Brother To Shadows

There was clearly no move he might make now; he must wait until he could work around or break whatever the compulsion was which held him so pinned. But he could hold to the Inner core and so far had been able to survive. While a man lived there was always chance— which favored one who was ready to seize upon it.

How long they were airborne Jofre could not tell. It was much lighter and though he could not turn his head and dared not even lift those eyelids more than a slit high, he surveyed what he could of his surroundings.

The craft on which he was unwilling cargo was just that, a transport for cargo. And it had at least three passengers besides him and the limp and silent Zurzal. Two of them crossed his very restricted line of vision. One was Harse, and the other could be his twin. The third member of the party remained at an angle behind where Jofre lay and he could not see who it might be. But Harse's presence made plain that this dawn raid was a ploy of the Tssekians.

The lift gave a sudden drop, bringing Harse, who was in line of sight at that particular moment, to mutter a guttural sound or two and clutch at the rail, waist high, behind him. Another downward fall and they landed on some surface, with force enough to raise Jofre's body a fraction from the lift flooring and let him slam back again.

That slight change in the angle of his carefully masked sight showed him a tall reach of space-scoured metal. They had made landing close to a ship. Having done so, they were now in a hurry to get this particular cargo on board. Harse and his fellow ducked under the rail and then showed again with boxes which they dumped on the lift. One on the top tottered and fell forward, its weight bringing a red wave of pain through Jofre's leg. Once more the lift arose and was maneuvered closer to the side of the sky-towering ship. And into the cargo hatch of that he was slung along with the Zacathan, though the latter was immediately carried out of Jofre's very limited sight.

Harse appeared again, turned Jofre's body over with a kick and proceeded to search him for weapons. His belt knife and sleeve knives were jerked out, and hands felt over him but the Tssekian seemed to be quickly satisfied that his prey was now totally unarmed—too satisfied.

Though much of what Jofre could depend upon for offense and defense was gone, no issha was unarmed as long as he had control of his body. To regain that was the immediate task in hand. Jofre had not dared to experiment with even the smallest move while he had been under the eyes of his captors. But his hearing was slowly sharpening once more and he could detect now the sound of metal-shod space boots going away. Nor had they apparently left any guard.

He had been able to straighten the fingers of that hand which lay against the hidden talisman. Which was a suggestion he could not overlook. In his mind Jofre built a picture of that oval stone as he had studied it many times over. The dead, opaque darkness of it did not repel, rather it drew attention, as if there was a need within it—

The stone—dare he cut concentration from his surroundings to focus fully on that? Yet he felt that such a reckless move was the only one left for him to make.

Thus it was—his inner sight shut out the world, concentrated on the mental picture of the stone—he sought thus with all the intensity of assha strength of mind.

His hand raised a fraction from where it had fallen across his body when they dumped him here. The fingers moved in one of the Six Signs, those which led to the Great Call. Still he held the stone in mind grasp—thus it looked, thus it was!

The second hand tingled as life returned. He was dimly aware of that and raised it to join the other, so that the fingers could interlock in the pattern of "Seeking Strength of Mountain Winds."

He drew each breath a little deeper, moving sore ribs where that kick had struck. Slowly, with infinite care, he shifted one leg and then the other. There was a dim light in this cubby, enough for him to see boxes and containers which might be cargo or supplies. There was air enough to breathe, there was—

Jofre's body tensed and then he forced it to relax. That sound through the walls. This ship was taking off and, unprotected by any cushioned seat in a passengered cabin, he must face the brutal pressure of lift-off.

It came as a blow delivered by a giant fist and brought with it darkness. All he had so painfully won was negated in an instant.

In one of the upper cabins a woman lay breathing shallowly, her face drawn into a grimace. Then they were planet free, but she did not immediately loose herself from those restraining straps which had assured her safety. Her strained grimace was now a frown and she had the appearance of one listening.

At length she shook her head, as if denying some disturbing thought, and did arise from her resting place. Only to reseat herself cross-legged, her hands lying one on each knee. The movements of her body were now infinitesimal yet they were following a pattern as formal as might have part of a ritual dance. Her face had smoothed into a mask, ivory pale, in which blacklashed eyes were closed. The brilliant scarlet lines of her lips moved, shaping words which carried no sound. She began to sway back and forth at a more noticeable rate now. Her hands lifted— were held out before her. However, she did not open her closed eyes to watch the intricate patterns she threaded finger-wise through the air.

This was good—good! She could feel the power rising in her, arming her as these off-world louts could never dream one might be—

There came a shock, sudden, hard. Her eyes opened wide, her mouth shaped a cry which was not uttered. NO! This was impossible—beyond all knowledge—this could not exist—here!

Zarn—almost as swiftly as her thoughts had been interrupted and her weave strength shattered, her mind tugged at memory. Was—this what Zarn hinted at when he tried to seduce her from her mission and send her on a quest he merely hinted at?

She was frowning again, calling on every scrap of that memory. Truly Zarn had been excited to a point she had never seen. And the Shagga priests—they prided themselves highly on their imperturbability. But here—on this ship? The last time she had touched that kind of power had been back in Rama-di-frong when she had fronted the Lair Master and been given this assignment, proud that she would be a pioneer in off-world dealing. This was something which was so incredible that it must not be allowed to go unnoted, direct as her mission was.

Reaching for a box of prismatically glittering metal clamped for safety on a shelf behind her, she loosened its thumb lock and brought out a round hand mirror, raising it to the level of her face, inspecting her reflection critically. She had no vanity; that was never a part of issha training and was quickly dealt with whenever it arose. What she did now was view one of her weapons carefully. She had value and she could raise that value; she had been trained since childhood in the various ways she might use that particular weapon.

Now, she allowed the mirror to fall to her knee and gazed sightlessly at the near wall of the cabin. This new mystery—it was intriguing and demanding, yet it must not get in the way of her assignment—nothing must defeat that! However, these Tssekians were not particularly clever. Devious, yes; truly clever, no. There were ways people gave away their secrets though they did not speak them aloud nor inscribe them in reports. Supposing—just supposing this Sopt s'Qu had learned something of issha lore, had managed to obtain for his master that which she had sensed was now on board. That would be a danger. In the right hands it would mean a full control—of her. Her hand tightened into a fist.

They had taken off very suddenly. She had kept to her cabin as the role she would play demanded. But those others had been working on some plan—she was only a side issue, she had been sure of that—had meant to make it certain that her worth advanced highly before they reached this Holder. Thus it might not be to control her—though she must leave no suspicion unexplored—but for some other purpose.

She must now make very sure of her territory even as a hover spy soared over the land of some mountain lord. Rising, she began to make certain preparations which required access to several pieces of baggage, the contents of which had been most carefully selected.

There was the taste of blood in his mouth, a runnel of it from lip corner. The practice must have been a fierce one today. Jofre opened his eyes, but not on mountain sky. He was looking up at a ceiling not too far above him. His body ached with an ever-growing reach of pain and it was very hard to draw a breath.

This was certainly not the Lair arms court. Nor were these smooth walls around, as he painfully turned his head to discover, the rough stone of a Lair chamber. Where— where was he?

He allowed his aching head to drop back the few inches he had been able to raise it, stared at the roofing overhead and tried to remember the immediate past. Then he was aware of the vibration which thrummed through his body, spreading upward from the floor on which he lay. A—a ship—! Slowly it came, though it was adding to his pain to probe and hunt for that memory.

JOFRE WAS NOT GIVEN LONG TO MINE FOR MEMORIES. There was a thrust of brighter light into his prison and he made himself go limp. Better to discover the nature and number of any opposition before he put his own drained powers to the test. His almost closed eyes once more limited his field of vision but he knew that at least two had come to stand beside him and there was a guttural exchange over his body.

Hands pawed for a hold in his armpits and his feet were gathered up by another. The two of them edged out of the store cabin with his body and made their way down a much better lighted corridor. He was able to peer surreptitiously at the one transporting his legs—a man nearly as bulky as Harse and wearing the same uniform. They came to the foot of a ladder and he was dropped unceremoniously to the floor. A rope fell over his head, the loop of it crammed under his arms, tightened about him. He heard the click of boot plates on the flooring, saw that one of the men was ascending the ladder while the other dragged and pulled at him, getting his body into place at the foot of that climb.

He was to be hoisted up like some inanimate object but better still to let them believe that he was still unconscious. Were he indeed aboard a ship, as he was almost certain now was the case, there would be little chance of escape anyway. Best to let them believe that they had a really helpless prey within their hold.

The sharp jerking of the rope taking his weight from above aggravated the aches which had now grown beyond his power to count. That captor coming behind steadied his body now and then but certainly not for Jofre's comfort, rather for the aid of the one hauling him up.

They passed two levels, coming to a halt on the third. Once more he was dropped flat and this time they worked the rope off him. Then he was carried again, down a short corridor, until they entered a cabin of some size opening off that. Jofre plunked to the floor, only under him now there was a padding of some type of carpet and the air was not so stale, rather carried an almost fresh scent.

"As you see, Learned One, your fears are quite unnecessary—we did not leave a dead bodyguard behind us." The voice was familiar; Jofre fought to match it to a face.

"It would hardly have served your purpose to do so—" the hissing note in that voice he did recognize was exaggerated. "You will release him at once!"

"Learned One, we are ordered to give you all possible assistance—as long as you, in return, agree to consider yourself our guest— As a guest you certainly will not need a bodyguard—the Holder's hand would fall sharply on anyone daring to do you harm."

"You will release him," the Zacathan repeated. "You have given me no proof that your Holder has any peaceful thoughts toward me either. You have stripped my oathed of . his weapons, he is harmless. Look at these bullies of yours, each overtops him by a head—could make two of him. Do you fear a man who has been held in stass until you have leached the strength out of him?"

"You are a man of peace, Learned One. It is well-known that your kind do not offer any threat to sentient beings. Why do you care what happens to this?" The toe of a well-polished boot swung into Jofre's very limited view, prodded him.

"He is the opposite of all you believe in, one who lives to kill, is that not so?"

There was a moment of silence. Then Zurzal answered, "This man is sworn to me, after the way of his own people; his trust lies in me, mine in him. You would have something of me. Very well: bargain, Horde Commander—or have you never heard of that?"

"Hmmm—" It was not a word, merely murmur of sound. Then there came a cackle of laughter, harsh, having nothing of humor in it. "So, at last we have touched you, Learned One. Good. You can have this one—as long as you conduct yourself as our… guest."

Jofre's body jerked. No one had touched him but that near rib-crushing weight which he had battled all these hours until it seemed as much a part of him as his body suddenly lifted.

"We leave you to yourselves then, Learned One—" There was the clang of boots, then the sound of a metal door slamming into place.

Jofre rolled on his side. He was dragging deep breaths. Getting one arm under him, he managed to raise himself to a half-sitting position. Zurzal stood by the bulkhead where the door showed its outline. By the Zacathan's position he was listening intently. Jofre rolled a little on his knee until his shoulder struck against a well-padded seat secured firmly to the floor. Gritting his teeth and calling on his reserves, he somehow got to his feet and stood, supported by that.

Now, when his own struggle was somewhat eased, the full force of what had happened struck home at him, almost hard enough to set him reeling again. He had failed in his task of preventing the very thing which had happened to them, betrayed the issha. There was only one answer to that, but one which he dared not make, not yet while the Zacathan lived and he was oathed.

Zurzal turned back from the door. His neck frill was extended and he raised a hand to smooth it down. In two strides he reached Jofre, swung the younger man around and pushed him down into the chair which had been his support.

"No warrior is the less if he comes up against the surprise of superior weapons." The Zacathan struck directly to the heart of the shamed confusion in which his cabinmate writhed. "They used a paralyzing stass ray; by the look you took it full force. Nothing save titanium armor can withstand that and neither of us were so equipped."

"I am your oathed—" Jofre muttered, unable to accept any such excuse. "I should have kept closer watch—"

"You are my oathed," Zurzal struck back sharply, "and as such you are on duty. And so shall it be until I release you. It is a marvel that you are still alive." He eyed Jofre up and down as if expecting to sight something unusual. "They could not leave your dead body—they brought you along—to space the evidence. But on my demand they had to produce you."

The Zacathan had come to stand directly before Jofre and now the long taloned fingers of the lizard man moved slightly. Jofre tensed and then, with all his will, relaxed. He did not know where Zurzal had learned the finger speech of the Brothers and indeed his messages had been somewhat clumsily delivered, but they were forceful enough. The two of them were under surveillance, perhaps, Jofre thought, by both eye and ear.

"We have something of a voyage before us," Zurzal continued speaking, though his fingers twitched in a different pattern. "They are transporting us directly to Tssek. It is the Holder's desire to use the scanner to produce a viewing on the fiftieth anniversary of that event, the passing of the leadership long held by the Illustrious Fer s'Rang to himself. I am to employ my time en route to making sure that the results will be just as he wishes."

Watch, wait, listen, look, those fingers spelled out, the orders given to any spy about to be planted in an enemy lord's holding.

"I am at command, Learned One," Jofre found his voice which sounded unusually harsh in his own ears. "What aid I can offer is yours."

"Well enough. Now," Zurzal went to the wall and pushed some buttons, "we shall see you fed. The stass leaves a man weak. Then—well, I have notes to be studied and perhaps a few experiments to run. Some will not require training and your aid will be of assistance."

A tray had come in answer to the Zacathan's order and he carried it, burdened with sealed containers, over to place on Jofre's lap.

"Eat—ship's rations, of course, but they are palatable and nourishing."

There was a drift of mist-thin weaving lying across the backed seat in the woman's cabin. She plucked up a fold of it between thumb and forefinger to eye critically. This was of fabulous worth, twice-woven spider silk—the cost more than even a Lair Master could raise. The color was strange—or perhaps one might say unfixed, for, though the basic shade might be a very pale green, as the folds rippled there were rainbow flashes along each edge, patches which glowed and faded with every move of the length.

Her own personal taste was for richer, deeper colors, but training, severe and critical, had taught her to suit her robing to the demands of her mission. Such stuff as this was truly the gift of a world ruler and when the time came she must show it off to the very best advantage, both of the gift and of she who had the wearing of it.

No jewels—except the moryen fire stones for a simple girdle to refrain the fluttering stuff so that it might outline her body, bracelets of the same to make certain the eye was led to the delicacy of her wrists, the slender beauty of her hands. She would not use the cheek lacquer overlay; rather a moryen fastened between the near-meeting arch of her brows—she considered her choices and made up her mind. Then, deftly, she refolded the robe, which seemed to cling to her hands as if it did not want to be laid aside, before seating herself and lifting her eyes to the expanse of the wall.

The metal casing of the ship's cabin was not starkly plain here, rather there was a heavy scroll of pattern which was gem-brilliant in places. Her lip curled a little. Much as she inwardly rejoiced in color she found this display too ornate, lacking in taste. But it was not the patterning which she was viewing, rather she searched for a point which days earlier she had discovered, a water stone, into the blue-green depths of which she could channel her thoughts to outreach—

There was no true reading of the minds about her. To her knowledge barriers had never been pierced to that extent. Body language she was well versed in and she could pick up emotions, especially when they reached a certain intensity. However, that ability had served her well and she applied herself to it whenever she could be sure of privacy and quiet.

They were very satisfied with themselves, these Tssekians. So long had they held power that they had forgotten the useful curb of a little self-doubt. Certainly they were very apt to underestimate what they did not fully understand—a fault which might be safely used if the necessity arose. This one who named himself Horde Commander—her dealings had been with him and he was as clear to her as a cup of springwater from the Neeserdene heights.

There was the ghost of a smile about her lips as she considered the matter of Sopt s'Qu. Any issha-trained woman could have controlled him in three meetings, maybe less. She knew him for what he was, but she was after much bigger game.

There—that was this Sopt s'Qu; she caught a touch of his vast conceit, which was like a whiff of smoke in the air. Yes, he was very pleased with himself, swollen with success—too swollen. She considered that quickly. He was pleased with more than just her presence—the thought that he had in her a new toy for his master—he had achieved something else.

Her fingers moved. What else had he on board, or knew, or would receive in the future, to move him to such a fatuous belief in his own rise in the world?

She could not leave this cabin. It had been made plain to her that her presence on board this ship was not to be generally known. And she had accepted that, knowing that privacy would give her time to build her inner strengths for what would come. But now she wanted some touch with the ship world, to learn what was happening outside the walls of her own luxuriously furnished cabin. To perform, any issha must have all the information possible.

The only contact through which she might learn was Sopt s'Qu. So be it. She concentrated her gaze on that spot of sea-bright green on the wall and unwound her will to spin it as an intangible noose to summon the Horde Commander.

And the faint chime of the cabin bell came soon enough. She spoke only one word to loosen the inner locking:

"Enter."

Then as the Horde Commander strutted within, his bright eyes sweeping her up and down, she made a graceful obeisance, her own eyes lowered submissively, her attitude one of gentle waiting on his will.

"You have all you wish, Gentlefem?" Almost he spoke a little uncertainly as if he were not sure why he had come.

"You have given me of the best, Horde Commander." She made a small gesture to encompass the cabin and all that was in it. "I have specially to thank you for the tapes." One slender finger pointed to a small pile of discs. "It was most thoughtful to provide me with such information concerning your world—and your Illustrious Leader."

"What do you think of Tssek then, Gentlefem?"

"That it has very much to offer in every way," she returned promptly. "I think fortune smiled on the day we met, Horde Commander. You have shown me a very bright future."

Without being asked he settled himself in the second chair near that part of the wall which held the stone she held in focus. In her there was a prick of anger. He was making very plain what he thought of her. And she must make no move to destroy his summation of her character— the varl toad!

"So you like what you have seen on these." He indicated the discs. "Ah, Gentlefem, how much more will you like it in reality! And the Holder will indeed make you free of a very pleasant world. He can be very generous—when he is pleased."

She allowed herself a slight lift of eyebrows. "And you think that he will be pleased?"

"By you? He would have to be man without a man's body not to admire you, Gentlefem. Also we bring him not only your peerless self, but also the lock he can place on his future."

"You speak in riddles." She must be very wary, but also she must learn what she could.

"Riddles of time, Gentlefem. We have on board one who has mastered time—in his own way. And he shall master it for the Holder. You have doubtless heard of the Zacathan race?"

She triggered memory. Her briefing on Asborgan had not been too wide; there had not been time for as much as she would have wished.

"They are a race who study the past." Out of some corner she brought that.

"The past dealing with the Forerunners and on many worlds," the Horde Commander amplified. "Now and then through their delving comes some great discovery, for they are ingenious at following clues to ancient mysteries. We have one of their trained Histechneer's on board, who is to do just that for the Holder."

Sopt s'Qu looked very pleased with himself. "He will be greatly beholden to our Leader, who is giving him something his own people have refused to allow him: a chance to penetrate the mystery of time itself. This will be a discovery which shall make Tssek famous."

"And how does this Zacathan master time?" She was genuinely interested. All space goers knew of the Forerunners. And now and then rumors of finds from that ancient past filtered along the star lanes.

The Horde Commander grinned thinly, his lips seeming to find it difficult to shape such a move. "He claims he has a way. Our Leader is inclined to believe him—and the chance to put it all to the test lies now on Tssek. Our Holder approaches the fiftieth year of his taking power. He wishes to show to all the planet the event which transferred the rule from Fer s'Rang to him."

She allowed her eyes to widen in a calculated expression of wonder. "What a happening! How pleased this Zacathan must be to be a part of such action."

Sopt s'Qu lost his smile. "He is very modest, this Learned One. He objects that his preparations have not been successfully tried. But of course those who have knowledge which leads to power have no desire to share their secret. Once he has talked with the Holder and understands the advantages of the chance offered him, he will be quite ready."

But, she fastened on the thought, the Zacathan was not a contented party to this experiment, whatever it might be. She knew so little of his people. How effective could opposition from him be and what might such opposition do to impinge on her own mission? She wished she had at her command learn tapes—not like those which the Horde Commander had showered upon her, showing all the best of his Tssek, but those same which would give her an insight into what might prove to be a complication.

Then, there was that other—that touch she had made earlier. Surely somewhere on board was an issha-trained mind. And, since she alone had been assigned to this mission, she feared interference from that mysterious other. Who was the prey of the stranger? Why sent and by whom, that other lurker in Shadows? She dare not ask; though, as she eyed Sopt s'Qu, she longed to be able to enter his round skull and tunnel it, seek that information which meant so much to her.

The Zacathan was a player she had not been prepared for. Was the lurker she had sensed connected with him, sent to spy on this strange time reader? Or a stranger from another Lair hired to perhaps a similar mission as her own? She felt anger again. She was issha, fully able to account for victory by herself alone.

But who and where was that other?

JOFRE HAD KEPT SILENT AFTER HE HAD CLEANED UP TO the last crumb all the food in the container Zurzal had shown him how to unseal. The Zacathan had produced a small black box which he tapped on one side and then stared intently at some curling lines of different colors which writhed, tangled and wove across the slick upper surface of that artifact.

In spite of what the Zacathan had said Jofre bitterly chewed upon his own failure. It was plain that much of what he had learned in the Lair would not apply to weapons which could be used from some distance with devastating force. Therefore, he must set himself to assess what he had that he could use. Would these off-worlders also be impervious to such dealings as the Shadow use of practiced invisibility? Might they be made, as any lowlander, to look at him and not see—see in the sense which would alert their thoughts? Would they even have a readable body language? He could not be sure until he tried. At the same time any experimentation on his part must be very carefully done.

Zurzal clicked off his small screen of patterns and Jofre, out of his desperate need to learn the worst, broke the silence.

"Learned One, you have traveled the star lanes very far, have you not?"

"Not as much as many of my kind. By our standards I am quite the beginner—a novice with the blade as your arms instructor would put it."

"I know only the ways of one world—truly. It might be well that I know more if I am to be of service to you, Learned One."

Zurzal nodded and smoothed his neck frill, which continued to show a fluttering at the edges, betraying his uneasiness though he appeared to be lounging relaxed in his seat.

"You deal in weapons," the Zacathan began abruptly. "Very well, we shall begin with those." He launched in the even tone of an instructor who expected full attention from his audience and he had it. As he continued Jofre could almost have been startled into a denial that such things were possible. For Zurzal went from hand-to-hand combat to the fiery destruction of worlds, and back again, outlining the innumerable ways of dealing death among the stars.

Jofre's first shame became a misery eating at him. He had been so believing that there was nothing the issha could not in the end defeat and now he heard of weapons so outre that they sounded like the demon myths of the Shagga priests. Most killed at a distance—killed, or—as the ray which had brought him down—rendered the victim entirely impotent. The stunner he had been so wary and yet proud of owning now measured by these brutal tales, for the Zacathan spoke plainly of the different deaths which could be met, had no more value than a rock some land grubber of the plains might pick up in the futile desire to defend himself against an osscark on the prowl.

Issha training—even the hints of his Assha-trained Master—was enough to assure him that this must all be true. Therefore, oathed though he was, he was worth nothing to Zurzal off-world. Why then had the Zacathan taken him on?

"There are the like of the Brothers along the lanes, are there not?" Jofre was trying to frame that question so that if they were overheard it would not reveal too much.

"You have seen the guardians of Tssek—felt their power. Each world has their elite guards and fighters."

"Learned One, what use is such as I on these worlds you have spoken of?" Jofre forced the point; he had to.

Zurzal did not answer in words. The forefinger of his useable hand twirled, tip pointing down—Spear-seeking— grave-ground—then it flicked in a sudden sidewise movement to suggest the covering of that hole.

Jofre caught his lower lip between his teeth. Where had the Zacathan learned that? It was a death order such as was given among the Shadows to a designated killer. From the hand which had stopped moving he raised his eyes to meet Zurzal's.

By all the rules of the issha trained, he had not only been confirmed in his oathholding but informed that he would remain so in full trust even under death threat. And Zurzal met him full eyed, so that he realized that the Zacathan meant just what he signed.

"A man who is weapon trained," Zurzal spoke again in his lecture voice, "can be taught those weapons which are new to him if he is open to the learning and not so tightly confirmed in his beginnings that he cannot see the value of change when the conditions are right. There is something else—most of these ably armed and trained men of other worlds do not possess issha. Nor any equivalent to that—therefore, they are in a way maimed when they meet one who possesses it. Consider that well, my young Shadow."

He leaned farther back in his chair and closed his eyes as if he had indeed finished with instruction, leaving Jofre to take to pieces and consider, near to word, all he had been told.

There were the outside weapons and even among his own kind those were diverse and many. But there was the inner strength—issha and assha cherished. Jofre set himself on that inward journey to assess what he did have— to build upon any shred he could find, not spend time regretting what he did not. The Quietness of the Center— that enfolded him and he opened himself fully to it. He "saw"—saw the muscles which lay under skin and knew what each could be called upon to do—saw the steady beat of heart blood through his veins and knew what must be done in time of injury to seal off the vital parts. His body was a weapon and that belief had been pressed upon him with brutal force from the beginning of his training—the body first—and then other arms—even makeshift objects which could be called upon to expand the reach, toughen an assault, raise a tight defense.

Deliberately his memory turned to the arms field of the Lair, refought rough battles there, where broken bones and sometimes even life itself was the payment for a moment's inattention or folly. These off-worlders cherished weapons afar—which meant that one must somehow nullify their range, reduce a struggle to the body to body—since he lacked throwing knives, poleax, sword.

What he had was himself and, of his bones, blood and flesh, he must make the best possible use. If any of these strange weapons came within his reach and he could gain mastery of them, so much the better, but desire was not a fact and it was facts he must cling to.

There would be, he thought as he came step by step, breath by breath, from the Center and fastened again on the outer world, little chance to try any ploy while they were aboard ship. Even if by some totally unheard of smile of the Assha Gods he might be able to somehow seize control of the ship, he would still be helpless within a metal shell, surrounded by enemies, and unable to command the forces which would take them planetward.

Therefore—wait—the patience of the issha was well-known, another of their unseen weapons. Wait and learn. He must know more now of this Tssek, of what they might face upon disembarking there.

He shifted his weight a little and Zurzal looked at him.

"What is the nature of Tssek, Learned One?"

The Zacathan nodded as if he were answered a question he had not asked.

"It is what is termed a heavy metal world. There are many great cities wherein factories turn out machinery for mining—not only the mines of the north mountains which appear to be bottomless in their promise of rich ore—but also for shipping off-world. Machines work and the people labor with them. It is very different from Asborgan."

Well, he had half suspected that he would not be favored by fortune even in that much. Jofre nodded. He was being shunted into an entirely different life. But he had one rock to cling to—issha training. That was not of machines, but of men. If men came to depend upon machines so greatly, would they strive to keep also in balance with the Quiet of Center?

"It is a contentious world," the Zacathan was continuing, "or once was. Parts of the land are rich in minerals, or in soil able to produce bounteous crops. The people are—or perhaps we should say were—inclined to greed. Generations ago there were a number of nations which warred, each striving to take over some advantages they believed their neighbor controlled—a good port, a fertile valley, mines newly discovered in the upper ranges.

"It was then that they forged ahead in the making of weapons. Rumor suggests that some of the dissatisfied dealt with the Guild, buying up off-world weapons which they might copy in their own way. Which may not be too far from the truth, for the Guild is noted for fishing in disturbed waters.

"Then, as has been many times over in the history of numberless worlds, there arose to power their leader of genius. In a single generation Fer s'Rang, as I have said, united the Tribes, united them as a whole world. He proved, however, to be unusual in the fact that after he made himself Holder of Tssek that act indeed meant the saving of his world. Peace brought trade and the factories turned out products which could be sold off-world. The people prospered—except for a handful of the old noble families who resented their loss of power and made of themselves an irritation to the Authorities.

"Fifty years ago—these of Tssek are long-lived and their medical science was much advanced by their wars—there was a final meeting arranged between Fer s'Rang and the two most important rebels. Fer s'Rang died—"

"Assassinated!" Jofre could follow this kind of politics very well.

But Zurzal was shaking his head. "No. He seemed to have died quite naturally, though he was still, by the standards of Tssek, only in middle age. They believed some inner hidden weakness hit. At his death he had made plain that he was to be succeeded by the man who is the present Holder and was then his trusted second-in-command. It is that ceremony which the Holder wishes to reenact by the time scanner for all of Tssek."

Jofre used finger speech. "Then there is something he must prove." To follow this idea was easy.

"He wishes," to Jofre's surprise the Zacathan answered him aloud—did he not care that there might be those same ears he warned of earlier? "He wishes to recover the past for the glory of Tssek, for the edification of those born since that historic hour."

Words which held a very clear meaning. It was necessary somehow that this Holder make plain the fact that the rulership had indeed passed peacefully to him and by the will of his own lord. Therefore, there must be those who did not believe this; there were questions being asked somewhere—and with force enough so that the Holder must make his answer very plain. Even though Zurzal had warned this messenger that perhaps the time recaller would not work—the Zacathan had never claimed that it could, he only hoped that it might. Which meant—Jofre's lips turned up in the thinnest of smiles—the Holder had some plan he thought would make the experiment foolproof. That was something to consider. The Brothers had taken part in subterfuges of one kind or another—played major roles in some.This was not a strange and alien form of warfare.

"Learned One," he said in the quiet tone of one stating a fact, "if anyone can show the Holder what he wishes from the past, then that one must certainly be you."

They were not visited again by the Horde Commander. Twice Harse appeared with messages from his officer, asking if all was to the Zacathan's liking and if there were anything he wished. The pretense of honored guest was now being played to the limit.

On the appearance of the Tssekian guard Jofre made himself as inconspicuous as possible while he studied every movement of the man's body. At first Harse had kept his back to the door, outside which Jofre could hear some movement—which suggested he had come with backups. But on the second visit he was forced to cross the cabin to give Zurzal a tape case and explain that this was a mock-up of the ceremony of which the Zacathan was to be an important part, sent to him to study.

Jofre could have taken the Tssekian during that short meeting, he was sure of it, but it would avail him nothing. Not on board ship. In the meantime he might seem for periods to be dozing himself, but instead he was actively exercising issha fashion.

When the tape was run and Jofre invited to look at the small screen of the reader there appeared a building of formal and austere architecture with a wide audience hall. Centered in this was a two-step dais on which were several chairs alined. Though the tape was in color the apartment was bare, grey-white wall and showed no attempt at decoration. There was nothing to view except the static dais and the chairs.

Then flashed on a second scene in bright color but so static that those in it might have been caught in the same paralyzing stass which had held Jofre prisoner. They wore brightly colored clothes with the look of uniforms and there were a sprinkle of jeweled insignia everywhere. A voice, using trade tongue, came out of nowhere in explanation:

"The historic meeting between the Holder Fer s'Rang and the Lords of Nin and Vart as shown in the painting of Re s'Dion."

Five men were seated in those chairs on the dais; the sixth stood among them, one hand upheld as if to underline some point of speech. Two of his listeners were leaning forward as if very intent on what he was saying. The other three did not appear so moved. Now Jofre sighted a seventh man on the lower step of the dais towards the back where the shadow overhung and nearly erased him from sight: the present Holder in attendance.

Jofre could see very little of the man, his head was turned away so that his face was only a slice of cheek. Yet there was something—Jofre wished there was some way of sharpening the screen or bringing the scene closer that he might catch more details of that near-hidden man. He could only guess, but it seemed to him that the position of one hand was odd. It seemed to be raised breast high and flattened horizontally as if it supported a weight and yet there was plainly nothing resting there.

From the time the Zacathan had told him the history of this scene Jofre had fastened on the relationship between Fer s'Rang and the man who had succeeded him. If this shadow figurewas the Holder-to-be, why was he not in a more important position at this meeting? Certainly he was not on the dais, where one expected the second-in-command to stand.

"Learned One," Jofre asked, "after the death of Fer s'Rang was there any trouble? Any claim that he was the victim of some attack?"

"Far from it. His personal physician revealed that he had been suffering from a fatal illness for several months, that he had really made a supreme effort to rise from his deathbed to cement the alliance pictured here. Itwas cemented over his body by those shocked into fellowship by such a loss."

Still—Jofre was too well versed in the devious tricks played by the valley lords to completely accept that story. It was far too convenient for the present Holder— an alliance at the death of his predecessor, sworn to by men who had doubtless been completely stunned by that death—too much a whim of fortune. He had heard tell of other deaths, carefully executed to order by issha trained to complete anonymously action requiring months of tortuous intrigue. Not that it mattered now what had happened fifty years ago—unless Zurzal's time scanner could produce a copy of just what they were viewing now.

"Can it be done—that scene brought into being again?" He wriggled one finger at the screened picture.

"You can answer that perhaps as well as I can." Zurzal's good hand arose to rub across the growing stump of his maimed one, as if the renewing flesh and bone itched as might a wound in the progress of healing. "I have had some fleeting successes, it is true."

He did not continue but Jofre thought he could pick up what the other was leaving unsaid, that Zurzal was honestly wary of any success in this venture. Which meant that they could have only a fleeting value to their captors.

Frustration bit at Jofre but he could do nothing, save prepare as best he could for the first chance he would have which would promise even the remotest chance of escape.

In the days which followed he had to fight against the constant urge for action. He refused to let himself walk the floor as sometimes his body demanded, wanting to be free. All he could do was draw upon the Center—

There was one small thing to which his mind continually turned—the fact that when he had been, he was sure, very near death from the stass weapon, contact with the stone from Qaw-en-itter had somehow given him the strength to hold on. He took to studying the stone and made small discoveries, though he was cautious about it—it came from a cursed place and some of the darkness which gathered there could well cling.

He found that if he held it cupped between his palms when he did his Center seeking, he was brought much more quickly to the state of body awareness he wished. Once, when trying a memory exercise he pressed it to his forehead and then nearly dropped it when he was answered with a painful burst of jangled images which even left him partially blinded for some very frightening moments.

Something kept him from showing his find to the Zacathan. He only brought it out when Zurzal was resting or deeply occupied with the studies which had to do with the scanner. By now Jofre was convinced that what he held could only have broken off of the Lair stone whose death had signified also the abandonment of Qaw-en-itter. No one—except the Masters and the senior priests—knew the relationship between men and the Lair stones. Those were assha—of the innermost of the Shadows. Nor had Jofre ever heard of anyone possessing an artifact such as he had found.

Perhaps a prudent man would have left it where he had discovered it—any Brother would—but—it remained that he was not by birth or blood a Brother—he was an off-worlder. And when he thought of that he knew a trickle of cold within. From what world had he sprung in the beginning? How did that other breeding limit—or aid—the issha now ingrained in him?

There would be more than one trial ahead to test both his limits and his successes, and all he was must be pushed to making certain he faced all squarely and alert.

THEY DID NOT TOUCH FOOT TO TSSEKIAN SOIL ONCE they had earthed. Rather Jofre found himself squeezed in between Harse and one of his look-alikes on the second seat of a flitter which had made a precise connection with a landing platform. While Zurzal was wedged in with the Horde Commander and the pilot on the fore seat. Just as his first glimpse of Tssekian architecture via the vision screen had impressed him with stark utility and no concessions to any softening of line, so did the loom of the buildings between which their present vehicle streaked its way offer a vague threat, as if each was a sentinel on duty and those of the population about were prisoners.

They did not linger in that somber pile of a city but rather sped on into open land beyond. Jofre could not move enough in his seat to see what lay below them. But the walls were gone and, except for sight of a distant skeleton-like erection or two, they were now in the clear.

Their craft apparently had reached maximum speed and was being held so. However, they were not alone in the sky. During their flight through the city they had passed a number of similar craft and, once they had reached the outer ways beyond that stand of buildings, a second flitter hung close, a little behind, but apparently bound for the same goal.

Jofre had made no resistance to the somewhat rough handling which had steered him to his present seat. Neither of the guards broke silence, and their craggy features were set in stolid, almost stupid, patterns. However, Jofre was well aware that in no way must he underestimate these followers of the Holder. He was lucky in that he had not been placed in bonds and would continue to be most biddable while he noted all he could pick up from his surroundings. Both of these guards were trained, though not, he believed, in the more outre systems of the issha. Armed or not, and given the smallest of chances, he could take them both. But that must wait upon a time when such a move could be made profitable. At least they had not stassed him again and he was given that small freedom.

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 was 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 midaftemoon 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.

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 shaped 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 a 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.

One of the occupants of that dais had arisen and now stepped down, his arm swinging across the breast of his overly ornate jacket in what was doubtless meant to be a gesture of greeting. The Horde Commander—

Taynad inclined her head at just the proper gracious angle, indicating that she acknowledged his right to so meet her. However, it was the man who had not stood, who instead sat, slightly hunched, in the mid chair at that table, who was the important one. She placed two fingers on the back of the hand Sopt s'Qu extended and matched step with him as he turned back to the dais.

Below the first step she dropped the touch and curled gracefully forward in the First-Time-House-Greeting obeisance, bringing her two hands together, fingers pointed upward, under her chin and lowering her head, but not so far that she did not have full view of the two at the table.

One of them had arisen in proper courtesy and she knew him instantly for the Zacathan. The other continued to sit, staring at her, though she had not missed that sudden widening of his eyes. He might put on the seeming of one encased in boredom, one who must be coaxed and teased into whatever these Tssekians deemed was the proper height of pleasure, but certainly he had not seenHER like before.

"This Jewel one," she used the trade tongue, though she might have spoken in his own guttural sounds—only it was far better that these believed her lacking in knowledge of their speech—at least for awhile, "arrives, Illustrious Lord of Many Lands and High Towers."

He made no move except for one hand and he snapped the fingers of that. From somewhere below the level of her sight, hidden by the folds of the golden cloth which enveloped the table, arose a furred creature.

It was about the size of a two-year-old child and humanoid enough that, as it jumped to the arm of its master's chair, it squatted on its haunches and held its upper limbs and paws as one would use arms and hands. Its body was covered sleekly with a tightly curled fur growth of dull grey-blue. The head was round with the snout seemingly pushed back towards the skull, so that the flesh there was wrinkled. Eyes which were apparently pupilless, like opaque copper gems, were overlarge and were now regarding Taynad oddly. She gave it a quick glance, unable to judge what it might be.

Ears long, shaped like pointed leaves, the tips of them bearing tufts of fur, flanked the skull on either side, set well back on the head. Those tufted tips now tilted in her direction.

Issha knowledge gave a certain rapport with all living things. Those of the Lair had contact with and made use, on occasion, of flyers, creepers, runners which were native to the mountain heights. But Taynad sensed here something which was not quite animal. Was it a potential danger? The Shagga priests, she knew, had such control over some creatures as to even make of them weapons. Had this Holder such a protection in this thing?

She could not continue to hold her position of formal greeting without losing face—that command of the situation which she must retain at all costs. Was this thrice-cursed world ruler never going to make her any welcome?

He was leaning a fraction forward again and this time she felt a little more at ease; there was no mistaking that she had begun to awaken his interest. Shoving aside the creature he had summoned a moment earlier, he got to his feet.

As Sopt s'Qu he was a short man, seeming almost of a different race than the tall guards—which, of course, might be true. His skin was very fair and bore no trace of beard, nor did he show any great signs of age—the life span on Tssek must be a greatly advanced one. His hair came to a sharp peak over brows which slanted a little upward and was nearly as dark as her own. On one cheek there was a distinct pattern of red lines as if he had been tattooed.

"Our house is honored." The timbre of his voice was oddly rich, almost he spoke as would a legender of a lord's hall, trained to make the most of every possible inflection. It held warmth which drew but which was in contrast to the man himself. "Will the most Gracious Jeweled One guest with us?"

Shoving back his chair a fraction, he moved around the table and took two steps down from the dais. Beside her Taynad heard the indrawn breath of the Horde Commander—apparently she was indeed in the process of being given some extraordinary honor.

Then the Holder held out his own hand as his subordinate had earlier, and with confidence and the air of one only claiming what was rightfully her own, Taynad advanced to touch fingers. Only it was not polite and formal finger touch which greeted her, rather he actually grasped her hand in his and she recognized the gesture of one taking possession. The first encounter—he must believe that it would be wholly all his desire. She meekly allowed him to steer her up to the dais and install her in the chair next to his.

The furred creature had made no sound but had continued to eye her, and Taynad felt a tinge of uneasiness.

"This is our good friend," the Holder had gestured toward the Zacathan, who bowed where he stood. "The Histechneer Zurzal, who will lend the fruit of his great learning to our project. And"—he let his hand fall so that his fingers slid from the nape of the furred creature's neck down its back—"this is Yan." He gave no other explanation of what purpose the creature served. Instead he reached out and selected a round blue fruit from a dish before him and dropped it into eagerly reaching paw hands.

Servants appeared with food and it would seem that the Holder did not encourage speech while eating, for his eyes were mainly on his plate, several times sending a portion of some proffered dish to either the Zacathan or Taynad by a finger flicking gesture alone.

She ate daintily and lightly, sipping very carefully the full-bodied drink poured into the crystal goblet by her right hand. It was an epicure's meal rightly enough and she would have had a hard time putting names to the contents of the dishes.

The Zacathan was as much a teasing point of interest as the Tssekian ruler. It would seem that he was now an honored guest. Did that mean that he had agreed to whatever project the Holder had in mind? Listen—not only to words, her thoughts urged, but to the inflection of voices if and when these about her began to converse. Very much could be learned from that.

With the passing of time the violent patterns on the wall had dimmed. Jofre moved from room to room of the suite, each time apparently on some small errand which he dutifully carried out, searching for other spy vents, to learn that they would certainly be under observation, for all the chambers that made up their quarters were so supplied.

During their last days on the ship he had managed to make plain to Zurzal that he must learn something of the Tssekian language. The Zacathan had the ability of his species to pick up an alien tongue quickly but Jofre did not trust himself to do likewise. Asborgan speech and dialects he knew in plenty, even as he knew finger speech. And the trade tongue had been required study for several years in the Lair, but other-world tongues were difficult.

He was well aware that space travelers often encountered peoples whose physical makeup alone kept them from sharing a common speech with strangers—then the translators such as he had seen in use at the hive bank were in common use. But he must be able to learn enough on Tssek to operate. Jofre refused to believe that he would not get the chance to strike for their freedom sooner or later.

Now he deliberately made use of one of the appointments of the suite that Zurzal had pointed out earlier in passing. There were buttons to be pushed on the rim of a box set into the wall. Then on the screen above that flashed into life scenes of people, bursts of talking, even of music which was sometimes harsh and sometimes stirring. He seated himself before this now and brought the screen to life. Not only his ears but his eyes were trained on what he watched with issha concentration. There were movements of the mouths which sputtered and spoke, very faint changes of position, all which could be studied. Zurzal had given him a short briefing in the local dialect—limited even more to trade tongue which everyone knew could not contain the real nuances of constant speech.

He began to catch words whose meaning he did recognize and repeated them under his breath. What he was watching he took to be a sharing of general news. Then that faded and what followed appeared to be reenactments of some kind, for the Tssekians employed in the action wore clothing unlike any he had seen so far and they moved with a certain formality which almost aped ritual ceremony.

To make any sense of this was difficult but Jofre persevered. It was an exercise, just like any other of training, and only constant usage made any exercise profitable. He was frowning intently at a scene wherein a bound Tssekian had just been deprived of his head, apparently to the dismay of a number of females who had been forcibly lined up to watch this disaster, when the screen went black for a second, only to come to life again showing a face so enlarged that it nearly covered the whole area.

"—enemies—die—in honor—unite against—the Great Destroyer—"

A click and the face was gone, but the scenes it had superseded did not return, and, though Jofre fingered the control buttons in every possible pattern, he could not gain any change in the dark screen. But he was very certain that that face had had nothing to do with the program he had been watching and the few words he had understood were intended to be an arousal for those who heard them.

There had been anger and fear—the anger for the moment overriding fear—in that shouting voice and issha instinct picked it up easily.

Jofre was still trying to gain back some life from the machine when the click of the door behind him brought him to his feet. Had his use of this installation triggered some trouble with the Tssekians on guard? His hand went to his girdle where earlier he had carefully wound in the Makwire.

However, it was Zurzal who entered, though the door was shut so quickly behind him that it was close to a slam, as if his escort was glad to have him safely back under lock and key again.

"You have had a profitable evening, Learned One?" Jofre asked.

It was plain to see by the yellowish tinge of the Zacathan's neck frill that he was not completely at ease. What a mercy that the issha kind did not have such betraying body part. To learn control of something such as that might tax even a Lair Master.

"After a fashion. We are not the only guests the Illustrious Holder has seen fit to gather to him. She must have shared our ship—even though we knew nothing of it. It seems that Sopt s'Qu has truly thought to please his master; he has imported a Jewelbright!"

So—Jofre had his answer. Not all jewels of any establishment were issha—Sisters of Shadows—but it was a very useful cover for any assignment those were given.

"A Jewelbright," he echoed the Zacathan but, at the same time, holding his right hand where only Zurzal might see it in spite of all those spy holes. Jofre sketched the thumb to forefinger—, the recognition signal of his own kind.

The reptilian eyes of the other narrowed only a fraction. Jofre knew that Zurzal had picked up that identification and that now they must both wonder what this new player, whose part in the game they could not guess, was about to do.

"It costs more than four lords' ransom," he said as one commenting on a wonder, "to select a Jewelbright for personal service. This Horde Commander must indeed wish to curry favor—"

Gain favor, Jofre wondered, or had Sopt s'Qu imported a weapon, the danger of which he himself was sure no Tssekian could gauge?

JOFRE KNELT ON THE TILES WHICH ENCIRCLED THE large bathing place of their quarters. Zurzal's body was stretched out in apparent ease, a turgid greenish liquid hiding much of his length. But he had one shoulder hunched over the edge of that miniature pool, the one which ended in the very slowly growing arm replacement, and the small fingers of that undersized hand were moving along the tiles, trailing through a violet soap smear.

Though the oathsman was apparently just waiting with a roll of towel across his shoulder, he did not miss the least movement of those small fingers. Zurzal was mapping out for him the ways outside these rooms as far as the Zacathan himself had followed them.

But what the Zurzal spoke of audibly was something entirely different.