Free Assassins' Dawn by Stephen Leigh Page B

is sometimes truth,” Potok said harshly, his voice showing the strain of constant shouting. Behind him, others of his guild clamored agreement. The holocameras filming the session moved from the over-righteous face of Potok to the thick features of Vingi.
    The Li-Gallant’s double chin trembled as he pointed to Potok with a forefinger. “You had better be prepared to back up such libel with facts, Representative, if only for the sake of your kin. Do you understand me, sirrah?” From the Li-Gallant, the honorific sounded like an insult. “We’ve heard more than enough of your vague references to troubles of which we’re already fully aware. For the last time, will you yield the floor? There are others waiting to be heard, with problems perhaps more urgent than your own.”
    Shouts of “Sit down!” now alternated with yells of support for Potok, a cacophony that caused the birds on the dome to once more rise from their nests and flutter about. The gavel boomed unsuccessfully as Potok stood with his arms still folded, waiting for quiet to return. The tumult continued, the gavel booming repeatedly until it finally wore down the opposition. Vingi spoke as soon as he felt he could be heard.
    “A final warning, Representative Potok. Sit down and yield the floor, or I’ll be compelled to call for the sergeant-at-arms to remove you from the hall. I don’t make that threat lightly, sirrah.”
    Potok took a prolonged sip from the glass of water on his desk, feeling the cool liquid soothe his ragged throat. He swallowed, taking his time and trying to gauge the growing ire of the Li-Gallant. Finally, he placed the glass carefully on his desk and shuffled his papers into order, holding them in one hand and raising them to the multi-colored windows above. “I cannot in conscience yield, Li-Gallant. There is importance in what I’m saying, and if the Assembly won’t hear me willingly, then let it suffer.”
    He brought the papers down before him, cleared his throat, and began reading from the first sheet as once more the riotous clangor of protest rose. Potok continued reading, seemingly undisturbed, though his voice was no longer audible. Papers were scattered from a desk to the rear of the hall as two representatives argued furiously. Vingi didn’t bother to use the gavel, but gestured to the guards behind him. They moved through the aisles toward Potok; he, seeing their approach, continued reading as the uproar raged about him. The guards reached him, and Potok threw the papers into the air in dramatic disgust as they forced him away from his desk, finally pinning his arms to his side and carrying him when he refused to walk before them. The papers fell, autumnal. They were trampled onto the hall floor underfoot as the guards bore Potok to the doors leading from the hall. The noise rose decibels louder, and the gavel rose and fell unheeded. The great doors of the hall opened and swallowed the trio of guards and Potok. Birds flew in uneasy circles outside the dome.
    •   •   •
    In her office in the Diplo Center, m’Dame d’Embry watched a holotank set temporarily in the center of her room. There, in miniature, the Assembly Hall teemed with furiously gesticulating figures and a dull, inarticulate roar filled the speakers under the ‘tank. Stretching forth an orange-tinted arm to the controls on her desk, the Alliance Regent turned down the volume with a sharp movement of her wrist. She shook her head, lips pursed, and then turned to her own work.
    A procession of the Dead walked outward from the Sterka Gates, into the roadway that hugged the hill ridges of the plain beyond. The fumes of their incense were smeared behind them by the easterly wind and their chanting—a dull and sibilant mantra—lulled the Neweden breeze into submission and put the sunstar to sleep. In darkness, they made their aimless, sorrowful way through the countryside; unseeing, uncaring.
    A man in ragged clothing toppled in their midst,