by Andre Norton
Did not turn, no, but with that small movement rather delivered himself squarely into Jofre’s hands. The issha sent the door open and his right hand through in a blur of movement. His fingers thudded home on the neck of the Tssekian before the befuddled guard knew what happened and the man folded forward. That nerve pressure had not been enough to kill, Jofre wanted no bodies to betray him, but it would keep the fellow unconscious for a space of time, perhaps even leave him unable to account for what had happened—it sometimes worked that way.
Jofre squeezed through into the hallway, pulled the bulk of the guard to a cramped seating position with his back to the door which he had drawn closed. He stood assaying the situation. There did not come the sound of any alarm. Which, of course, did not assure him that such might not have been given.
But he had gained freedom, at least for a space, and he must use that to the best advantage he could. Also, and that healed a fraction the wound to his self-esteem which their kidnapping had dealt, he was in the act of proving that issha training had some answers to even off-world technology.
He did not rise to his full height, rather scooted along at a crouch, but he was swift and he reached the end of the corridor where it linked to the next in seconds. This was the way to the dining room which Zurzal had outlined in the soapy rings.
It was deserted, there were no signs of guards along it, and all the doors were closed. There could be someone in wait behind any of those but Jofre had to take that chance.
This was not to be an escape but rather a reconnaissance, thus he must take no chances. He slid into the dining hall. The light here was very dim, and only night sight alone was able to assure him there were no watchers. There were two other doors, wide ones which could be thrown open to accommodate a whole squad of visitors at a time. He opened each in turn cautiously. One showed another hall of closed doors, the light very dull. But not enough to hide that other guard. Jofre pulled back instantly and waited, Makwire ready. He dare hardly believe he had not been sighted.
However, there was no alarm and he slipped around the wall to that other doorway. This gave abruptly onto a terrace and the open night. He could smell the scent of growing things and hear the splash of water as if from a fountain. Several steps below the terrace lay a garden and into this, with the ease of one coming home to the familiar, Jofre quickly faded.
Many of the scents were strange, growing things particular to Tssek, issuing from various forms of vegetation. He flitted from one welcoming shadow to the next, surveying as well as he could his surroundings. This garden did not give on the open countryside, but rather was set in a well with the four walls of the building standing to form its limits. There were doors at intervals in those walls, but for the moment Jofre did not test those.
He had early sighted the lighted windows a full story above the garden level. The light was dim, cut by drawn curtains, and the three windows from which it issued on a line. Someone was awake there, of that he was sure.
Moving in immediately below that beacon he surveyed the wall. With the proper equipment—now denied him—he would have found it an easy climb. At the same time any such action would spotlight him against the pale wall at once to any other intruder in the garden. Regretfully he decided against that.
It was while he was still fingering the wall’s roughish surface, reluctant to leave such a chance to spy, that he was interrupted by a sound. Instantly he went to cover and from his brush-screened position he saw a figure flit from the door in the wall below those intriguing windows.
The invader did not come boldly, rather showed something of the same stealth Jofre was employing. And, his curiosity fully aroused—for why should any rightful inhabitant of this pile act like a rooftop thief?—Jofre moved closer and then took a limited step or two along the path the other followed. The newcomer emerged from the thickest shadows when reaching the pavement surrounding the central fountain.
A woman! The enveloping cape the other wore, even the hood to veil the head, could not disguise the swing of body and telltale signs of sex for an issha. For an instant he thought of the Jewelbright—if this were indeed she, he might have his chance to learn more of this unknown Sister.
But the small breeze stirring branch and leaves about brought no whiff of the betraying perfume. Then she whom he spied upon pushed back her hood a fraction so that he could see features which certainly could never be assigned to any peerless beauty.
She crouched down beside one of the two benches set to face the fountain and, though the long cloak masked her movements, Jofre thought she was in some way hiding or withdrawing from hiding some object.
He could catch, even through the continued tinkling of the fountain a faint scraping sound, even a click. Then she was on her feet again, hurrying back the way she had come. He watched her disappear before, like any trail hound, he went to sniff at the place she had been busy.
His fingers touched moist earth, crumbs of it. She had not taken time to sweep entirely away the traces of her work here. His nails caught under the edge of a flat stone like those which paved the section of earth between bench and fountain and the rock yielded to his pull. Carefully he used his fingertips since it was too dark in this corner to depend upon his eyes to explore the find. What he examined by touch was a roll covered with some slick material, the whole perhaps as big as his hand. Jofre was greatly tempted to take it. To his exploratory pinch the contents within that narrow bag yielded a little—nothing stiff or hard. He could, in spite of all his prodding, discover nothing solid. This might not be a conventional weapon nor even the fruits of some theft—unless what had been taken was some type of record.
At length he decided to leave it where it was. If he had time to stand spy here, to discover if what he had uncovered was merely a way place for message exchange and not a secure depository, he could doubtless learn—but that time was not his—not this night.
He had already been away from their apartment too long. To be sighted by the reviving sentry was the last thing which must happen. Regretfully he replaced the stone and this time he made sure there were no crumbs of soil about to betray that it had been moved at all.
Back he prowled through the dining hall, down the corridor. To his relief the guard was still wall supported and yet as unconscious as he left him and he was able to squeeze within the narrowly open door and begin the same worm’s journey back to his sleeping cushion.
Once stretched out there he allowed himself to relax, loosed the strains he had put upon every sense during that night’s journeying. And that relaxation allowed him to slip into the slumber which he had banished so ruthlessly earlier. He did not try to relive his exploit, to wonder about what he had seen—there would be plenty of time for that later.
Though there was no sun beaming through a window to waken him, the daytime glow of the walls appeared to arouse one with the same efficiency. He stretched and became aware that the Zacathan was standing near, watching him.
“Only one with a quiet mind can sleep so well,” Zurzal observed. “No dreams, Shadow, to plague you? That is well. We need clear minds and ready spirits—”
Jofre sat up. “We need these minds and spirits to a greater degree than ordinarily, Learned One? I await orders.”
“The Illustrious Holder has thought that he would like a demonstration—”
“I thought—” Jofre was startled enough to begin when Zurzal interrupted.
“It seems that there are those the Holder would like to have see a small exhibit of what can be expected. The crew who are to arrange for the broadcast of the Fiftieth time scene believe they can work better if they are shown what to expect.”
“The time scanner in the hall—”
“Ah, no. The Holder wishes something a little less impressive. There are some ruins from the old days within a short distance. It has been arranged that we visit those with the scanner—and a selected number of guests—this morning.”
And if it does not work Jofre wanted to ask but thought
better of it. He believed that Zurzal had been given little or no choice, that the Zacathan was caught earlier than he had expected in a tight web of what must be deception. Oddly enough, however, Jofre detected no sign of disturbance in either the Zurzal’s voice or actions, his frill had not risen.
It was midmorning before they were escorted out of their quarters by Harse and his usual squad of guards, Jofre being ordered at Zurzal’s demand to carry a bag which the Zacathan insisted held auxiliary equipment. Once more they entered a flitter waiting on a terrace approach above ground level and took off, heading out towards a range of hills which appeared to lead upward, like the beginning of a giant flight of stairs, into fog-dimmed shapes of mountains.
Jofre saw that other flitter already landed as they set down and standing by it the Holder and—This woman was as well robe-wrapped as the one he had spied upon the night before, and yet he was sure of her identity. The Jewelbright had also been brought to watch this phenomenon of time past.
He was able to pick out the weathered ruins which were their goal, so time eroded that there was little to be seen above the drifted earth. This was a country of rocks and what vegetation existed was a meeting of small drab plants clinging to crevices and the rough parts of the stones.
Jofre had favored the Jewelbright with a single glance. Though there certainly was not much of her to be seen, even her hands were concealed within the wide, enveloping folds of the cloak, and the hood was drawn well forward to shade her face. That cover-up might have been in protection against the furies of grit which breezes, funneling down the cut in which they stood, whirled about them.
Sopt s’Qu was very much to the fore but he was not a happy man, rather one who displayed every sign of nervousness. Perhaps even more than Zurzal he feared failure. But he spoke up loudly as they joined the other party.
“This is a place of which there is no mention, even in the First Archives. The Holder wishes to see what the time scanner will make of this. Perhaps there can be little hope of such far reach—”
Was the Horde Commander trying to provide them with an excuse? If so, Zurzal did not fasten on it. In fact there seemed to be very little uncertainty about the Zacathan—he was all business, beckoning to Jofre who went down on one knee and unrolled the bundle he had carried, setting together the rods within as Zurzal had earlier demonstrated, to make a holder for the scanner. In order to steady that on this rough ground it was necessary for Jofre to hold it in place while the Zacathan worked.
At last Zurzal looked over his shoulder. “I have set it to the farthest extent possible, Illustrious One, since this site is said to be so old. We can only hope that it comes within range. Now!”
Jofre nearly jumped, for that last word had the force of an order as Zurzal reached out with his good hand and pressed firmly down on a lever.
CHAPTER 15
THERE WAS A SUDDEN UPRISING of the grit-filled wind between them and the well-eroded stones. Or was it that? Jofre blinked and blinked again. That mist appeared to be thickening in places, thinning patches showing between spots. Color—a warmth of that. But it was like trying to see through a bog mist which swirled and eddied, enveloped and revealed.
Figures—yes! At least dim shadows which were not fixed, but appeared to move backward or forward. He saw with sudden clarity a single face which held so for no longer than it took him to expel the breath from his lungs, but he would take full oath to the fact he saw it.
It did not hold long, that mingling of denser shadows in a mist. Then it was gone as Zurzal clapped the edge of his hand down across the lever.
“No—!” That protest had come from the Holder; he alone of their company had found a voice.
“Yesssss—” Zurzal hissed. “Would you put such a strain on this,” his hand caressed the scanner, “that it cannot be used without lengthy recharging? You have a time limit set for that which you wish to see the most.”
“Yes,” the Holder nodded, “yes, that is so. But—why do you say this scanner will not work, Learned One? Have we not just seen it in action?”
“Have you seen clearly, anything more than unidentifiable shadows?” the Zacathan countered. “It is a clear picture, a full one which I seek. Now I must rework the setting on this, make very sure that it will serve as well as it can the next time it is called upon.”
What brought Jofre’s glance upward to the heights which backed those anonymous ruins he never knew. But a glimpse of that flash there sent him instantly sidewise, to sweep the Zacathan from his feet, rocking the scanner perilously askew.
There was no sound, but a smell of scorching fabric. He felt the smart of a burn graze along his shoulder as he continued to grind Zurzal down against the rock, shielding the other with his own body.
The others were shouting; he heard a crackling and, even though he did not see them clearly, he knew that blaster beams were cutting back and forth overhead, aiming at a point well above, perhaps that from which the first beam had come.
Zurzal was struggling in his hold and for a moment Jofre resisted the Zacathan’s fight to free himself. Then he realized that the other was attempting to move away from that exposure into the lee of one of the crumbling stands of weathered block. Jofre aided that with a stout push. Now they were crouched tightly together in the small measure of protection that hollow offered them.
The Holder’s flitter took off, seemingly by a straight upward leap, whirled and turned back towards the outer plain. Their own craft was also quickly aloft, heading not after the first ship, but along the range of the heights with now and then the crackle and flash of a blaster beam aimed from it to spatter and slice rocks. There was no sign of any return fire.
Not that that would mean they themselves were in the clear. Jofre, surveying as much as he could see of those rock walls without offering himself as a good target, fully expected an attack from above. And he was not the only one to so judge trouble. Though the flitter which had transported them was hunting aloft, the guards who had been so ready to keep him under control were both still at ground level. Against the light grey of these rocks the dark shade of their uniforms made them visible, though they had taken cover as quickly as he and Zurzal.
He watched Harse twist a little in a crevice between two piles of the ancient masonry and wriggle a tube loose from that fringe of arms he wore at his belt. Sliding back a little so that he could gain all the protection possible from his cover, the Tssekian fitted that rod to the weapon he had already openly in hand, making the barrel near twice as long. Again he plundered his belt arsenal and produced something he cradled in the palm of his hand until he could fit it into the mouth end of that barrel.
Having so prepared, Harse inched forward once more to the very end of his cover and the weapon in his hand moved slowly, pointed well up towards the heights. At length he apparently had it centered to his satisfaction. There was a click sharp enough to be heard even over the crackle of those blasters being fired indiscriminately above.
What he released arose almost lazily, angled inward toward the cliff face. Then it struck and Jofre flung up his arm a little too late to save his eyes entirely from a torturing burst of vivid white light. A second later sound beat at his ears. When he could again see through his watering eyes there was a glowing scar down the rock face; a good portion of wall had simply vanished. Harse sat back, his hand slipping along his weapon almost as if rewarding its action by fondling it as he might a living thing.
The flitter had ceased firing and was now coasting along, quite close to that scarred wall as if those aboard were inspecting the results of the attack. Then it spiraled down towards the level space from which it had earlier arisen.
Could they believe it was all over, Jofre wondered. He absently brushed down his side and then snatched away his fingers. That beam had come close! The fabric of his tunic was blackened, he ripped it a little to look at that line of smarting flesh his earlier touch had awakened into protest. However, save for the burn graze he could see no great harm.
Then his hand was jerked away and Zurzal bent over him, pulling the brittle cloth apart.
“It is nothing,” Jofre said quickly. “No more than one would get being careless at a campfire.”
“Yessssss—” Not only was the hiss very loud in the Zacathan’s speech but his frill was extended to its furthest extent, throbbing an ever-deepening shade of crimson. “You have served, oath bound.” There was a certain formality in those words and Jofre forced himself not to allow himself any credit. What he had done was only such actions as he had been pledged to. He drew together his slitted tunic.
“Someone wants you dead,” he said slowly. Zurzal had been directly in the line of that first fire.
“Me dead—or that out of commission—” The Zacathan had sense enough not to stand up as a target to any who might still linger above, but he was wriggling toward the scanner.
That was tilted on its tripod; Jofre himself might have pushed it out of place when he had made that jump for Zurzal. On the ground there was a blackened line inches away from the machine. No, Jofre was sure, it was the Zacathan and not his scanner which had been the prime target.
Harse and the other guard were on their feet and walking freely toward them from the flitter. Of the Horde Commander there was no sign and it might well be that he had joined with the Holder’s group in that swift flight.
“Move it—” Harse approached the two by the scanner. “We go—now!” He jerked a thumb at the scanner and then at Zurzal and Jofre. The latter glanced upward. There was only that new blackened scar on the cliff side and it would seem that these believed the battle—if battle it had been—was now over.
The man with Harse advanced purposefully on the scanner and Zurzal swung out his good arm to ward him off.
“No hands on that—” His now blood-red frill was still up. “We shall do it.” He beckoned to Jofre.
