The Regent shook her head. She used little of the current fashion—above the long and narrow neck, only the earlobes were dashed with color: yellow-white beneath the sandy-white hair. “And what of competition? If Neweden can live with one Assassin’s Guild, why not two, four, ten?”
The Thane shook his head. “No one else could offer our training, our expertise—and still be content to let the victim live. Neweden won’t accept an Assassin’s Guild that guarantees death. That would break our concepts of honor, and anger the gods besides. The Hoorka bend that concept, but not dangerously. We fail in perhaps 15% of our contracts, but we
do
fail, and we refuse to overload the odds in our favor. So you see, m’Dame, I don’t expect competition. If it comes, we’ll deal with it then.”
The Regent leaned back in her chair. “The Hoorka are interesting, if nothing else. I’ll be honest with you, Thane. I don’t think you’d survive for long offworld. Neweden is too precise and sheltered an environment, and that’s what nurtures your organization. I think you’d be swamped with complexities once you step from this rural place.”
“I would like the opportunity to make that experiment.”
The Regent seemed to ignore his words. Her hand brushed the medallion underneath the fabric of her tunic, then lightly swept through the hair behind her neck. “There are a thousand problems I can foresee, one of the largest of which is whether the Alliance cares to have murder—and it
is
murder, however you dress and disguise it—walking the streets of other worlds. However, it’s not really for me to decide. The ultimate choice will be given to the individual world governments, once the Diplos make the decision to allow the Hoorka to leave Neweden. And I must be honest with you and tell you that we’ve had inquiries as to when the Hoorka might be available. There is work for you offworld; for a time, at least.”
Abruptly, she smiled, a spring thaw. For a brief moment, the Thane had a glimpse of the person behind the efficient mask she wore, and then it was gone. D’Embry was her removed self again. “You’d have to be carefully policed, Thane, always under scrutiny to be sure of your fairness. Taint the Hoorka name at
all,
and you become nothing more than hired killers—and you can find those on any world, with guaranteed results, also. Shorn of your nice little sophistries concerning survival and chance and the gods, you’re nothing.”
She sat forward, obviously waiting for some reaction from him. Her eyes wandered from the Thane to the soundsculpture to the animo, the points that defined the space of her office. He heard the sound of her feet whisking against the grass-carpet, a restless rhythm. The Thane knew, suddenly, that she would say nothing else of any importance, and the irritation he’d felt since walking into the Center grew stronger. Valdisa had cautioned him that this meeting with the Regent would solve nothing, but he’d insisted on arranging it. He railed at himself inwardly. He’d thought he could tell the Regent of the internal conflict that Hoorka faced, make her aware of the way Aldhelm felt and perhaps gain Alliance support for being open and honest, but no . . . She was already unsure of Hoorka and the idea of their working offworld, and any admission of doubt in Hoorka’s ranks would mean that they would be confined to Neweden forever. No, he couldn’t tell her. Yes, he’d nearly made another error in judgment.
How can I call myself Thane? I should return to the old name and stop this nonsense. The weariness would go away.
And yet he knew he couldn’t do that. His pride would wrestle the guilt and strangle it. It was
his
organization—he’d built it and it was only fitting that, if it were to be destroyed, he would be the agent of that destruction.
None of the arguments convinced him.
He felt only doubt.
“If Gunnar dies, what will that prove to you, m’Dame?” His control was faltering. He could feel his voice beginning to rise in pitch and vehemence, and he could do nothing to stop it. Restless, he stood and walked over to the animo-painting, touching the surface with one tentative finger. It felt oily and slick, but his fingertip was dry when he pulled it away. Illusion. He turned to face the Regent.
“If Gunnar died, would that prove Hoorka’s innocence?” he asked. “If he lives, would that signify guilt? Is that to be the measure of our judgment?”
M’Dame d’Embry barked a short and unamused laugh. Her feet slapped at the floor. “If he dies,” she replied, “it would seem to me that you have no ties with Gunnar—or that your instinct for survival is higher than any artificial loyalty to his guild. Have you ever met the man, incidentally?”
For a brief second, the Thane wondered if she knew of his encounter with Gunnar. But she went on. “It would be quite a coincidence if he lives, given the odds. Doesn’t that make sense to you?”
“I’ve had others say much the same.” Thinking of Aldhelm.
“That I can understand.” The Regent pressed a contact underneath her desk. The wall to her left depolarized and a lemon wash of sunlight flooded the room. The Port basked in afternoon sun. Both the Thane and the Regent looked at the scene: Neweden metropolitan pastoral. The Thane looked away first.
“It’s still possible Gunnar may escape, m’Dame. Dame Fate smiled on him once before, and may again. His odds remain the same as the last contract, and he escaped us then.”
“Which is what began this entire uproar. Are you warning me to expect him to slip past you once more?”
“The victim always has his chance.”
“Even Gunnar? When the Li-Gallant will be very angry?”
“Yah.”
“That is good, I suppose.” Unconcerned, she watched the bustling disorder of the Port outside. Then, as if she was suddenly reminded of something: “Would you care for tea or breakfast? I’ve yet to eat today.” Again, she smiled at him, but this smile had the plasticity of a professional tool, a rehearsed gesture.
“M’Dame, all I wish to know is whether you’ll give consideration to our request to be allowed offworld—
if
the Hoorka can prove our innocence to your satisfaction.”
“And if the answer would be, ahh, no?” She turned to him, the smile still on her face. The Thane suddenly remembered where he’d seen its twin, on the face of Gunnar.
He chose his words with care, speaking slowly. “Then the Hoorka would be compelled to do whatever best suits them for their continued existence on Neweden. I won’t allow the Hoorka to die, m’Dame.”
D’Embry nodded, but her mind seemed elsewhere. “Thane, I promise you only that we will be watching this very carefully.”
“But you’ll watch?”
The Regent nodded her head. She looked once more at the scene revealed in her window.
“Nothing is certain in this world, Thane. Huard thought his empire would last centuries—it died with him. I once thought that I would be satisfied with the span of years given to me.” She turned back to him, and the smile had gone sad and genuine. “You may rest your mind on that one point, Thane. We will watch.”
Chapter 12
I
T WAS PERHAPS a measure of Gunnar’s altruism that, when the contract was made known to him, he immediately sought refuge in solitude rather than remaining with his guild-kin.
Or—perhaps more likely—those kin, fearing for their own lives, simply refused to aid him and forced him to flee. The truth was never revealed afterward.
Whatever the reasons, it made the task simpler for the Hoorka. They had been forced to storm citadels of resistance before and it had always been costly in terms of lives, even those of Hoorka-kin. It didn’t often happen—the Hoorka, by the code, would make no attempt to deliberately kill anyone but the contracted party. Neither would they do anything to endanger their own lives; if that meant others must die, then it would be so. It was, then, with a certain amount of relief on everyone’s part that the news was received: Gunnar had fled—alone—to the forested ridges of the Dagorta Mountains. Stone could hide Gunnar, but stone wouldn’t suffer from misdirected stings or a vibro gone amiss.
The report from the shadowing apprentices stated that Gunnar had carried with him neither weapons nor body-shield. The Khaelian daggers were once again laid out for the use of the Thane and Aldhelm—for the Thane had once more changed the rotation of the Hoorka. It was true that the two Hoorka who owned that turn—Ric d’Mannberg and a young woman named Iduna—protested the change, but the Thane was adamant. He told the Hoorka council that the assassins would send their two best representatives. Privately, the speculation was that the order had been shuffled so that the Thane could have the advantage of Aldhelm’s skill while keeping him under observation. After all, they said, wouldn’t the two most accomplished and skillful kin have been Aldhelm and Valdisa?
It was not far past midnight when the Thane and Aldhelm caught up to the apprentices. One of the shadowers gave them a final report and traced on a map the trail Gunnar had taken and where he’d last been seen: he was a few kilometers away and, they said, showing signs of tiring. Another apprentice would be awaiting them not far ahead.
The Thane shrugged his nightcloak over his shoulders and stared into the rustling darkness that flowed under the trees. A cry from some nocturnal animal shrilled nearby, and starlight brushed a white-blue patina on the edges of the foliage. Sleipnir was just rising above the slopes but its light barely reached the clearing in which they stood, though the trees upslope cast futile long shadows into the valleys.
“Let’s go, then,” said the Thane. He turned to the apprentices and handed the map back to them with a nod. “We’ll contact you if we need assistance with the body. Keep the flyer in the vicinity, in any case. It’s been fueled, and the kitchens have provided a hot meal for you.”
“Yah, Thane. Good luck to you both.” The apprentices, in a shivering of darkness, left the clearing. The moon eased itself higher and the tops of the trees were touched with its brilliance.
Without a backward glance at Aldhelm, the Thane set off into the forest, closely followed by the other assassin. Both knew that nothing had been decided. Their ride to the foothills of the Dagortas had been silent, each of them content to think his own thoughts rather than dealing with pleasantries and inconsequential topics, all the while skirting the areas that caused pain. The Thane knew he should have spoken and tried to lance that wound before they were in the field, but he found himself unable to begin. He’d spent the flight staring at the moonlit landscape below. For punishment, Dame Fate now sent to him the specters of his own fear and guilt. They chased him, even as he pursued Gunnar.
The trail had been marked by the apprentices— luminous patches that adhered to the trees or glowed in the dirt. The path meandered up and down the rough slopes, always leading deeper into the forest. It seemed obvious that Gunnar had planned this flight well. The cover was thick and abundant, and their quarry would be difficult to track down, since the code forbade their use of infrared devices when the victim was unarmed and unshielded. Ahead, if their map was accurate, the ground cover would thin out as the mountains began to rise in earnest to the heights—but there they would be forced into a slower pace because of the slopes.
The Hoorka said nothing. They used their energy only for pursuit and left their thoughts unvoiced. The Thane’s apprehensions gave that silence no peace. He wondered what Aldhelm would do, and his mind provided him with frightening scenarios. He wondered whether he could really stop his kin-brother or whether he even wished to do so. For the first time in his memory, he could feel a situation controlling him, rather than the reverse. He hated that sense of frustration and blamed himself for its presence. He glanced back at Aldhelm, but the Hoorka seemed intent only on following the track of the apprentices—
his
harbored doubts, if any, seemed well-hidden. The Thane envied Aldhelm his seeming peace.
Three hours later, they came upon fresh traces of Gunnar’s flight—a rudely trampled section of underbrush. The scent of broken milkpods was heavy in the area, and the whitish secretion from the plants slid stickily down the sides of the broken stalks. The remaining apprentice, McWilms, was waiting there for them. He leaned against a gnarled tree trunk, his breath labored and sweat from his open sleeves steaming in the night air—it was far too chilly for the summer attire: the Thane shivered in sympathy.
McWilms greeted them, then pointed to his left. “Gunnar’s not far ahead. I was within sight of him not ten minutes ago. If you continue at your present pace, you’ll catch up to him shortly. He seems tired, but he’s not slowing as much as I’d expected. He’s in good shape, sirrahs.”
“Hag Death can chase a man beyond his normal limits. Is there anything else we should be aware of?” The Thane and Aldhelm both crouched down, stretching tired legs and regaining their breaths.
McWilms started to shake his head, then shrugged and gave a sheepish grin. “Not really, Thane. I once thought I heard a movement behind me, and turned to see what I thought was a small globe in the air . . .” He laughed in short, quick gasps. “But it was gone before I could even be certain I truly saw it. It was probably nothing: the moonlight, a reflection, fatigue and Sirrah Felling’s bad cooking . . .”
The Thane glanced at Aldhelm with apprehension, but the assassin didn’t seem to be listening to the conversation. Aldhelm was staring upslope to the path Gunnar had taken. The Thane felt his stomach knot with sudden tension as possible implications occurred to him.
Hover-holos. The Alliance could be watching. She said they would.
Possibilities. He wished he could believe in McWilms’s reflections.
Still, he said nothing of this to the others. They dismissed McWilms, the Hoorka rising to their feet as the apprentice took his leave.
They followed the spoor of a desperate man, now; a man who knew he was being followed and who left behind the detritus of panic: broken twigs, a fragment of neo-cloth impaled on thorns, a muddy slope furrowed by fingers grasping for holds. The forest thinned, the trees moving farther apart as if tired of each other’s company. Moonlight dappled the ground as they crossed rock – and boulder-strewn fields carpeted with thick grasses that clutched at their nightcloaks as they passed. Twice, they caught a glimpse of a figure before them; each time it disappeared again, rounding a boulder-fall or passing a shoulder of a hill. Gunnar was moving with a certain confidence, keeping the Hoorka a constant distance behind him. They saw no indications that he was tiring now. The situation frustrated the Hoorka and profited Gunnar, for dawn was not far distant. Aldhelm cursed openly and exhorted the Thane to move faster. Their breaths were ragged and loud, misting in the early morning coolness.