Assassins' Dawn (8 page)

“I don’t want it said that you’re on the Hoorka Council because you are the Thane’s bed partner.”

Valdisa flared with sudden anger. “I don’t need your altruism
or
your protection. I can stand with my own abilities. I’ve told you that before. Let someone challenge me on the practice floor if they doubt my skills.”

“This still makes it easier.”

“For whom? You? Me?” Valdisa spread her hands wide, the folds of the nightcloak shifting fluidly. “If you can’t handle the relationship, tell me. That would be easier. But don’t make excuses. I want truth, not evasions.” Her voice was dangerously gentle. “Damn you, I still care for you—it doesn’t matter if that’s no longer mutual. It doesn’t change the feelings. But tell me the truth, kin to kin.”

“I don’t know myself any more. Damn it, Valdisa, we’ve had this argument before. It never does any good, and we go about for the next few days angry with ourselves because we’ve hurt one another. That’s something I have no interest in doing.” He paused, searching her eyes and drifting down to her set lips. “That’s the truth.”

“And I said I wouldn’t bring it up again. I know.” She pressed her lips together in a half-smile, a sad amusement. “I’m sorry. If you change your mind, you know where to find me. I’ll go post the names for the Claswell contract. Aldhelm and yourself? You won’t change that?”

“Neh. Aldhelm and myself.” The Thane paused a moment, began to speak, then lapsed into silence.

“Go on.” Valdisa touched his hand, her forefinger moving from the wrist to the back of his veined hand and back again.

“It’s nothing,” he said, his eyes watching the slow caress of her finger. Then he looked up to see her watching. “I feel
old,
somehow, and I’ve never felt so uncertain before. And it’s not age, but . . .” He shook his head. “I’m just tired of the intrigue, tired of the chase, the hunt. What was it Cranmer called us, an ‘adolescent fantasy in a prepubescent world’? I’m weary of blood, and I keep looking for other solutions to our problems. And there don’t seem to be any. Kin fight other kin, and kin always fight lassari, and Dame Fate laughs while Hag Death collects her due.”

“You should hear yourself. Maudlin, love, maudlin.”

“You should feel this way.”

“Are you telling me you should step down as Thane?”

“No!”
His denial was vigorous, and the vehemence startled even himself. “No,” he repeated more gently. “Not yet, in any event. Post the names, would you?”

“As you wish.” Valdisa rose, then stepped toward the Thane. She stopped an arm’s length from him and touched his face with her hand. She traced the line of his cheekbone, the furrow running from nostril to mouth. “I’m not angry. I just see you changing. You don’t seem as confident in yourself as you once did, and I worry for you. For Hoorka, and for you. Because I still care.”

Her hand dropped, and she walked quickly to the doorshield, stepping through it before he could formulate a reply. The Thane sat on the bed for a long hour, steeping himself in frustration.

•   •   •

The domed roof of the Neweden Assembly Hall was set with stained-glass murals depicting the fall of Huard, works of art as famous for their beauty as for the difficulties involved in appeasing the seven major artisan’s guilds. Each had wanted their guild commissioned for the work, and it was only through the determined efforts of the Assembly that the work had been done at all. Seven panes there were, and through each jeweled shafts of light fell in dusty pillars to the distant floor. Birds roosted in the gutters of the dome, spotting the murals with whitish droppings that were daily cleaned. Today, the birds’ rest was disturbed by the faint sound of shouting voices below; bureaucratic strife and political dueling among the various guild-kin that composed the Assembly.

“The ruling guild of Sirrah Gunnar is at least concerned with the welfare of those people on Neweden that haven’t the advantages of the Li-Gallant.”

Potok leaned forward at his desk, shouting across the length of the Assembly Hall to the high dais where Vingi sat behind a bank of viewscreens. A stylus, held between forefinger and thumb, stabbed the air in Vingi’s direction, and if Potok seemed a trifle more theatrical than was his wont—as a trio of holocameras recorded the scene with cyclopian indifference, broadcasting the meeting to the Diplo Center a few blocks away—nobody remarked upon it. Assembly meetings were half–stage production, half-serious at best, and much was tolerated that would, in the streets, be cause for declaration of bloodfeud.

The session thus far had proved to be one of the more entertaining for those in a position to find the semi-functioning of their Assembly amusing—which were those few who didn’t depend on it in some way for the stability of their lives. Neweden’s government—by law a republic with an elected head, the Li-Gallant—was in practice an economic dictatorship with Vingi as ruler through his holding of the monetary reins of the planet, a ruler as his kin-father had been before him. It was not always an efficient system, but like all governments it worked occasionally.

There was a shout from the far side of the floor, another of the many guild representatives. “Haven’t we heard enough rhetoric designed simply to slow down the functioning of this Assembly? Li-Gallant, I respectfully ask that Representative Potok—”

Potok shouted down the man—he had good lungs.
“And I have the floor,
honored representative. If you’ll be so good as not to interrupt me, this body may well function more efficiently.” He turned, slowly and with exaggerated pride, to face Vingi again. The sunlight from above sparked and flared over the glittering satin of his ceremonial robes: turquoise, the color of his guild, Gunnar’s guild. What he had just said, uttered in public, would have caused the other party to demand satisfaction. But candor, and what might be rudeness in normal Neweden society, were tolerated here. Potok glared at the Li-Gallant and pressed his point.

“I ask again, Li-Gallant, for an investigation into the attempted murder of our party leader. You’ve evaded giving a direct answer or letting the matter come to a vote. I request that you speak your mind and enlighten us down on the floor as to your reasoning.”

Vingi squinted into the bluish haze around him—the smoke filters in the room didn’t seem to be working. He toyed with a stack of microfiche in front of him, checked one of the screens (a view of the hall outside: a bored guard was relating a story to another with extravagant and obscene gestures), and looked down at Potok. He bit on his lower lip in concentration.

“Representative Potok,” he said languidly, his voice just this side of boredom, “Gunnar had been contracted to be killed by the Hoorka—as you well know—and the Hoorka are bound by their guild bylaws not to release the name involved in their unsuccessful attempts
and
to make public the signer of successful assassinations. I suggest you make your plea to Hoorka, and not the Assembly, if you are so interested in learning the identity—or perhaps you might advise Gunnar to run slower next time.”

A roar of laughter rose from guild-members allied with Vingi, coupled with derisive boos from Gunnar’s supporters.

“M’Dame Ricia Cuscratti was not killed by Hoorka,” insisted Potok.

Vingi waved pudgy fingers in dismissal. “There is no proof of
that
beyond vague rumors; in any event, sirrah, m’Dame Cuscratti’s murderers will be fined to the limits of the law should their identities come to light, and your guild-kin may demand bloodfeud if m’Dame Cuscratti’s guild-kin do not insist upon preference. I fail to see the point of your persistence.”

There was a murmuring of affirmation from the floor, a bee-hum that filled the hall with wordless clamor. Potok raised his eyes to the sun-brightened windows above him and waited for silence. The noise died slowly and incompletely.

“The attempted killing of Gunnar might well be a cause for bloodfeud between our guild and another,” he continued. “And we have a right to know what lies behind the attempt, whether it was a personal insult or a matter for all of Gunnar’s kin—my kin. If, for instance, a part of our government were trying to gain total control of this Assembly”—he paused significantly—“or attempting to consolidate what they already control, then the guilds would have a right to know.”

A shout of contempt came from the left side of the hall, joined by a few other voices. “Sit down, Potok! You’re interrupting—”

As Potok turned to deal with the hecklers, his own supporters voiced their own feelings at suitable volume. The contention rose, the voices growing steadily louder and more numerous as members of the ruling guilds joined in on one side or another. Potok, his chest heaving, struggled to be heard above them, facing Vingi and bellowing his complaints. Vingi sat watching the disturbance, then raised the gavel of office. He let the gavel fall and the amplified thud of wood on wood rang throughout the hall; a low, ringing note. The discussions faded slowly. Potok bowed to Vingi. “My thanks, Li-Gallant.”

“I simply didn’t care to see the hall in dissension, Representative. I wouldn’t think it would behoove you to see it so, either. Will you yield the floor
now,
sirrah?”

Potok shook his head. He shuffled the papers on his desk, glancing up to the dais. “I do not. There are other questions I would like answered, if the Li-Gallant has no answer to the others I’ve asked. Our sources, for one, tell us that certain parties have been selling ippicator skeletons to offworld concerns without paying the proper tithes to the guild treasuries, and without the tax that is due Neweden. Is that true?”

“If your sources are reliable, but the government has heard nothing of this. I will investigate it personally. Does that satisfy you, sirrah?”

“I trust the report will be prompt, Li-Gallant, since ippicator skeletons are a finite resource, and once depleted cannot be restored. Another matter: our guild-kin in Illi say that their continent has not been receiving its entire stipend for food, and that lassari have actually starved in Illicata. The ore mines have provided ore for the factories, the fishermen have produced record catches, and the farmers of the Southern Plain have had adequate rainfall this season. How can they not be prospering? Yet the figures I have before me”—he waved a sheet of flimsies about—“show an interesting dichotomy. I would like to read these into the record . . .”

“The government of Neweden is not interested in fiction, Representative Potok. Your kin in Illi are not members of this Assembly by vote of the guilds. Representative Heenan of Illi
is.
I suggest you go over the figures with him and let us get on with more pressing business.” Vingi turned deliberately away from Potok, his ringed fingers spitting light as they passed through a stray sunbeam. Again shouts of agreement and protest came from the floor. Potok screamed to be heard.

“I will not yield the floor until this Assembly listens to me!”

He was shouted down. Across the floor, representatives rose to their feet to be better heard. Several strident voices demanded the floor as members of contending guilds exchanged taunts and threats. The pounding of the gavel was heard and ignored, and Vingi shouted for order into a nearby microphone, his voice ragged with overamplification. The noise quieted somewhat, but did not die. Potok crossed his arms over his chest and faced the dais with a face gray with anger. “I demand to be heard, Li-Gallant.”

“You’ve been heard for the last hour, sirrah. Will you yield?” Wearily, for Vingi was genuinely tired. His rump hurt, his right foot itched, and he was beginning to feel faint hunger.

“I will not. I have the floor. I intend to keep it until I receive some satisfaction. I’ll talk all day if necessary. The leader of my guild has been nearly killed, and the current government ignores the people it supposedly serves.”

“You needn’t slander this Assembly in the hall, in open meeting.” Vingi’s voice boomed through the speakers, dwarfing that of Potok.

“Slander is sometimes truth,” Potok said harshly, his voice showing the strain of constant shouting. Behind him, others of his guild clamored agreement. The holocameras filming the session moved from the over-righteous face of Potok to the thick features of Vingi.

The Li-Gallant’s double chin trembled as he pointed to Potok with a forefinger. “You had better be prepared to back up such libel with facts, Representative, if only for the sake of your kin. Do you understand me, sirrah?” From the Li-Gallant, the honorific sounded like an insult. “We’ve heard more than enough of your vague references to troubles of which we’re already fully aware. For the last time, will you yield the floor? There are others waiting to be heard, with problems perhaps more urgent than your own.”

Shouts of “Sit down!” now alternated with yells of support for Potok, a cacophony that caused the birds on the dome to once more rise from their nests and flutter about. The gavel boomed unsuccessfully as Potok stood with his arms still folded, waiting for quiet to return. The tumult continued, the gavel booming repeatedly until it finally wore down the opposition. Vingi spoke as soon as he felt he could be heard.

“A final warning, Representative Potok. Sit down and yield the floor, or I’ll be compelled to call for the sergeant-at-arms to remove you from the hall. I don’t make that threat lightly, sirrah.”

Potok took a prolonged sip from the glass of water on his desk, feeling the cool liquid soothe his ragged throat. He swallowed, taking his time and trying to gauge the growing ire of the Li-Gallant. Finally, he placed the glass carefully on his desk and shuffled his papers into order, holding them in one hand and raising them to the multi-colored windows above. “I cannot in conscience yield, Li-Gallant. There is importance in what I’m saying, and if the Assembly won’t hear me willingly, then let it suffer.”

He brought the papers down before him, cleared his throat, and began reading from the first sheet as once more the riotous clangor of protest rose. Potok continued reading, seemingly undisturbed, though his voice was no longer audible. Papers were scattered from a desk to the rear of the hall as two representatives argued furiously. Vingi didn’t bother to use the gavel, but gestured to the guards behind him. They moved through the aisles toward Potok; he, seeing their approach, continued reading as the uproar raged about him. The guards reached him, and Potok threw the papers into the air in dramatic disgust as they forced him away from his desk, finally pinning his arms to his side and carrying him when he refused to walk before them. The papers fell, autumnal. They were trampled onto the hall floor underfoot as the guards bore Potok to the doors leading from the hall. The noise rose decibels louder, and the gavel rose and fell unheeded. The great doors of the hall opened and swallowed the trio of guards and Potok. Birds flew in uneasy circles outside the dome.