But a Hoorka could walk anywhere. The aura of the guild surrounded and protected him. The deathgods smiled on the assassins. They were safe.
The streets were nearly empty—it was too late in the day for the neighborhood crowds and too early for the night denizens. Up the narrow, winding street, Eorl saw a woman pushing a floater across the intersection. Heads grinned and frowned from the floater, several dozen of them—it was a startling moment before Eorl recognized the pallor of their faces as being native stone and the heads themselves as gargoyle carvings. A few youths lounged in a tavern doorway near him, speaking in the tortuously slow syllables of people on a time-stretcher. They scowled—too slowly—as the Hoorka passed; not unexpectedly, since Stretchers made most people irritable. By the time they decided to confront him (Stretchers also having been known to make the user foolishly brave) he had passed them. He glanced back to see one of the youths open his mouth and raise a fist. The air around him seemed heavy—the fist moved ponderously. A wirehead, stumbling by the youths and lost in his own reality, attracted their attention then, and Eorl looked away. The head-carting woman had passed through the intersection. He caught a brief glimpse of her blue dress before houses blocked her from view.
It was not the most pleasant of neighborhoods. Yet he’d grown up here, while his true-mother’s guildhouse had been located in the interface between Brentwood and a richer neighborhood. He’d roamed these streets as a child and then again as the leader of a band of unruly jussar. And then the guildhouse had been moved; while his true-mother followed her kin, he’d offered himself to the Hoorka. They’d taken him.
He knew the area. He enjoyed its defiance of Neweden conventions.
Yet even the most familiar landscapes can hold a surprise.
As Eorl came to the intersection, he heard the low chant of a procession of the Dead. He shook his head in disgust—the mantra was coming from the street he wished to take. Eorl had no wish to waste time waiting for the procession to pass him, and the Dead had an annoying habit of blocking streets completely, knocking down those who stood in their way and weren’t nimble enough to dodge. The chant was louder—they were moving toward him, then. Eorl cursed and turned westward.
He strode into molten sun, his shadow long behind him. He shrugged at his nightcloak, tugging it into place over his shoulders. This street was narrower than the last—he thought he could reach out and touch the buildings on either side.
Eorl scowled, anxious to be home in Underasgard and irritated at the delay caused by the Dead. Their wordless chant pursued him.
There was no transition. One moment he was walking, and the next he saw vague shapes run toward him as his mind shrieked alarm. They came at him from all sides; a flurry of fists and limbs moved in a wash of dying sun. Hands grasped the Hoorka from behind. Eorl went with the attack immediately, planting his feet and pushing backward as he sought the vibro sheathed at his waist. Something (hot? That was his first impression) sliced along his back, followed by a sluggish wetness that was surprisingly without pain. He found his vibro and slashed at the attacker behind him, feeling the comfortable resistance of blade meeting flesh.
(Thinking:
how deep is that back wound? How much time do I have?)
A man’s baritone yelped in pain, retreating as Eorl pivoted to meet the others. But his body failed to complete the turn. Sudden white agony arced across his waist and stomach—another vibro—and his face contorted. Eorl doubled over in torture. He tried to keep his footing, to hold the vibro out as a symbolic resistance as they closed in on him.
(How many? Gods, I don’t know. At least let one of them precede my soul when I stand before She of the Five let my blood stain their gods it HURTS . . .)
Something blunt and hard struck him from the side and his kidneys screamed. He saw with terrible clarity a hand holding a whining vibro (scarlet in the last rays of the sunstar, shining), watched with open, amazed eyes as it plunged into his stomach. Thick and full blood welled over the hilt and down a long, deadly canyon as the hand wrenched the vibro to the side. Eorl felt himself falling, saw the street slant and then rise to meet him. There were more blows, more stabbings. In the end he no longer felt them, only heard the dulling sounds as the darkness deeper than the coming night closed in around him.
Then even the sounds were lost.
Chapter 11
“W
E HAVE VERY LITTLE choice.”
The eternal night of Underasgard: black cotton of darkness angry at being disturbed and held back by glow-torches guttering fitfully in their wall holders. And beyond where the torches glowed and people walked, the darkness spread its feather weight around rocks and slept.
In a room in the Hoorka section of the caverns sat the Hoorka: the Thane, Aldhelm, and a few others seated at a rough wooden table (made by a new apprentice whose true-father had been a carpenter. It was evident from the grinning joints between the boards that he had not inherited his true-father’s craft). Cranmer, as always, sat unobtrusively to one side, watching the meters on his recording equipment as if his gaze would provide assurance that it would remain functioning. Mugs filled with newly-made mead sat like islands in gold-brown ringlets of condensation. A pitcher held more of the drink within easy reach—beads of the liquor ran from the spout to the base. The scent of honey freshened the air.
“We can assume that Vingi will sign a new contract for Gunnar.” Aldhelm lifted his mug, sipped, wiped his lips, then set the mug down again. He wiped his hand on his thigh. “He’ll give us our second chance to kill the man. This time, the Hoorka can’t afford to fail.”
“Even if success means abandoning the code?” asked Valdisa. “You assume too much there, Aldhelm.” She shook her head. Ringlets of dark hair shivered in sympathy.
Aldhelm slapped at the table. The meaty
thwapp
of flesh against wood cracked loudly in the room; heads turned as liquid sloshed over the edge of mugs. “I’m assuming only that we’re interested in surviving on Neweden.”
“Yah, but to abandon the code isn’t the way of survival.”
The Thane’s voice, quiet but emphatic, gave him the attention of the Hoorka Council. As he spoke, one finger stroked the lip of the mug in front of him. “If we violate the code,” he continued, “we’ve lost our integrity—which is exactly the claim Vingi already makes against us. Everything we’ve set up, everything we’ve struggled to build, would be a sham. And we wouldn’t survive it.”
The last sentence was directed to Aldhelm. The Thane’s eyes brushed past the scarred cheek of the younger Hoorka, where a red-brown scab marked the line of a vibro gash. Across the table from the Thane, Valdisa flashed him a quick smile. He returned it with a slight raising of his lips.
Aldhelm’s arm slashed at the air. “The code
is
good for Hoorka. I don’t dispute that. It works well enough for most contracts we deal with. But it has nearly failed us in the Gunnar/Vingi conflict. If it threatens to fail us again, we should be prepared to break those rules. Don’t you see, my kin? We can break the code and live with whatever guilt that brings us, or we die. We’ll accept whatever punishment She of the Five might send us. That’s quite simple. The choice seems easy—now—to me. Thane, you remember your anger with Sartas and myself . . . I don’t think you would have been too upset if we’d broken the code but killed Gunnar.”
Yes, I remember. And he’s right—I was more angry with the failure, and I had no right to be.
“I remember, Aldhelm. But I also told you that I was glad you followed the code. I am not going to be swayed on that point—would Hag Death be pleased that you consider yourself her equal?”
“And if Gunnar would live, what then?” Aldhelm shook his head. “If the guilds ever thought we’d joined with another guild, we wouldn’t have the people to answer all the declarations of bloodfeud.”
A susurrus of argument filled the room as everyone tried to speak at once. The noise echoed through the cavern. In the end, it was Valdisa’s clear voice that broke through and held.
“I see your reasoning, Aldhelm. I do. But I can’t agree that what you suggest is the right course. The code may be an artificial set of rules created by the Thane, but even he doesn’t hold himself free to break them or release himself from them. For good or ill, we’ve based our existence around them, structured the fabric of Hoorka about the code. Sometimes the created must transcend the creator.”
(At his recording equipment, Cranmer started, hearing his own words to the Thane so closely paraphrased. Had she overheard that, he wondered, or was that simply her own ironic choice of words?)
“Transcend the creator, or simply destroy him?” A beat. Aldhelm sipped from his mug again. “And his creation with him.
And
all his kin.”
Valdisa shook her head, exhaling loudly.
“Aldhelm, listen to me,” the Thane said, fighting to rein in his increasing anger.
If I were stronger, this wouldn’t be necessary. Once, standards ago, no meeting would have been needed or called. I wouldn’t have explained myself to anyone, nor would they have asked—my kin would have followed without question. When did this vacillation start?
“Eorl was brutally murdered last night by a pack of cowards. No feud, no formal duel, no honor. Do you think it’s because some unknown people don’t like the code? No, I think it quite the opposite. It’s symptomatic of our problem. We’ll be beset on all sides if it ever becomes known that we’ve stepped aside from a rigidly neutral stance. Things such as Eorl’s death might become commonplace. And the easiest way to insure that no other guild finds the Hoorka untrustworthy is simply never to sway from the code.”
“Was it to retain our neutrality that you went to talk with Gunnar? Please, Thane, spare me your altruism.” Aldhelm’s voice held barely-controlled contempt. “Eorl’s death may have been a chance accident. Look where it took place—Brentwood. I know we’re all thinking of Gunnar and Vingi—but we’ll pay the cost of Eorl’s death when his murderers are found. My suggestion that the code be ignored wouldn’t be common knowledge, not as long as kin can trust kin. Once, and then
only
if it becomes necessary, would we tamper with the code. No one would be shouting it through the streets of Sterka. It will save us more trouble. If Gunnar would live . . .”
“And if the Li-Gallant should want to kill another political rival, then what? Would we examine every contract with an eye for its possible effects on Hoorka and make
that
the determining factor as to whether a victim lives or dies? Damnit, man, we’re only a level above every lassari cutthroat in Neweden now, whether you care to admit the truth of that or not. Would you sink your kin back down to that level once more?” The last words were a shout as the Thane’s temper at last broke through his control, thrashing and boiling.
Again, Aldhelm gestured violently. What had begun as a simple meeting seemed to have become a confrontation, a power struggle, and the other Hoorka watched in silence: interested spectators.
“No, I wouldn’t drag us down, as you say.” Aldhelm’s voice now matched that of the Thane in volume. “I can agree with Valdisa on one point. The created
has
become more important than the creator. To insure its—
our—
safety, we have to
do
something rather than cower behind the sacred code. I’m sorry, Thane, but if Vingi feels that he has proof to link us to Gunnar, no matter how circumstantial or ambiguous that proof is, he’ll not only have the Assembly outlaw us, but he’ll have every assassin hunted down and executed. Your Regent d’Embry won’t lift a hand to stop him—she won’t interfere with local politics unless she stands to gain something by it.”
“What does that matter, Aldhelm?” The Thane shook his head. “The Alliance has nothing to do with the contract.”
“The Alliance can sit and wait to see if we’re what we claim to be.”
“And you counsel us to become something else.”
“I want us to live. Look at the facts, Thane!” Aldhelm struck the table with fisted violence and rose to his feet.
(And what of the vaunted Hoorka composure, the icy calm that is supposed to distinguish the Hoorka from other guild-kin? Remember that the thirty-first code-line states that one shows his inner faces only to Hoorka-kin. One can let occasion dictate manners, and one can be honest with kin.)
Aldhelm stalked across the room. His voice was suddenly low and tense with emotion. “Whatever the Li-Gallant’s contract is, we fulfill it. That’s my advice, and I know others here would agree.” His index finger pointed at each of the Hoorka around the table in turn. “The Thane can’t sleep with all of us.”
The Thane’s chair scraped against the floor as he stood in fury, his hand on the hilt of his vibro. He unsheathed the weapon. But Valdisa was on her feet, also, before the low hum of the Thane’s vibro began.
“Sit down, Thane,” she said. Her voice brooked no argument, though the Thane remained standing, holding his activated vibro as he stared at Aldhelm. Valdisa strode across the room to Aldhelm; she held her own blade, real-steel and nearly as sharp as a vibro, point foremost in her hand. Standing before the impassive Hoorka, her dagger touched cloth a few centimeters below his waist.
“You’re not so good as to be untouchable, Hoorka.” She spat out the words, her face twisted by emotion. “I can take you, and I think you realize that. If you’d care to chance your luck, just inform me and I’ll arrange a meeting for our duel. Otherwise, watch your tongue—it seems to be disconnected from your mind. I
demand
”—her knife jabbed at him, pricking his skin lightly—“an apology for that last inference; or you’ll give me satisfaction in a more physical way. Your choice, no-kin-of-mine.”
Their eyes met and locked, and it was Aldhelm who looked away first.
Aldhelm stepped back from the woman, glancing down at her knife hand and the unwavering tip of her blade. He looked at the table, to where the Thane stood, one hand still on the hilt of his vibro, though the weapon was now in its sheath once more.