Ice and Shadow Page 38

  Zurzal had shouldered the scanner, paying no heed to its tripod stand, using a side strap above the maimed arm to support it, as he covered the distance between them in two strides.

  “Pass or this one dies!” Jofre tightened his hold on the Holder’s throat. The man was already gasping for breath, his hands flailing out to no purpose as he had no weapon now and Jofre was positioned out of reach behind him.

  “There is a problem here.” The leader of the opposition had again edged closer so that his voice carried even through the clamor. His weapon hand was steady but Jofre, reading the subtle change in the other’s eyes, did not think that he was about to be crisped at once by blaster fire. At least the fellow was speaking trade tongue. “You have what we are very anxious to get—yield your prisoner—”

  In Jofre’s grip the Holder struggled wildly. It was plain to the issha that this was not a friendly party seeking to rescue their leader.

  “Why?” It was not he who asked that question but Zurzal. The Jewelbright said nothing, merely held to her place beside Jofre, both hands gripping the upper front limbs of the Jat in spite of the creature’s frenzied fight for freedom. That she possessed issha-trained strength was very plain to see.

  “He is more our meat than yours, Learned One,” the green-banded leader returned promptly. “We have certain plans for him.”

  One of his squad moved closer and growled a sentence. The melee in the chamber seemed to be dying down. Here and there a knot of uniforms still fought, but it was apparent that those who had swung down from aloft were fast gaining control of the conflict.

  “Plans for us also—” Jofre stated. “What are those?”

  “Not perhaps what you might fear,” returned the other. “Learned One,” now he spoke directly to Zurzal, “you have served our cause even inadvertently.” With his free hand he pointed to the scanner which now dangled down the Zacathan’s back. “We are a little in your debt—even more when you turn that one over to us. I think you will find us grateful.”

  Two of the squad, one of these a woman, Jofre noted, split off now and came inward, one from either side as if to box in him and his captive.

  “These are rebels.” For the first time the Jewelbright spoke and flatly.

  “Partisans of freedom, lady.” The leader was smiling now, almost gallant in his attitude, but there was no lessening of alert menace in those still edging towards Jofre.

  “And our coming—was it part of a plan which you also shared?” asked Zurzal. “Well,” he did not wait for any answer, “perhaps we can deal after all. Though I think that your party had another end for me in view two days ago.”

  The leader shrugged. “We have hotheads, such are the bane of any party, Learned One. Those who made that decision have been disciplined for it. Now—give us that man—”

  Jofre interrupted. “One does not throw away a weapon untried, Commander,” he gave the man the only rank he could guess. “You admit that your followers tried to burn us down at the ruins. How can it be that we are now to forget that? You did not take this prisoner; we hold him—”

  “So you can decide what is to be done with him?” queried the other. “How long can you stand there, guard, and hold him? You need both hands to the purpose, are you then able to sprout another pair to beat us off?”

  “He will kill—” It was the woman approaching from the left who spoke then. “We need that one for—” She stopped abruptly, near in mid word as if she realized that she might be giving away something of importance and the commander favored her with a quick frown before his eyes clicked back to center on Jofre.

  “What do you want?” he demanded sharply then, plainly impatient to settle the matter—if he could—as quickly as possible.

  “What you spoke of earlier, Commander,” Zurzal had adopted the same title, “freedom. We are here against our will—we were kidnapped to order. We want nothing more than to ship out from Tssek and go our own way.”

  The commander studied the Zacathan, then his attention turned to Jofre, and last of all to the Jewelbright.

  “This off-world female was not brought here by force but to play another game of her own. She cannot claim otherwise.”

  “Any game she was to play,” Jofre said, “is now ended. She is off-world—she has not meddled with your ways—can any speak against her?”

  “She is what she is,” the scorn in the woman’s voice was near as hot as blaster breath. “We want none of her—let her return to her own kind and swim in their dregs.”

  “Let us reach the port,” Zurzal said swiftly. “I do not know what ship may be there ready to lift. If there is none then let us enter Patrol custody—do you not agree that that will keep us away from any meddling here?”

  “We need give you nothing,” the man who had earlier spoken in Tssek to the commander, burst in. “Stass rays—”

  Jofre stiffened. It was true, they could be taken again as easily as he and Zurzal had been back on Wayright. As long as he must keep his hold on his prisoner he could do nothing to prevent such an attack.

  “You forget, At s’San, we do have something to thank them for. Did they not show us the true death of Fer s’Rang—though that service was quite unintended.” The commander smiled thinly. “No, we shall give them what they wish—the female also since we have no use for her kind—and even that squalling thing,” he pointed to the Jat who was crying out in a thin wailing. “Such are not for our world; let them go. Escort them to the port and turn them over to the off-worlders who keep the peace for their own kind. But first—give us—him!”

  Could these orders stand? Could he accept the word of this rebel commander? But Zurzal was nodding in agreement and Jofre must accept the bargain as became an oathed.

  He loosened his grip on the Holder and at the same time gave the prisoner a push forward. Those two who had closed in from the sides were on him in an instant, and one pointed with a rod straight at the Holder’s head. He stiffened with a jerk which nearly raised him from his feet and then toppled forward, caught in stass and so completely helpless.

  Three of the squad bore him away but six more fell in around the off-worlders, forming a hollow square, moving forward at a trot which they were forced to equal. The Jewelbright had swept her shimmering robes up with one hand. She had tweaked out of her cloak of hair one of those hidden cords the same color and texture of the tresses in which it had been fastened and thrown that in a noose around the neck of the Jat, so pulling the creature along as one might a hunt-hound.

  There was still fighting in progress and twice they had to battle their way past opposition from one of the stubborn pockets of beleaguered guardsmen. There was no flitter waiting for them, rather a ground transport into which they were crowded while their guard took position around them, weapons ready.

  They turned abruptly from the main streets where struggles were still in progress, winding a road through lesser ways, some nearly alleys. There were bodies to be seen here and there. Once there came a blaze of blaster fire crisping the side of their vehicle inches away from where the Jewelbright crouched. She winced but made no sound and Jofre was so tightly jammed against her other side that he could not see whether she had been burned by that fire’s touch.

  The transport skidded around a corner and they could now clearly see the space port. The great gates had been firmly closed and within their perimeter were to be seen the black and silver uniforms of the Patrol as well as the grey worn by the space employees. Also there were weapons very much to the fore.

  But there was no warning to stop as they approached. Though neither did anyone move to open the gate. The nose of their vehicle was nearly touching that when they came to a halt.

  The Tssekian guards stepped aside and allowed the three off-worlders and the Jat to face the barrier. A man wearing Patrol dress and one in space grey, who had the insignia of Port officer on his right shoulder, moved a little forward.

  Zurzal hunched the strap of the scanner higher on his shoulder and raised
his good hand in the peace salute.

  “We claim refuge under the Code of Harktapha.” His frill was high and a deep crimson and his hissing near serpent-strong.

  The Patrol officer took a stride which brought him to that section of the larger gate which might be opened separately as a small door.

  “Who are the hunters?” the officer asked.

  Zurzal’s frill fluttered and the hue darkened. “We are not hunted, First Officer. These have brought us out with orders that we reach here. We are from off-world and there is war on Tssek which does not concern us.”

  “You will drop all weapons and enter singly,” came the command. “You will abide by the code, surrendering to judgment concerning that which brought you here.”

  Zurzal nodded. “Agreed, First Officer.” He tossed to one side the blaster he had belted when he had given the peace sign. Jofre wound the Makwire about his hand into a coil and sent it earthward. The Jewelbright produced from somewhere about her person, so swiftly he could not sight where it had been hidden, a slender but, as he knew, most deadly knife and added that to the collection on the ground.

  Moving one by one, Zurzal in the lead, then the Jewelbright with the Jat on leash, and finally Jofre, edged through the gate door which was opened only far enough to give them tight passage. Jofre’s empty hands stirred in a sign he did not know he was shaping:

  “Out of dark, into light.”

  CHAPTER 18

  THOUGH IT WAS WELL PAST THE MID-HOUR of the night, there was still a lamp alight in an upper room of the old town house. A shadow swept across the wall in an even pattern as Ras Zarn paced the room. This night he was ridden by the need for physical effort, to somehow expend the tension which crippled him during the day, which made it more and more difficult to make decisions swiftly and correctly.

  Might the Night Gnawers of Garn feast upon their lives! He fought to keep control, to not throw back his head and voice the howl of frustration which seemed near to suffocate him. Could any one of them in his position have done better? All well for them to issue orders, but the ability to obey was not in their power to enforce—unless they would decide to make an example of him and set up some other fool who, given the same situation, could certainly do no better.

  THEY could hunt across the hills as they had in the past to bring down prey. There was no way any one man could hunt the star lanes. It would require centuries to even sift through a small portion of the star ports. Such a search was madness even to think of!

  He had given them one solution but they would not accept it. Secrets—they were not prepared to share their secrets! But there was no other way. If the Guild accepted that they were to hunt for a man, if the matter could be presented to them solely as an act of vengeance—a chance. Though for the most part a Veep of the Guild would not concern himself with such a minor matter, under certain circumstances he or she could be led to give such orders. That was a kernel of understanding on which he, Zarn, could build—though there would be a price.

  However, there was the problem of the prey—had he yet learned the value of what he had stolen from the cursed Lair? Supposing during a hunt the Guild would discover what their quarry had in his possession?

  Zarn’s fist was at his lips and he gnawed on his knuckles. This night he had sent his strongest message. It must be acted upon at once, for the Guild contact was not going to wait on the favor of a priesthood they did not recognize nor consider of any import in their own deliberations.

  Time was fast running out. They must either depend upon these others who had the wide-flung organization which could locate a man off-world, or they must admit defeat. And to do that was to perhaps open a future which would—

  Zarn shook his head. He went back to the low table, dropped down to the mat seat behind it, his fingers scrabbling among a number of small sticks littered there. Each was notched in a different pattern, one which could be read by touch, even in the dark. But he had no need to try to sort out again those orders, threats, demands.

  There was a muted sound, hardly louder than his own labored breathing. Zarn’s head came up, he was on his feet at once, to pass through a concealed doorway into that narrow room where there was a panel high in the wall open to the night sky. Through this his awaited messenger had come to perch on the desk table. It uttered two plaintive squawks as the merchant reached it.

  His hands went out to stroke and gentle the flyer. Then met those avian eyes with his own compelling gaze. This was one of the best trained of the shrine flyers. At least they had accepted that the task demanded the very best weapons they could bring to the field.

  Zarn plucked the message from brain to brain. His tongue tip swept dry lips. His life—well, he had known in the end it would come to this—his life in the balance against victory. But they were giving in, if reluctantly; they were agreeing that his suggestion could now be the only way.

  So—in hope he had already made certain moves; now it was time to follow those up. He gave the flyer its reward and left it squatting on the desk top, the opening in the roof unclosed. There would be no message he could send now—that he wanted to send. What he would do needed no interference from those at a distance who had never encountered the players he must draw into the game.

  Dawn was smoky pale in the sky as he began to set into action the plan he had labored on. He sent another messenger, this one two-legged and from his household, with a very ambiguous report that he had lately obtained certain wares from the north which might interest that particular buyer.

  Down in the larger chamber devoted to business he oversaw the unpacking of two bags, the setting out of his bait—star stones worked by Hemcreft himself. The High Shagga had parted with those as easily as if they had been implanted toothwise in his jaws—but they were unique enough to hold this Xantan.

  He had time to compose himself fully, to practice the Six Exercises of Quiet and Preparation. So it was with his usual composure that he faced the woman who answered his summons.

  She was clearly an off-worlder, a thin-bodied figure with elongated arms and overlarge hands. Her dark skin had a metallic sheen and looked very smooth, almost as if she were indeed encased in some hard coating. A great deal of it was exposed by her scanty clothing which consisted mainly of strips of shaggy material which might be the fur of some strange beast and was of a violently vivid flame color, showing even brighter against the grey-black of the body it wreathed around. Her head was swathed in a large turban that flashed a border of jewels, the seeing of which gave Zarn a hidden satisfaction. It was plain that this envoy of the Guild had a liking for gems, so that what he had to offer should prove tempting.

  “Gentlefem”—he bowed and escorted her to a pile of seat mats well raised above the floor to accommodate her longer limbs—“you honor this house of trade.”

  She raised her first set of eyelids and opened the inner ones halfway. Her narrow, almost snoutlike, mouth was not meant to shape a humanoid smile but it twisted somewhat in what might just be the equivalent of such.

  “The wares of Ras Zarn,” her trade tongue had a rasp as suggestive of metal as her body, “are well known to produce treasures. It was spoken to me of a special shipment—”

  She had not glanced once at the display on the table. However, Zarn believed that she had not only surveyed it but at the same instant had been able to value it.

  “As you see, Gentlefem.” He waved a hand toward the gems set out skillfully on a darkened strip of leather which enhanced their incandescent silver and gold natural coloring.

  Now she did turn a little on the mat seat, that exercise twisting her long neck (looking far too slender to support a large head made even more bulky by the turban). Both her outer and inner eyelids were fully open. She made no move to lean forward a little farther to touch the gems, merely regarded them. Zarn did not doubt in the least that she knew to a quarter star credit their value.

  “A showing, Merchant Zarn, a showing. But—”

  “A buying—no?” he
said quietly. “Ah, well, it was the Gentlefem I considered first when these came to me, knowing how great is her ability to pick the best and make the finest use of such. But if they do not suit your taste, then I am most sorry to have troubled you.”

  Her mouth worked again and those second inner eyelids half closed, surveying him now, rather than the display of stones.

  “We buy and sell, both of us, merchant. If I buy, what then is the price?”

  Inwardly Zarn relaxed a fraction. She was willing—at least enough to discuss matters. But any deal with the Guild was tricky, very tricky.

  “There is a story to be told, Gentlefem.”

  She made a sound which might either have been a sigh of boredom or one of impatience. “There always is when one of you wishes to deal with us.” She was frank enough anyway.

  “We seek a man, a traitor, one who has betrayed us blood and bond.”

  The woman raised a hand as if to straighten the mound of her turban.

  “Your world is wide, but I do not doubt that you have the means for tracking him—Shagga!” She mouthed that last word almost as if it were an accusation, but Zarn was not taken unawares. No one could deny that the Guild had their own seekers of knowledge, that they kept account and learned all they could of any they might have future dealings with.

  “Unfortunately he is off-world. Before we could put hand on him he blasphemously used the code which had been stripped from him and oathed with an off-worlder—a Zacathan.”

  “Ah, yes.” Now the woman did reach out, and, with one of her long equal-length six fingers, tapped the table below the first jewel in line.

  “That lizard skin is one I have heard that your own people have an interest in.” Zarn ventured the first push. He must assume more authority or else be defeated before he began.