The Hoorka had halted, each gauging the man. “Out of the way, sirrah.” Sartas made as if to push his way forward, but the man stepped back and held up his hand. It held a sting.
“I’m sorry, but I can’t let it happen.” The voice trembled, the apology was ludicrous, but the finger was steady on the trigger. Sartas watched the hand, breathing shallowly. “Better that I be killed than Marco. He’s worth more to us—let Guillene do what he wants with me.”
The finger went white with sudden pressure . . .
. . . but the Hoorka were already moving, Sartas to the right, Renier dropping left and rolling. The sting cracked and bucked; pellets chipped paint from the hostel’s wall. The man did not have time for a second shot. Sartas lunged, grasping the man’s forearm and twisting violently. Bone cracked, loud in the sudden stillness, and the sting fell to the grass. Sartas pushed and the man stumbled, moaning in pain. Renier had already recovered the sting. He pointed it at the fallen man.
“Death,” Renier said, his voice gentle, “isn’t an easy gift. Dame Fate must want the victim, and you must remember that the victim will always be willing to trade your life for his. In that, you’re lucky that we’re Hoorka. We don’t kill when it’s not needed.”
With a practiced motion, Renier detached the clip from the sting and slipped it into a pouch of his nightcloak. He tossed the weapon into a clump of shrubbery. “Get the arm seen to soon,” he said. “It shouldn’t be a bad break.”
The Hoorka left him, kneeling in shock, as the hostel denizens emerged, blinking, to view the excitement.
Sartas said nothing until they were in the flitter. Then he touched Renier on the shoulder, a squeeze of affection. “This looks like one of the contracts we’re going to hate, one that gets in your dreams. I’ll be glad when we get back to Neweden, kin-brother.”
Renier nodded in agreement.
• • •
18:41. They’d left McWilms behind nearly an hour ago, panting-tired and liberally coated with the dust of Heritage. They’d had to leave the flitter at the outskirts of Home, where the broadcast power faded. From there, they’d rented a local groundcar, a decrepit device burning a noisome and smoky liquid fuel. Sartas had been dubious, but the machine had proved durable enough to climb the rough terrain.
McWilms had had little to report: de Sezimbra was moving slowly but steadily to the west, into higher and more broken country. They told the apprentice to stay with the vehicle until he heard from them. Then they began the real pursuit—on foot, facing the same difficulties as their quarry.
The dye-detector placed de Sezimbra a kilometer and a half from them. They could follow that trace until they came too close: the detector would cease functioning when the victim was within two hundred meters, another example of the code’s insistence that the victim be given a chance of escape. And the detector gave them only a modicum of aid. It indicated only direction and distance. In the twisted, rock-strewn landscape of steep hills, they could not travel for long in a straight path. They had to turn and backtrack more than once, their way blocked, moving back and forth among the brown-red stones and gritty earth. The land was torn, dry, and nearly barren, though not lifeless. Now and then they’d glimpse a shadowed form staring at them; the assassins would grasp their vibrohilts, not knowing which creatures were dangerous or what form an attack might take.
In his familiarity with Heritage, de Sezimbra had a decided edge.
They found the first sign of him as the sun eased itself down on the spikes of nearby mountains. A scrabbling of pebbles lay at the bottom of an incline, and there was a mark higher up where weathered rock had broken loose to leave lighter stone exposed. Looking further, they found a scrap of bloodstained cloth. The blood was still wet.
“He fell, then. Scraped himself fairly well too—the cloth’s saturated. Think it’ll slow him down?”
Renier shrugged, pulling his nightcloak tighter about him. Already the oppressive heat of the day was waning; the chill of night hung in the shadows. “Maybe, if he cut his leg or side. In any case, he’ll probably be more careful now—that in itself’ll hold him back.”
They scrambled up the slope, sure now of their path and alert for small signs of the man’s passage. Twilight shaded the sky. A few minutes later, the orb of the sun entirely gone, Renier pulled from his pouch a pair of light-enhancers. A sallow moon hoisted itself in the east. The rocks hid deep shadows, but the landscape was bright enough for them to continue at the same pace. They were gaining quickly on de Sezimbra.
“Renier . . .”
The assassin turned, his eyes goggled with the enhancers. “Yah?”
“The detector went off a few minutes ago. I thought he was just on the edge of the range and it’d come back on, but it hasn’t. We’re near him.”
Their vibros hissed from sheaths, thrumming as if glad to be released from confinement.
The Hoorka followed the man’s trail: a scuffling of dirt, displaced rocks, the marks of boot heels. The going was rough, always west and upward. A cliff scarred with vertical slashes like the wounds of a giant claw walled them to the right. On their left, the path fell off steeply into a deep ravine—they could hear the sound of running water in the darkness. The ledge narrowed as they went higher and they were forced to move single file for a time, until the gouged cliff shattered itself into a small plateau littered with large boulders. Hiding places abounded. Sartas muttered a curse.
“We’ll have to search here, damn him. Looks as if the cliff begins again just ahead. You start there—see if you can tell whether he’s gone on. If not, start working back toward me. If we’ve got him trapped here, we can go home.”
Renier nodded, already moving. Sartas began a slow examination of the area, vibro always at ready, feeling a tension in the muscles of his back. He’d felt the thrill of that tension before—it had always betokened the presence of the victim.
Sartas heard the commotion first: a muffled cry of “Hoorka!” followed by a fleshy thud and the dopplering whine of a vibro moving through air. Sartas ran toward the sounds, dodging between boulders, and suddenly getting a clear view.
Near the edge of the ravine, Renier was grappling with de Sezimbra. Somehow, the assassin had been stripped of his vibro; it buzzed on the ground nearby. De Sezimbra seemed to know the art of hand-to-hand combat. As Sartas watched (still running, wondering whether a thrown vibro would be accurate enough and rejecting the idea) de Sezimbra twisted out of Renier’s grasp, kicking with a surprisingly agile movement. With a wailing cry of frustration, Renier stumbled and fell, slipping over the ravine’s edge. His fingers scrabbled for a hold as de Sezimbra turned to see Sartas, still meters away, striding toward him. Sartas cursed inwardly: by the time Renier could scramble up again, de Sezimbra would be gone. Again he fought the impulse to throw his weapon—too far, and a twirling vibro was as likely to hit with hilt as well as edge. De Sezimbra scooped up Renier’s weapon and ran.
The victim was gone; Renier had yet to reappear. The code was explicit on the point: if kin might be in danger, the victim was to be ignored until the kin’s status was determined. Sartas peered over the edge of the depression, thumbing the enhancers to full power. He thought he could make out the figure of a man, but it could well be a trick of shadows. “Renier,” he called softly, then more loudly.
The only reply was a faint echo. “By the frigging Hag—” Sartas glanced about—no, de Sezimbra was too far away by now. He could always find the trail again. He decided Renier must be unconscious, must have struck his head on a rock. The code and his own emotions tallied; he made his way carefully down the steep incline, grasping at rocks, slipping, sliding. He cursed de Sezimbra, cursed the Dame, cursed Renier.
It had to have been a freak, a whim of the Dame. When Sartas saw Renier, he halted his descent suddenly, grabbing for a handhold as rocks slid from under his feet. There was no mistaking the angle at which Renier’s head rested against his shoulder or the stiff arms that seemed to hug the earth. Sartas had seen death enough, had heard the Hag’s cackling at close quarters. He knew, knew from the stillness, from the feel of it.
Renier was dead.
He came down more slowly now. No reason to hurry. Renier might have been asleep from the appearance of the body. Sartas, his hands gentle, turned Renier on his side, rocks cascading below them. The left temple was a jellied depression, the skull crushed with blood trickling sluggishly over the open wound. With no hope, Sartas felt for a pulse and found none. He hunkered down beside the body, bracing himself. Sighing, he invoked She of the Five, performing a quick rite for the dead kin. His words were quick, his gaze restless and always avoiding the body.
He fumbled in the pocket of his uniform, pulling out a small beacon. He touched one face of the device and set it beside Renier. Then he thumbed on his relay.
“McWilms?” He waited a moment, then spoke more harshly. “Damn you, boy, you’d better answer.”
“Here, sirrah.” The words were tinny and distant, surprised and questioning. “You got de Sezimbra?”
“No,” Sartas spat. “Renier is dead. I’ve set the beacon for you to follow. Trace it and take care of the body—I did the short rites, but I want you to give him the longer code-rite. Get the car as near as you can—we’ll need it.” He spoke flatly, almost tonelessly; it was not a voice to interrupt. “Do you understand all that?”
“Yah, sirrah.” A pause and a crackling of electronic thunder. “What of de Sezimbra?”
“If he was important to you, I’d have said so, ass.” Sartas let go the transmission button and breathed deeply, in and out. Then: “I’m after the man now. Hurry yourself. I don’t know what carrion eaters live here, but if that body is touched, I’ll take it out of your hide. Understood?”
“I’ve already left.”
Sartas crouched, feeling the loose stones moving underfoot. His legs ached with the night’s run. “Hag-kin,” he muttered to himself, glancing down at the corpse. “He was luckier than we thought, neh? A worthy opponent. He’ll be a fit companion for you, Renier, one to be proud of. I admire him. He’s got fire and determination.” The assassin reached down to touch the broken face. “You were a fine kin. All Hoorka will miss you.”
He straightened, leaning against the slope. He glanced up at the jagged, moon-glazed summit of the ravine.
He began climbing.
• • •
21:45. It had been easy to find de Sezimbra’s trail. The detector had shown him an image for only a quarter of an hour and had then gone quiet. The fight with Renier—the brush with the Hag’s talons—had evidently frightened the man. He left the spoor of panic and fear, no attempt at stealth. Upward, westward, climbing toward the cold, hard sky, pushed by the adrenaline of death-fright . . .
But Sartas knew that his energy would only be a temporary ally. He’d seen it in other contracts. De Sezimbra had had the longer run, and the Hoorka were conditioned for the punishment. Time was still on Sartas’s side, if he could get closer.
He found himself filled with a grudging admiration for de Sezimbra. He’d expected the man to be easy prey, but he’d seriously underestimated his resources. That might have cost Renier his life. Hoorka had died on contracts before—not many, but it was something that was expected at times. The Hoorka knew victims would strike back, would struggle against death; for some kin, Sartas was aware, that implicit danger was exciting, titillating. Renier had not been one of those, however. Sartas wished him peace in the afterlife. His kin’s death drove him, made him ache for revenge, but the anger was tempered with respect for de Sezimbra. He felt curiously remote from the sadness, holding it back from his consciousness for the time being. Later, he’d mourn and weep with the rest of his kin, would feel emptied as Renier’s body went back to ash in the soot-smeared Cavern of the Dead.
In de Sezimbra’s place, Sartas would have done the same. He approved of de Sezimbra for that, but he could kill that which he admired. He forced himself to concentrate on his task; all the rest could wait.
He’d seen that de Sezimbra was tiring: the marks were now fresh on the dirt and stone, and the sparse vegetation that the man trampled had yet to spring back up. Close. Sartas pressed himself, moved a bit faster. Soon.
It was not a prepossessing scene: Sartas slipped into a narrow cleft in the cliff wall, following the tracks. The crevice opened out suddenly into a natural amphitheater, a hollow perhaps thirty meters across surrounded by dour gray walls of stone. There was little cover but the moon-shadow. The light-enhancer pierced the murk easily enough. Sartas could see de Sezimbra crouched opposite the entrance, his clothing torn, his side bloody with scratches, his dark skin shiny with perspiration. Panting, he still held Renier’s vibro in his hand, but it was not activated. He’d trapped himself.
Sartas, his nightcloak swirling about him as he halted, stared at de Sezimbra. The man was still, not certain that he’d been seen. “Marco de Sezimbra, your life has been claimed by Hag Death.”
The assassin’s voice, stentorian in the night stillness, startled de Sezimbra. He shook himself, disbelieving, then stood, his breath ragged. “I’m not yet dead, sirrah. And for whom other than this Hag Death do you want me?”
“That information’s not for you.” Curtly, but not unwillingly, Sartas answered. The man could go nowhere, there was still enough time. If he wanted to talk, let him.
“Ahh.” De Sezimbra nodded. “It doesn’t matter, really. I know it’s Guillene and Moache. He’s the only one that would think that he has enough reason. You’ll really let me go at 23:10?”
“I
would
have.” The emphasis was pronounced.
The ghost of a smile played at the corners of de Sezimbra’s mouth. “You still might need to. You won’t throw your vibro—that’s a low probability attack. You have to come and get me, and I could conceivably get past you.”
“Or you could use the vibro.”
This time he did smile. “I’m afraid it’s not my forte. I’d rather be sneaky.”
“You won’t get past. Try and you’ll feel my blade. I’ve more pleasant means of death, if you’re willing to concede the inevitable. You won’t get past.” Sartas spoke with confidence, but he remembered Renier; he could not afford to underestimate the man again.