Free Assassins' Dawn by Stephen Leigh

meeting to the Diplo Center a few blocks away—nobody remarked upon it. Assembly meetings were half–stage production, half-serious at best, and much was tolerated that would, in the streets, be cause for declaration of bloodfeud.
    The session thus far had proved to be one of the more entertaining for those in a position to find the semi-functioning of their Assembly amusing—which were those few who didn’t depend on it in some way for the stability of their lives. Neweden’s government—by law a republic with an elected head, the Li-Gallant—was in practice an economic dictatorship with Vingi as ruler through his holding of the monetary reins of the planet, a ruler as his kin-father had been before him. It was not always an efficient system, but like all governments it worked occasionally.
    There was a shout from the far side of the floor, another of the many guild representatives. “Haven’t we heard enough rhetoric designed simply to slow down the functioning of this Assembly? Li-Gallant, I respectfully ask that Representative Potok—”
    Potok shouted down the man—he had good lungs. “And I have the floor, honored representative. If you’ll be so good as not to interrupt me, this body may well function more efficiently.” He turned, slowly and with exaggerated pride, to face Vingi again. The sunlight from above sparked and flared over the glittering satin of his ceremonial robes: turquoise, the color of his guild, Gunnar’s guild. What he had just said, uttered in public, would have caused the other party to demand satisfaction. But candor, and what might be rudeness in normal Neweden society, were tolerated here. Potok glared at the Li-Gallant and pressed his point.
    “I ask again, Li-Gallant, for an investigation into the attempted murder of our party leader. You’ve evaded giving a direct answer or letting the matter come to a vote. I request that you speak your mind and enlighten us down on the floor as to your reasoning.”
    Vingi squinted into the bluish haze around him—the smoke filters in the room didn’t seem to be working. He toyed with a stack of microfiche in front of him, checked one of the screens (a view of the hall outside: a bored guard was relating a story to another with extravagant and obscene gestures), and looked down at Potok. He bit on his lower lip in concentration.
    “Representative Potok,” he said languidly, his voice just this side of boredom, “Gunnar had been contracted to be killed by the Hoorka—as you well know—and the Hoorka are bound by their guild bylaws not to release the name involved in their unsuccessful attempts and to make public the signer of successful assassinations. I suggest you make your plea to Hoorka, and not the Assembly, if you are so interested in learning the identity—or perhaps you might advise Gunnar to run slower next time.”
    A roar of laughter rose from guild-members allied with Vingi, coupled with derisive boos from Gunnar’s supporters.
    “M’Dame Ricia Cuscratti was not killed by Hoorka,” insisted Potok.
    Vingi waved pudgy fingers in dismissal. “There is no proof of that beyond vague rumors; in any event, sirrah, m’Dame Cuscratti’s murderers will be fined to the limits of the law should their identities come to light, and your guild-kin may demand bloodfeud if m’Dame Cuscratti’s guild-kin do not insist upon preference. I fail to see the point of your persistence.”
    There was a murmuring of affirmation from the floor, a bee-hum that filled the hall with wordless clamor. Potok raised his eyes to the sun-brightened windows above him and waited for silence. The noise died slowly and incompletely.
    “The attempted killing of Gunnar might well be a cause for bloodfeud between our guild and another,” he continued. “And we have a right to know what lies behind the attempt, whether it was a personal insult or a matter for all of Gunnar’s kin—my kin. If, for instance, a part of our government were trying to gain