He opened the cage and a farflyer pecked at his finger once and then came forth as the priest shrilled a summons. Again the priest and winged thing met in silent communication and then, with a practiced twist of the wrist, the man sent it up and out to complete its mission.
THE MAN CROSSED THE ROOM WITH A CURIOUSLY effortless ease, a gait akin, as an imaginative viewer might think, to the progress of a fish through water. His tunic and breeches were of a lusterless, sober brown, though discreet front latches showed the glint of red gold, and the buckle of his purse belt was set with small gems which would betray their perfection only to a knowledgeable eye.
He was known in several sections of both the old city and that quick growth which fringed the spaceport as one Ras Zarn, a merchant from the far north, of middle rank, a good bargainer, one who paid all obligations promptly and fully. In two other places he had another identity and one of those places was this narrow windowless closet of a room, the only light in which came from utilitarian wrought iron lanterns supported on brackets on either sidewall.
The furnishings were meager, a single seat cushion and the knee-high table before it, which was bare, but the surface of which was thickly marked with scratches and small pits as if someone had driven a knife point into it many times over.
His arm was held out from his body as he came and on the fore of it was perched a farflyer, huddled a little together as it clung so, as if it were indeed close to the end of its wing strength. As Zarn seated himself on the cushion he held out his arm and the creature gave a hop which placed it on the desktop, as it did so adding a new series of claw scratches to those of innumerable times before.
It seemed disposed to make no other move until the man's hands went out, clasped firmly about the feathered body, turning it about so that it faced him. Then the fingers of one hand swept up, jerking high the head, elevating that so that he could stare into its unblinking eyes. Time passed.
Once, twice, Zarn nodded as if he were assenting to some speech totally inaudible in that cramped chamber. Then he relaxed a fraction and out of his purse pouch he brought a pellet of dull green. He gave it a sharp squeeze between thumb and forefinger and then discarded it before the messenger, whose released head made a quick peck at the delicacy.
Once that was done and the reward received, Zarn sat very still, looking at the opposite wall as if he were searching there for some map or message which was of importance. At length he nodded for the third time and there was a small quirk of the lips, a flash which was gone hardly before it could be sighted. Once more he offered his wrist and the bird hopped to that perch. Then he went to the far wall, pressed the fingers of his left hand in a complicated pattern and a door slid back to allow him into the very prosaic counting house which he had leased for use during his exile here.
Warning had been given; he would set into motion the proper answer within the hour and he expected no ill results from his decided-upon plan. His weapon he had already selected and it would carry out his will as well as if it were his own hand wielding the silent steel or the choke of scarf-rope.
The storm which had imprisoned Jofre for two days in the ruins blew away during the second night and sun for the first time broke through those curtaining clouds. He was on the move at once. At this time of year such a respite must be made use of as quickly as possible. And some of the wind had moved drifts well enough for him to find the pass road.
He climbed steadily. It was not a road which would have suited a caravan of traders or any lowlander but to one from the Lairs it was as plain as that lower highway. Luck favored him in that there had been no slides here and the way was open, though he used the staff to sound the path ahead through any drift which did show.
The wind hit as he entered the pass and he clung to one wall of the cliff which formed it, moving crabwise at times lest some particularly forceful blast bowl him down. His inner strength was pushed near to the limit but the knowledge that once through this slit he would be on the downgrade again kept him moving.
Jofre was out of the cut and well down slope, to the first fringe of the evergreen trees which cloaked only the south side of the mountain range, before he paused long enough to eat. By sun height it was not too far from night and he must shelter out again in what protection he could find in the land. Also he was coming into occupied territory where he must make every effort to pass unseen. There were outlaws in the mountains, though most of them denned up in more accessible country, but there were also foresters and trappers in the greenlands he was entering.
Though he did not now wear the full uniform of his kind, his late kind, still he was recognizable to any really suspicious eye. The traveler's clothing he had taken on sufferance at the Lair was a mixture which few would wear. He had the girdle knife, and the haft of the broken pole-hook, and he had all the powers of weaponless training which had been drilled into him since childhood, but such were no answer to a lance beam such as the lowlanders had been introduced to since the off-worlders had arrived.
The Master had had studies of such weapons, gathered from accounts and snatches of information brought back by Brothers who had served in the lowlands and returned once their service was done. But to obtain and master one of those weapons was something he had not yet achieved. The off-worlders were supposed to be forbidden to introduce such to a world where this craft mastery did not already exist. There grew up, therefore, a brisk smuggling trade. Only the lowland lords were as eager as the newcomers to keep such from the Brothers. Their long service as assassins and secret fighters had given them the label of being deadly with any weapon known to Asborgan. No one it would seem, save the Brothers themselves, wanted any new edge added to the murderous skill they already possessed. So though several of the Masters offered vast rewards for any strange weapon which could be delivered, so far none had come to them—instead only testimony concerning their deadliness and power.
Not only need he be on guard against foresters sweeping here for outlaw dens, but any lowlander would be his enemy on sight. Too many times had the Brothers on oathing been used by warring lords to put down rebellions or reduce some threat from the commoners. No, his safety lay in remaining invisible.
That night Jofre sheltered in a thicket of tree-tall brush at the lip of an ice-rimmed stream. He did not light a fire this side of the mountains and he allowed himself a very small fraction of his remaining supplies. Possessing no journey coins, eating and shelter in the lowlands would depend upon his wits and skill at thievery. Yet he was sure from what he had heard that there were those in the port city, could he reach there, who would be only too glad to add him to their following. The Brothers had no need to cry out their fame; history on Asborgan did it for them.
He had no coins, but he had something else. Not for the first time that day his hand touched his girdle and that lump within its folds. What he carried he did not know; but that it was valuable, he did not doubt at all. And he had heard Trader Dis, who had visited just before the end of the Lair, tell of the high prices one could get from off-worlders for any strange things from the old days. Jofre would not dare offer what he carried to any lord, it was too bound to the Brothers, but an off-worlder would not hold any such scruples. Yes, he would find a buyer; he would make sure of that. Having placed his sentinel stones, he set his mental controls to awake him at any change and at last slept. It was only a light sleep but enough to restore most of the energy he had spent this day.
It took Jofre a ten of days to reach his goal. He used every trick of a scout in enemy territory to feed himself. Clothing had been changed at a farmhouse where the family appeared to have withdrawn for a day to the nearest village and he was able to select for his needs. So he left there cloaked and tunicked over his field suit, taking his other clothing with him in a bundle which resembled the jumble of belongings any tramping the roads might carry. It was difficult to shed the turban and half mask of his calling. He felt strangely unprotected with his whole face bared. And catching sight of himself in
a wayside pool it seemed he looked upon a stranger.
He had the height of his off-world race, whatever that might be, which had always set him aside from those of the native born. But his hair was as dark as theirs. Only his eyes, the color of a well-burnished blade, were again different from the uniformity of brown known to men of Asborgan. In this rough clothing he might well pass for an off-worlder—except that his knowledge of the star lanes was extremely sketchy and he could well make a betraying error every time he opened his mouth. Regretfully, on the last day before he reached the port, he broke into bits the remains of the pole. That was too patently a Lair weapon and no lowlander would have ever picked it up. He must venture now onto the open road but before he did so he found a thicket and burrowed his way in. Once more he sought the Inner Life and drew upon it. His hands shaped the gestures—rising thought, keen eye, listening ear, ready hand, fleet foot. He drew deeper and deeper breaths as if he were pulling visible strength into his lungs now with each gasp of the chill air.
His eyes no longer saw the world about him as it was but rather as symbols etched in the air, each having its meaning and worth. That which grew was rooted, as strength must be rooted within him, the wind which blew, the declining sun, draw in their spirit, their force—
Now Jofre bared his dagger. This would be no oathing ceremony, for oathing had been closed to him—except the oathing to himself, his inner need. He had shed his glove and with the point of the weapon he touched the tip of each finger in turn with strength enough to raise a bead of blood.
A stiff shake of his wrist sent those flying. Then he put his hand to his mouth and licked each tiny wound, willing them closed. He had shed ritual blood and was now prepared for what would lie ahead, even though he had no mission except the search for such.
Ras Zarn excused himself with polished manners to the off-worlder. He knew exactly who this stranger was, that a linkage ran back and tangled through this man to others spaceflights away. Though he knew also that this Rober Granger had no idea that he knew.
"Your pardon, Gentlehomo." Zarn bowed again. "At this strike of the hour I have a meeting I cannot set aside, much as I would wish it, for indeed what you have to say is of the utmost interest. However, that which summons me will not be of long duration and I ask of your kindness that you wait for me—if you find that possible. I truly believe, Gentlehomo, that we can well strike a bargain."
He sensed the other's irritated anger at such an interruption. However, he was also aware of how much this one needed what he, Zarn, controlled and he had no doubts he would find the man still there when he returned.
The house in which they had met had once been the town hall of a minor noble. Now it was cut into a warren of smaller rooms and narrow passages which might have bewildered any visitor who had not been furnished with a guide. Zarn turned right, left, and came to a room which had a second door on the outer world. The occupant there was already looking for him as he entered.
"Welcome, Lady." The merchant sketched a bow towards the cloaked figure. She could have been of any rank since that covering, though of good glas-wool, was of drab color and without ornamentation.
In answer to his greeting she inclined her hooded head but did not speak.
"You have had the message; you know what is to be done," he continued. "Remember, this one was high-rated. That renegade Master made of him a true Shadow. He must be taken so that which he now carries may be brought to us."
For the second time she nodded. Then spoke in turn.
"Honorable One, there is already laid on me a mission."
"Yes, but this can be accomplished before that is advanced. This is the oath-order."
"It shall be." Her voice was low but steady. Without any farewell she went out the other door into the open street beyond. Zarn rubbed one hand against another as if between them he was grinding something into dust. She would succeed of course; was she not the best he had ever seen in action? Another mission and perhaps they would have other plans for her—plans for the good of all.
He returned to his fuming visitor his mind fully at ease. With such weapons at one's command one was already the victor in any game. Now to business with this off-worlder and those behind him, and those behind them— Zarn speculated for a moment as to how far that line did actually reach.
There was no wall nor gates to hedge in the sprawl of the new city at the port. Though the merchants and administrators, the tourists (a few of them were coming now, mainly for the larox hunting in the west) and other law-abiding inhabitants were housed in five-and six-story buildings, some even with gardens, but all contained in barriers manned by private guards very much in evidence.
There was no place here for a penniless man, Jofre understood well; he pushed on at the steady gait of someone who knew exactly his goal toward the fringe where were the hurriedly built buildings put up after First Contact near a hundred years ago now. These had been "quickies" in the workman's tongue of that day, shoddily built, and never maintained past the bare necessity of keeping a roof on and not allowing too many holes in the doors.
Many of these housed traders too, those who sold a wealth of intoxicants from both continents of Asborgan, plus stray near-poisonous mixtures brought from off-world. To add to the wealth of drinkables there were the dealers in flesh, who made their wares visible in half-curtained windows during the busy hours of the night, and innumerable forbidden drugs. The police of Asborgan, the old city, had long ago washed their hands of any responsibility for what went on there. Those inhabitants who were permanent might look after themselves, which most of them were viciously able to do, or disappeared for good, and those off-worlders of the better sort kept out of the "Stinkhole" and maintained their private protections. A few spacers now and then would wander in, but they came in pairs or trios and with stun guns in open holsters well displayed. Those natives from the lowlands beyond the city were seldom fool enough to even think of penetrating into that foul morass and anyway, having come to town, they automatically hunted shelter and amusement of the kind they had always known in the old city.
Jofre's hands moved twice. He had set "No see" pattern in his mind before he had started down the street which ran to the Stinkhole. Though he was well exercised in that maneuver, he had never employed it before except as an ordered drill. But all he had heard suggested that it should work. It was not that an invader could actually render himself invisible, rather that he projected some type of thought which shuttered him from casual sight of those he would move among.
The fetid odor gripped at one's throat. Coming from the austere cleanliness of the mountains, the order of the Lairs, this was like a foul fog. Almost one could see the vapors of decay and excrement rising from the broken pavement. The hour was one strike past sundown and the quarter was coming to life.
Several paces ahead Jofre saw his first spacers. They were clad in close fitting one-piece suits, a brownish-grey which almost matched the discolored walls about them, but was relieved on standing collars and shoulders with colored patches, not all of the same design, symbols he supposed of either rank or duties. This trio were young and they walked with caution, glancing from side to side. He did not understand the remarks which floated back to him but somehow he sensed that they considered this visit to be something of a challenge.
Because he had nothing else in the way of a guide, Jofre kept in their wake. When they halted before a wide open door which was hung with a billowing curtain of grease-stained faxweed stuff colored a sun-brilliant orange, he paused, too, a step or so before him the opening to an alleyway.
There was a clangor of Whine drums from that doorway loud enough to drown out what the spacers were saying— they seemed to be in argument on some point. In fact those wailing notes were loud enough to drown most of the noises of this portion of the street.
Sound might be so blocked but not instinct. Jofre's head jerked to the left. Trouble—back in that black pocket of an alley. Not any cry of help to be heard with the ear, ra
ther the reaction of someone fighting against odds. And in spite of the nature of the Stinkhole and the fact that its dangers should not be lightly taken Jofre moved—into the alley.
JOFRE COULD SEE THOSE STRUGGLING SHADOWS ONCE he was within the mouth of that noxious way. There was slime underfoot and he adjusted to that danger. Backed against one of those oozing walls was a tall figure and moving in a concentrated attack three smaller ones. Jofre shifted the thong of his pack and went into action.
No steel here, unarmed tactics, he decided in a flash of thought—there was too good a chance of the victim being brought down in a mixed conflict. The side of his hand chopped between neck and shoulder of the nearest of the rat pack and even above the drums he could hear a cry of pain as the fellow reeled away. Something metal dropped from the attacker's hand to ring on the fouled pavement as he clutched at an arm now swinging uselessly.
"Yaaaaaah sannng—" The cry came from Jofre unbidden as he whirled to strike out again, this time with a lifted knee which sent the second assailant backwards. But their victim took a hand now. There stabbed out of the dark a spear of light no thicker than Jofre's thumb. It struck the reeling man, then snapped to the left and showed for an instant a face rendered grotesque by a wide, near toothless mouth.
Both of those the ray had touched slumped. The man Jofre had first tackled was already careening down the alleyway, slipping twice and howling as he went.
"My thanks, Night wanderer." The words were oddly accented and Jofre stiffened. With all his need for caution he had betrayed himself with that battle cry. This other was addressing him by the name given by lowlanders to his kind.
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