The lassari (and some of the kin), angered now, began to resist, fighting back as well as they could. Someone—a plant-pet wrapped about his shoulders—shouted and lassari moved away to harry the guards. People milled in the square, seeking escape, seeking an outlet for anger, seeking someone to strike.
Chaos held sway. The drizzle became a downpour.
M’Dame Tha. d’Embry was furious. A thundercloud of emotion preceded her into Diplo Center. The staff glanced up from terminals and desks as she rumbled through: they quickly decided that to pretend ignorance was the best course. The sight was tragicomic, though a glance at the enraged face forbade laughter. D’Embry’s dress tunic was disheveled, soiled, and wet. Her weathershield belt was broken, the casing cracked. Her white hair hung in limp strands, the mouth was cemented with deep wrinkles. Her eyes arced fire.
Heads stayed down, attentive to their tasks.
She stormed into her office, leaving behind a wet legacy of her passage, and barked at the com-unit on the desk. “Karl, get in here. Bring a warm towel. Several of them. Now.”
D’Embry turned and glared out her window. A shiny-wet Sterka Port stared back, blanketed in thick clouds. The skull of a large ippicator gazed blindly through the rain, a gift from the Hoorka. A symbol of this world, it seemed to laugh at her. “A damned barbarian place,” she muttered. “Gods, I’m sick of it.”
Karl entered, towels in hand. He gave one to d’Embry with a carefully expressionless face.
“Don’t stare, Karl. It’s not polite. And I know you saw the procession on the holotank.” She fixed him with a sour gaze.
“Yah, m’Dame.”
D’Embry scowled. Karl made no elaboration. She glanced down; Karl held a flimsy in one hand. “What’s that?”
“A contract proposal for the Hoorka,” he answered, holding it out to her. “It came over the relay from Niffleheim while . . .” He hesitated. “While you were out.”
D’Embry glared. She toweled her hair, ignoring the flimsy, then saw that the towel was stained with her pinkish bodytint. “Damn.” She threw the towel to a corner and snatched the flimsy with a wiry hand.
“It could be important, m’Dame. A Moache Mining official is the signator.”
“Screw Moache Mining—and don’t look at me that way. I know the meaning of the word.” She tossed the paper to her desk, shaking her head. “The frigging Hoorka keep nagging me, and the whole structure of Neweden seems to be cracking around me. You saw that lassari outburst, Karl. Someone—some
one
—orchestrated that. It wasn’t just a spontaneous upwelling. That was a person’s name the lassari were yelling. It was
planned,
by this Renard, to hit right where Neweden would feel it the most. The incident will enrage the guilded kin and harden their attitude toward the lassari, and it’ll inflame the kinless. It couldn’t have been better designed to cause this world grief.”
She suddenly slumped into her floater with a sigh, as if all energy had deserted her. Seated, she cupped her chin in her hands, shaking her damp head. “The damned contract can wait a few hours—I’m not so sure that I want the Hoorka to work this. I don’t want to see or hear anything having to do with Neweden or any of its idiotic people for the next two hours. See to it, Karl.”
“M’Dame . . .”
“Do
it.” She didn’t look at him. She stared at the replica of d’Vellia’s
Gehennah
standing in one corner of the room. The door hushed shut behind Karl.
“You could’ve retired to that estate on Arlin. Remember that, you fool old lady. You
asked
for this assignment. You couldn’t trust it to anyone else, could you? You had to go and
ask
for it.”
• • •
It was normal and customary for Hoorka to engage in practice bouts. There was, in fact, an unofficial ranking among the kin as to who was the most proficient with vibrofoils. Gyll and, later, Valdisa, had done nothing to stop this covert hierarchy despite the fact that it was not covered in the Hoorka code. Their silence on the matter promulgated its continuation.
Normally, a match drew little attention. Even Cranmer, after recording diligently the first several that followed his arrival, had stopped dropping by the practice room. The kin who happened to lie in the area might stop to throw in a comment and the results certainly traveled quickly in the gossip of the kin, but few set aside other activities to become a spectator.
The bout between Aldhelm and d’Mannberg was the exception. Aldhelm was generally acknowledged to be one of the best Hoorka with vibrofoil and he was the unofficial leader of the duelists. The kin would seek out his matches to stare and search for weaknesses to exploit. D’Mannberg’s presence amplified the interest: Aldhelm and d’Mannberg had for some time been at odds. The last time they had fought, it had gone strangely. Aldhelm, to the surprise and shame of his kin, had put a display of his prowess ahead of adherence to the etiquette of kin-dueling. Before Thane Gyll, Aldhelm had hurt and angered d’Mannberg unjustifiably. Since that time, the rancor had lain between him and d’Mannberg.
The sympathy was with d’Mannberg. The betting favored Aldhelm.
Cranmer was fiddling with his equipment, watched by a skeptical McWilms. The apprentice grimaced at the tangle of holocameras and controls. “Have you placed the cameras correctly?”
Cranmer glanced back over his shoulder. “I’ve been doing this for a decade. Since before you joined the Hoorka.”
“You told me that last time, but the ’cube was all jumbled. Poor placement.”
“For an apprentice, you’re damned impertinent. Are you gonna help or just offer your expert advice?”
“I’ll help. You’re going to need it to get set up in time. Aldhelm’s just come in.”
D’Mannberg was already present, stripped to the waist. He was simply huge—a tall and massive man, his hair and beard shining red in the glow of the light-fungi that lined the room. To the casual eye, he appeared obese—his kin knew better. D’Mannberg was surprisingly fast for his weight, and the flesh masked muscle rather than fat. Aldhelm, readying himself to one side, was more traditionally muscular with a wedged torso. He slid his vibrofoil from its sheath; it whined through the air. The light-fungi tinged his skin, perspiration sheened his back.
D’Mannberg readied his own weapon, clicking it on. The orange-tipped marker shot from the hilt to its full extension, defining the length of the nearly invisible wire. The blade thrummed its power. He deactivated the blade, watching Aldhelm loosen up. “You still want the match, Aldhelm?”
Aldhelm glanced at d’Mannberg, the scar standing out on his face. He gave a noncommittal smile. “Who have you gotten to judge it, kin-brother?”
D’Mannberg turned, surveying the kin who were beginning to crowd the perimeter of the strip. “I’d have asked Ulthane Gyll or Thane Valdisa, but neither is here. Sartas?”
Sartas nodded his willingness, stepping forward. Both Hoorka handed their weapons to Sartas. He examined each blade, locking them on the practice setting—the vibro would sting enormously, but would not cut flesh. The desire to avoid a touch was quite real; painful welts would still form. Sartas touched the foils together: sparks hissed and flared, dying on the earth of the cavern floor. He handed the weapons back and strode over to a rack of vibrofoils, taking one out and activating it.
“Take your places, kin-brothers,” he said, standing in mid-strip. His olive face moved from Aldhelm to d’Mannberg. “The match is five touches. All code strictures apply—a lost weapon may be recovered without penalty and the entire body is a valid target. The two of you will disengage when I call halt, or you’ll face my blade. Remember that it’s not on the lower setting.” He paused. “Ready?”
They nodded, assuming the
en garde
position.
Sartas lowered his vibro and stepped from the strip. “Begin.”
Beat, beat: a wailing shook the cavern, sparks rained to the ground. D’Mannberg, seeing Aldhelm’s foil in the fourth guard, attacked in the high outside line to be met by a beat parry. Riposte, parry, and counter-riposte: there was a whining slap, loud in the room, as Ric’s blade found Aldhelm’s bicep.
“Halt!” Sartas stepped forward, knocking away the foils. “Touch for d’Mannberg.”
Aldhelm stood back, his face sullen, a hand kneading his arm. Ric grinned. “That’s payment for the last time we met, neh? I’m not as slow as you might think, and you’ve given me a fair amount of incentive. She of the Five doesn’t care for those who ignore the etiquette.”
Aldhelm’s face was emotionless. “One touch doesn’t make a match, either. And you’re a large target.” Then, too slowly, “Kin-brother.”
A mumbling from the spectators: those Hoorka as yet unsure of the depth of ill-feeling between the two were quickly convinced. Cranmer, behind the shelter of his equipment, pursed thin lips. “What’d you think, McWilms?”
The youth’s eyes were alight. “Aldhelm looked lethargic, sleepy. That was very sloppy work on his part. But keep recording, Sond, keep recording. This looks like it might be good.”
“You’re a bloodthirsty bastard.”
“Yah, ain’t I.” He grinned.
Sartas scowled at the verbal exchange between Aldhelm and d’Mannberg. He slapped his vibro at the floor, kicking up dirt. “Sirrahs, please return to your positions. And watch your tongues. We’re kin here, and while I’m judge, you’ll act it.” His dark eyes moved from man to man. Slowly, they both bowed to him.
“Take your positions again, then.” He waited, then stepped back once more. “Begin.”
This time Aldhelm was more cautious and less sleepily overconfident. He seemed to be awakening to full arousal, more aware of the match. His vibrotip danced now, flickering as he probed d’Mannberg’s defense, backing the larger man slowly down the strip with short, frantic attacks that never let d’Mannberg regain the initiative. Still, all the attacks were successfully met. Aldhelm moved forward, then lunged into the open line, his body extended. D’Mannberg, swiftness belying his bulk, leapt backward and the vibrotip missed. He grinned at Aldhelm.
Now Ric counter-parried and riposted, taking the right of way. Bare feet hushed against the earth, sweat varnished their skin and made dark strands of their hair. Foils slapped and wailed.
“D’Mannberg’s improved. A lot.”
“Ulthane Gyll’s been working with him. That, and he has a revenge to seek here. And Aldhelm still doesn’t seem to be fully alert.”
D’Mannberg let the tip of his vibro dip slightly away from the high line, as if his arm were becoming tired. Aldhelm took the proffered opening without hesitation, responding with a thrust. D’Mannberg was waiting; his foil screeched along the length of Aldhelm’s, bringing them briefly closer, and he kicked out underneath Aldhelm’s vibro hand. Aldhelm’s hand opened with the impact and his vibrofoil slithered to the ground. D’Mannberg stepped away immediately, before Sartas could move to intervene.
D’Mannberg spread his arms wide. “Pick up your vibro, Aldhelm. We both know the etiquette, neh?” The sarcasm in his voice was obvious.
“D’Mannberg—” Sartas began, threateningly, but Aldhelm waved him silent. Scowling, he bent at the waist and recovered his weapon, checking the setting on the ring control once more. He did not look at d’Mannberg. He was too calm, too reserved. The smile left d’Mannberg’s face; he crouched and rose quickly, exercising his legs.
“Gods, McWilms, look at Aldhelm’s face.” In the monitor holocube, Aldhelm’s visage came into focus. “He looks like a killer I once interviewed. He has the same tautness to him. . . . Hell, I can’t explain it, but I see it.”
“Don’t have to explain, Sond. D’Mannberg had better see to his defense. Aldhelm’s awake now.”
They began: a quick flickering of vibros as Aldhelm went into a furious compound attack, feinting low and coming high, getting the strong of his blade to the weak of d’Mannberg’s. D’Mannberg kicked again, but found Aldhelm’s thigh rather than his knee. Thrust, beat parry, and a riposte to the inside low line—Aldhelm’s vibro slipped over the guard of d’Mannberg’s foil but stopped a millimeter short of a touch. D’Mannberg hesitated, open, but Aldhelm didn’t take the advantage; d’Mannberg knocked away Aldhelm’s blade with a beat. D’Mannberg’s sweat-beaded face registered puzzlement. He disengaged, and Aldhelm did not follow.
“You had me.” D’Mannberg’s vibro was still up, waiting, in the fourth guard. Sweat dripped from his beard.
Aldhelm shrugged.
“My leg isn’t a good enough touch? Is that it, Aldhelm? You want something more painful?” His face was flushed with anger. Above the heart, on the face, near the genitals—there the lash of vibrofoil was excruciating.
Aldhelm’s face was set in stone. Cold, the eyes; white on red, the scar twitched. “I missed you, that’s all.”
“What would my pain prove to you? I’m your kin, not some lassari you can toy with.”
“Kin believe kin, don’t they? Then believe me. I missed you.”
“By the Hag, Aldhelm, all the rest saw it too . . .”
“Sirrahs!”
Sartas’s foil whipped down between them. “If you wish to duel, I’ll referee. If you want to argue rather than meet blades, go to the common room. It’s all one to me, but you’re wasting my time. Assume a ready position or deactivate your foils.”
Aldhelm turned to Sartas. “D’Mannberg’s eyes are as blind as an ippicator’s.”
D’Mannberg reacted as most guilded kin would to an insult in the impersonal mode. His ruddy face flared with rage. He spat out a response in the same mode. “Aldhelm has the voice of a lassari. He can speak no truth.”
The words cracked Aldhelm’s icy calm. With a guttural shout, he flung his foil aside and lunged for d’Mannberg. But Sartas moved too quickly. His strong hands grasped Aldhelm’s arm, slipping on sweat, then clamping down. D’Mannberg had begun to move in defense, but other kin restrained him, arms around neck and waist. Both men strained to be released.
D’Mannberg spat on the ground. In his fury, he spoke the question that many kin had thought but none had voiced. “At least I know where I was the night Gunnar was killed. Aldhelm, alone of the kin, wasn’t in Underasgard. Did Aldhelm kill him, sneaking like a cowardly lassari?” D’Mannberg stared directly at Aldhelm, waiting.