Assassins' Dawn (61 page)

Gyll was tempted to refuse her, this no-name lassari. Yet his curiosity prodded him.
You’re reacting with the vestiges of Neweden mores. This reluctance to talk to her is only because she’s lassari. Remember that you’re not a Newedener anymore, but an Oldin.
“All right,” he said finally. “Marko, take charge here for a few minutes, will you?” The man grinned back at Gyll, glancing knowingly at the lassari.

“Certainly, Sula. My pleasure.”

Gyll smiled at Marko, shaking his head. He picked up his shirt, then walked with the woman toward the nose of the shuttle, putting on his shirt against the cool breeze. When they stood in the shadow of the nose, the thick strut of the landing gear beside them, he spoke to her. “Well, m’Dame? They can’t hear us here.”

She glanced about once more. “I don’t like being here,” she said. “It’s too open. Too many people could be watching.” She looked back at Gyll and shrugged. “But I needed to contact you, Sula. From everything I’ve heard, everyone’s attention is centered on you: the Li-Gallant’s, the Regent’s. They want to know what you’re doing here.”

“Just what it appears I’m doing—trading.” He could not keep a faint hint of condescension from his voice. “And which of those watchers do
you
represent?”

“The Hag’s Legion and Renard.”

Gyll knew that she watched his face for a reaction. He didn’t know if he was successful in keeping the shock and disgust hidden, but then, he did not particularly try. “What does the Hag’s Legion care about the Family Oldin?” His voice had turned colder, more distant. It hardened her face, made her step back away from him.

“You were guilded kin once, Sula. We know that. You were Thane of the Hoorka, the scum that kill lassari for the Li-Gallant. They cast you out, Sula, those Hoorka. Thane Valdisa had you banned from the company of all guilded kin; she made you lassari—no better than me as far as Neweden society’s concerned.” She paused, glancing about once more. Two people were walking toward the shuttle from the Sterka gates of the port. The woman kept her gaze on them, speaking faster now. “We need to know where you stand, Sula. Do you support the guilded kin who spat on your name and discarded you, or will you help the truly needy ones of this world, the lassari that look to the Hag’s Legion for support? You could aid us greatly.”

“I’m a Trader, m’Dame. I don’t dabble in politics.”

“You can’t avoid that here, Sula. If you deal with the Li-Gallant, you tread on the backs of all lassari. All we ask is that you consider that. There are things that the Hag’s Legion could use that wouldn’t involve your visible support: money, material, perhaps arms . . .”

The two were still approaching, and Gyll could see that both wore uniforms—one that of Vingi’s guard, the other that of a Diplo staff member. The woman saw them as well. Her nervousness increased. She shifted her weight from side to side uneasily. “Sula?” she said. “I need an answer to take back to Renard.”

“Then tell him no.”

The woman scowled, baring her teeth—they were not good teeth; discolored, broken. “Sula, you’re not kin, you’re lassari. One of us.”

“No.”

She hissed, drawing her breath in between snaggled incisors. “Very well, then. You’ve made a mistake, Sula. I hope you don’t regret it later.” She looked at the guards, then back to Gyll. “I can’t argue with you any longer.”

“I understand, m’Dame,” Gyll said. His voice had softened despite himself—he felt empathy for her, for the risk she had taken to come here openly, for the obvious passion of her convictions. “M’Dame, I bear no grudge at all against lassari, believe me, but I don’t intend to endanger my trading mission here.”

“Then you’ve made your choice, Sula. As I told you, all the forces here look to you as a part of the solution to Neweden’s problems. You can’t avoid the politics: whether there’s a reason or not, those in power all look to you. Their thoughts center around you. You’re involved, Sula, despite your protests.”

The two guards had increased their pace. One pointed to them. The woman slid around the bulk of the landing strut and ran. Gyll heard her footsteps, watched as Vingi’s guard took flight after her. The Diplo waited for a moment until pursuer and pursued had disappeared into a maze of idle machinery, then sauntered over to Gyll. The Diplo nodded to Gyll pleasantly. The badge on his tunic had the name Vorman inscribed on it—a miniature Vorman leered up at him from the holo ID. “Think he’ll catch her?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” Gyll answered. “She seemed fast and agile. Bet she has better wind, too.”

“Who was she?”

“She didn’t say,” Gyll said flatly. He’d already decided that he did not like this Vorman. “She was looking for a handout.” Gyll elaborated no further. Vorman nodded, staring at Gyll.

“My friend from the Li-Gallant seemed to think she might be Hag’s Legion.”

“I know the woman was lassari. She might have been involved with the Legion, I suppose. It
is
largely lassari.”

“Ahh.” Vorman nodded again. He smiled; it touched only his lips. “I don’t know how the woman got out here, Sula—as you know, all Neweden natives are restricted to the public area of the port.”

“Then shouldn’t you be chasing her as well?”

The smile became wider and still did not reach his eyes. Gyll’s dislike for the man’s false camaraderie increased. “It’s a purely internal problem for Neweden, isn’t it, Sula?” Vorman said. “At least as long as she was just here to ask for charity. Perhaps we’ll find out more if she’s caught.”

Gyll glanced back the way she’d gone. “My money’s on the woman,” he said. “Care to wager?”

“I think not.” Vorman shrugged. “I’ll have to make a report, though. The Regent insists on knowing what happens inside the port.” He glanced at Gyll and the smile vanished. “Especially where it concerns you, Sula.”

“It’s nice to know she cares.”

The smile returned. “And I’d been told that you had very little humor in you, Sula. Well, I’ll leave you to your work.”

Vorman walked away, moving toward the gates of Diplo Center. Gyll watched him leave. “Gods damn all officious assholes like you, Vorman,” Gyll muttered.

Then, puzzling over the incident, he went back to his crew.

Chapter 4

T
HE FUNERAL OF VASELLA was held in one of the hundred or so small churches dotting Dasta Burrough—the Church of the Vengeful Ippicator. Renard had chosen it, whimsically, for its name; certainly not for its grandeur. It was an uncomfortable choice in most ways, though that made Renard feel pleased rather than the opposite. Too many people were crammed into too small a space. The interior was hot despite the autumnal temperatures outside, and it was crowded. Renard’s clothes were sticky and damp. He’d left behind the plant-pet as rendering him too conspicuous, but was glad now that the creature’s burdensome weight didn’t add to his discomfort. Micha and Alex pressed beside him, too close. Still, the scene made him smile. Little annoyances bred anger, and the child of anger is violence.

Only the corpse of Vasella had room. Shrouded in plain glowcloth, it lay on a bier between the congregation and the altar, bedecked with flowers and small burial gifts. The mourners were almost entirely lassari and low kin, the residents of Dasta Burrough and Oversector and the wretched areas like them in all of Neweden’s cities. Squirming in his seat in the front pew, Renard could see them, filling the ranks of seats, lining the walls and clogging the aisles, seemingly about to overflow the balcony.
Good, good. They’re already edgy and bitter, and this poor excuse for a church feeds their irritations. Good.
The mourners shifted, fanned themselves, shouted across to friends, all under the cartoonish glare of a rendering of She of the Five that filled the rear wall. Behind the poorly drawn goddess, a simplistic sky tossed thunderheads jerkily from left to right. Renard smiled up at the visage, mockingly. He fingered the rough cloth of the hood on his lap—he’d brought the Hag’s Legion here with their faces concealed, for a squadron of Vingi’s guards had been just outside the church, filming all those who entered. There had been muttering and covert insults, but no trouble. Not yet.

The Li-Gallant plays into my hands. Again. As always.

The crowd quieted as the Revelate Brotsge walked slowly from the sacristy to the bier. Brotsge was old, frail of body, and foul-tempered, an old-line lassari who preached of eventual rebirth and reward for those who followed the mores of Neweden society. The revelate had been absurdly happy at receiving the overlarge tithing for the funeral service. Seeing the church, Renard could understand: it needed repair. It seemed to be held together with erratic strips of paint and prayer. Whatever the revelate’s usual congregation, they were neither large nor generous with what little money they had.

The revelate shuffled forward and put a trembling right hand on Vasella’s shroud. At his gesture, the lights in the church dimmed—haphazardly, for some went entirely dark and others stayed nearly full—while the sky behind She of the Five became twilight with a flickering of scratchy lightning. The Revelate Brotsge’s voice was as palsied as his hands. It reverberated tinnily through the church.

“We have gathered to send the soul of Urbana Vasella to our gods and their mercy.” He leered out to the people in what Renard assumed was Brotsge’s interpretation of a sympathetic smile. Renard frowned back, properly respectful and sad at this death of a friend. Micha leaned toward him slightly, speaking in a whisper. “I wish we could have done this outside. My pants are itching from all the heat.” Renard nodded back, still looking at Brotsge.

The revelate took his hand away from the bier and made the sign of the star over the body. “Sirrah Vasella prepares to meet She of the Five, who will snatch him away from Hag Death and prepare him for his next life here. She will take his
j’nath,
his essence, and mold it in a new form, one that mirrors the worthiness of his past lives. We should not grieve here, my friends, for Urbana is dead only for a little time, as the Gods count such things.”

“He’s dead! That’s all that matters, Revelate!”

The shout came from the packed rear of the hall, followed by scattered shouts of agreement. Restless, the congregation mumbled to itself. Heads craned to view the source of the interruption. Renard sat, silent and still, hands folded on his hood, ignoring the sweat and the heat and the closeness, watching the consternation in the face of the revelate. The man peered myopically out into the crowd, seeking the taunter. Brotsge blustered, scowling, the sound system amplifying his spluttering ire. As the gathering settled once more into restive, uneasy quiet, Brotsge gathered together the shreds of his composure once more, drawing himself up and glaring down at the assembled, his chin high. Renard leaned back, not letting the band of wetness down his spine bother him. This would be interesting.

Brotsge had motioned to his acolyte—a boy that could have been no more than ten. Obviously hot and uncomfortable in his voluminous, heavy surplice, the boy came over to the revelate, bearing a tray on which sat censer and spices, a flask of holy water. The boy kept glancing at the crowd, especially at the solemn rank of the Hag’s Legion. Brotsge cleared his throat, said something to the acolyte in a whisper. The child blanched, blinked heavily. The tray shook, but his attention was now entirely on the revelate. Brotsge took the flask and walked once around the corpse, now and then sprinkling the liquid inside over the shroud, all the while intoning the litany of She of the Five. Renard watched, impassive, biding his time and listening more to the whispers of the people behind him than to the ritualistic mutterings of the revelate. He wiped sweat from his forehead with his sleeve, folded his muscular arms at his chest.

Revelate Brotsge faced the congregation once more. Sweat had made ragged strands of his white, thin hair. Dark circles of perspiration were visible under the sleeves of his outer garment. He bowed his head: Renard watched a droplet of sweat fall from the revelate’s head to the floor.

“We send Urbana on with our prayers and the blessing of She of the Five. We pray he will return soon, his
j’nath
purged by his passage.” His head still bowed, Brotsge waited for the traditional response: “All praise Her.” It came only from his acolyte. The crowd began the refrain, but came to a ragged halt as Micha—at a nudge from Renard—rose from her seat and spoke loudly.

“You’re quite mistaken, Revelate.” She had a strong, firm voice. It carried well in the mugginess of the church.

The revelate gaped at her, his mouth open comically. At his side, the acolyte giggled nervously. Brotsge flung a hand sidewise; it struck the boy on the cheek, silencing him and rocking the utensils on the tray. The revelate shut his mouth, straightened. He fixed Micha with a squinting glare. “M’Dame—” he began severely.

“Revelate,” Micha interrupted. Her audacity snapped shut his mouth again. In his seat, Renard grinned to himself.
Good.
The church was utterly silent, everyone’s attention drawn to the conflict. Even the swishing of improvised fans had stopped, forgotten. Micha’s words fell into the quiet like stones. “Vasella was a lassari, like most of us in the Legion, like most of those here today.” She swept her hands wide to include the gathering. “He had no wish to return to this miserable life on the vague
chance”
—she paused, as Renard had taught her—“that in this mythical next life he might return as guilded kin.”

“M’Dame—”

“No, Revelate. Vasella will return to us when the ippicators return, as all our lore tells us they will do, when the time has come to destroy this society the guilded kin have built to serve their own needs.” Another pause, and as Brotsge began to make some comment, Micha shouted over him. “Vasella would not
want
to be kin, not when it would mean defiling all he believed in. He would not turn around and spit in the faces of the lassari and low kin, who were as a family to him.”

At that, there were scattered applause and sounds of agreement from around the church. Only the row of the Hag’s Legion sat silent, unperturbed. Renard was pleased with the response.
A little heavy-handed with the words, but she’s doing it well. Good and better.