by Andre Norton
CHAPTER 10
JOFRE WAS NOT GIVEN LONG to mine for memories. There was a thrust of brighter light into his prison and he made himself go limp. Better to discover the nature and number of any opposition before he put his own drained powers to the test. His almost closed eyes once more limited his field of vision but he knew that at least two had come to stand beside him and there was a guttural exchange over his body.
Hands pawed for a hold in his armpits and his feet were gathered up by another. The two of them edged out of the store cabin with his body and made their way down a much better lighted corridor. He was able to peer surreptitiously at the one transporting his legs—a man nearly as bulky as Harse and wearing the same uniform. They came to the foot of a ladder and he was dropped unceremoniously to the floor. A rope fell over his head, the loop of it crammed under his arms, tightened about him. He heard the click of boot plates on the flooring, saw that one of the men was ascending the ladder while the other dragged and pulled at him, getting his body into place at the foot of that climb.
He was to be hoisted up like some inanimate object but better still to let them believe that he was still unconscious. Were he indeed aboard a ship, as he was almost certain now was the case, there would be little chance of escape anyway. Best to let them believe that they had a really helpless prey within their hold.
The sharp jerking of the rope taking his weight from above aggravated the aches which had now grown beyond his power to count. That captor coming behind steadied his body now and then but certainly not for Jofre’s comfort, rather for the aid of the one hauling him up.
They passed two levels, coming to a halt on the third. Once more he was dropped flat and this time they worked the rope off him. Then he was carried again, down a short corridor, until they entered a cabin of some size opening off that. Jofre plunked to the floor, only under him now there was a padding of some type of carpet and the air was not so stale, rather carried an almost fresh scent.
“As you see, Learned One, your fears are quite unnecessary—we did not leave a dead bodyguard behind us.” The voice was familiar; Jofre fought to match it to a face.
“It would hardly have served your purpose to do so—” the hissing note in that voice he did recognize was exaggerated. “You will release him at once!”
“Learned One, we are ordered to give you all possible assistance—as long as you, in return, agree to consider yourself our guest—As a guest you certainly will not need a bodyguard—the Holder’s hand would fall sharply on anyone daring to do you harm.”
“You will release him,” the Zacathan repeated. “You have given me no proof that your Holder has any peaceful thoughts toward me either. You have stripped my oathed of his weapons, he is harmless. Look at these bullies of yours, each overtops him by a head—could make two of him. Do you fear a man who has been held in stass until you have leached the strength out of him?”
“You are a man of peace, Learned One. It is well-known that your kind do not offer any threat to sentient beings. Why do you care what happens to this?” The toe of a well-polished boot swung into Jofre’s very limited view, prodded him.
“He is the opposite of all you believe in, one who lives to kill, is that not so?”
There was a moment of silence. Then Zurzal answered, “This man is sworn to me, after the way of his own people; his trust lies in me, mine in him. You would have something of me. Very well: bargain, Horde Commander—or have you never heard of that?”
“Hmmm—” It was not a word, merely murmur of sound. Then there came a cackle of laughter, harsh, having nothing of humor in it. “So, at last we have touched you, Learned One. Good. You can have this one—as long as you conduct yourself as our . . . guest.”
Jofre’s body jerked. No one had touched him but that near rib-crushing weight which he had battled all these hours until it seemed as much a part of him as his body suddenly lifted.
“We leave you to yourselves then, Learned One—” There was the clang of boots, then the sound of a metal door slamming into place.
Jofre rolled on his side. He was dragging deep breaths. Getting one arm under him, he managed to raise himself to a half-sitting position. Zurzal stood by the bulkhead where the door showed its outline. By the Zacathan’s position he was listening intently. Jofre rolled a little on his knee until his shoulder struck against a well-padded seat secured firmly to the floor. Gritting his teeth and calling on his reserves, he somehow got to his feet and stood, supported by that.
Now, when his own struggle was somewhat eased, the full force of what had happened struck home at him, almost hard enough to set him reeling again. He had failed in his task of preventing the very thing which had happened to them, betrayed the issha. There was only one answer to that, but one which he dared not make, not yet while the Zacathan lived and he was oathed.
Zurzal turned back from the door. His neck frill was extended and he raised a hand to smooth it down. In two strides he reached Jofre, swung the younger man around and pushed him down into the chair which had been his support.
“No warrior is the less if he comes up against the surprise of superior weapons.” The Zacathan struck directly to the heart of the shamed confusion in which his cabinmate writhed. “They used a paralyzing stass ray; by the look you took it full force. Nothing save titanium armor can withstand that and neither of us were so equipped.”
“I am your oathed—” Jofre muttered, unable to accept any such excuse. “I should have kept closer watch—”
“You are my oathed,” Zurzal struck back sharply, “and as such you are on duty. And so shall it be until I release you. It is a marvel that you are still alive.” He eyed Jofre up and down as if expecting to sight something unusual. “They could not leave your dead body—they brought you along—to space the evidence. But on my demand they had to produce you.”
The Zacathan had come to stand directly before Jofre and now the long taloned fingers of the lizard man moved slightly. Jofre tensed and then, with all his will, relaxed. He did not know where Zurzal had learned the finger speech of the Brothers and indeed his messages had been somewhat clumsily delivered, but they were forceful enough. The two of them were under surveillance, perhaps, Jofre thought, by both eye and ear.
“We have something of a voyage before us,” Zurzal continued speaking, though his fingers twitched in a different pattern. “They are transporting us directly to Tssek. It is the Holder’s desire to use the scanner to produce a viewing on the fiftieth anniversary of that event, the passing of the leadership long held by the Illustrious Fer s’Rang to himself. I am to employ my time en route to making sure that the results will be just as he wishes.”
Watch, wait, listen, look, those fingers spelled out, the orders given to any spy about to be planted in an enemy lord’s holding.
“I am at command, Learned One,” Jofre found his voice which sounded unusually harsh in his own ears. “What aid I can offer is yours.”
“Well enough. Now,” Zurzal went to the wall and pushed some buttons, “we shall see you fed. The stass leaves a man weak. Then—well, I have notes to be studied and perhaps a few experiments to run. Some will not require training and your aid will be of assistance.”
A tray had come in answer to the Zacathan’s order and he carried it, burdened with sealed containers, over to place on Jofre’s lap.
“Eat—ship’s rations, of course, but they are palatable and nourishing.”
There was a drift of mist-thin weaving lying across the backed seat in the woman’s cabin. She plucked up a fold of it between thumb and forefinger to eye critically. This was of fabulous worth, twice-woven spider silk—the cost more than even a Lair Master could raise. The color was strange—or perhaps one might say unfixed, for, though the basic shade might be a very pale green, as the folds rippled there were rainbow flashes along each edge, patches which glowed and faded with every move of the length.
Her own personal taste was for richer, deeper colors, but training, severe and critica
l, had taught her to suit her robing to the demands of her mission. Such stuff as this was truly the gift of a world ruler and when the time came she must show it off to the very best advantage, both of the gift and of she who had the wearing of it.
No jewels—except the moryen fire stones for a simple girdle to refrain the fluttering stuff so that it might outline her body, bracelets of the same to make certain the eye was led to the delicacy of her wrists, the slender beauty of her hands. She would not use the cheek lacquer overlay; rather a moryen fastened between the near-meeting arch of her brows—she considered her choices and made up her mind. Then, deftly, she refolded the robe, which seemed to cling to her hands as if it did not want to be laid aside, before seating herself and lifting her eyes to the expanse of the wall.
The metal casing of the ship’s cabin was not starkly plain here, rather there was a heavy scroll of pattern which was gem-brilliant in places. Her lip curled a little. Much as she inwardly rejoiced in color she found this display too ornate, lacking in taste. But it was not the patterning which she was viewing, rather she searched for a point which days earlier she had discovered, a water stone, into the blue-green depths of which she could channel her thoughts to outreach—
There was no true reading of the minds about her. To her knowledge barriers had never been pierced to that extent. Body language she was well versed in and she could pick up emotions, especially when they reached a certain intensity. However, that ability had served her well and she applied herself to it whenever she could be sure of privacy and quiet.
They were very satisfied with themselves, these Tssekians. So long had they held power that they had forgotten the useful curb of a little self-doubt. Certainly they were very apt to underestimate what they did not fully understand—a fault which might be safely used if the necessity arose. This one who named himself Horde Commander—her dealings had been with him and he was as clear to her as a cup of springwater from the Neeserdene heights.
There was the ghost of a smile about her lips as she considered the matter of Sopt s’Qu. Any issha-trained woman could have controlled him in three meetings, maybe less. She knew him for what he was, but she was after much bigger game.
There—that was this Sopt s’Qu; she caught a touch of his vast conceit, which was like a whiff of smoke in the air. Yes, he was very pleased with himself, swollen with success—too swollen. She considered that quickly. He was pleased with more than just her presence—the thought that he had in her a new toy for his master—he had achieved something else.
Her fingers moved. What else had he on board, or knew, or would receive in the future, to move him to such a fatuous belief in his own rise in the world?
She could not leave this cabin. It had been made plain to her that her presence on board this ship was not to be generally known. And she had accepted that, knowing that privacy would give her time to build her inner strengths for what would come. But now she wanted some touch with the ship world, to learn what was happening outside the walls of her own luxuriously furnished cabin. To perform, any issha must have all the information possible.
The only contact through which she might learn was Sopt s’Qu. So be it. She concentrated her gaze on that spot of sea-bright green on the wall and unwound her will to spin it as an intangible noose to summon the Horde Commander.
And the faint chime of the cabin bell came soon enough. She spoke only one word to loosen the inner locking:
“Enter.”
Then as the Horde Commander strutted within, his bright eyes sweeping her up and down, she made a graceful obeisance, her own eyes lowered submissively, her attitude one of gentle waiting on his will.
“You have all you wish, Gentlefem?” Almost he spoke a little uncertainly as if he were not sure why he had come.
“You have given me of the best, Horde Commander.” She made a small gesture to encompass the cabin and all that was in it. “I have specially to thank you for the tapes.” One slender finger pointed to a small pile of discs. “It was most thoughtful to provide me with such information concerning your world—and your Illustrious Leader.”
“What do you think of Tssek then, Gentlefem?”
“That it has very much to offer in every way,” she returned promptly. “I think fortune smiled on the day we met, Horde Commander. You have shown me a very bright future.”
Without being asked he settled himself in the second chair near that part of the wall which held the stone she held in focus. In her there was a prick of anger. He was making very plain what he thought of her. And she must make no move to destroy his summation of her character—the varl toad!
“So you like what you have seen on these.” He indicated the discs. “Ah, Gentlefem, how much more will you like it in reality! And the Holder will indeed make you free of a very pleasant world. He can be very generous—when he is pleased.”
She allowed herself a slight lift of eyebrows. “And you think that he will be pleased?”
“By you? He would have to be man without a man’s body not to admire you, Gentlefem. Also we bring him not only your peerless self, but also the lock he can place on his future.”
“You speak in riddles.” She must be very wary, but also she must learn what she could.
“Riddles of time, Gentlefem. We have on board one who has mastered time—in his own way. And he shall master it for the Holder. You have doubtless heard of the Zacathan race?”
She triggered memory. Her briefing on Asborgan had not been too wide; there had not been time for as much as she would have wished.
“They are a race who study the past.” Out of some corner she brought that.
“The past dealing with the Forerunners and on many worlds,” the Horde Commander amplified. “Now and then through their delving comes some great discovery, for they are ingenious at following clues to ancient mysteries. We have one of their trained Histechneers on board, who is to do just that for the Holder.”
Sopt s’Qu looked very pleased with himself. “He will be greatly beholden to our Leader, who is giving him something his own people have refused to allow him: a chance to penetrate the mystery of time itself. This will be a discovery which shall make Tssek famous.”
“And how does this Zacathan master time?” She was genuinely interested. All space goers knew of the Forerunners. And now and then rumors of finds from that ancient past filtered along the star lanes.
The Horde Commander grinned thinly, his lips seeming to find it difficult to shape such a move. “He claims he has a way. Our Leader is inclined to believe him—and the chance to put it all to the test lies now on Tssek. Our Holder approaches the fiftieth year of his taking power. He wishes to show to all the planet the event which transferred the rule from Fer s’Rang to him.”
She allowed her eyes to widen in a calculated expression of wonder. “What a happening! How pleased this Zacathan must be to be a part of such action.”
Sopt s’Qu lost his smile. “He is very modest, this Learned One. He objects that his preparations have not been successfully tried. But of course those who have knowledge which leads to power have no desire to share their secret. Once he has talked with the Holder and understands the advantages of the chance offered him, he will be quite ready.”
But, she fastened on the thought, the Zacathan was not a contented party to this experiment, whatever it might be. She knew so little of his people. How effective could opposition from him be and what might such opposition do to impinge on her own mission? She wished she had at her command learn tapes—not like those which the Horde Commander had showered upon her, showing all the best of his Tssek, but those same which would give her an insight into what might prove to be a complication.
Then, there was that other—that touch she had made earlier. Surely somewhere on board was an issha-trained mind. And, since she alone had been assigned to this mission, she feared interference from that mysterious other. Who was the prey of the stranger? Why sent and by whom, that other lurker in Shadows? She dare not ask
; though, as she eyed Sopt s’Qu, she longed to be able to enter his round skull and tunnel it, seek that information which meant so much to her.
The Zacathan was a player she had not been prepared for. Was the lurker she had sensed connected with him, sent to spy on this strange time reader? Or a stranger from another Lair hired to perhaps a similar mission as her own? She felt anger again. She was issha, fully able to account for victory by herself alone.
But who and where was that other?
CHAPTER 11
JOFRE HAD KEPT SILENT after he had cleaned up to the last crumb all the food in the container Zurzal had shown him how to unseal. The Zacathan had produced a small black box which he tapped on one side and then stared intently at some curling lines of different colors which writhed, tangled and wove across the slick upper surface of that artifact.
In spite of what the Zacathan had said Jofre bitterly chewed upon his own failure. It was plain that much of what he had learned in the Lair would not apply to weapons which could be used from some distance with devastating force. Therefore, he must set himself to assess what he had that he could use. Would these off-worlders also be impervious to such dealings as the Shadow use of practiced invisibility? Might they be made, as any lowlander, to look at him and not see—see in the sense which would alert their thoughts? Would they even have a readable body language? He could not be sure until he tried. At the same time any experimentation on his part must be very carefully done.
Zurzal clicked off his small screen of patterns and Jofre, out of his desperate need to learn the worst, broke the silence.
“Learned One, you have traveled the star lanes very far, have you not?”