Norton, Andre - Brother To Shadows

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."