by Andre Norton
Together they dismounted the scanner, nor would Zurzal pay any attention to the attempts to make him hurry as he examined it carefully and supervised Jofre’s two-handed disassembling of the stand. Only when that was packed away to his satisfaction would he pick up the carrying case of the scanner and start for the flitter by which most of the squad were obviously impatiently waiting.
Jofre was occupied with speculations. The attack, he was sure, was truly meant to take out Zurzal and perhaps the scanner—but first the Zacathan. He was sure that the Tssekians were well aware that only Zurzal could properly set up the machine—or was he wrong there? Did they believe that, after this rehearsal, one of them could do as well? Still he was very sure that that attack from the heights had NOT been part of any plan made by the Holder. Leaders of nations did not use themselves as bait.
Therefore—who—?
He was chewing on that as they packed into the flitter once more. But this time he had shoved past Harse and taken his place beside the Zacathan. When the Tssekian tried to shoulder him back the Zacathan faced around.
“That is my bodyguard. I am alive right now because of him. No thanks to you and your men here. He rides with me, he stays with me—from now on or I shall not be coming out of my quarters. This I shall make very sure of with your Holder himself!”
Harse scowled but did not seem sure enough to protest and Jofre found himself in the fore of the flitter with Zurzal as they winged back across the plain.
From this more open seat he could better see the countryside. Up to the foothills it was level, apparently much of it covered with a thick vegetation which on Asborgan would have made it pastureland. But he could sight no beasts at graze there and he wondered if this world had any species that lived so. They were about halfway back when they were passed by a flight of six larger flitters flying in formation and boring steadily towards the place of the ruins. If the Tssekians had decided that they were not yet sure of the fate of the one who had launched the attack, they were going to make very certain now.
As they came down to the landing stage on the Holder’s headquarters Jofre gained some idea of the size of that building. It was certainly larger than any on Asborgan and any inn on Wayright. Surrounding the outer wall were a series of small domes, slits in them open toward the sky. Through those slits pointed what could only be the barrel tips of weapons too large for any one man to wield. It was plain that this was an armed camp, which meant enemies—who—how many—where?
The teachings of the Assha Masters swept to the fore of his memory. Weaken your enemy from within, lead him to believe that his own trusted underlings will turn against him, the strongest fortress can fall to inner rot. But he needed to know more—much more.
Was this a hint of a power struggle between two leaders—the Holder and would-be ruler—Sopt s’Qu for example? The importation of a Jewelbright as a gift—how much did the Horde Commander know of the true nature of the woman he had brought? Trained issha she was—even the hair on her head could become a weapon at her will. The skills of the Sisters were legendary. They never came for any purpose but that of secret war—she would not have been oathed except for that and she would not be here were she not oathed, no matter what amount of treasure an off-worlder offered for her.
Was the Zacathan in some manner an unknowing weapon in a hidden struggle? It would seem that he was feared or his death would not have been intended. But one small point of good had come out of that—he had, as Zurzal had certainly been quick to recognize, now the right to demand the constant attendance of Jofre—might even gain back for the bodyguard some of the weapons of which he had been shorn at their capture.
They were speedily escorted back to the suite of rooms which had been their prison. Zurzal had spoken only once, as the door had been opened and they were motioned within:
“My life has been threatened. If I am the guest the Holder proclaims, then I must be told by whom and why I should be fried by blaster!”
Having delivered that, he turned his back on the guards and stalked within, the case of the scanner still held carefully in his arms as if that were something he would do all he might to protect.
Once the door was closed Jofre instantly laid ear against it. Yes, they had stationed a guard outside. At least the one who had been on duty there last night had never reported any difficulty. When the Tssekian aroused he probably had been afraid for his own skin; he might well have believed that he nodded off on duty.
Zurzal placed the scanner carefully on the table as Jofre dropped the bundle which contained its supports on the floor. Some of the red had faded from the Zacathan’s neck frill and now he swept up his hand in the impatient gesture Jofre had seen him use before, striving to settle the fluttering skin to his shoulders.
“The scanner,” Jofre broke the silence, “it worked. I saw a face—”
“The timing,” Zurzal shook his head, “it was too inexact. How could it be tuned when one did not know the general setting one would need? Yes, it worked. But it has worked even better before when there was a more definite dating to be calculated. What is important now is who doesn’t want it to work at all?”
“Could they believe that with you dead they would have control over it?” Jofre advanced what he believed could be a very logical argument.
“There is always a good measure of stupidity in this or any other world,” hissed the Zacathan. “However, they have not pressed me to discuss this,” he rested hand on the scanner, “with any of their men of learning who might be considered able to grasp the principles of its controls. No, I do not think that that is the answer. The Holder wants me—he wants me to use this—he does not want a dead man and a useless piece of hardware to spoil his plans.”
He turned away, to face Jofre squarely. “Meanwhile, let us see to you, oathed. Off with that tunic—”
Jofre protested, but to ears not prepared to listen. He found himself speedily divested of tunic and shirt, seated on the edge of an easirest while the Zacathan squeezed a jelly from a tube he produced from among his luggage.
“You were very lucky, oathed.” Zurzal’s hand had the lightest of touches as he spread the ointment over the reddened skin and slapped a flesh seal over it. “That was on full or you would not have taken so wide a scorch as you did. There will be no scarring and there is no reason why it will not heal well. However, we shall not let them forget that you seem to be the only one who was marked in that action, and because, weaponless, you fulfilled your oathing. On Asborgan I believe I could demand a wound price from them.”
Jofre flushed. “It is no real wounding,” he muttered. “I failed you once—when they took us—did you expect me to fault every time?”
“I cannot see there was any failure. You fronted a weapon you knew nothing about, were caught by something which could well have caused your death. You are a very tough fighting man, oathed, to have survived stass holding as well as you did. The issha are certainly highly regarded, I know, but I was not aware they had ribs like tillenium to keep them breathing—”
Jofre had pulled on shirt and tunic and was being careful with his girdle, holding as it did both the Makwire and the talisman. But not careful enough, for the ovoid slipped out of hiding, struck on the floor and landed near the Zacathan’s feet.
CHAPTER 16
JOFRE SWOOPED FORWARD but he was a fraction late; Zurzal had already half stooped to eye the artifact more closely. Against the light shade of the carpet it presented the appearance of a giant drop of some unknown liquid frozen in shape.
The Zacathan put out his hand. However, when it hovered over the ovoid, he jerked it aside just as Jofre made a determined grab for it. From his stooped position Zurzal was staring up at his bodyguard with a keen measurement.
It was almost as if he were questioning the younger man’s possession of such an object and Jofre responded to that sensed demand.
“Mine!” His hand closed about the stone and he felt the familiar flare of warmth in the cup of his palm.
Zurzal straightened. “Yours,” his word came in agreement. Too quick an agreement? Was the Zacathan trying to placate him?
Slowly Jofre opened his hand; he had no true explanation for what he held. But if an oathed could not trust his lord, then he was indeed a man without hope or being.
“I do not know what it is—” he said slowly.
“A thing of power.” There was no doubt in Zurzal’s quick return. “And without a doubt very old.” He was shaking his head as if to deny one of his own thoughts. “But there is no record of any Forerunner remains on Asborgan—perhaps that is from off-world—”
It was Jofre’s turn to gesture denial. “It is of the assha.” At the moment he was sure that all his speculation concerning his find was correct. “I found it in Qaw-en-itter—a Lair which died four generations ago. I—I am sure it was part of the great stone—the Masters assha heart—though I have never heard before of any such retaining any life after the fail of assha—”
“This retains life?” Zurzal’s voice came quietly, hardly above a murmur.
At that moment Jofre remembered where they were—that those eyes in the walls might well be turned upon them. Rather than answer in revealing words, he hunched a little, bringing the stone up between their bodies and loosed the tight grip of his fingers. He could see that point of light at its heart—could the Zacathan? Or was it all some ancient spell set by one of the Shagga?
“Interesting—” was Zurzal’s comment. “It is a luck talisman then?”
Jofre’s lips tightened. Let this off-worlder dismiss his find as one of those luck pieces such as the lowlanders gave credit to—sometimes wearing them on chains about their necks. Very well, let this be thought a talisman—a superstition. He did not raise his eyes but—he sensed—this was what the Zacathan wanted—that he be lessened in the sight of any spy, a ruse. He dared to give the ovoid a toss, catch it lightly.
“Well, Learned One, I have a good measure of luck since I found it”—or, his thought added, it found me—“so I shall not deny that.” He tucked it away again in the folds of his girdle. “One of my calling needs any help fortune may send.”
“And we need luck that this has not been injured by our recent skirmish.” The Zacathan turned back to the table where he had parked the scanner. Taking the machine from its case, he set it on the tabletop and then crouched down so that he could view it at eye level from a number of angles.
Jofre watched with interest, though he understood little of what was going on as the Zacathan’s one good hand touched here and there, his large eyes squinting along the surface as if he were bringing to bear on some target one of the large weapons of the Tssekians. At length he settled back on his heels.
“As far as I can say without actual testing, it has not suffered. As for testing—” Now he stood up and laid the scanner on its side, hooked a clawed finger at the side of a small plate there and jerked it up. Within that cavity were two coils of fine wire of a particularly vivid blue-green wound in even patterns around what would appear to be a core of another substance—that a sullen grey-black.
“Sssoooooo—” the hiss as well as the lifting and coloring neck frill of the Zacathan suggested agitation of some sort. “Power—perhaps one more viewing and then it must be recharged. We have no chance to experiment.”
“When is this viewing these Tssekians want? Can they provide the power you need?” Jofre wanted to know.
“The viewing is within two days. As to the other—I shall find out.” He shut that pocket in the side of the scanner. “That was folly, errant folly,” he hissed again, “to waste what I had on that peep show this morning!”
“I do not think you could have said ‘no’ ” Jofre observed. “This Holder is not one to have his wishes denied. And—it worked! You proved that, did you not?”
“Worked? Raised some shadows and near got itself—and us—fried. I can do without such examples of its proficiency,” snapped the Zacathan. “What is done is past—there is what lies ahead. At least they can give us a proper dating this time and not too far in the past.”
Jofre noted that “us” the Zacathan used so easily. It was as if he had suddenly advanced from a mere oathed to an accepted kin sworn. And that brought a quick touch of warmth within even as the assha stone had given him in the past.
Taynad turned the thread-slender stem of her wineglass between two fingers. Her lips smiled provocatively as her thoughts raced. The Holder’s performance this morning—the man was afraid for his precious skin! This—this weldworm was what she must court with all her skill, soothe into contentment, encase in feeling that all was right with his world and there was no need for fear. She could have spat the wine she had just taken into her mouth into his face! No, control, control that contempt, make of it a weapon.
At least she had had a chance to learn much these past hours. Now as soon as she could get this booby occupied with all the various acts to make sure of his continued safety she must start piecing together her scraps of true knowledge.
The first was, of course, that the Holder of Tssek believed himself anything but secure in his exalted position. In the past sweeps of the timekeeper since they had returned to this fortress of his she had heard orders given, raids planned, lists of suspects made—names marked for death, for imprisonment, for questionings.
There had been returning reports also. Of suspected nests of rebels which had been found deserted when the raiders moved in, of the disappearance of a number of those whose names appeared on those lists. It was as if the failure of the attack upon the Zacathan and his machine had been a signal, somehow broadcast farther than any mirror flicker or flyer message, to take cover.
And with each reported failure that man by the table had tensed the more, spoken fewer words, become more—dangerous! Yes, perhaps she had indeed misread him—even a vomink caught in the trap could flay the hand of the hunter who did not brain it in time. The orders for death were now outweighing those for imprisonment. And such summary deaths began to be listed a few at a time.
Would this put an end to whatever game the Holder wished to parlay with that machine of the Zacathan? She did not yet believe so. He had spoken twice of the ceremony and of those who must be brought one way or another to attend it.
It was true that the Zacathan did possess something which could not be explained save as what it was, a recreator of the past. She had gone to view the action at the ruins very much a skeptic, and had been practically convinced that he could do what they said he could. However, were his scanner to turn up nothing more than ghost-mist forms such as they had seen that morning, she did not understand the Holder’s dogged demand that the ceremony of the great Ingathering be so reenacted.
She was suddenly aware that there was a lull in the constant flurry of officers reporting and being dispatched again. The Holder had arisen from his seat and was approaching her. Taynad set the wineglass down and went immediately into the welcoming obeisance.
“Your pardon, Jewelbright,” he put out his hand and she straightway set hers in it, allowing him to so draw her to her feet, “these matters are harsh; I am sorry that you have been witness to them. But all is now arranged, so that we have time for more pleasant things. I have not yet shown you the inner garden. The langian are in bloom and you who are such a connoisseur of perfumes will find these to your taste—”
As he spoke he was drawing her on. There was a scuttling at his other side. The Jat that had not been present at the morning’s fiasco was there now accompanying the Holder closely. If all they said of that creature was true, and she had heard much from the maid last night, then it was certainly a good weapon against any close attempt at assassination. She allowed herself to speculate on whether the creature could be won away from its allegiance, though as yet she would not make any move in that direction. Instead she used the speech of the Jewel House, meant to soothe, to compliment, to enhance the ego of the patrons—not with bold and open flattery but rather with the most delicate in
nuendo.
The garden proved to be in the heart of the fortress-palace, the four walls rising to encompass it. She could hear the play of a fountain, and even the sounds made by insects. A flying thing with huge wings outspanning a body no larger than her little finger hovered before her. Without thought her hand went out and it settled, so lightly she could hardly feel its touch, fanning wings of brilliant green which appeared spangled with inset gems of blue and gold. Its beauty was enough to startle her out of her thoughts for the moment.
“A lashlu.” The Holder was regarding her with something close to benevolence. “Have you any such on your world, Jewelbright?”
“Not such as this.” She held her finger very still, hardly daring to breathe. In those few seconds it chose to remain with her it was as if she had stepped out of time, away from all she was and what had brought her here, all that she must never forget.
It was the Jat which broke that moment of otherness. For the first time since she had first seen it the creature uttered a cry, scuttling ahead and out onto the pavement of flat stones which ringed the place of the fountain. There it went down on all fours, its wrinkled-in nose close to those stones, clearly on the trail of something.
The Holder had halted and his hand brought Taynad to a stop also. He was watching the actions of the off-world creature as it fastened its attention on one of those grey squares. Its forepaws, which were so like hands, suddenly sprouted claws as if it could extend normal nails to far greater distance on demand. These it curled about the edge of the stone and heaved, the rock turning easily in its grasp as if very lightly set in place.
A fast scoop of paw into the hollow beneath the stone tossed out a lump of grey-brown which might be a bag. With the very tip of its claws the Jat urged that find towards the edge of the pavement well away from the two standing watching.
“So—” The Holder dropped his touch on Taynad and took a step or so closer to view that small round of what might be plumped-up hide. All expression had been wiped from his never too expressive face. He reached for his weapon belt, not as heavily laden as that of his followers but showing the jewel-inlaid butt of what could only be a blaster.
