Assassins' Dawn (54 page)

McWilms hated this contract, this night.

The apprentice was nervous. It showed in his skittering eyes, the restless shifting of weight. “We’re not sure . . .”

“Then stand still, boy, and think. Your frigging uncertainty could cost us kin, and I’m not going to lose someone because you didn’t do your job. I’ll toss you back in there first.” Moon-shadow hid his gaze, but the apprentice could feel the anger in McWilms’s voice. “Now tell me what you saw, and do it quickly. It’s getting late.”

The boy nodded. “We trailed Vasella here, and there were at least two others already inside—we saw them, a man and a woman, when they opened the door to let Vasella in.” The apprentice grimaced and swallowed hard. “That’s when they used the sting on us. I ducked and rolled, like in the lessons, but when I looked up again, Elzbet was still lying there in the street. There was a lot of blood. A lot.”

The boy stopped again, sniffing. McWilms made no move to hurry him, but waited as the apprentice wiped at his nose with the sleeve of his nightcloak. “I didn’t know whether to try to get to Elzbet or stay behind cover. It was like I was frozen there . . .”

There was more than a hint of hysteria in the boy’s voice. It softened McWilms’s anger. “She’ll live, Steban,” he said. “The Hag won’t have her yet.” She’d been badly hurt, though; seeing Elzbet had made McWilms recall the months he’d spent recovering from a cowardly assault after an offworld contract. Eight standards ago, now, yet he could still feel the weakness in his right arm, the budded one, and the skin of his chest was hairless and glossy with scars he hadn’t bothered to have removed. Elzbet would be a long time regaining her health, and the pain would never entirely leave. He knew that too well. “Don’t worry about her,” he said to Steban. “Worry about your kin that are here now. What else did you do?”

Steban inhaled deeply, let the breath out in a trembling sigh. “I used my relay to call Thane Valdisa and get the full kin here early. Then I went out and pulled Elzbet back here. I tried to stop the bleeding; there were people around—lassari—but none of them would help,” he said, bitterness tingeing his voice. “I may have missed someone coming in or out of the building then. I don’t think so, but I can’t be sure.”

“But there are at least three of them, and they’re armed with projectile weapons?”

Steban nodded. “I’m sorry I don’t know more . . .”

“It will do. I doubt that anyone could have done much better.” McWilms’s gaze had gone back to the blank darkness of the house. The uproar in the street had caused the curious of the neighborhood to assemble. Around the Hoorka assassins, intent faces peered from windows, and a crowd jostled elbows on a streetcorner a judicious distance away. Not too near, for the Hoorka were known to be less than gentle with those daring to interfere with their contracts, but close enough to see the blood if there was to be any. Their faces were strained with an almost happy anticipation. McWilms cursed the morbidity of the onlookers. “I want you to do one last thing, Steban. Go and bring d’Mannberg here—he’s to the back of the building. Then you can head for the flitter; Felling’s put a good meal in there for you.”

“I don’t know that I’m hungry.”

McWilms pulled Steban to him, hugging the boy firmly. “I can understand, believe me. Get d’Mannberg here, then tell the flitter pilot to take you directly to med-center. Go see Elzbet.”

Steban smiled. “Thank you, sirrah.” Then he was gone, his nightcloak (with the red slash of the apprentice) blending into the night’s shadows.

McWilms paced restlessly as he waited for d’Mannberg. His fingers tapped an erratic rhythm on the dagger’s hilt. He hated nights when the victim barricaded himself in with companions and weapons. It was dishonorable, an insult to the demands of Dame Fate, and wasteful of life. And it was becoming far too common. A
shame to their honor, but the lassari and low kin don’t care. And these cows will be here watching, counting the bodies as they come out. Smiling and talking.
The fact that the contract was another of the Li-Gallant Vingi’s didn’t help his mood. Politics again: McWilms knew that without reading the sealed contract in his pouch. The crowd knew whose house the Hoorka had surrounded, and he could hear the whispers from the spectators.
The Hoorka are doing the Li-Gallant’s dirty work again. He points, and they kill, and only those with power benefit.
Vasella was reputed to be one of the leaders of the insurrectionist group known as the Hag’s Legion, a group of low kin and lassari—those unguilded and without kin. If rumor were true, the Legion was responsible for the sabotage of the transport
Five Winds.
The ship had gone down over the Dagorta Mountains. Its cargo of ippicator bones had been ruined or lost, and the crew had all died in the crash. The kin demanded revenge, the kin-lord calling for bloodfeud, but there had been no answer to her challenge.

Cowards, all of them, with no honor.

McWilms shook his head. Bloodfeud was the accepted custom of settling affairs of honor between guilds, but the Hag’s Legion ignored custom, turning their backs on the gods of Neweden. McWilms didn’t care for the Hoorka to appear as vassals of the Li-Gallant, but if a man deserved to be sent to Hag Death, Vasella was that man. He hoped Dame Fate and She of the Five would not allow Vasella’s escape at dawn, when the contract ended.

The situation made his stomach sour.

The whispering throng parted abruptly, and d’Mannberg strode through the cleft. The Hoorka was a huge man, both tall and massive, and the crowd gave him wide berth, as if his touch might contaminate them. A scowl lurked in d’Mannberg’s reddish beard. He came up to McWilms and spat toward the house. “Shields,” he said. “I
hate
wearing a shield, especially the worn-out things we have. They’re too frigging stiff and constricting. And too damn hot, as well.” His voice boomed in the night, heedless of anyone overhearing. “Well, Jeriad m’boy, there’s not a way around it, is there? Damn; we always seem to get the nasty ones.” He shrugged. “If that’s what the Dame wants, I’m just as glad the rotation paired me with you.”

“I’m glad that makes you happy.”

“Don’t go patting yourself on the back, now. There’s still things I can teach you on the practice floor, youngster.” D’Mannberg grinned at his companion. “One lesson I can think of is humility, Jeriad.”

McWilms smiled briefly. D’Mannberg was his kin-father, the one who had sponsored his transition from apprentice to full kin, and McWilms enjoyed the man’s gruff good humor. It did a little to alleviate his feelings of foreboding, that bad luck seemed to haunt this contract. “Thane Valdisa’s sent over another of the kin—Serita, she said. The com-unit at Underasgard said that’ll even up the odds.”

“The bastards inside should be so honorable.” D’Mannberg’s voice held disgust. “I swear, sometimes following the code can be galling, when it seems only to benefit the victims.”

“The victim must always have his chance to escape.”

“I can quote the code better than you. I’ve lived with it longer.” D’Mannberg flashed a grin. An oddly dainty hand prowled his beard; delicate fingers twisted hair. “I want nothing more than to take a long, hot shower, Jeriad. And Vasella’s holed up in there so tight we probably won’t get near him until dawn, if at all. They’re going to wait until light, then laugh at us. Damn them.” He spat again.

“I don’t think they’re going to be that lucky, Ric. She of the Five isn’t going to be kindly disposed to them after what happened to Elzbet and Steban. That was on the far borders of honor, though I’m sure they’ll claim that they didn’t see the apprentice-slash, and that they shouted a warning first.”

D’Mannberg grunted. “Shit. That’s what that is.” He let out a deep breath. “Well, are you ready?”

“As soon as we see Serita’s flare.”

The signal came a few minutes later. A hissing, spluttering gout of blue-white arced into the sky; Gulltopp, startled, had hidden its face behind the roof of a nearby building. Long, dark shadows moved in the street as the flare rose, fluttered at zenith, and fell. The watchers in the street murmured. “Now,” d’Mannberg said.

They moved toward the house, swiftly and quietly, like shards of night themselves in the gray-and-black Hoorka nightcloaks. McWilms expected at any moment that the sting would bark again from one of the shuttered windows, but the house remained silent. The two assassins pressed themselves against the wall on either side of the doorshield. With little hope, d’Mannberg touched the contact for the shield. A bell chimed inside, distantly, but the shield remained up. D’Mannberg shook his head, McWilms grinned. D’Mannberg’s hands moved in the silent code.
Disruptor?

Yah. Quickly.

D’Mannberg reached behind him for the device, an ugly, plain box strapped under his nightcloak. He pressed a switch, and a rank of lights shivered from scarlet to emerald. They pulsed. D’Mannberg pointed the smaller end of the disruptor toward the shield. Sparks—violent, sputtering—danced from the doorway to the pavement as erratic light played over the Hoorkas’ features. The empty darkness between the doorframe began to glow an alarming orange-white. It throbbed like an uncertain heart, then—suddenly—was gone. The disruptor wailed, its serried lights gone amber. D’Mannberg touched the end of the device, winced silently as it burned his forefinger. He set it down. The air smelled of ozone.

McWilms went to his knees and leaned forward to peer into the interior of the house. He could see nothing of import: some furniture too small to hide behind, a carpet that looked half-dead, all lit by a hoverlamp near the ceiling. Everything looked well-used and rather shabby. He nodded to his companion.
In. Fast.

D’Mannberg unsheathed his vibro, McWilms his dagger. They entered.

A corridor led off the room through an open archway. There was no other exit. McWilms glanced about, looking for the formal warning required by Neweden law that a weapon other than one requiring proximity was being used. There was none. McWilms knew that d’Mannberg had noticed that lack as well—a scowl creased the larger man’s face.

The corridor (narrow, paint falling from the walls in long strips) was empty. A few doors led off its length, another was set at the end. McWilms didn’t like it: the place had the smell of a trap. Too many possibilities for ambush, and these people were too dishonorable to ignore any possibilities.

D’Mannberg signed to him:
bodyshield.
McWilms touched his belt and felt the sudden rigidity as the shield snapped into place around him. The shield would repel slugs from a sting or similar weapons, though it still left them vulnerable to slower attacks, such as a vibrofoil or dagger. The borders of the field slowly exchanged outside air for that trapped behind it, but the shields, overused and much in need of expensive repairs that the Hoorka guild could not afford, were both hot and uncomfortable. Once supple, they now constricted movement. McWilms could sympathize with d’Mannberg’s often-voiced distaste for them; still, they were needed protection if Vasella decided to use the sting again. Neither Hoorka was foolish.

The assassins moved slowly down the corridor, one to each side, hugging the walls. McWilms nudged the first door with a foot. It swung open, revealing a stairway leading down into darkness. He listened, heard nothing, and shrugged to d’Mannberg. Too many choices:
separate?

Neh.
D’Mannberg pointed with his chin.
Keep going.

McWilms clenched the hilt of his dagger. D’Mannberg had yet to activate his vibro—the whine of the weapon would have screamed of their presence. They continued down the hall, McWilms now slightly ahead of the other Hoorka. He couldn’t shake the feeling of wrongness that had afflicted him from the moment he’d seen Elzbet. Dame Fate was looking away, She of the Five was somewhere distant, attending to Her own affairs with the ippicators. Hag Death cackled softly nearby. His muscles ached, fighting the gelatinous resistance of the bodyshield. His breath was too quick, and the air about him was tainted with his exhalations.

It happened quickly.

A woman burst from the door at the end of the hall. McWilms saw little of her but the sting she held. She shouted, her face a rictus, but he could make out no words. She fired twice, rapidly. McWilms felt his shield go rigid, locking up his body as the pellets ricocheted about the corridor, gouging the walls, tearing loose chunks of masonry. He strained toward the woman (the sting down now, unprotected, yet her flat, plain face was curiously triumphant) but the shield held him, slow to release. In the second before he could move again, he heard footsteps and the characteristic high keening of vibros.

Behind. Behind.

McWilms could even admire the plan while abhorring the dishonor in it: force the Hoorka to use shields, fire the sting, and then attack in the instant before the shields became flexible again—a small advantage, made larger by the condition of the equipment the Hoorka used. The skin of his back crawled in anticipation of the blade, then the shield relaxed and he let himself fall with it. A vibro whined over his head (moving in the slow-time thrust of shield-fighting—his assailant knew the technique) as McWilms rolled and kicked blindly up. He was lucky: the man—it was Vasella, he saw—howled in pain, clutching his groin. McWilms slashed with his dagger, and the howl became a wail. Vasella looked surprised and almost sad as McWilms thrust again, the edge of his weapon going deep. Vasella went to his knees, a dark stain spreading out on his clothing. He gasped, fish-mouthed, a hand grasping for the vibro he’d let fall. McWilms, on his feet again, kicked the weapon aside.

A clatter behind him: McWilms, cursing the slowness forced on him by the shield, turned to face the new attack, grateful only that the shield forced his opponent to move a touch slower with his thrust. A vibrofoil slapped ribbons of paint from the wall as McWilms ducked aside. The foil, backhanded, gashed his leg. McWilms could feel the warmth of blood, and he had time to wonder whether the leg would support him as he moved to defend himself. It was all instinct—Ric’s training, Ulthane Gyll’s training. Everything had happened too quickly for a measured plan; he could only react. There was a blur of a face, an intricate pattern of blue and white on a shirt, a grimy wall and something dark and mounded lying on the floor a few meters away. McWilms parried the foil with his dagger—wishing now that he’d chosen a vibro himself. The man (he had a twisted nose, a frown on thin lips) beat the dagger aside easily and thrust for McWilms’s chest. The man was too eager this time. The shield deflected the foil slightly, the blade scoring his side. McWilms grimaced, twisting aside. He touched his belt control, felt the shield go.