by Andre Norton
Luckily there was a vacant cubicle only a short distance from the outer door and Zurzal pointed to that.
“Certainly not the most luxurious quarters,” he commented. “However, I think the best we can count on for now.”
Jofre unlatched the Jat from his hold and handed the small struggling body to Taynad before he made his safety survey of this darkish hole. There was light, certainly far from the brilliancy of any room on Wayright or even the lamplit quarters of the Lair. These wan beams filtered out of bunches of what looked like the herbage of the plains but of a much darker shade, stuck haphazardly along the upper edges of the partitions and the wall behind.
The floor appeared to be an uneven surface of rock as if surface soil and growth had been rolled back to clear the space. It was certainly solid enough to ring under the tread of his space boots and he thought it could conceal no unpleasant surprises. While the walls appeared so thin, he was sure that a determined assault could bring any one of the three down, but it would seem they had no choice.
“That priest,” Taynad had soothed the panting Jat and shrugged off her pack, “he is one to be watched.” She knew she stated the obvious and she was sure in her own mind that the Zacathan was well aware of it.
“That priest,” Zurzal countered, “may be our key to what we wish.” He divested himself of his own burdens but he placed the scanner carefully between his feet as he stood, one hand on hip, looking about him. “That one wants power—knowledge is power—it is sometimes simple.”
“It sounds simple,” Jofre returned, “but the working out is perhaps far more difficult.”
At least Gosal saw to the delivery of the rest of their equipment, sending it in on an antigrav which belonged to the ship and which he certainly had not offered to them. Jofre, remembering well-bitten legs, added another mark to his score against the Free Trader.
They saw the inhabitants of the port only in passing. No one came to the warehouse to which they had been so summarily dismissed nor was there any sign of either the commander or the priest. It would appear that their arrival was now a matter for total denial. Though Jofre had sighted at least one of the armed robed ones passing along the stretch of ground outside the warehouse door at rather regular intervals, as if he walked a beat.
Zurzal seemed content to wait. Patience was inborn in his long-lived race, but it was a virtue which the two from Asborgan had learned the hard way to cultivate. Since there was no sign of an eating place, they reluctantly broke open some of their own supplies and ate a very frugal portion as the day swept on toward evening.
More and more of those giants who supplied transportation were returning to the place where off-worlders had seen their fellows relaxing earlier. Some of them were burden carriers and others had their smaller swings occupied with the maned aliens or, once in a while, a robed one.
With the coming of evening and the setting of the sun there was a change in the temperature. The heat which had grown almost to a stifling degree began to dissipate and there arose a wind sweeping in from the north which had a decidedly cold edge. Jofre had taken position on guard at the door of the warehouse itself. There had been no intruders during the afternoon to get at any of what was stored there and they seemed to have it for themselves.
“One—come—” He did not really need the warning of the Jat. It would seem his own battle-honed sense was keen enough here to pick up that feeling that there was a stranger headed for their quarters. Certainly there was no lighting of the “streets” in the dusk but there did seem to be a haze of dim radiance bobbing along towards the doorway at a pace a person might walk.
Jofre did not step into direct sight himself and now he was aware that Taynad was moving in at an angle behind him as might any Brother when the alert was given. One of his hands was on the hilt of a throwing knife. They had set out from Wayright with stunners, only to have theirs put under seal by the captain as contraband on Lochan. Only Zurzal, because of his maiming, had not been deprived of his weapon. Here one was back to the bladed weapons Jofre knew best.
The pinch of light brought a glisten from a round face. If not the priest from the landing site, then another of his kind. And there came through the dark not only an odor which suggested a long-unbathed body but, in addition, a thin whistle.
“Let him in.” Zurzal moved out, ready to bid their visitor welcome. Jofre obeyed but fell in on the heels of the Lochanian. He knew without being told that Taynad and the Jat shared sentry duty now and that his place as guard was with the Zacathan.
The light of their cubicle was strong enough to show that this was indeed the one Zurzal had spoken to. In one pudgy hand the fellow held a loose ball of stuff from which spun the thread of feeble light. His bulbous eyes glistened in that glow, as subdued as it was.
Zurzal was ready with the translator. “Greeting, Worshipful One, you have been awaited—the hour grows late.” There was a kind of snap in the Zacathan’s voice; whether such a nuance was translated into the squealing by the disc Jofre could not guess. But he was very sure that Zurzal was prepared to take a firm stand with this visitor.
Those wide lips puffed forth a breath which was foul. And then squeaked in answer:
“The Axe of Rou comes or goes not at the will of off-worlders. There is little patience—what would you do here, stranger?”
“I seek, as I have said, knowledge. Your world is old—it has seen many changes—is that not so?”
“Rou works as it is willed. The earth and all which forms it is for HIM as the mud of the under leaf is to the maker of pots, as the knuckle of iron to him who fashions a blade. But what do you know of these changes you speak of? You are not one with Rou.”
“Rou exists in many forms also,” Zurzal answered. “Can it not be that it is by His will we stand here this night? Axe of Rou, would it not be to such a close-held follower as you that revelations would be made? Or is it that the Axe merely speaks for another who is closer to the ear of Rou?”
“I have the ear of Rou.” The squealing arose to a high pitch. “Say it to me, off-worlder, and I shall judge whether this be business of Rou’s Own or not.”
“Very well.” The Zacathan stooped and laid a hand lightly on the scanner case. “This I carry, Axe of Rou, is born of long study and the use of very ancient records. It has the power to bring to light matters lost in the long seasons forgotten by men whose memories cannot hold so much. There is a place in the Shattered Land which bears a certain mark. That was discovered by some knowledge seekers before me. But they did not possess such an aid as this one and they were driven away before they could obtain much which they were sure could be learned. Therefore I have come to carry on this work and see into the ages behind—”
“Only Rou can look behind more than one lifetime!”
“So can I not, without this. But it is the learning which Rou allows men that has brought this into being and the glory will be HIS when the great find is made.”
The priest wiped the palm of his light-free hand across his triple chin. He was like all of his kind, Jofre believed, seeking what could lie in such a matter which would further his own gain.
“What would you need to do Rou’s Will in this matter?” The demand was abrupt. Their needs would also present a bargaining point.
“We need a guide to the Shattered Land, and transportation for ourselves and our gear.” Zurzal was as quick to deliver his needs.
“The Shattered Land—it is a place of the Long Dead, of the damned Ones who followed Vunt. You will find no true follower of Rou to enter there. But—” The squeaking voice paused for a moment. Jofre tensed, sensing that what was coming now was of the first importance as far as the priest was concerned.
“There once was land where Rou had His place. And—yes, there are very old stories that there was powerful knowledge to be found there—left behind when the Will of Rou twisted that part of the world with fire and the shaking of the earth. But why should we allow such knowledge to fall into the hands of off-wor
lders? By what right do you claim the knowledge which was once that of Rou’s children?”
“None,” the Zacathan returned promptly. “I freely surrender all claims to what may be found if those of Rou will it so.”
“Then,” came back the priest with a rush, “what do you gain, off-worlder, if you surrender any knowledge treasure which may be found? Why do you, and these with you, willingly go into the Dead Land if you gain no benefit from your labors?”
“I will make with this,” again the Zacathan indicated the scanner, “a record, one which you will be free to see. It is my wish to prove that I can set aside the mists of the past. With such proof I can visit other worlds and on each I can add to the store of ancient knowledge. To my people, Axe, such is the primary work of our lives. We find in any discoveries value, whether it is something which can be seen and handled, or whether it abides only in the minds thereafter.”
“There must be a considering of this,” the Axe replied. “You will be told what the answer will be.” So abruptly he turned and waddled away.
“He has a reason,” Jofre ventured. The issha might not be able to read minds but they were aware when alerted to certain emanations of emotion. He was certain that the Axe was indeed taking time out to think and that, behind his assent, if assent it would be, there would also be a scheme set in motion.
“There is one on guard,” Taynad said in a low tone from the door to which they had followed, more slowly, their late visitor.
“We could not expect less,” Zurzal asserted. “But I think we need fear no more attention until our friend is ready to move.”
CHAPTER 26
IT WAS ONLY PARTLY IMPATIENCE which rode Jofre. He held Zurzal’s knowledge to be far above even that of the Shagga priests—and put to better use. However, he also knew that the Zacathan was so fiercely determined to prove the efficiency of the scanner that he might be led to overlook any hidden threats. Its use on Tssek had confirmed for Zurzal that he could do this, but to be able to deliver a find from Lochan would reestablish his credit among his own peers. And that was a situation which Jofre could understand very well, even though he himself could have no hope of a triumphant return to Asborgan and an addition of issha status made by the Shagga.
The sheer mechanics of a crossing of the long tundralike plain to the northern country was always to the fore of his mind. That they could tramp it carrying all their supplies was out of the question. From the scanty tape information they had studied so carefully they knew that the Shattered Land would be a far greater obstacle even than the insect-infested tundra.
“We can make no deal with Gosal?” he asked, though he was sure of the answer. “Even if he would give us use of the one gravity sled—”
“Those carriers,” Taynad added as if she had been following some line of reasoning of her own, “are they natives or beasts, servants, slaves—? The Jat has tried to reach them by mind touch—there is nothing there.”
“They serve both the maned people and those they call Deves,” Jofre commented. “But even with such aid could we reach our goal while our supplies still hold out?”
Zurzal’s toothed jaws showed in a grin. “We shall have another visitor,” he stated. “One who will come by dark.”
And Jofre, who had quickly retaken his place as sentry, was startled as there was a warning from the other end of the warehouse, that where there seemed to be only solid wall. He saw movement and knew that Taynad was on alert, slipping from their cubicle to the door of the next, the Jat close beside her.
“It is all right,” Zurzal said, his hissing voice carrying easily. “Bright evening to you, Commander!”
That port official who had been so obstructive at their landing passed close enough to one of the moss torches to show his face, pausing in the light a second or two as if to make sure they recognized him, before he slipped into their quarters and settled himself cross-legged facing the Zacathan.
“You are a fool, Learned One,” his voice had the rasp of exasperation in it. “There is no way under the Heavens of Lochan that you can succeed in this.”
“Men have succeeded on thinner chances than the one I have been offered, Wok Bi. And you have your orders.”
“Orders!” The man flung up his hands in a gesture which suggested that this was indeed folly. “You head willfully into country where one expedition came to a very bloody end. There are what—four of you—one a woman—another a Jat—you would need a squad of Patrol to even venture over the border there. It is madness and you are forcing me to be a part of it.”
“Your orders are plain,” Zurzal returned placidly. “Yes, we are a small party, but that means we have less to transport. It is the transport that we must now consider.”
“No Pungal owner will lease out to you and I cannot make them.” There was a small note of satisfaction in that. “And on your own feet there is no possible way to reach your goal before Change-season.”
“There are the Gar,” Zurzal said.
“Gar!” The way Wok Bi said that name made it sound as if the Zacathan had hissed it.
Gar—Jofre remembered. There had been a brief note concerning them on one of the tapes. They were the nomads of the inner lands and the off-worlders would have to transverse those in order to reach their own goal.
“Yes. Captain Gosal has a mixed cargo. There were Gar dealers to meet us at set down. And those have caravan trails inland. With fresh goods some one of them will be moving out.”
“The priests will not hear of it!” Wok Bi fell back on a second objection.
“I think that there will be a change of thought there, too. Now—the Gar caravans must have been transport other than these Pungal—”
Wok Bi shook his head. “No, not this side of the Var, but they do have carriers which are steady movers. It is said that sometimes they keep the trail for a full day and a night at a time since their drivers have learned to sleep a-swing. On the other side of the Var—there you would have to take your chance with what the Wild Ones use—they have mounts of a sort—I have seen a couple of specimens of them—running four-legged, with a sweep of horn—and nasty tempered I am told. Also that you might be able to make any deals for a guide or beasts of burden beyond the Var—that is very problematical.”
“Commander, you have done your duty in stating frankly all the perils we must face. I shall, of course, give you a tape absolving you of blame which might come from some catastrophe. But go on, we shall.”
Again the man threw up his hands. “On your head be it. There is also this—within the Shattered Land none of our coms work. If you are caught in some trouble, you cannot call for any aid—not that we would have any to send you.”
“That is also understood,” agreed the Zacathan.
“Be it on your own heads then.” The commander got up. “I do not expect to see you again. If there is any hope of fortune, may it be yours. But I doubt such exists.”
They settled then for the night, Jofre taking the first watch once again, well advised that the warehouse door was under surveillance from the outside. He thought of Zurzal’s stubbornness. To an oathed the wishes of his patron were law. He might advise if called upon, but the central core of any operation remained the choice of the one to whom he had pledged himself. After all, men of the Lair had served very threatened causes before, and the triumph of some of them over great odds was the material for the Legend singers. No man could see the future and it was best to live but one day, one night at a time. His fingers sought within his girdle for that small pocket he had fashioned and drew out the stone. There was no heart fire in it, but it was warm and that warmth reached within him, far—banishing the ghosts of foreseeing. He held it so until Taynad moved up to take his place as sentry, closing his hand quickly when he heard those faint stirs in the dark which marked her coming. This was his secret only and he would hold it so.
However, Taynad had thoughts of her own. She had taken the measure of this Zacathan and she believed that if anyone could succeed
in what sounded like a fever-born dream quest, it was he. There was something else. She found the twigs of her braids and once more fingering read their message. If not capture—kill! But to take the life of a Brother was to break-oath. And not to follow orders was an even greater break-oath. The Shagga wanted Jofre—they would find the means of contacting her even here—since they had joined forces with the Guild. The latter was as legendary as the issha-trained in achieving what its members were set to do.
Why did they want him? And why, if they could not take him bodily, did they demand blood? By his own tale, which instinct told her was the full truth, he had done nothing to provoke all custom and honor. She must watch, wait, and see what time itself would bring in answer. Kill—her fingernail bit into that last ominous notch. Though perhaps—with Shagga wrath so raised against him, he might welcome death rather than to fall into the hands of the priests.
Priests—it would seem that there were always priests to deal with. Her mouth twisted disdainfully as she thought of the Axe of Rou. But he, she believed, from what she had sensed of him was a relatively simple man—wily in a way, of course, but no match even for the Zacathan. He might well be brought to support them up to a point and right now they could use support.
She stretched. By the Flowers of Moon Valley, how she longed for a dip in one of the Three Pools with the comfort of an oil rub thereafter. Before this journeying was done with the Jewelbright might well be the Jeweldimmed and worth no second look from any man.
The Axe of Rou duly returned, at the first dim light of day, somewhat to the surprise of Jofre and Taynad though it would seem that Zurzal had been expecting him.
“You have taken council?” he greeted the priest.
“What do you offer?” countered the Axe.
“Let one of your own, one whom you trust, go with us—let him bring guards also if you will. What we find—the solid portion will be yours—we shall keep only the record of its finding.”