Nothing.
He tossed the vibro on his belt up the shaft; listened to it clatter on the flooring above. Again, there was no reaction. Gyll let the field take him up.
The second floor was much like the first, a morass of decayed technology and filth. That much he could see in the weary light drifting in from the street’s hoverlamp. Amari’s retreat had left a scarred track through the dirt. Gyll shook his head.
So easy, so stupid. The bastard acts as no honorable kin, nor does he have the wit to escape the Hag. He panics, and She smiles. Valdisa need not have worried. The apprentices could have taken him.
Gyll picked up his vibro from the floor and sheathed it again.
There was a scuffling sound from a room down the hall: Gyll stiffened, ready to move, to dodge or attack. A moment later, the sound was repeated; a scratching of fabric or leather against something hard, or a tentative scrabbling of hands.
“Amari, you bastard, you’re Hoorka’s now.” Gyll clenched the dagger, ready to throw. He squinted into the darkness webbing the hallways, searching for movement. “The Hag waits for you, coward. Come meet Her messenger.” His voice was a loud taunt, a deliberate insulting that no kin would tolerate. He called down the shaft to Aldhelm. “I’ve found him.”
Gyll took another flare from his beltpouch and rolled it down the corridor. Shadows chased along the walls—the scrabbling was loud for a second. Gyll smiled: it came from the first door to the right. Hefting his weapon, letting his anger propel him, he moved toward the room.
“Amari, it’s hopeless. Come and fight like kin—go to the Hag with that much honor, not like a lassari.” He wanted it, wanted the confrontation, the fight; he could feel his heartbeat quicken in anticipation.
He was not answered. He glanced inside the room.
A grimy window smeared light across the floor and halfway up one wall. The interior was dappled, paint hanging in long strips from the walls. Amari crouched in the furthest corner of the room, cocooned in shadow, his back pressed tightly against the wall as if by sheer will he could force his way through. Gyll could see the eyes, frightened, moving nervously. A tongue licked dry, cracked lips.
With two swift steps, Gyll moved to the center of the room. Amari now could not run without going past the assassin. The polished blade of the Khaelian dagger flicked window light across the walls.
“Bondhe Amari, your life is claimed by Hag Death.” Gyll began the ritual for a trapped victim, watching the man. Already, he could feel the anger leeching away, cooled by the man’s obvious fear, his helplessness. He tried to kindle it again, keeping in his mind the vision of the ambush, Aldhelm’s mocking words, Valdisa’s galling concern. The effort was only partially successful. Amari sagged against the wall as Gyll spoke; he seemed craven, exhausted, all resistance and pride gone from him. With the Hoorka’s words, Amari moaned, shifting his weight, trying to back away from the dark presence.
Gyll couldn’t keep the contempt from showing on his face. “Amari, you disgust me. You don’t deserve a clean death.”
Amari shook his head, a rapid back and forth. Sweat-darkened hair lashed his cheeks. “Hoorka, I’m sorry for the sting. It—” Amari stopped, snagged Gyll’s stare with his manic eyes, and then looked away. His right hand brushed hair back from his forehead. “It was desperation. I . . . didn’t know what else to do. It shamed me before all kin.”
“You can settle your guilt with your gods, then.” Gyll forced a harsh edge in his voice, but he could feel that the anger was entirely lost now; it was pretense. Amari disgusted him, repelled him, but there was also an undercurrent of pity. He would kill him, yes, but it was not a deed he would do gladly. “Prepare yourself, Amari kin-less. How do you want to meet the Hag?”
A fractional step forward—Gyll’s boots scritched on the grime of the floor. Amari shivered as if cold, pulled upright. “No . . .” The word forced its way past clenched mouth.
“It needn’t be this way, Amari. I can use the dagger, yah, but I can also give you a capsule. A lassari’s death, but what is that small shame in addition to the rest you bear? It’s painless, even enjoyable, I’m told . . .”
A small shaking of his head.
“You can’t delay any longer, man. The capsule?” Gyll fumbled in his beltpouch with his free hand, found the capsule and held it out to Amari.
Why do you torture the wretch, old man? Why drag out this farce? It should be over now, the body bundled and given to the contractor. You hesitate, you wait.
Amari looked sidewise at the capsule, his head half-turned from the Hoorka. His head came around slowly, the gaze always on the palm and the capsule it held. Then something seemed to snap in Amari’s eyes. He jerked upright, his hand clapped Gyll’s hand away, and he screamed. As the agonized wail jerked Gyll’s bead back, Amari pushed himself from the wall. Gyll reacted, powered by instinct and training, without thought. He stepped in front of the man, countered with a forearm the wild fist Amari threw. Gyll’s dagger slashed forward, sheathing itself deep in Amari’s midriff.
Warm, dark, and sluggish blood flooded from the long wound— the low-molecular edge of the Khaelian weapon slicing effortlessly through flesh. Amari gasped, a sound that turned to liquid gurgling. Pink foam flecked his lips. His knees buckled and Gyll stepped back to let the body drop to the floor.
The Hoorka stared down at his hand. Amari’s lifeblood stained him to the wrist. Hag Death had come.
“He deserved the slowness, Ulthane.”
Gyll turned slowly. Aldhelm stood in the doorway, a silhouette against the guttering brilliance of the flare. The dusty air sparked around him.
“You tell the new kin that they must kill quickly,” Aldhelm continued. “You tell them to avoid conversation with the victims. But all rules must be broken, neh?”
Gyll said nothing. He stared at Aldhelm, eyes narrowed.
Aldhelm stepped into the room with unconscious grace. He reached into his pack and handed Gyll the victim’s nightcloak. “Let’s finish this,” he said.
Chapter 5
T
HE DAY PRETENDED SUMMER.
Those that could find any excuse to be outdoors took the opportunity. Keep Square was crowded and loud. The Li-Gallant’s keep itself was opulent in noon. The sunstar deluged the walls with lemon brilliance and spat aching-bright reflections from the windows.
The main gate of the keep swung back with a resounding clash of metal, the intricate designs wrought there shivering with the violence of the motion. Passersby murmured and paused to watch two people stride from the entrance: the Domoraj, resplendent in his dress uniform, and an older, bearded man who also wore the insignia of Vingi’s guard. The latter was speaking loudly to the Domoraj, his arms waving in protest as he half-ran behind him.
“By all the gods, think of your kin, Sucai. You can’t abandon them like this, can’t leave the guard without its Domoraj. You dishonor yourself, dishonor the Li-Gallant, dishonor your kin. And the Li-Gallant has promised you an erasal tomorrow—” The man seemed suddenly to realize where they were. He brought himself to a quick halt, eyes narrowing as he glanced around at the frankly curious onlookers. He rubbed gray-white hair, muttered an expletive, then resumed his pursuit of the Domoraj. Sucai was now standing in the center of Keep Square, arms at his sides, staring without seeing the buildings and people around him.
“Domoraj,” hissed the man in an agonized whisper. “Come with me, please. I’ve been your aide for standards, man. You know you can trust Arnor, neh? Let’s talk this out. Perhaps too much lujisa . . .” He grasped at the Domoraj’s arm, pulling.
Sucai jerked free of Arnor’s grasp, his lips drawn back in a snarl. He spoke for the first time, too loudly for Arnor’s taste.
“Leave me alone, you damn fool. I’m no longer your kin.”
Arnor stood back, uncertain. His brow furrowed, and he turned about—
Too many people. I can’t avoid making a scene that’ll be the talk of Sterka by nightfall.
Sucai was plucking at his guild insignia, a small hologram on his right shoulder. He pulled the crest from the fabric savagely, tearing the pin loose. He held it in his hand for a long moment, the sunstar catching the facets of tiny inset jewels. He inhaled—loudly, nasally—filling his chest. His head came up; he stared at the crowd that had gathered around Arnor and himself.
“The person who was once Domoraj of the Li-Gallant Vingi’s guild, who is also known as Sucai d’Ancia, declares himself unguilded. He does not deserve kinship.” Sucai spoke slowly, using the impersonal mode, insulting himself. He closed his eyes as if in pain. “He is lassari, the former Domoraj. He is Dead . . .” With the last word, Sucai jammed the pin of the hologram into the palm of his left hand. The first rank of the crowd jumped involuntarily. Arnor started to move forward, then—sensing that the onlookers would brook no interference with a private matter of honor—stood back again, gnawing unconsciously at his forefinger.
Sucai yanked the pin from his flesh. Blood welled out. He smeared the lifeblood across the face of the insignia, then flung it to the tiles of the square. The glassine hologram shattered with a treble finality.
“Domoraj,” Arnor said softly.
“There is no Domoraj. He is Dead.”
“Sucai, you must know me.”
“Sucai is Dead. He sees none of the living.” His voice was scratchy, pained, as if shaped from agony.
Sucai began to shed himself of his uniform. The crowd drew closer around him, drawn to the hurt etched on the face. It was a rare sight to come across kin at the moment of their commitment to the Dead. Speculation raced: Why would the Domoraj be so shamed, so full of dishonor that he’d be compelled to seek the solace of the Hag? Yet their mood was also solemn, for there was a redemption of honor in joining the Dead. The Domoraj was now beyond Neweden’s laws. He was kin of the Hag.
Arnor began backing away, making his way through the press of people to the gate. He could do nothing. The Domoraj stood naked in the square.
Someone threw him a worn cloak. Sucai accepted it without a word, though his glance conveyed gratefulness. “The Dead?” he asked.
Several voices answered, one louder than the rest. “I saw a procession this morning by Niffengate.”
Sucai nodded his thanks and began a slow walk to the west, toward Niffengate. The throngs parted silently before him, watching, whispering.
Sucai looked neither to right nor left. His lips moved in a silent chant. The sunstar pooled blue shadow at his bare feet.
Arnor, shaking his grizzled head, dreading what he would have to tell Vingi, closed the keep gates.
• • •
The morning had not gone well. He and Aldhelm had returned to Underasgard early (Gyll plunging his bloodied blade into the earth beside the dawnrock to feed She of the Five Limbs, nodding to the congratulations of his kin), and he had gone back to his rooms. He’d expected to find Valdisa there, or at least a note for him to call. He’d had no reason to expect this from her; it had simply been a pleasant hunch that had grown without volition on their trip back, a daydream to take the edge from the unpleasantness of the contract. Expectation had increased, and he’d been surprised to find how tangible his disappointment could be. His room had been empty but for the wort; it had whimpered softly at him. He’d scratched its ear, feeling dull frustration.
Valdisa had gone to bed with Serita Iduna.
When he saw her that afternoon, she’d spoken to him, smiling and joking, and asking if he would see Oldin. She touched him with gruff affection. Yet he seemed to sense a forced manner in her friendliness. He wanted to talk to her and lance the boil of his paranoia, but she’d put him off, pleading that Hoorka business called her.
“I know you’ll understand, Gyll,” she’d said. “You were Thane once.”
That had hurt more than his suspicions.
It had driven him into a mild depression that even the unique experience of his flight to the Trader’s craft could not dilute. Nor did the pilot of the shuttle help: Gyll had never seen a Motsognir Dwarf before, but if Helgin Hillburrower was representative of his race, they were a gruff and sour lot. He grunted his hello, looked the assassin up and down as if he were a specimen, and grinned savagely. “Like your outfit,” he’d said. Gyll could not tell if he was being insulted or not.
Peregrine
was huge, massive, looking like a pair of gothic cathedrals glued bottom to bottom and set loose. The Motsognir had whipped the shuttle into a port that was not much smaller than the whole of Underasgard. Around them, the ship was alive with activity: the crew milled in the corridors, nodding to Helgin and staring frankly at the nightcloaked stranger. Gyll could not see enough; he felt the depression leave, shattered by newness. He was inundated with alienness: Down the hall hobbled a bio-pilot, a reengineered human whose nervous system was not set for walking but for guiding ships through the voids between worlds; two people (men? Gyll could not be sure, but both had prominent mammaries) with arms of bare polished metal butted smoothly to flesh; a furred thing like a mating of owl and bear growled at them as they passed. The corridors themselves were set in no sane fashion—seemingly laid out by a deranged architect with a pathological need for misdirection. Gyll was hopelessly lost before they reached Oldin’s quarters.
Oldin’s rooms were stunning. The place was huge. A thick grass-carpet wandered over hillocks and protrusions—evidently the seating arrangements. Colors, vivid and saturated, swirled restless on the walls, and a large port in the ceiling gave a view of Neweden herself. And set here and there were . . .
things
Gyll could not identify. The arrangement of white globes and blue rods, what was it? Not a sculpture, since it had an obvious control panel affixed. The vial of greasy, rolling smoke; the tank holding what seemed to be only moss-covered rocks; the holos—winged creatures, a neo-dolphin in ceremonial robes, an eerie landscape of storm in which a lightning-creature stalked: all these spoke of the philosophical differences between the Trading Families and the Alliance, which held all alien things apart from itself.