Brother To Shadows m-5

by Norton, Andre

  That the Guild, having heard of Zurzal's boasted scanner, would be interested he could well believe. Even in the mountain Lairs they had heard tales of how the vast criminal network took into its clutches inventions and discoveries which it kept for all time. Jofre could understand that if what Zurzal claimed for his find was true, it could well be put to other than archaeological searches. As for himself he would believe you could see into the past when such a scene was directly before his eyes.

  In a Lair tower to the north at that same hour, which was near midnight, a Shagga priest bent his shaven head over a brazier which gave forth a trickle of reddish smoke, drawing that deeply into his lungs. His eyes were shut and he rocked his body back and forth in a rhythm which matched the words he mouthed in a hissing whisper. He was going deeper perhaps than was prudent. Hate had set him on this road in the beginning; now there was a touch of fear. The contempt he had earlier felt had diminished; this adversary was stronger than he had ever conceived he would be.

  He collapsed at last, huddled in upon himself as if he would hide from what was about him. The arts of the priesthood were very old; those which they transmitted to assha and issha were only the surface of what powers they could summon. He had been a teacher all of his ordained life but at times he had also been a seeker, probing into some ways which, if not completely forbidden, were warned against. It was only his fear which drove him to try this.

  Jofre awoke from his doze immediately alert and ready as his training had prepared him to be. For a moment he did not stir; he looked through only slits, keeping his eyelids near closed to deceive any watcher; at the same time he readied himself. That he was not alone, of that he was so sure that his hand moved serpent still and quick under the edge of his sleep cover until his fingers could close about the handle of his dagger.

  Still he waited. His ears quested for the sound of breathing. There was a faint light from the upper part of the walls where they joined with the ceiling, enough to give him full sight. He heard nothing, saw nothing.

  Then there was a stab of heat, great enough to bring him up to his knees, his hand at the stretch of his girdle on the right side of his body. There was a lump there, the stone he had brought out of Qwa-en-itter! And through the cloth which hid it he could feel warmth, for the worst of that touching flame had eased.

  At the same time that sense of another presence was gone, as if he had snuffed out a Lair lamp. And the warmth went with it. Shagga—Shagga tricks! He was as sure of that as if some priest still stood there leering at him.

  The priest who had expelled him from the Lair company had certainly held no kind thoughts towards him, but why would he want to carry on any feud now that Jofre was no longer contaminating the Brotherhood? That pain— he worked the stone out of the girdle folds. There was no light in its depths now—it was opaquely dead. But there was still warmth in it as he handled it, turning it around in his hand. Whatever it was it answered to Shagga power. Perhaps it would be far better for him were he to discard it now. Yet he could not. It was as if the artifact had a will of its own and had oathed itself to him.

  Jofre shoved it once more into hiding. He took the position of farseeing—the door was made fast and he must dare thus for caution's sake. Nonetheless he planted his shoulders against the portal it was his duty to guard, firmly enough so that he trusted any movement there would alert him, before he began the Descent-to-the-heart—forcing his breath into the slow, regular pattern, using his will to wall away all thought.

  He had always excelled in this since he was issha made— in fact to the point that the Master had used him several times without advertising the fact, in his own affairs. Perhaps some quirk of his off-world-born brain adjusted easily to this skill.

  Now having reached the Center, where was the path? He might be standing in a circle of light from which led radiating rays to form roads. He sent out thought and was again in live memory, in Qwa-en-itter, his hand reaching for that ovoid he still carried. There was a flicker of light, a spark, as he touched it. Yes, a thing of power—very old power. And the Shagga— Jofre tried to find the path which would lead back to that one who had come spying. But nothing remained on which he could fix to draw himself.

  A lash of will took him out of the Center. His hands began to move in the ritual patterns which summoned strength—to both mind and body. He could feel the rise of that strength, the way it filled him. The rest of the issha preparation he could not continue. He had only his dagger—the small knives, the sword, the flask of blinding powder, the hooked rope which could be either a ladder or a weapon, those he had been forced to leave behind. He felt their loss now; not being able to complete the Readiness worried him. If the Zacathan truly wanted him as a bodyguard, then with the day's coming he must see about acquiring the familiar weapons he had been deprived of before he would be fully at ease, a formidable trained issha. Where in this lowland country such weapons could be found, Jofre had no idea, but he must make plain to Zurzal their lack might cripple him in the future.

  However, with the morning he had no time to speak of his need to the Zacathan; the other had anticipated him.

  "You must have supplies," Zurzal said briskly, having summoned another of those very satisfying meals out of the wall. "I have heard that you or the Brotherhood can accomplish much with bare hands—but there is no reason to try and prove that. We shall see about more conventional ways of defense."

  Seeing about that brought them to a warehouse-shop where Jofre, trailing Zurzal into a smaller room, nearly gaped as wide as any field laborer as he viewed racks of weapons, cases of them, an armory so superior to that of the Lair that the latter would seem a play place for children. However, a second and more measuring survey showed him that there were few of the conventional issha arms here. Those small throwing knives easy to be hidden—he could see none in the case which held mainly daggers and some blades long enough to be short swords. There were no whirl chains, no hook ropes.

  "Over here." Zurzal was beckoning to him. The seller of these wares was a lowlander, though he wore the formfitting clothing of the spacers. A Tarken, Jofre placed him, one of the hereditary clan of merchant guardsmen. He had opened another case and was taking out those storied off-world weapons, such as Zurzal himself wore, the sidearms which could either stun for capture or burn to a crisp an enemy.

  "Take your pick," the Zacathan bade him as Jofre joined the other two by the case.

  Jofre looked uneasily to the salesman. He had his own needs, but to reveal them now would instantly label him for what he was in front of this lowlander. On the other hand were he to be summarily equipped with weapons with which he was unfamiliar, he could well be defeated in an attack before he started.

  He stared down at the stunners. Then put out a hand hesitantly and picked up the nearest. It did not have the familiar balance of a dagger or sword, did not fit easily into a trained hand. Though as he examined it more closely it appeared to be a simple enough mechanism—one closed the fist thus, then within easy reach of the forefinger were two buttons. Jofre raised it and squinted along the short barrel at the wall—yes, just so must one aim it. He laid it back with its fellows and picked up the next. A man must feel at home with his weapons, not just take the first offered, thus he hefted them all before nodding and making his choice.

  "This—" It was the one lying in third place, and somehow in his hand it felt the best. "However—there must be other things—" Again he looked across Zurzal's shoulder to the salesman. How much dared he reveal by his choices?

  It was as if the Zacanthan read his thoughts, for Zurzal turned to the Tarken and at the same time reached out and laid his hand on Jofre's shoulder.

  "Ras Quan, this issha is blood oathed to me," he spoke deliberately. "As his New-master-one I must equip him properly. Let him then choose what he believes will serve him best."

  Tensely Jofre waited for the Tarken's reaction. But there was not so much as a flutter of the eyelid to suggest that such a request was in any
way out of the ordinary.

  "Seek, Night wanderer." At least he was giving Jofre the name lowlanders bestowed upon his kind. "We have very little call for the Shadow weapons here; you may find that most are lacking."

  Jofre nodded curtly and swung on his heel, going back to the display of knives and swords, eyeing as he went the various arms hanging on the walls. There were two small knives which might do for sleeve weapons, though whether they could be easily concealed in any clothing save the wide-sleeved coats his kind favored he was not sure. However, they looked enough like those he had practiced with for many hours to be familiar and he indicated them. A sword—if they were bound off-world into places where the weapons would be those lasers—swords would be useless. He eyed them wistfully for a moment and then shrugged.

  A climbing rope he could devise himself but he found with some excitement a large bowllike container full of polished hooks, well barbed, and of those he selected a dozen, running his fingers across the metal in search of any flaws. Such he could conceal in a turban wrapping if he must.

  There was no use, he was sure, to search here for a sleeve box of poison dust, nor other subtle weapons of the Lairs. And he had to be content with what he picked out, the hooks being fastened for transporting within his sleeves, the knives and the stunner joining his dagger in his girdle.

  But it seemed they were not yet done with shopping for the Tarken led the way into another room and within a short time Jofre found himself with a totally new wardrobe, the suit of a spacer, a cloak which the Zacathan said was meant to shed water, underclothing, new boots which felt curiously heavy as they were soled with the plating for ship-bound travelers. In addition there was a bedroll and some of the aids to make easier camp life. Though Jofre privately could see no reason for such pampering of one who was out of the austere life of the Lairs.

  He wondered now how Zurzal was to pay for this. As a sworn liegeman Jofre was entitled truly to weapons, the livery clothing of his employer's house, just as he would be entitled for, as long as the oath held, transportation, food and lodging. In the natural course of things a wage sum would have been transferred to the coffers of the Lair from which he came—but that would not be necessary in this transaction.

  But no bar pieces passed between Zurzal and the Tarken— rather the Zacathan merely showed the other a band on his wrist on which glowed a number of markings. Then in turn Zurzal pressed this to a pad the Tarken produced.

  As they went out of the place Zurzal explained and turned his wrist well out into the daylight to show Jofre.

  "Each world has its own form of exchange for goods and services. But there are ways of transferring such credit without having to pass it into the form of another planet. Thus—" He flexed his hand and the wristlet was a gleam in the thin sunlight. "I have funds on several worlds to draw on, and pay from those funds may be demanded by merchants on other planets. It is a simple system—"

  Jofre thought he could see the flaw in it. "If that is stolen and used—"

  Zurzal shook his head. "It is blood joined to me alone; it will not work for any other. Now, let us go ahunting for this spacer."

  He turned quickly into a side street, threading a way he seemed to know well, heading again for the Stinkhole. Jofre slipped a hand across the new weight of those recently added knives. Last night his unarmed skill had been put to the test; he wondered if this time his ability with steel would be called upon.

  THERE WERE NO BURSTS OF EYE-TORMENTING LIGHT from any of the smoldering doorways, no whine of drums. Today they might be walking through a sink of long-deserted squalor. One or two muffled figures kept close to the verges of the pavement, since the center of that was a riverlet of corruption. Only the thick stench was the same, puffing out at them from the opening of every alley as if the Stinkhole itself had life and nauseous breath.

  Zurzal seemed to know where he was going. Jofre was a step behind, every issha instinct alert. He did not like what he could not see but was sure was lurking in the stained walled buildings, in every one of those alley mouths; he did not like what he heard—which was nothing at all. Certainly there should be some sound.

  As Zurzal took a sharp turn to the right, a moment's glance around placed Jofre. This was the same place where he had come to the rescue of the Zacathan the night before. To venture into such a trap was more than foolhardy.

  At least a small measure of light had come with the day and Jofre could see the path ahead, choked as it was with rubbish. The alley was dead-ended by a portion of the building on their right which extended at a sharp angle. There was a door at floor level and up the narrow slit of this wing a series of windows, all covered with boarding.

  They passed the site of last night's skirmish. The noisome debris underfoot had been churned and there were signs of some heavy object having been drawn along through the muck—doubtless one of their opponents taken away. A sound brought Jofre into action. He was before his patron, a punch of his shoulder sending the Zacathan back against the moisture-running wall while he half crouched in defense. Out of the disturbed muck and nameless mounds ahead poked the nasty white snout of a ku-rat—the largest Jofre had ever sighted.

  His hand went from the hilt of his dagger to the far less familiar grip of the sidearm. He brought the weapon up, sighted and fired. There was a screech, then the twisting body arose from the rubbish in which it had sheltered to curl into both silence and a motionless ball. Jofre stared at the creature. A lucky shot certainly, he had had very little time to practice—save in dumb show—before they made this expedition and he must not believe that his accuracy with the off-world weapon was more now than rank fortune.

  "The power of the first part," Zurzal observed from behind him as Jofre still sheltered the Zacathan with his own body, "is enough if we meet more than rats—to stun is allowable. I think that a burnoff even in this place might bring some retribution down on us."

  Jofre made the adjustment before he returned the weapon to his unfamiliar overbelt. He had changed into the new clothing before they had started and he regretted deeply the loss of his wide-sleeved overshirt, though he retained the girdle which had always supported hand weapons. To be reduced to a dagger and this stunner-blaster meant double caution on his part.

  In two more strides the Zacathan reached the door in that wall which blocked their path. It looked as set-in as the boarded-up windows above, as if it were sealed firmly. Yet the off-worlder did not appear to be baffled by this. He drew the taloned fingers of his useable right hand down the splintery surface, scratching into wood spongy with rot.

  At waist level those fingers stopped to circle about as if outlining some lock which did not appear. Then Zurzal drew his own weapon, examined the setting critically before he made a small adjustment, and put the barrel to the door. There was a flash and a crackle of sparks ran from that point of contact. A moment later the Zacathan resheathed the weapon, put palm flat against the door to push. Reluctantly the barrier gave, showing a thick gloom within.

  "This is a back way," Zurzal's voice dropped near to a hissing whisper. "What we seek lies there." He jerked his head toward the wall of the building from which this portion angled.

  Jofre's hand was quick. His fingers closed about the Zacathan's sinewy arm.

  "I first," he made that an order. "Which way?"

  "Right. There should be a stair near. The man we seek has lodging, such as it is, near the top floor. He is, I think, very near the end. The report made to me is that he has not been seen for three days now."

  Within the house there was a thick effluvium of old filth, the result of beings of more than one species being crowded in long-uncleansed quarters. The two invaders found the stairs easily enough, for there was an orb light, near exhausted by the feebleness of its glow, suspended over the well of the steps.

  Now there were sounds, grunts, the rumble of speech, and once the throb of a hand drum, a smashing of what might be glass, and again a scream which held both rage and pain. Zurzal continued to cli
mb; Jofre, eyes darting from wall to wall of the stairway, ears and nose alert, edged after him. They reached the third level of the stair and Zurzal stopped, fronting another door.

  This time there was a waiting latch and he caught at it, throwing the door open. The room on the other side had once been of fair size, but a partition which did not reach clear to the ceiling had turned it into a pair of alcoves. The stench was now overpowering. In the nearer of those alcoves was a sleep mat and on that lay a body wrapped in a discolored length of bed covering.

  Zurzal felt in the pouch which was clipped to his belt. He brought out a package which, without opening it, he squeezed vigorously in his one hand. Now another scent joined the rest, a cloying one which seemed thick enough to be visible in the room.

  The bundle on the mat stirred, shifted, sat up. A bloated-faced head wobbled on a neck seemingly too thin to hold it, then a bony hand came out of hiding and made a wide circle through the air. The eyes in that puffed face, which at first had looked unfocused, now centered on the Zacathan. A slobbering tongue crept out from between swollen lips and then a voice which was thick and hardly to be understood spoke a single word:

  "Give!"

  Zurzal ripped open one end of the drug bag and that wavering hand strove to flatten and hold steady as the Zacathan shook onto the palm a wad of seeds and leaves. Dropping some of the stuff in his haste, the man on the pallet crammed it into his mouth and those jaws so hidden by fatty tissue now moved as he chewed.

  The effect came within a few moments. The sagging body on the sleep mat sat straighter. There was a certain dim intelligence back in the eyes to be sighted in the constrained light through a half-masked window.

  "You—" The word was mumbled around that cud which the spacer still chewed.

  "As I promised," Zurzal returned calmly. "Enough of this to take you to the end—" He gave the bag a little shake and once more the smell of the drug was wafted about.

  The bulbous head nodded. "Fair—fair bargain." Then the mouth moved as the speaker spat the pulp of his chewing onto the rotting floor. "I have—" Now two hands emerged from his wrappings and he was tugging at that covering, pulling away from his body.