass windows (ippicators rampant, Dame Fate with Her enigmatic smile, the Hag leering down) threw wide shafts of colored brilliance down on the massed kin; a scurrying montage of brightly dyed cloth and stain-altered sunlight. Peddlers of refreshments called their wares as they shoved passage through the throngs on the floor and in the temporary stands along the walls. The cries were loud above the murmur of conversation.

Only guilded kin were present. For the rest, the spectacle was being broadcast to a huge holotank set in Tri-Guild Square. Lassari or kin unfortunate enough to be unable to afford seats inside—they milled in the square.

Truth-duel: when between the Li-Gallant and his largest rival, it was an event to fascinate Neweden. It would be seen in Mi, in the Northern Waste, along the Sundered Sea, in Remeale on Kotta Plain. Even the Diplos were present, high on the tiered decks, conspicuous in the bright clothing of the Alliance and gathered around the aged, slight figure of Regent d’Embry.

Truth-duel: on Neweden, it was a venerable but rare institution, invoked only in cases of extreme suspicion where normal judicial procedure could not be followed or guilt proven by evidence. It was avoided because the Guild of Magistrates put the heaviest of penalties upon it. The loss of truth-duel was considered irrevocable admission of guilt. There was no appeal from the judgment of the five deities of truth.

Already the Revelate of Tri-Guild Church had invoked the Five, whose images stood at the points of a star-shaped stage. His orange robes ablaze—tongues of unsearing flame licking up and down the seams; as the hoverlamps faded into dimness and opaque covers slid over the stained-glass panels, he was quite impressive—he named them. One by one, the deities burned with a gout of crimson flame, then threw a tight yellow beam across to its neighbors. The perimeter of the stage was then laced with intersecting lines that would repel unprotected flesh. Only the two combatants would be allowed egress to the interior. The Revelate, invocation complete, led the assembly in a brief prayer as his flaming robes flickered. He raised his hands in a gesture of religious ecstasy—the church, plunged into sudden darkness, was then assaulted by aching white brilliance slicing from above and below the star-stage. An involuntary gasp came from the onlookers. Now, somber in their green vestments (the color of justice), each with a priceless chain of ippicator bone-beads, the elder magistrates moved slowly into the sun-blaze, their slaveboys (naked except for jeweled collars) supporting them. They moved to the corners of the stage, each to a deity’s right hand.

And finally, greeted by a sea-roar of anticipation, Vingi and Potok walked onto the dais. Each wore only a simple white cloth around his loins and a wrist bracelet of some dull metal. They were flooded in the fury of a nova. Vingi was a hillock of flesh, his gross folds puckered with cellulite, his breasts almost like a woman’s but for the hairiness of his chest. Yet he moved with a strange grace despite his grotesque appearance. He did not provoke laughter, but a strange silence. Potok seemed only out of shape, his bald head shining, the body of an overweight man given to little or no exercise. He was small beside Vingi, but appeared to be far more mobile. Neither looked the part of fighter.

The beams from the truth-deities parted as they approached, falling back into place behind them. The magistrate at the head of the star-stage tottered a step forward, leaning heavily on the shoulder of his slaveboy.

“Your bracelets, please,” he said. Hidden amplifiers gave his voice deific proportions. “Place them at the edge of the arena.”

Vingi and Potok did as requested, removing the iron circlets from their wrists. A nod from the magistrate, and his attendant darted forward (beams breaking around him), grasped the bracelets, and came back to his station. The magistrate touched the panting head with affection, a small smile on his lips. “Your weapons, sirrahs,” he said, looking up again.

Rising slowly from the center of the star-stage, a platform held two crowd-prods. A simple rubber grip, a stubby metal cylinder, a thumb contact: they were simple weapons, but capable of delivering a jarring shock to the nervous system. Applied in the right area or to the body in general a number of times, they could reduce a person to gibbering, slack-jawed shock or unconsciousness. Vingi and Potok picked up their prods, holding them in uncertain hands. The platform sank and became flush with the floor again.

“The truth-duel is now initiated,” the magistrate said as his fellows nodded. “If one of you asks to yield or is unable to continue the duel, the other will be adjudged the victor and the penalties previously decided upon will be given. There will be no rest periods, no pauses, no particular rules. You cannot leave the star-stage until the gods have ruled—the gods will guide your hands and destinies, for one of you lies.”

The magistrate stepped back, leaning on his slaveboy. He nodded in the shadow of his truth-deity. “Begin.”

Prod-metal flicked light over the expectant faces in the crowd: Vingi swung his weapon up and back. Potok hefted his prod, feeling its weight. The guild-kin of each rule-guild shouted their support.

The Li-Gallant took a ponderous step forward. His flesh jiggled about his waist, on his thighs. Potok was obviously much quicker, he moved forward and to the side, swinging his prod. A clatter of steel: Vingi, arms moving, blocked Potok’s intended blow with his prod. Potok, moving as Vingi turned slowly to attack, swung again and touched the Li-Gallant. A shrill buzzing came from the prod, a choked-off moan escaped Vingi’s lips. The touch was above the kidneys, just under the ribcage. Vingi’s face went red, his eyes watered.

But he still followed Potok, if slowly, who had stopped to see what effect the prod had on his opponent. The Li-Gallant’s arm swept out (light-glare shimmering the prod’s length); Potok, startled, beat at the weapon. Vingi, for all his girth, masked muscle beneath the continents of flesh. His prod bullied past Potok’s flailing defense to touch the man on the right side of the chest. Potok groaned as the prod crackled like a lightning stroke. He stumbled backward as Vingi thrust at him again. Once more, Potok’s greater agility saved him.

Both were now more cautious, having been hit once. As the crowd settled back into noisy restlessness, as the partisan kin cheered, the two played a game of patience. Potok would lunge and dart back, Vingi would attempt to maneuver Potok into a corner where the Li-Gallant’s greater reach and strength gave him the advantage. To the connoisseur of finesse and grace, the match was a dismal farce. It was far too slow. The cheering waned. A few more touches were scored, but the duel dragged on: fifteen minutes, half an hour. Both men were now obviously tired; sweat dappled the star-stage, darkening the cloth about their waists and shining on their backs. Slowly, the eventual outcome was becoming apparent to the spectators. Vingi’s kin began to become noisy; Potok’s guild was watchful, quiet, afraid.

Vingi was stronger, in better shape, and more able to bear the stinging bruises of the crowd-prod. Potok, fish-mouthed and gasping, struggled to stay one step beyond Vingi’s reach. His attacks had become little but desultory feints that did nothing to drive the Li-Gallant back. Vingi stalked his prey, moving slowly, but always moving.

Vingi stepped, and his bearlike arms pummeled air, his prod clacked as he struck Potok’s weapon. The prod shivered in Potok’s grasp, and Vingi struck at it again. The prod slithered away from Potok, clattering across the floor. Potok, his eyes frightened, moved to recover his weapon (his kin moaning as one), and Vingi lunged.

The Li-Gallant’s prod found its mark.

Potok screamed, a wailing cry that echoed in the hall, now lost in the joyous whistling from Vingi’s kin. Potok rolled, reaching out for his prod with desperate, wide-spread fingers. Vingi’s huge foot came down on the hand, hard. The cracking of bones could be heard in the nearest rows, and Vingi’s prod ran the length of Potok’s spine. The squeal of agony choked off suddenly. Potok’s head lolled against the floor.

It was over.

The yellow beams from the deities faded, the aching glare of the star-stage altered to sapphire as Vingi stepped away from Potok. He smiled. The magistrate moved forward to declare him victor.

To declare him truthful and innocent.

•   •   •

It was much later when Gyll finally returned to his rooms. The wort mewled at him—he’d missed its feeding. He stared at the animal, wondering.
How can you be alive, so improbably, when Hag Death snatches at everything else around me? You damn thing, you weren’t built for survival, yet you continue to fight . . .
He reached down over the cage to stroke the furred hardness of the shell.

It had all gone wrong so quickly—so needlessly. Aldhelm had not survived the trip to the hospital. Yet the death was still an unreality, a dream—
he wasn’t meant to go that way, not by the hands of his own kin, accidentally. That was how it was in the early days of Hoorka, before I disciplined them, before the code was set.
He sat on the edge of the bedfield, staring at his hands knotted on his lap. The hands were a network of tiny cracks, whitely dry, the light reflecting satin on the surface, golden-shadowed in the wrinkles.

Why did you give me all this, Gyll?
Valdisa’s words kept coming back, insistent.
But do you want it?

He could feel a sense of change, like a faint spice-smell in the chill dark air of Underasgard. And for the first time, he welcomed change. He thought he knew the answer to Valdisa’s questions. He didn’t care for that answer, knowing what it might mean. But more and more he was certain.

Chapter 10

A
n excerpt from the acousidots of Sondall-Cadhurst Cranmer. The following is part of several interviews Cranmer recorded outside the context of the Hoorka. It is perhaps more interesting in how it reflects Cranmer’s own shift in attitude over the standards he spent on Neweden. As Cranmer remarks in his
Wanderer’s Musings
(Niffleheim University Press, 252), it took him quite some time to readjust to our society after living in that society. Certainly the Cranmer I knew before the Hoorka study would never have been so patronizing. He began, afterward, to wonder if the attitude of the elite toward those below them wasn’t something lying dormant in all people, and to question whether his humanistic views weren’t merely a civilized veneer far too easily scratched away. Cranmer, ever afterward, was active in social reform, perhaps to the detriment of his status in his field; it is not good for one engaged in the study of societies to be active in endeavoring to change the one in which he lives.

The lassari of this interview has never been identified—another indication of the odd and uncharacteristic contempt that exudes from Cranmer in this dot.

EXCERPT FROM THE DOT OF 9.26.215:

“You’re a lassari?”

(A moment’s silence.)