Assassins' Dawn (48 page)

“Fools!”
Rage flared, finally. “Is that what you say, man?”

The vibrotip circled before Guillene’s face.

“Hoorka, please, you can’t—”

“Insult Hoorka, and you insult me.”

“You must understand—”

“Strike at Hoorka, and you’ve struck at me.”

The vibro keened hungrily. Gyll’s hand lunged forward, slashing across the throat.

The body fell sidewise, hung on the edge of the bedfield for a moment, then slid softly to the floor.

Staring down at Guillene, Gyll searched for the satisfaction he should feel in the death, the gratification. He felt very little. He went to the bed, grasped the woman under shoulders and knees and took her into the larger room. She would wake there—away from the blood-spattered bedroom and the stiffening corpse.

Then, frowning, he made his way from the house.

•   •   •

Aldhelm’s body had lain the proscribed ten days in the Cavern of the Dead. Each day, as the sunstar touched the dawnrock with morning, an apprentice had added a scented log to the pile of wood that held the body, first anointing the log with the blood of kin. Ulthane Gyll, Thane Valdisa, d’Mannberg, Bachier, and Serita had done the blood service—the first five days from a cut on the left hand, the second from the right. Chips of ippicator bone had been placed over the open eyes. Aldhelm’s nightcloak had been pressed, the hem rewoven with gilt.

Now, as the dawnrock noted the passing of light, the Hoorka gathered. First came the jussar applicants with cloaks of red, then the apprentices with the normal black and gray uniform adorned by a scarlet sleeve, and finally the full kin. Their footsteps echoed among the stones. Glowtorches guttered fitfully in the hands of every tenth Hoorka, the erratic light throwing mad shadows to the roof. All passed once around the pyre, intoning the kin’s chant to Hag Death. Cranmer, on a ledge above and to one side, busied himself recording the ceremony. The Hoorka rustled to a halt, arrayed before the pyre.

Gyll was moody, tired. He’d arrived at Sterka Port only a few hours before, with time only to plunge his vibro into the ground near the dawnrock and then ready himself for Aldhelm’s funeral. He had not been able to talk to Valdisa, to tell her that Guillene was dead. Now he sat on the ground next to her, staring at the pyre and its silent burden, feeling the chill of Underasgard against his flesh. The scent of oil was heavy in the cavern, mingling with the pungency of spices. Flame crackled beside him as an apprentice came up and handed Valdisa a torch. Gyll glanced at Valdisa. She seemed to feel the pressure of his gaze and turned, smiling wanly. He touched her hand, almost as cool as the rock it rested on. Her fingers interlaced his and pressed gently. “I’m glad you’re back in time,” she said.

“It took longer than Helgin had thought. It wouldn’t have mattered. You’re Thane. It’s your task to see Aldhelm’s rite done property.”

“Still, this is better.” The erratic torchlight made her face waver, as if crossed by some unguessed emotion. She moved her hand away, staring again at the pyre. “It’s done, then?”

“Guillene’s with the Hag.”

“Have you told the kin?”

“Tomorrow. Tonight is for Aldhelm.”

She only nodded, solemn. Smoke from her torch watered Gyll’s eyes. He leaned away from her.

The torch Inglis held stank in Gyll’s nostrils—or perhaps it was Inglis himself. Gyll had found the cave system after an old and drunken lassari had babbled of it in Sterka. He’d taken Inglis with him to explore it. The caves, in Gyll’s mind, might make an excellent base for the group of lassari and jussar he’d joined: thieves and murderers hiding from the wrath of the Li-Gallant Perrin. Gyll had ideas for them—they had begun to listen, grudgingly. Now Inglis stumbled over the broken floor of the cavern and the torch came dangerously near Gyll’s clothing.

“Damn it, man. Watch where you’re stepping.”

Inglis reared about, the torch whuffing through air. “Shut your friggin’ mouth, Gyll. Just because you’ve managed to get the rest of ’em to listen don’t mean you can order me around. Try that again, and I’ll shove this friggin’ torch down your throat.”

Gyll knew that the confrontation between him and Inglis had been coming. The man had been undermining Gyll’s growing influence with the lassari band. Inglis had been one of the leaders, ruling by grace of his size and feared brutality. Gyll preferred to lead through discipline and intelligence, but these were not traits Inglis understood or appreciated. The lassari had been waiting to see which was the way of the future. Gyll could think of no better place to settle it—the dark caverns, the rest of the band waiting by the jagged mouth.

“Inglis,” he said, wearily. “You’ve seen me fight—if you still think you’re better, then you’re nothing but a fool.”

Inglis cursed and charged. The caverns echoed with their conflict—it was short. Inglis knew only one tactic—a bearlike charge, a straightforward attack. Gyll dodged the first blow of Inglis’s large fist, kicking the man as he lunged.
As
Inglis bent over in sudden agony, Gyll hammered at his neck with coupled hands. Inglis moaned, but did not go down. Gyll hit him again, and the man crumpled to the stones. Rock clunked dully under him, the torch guttered nearby.

In a few moments, Inglis groaned to his knees, as Gyll watched.

“Enough?” Gyll asked.

For his reply, Inglis yanked the dagger from his belt and charged once more. This time, Gyll had to break his arm. He picked up the dagger from the stones, held it at Inglis’s throat from behind, one hand holding the chin up. The others of the band had by this time heard the fighting and entered. They stood around them like shadows, watching in silence.

“Enough?” Gyll asked again.

“You can beat me now, bastard, but I’ll find you sometime,” Inglis muttered through his teeth. He reached behind for Gyll, unwilling to yield.

Gyll pulled the dagger deep. Lifeblood splashed on the stones.

It was the first conflict in Underasgard between the lassari that would become the Hoorka.

Valdisa had risen, handing the torch to Serita Iduna, who stood beside the pyre. From under her nightcloak, Valdisa took out a dagger in a jeweled sheath—the Hoorka death-blade. It had once been a plain weapon, but now the blade was silvered, the hilt shone. She ascended the pyre—a rude stairway had been made in the logs—finally kneeling beside the body. Torchlight shone in her eyes; Gyll could see the tears gathered at the corners. He envied Valdisa her grief. Searching inside himself, he felt very little. He could make excuses—he was still buoyed by the adrenaline of the Heritage trip, tired from the long day, but no . . . He’d tried to summon up the sorrow that he should feel, that he knew he
must
feel somewhere inside, but it had hidden itself. Yes, he felt emptiness, but that was an intellectual sensation. Valdisa’s bereavement was genuine. Gyll wondered what was wrong with him.

Valdisa lifted the dagger and kissed the blade, tears shining behind the bright metal. She touched the flat of the blade to Aldhelm’s lips, then (her mouth taut, eyes half-closed and forcing the tears from under the lids) she plunged the dagger into Aldhelm’s breast.

A sigh came from the massed kin.

Still kneeling, she let go of the weapon. Hands at her sides, she began the invocation of She of the Five Limbs. The yellow-white hilt caught the torchlight. It shone, lustrous.

The sunstar was in Gyll’s eyes—a bad position, but he couldn’t move without making it obvious that he expected a fight. Kryll spat on the ground at Gyll’s feet. “You can’t do this, boy. I won’t let you.”

Gyll widened his stance, waiting. “No one can tell
me
what I can or can’t do. If you people don’t listen to me, we’re going to stay lassari shit. I can make us guilded kin, but you’re going to have to do things by my code.”

Kryll laughed—yellowed teeth, cracked lips. “Man, you’re a frigging idiot. Oh, a good fighter, I’ll admit that, but you’re a dreamer first. I’ve killed five men, two of ’em guilded kin. It may not have made me rich, but I’m better off than those idiots just dying in Dasta. We’re comfortable out here, away from Sterka. Keep your damned stupidities to yourself.”

“Kryll, if I have to kill you to get what I want, I’ll do it. The Li-Gallant’s guards’ll even pay me for the body, neh?”

Kryll laughed again. He pulled an ugly, battered crowd-prod from the belt-loop at his waist. Gyll had seen him use it before. The prod had been altered, the limiting circuits taken out. It used the full charge of the battery with a touch. It charred the flesh, perhaps even killed. Kryll waved the weapon at Gyll. “You bother me too much, boy. C’mere, and I’ll teach you what happens to lassari with dreams.”

But quite another lesson was taught, and Kryll was not the professor but the student.

Valdisa took the dagger from Aldhelm’s breast and sheathed it again. She reached over the body and took the bone chips from the eyes. Though the body was too high-placed for him to see, Gyll knew that the eyes would be open, allowing the
j’nath,
the essence of the soul that is left behind when breath departs, to exit when the flames released it. Summoned by the invocation, She of the Five would take the
j’nath
and incorporate it into Herself. The ippicator chips were placed in Aldhelm’s hands, an offering. Valdisa bowed her head, rising to her feet. Spreading her arms wide, she intoned the benediction.

“Our brother Aldhelm goes to join She of the Five Limbs. Let all kin give praise.”

With the others, Gyll repeated the response. “Let all give praise.” The phrase echoed through the cavern.

“He will give Her the love of kin.”

“Let all give praise.”

“He will intercede with Her for Hoorka.”

“Let all give praise.”

The litany continued, phrase and response, for several minutes. Then Valdisa lowered her hands. She bowed deeply to the body of Aldhelm and descended the pyre.

That kind of conversation always seemed to happen after lovemaking.

Darnell had cradled her head in his shoulder, sighing. Tangled, faintly damp hair spread over his chest; the chill air of Underasgard cooled the sweat on his body. Gyll touched the headboard—covers obediently slid over them. “Thank you,” Darnell said. She snuggled closer. “That’s much better.”

Gyll hmmmed agreement.

“I saw the uniforms. They’re dark and somber.” Her voice was sleepy, lazy. “You think they’ll make much difference, Thane?”

“Yes.” He was emphatic. His fingers kneaded her smooth – muscled back. “They’ll give us an identity, a unity. I think it’ll draw us closer, probably closer than the kin of most guilds.”

“Some of the others don’t like the fact that you didn’t consult the rest before you made the decision.”

“It was my decision to make. You have to grasp for what you think is right—whether it actually is or not—or you’ll lose the leadership.”

“And if the decision’s wrong?”

“It doesn’t matter. It’s all in the act itself. You have to do what you think is right, regardless of consequences. Otherwise, you lose the respect of the rest; more importantly, you’ll probably lose your respect for yourself. And that’s worse.”

“You sound as if you’ve thought out all the answers.”

“I have. I’m Thane. I intend to stay Thane.” He lay back, hand under head, relaxing. It was all going so well. Li-Gallant Perrin hadn’t been able to ignore their application for guild status: the future of Hoorka would come to a vote in the Assembly within one phase of Sleipnir, and Gyll had talked with several of the rule-guild heads. It looked hopeful. He pulled Darnell closer, smiling. Yah, very well. He rested, content.

Serita handed the torch back to Valdisa. The flame dimmed, then flared. Shadows slid over Valdisa’s face. She looked at Gyll. “Ulthane,” she said, “will you send Aldhelm on? I think he would prefer it.”

Gyll nodded, rising to his feet. He shook sooty dirt from his nightcloak and walked over to Valdisa, taking the torch from her. He wanted to hug her—the face was so tragic, so hurt. Tears had left faint tracks on her cheeks. Valdisa stepped away from him, going to join the silent kin; Gyll turned to the pyre. The aroma of sandalwood and oil was heavy. He looked up at the body. “Aldhelm”—a whisper—“I wouldn’t have it this way. I’m sorry. I wish we could have remained friends, kin-brother.”

He touched the flame to the base of the pyre. Nothing happened for a moment, then a small flame appeared, wavered, and surged. Crackling, hissing; the fire leaped from log to log, climbing. The buffeting heat drove Gyll back while the eternal night of Underasgard was banished from the cavern. The smell of smoke and oil filled the room. Gyll knew that the dark cloud of Aldhelm’s funeral would now be rising from the vents of natural chimneys in the room, a fuming from the slopes above Underasgard’s mouth. The wind would smear the soot and ash across the sky.

In reverse order of their entrance, the Hoorka filed from the room. Gyll, standing beside Valdisa, touched her arm. She smiled sadly at him; Gyll pulled her to him with one arm. She touched her head to his shoulder. Through the pall of smoke, Gyll could see Cranmer—coughing and sneezing—getting ready to vacate his perch.

Their turn came. Gyll squeezed Valdisa, then walked ahead of her from the Cavern of the Dead. At their backs, logs collapsed in on each other. A frantic gathering of sparks danced their way to the roof.

Chapter 12

A
n excerpt from the acousidots of Sondall-Cadhurst Cranmer. The following transcript is from one of the earliest recordings of the Hoorka dots. The subject, Redac Allin, was one of the original Hoorka, a member of the lassari thugs taken by the young Gyll Hermond. The dot was quoted by Cranmer in the first treatise on the Hoorka,
Social Homogenization: The Hoorka in Neweden Society. (Niffleheim Journal of Archaeo-Sociology,
Marcus 245, pp.1389-1457.) Cranmer, in his notes, recorded that he wished to do a later full-holo interview with Allin, but the man was slain a few weeks later during a contract. His passing was not particularly mourned, even by the Hoorka-kin.