For a moment, the anger returned to the Thane’s face, creasing the forehead and inflaming the broken veins of his cheeks. Then it died, as quickly as it had come, as if there were no longer any internal fuel on which it could feed. “Yes,” he answered. “But events are moving. The Hoorka are involved in a crisis that I can see forming, and I can’t bring myself to trust anyone else. Aldhelm—yes, he’s a leader and the kin would probably follow him if I gave them leave to do so, but he needs tempering or he’ll break under the pressures. He’s too quick to make his choices and he tends to see things in some two-value logic of his own devising; no shades or degrees, just Right and Wrong. And Valdisa—I’m afraid that I diffused her effectiveness by being her lover. The kin might think I’ve named her as my successor only because of my affection for her. Sartas—he’s far too headstrong, too argumentative, and not all that well-liked. And myself . . .” He put his hands out, palms upward. Cranmer saw calluses there. “I suppose I have my own problems,” the Thane said, “but
I made Hoorka.
It’s my onus, my responsibility, and I need to make the decisions. If I fail, at least I can only blame myself for that failure.”
“It adds unnecessary burdens to your mind. What of your gods? Can’t you find consolation there, some guidance in your teachings?”
“Did you see priests at the ceremony, scholar?” The Thane smiled, almost sadly. “As head of the kin, I am the mediator between Hoorka and the gods. Whom can I go to when the gods don’t answer? And I suspect that you are not a religious man, Cranmer. Do you think gods would interfere and guide my path?”
“No.”
“And neither do I.” The Thane spoke slowly, quietly. “Hoorka faces a challenge. I intend to see us through it. Afterwards, perhaps I’ll consider your words and my own doubts.”
“Now you sound sure of yourself once more.”
The Thane shook his head. He looked at Cranmer with pained eyes. “I wish I were. I feel no different.”
The Thane touched his belt and the lamp inside the ippicator died completely, the golden fire fading into the eternal night of Underasgard. The two men sat there for a time, listening to the silence around them.
• • •
Gunnar toyed with a Tarot deck, thumbing through the dog-eared and brilliantly-colored pieces of pasteboard. It was an old set, stained with use—most of which was not his—and not even holographic. The pictures stared back flatly, inked on the surface of the cards. He’d once had the deck appraised by a dealer in oddities at Sterka Port—the woman had found it to be worth more than he’d anticipated: the deck was over two centuries old, and from Terra itself. To maintain their value and their use (the Knight of Swords had once been folded in half and was in danger of tearing), he knew he should avoid handling them often or carrying them about; it wasn’t advice he often followed.
The cards gave him pleasure, and he liked to imagine that he could feel an undercurrent of power in them. Gunnar wasn’t so self-deceiving as to imagine that he could tap that power, but somewhere back in the deck’s murky history a person of sensitivity had possessed them, and it pleased Gunnar to believe that he could detect the residue of that power hidden in the cards.
Gunnar held a card up to the sunlight that lanced across the room like a palpable shaft until it struck the far wall and was broken. Too-saturated colors just beginning to fade: they glistened and awakened in the light, the gilt and silver shimmering. Potok, from across the room, could see a little of the card’s face—an old man sitting on an ornate throne, the arms of which ended in carved ram’s heads. The man held an ankh-scepter in one hand and a globe in the other with a bleary and desolate mountain range hunched in the background under a lowering sky lanced by rays from a hidden star.
“A pretty card, neh?” said Gunnar. He flipped it around in the sunlight, enjoying the way reflections shot from the slick surface. He let the card slide to the desk at which he was seated, watching it fall with one hand cupping his chin. It landed face up.
“The Emperor,” he said, “a card of leadership and temporal power, of logic besting emotion. Considering the time in which these cards were evidently manufactured, I’ve wondered if the old man isn’t supposed to be the tyrant Huard. He looks like the old bastard, doesn’t he?”
Gunnar picked up the card and shuffled it back into the deck. He stacked the cards carefully, then began laying them out in the Celtic mode, mumbling under his breath.
“I almost think you believe in those things.” Potok moved forward. His figure—in robes of Assembly blue—eclipsed the window light, so that the room darkened with a premature twilight. Lamps throughout the room kindled themselves to compensate for the reduced illumination.
“They’re here,” said Gunnar. “How can I not believe in them?”
“You know what I meant.”
Gunnar smiled. “At times, I almost find myself wanting to believe in a foreplanned future. That can be a comforting notion, knowing that the gods have set out everything beforehand. And the Hoorka, like our own guild, profess a belief in Dame Fate. Why couldn’t there be a device in which we could see Her intent?”
“The Hoorka.” Potok harrumphed. “You’re so certain those Tarot can foretell the future?”
“The Tarot don’t predict. They indicate possibilities. That’s a subtle difference, kin-brother.” One hand toyed with the cards, idly riffling the wear-softened edges. “They can suggest what will occur should all things remain the same. You can change the fortune if you heed their advice.”
“Whatever.” Potok waved an impatient hand.
“That’s your trouble, Potok. You’re too impatient.”
Potok shrugged, his face revealing a mild irritation. “And what do you and your cards suggest for our future course of action?”
“I assume by that you mean what are we going to do with our dear Li-Gallant?”
“I do.”
“I don’t know.” Again Gunnar smiled. “Haven’t thought about it all that much, to be truthful.” He leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head. “You are sure, then, that it was Vingi’s contract that the Hoorka were working?”
“Who else would want you dead so badly? Have you insulted anyone other than him? And who else would be so cowardly not to declare bloodfeud and settle it face to face? Yes, I’m sure it was Vingi.” Potok folded his arms across his chest. About him, dust-motes swirled in the sun. He stood in a field of golden pollen.
Gunnar chuckled at the image—had it been a muscular young person standing in the yellow warmth with righteous anger on his face, perhaps it wouldn’t have seemed humorous. But it was Potok, short and pudgy. Gunnar laughed, and Potok’s face took on an aspect of puzzlement.
“Sit down, man,” said Gunnar, waving a hand toward a nearby floater. “You look too pompous standing there. Sit down. Let’s not fool ourselves, my kin. My guild-kin were frightened enough of Vingi when the contract came—no one offered to come with me to protect me from Hoorka weapons. Your anger is odd in light of that.”
Potok said nothing. He looked at Gunnar’s smile, which no longer was a gesture of humor, but a deadly thing, sharp and menacing. Potok sat back in his floater, pursed his lips, then sat up abruptly once more.
“Gunnar, the Li-Gallant is confused. He half-believes that we’ve somehow managed to bribe the Hoorka to our side—at least this is what my sources in his guild tell me. Despite Vingi’s protestations to the contrary, the Hoorka would give Neweden security forces a problem. So Vingi’s poised, ready to move either way but afraid to commit himself. He’d drag both our guild and the Hoorka into an Assembly trial and have us disbanded if he thought he could make his charges stand. We can use his doubts.”
Gunnar nodded. “By using the Hoorka.”
“By using their reputation. We might be able to force their hand.”
Gunnar shook his head. “I don’t know. The basic idea is appealing, but I don’t know.” His fingertips brushed the Tarot deck idly.
Potok leaned forward and reached out as if to pick up the cards, but Gunnar placed his hand over them. “If you don’t mind,” he said. “Superstition”—with a slight laugh—“says that no one else is supposed to handle your Tarot unless he’s the subject of a reading.”
“Give me a reading, then. For that matter, read your own fate and ease your doubts. We should grasp this situation while Vingi waits.”
“You’re sure it’s necessary to approach the Hoorka?” Gunnar shivered, despite the sunlit warmth of the room. The Hoorka reputation exceeded the truth—their portrait was one of bloodthirsty killers happy only when in the act of slaughter theatrically macabre—but it was a truth that no guild enjoyed doing business with the assassins. And no guild had yet dared to risk bloodfeud with them. Gunnar didn’t wish his own guild to be the one to perform that experiment. “It could be dangerous, Potok. Let me ask you, have you kept an edge on your fencing skills?”
“The Hoorka can’t get involved in vendettas against other guilds. It would destroy them. They’re safe.”
“Tell me that after they’ve chased
you.”
Gunnar looked at Potok, who found the scene outside the window suddenly interesting. “Would a vendetta destroy the Hoorka? And would you care to take that chance, knowing that the result might be that you nestle in Hag Death’s arms earlier than you wish?”
Potok glanced at the Tarot, then at Gunnar. “I’m here suggesting it, kin-brother.”
“It might destroy the guild.” Gunnar hesitated. “Brother,” he added.
“I don’t think so.”
“It might destroy Hoorka.”
“You’d care?”
Gunnar laughed. “Not at all.” He began spreading out the cards. “Not at all,” he repeated. “In fact, I might well enjoy that more than thwarting Vingi.”
Gunnar plucked a card at random from the deck and turned it face up on the desk. On the painted surface, a horse strode, bearing a skeleton dressed in ancient armor and bearing a tattered banner. Below the apparition, people prostrated themselves. The skeleton grinned as the horse trampled them underneath.
• • •
The Li-Gallant Vingi was wearing a loose tunic and pants, all woven of a soft, bluish material showing the thinness of much use. Vingi wore this when he desired comfort rather than ostentation; in private, that was often. It was a uniform most of the guild-kin that formed his private staff saw often and were used to, but it tended to startle those whose image of the Li-Gallant was the public one.
The Domoraj, though head of the security force of Vingi’s guild, was not one of the privileged few.
The Domoraj stared more than would be considered polite by the standards of kinship, taking in the frayed sleeves, the worn elbows, the stains that had gotten past the dirtshield and set in the fabric—a mustard-brown splotch putting a tentative pseudopod on Vingi’s breast fascinated him. The Domoraj forced his eyes up past the clothing to the corpulent face. He set his lips, hoping that the Li-Gallant had missed his insubordination.
Vingi, however, was engrossed in a com-unit set on his desk and in an iced drink that resided—glass sides sweating—in one hand. The sea-green light of the com-unit washed over his face from below, giving his features an unnatural edging. Vingi sipped once at his drink, nodded thoughtfully at the screen, and flicked the unit’s controls. The light slowly receded and Vingi’s large, almost sorrowful eyes found the Domoraj.
“I just had a less than satisfactory report, sirrah,” he said without preliminary. “It appears that Gunnar has gained some popularity since his escape from the Hoorka. Two previously unaligned guilds have given their Assembly votes to Gunnar’s kin. The Weaver’s Guild of Tellis has rescinded their support of our guild and will send a representative to the Assembly until they make a decision on which ruling guild will represent them. What does that suggest to you?”
The Domoraj shifted his position in his seat. Vingi’s sudden gaze bothered him—he was too used to the deference of the guild-kin under him.
“I’m a military man,” he said. “I have no part in the governing affairs of our kin, Li-Gallant. And I don’t pretend to meddle in politics. I take my orders from you, sirrah. That’s sufficient.” It was temporizing, but he could think of nothing else to say.
Vingi shook his head. “No, kin-brother, that won’t do. Every person living on Neweden dabbles in politics. It’s impossible not to take a stand unless one is lassari. There are no neutral guilds.”
“There are the Hoorka.”
“Yah, the Hoorka.” Vingi sat his drink down on his desk and shook moisture from his hand. “The Hoorka,” he repeated. “What do you think of them, Domoraj? As a, ahh, ‘military man’?”
“In what respect, Li-Gallant? They’re excellently trained and very good at what they do . . .” He shrugged.
Vingi lifted an arm and plucked a loose thread from the sleeve of his tunic. For a few moments his attention was completely on that small task and he ignored the other man. Finally, he looked up again.
“A pity things must eventually wear out—and it is always the favorites. But”—he changed the topic with an inflection—“I meant, do you think the Hoorka as apolitical as they claim to be? Yah, they have no voice in the Assembly and stay prominently distant from the constant bloodfeuds of the guilds, but does that prove their neutrality in the affairs of Neweden?”
“I don’t know.” Simply.
Vingi nodded. He sighed. “
That
was not the answer I desired. Let me phrase it this way: Do you find it odd that Gunnar managed to escape?”
“I see your point, Li-Gallant.” The Domoraj was carefully neutral, his hands folded on his lap, his back stiff and not touching the back of his chair: a man as careful as his appearance. When he killed, he killed daintily, he killed with finesse and affected grace. “Victims
have
escaped the Hoorka before,” he said. “It’s essential to their existence—and at the risk of incurring your wrath, kin-brother, the men I sent—at
your
behest—to insure Gunnar’s death did no better.”
Vingi’s face was briefly touched by anger. It trembled his chin. “And they were very clumsy to have killed m’Dame Cuscratti. You needn’t remind me of such things. My point, however, is that none that have previously escaped the assassins have been so important or influential.”