The spear . . .
“Go and rest. Tell Domo d’Meila to come here at once. He’ll be in charge during your absence.”
Sucai sat for a moment as the slow realization that he had been dismissed filtered into his consciousness. Vingi, his face like melted ire, gazed back at him. The baleful, laughing eyes of the dark towers about the Li-Gallant surged, flaming about Vingi without harming him, cold. The Domoraj lurched to his feet, nodding in salutation and wonder. He turned to leave, as Vingi, fluid, became tall, thinner.
The carpet whispered quiet insults under Sucai’s feet. The door showered him with warm mockings. The air, shrieking, bit into him with a thousand small teeth.
Chapter 4
A
n excerpt from the acousidots of Sondall-Cadhurst Cranmer. This is an early transcription, dating from the time well before Valdisa became Thane, long before the term “Hoorka” would become a curse throughout the Alliance. It is best to remember that Cranmer was neither a technician nor a fighter, that his views on things military were those of a sheltered layman. Cranmer had never taken a life.
EXCERPT FROM THE DOT OF 8.19.214:
A rustling of paper.
“Here, Valdisa. These are the specifications I was talking about—I had the Diplo librarian dig them out of the Center files. The holocube’ll give you an indication of what the damn thing looks like—that’s somebody’s hand by the stock, so you’ll get the sense of scale.”
“Sond, did you see how
heavy
this is?” (Her voice holds an obvious amusement—laughter is near the surface of her words.)
“It’s no heavier than a long-maser, Valdisa; I checked. The Alliance uses LMs as standard equipment.”
“And they also use powered suits. This would weigh down a Hoorka.”
“Perhaps, but look at the advantages. You sight through this, and when the trigger is depressed, the weapon uses a range-finder coupled with the heat-seeker to determine distance—you can also override the automatics if you need to. A beam’s generated in both spire-chambers—here—and the two beams fuse at the indicated distance. All the destructive power is generated there, since each of the beams by itself is harmless. You can fire directly through your own people and not worry. The range is good, too, and a bodyshield won’t keep this one out if it’s tuned finely enough.”
“Sond—”
“No, let me finish, m’Dame. I may be a scrawny little aesthete to your eyes, but damn it, I can see applications here. If you were within sight of your victim, you could use this and be certain of a kill.”
“Sond, that’s just the point. The whole thrust of the Thane’s code is that the victim is always given a proper chance to escape—we never overbalance the odds. This gadget might be as effective as you claim; if it is, it’s
too
effective. You misunderstand Neweden ethics, but then you haven’t been here long. There’s too much honor involved in a bloodfeud—it’s a very personal thing.”
“That’s just what you Hoorka circumvent: the personal contact of a person with the one he wants to kill.”
“That’s why you see us using a variant on a blade so often. To Neweden, killing is, as I said, a thing of honor, an individual matter. To be truly honorable, you have to be closely involved in the other’s death: you never strike without warning, and your enemy must have the same chance as you. You have to understand the finality of death, how much pain is involved. This toy of yours—well, the more impersonal and distant the call to Hag Death is, the more unlikely you are to hold back. Killing becomes too common and easy a solution. You have to see the blood, Sond, watch the blade sink into flesh, hear the grunt of pain, and feel the life flow away into the Hag’s claws. Many people won’t do that, and that’s good.”
“Yah, I understand that point—mind you, I don’t necessarily
agree
with it, but I understand what you’re saying. That’s still exactly what you Hoorka allow. You’re a means of depersonalizing combat, of making killing distant and secondhand.”
“Which is why we won’t guarantee the death of a contracted victim. It
would
make it too easy, and we’d insult both the honor of the signer and their gods. It’s also why we give the body of the victim—if there is one—to the contractor and make his name a matter of public record. Then he sees the results of his actions and receives the consequences. We’re not murderers, just weapons.”
“Yah, yah, I’ve talked to the Thane and received the same lecture.”
(Valdisa laughs again.) “Well, if you show him these plans, you’ll hear it one more time.”
(Here there is the sound of paper being torn.) “Then I’ll save my ears.”
• • •
The last three times you have not killed
—the thought nagged at him as Gyll stared at the panting bumblewort. He’d come back from the meeting to find the wort on its side, moving feebly, the fog-gray eyes moving dully as it stared up at him. He’d forced it to drink some water, watched it lap halfheartedly at the offering.
“You should put the poor thing out of its misery, Gyll.”
Startled, he turned from the wort to see Valdisa leaning against the doorjamb, her nightcloak swept over one shoulder. He found that her presence made the tension return, and he made an effort to appear relaxed, stroking the wort. He wondered if he fooled her.
“You surprised me,” he said. “I thought I’d let the door shut.” Under his hand, the wort chirruped plaintively; he made his caress softer, slower. The snub nose came up and nuzzled his hand wetly. From the mouth, the slender whip of its tongue rasped around his forefinger, tugged once, then released.
Gyll shook his head. “Come in, Valdisa.” He still looked down at the wort. “I assume you’ve come about the contract.”
“Yah.” She nodded, pushing herself erect with a quick motion. She went to the floater that sat by his bed.
Gyll was silent, observing her. In the months since he’d given her the title of Hoorka-thane, she’d changed. She smiled less, she laughed less; an aura of moodiness enveloped her in a smoky embrace. He felt responsible and slightly guilty—it was his burden that she’d assumed, because he no longer wanted the problems of leadership. He’d given it to her, and it had sunk its talons deep in her soul.
He stroked the wort a last time, scratching under the delicate skin of the earflaps, and sat on the bed. Valdisa watched him with dark, veiled eyes, her face carefully arranged and neutral.
That hurt worse than anything she might have said.
“How’s the wort?” she asked at last. They both knew it for the avoidance it was, and Gyll found it difficult not to lash out at her circumspection. He began to speak, harshly, then swallowed his irritation with a visible effort.
“No better. I doubt that it’ll live much longer—its ancestors may have been able to fend for themselves, but we’ve bred the worts into something that can’t be undomesticated and wild. I’m surprised this one’s lived as long as it has, since it had to have been abandoned in Sterka. It keeps fighting.” He stared at her, waiting.
Valdisa nodded. Her lips tightened once, parting with an intake of breath as she started to speak. She glanced at the wort’s cage, as if unwilling to meet Gyll’s eyes. He made no effort to make it easier for her. He waited, belligerently silent.
“You know what I’m going to say.” Eyes the color of old, much-polished wood: they accused him.
“I suspect—but you’re going to have to say it, Valdisa.” He shrugged. “I’ll tell you that your logic is wrong, though. Yah, I’ve failed on the last three contracts I’ve worked. It happens—it
has
to happen. By the code—
my
code—the Hoorka must give the victim a chance to live. If they stay alive, then the Dame wants them to do so. They deserve life. If not—then let them join the ippicators in death and dance with the five-legged beasts before the Hag.”
“That’s very poetic, love, but it’s not all of it.” She shook her head, the short, dark hair moving.
Gyll raised an eyebrow in question, making the creases in his lined forehead deeper, and running a hand through his graying hair. He looked down at himself and pulled his stomach in.
She was still not looking at him. Her fingers plucked imaginary lint from the black and gray cloth of her sleeve. “I’ve talked to the kin that worked those contracts with you, Gyll. They all told me that you seemed listless, unenthusiastic. You seemed to be going through the motions. And they said you complained of tiredness . . .” She glanced up, her mouth a grimace of censure. “I think that you’re questioning yourself—whether you still believe in Hoorka.”
“I
made
Hoorka.” He felt his voice rising with emotion, but it was not anger—his cry was more that of denial than ire. “By She of the Five, Valdisa, I’ve given more to Hoorka than anyone. How can you question me?”
“You gave up the title of Thane—because you felt yourself to be no longer effective in that role. You can’t deny that; you’ve admitted it to me.” Her gaze held him, a vise of accusation. “Now you’ve failed your last contracts in a sluggish manner. I have to wonder at that, Gyll, and make some kind of judgment.”
Now her voice softened. Her back, which had been rigidly straight, relaxed, and she slouched back in the floater. “There’s nothing wrong in that, Gyll. I can understand, and there’s much you can teach the apprentices, if you don’t desire more. You don’t have to stay in the rotation if you don’t wish to do so. Hoorka have retired: Felling, Brugal, Hrolf . . .”
“No,” he said. Very simply. Quietly.
“Is that your pride speaking, or do you really feel that strongly about this?”
“Damn
your implications, Valdisa!” Gyll shouted. The wort cried in sudden fright, and Gyll rose to his feet, stalking over to the animal’s cage. “I was trained to this from the beginning by my true-father, who didn’t have the sense to see what those skills could mean to Neweden
if
tempered with discipline, and it was
me
that set up those disciplines and gave the training. You’ve no right to question my abilities, not even as Thane. I’m as good as any of the Hoorka, my age or mental state regardless. I’ll prove that on the practice floor if you insist. I’ll challenge you or any of the kin—first blood.”
Valdisa was calm, staring at Gyll as if his rage rendered his soul transparent. “Your abilities are not in question.”
Gyll shook his head in mute denial, muttering an inward oath but not knowing whom he cursed. “I demand, as kin, to take my place tonight,” he said. “I’ll consider it an insult to be replaced.” His stance was as much a challenge as his words: feet well apart, hands on hips.
There was silence as Valdisa regarded him. They locked gazes.
Valdisa glanced away, shaking her head once more.
“As you wish, Gyll. I won’t fight you in
this”
—with a slight accentuation—“but . . .” She caught her lower lip between her teeth, breathing once. “I am Thane, Gyll. I love Hoorka as much as you, and you’ve made it my duty to see to our kin’s welfare. If that means going against you, I will. I won’t enjoy it . . .” She stood, stretching. “I’d do this much for any of the kin. Come to the entrance in an hour. Your gear will be waiting.”
She walked over to where Gyll stood, staying a careful handsbreadth from him, and glanced down at the sickly wort. “You shouldn’t let it suffer like that, Gyll. You should kill it.”
She began to move toward the door. Gyll called after her. “Valdisa.”
She turned.
“Thank you,” he said.
She didn’t smile. “I knew you’d say what you did. I’ve talked to Sartas. He’s grudgingly let me change the rotation. I’ve given you a new partner for tonight. You’ll work with Aldhelm.”
And she was gone.
• • •
He would have chosen another partner for the contract, had the choice been his and not Valdisa’s.
Aldhelm was waiting with bland patience when Gyll finally arrived at the entrance to Underasgard, the Hoorka-lair. A small group of the kin were standing with him, jesting with the apprentices, their voices a loud echoing in the vast spaces of the first cavern. Hoverlamps dolefully lit the scene, throwing huge, distorted shadows on the jagged roof. Gyll forced a smile to his craggy face, knowing what would come.
“It’s an easy one tonight, Ulthane. The apprentices have him placed and he’s not running too quickly. Isn’t that right, McWilms?” D’Mannberg tousled the apprentice’s hair with a large, careless hand, his laughter booming from the stones.
McWilms ducked aside from the mistreatment, bowing sketchily to Gyll while casting a dour glance at d’Mannberg. “It’s true, sirrah. I gave him the warning and let Ferdin follow. I’ll be taking you in the flitter.”
“Lose this one, Ulthane, and Valdisa’ll have you switching places with McWilms here.” Serita Iduna, her olive face laughing, touched Gyll’s shoulder with an affection that eased the pain of her words. Gyll, knowing, expecting all the gruff humor, stared out to the darkness outside Underasgard. He endured the unpolished wit, the unsubtle humor, though only the full kin dared speak to him in such a manner, the apprentices watched, grinning uneasily, exchanging glances among themselves.
“You’ve made sure the blade is sharp this time, Ulthane?”
“Look, just follow Aldhelm—he rarely gets lost.”
Grin like a fool, old man. You’ve no one to blame but yourself.
Gyll smiled lopsided amusement.
Only Aldhelm remained quiet. He stood in deep shadow near the torn mouth of the cavern, already wearing the wide belt of a bodyshield under his nightcloak. His eyes caught the green-gold light of the lamps; he stared at Gyll. He nodded.
“Ulthane,” he said. His voice was dark.
Gyll nodded in return, buckling on the bodyshield that an apprentice handed him. “How do you feel tonight, Aldhelm? We haven’t worked together—” He hesitated, damning himself.
We haven’t worked together since the failed contract for Gunnar, since I was forced to use my blade on you to stop you from abandoning the code. Fool, learn to think before you wag your tongue so carelessly.