The flitter fell into a circling pattern and began to descend near a building some four stories high. It was not the stolid block of the city structure but rather a different design altogether. There had been some ornamentation about the windows and one could catch flashes of color through those as if they were curtained. Then their craft set down on a perch extending from the side of the building just under the rise of the top story. Facing them one of those windows had been expanded into a doorway by which a man in a brilliant yellow tunic stood waiting.
At the sight of the Zacathan he bowed—apparently the subterfuge that Zurzal was a welcome guest was to be carried on. Jofre was given a sharp dig in the ribs to send him after his employer as the flitter took off, just in time to clear a landing spot for that second craft which had followed them from the city.
The yellow-tunicked man was waving Zurzal in before him and a meaty hand on Jofre’s shoulder hurried him in the same direction. He gathered, by the placing of that goad and a certain tenseness of his two guards, that they did not want any passenger which the second craft might have brought to be seen.
She did not have to be seen. The strict training of years kept Jofre from any halt in his step. He did not turn his head as every atom of him wished. Here—! Who was she? What she was he knew from that faint whiff of scent which had reached him. Only in the Lairs was that distilled, to be one of the minor weapons of the Others—the Sisters, of whom he had seen exactly two in his full lifetime, and then only from a distance. Daughters were few in the Lair and those were born there, not recruited from the land at large as the Brothers mainly were in childhood. Their fabled prowess in their own field was the bed from which legend and rumor both grew mighty tales.
One of the issha—and a woman! He allowed his arm to swing loosely by his side, twice brushing the thigh of the guard who had herded him to the doorway. His forefinger and thumb moved. She might never sight that signal, nor sighting it, have any desire to reveal herself. Certainly she was here on a mission and he could not believe that that had anything to do with him or Zurzal. But the fact that she would be under the same roof—or so it would seem—was a new factor to be considered.
She certainly was not following them. He caught no trace of sound and that faint touch of scent on the air was gone as he passed into the room beyond that door. Nor did they linger there, for the Zacathan’s guide had already reached a matching portal on the other wall of the small chamber and was bowing Zurzal through. While Harse and his companion, paying no heed to any such formality, propelled Jofre along in their wake.
A twist down two corridors and they entered a room where the walls were an eye-searing riot of color, great sweeps of brushwork in vivid shades seeming applied with no reason in sometimes crisscrossing directions. The floor was thickly carpeted in a material possessing the texture of some kind of fur—and there was furniture gilded, carved, and inlaid, within tawdry splendor which fought valiantly with the walls. It was a room in which to keep the eyes shut if possible.
“Ask whatever you wish, Illustrious Learned One.” The man in the yellow tunic was speaking trade language in an oily voice which matched his moon-round face and thick-lipped mouth. “All is at your command.”
Jofre’s guards had not crossed the threshold; that hand on his shoulder had merely propelled him within. He stood where he was and Yellow Tunic had to take a side step to pass him in order to reach the door. As soon as that closed Jofre went into action. A single stride brought his ear flat against the panels and then he nodded. They had been locked in.
Zurzal’s snout grin was plain to read. He put the box he had refused to let anyone touch on a table which stood in the middle of the room.
“We are indeed honored guests,” the hiss underlay that observation.
Jofre had been forcing himself to eye those riotous walls. The Zacathan had been sure on board ship that they were under observation—how much more certain that must be here in the enemies’ own home territory. He had to blink and blink again; staring too intently at any of the swathes of color hurt his eyes. Perhaps that was exactly what was intended—to keep any inmate from a prolonged examination of the walls.
“For how long?” He thought he dared ask that aloud.
“For as long as is necessary to satisfy the Holder’s need of us.”
That was an answer which could be translated two ways and one of them deadly.
Jofre set himself to inspect their quarters. They had been favored with a suite, all lavishly furnished—including a room with a pool of water which bubbled a little at one end from which there arose a cloying scent. Zurzal stooped and dabbled a finger in that.
“Sooooo—Yes, we are indeed honored guests—and well prepared for. This might well be my Zoxan home quarters—even the vantan pool for relaxing.”
Jofre had gone on to another discovery. Although the walls of this building had been pierced by those windows he had sighted during the descending circle of the flitter, here there were no openings on the outer world at all. Nor was there any sign of another door such as the one through which they had entered the apartment. They were sealed in as much as if they had been escorted into some valley lord’s deepest dungeon.
There was a sound—Jofre’s head twisted so he looked to the wall from which that had come—a thin wailing, shrilling which made him wish to raise hands to cover ears. It slid up and down a scale worse than any Whine drum.
“Yessssss—all the comforts of home,” Zurzal continued. “Now that is the second movement of Zamcal’s Storm Symphony. It is a pity I am not a lover of Zamcal’s work—something a little lighter would be more to my taste.”
As abruptly as it had begun that wailing ended. Jofre shot a side glance at the Zacathan and saw a taloned finger move in assent. They were under observation. But he also commented aloud.
“It would seem, Learned One, that your voice is enough to summon or dismiss.”
“Yessss—how very enterprising of those who designed these quarters. We shall doubtless find much here for our benefit. Now, I see that our luggage, such as it is, has preceded us. Shall we deal with that?”
Jofre was surprised to discover that his own shoulder pack had indeed appeared along with Zurzal’s personal baggage. It had been ruthlessly ransacked and anything which could be classed by the inspector as a weapon had been taken. However, as he crouched on the floor, Jofre slipped his hand along the edge of the overflap and felt that reassuring resistance to his fingers. So—the Makwire remained to him and, even though it might be nothing against a stass gun, he felt a surge of satisfaction. Every inch of that hidden chain was known to him by weight, by feel, and he knew just what it could do in close quarters.
Zurzal was prosaically stacking his clothing and other belongings away in a chest but Jofre merely dragged his pack to one side, allowing his shoulders to sag as he did so. If he were in luck, any watcher would believe that he learned of his weaponless state and was cast down by it.
It had been midafternoon when they had earthed on Tssek—it must now be close to evening. Where was that other he was now sure was under this same roof—and what did she prepare—and for whom?
She was making herself felt indeed. One glance at walls, nearly as violently disfigured as those in the Zacathan’s suite, had brought an instant and vigorous protest. Screens had been hurriedly found and set here and there and even lengths of cloth hung to cover those eye-torturing lines. Her own baggage was extensive and she refused to allow the maidservant they had produced to touch most of the contents, inspecting the girl’s hands disdainfully and dismissing them as being too rough to be entrusted with her fine belongings.
All the time she was bending these Tssekians to her will in this enjoyable fashion, another part of her mind had fastened on one thing. Those other two, plainly prisoners who had preceded her from the ship to this place. One was a Zacathan, so of course, the one Sopt s’Qu had been so vocal about. The other one—Without thinking her right forefinger touched the thumb beside it
. Issha—! She had been right. And—surely it would be too much of a coincidence to believe that this was other than that outlaw Zarn had been so intent on eliminating. He was certainly taller than any of the Brothers she had seen—but she must be wary. To make any move before one knew one’s path was the way of a fool.
Besides her own mission must and would come first. She would take the first step to insure that this very night.
The messenger they had expected arrived at last. As the man who had ushered them into these quarters, he wore a yellow tunic, this also garnished by gold lace as if he strove in part to outglitter the walls about.
“Illustrious Learned Ones,” he introduced himself, “I am Dat s’Lern at your service. Is all to your liking?” He addressed the Zacathan only, but his eyes had lingered for a second on Jofre who sat cross-legged against the wall, his shoulders a little hunched, his demeanor very much of one helpless and sulking because of it.
“Your hospitality, Dat s’Lern, leaves nothing to be desired,” returned Zurzal blandly, “except of course the small matter of our freedom.”
“Freedom? But, Illustrious Learned One, that is, of course, entirely yours—”
“In return for?” Zurzal was lounging in one of the easirests, showing no form of polite return to any effusiveness the other might offer.
“In return for your word, Learned One, your word that you will be willing to await a peaceful meeting with our Leader.” The man’s right arm swung up in a stiff salute. “He wishes nothing but your comfort, truly, Learned One. This is his country place for rest and relaxation; it has many amenities; please make yourself free of any you wish to sample. Your—guard, however—” That stare was turned once more in Jofre’s direction.
“Yesssss—” Zurzal hissed as the man paused, “What of my guard? You have left him empty handed, disarmed. Do the noted warriors of Tssek fear attack by his bare hands?”
“Learned One, it is only by special favor that he shares your quarters. The regulations state that personal guards are permitted only by the favor of the Holder and he does not give that often. Perhaps—since your service is about to mean so much to him, he may make an exception. However, even if your guard is made free of this place, he will bear no arms; that is forbidden!
“Now, Learned One,” he had stepped back towards the door, “I am to summon you to a meeting with the Holder; he has most graciously invited you to share his evening meal The Holder lives simply here—he does not dine formally, rather wishes to be able to converse easily with those he has a particular desire to meet.”
Zurzal arose from the easirest. “Since I have also a particular desire to meet him at the present moment, this is very fortunate. Lead on, House Master.”
As the Zacathan passed Jofre his hand shaped the message: “Watch out!”
As if he needed such, Jofre thought, with a small bitterness—though his NOT watching out, being prepared for all eventualities, had landed them right here. The door closed behind the Zacathan and the Tssekian, and he was left to brood.
Except brooding was a waste of time. Either his eyes had become somewhat accustomed to those flashing walls or else some of the strident color had been dimmed. Perhaps the whole effect was meant to distract newcomers into these apartments, throw them somewhat off guard. Now he made no move to rise from his position near floor level but he began a squinting survey of the nearest spread of flashed, crooked lines, and splashes of raw color.
Within a short time he believed he had located at least two spy holes in that length. Jofre gave his eyes a rest by centering outward sight on his two motionless hands and concentrating the inner strength. He was alert enough not to be startled when the door slid open—foresense had given the proper alarm.
Harse entered with a tray which he dumped unceremoniously down on the top of the table. He stood, hands on his hips, fingers brushing in passing significantly against his festoon of belt weapons, his thickish lips snarling as he stared at Jofre. Then he grunted something in the guttural local tongue and went out.
The issha-trained needed no ear to door to assure himself that he was locked in—perhaps even with a guard at ready. But—his tongue swept across his lips as if he savored the seldom known taste of lar honey—he could have taken Harse. He knew that as certainly as if the action had been carried out in full.
One studied each tiny movement of the enemy, each flicker of eye, which foreran action. These Tssekians made so plain their contempt for their opponents, their overwhelming confidence in their abilities, that they held and handled themselves as awkwardly and transparently as the youngster new come to the Lair arms court. Yes, he could take Harse—and when the time came he would. But he must know more of what lay beyond that door.
With the quiet pad tread of a hunting ossack Jofre went to the table and uncovered the dishes. Drugs? Poisons? He did not think the latter—but the former might just be in the Holder’s program for keeping his unwilling guests under control.
There was a rich and mouth-watering savor rising from the larger plate. Jofre touched fingertip into the thick gravy about the chunks of unidentified meat there, and transferred that taste with a lick of his tongue. Though each world might have its narcotic drugs—with all those of Asborgan he was familiar, he could sense nothing of that like here. But—
Jofre thrust fingers into his girdle and freed the talisman from Qaw-en-itter. It was the only touchstone he had and assha matters were quick to warn of danger. Hiding what he did by cupping the stone within his palm, he passed it closely over the dish and then squinted between his fingers at the stone’s surface. There was no hint of life within that ovoid though it felt warm to his hand as it always did. So—well, life was full of chances—he had long ago been rendered immune to the poisons of Asborgan—he could hope that held here. They had supplied him with no eating knife and his own was gone. He was forced to use his fingers as might any land grubber who shared a common pot, but he ate, slowly and chewing each bit to the limit, alert to any change of taste in any mouthful, though that did not come.
They had supplied him with a square of cloth on which he could wipe his greasy hands, and as he did so with slow strokes he went back to his study of the walls, through narrowed eyes as if that lethargy which comes from a full stomach was already creeping over him.
CHAPTER 13
“ILLUSTRIOUS LADY,” that girl actually stuttered and she had a harsh voice into the bargain. If she who now named herself Taynad Jewelbright was to be properly served, she would have something to say about the selecting of her servants. These off-world lar beetles were going to step smartly to her gripharp sooner or later.
Taynad was surprised, however, though of course she would not show it, at the summons that pompous fool of a house master had just delivered. She had expected a first interview in private, not to be told to report to a food table and eat in public—even a valley lord had better manners than to approach the highest rank of Jewelbright so. But what could be expected from those who had no proper issha shaping?
The robe she had long ago selected for this first meeting must be the one, though it was not entirely proper for such an occasion. However, one would not expect this Holder to be aware of the nice graduations of formal robing as practiced in a Jewel House.
She stood to allow this inept maid to settle it over her shoulders, but for the rest she pushed the girl away and clasped her own girdle, plucked the hold collar into just the proper angle, and then leaned forward towards the wide mirror—at least they had not stinted her there—to place the moryen gem on her forehead. Moving back a little she examined her whole reflection with a very critical eye.
Her specially bleached skin was faintly rose under its firm ivory surface. The hair so carefully cared for and induced to grow over the years to a proper length for a true Jewelbright beauty was very dark in contrast to the ever-changing colors of her near transparent garment, but it was not black, rather when she moved there were glints in it of deep rich red. Her features were well sh
aped and had been schooled into the masklike expression to be worn in open company.
Well enough, she had prepared her weapons—now it was to the arms court to see how well those could be used. She saw the maid’s face reflected over her shoulder in the mirror as she arose fluidly. The stupid child was in the proper state of awe—let her hope that a like effect would fall on the company waiting to be met.
The maid hurried to open the door and Taynad swept through, the veiling which was her gown swirling in ever-changing color about her. At least she was being given a proper entourage. There were four of the hefty guards statue still at attention, their eyes not daring to follow her, as they came to life and fell in about her. While the house master trotted like an ushound back to his master at the fore of their small procession.
They passed down the hall, passing several open or half-open doorways and Taynad was well aware that she was on view. She also fed upon the emotions which the sight of her awoke. Easy—easy these Tssekians—it certainly must be that they were totally unacquainted with the Jewelbright. Were all their women as clumsy and heavy bodied as the servant they had inflicted on her? She probably had no rival, though she must not be overconfident. Sometimes the tastes of off-worlders ran in strange patterns.
The house master ushered her into a high-ceilinged room with the same color-scrawled walls which made her suppress a shudder. In the exact center of what seemed an overlong room for the purpose was a dais crowned by a table and several chairs, each one upholstered in a vivid color which inclined to war with the hue of its neighbors.