“I don’t even see you. And Hoorka chooses its kin as it pleases.” He waited, then spoke again. “I don’t see you. You don’t exist to me, lassari.”
There seemed to be nothing else to do. The insult came grudgingly from his lips. The susurrus from the watching crowd held them, as aware as the Thane that there was nothing else he could do. The attack would come, or not: who could tell? Lujisa made for strange behavior, and until the lassari moved, he was trapped. The Thane moved his hand fractionally closer to his vibro.
And as if that action had triggered a reflex in the lassari, the man lunged without warning. The Thane, more out of instinct than intent, stepped back and to one side, his hands reaching for the attacker. The hum of the vibro dopplered past his ear, and the Thane chopped at the man as his momentum carried the lassari past the Hoorka. The lassari twisted in an effort to stop his fall and the Thane’s blow caught him on the shoulder. The Thane pivoted to see the man roll and gain his feet—the crowd retreating frantically as the lassari came near them. The Thane watched the hand holding the vibro and the waist: his training—the training he’d in turn imparted to Hoorka-kin—had taught him that while a person may feint with any part of his body, the hips must go in the direction of movement. The Thane unsheathed and activated his vibro as the lassari regained his footing.
The man’s next charge was unsubtle, lacking any pretense or grace. With a flick of his wrist, the Thane brought his nightcloak over the man’s vibro arm as he cut at him with his own weapon. The lassari screamed in pain as the vibro tip gashed his side. He went limp, dropping his weapon. The Thane kicked it away as the man rolled on the ground, clutching his wounded side. The crowd moved in closer, drawn to the agony.
The Thane shut off his vibro and sheathed it. He was breathing heavily, tired far beyond the little effort he’d needed. He looked down at the moaning lassari. “I had no quarrel with you, no-kin-of-mine. And Hoorka do not kill unless paid to do so. Not even lassari.” He let his cloak fall back around him, and the people moved to give him a corridor through the crowd. Trying not to show his weariness, the Thane walked away, his face forbidding comment.
As he passed from the square into the narrow back streets of Sterka, he found all the vague pleasure of the day gone. It was unusual enough for a Hoorka to be attacked, but this confrontation nagged at him with implications beyond the surface. Had Vingi, or even Gunnar, arranged it, as a way of avoiding a declaration of formal bloodfeud with the Hoorka? Had it been intentional and not simply an accident of timing and circumstance—a whim of Dame Fate?
Lastly—and it bothered the Thane that this seemed important—could he have avoided the fight, could he have eased himself away without knifing the man?
After all, what insult was there to the deranged maunderings of a lassari and lujisa addict?
The questions pounded at him, one with the throbbing in his chest and the troubling wheeze he could hear in his lungs.
He moved in his clear space through the streets. The sunstar sparked lazy motes of dust in the air. Birds foraged for crumbs in the central gutter of the street.
The Thane walked toward the city gates.
Chapter 4
“A
T THE CORE OF the Hoorka philosophy, if that’s what this, ahh, moral code with religion must be called, is a shrewd knowledge of Neweden mores and cultural patterns. The Hoorka exist through the practice of guild-kinship—Neweden’s replacement for the biological, nuclear family—
and
the normal jealousies to which humans are prone. Now; no, make that: Since the advent of the Hoorka, there is an alternative offered Neweden. Rather than calling a formal bloodfeud between guilds and the possibility of carnage that that entails and by all the gods, that’s a clumsy sentence. Umm, cancel and begin program, please.
“The Hoorka function as an alternative to the traditional method of settling conflicts: the bloodfeud. On Neweden, a bloodfeud may become a small-scale war, all perfectly legal. By contacting the Hoorka and signing their contract, a person can fulfill his duty to his kin or his gods for any insult, and still retain his life with his pride.
“The Hoorka price is high, but that fits in with their crude; no, make that”—(pause)—“
unsophisticated
variation on Social Darwinism: in essence, crude survival of the fit. They contend that wealth is an outgrowth of power and fitness—and yet the victim retains a chance of escaping this harsh justice, for the victim may have ‘survival traits’ that are not tied in with the accumulation of lucre. The odds are never overloaded in the favor of the Hoorka. If the victim isn’t carrying a bodyshield, as an example, the Hoorka will decline to carry firearms or stings in carrying out the contract. This aspect of the code has had a corollary effect: most contracted victims decline to use such technologically-based defenses, relying instead upon speed and stealth.”
Cranmer reached over the desk to switch off the voicetyper and then looked at the words he’d just written. “Anything particularly wrong with that, Thane? It’s simply for my notes. What eventually gets put together for publication will be scattered with a more esoteric vocabulary so that the University people don’t feel their intelligence is being insulted—if they can understand a concept too easily, they think it below their notice.”
“You sound mildly bitter, scholar.”
Cranmer leaned back in his floater and put his hands behind his head. He pursed his lips, eyes closed. “No, just realistic. I’ve been away from it long enough to have an objectivity about the drawbacks of my profession. I don’t care for that much posturing and pretension in anyone but myself.” He grinned. “And
that’s
a normal human instinct.”
The Thane had been standing near the shield that cut this—Cranmer’s rooms—from the other caverns of Underasgard. Now he moved forward and sat on the bed. Above him, a lamp tinted gold threw light down on the crown of the Thane’s head, so that every line of his face was accentuated. The Thane caught sight of himself in a mirror across the room, and he grimaced. He moved slightly, so that the light struck him at an angle, softening his face. He surreptitiously examined the results, hoping Cranmer hadn’t noticed his vanity. “Wait until we Hoorka go offworld. You’ll have to revise your paper.”
Cranmer frowned. He leaned forward toward the Thane, his eyes questioning. “Thane, in the months I’ve spent with you, I’ve never hedged truths. If the Hoorka
do
go offworld—and I don’t know that d’Embry’s ever going to allow that—I think you’re going to run into far more trouble remaining consistent than you realize. You’ll be operating under totally different social structures, if nothing else. The code might have to be re-worked to some degree. You’re set up for Neweden, not Niffleheim or Longago or Aris. This planet is the only one of which I’m aware that has such a hidebound caste system—the guilds—and
they
are what make the Hoorka code work.”
“The code is sufficient.” The Thane shook his head in disagreement. Light shifted across his face. “If we start tampering with our structure, making exceptions and addendums here and there, what will distinguish us from common criminals? No,” he said emphatically, “I’ve thought of this before. I don’t see where the structure of any other society will be so alien that the code would fail.”
“I’m not suggesting that the code become fluid.”
“That’s good. Then perhaps you do understand Hoorka.”
“Do the two of you do nothing but argue all day?” Both men turned to the doorshield to see Valdisa standing there, a gentle smile on her face, her hands on her hips in mock disgust. Short dark hair frothed the side of her thin, finely-featured face and neck. A nightcloak was clasped around her shoulders, masking her figure.
“Come in, m’Dame,” the Thane said. She nodded. Her lithe, athletic body moved with a grace that the Thane remembered with pleasure and envy. She sat on the foot of the bed, near the Thane.
Cranmer had sat back in his floater again, half-reclining, his head staring at the ceiling. “I was informing our revered Thane that sometimes the creation has to transcend the creator—my old line, I realize—but all things are subject to modification, if they want to survive.”
Valdisa laughed, a crystalline sound. “Not a philosophy that would appeal to him, neh?” She placed a cool hand briefly over the Thane’s, then withdrew it. The Thane glanced at her; she smiled in return.
“Or to most Hoorka, I would hope.” The Thane chuckled to show that he was jesting, but he was remembering Valdisa’s hand. “Cranmer’s simply caught up in a vision of the perfect thesis, neatly bound and impervious to logic.”
“And life
isn’t
definable in terms of a thesis, then? Gods, my colleagues will be profoundly disappointed to hear that. They’ll mull it over for a year and then write a paper on it. Smash their entire concept of reality . . .” He thumped the voicetyper for emphasis. The three of them laughed. Cranmer looked from Valdisa to the Thane. He shoved the floater back from his desk and stretched his arms out, fingers interlocked. Joints cracked aridly, and Valdisa winced.
“I guess I should wander off and see who’s on kitchen duty,” Cranmer said. “Thinking’s hard enough work for us sedentary types—and from the look on m’Dame Valdisa’s face, she has business to discuss. Yah?”
Valdisa nodded, smiling. “And you should take some exercise. That’s a flabby body you carry with you.”
“Would I then stand a chance with you, m’Dame?” Cranmer struck a melodramatically romantic pose.
“Possibly, sirrah.” Over-coyly.
“I’ll see the two of you later, then.” Cranmer, whistling a motet off-key, waved a hand at the two Hoorka as he left the room. Valdisa watched the doorshield close again behind him and turned to the Thane.
“I’ll miss the little man when he leaves us,” she said.
The Thane, looking at the papers neatly stacked beside the typer, nodded his head in agreement. “As will I. I need his objectivity, however galling it sometimes becomes.”
“Well, he was right; I do have business to discuss with you.” Valdisa pulled a flimsy from the breast pocket of her nightcloak. Paper crackled as she unfolded it. “You said to notify you when the next contract arrived. I just received one.” She glanced at the document. “From a Jast Claswell of the Bard’s Guild, to attempt the killing of an E. J. Dausset, of the Engineers.”
The Thane sighed as he moved, stretching out a hand to take the flimsy from Valdisa. He moved so that the light from the hoverlamp fell full on the paper, putting him in shadow. “I know I’m due next in the rotation. Who was I to be teamed with?”
“D’Mannberg.”
The Thane nodded and handed the contract back to Valdisa. As her eyes watched him, he walked a few steps toward the wall. He rested his hand on the cool rock, then turned back to her. “Move him back in the rotation and have Aldhelm posted to go with me.” He wiped his hand, damp from the chill of the rock, absently on his cloak. He looked up to see surprise raise Valdisa’s eyebrows, but she lowered her gaze at first contact and folded the flimsy slowly and deliberately. When she did speak, her voice and manner were carefully devoid of question or censure; because of that, it was obvious to the Thane that she was disturbed.
“Am I to give Aldhelm an explanation?”
The Thane shook his head. “No, I just want to cause our kin to think of the Gunnar mistake.”
“Thane”—and now her voice spoke with soft, gentle reproach—“are you sure that’s what you want to do? It won’t help Aldhelm’s mood. You haven’t seen him today. Your chastisement, his own guilt at having let Gunnar escape when he knew full well the importance of that contract, the knife-cut . . .”
“I didn’t mean to cut him,” the Thane interrupted. His voice was high and loud with hurried protest.
Calm, calm. Why do you allow yourself to become upset so quickly?
“I know—and he knows, whether he cares to admit it or not.” Valdisa’s voice soothed him. She’d always been able to do so, when they’d been lovers, and since then as a friend. “But that doesn’t mean a great deal. He’s not an apprentice or a new Hoorka. He’s the best of the kin. What happened the other night was Dame Fate’s whim, not Hoorka clumsiness. You didn’t need to make an example of him.”
Two spots of color flared high on the Thane’s cheeks. “I have my own thoughts. I’m doing what I think is right, and I
do
rule the Hoorka. If you’d like to change that, call for a vote by the kin.”
Haughty, so haughty.
He hated himself for the way the last sentence had sounded, but it was too late.
Why do you always hurt her?
Valdisa’s hands described a helpless circle. She shook her head. “No, I can’t agree with you. But I wouldn’t say that anywhere but here, and if you insist, I’ll go along with this.” After a moment: “For what it’s worth.”
The Thane’s expression softened as the ruddiness faded from his cheeks. He impulsively touched her hand, felt the calluses there, the broken fingernails.
“I appreciate that,” he said. “I need the support, and Aldhelm would take the news better from you.”
She shrugged, her eyes steady on his. She let her hand stay where it was. “I owe you that much.”
Her forefinger stroked his palm and the Thane slowly let his hand fall back to his side. “That’s all past. You owe me nothing.”
“It’s past only because you insist that it need to be so. I’d still sleep with you—and you haven’t slept with any of the kin for some time. It needn’t be me. A hint . . .” She smiled.
“You’re too interested in other’s affairs.”
“They used to be partially mine, if you recall.”
“And you know why I wanted to end it. It wasn’t for my sake.”
Valdisa’s smile faded. She rose from the bed and moved over to Cranmer’s floater, and idly toyed with his ’typer, running her fingers over the controls. She switched on the machine, listened to its mechanical humming, then turned it off again. “I understand your intentions, Thane. I
don’t
understand the reasoning. The code encourages a certain promiscuity among Hoorka-kin if they haven’t formed a relationship with a single person—and it helps, with our imbalance of men to women. But you don’t forbid monogamous relationships. You couldn’t. You wouldn’t want to. I remember your jealousy when I slept with Bronton. I even enjoyed it. You were so mutely gentle and hurt. You should be so open with your kin more often, love.”