by Andre Norton
Now the color was draining out of the band. It became wrinkled as ashy spots grew on it. Then both layers of it thinned, flaked away as might ashes from a burning. Only on his flesh there remained a brand, red as a burn. That which had held him prisoner was gone and Farree's medley of thoughts could be sorted out into messages again.
Togger! He quested outward.
"Bad—" He managed to pick up that, but it came very faint and low.
What followed then they all heard clearly, having no need this time for any disc or connected line of search: A cry which was not of the mind but rather had broken from a throat of flesh.
"Ahhhhh!"
Togger! Not that cry from him. Rather another mind send: A sensation of being held tightly, of being flung through the air—
"Fool!" They could hear the snap of that voice without any aid. "Spaquet!" There was a blurred mind image of a pale animal bulk plodding into a thick soup of mud.
"The little one"—Zoror's hiss of whisper came as he moved to restore the silver talon into his belt pouch—"he has struck one—I believe he who was the spider of this net weaving. What weapon has Togger, little brother?"
"Poison—on his foreclaws." There must be more than a lethal dose available now, for Farree had never tried to milk away thin yellow beads of moisture which Russtif had always forced from the claws when he had kept Togger captive.
"Soooo." The Zacanthan crossed the floor with noiseless tread and Vorlund slipped aside to let Zoror reach the outer door. "This one so assaulted will die?" He had put out a hand and drew Farree away from the spacer and closer to him.
The youth was rubbing his hands together, wriggling his shoulders, reversing as best he could the spreading of his wings, back into a burden the cloak would cover once more. "Will this one die?" repeated the Zacanthan. Farree shook his head. He felt as tired as if he had marched all day through a Nexus swamp. It took much of the will left in him even to stand and then turn his mind to what might be happening in the other room.
"I do not know," he answered. "There is a poison—but to some life forms it might not be deadly. There is so much difference—" He let that explanation die away while he rubbed his hand across the brand left upon his other wrist. "What may promise death to one kind, may be no more than the bites of a Lugk fly to another. Togger!" He went from words to mind call.
There was an answer, but it was very hazy and he could not understand. At least that meant that the smux was still alive.
"Let him lie," again the voice speaking clearly instead of in a deep rumble. Whatever had cloaked those within these walls must have gone. "He was without a useful thought, a helpful bit of action. Now—get you down to that hole where he burrowed and bring me back—" Not words but rather a series of clicks followed.
"They may be searching, High One." That voice verged on a whine and was certainly from the magician.
"If so it is better that you not be caught, is that not the truth? Remember, we have our own methods for resisting capture—the body can fall into the hands of those who would stand against us—but the mind, ah, now, that is a very different thing. You have seen what you have seen of that, is that not so? A certain ship owner from the Circle—"
"High One, no—I will go. But what of that thing which has done this to Guide? Should we not seek it out and—"
"And die? You seem doubly eager to bring down upon you evils this night, Ioque. Almost one could believe that you yourself had hints of how one might safely use that crawler."
"Not so!"
"You speak that like an Oath of Heart Blood, Ioque. Look out when below where that went out the window if you still tremble with fears. Bring your heel down on its head—"
"But, High One, was it not your saying that this creature might bring to us what we want? Did not the scout swear that the thing belonged to him we have been tracing?"
"At least your memory works, Ioque. But deal with it as you will. We no longer need it."
"How—?"
"With ease." Once more the voice went even higher as if to address a party. "Thus!"
Farree fell to his knees as if his bones had suddenly turned too soft to supply any support. As before he was helpless in the clutch of something invisible which enfolded him both without and within.
It was Maelen who caught and steadied him, once more with her hands on his shoulders. While from the fingers of those hands there poured into him new energy. With a gasp he stiffened and clung in spirit to what she gave him.
There was a new battle in him. He must seek the source of this weakness—if he crawled on his hands and knees to do so—which was a dark urging, and meet it with what remnants of power he still possessed, awakened and armed by Maelen as she fed into his mind belief in his ability.
The room was gone, as if wiped away by a giant hand. He was caught up in a swirl of color, and somehow that in itself made him able to think—or feel—or—what was it—a dream?
There were winged ones in the air. As they dipped and soared or alighted near him he felt a vast peace—or perhaps only the shadow of it—that he was a part of an enduring something which had no failure—which had been, was, and ever would be!
He could not see the faces of those who danced with and on the wind; there seemed ever to be a glittering mist which enshrouded them when he looked too closely. Yet he did not doubt that he was one of them and that this was his own place. He strove to use his own wings, to mount and become a true part of their game, or dance, or the ceremony which he knew was of great meaning and needed only concentration to give up a truth greater than anything he had known before.
How long was he in that place of color, life, and peace? If it were only a moment or two then it possessed a kind of energy which itself vanquished time—the time which ruled the world he knew.
There came a sudden flurry and the winged ones gathered together to face him as if they had but that moment become aware that he was there.
From them came wind-carried bands of color. These swirled around him yet did not touch his body. Instead they wove a pattern as among them spun in turn bits of gutter. This glitter did not float purposelessly but rather came to hang unsupported in the air until he looked upon something which was a distinct pattern and about which there glowed light of another kind, green and white. Each of the bits were stilled in turn and hung quietly before him while he knew, though he did not know why, that this was a thing he must use—
The color, the place, the dancers—gone! What had he seen—with his eyes, or with his mind? He could not have said. But he knew that what he had seen did exist; and there was growing now a new ache within him, an ache like the hunger his body had once known which had come to be a part of him, in the dark days of his previous life.
"Come—" Who said that? One of the winged ones whom he could not see? Or was it an actual voice in his ears? Come—to that place—Yes, with all his heart he would reach for it now.
He was suddenly as aware of a force restraining his body as he had been of the place beyond the darkness. But this was not a holding within him as that other had been, but rather the pressure of hands upon him. He blinked and then blinked again and saw that he was back in the room where Maelen stood behind him, Zoror before, looking down at him with what could only be concern in his large green-gold eyes. The terrible fatigue which had struck Farree was gone. Rather he was filled with an eagerness to be gone—where he was not yet sure, only that he must answer that new hunger which had come.
Without his willing it his right hand twitched. His hand rose and the index finger pointed to the door while the brand the scarf had left on his flesh warmed and there seemed to be even a faint glow from it. "What—" Vorlund spoke first.
"No!" Zoror shook his head, his neck frill extended to its full extent. "There will be time later for questions and answers. For now we shall find us a way back, one that no eyes shall light upon when we take it. You can go?" He addressed that last to Farree.
Shaking a little the other stirred in Maelen's hold. Her ha
nds moved to help to draw him back to his feet.
He shook his head a fraction and fought for steadiness, for the world about him had a tendency to heave and to flicker. "I can go—but there is Togger."
"Call now," the Zacanthan returned. Farree sent forth that mental signal which had so long made a bridge between his mind and that of the smux. He hardly dared believe that he would be answered. Yet there came to him a clearer signal than any he had used to locate his companion before this evening.
"Out—wait—out. Big one—throw through hole—out—" A longer message than he had ever received and yet one he was certain was true meant, not sent to entice him into the hands of those others.
Vorlund had gone to the door. Now he opened it a crack and stood listening, perhaps for both any sound and with his mind for a hint that they were facing trouble once more. Looking over his shoulder he nodded and slipped quickly into the hall beyond.
There was no one to be heard or sensed. However, Vorlund did not withdraw to the stairs, as Farree saw as they followed the spacer. Rather he slipped along the wall towards the closed door of that other chamber. Maelen reached out and tapped Zoror on the wrist but the Zacanthan was already on his way. As they all wore soft-soled foot coverings and not the heavy metal-soled boots of the space borne, they did not raise a whisper of sound.
Once more Zoror planted his spy disc against the other door and stood statue still, the others as frozen behind him. Then with a quick nod he lingered the door itself and that portal opened, letting them look into a larger room. There was a slit of a window and through that came not only the seething smells of this muck heap, but also the sound of the settlement which was more alive at night than by day.
At first Farree thought the room was empty and he wondered how the inhabitants had gotten past their own hiding place without revealing their passage. Then he came two steps in on Maelen's heels and saw the crumpled body by the far wall. The man's face was swollen and flushed purple on one cheek, his eyes fastened in their direction. Dead eyes! It would seem that Togger's defense against this particular enemy had struck nearly twice as potently as Farree had ever seen it before.
The dead man held no interest for Vorlund. He was across the room in a hurry, edging by the body and coming to the wall against which it huddled. His hands were out and he traced with arm sweeps and the tops of his fingers that barrier itself.
"A hidden door, yes," Zoror nodded. "Though I would say he is long gone."
"Do we go hence also?" Maelen wanted to know. The Zacanthan reached above and beyond Vorlund's shoulder to rasp his talons along that stained and crumbling surface.
"I think not."
"Togger—" Farree had no intention of withdrawal until he was sure of the smux's safety. He certainly could have been flung through that slit of a window but that did not mean that he would otherwise be hidden from harm where he to fall to the way below.
Thought might have been a shout in summons. There was a hump which appeared at the sill of that window and the smux clambered through, taking off in one of the leaps his kind could make when they were forced to it. He reached Farree and a moment later was clinging to his chest, all but two of the spike-mounted eyes retreating into cover.
Farree was quick to put the smux into a safer perch in an inner pocket of the cape. Only those stalked eyes protruded enough to follow what he did.
They slipped along the outer hall. The light supplied by the bowls pulsated but was strong enough to let them edge safely down the staircase. Again Vorlund took the lead, peering out the door first while holding it partly closed. He beckoned at last to the others, but there was a look of concentration on both his face and that of Maelen, as if they prepared to face a struggle or some wily attack. It was now Zoror who kept a hand on Farree's shoulder under the bunch of the cape, drawing him forward.
They were out again in the muck of the lane and Vorlund had his back against the wall. He had no weapon, but his hands were out in a position Farree had seen before. There were tricks of attack and defense which could be wrought by muscle alone which were as effective as any delivered by steel. Spacers were adept in such as well as in an array of weapons. Those who were prudent never questioned that they could return in full any attack upon them which did not begin with them at once rendered unconscious in some manner.
Just as Farree had been led here earlier by a silent compulsion which no longer existed, so was he now being moved away. He strove to throw off that feeling that he must obey some strange order as delivered by an unknown voice. From that pocket at the level of his chest he felt Togger changing position and there nibbled at his mind a thought which certainly might have been from or relayed by the smux.
"Go—far– "
"We go—at least from here," he returned by mind touch, setting his own pace to match the Zacanthan's. Maelen was now in the advance of their party and Vorlund was behind. They might have been guards escorting some VIP whose life was under threat.
Farree himself could hardly believe that they were withdrawing without facing an attack, and he was about to question this when the Zacanthan drew him close as Maelen had held him earlier. He saw the lips of the wide mouth shape a word, for they were hurrying past a smoking torch.
"We are followed. Take care."
Farree held out his hand and felt Togger's claws close gently upon his finger not with the poisoned claws but lesser ones. Moving more awkwardly than usual the smux allowed himself to be hoisted out of the pocket and settled on the front of Farree's jerkin. If they were attacked now the smux would have a better chance for defense.
However, the need for that did not come. They were past the trader's wrecked booth. Then the magician's tipsy platform was also behind them. They quickened pace until once more the smooth surface of the port gate was underfoot. Here lights blazed and they must pass in that full glare. If they were still followed their tracker would have no difficulty keeping them in sight.
For the first time Farree dared to try mind seek. Instantly his sending or searching was cut off by the heavy power of the Zacanthan. He did not need any further instructions to keep silence.
They were in the main room of the port now and there were enough travelers, staff, and guards, to form a crowd so that the four from the port slum could weave back and forth among them. Farree knew what they would do. In any place such as this where there were minds in a number—their owners intent on affairs only of consequence to themselves– this should provide shield for their own passage, as long as they could blend their own identities into that of travelers interested only upon reaching some important destination. Swiftly he withdrew behind a simulacrum of his own constructive thought, a servant eager to finish a task for a departing master, then to be on his own for the night. He had not had much practice in such action but he had been introduced to part-playing roles by Maelen and knew a little. His companions were adept at this and he was certain that they could draw about them cloaks of hallucination as strong in their way as the fabric one he clung to. But he longed to turn and look behind, to test his own power of unmasking any pursuers.
The Guild—of a certainty those they watched for would be of Guild employment. On Yiktor the game of that mighty force had been spent by what Maelen and Krip could summon—with some help from him, and the smux, and the two other animals who had become Maelen's people in fur, rejoicing to be numbered so. Only even there the Guild had had their defense—a man-made thing which could deflect any mental probe and protect the wearer from such interference.
His memories of that—No! That could provide a counter to what they needed now. Farree expelled memory. He made himself once more into the persona which he had seized upon earlier—a servant, hurrying to deliver a message. Yes, that was surely who and what he was.
They came down the length of that very long room and passed through the gate where those only visiting the port would exit—avoiding the passengers' section. Zoror's talons on his right hand tapped out a call on the credit dial about h
is wrist. A carrier swung out of the line of vehicles moving slowly towards their take off. Fighting the desire to rush for the escape that promised, Farree controlled his anxious need to be away, in order to follow Maelen and the Zacanthan at a reasonable pace. They had all boarded the craft and Zoror had tapped out their destination before Krip said:
"Human and yet not—Terran to the eighth degree in body. Something else in mind."
Maelen nodded. "Off-world—and with a different mind pattern from any we have crossed." She looked to the Zacanthan as if she expected he would know the proper answer to the identity of the follower they had detected in their careful search.
"A Plantgon—" Zoror said.
Krip's lips shaped a whistle and Maelen looked as if she would deny Zoror's identification.
"How—"
The Zacanthan shook his head. "His shield is very complete. I might have pried a little and learned more, but then he, too, would be aware that we are not altogether without the same defenses and weapons. Yes, he is one– No, in that I am wrong—it is one such as we seldom have here. That it passed the port detectors makes it formidable enough for us. It is plus ten to be able to reach a place where it will have all the defenses known to a great many more races than live or have lived. We may be grateful to some explorer whose wind-blown ashes have fallen into the smallest of tracing and whose race and time can only be guessed at. There is one place where even a Plantgon, and I know all which had been said and guessed about them, cannot pierce with either mind or dream body."
They were winging, at the speed allowed in the fast lanes, straight for the headquarters of the Zacanthan study team. Farree relaxed. He had heard one or two whispers concerning Plantgons but he was not quite sure what they might be. However, if the name meant so much to those about him they truly must be formidable opponents.
Chapter Five
What have we then?" Zoror was settled in an easiseat which accommodated itself to his body. He held in one hand a blackish-skinned fruit into the skin of which had been inserted a tube from which he sucked now and then. His companions of the late adventure were all occupied with restoratives, each matched to taste of the drinker.
