"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 weld-worm 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 innuendo.
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.
Then that was in his hand with one quick movement.
"Away—" he made that sound almost a whistle and the Jat obeyed instantly, leaping backward to them.
The spat of fire caught the bundle cleanly and from that core of flame burst smoke and a strange scent—Taynad found herself coughing, her head shaking from side to side as if she could banish that odor or escape it so.
Smoke and flame were gone, there was nothing left but a charred black mark on the stone where the Jat had rolled it. The Holder, blaster still in hand, stood over that now, looking down at the charring.
"Sooo—" he said again. "Here—?" He made a question of that last word but Taynad had a feeling that it was not addressed to her. Then he came back to her.
"Fair One, it seems that this servant of mine," he snapped his fingers and the Jat moved closer so that he could draw his hand caressingly across its rounded skull between those two stiffly up-pointed ears, "has nosed out some contrivance which was ill meant. This place,"
he lifted his head and stared beyond her at the rich wealth of growing, blossoming life, "was meant as a sanctuary—but even here there is no safety. I must crave your pardon, for this is a thing which must be carefully examined and I must ask you now to excuse me."
He escorted her with punctilious ceremony back within the building and then left her with the guards and that maid she could not yet rid herself from, dismissing her so in a way she found irritating. He was not going to explain just what menace he had blasted out of their path, that she had to accept. But it did not please her—there was too much in his attitude now of one who considered her only something to be thought of in an idle hour, not a real part of his life. That lack of true interest inher she must deal with, and by every way she knew. She must become more important to the Holder than the Jat or the blaster—far more.
Though they had not left their quarters (they probably would not have been permitted to do so, Jofre had thought from the first) the two prisoners were aware that much must be going on in the fortress-palace. Jofre strove to free senses for outer-questing—always an uncertain thing but needed now. He must assess what he could pick up—at least a little of what was in progress. Issha touch caught—as if a fog invisible to the eye but very apparent to one's inner consciousness seeped through the walls. Something which brought with it the same feeling of ever-abiding dangers and evil as hung over the dark alley of the Stinkhole. Save that there he had been free to defend, and here he could not even be sure of what weapon the enemy might produce—or whether there was but one major enemy or more to be reckoned with.
He firmly dismissed all conjectures and concentrated on his inner exercises. The Makwire was always there in his girdle for seeking fingers, and those very fingers themselves were ready to be weapons. The Zacathan for the first time showed signs of worry, prowling back and forth across the room, going now and then to inspect every inch of the scanner as if he expected it to be somehow invisibly attacked unless he kept a careful watch.
They were fed from trays brought by guards, though Harse was not in charge, rather the fetching and carrying was done under the supervision of an officer who did not address them and whom the Zacathan made no attempt to question. The food was good and Jofre was almost sure that it could not have been tampered with. This close to the time when Zurzal's skill with the scanner would be demanded, the Tssekians certainly would not in any way attempt to drug them.
Three times Zurzal called again for the tape Sopt s'Qu had supplied of the scene of the Great Ingathering and sat for a long space of time before it in study, as if by his will alone he could somehow transfer that picture to the scanner and have it appear when desired. Yet it was always the same and the Zacathan would shut it off with a hiss of exasperation.
His neck frill was in constant agitation and the colors, while not bright, ran through a variety of hues. Zurzal was not taking this waiting with the same philosophical adaption to circumstances as he had earlier shown. Jofre debated concerning a second assay at exploration by night and decided against it. The Zacathan was plainly not ready to settle in and he had no desire to leave the other alone.
In spite of his attempts to forget her, his own thoughts played with the puzzle of the Jewelbright. That she was assuredly issha he had not the least doubt, yet she had not responded to his Slip-shadow recognition signal— if she had seen it and somehow he believed that she had. That she was on an oathed mission must be the truth—otherwise she would not be here—no issha would willingly leave Asborgan on some whim. No, she had been introduced into the Holder's household for a very definite purpose, even as others of her Sisters had from time to time found themselves in the halls of lords they were oathed either to protect or bring down. And somehow Jofre did not believe that this one was here to protect—no.
He felt a certain frustration that he could not share his speculations and doubts. Not only did there remain the fact that they might be constantly under observation through the loopholes those violently patterned walls contained but he had no right to interfere or betray another oathed.
They spent a restless night and in the morning Zurzal attempted to view the world through that screening device Jofre had earlier watched.
"That is their monument to the past." The Zacathan identified a building which flashed onto the screen while a voice blared out in the native tongue a stream of words so fast Jofre could identify perhaps only one in ten.
The screen viewed the structure from slightly above, as if they were seated in a flitter swinging in there for a landing. Jofre caught sight of something to the far right.
"Spaceport!" He was sure that he had seen, through an opening between that forest of grim buildings, the rise of a ship on pad.
"Yesssss—" the hiss of the Zacathan was low. "To the south, I think."
They would surely be transported again by flitter Jofre believed. If they made their move, once aboard that, could they hope to reach the port? But what good would that do—
Zurzal might have picked that question out of his mind. "There is a Prime Control base there—otherwise off-world ships could not land. Reaching that—"
"The Patrol would protect us?" Jofre allowed his doubt of that to be plainly read in his tone. "The port at Wayright must have been patrolled—yet here we are."
Zurzal nodded. "Yesssss—that is ssssooo—but we were but helpless baggage then and they treated us as such."
"And as we come in with blasters ablaze and demand aid here—" Jofre could not believe that the other could be so naive as to believe that.
"I am Zacathan," Zurzal said. "My race has immunity on most worlds. Also, when we raise our voices, planet lords listen. I think we would have a very good chance to claim sanctuary."
"But first we have to get out of there—" Jofre jerked his thumb to the scene on the screen. That had changed somewhat. They were now looking at the loom of the building from ground level facing an impressive flight of stairs. And those were occupied, with rows of statue-straight, well-armed guards, and behind them a massing of people moving restlessly back and forth as might waves kept out by the barriers of a portside landing.
"Just ssssoooo—" replied Zurzal, but he was looking now, not towards the screen, but at Jofre. If the latter had also been befrilled that appendage might have gone into a rising flap. He was being challenged in a way and he found that there was that within him which was rising with a fierce eagerness to meet that challenge.
THE TSSEKIANS, IT WOULD APPEAR, HAD ALSO foreseen that the task of ferrying Zurzal, Jofre, and the scanner to the place where they wanted them was going to be a problem. Perhaps they could not reduce the two to the point of becoming baggage to be towed around with impunity, but they mustered such a guard that each of the off-worlders was wedged in between two towering Tssekians and under constant eyes of those matching step with them.
There was no way in this compact and ever vigilant company, Jofre had to admit to himself, that he could make a move towards freedom. When the flitter landed them in a cleared space which guards held open with cracks of riot staffs before the steps of the Ingathering hall, he needed only to see that seething sea of a crowd to realize that massed bodies alone could wall them from escape.
Through the subdued roar of the voices about them even the commands of their guards did not carry and they were shoved in the direction of the steps leading upward.
So they came into the long hall which had been shown them on the viewer. There was the dais, the chairs which had been midpoint of that older scene, but there was no one on that perch now. Gathered below and to one side was a clot of brightly uniformed men with here and there a woman in rich robes and bejeweled. To the fore of that small assembly was the Holder with the Jewelbright a step or two behind him, the Jat reaching up one paw to grasp the edge of his brilliant golden tunic.
Between the newcomers and the chair was a spiderweb of wires, interlocking a number of installations all set at different angles and heights but meant to focus on the dais. These were under
the control of men also in uniform but intolerant of the guards, giving harsh orders now and then.
"They prepare the broadcast." Zurzal had somehow managed to come near to Jofre.
They certainly must be very sure of the results they wished, the Slip-shadow thought. But how could they be? There was some trick in this—there must be. Only he could not ferret out what it was nor how it would work.
The guards pushed the two of them on, Zurzal insisting on carrying the scanner as usual. They had to be careful of those crossing lines on the pavement as they advanced. Zurzal opened the case; Jofre, as before, unrolled and made ready the supports. The Zacathan lingered on sighting the scanner so that it was aimed at just the angle he wished. Behind them rang out orders from one of the broadcast experts.
Jofre shot a glance to the left. The Holder looked at perfect ease, exuding such an air of confidence that Jofre's own wariness became like a taut string within him. He continued to steady the scanner with his right hand but his left rested on his knee not too far from the end of the Makwire in his girdle.
Having made a last finicky adjustment, the Zacathan turned his head toward the Holder and nodded.
Jofre had turned his attention in another direction— in time to see one of those attendants at the nearest of the broadcaster machines hurriedly slip a cone over the forepoint of his machine. Had there been a mistake in the setup that must be remedied at once? The off-worlder had no idea how those machines worked but there was something in that hasty action which, to his watchful eyes, presented a suggestion of trouble.
Their guards were impatiently motioned away by those running the other machines, though there were protests until one of the officers from that brilliant group marched over and snapped an order which made them move. Zurzal and Jofre were alone well beyond arm's length of any of the Tssekians for the first time since they had left their quarters.
Brother To Shadows m-5 Page 15
