Ice and Shadow (26 page)

He had booked passage for them on a passenger ship due to depart before sunset tonight and they were on their way now to board. There were small scooter carts belonging to the hotel which loaded both passengers and their luggage. Having heard so much of Zurzal’s scanner, Jofre was silently surprised that no box or container which could contain such was loaded aboard the scooter they chose. But it was not his place to ask questions.

However, there was a feeling of uneasiness which settled on him as they approached the landing stage, where groups of passengers before them were filing onto the lift, to be hoisted aloft into the ship. Did that come from the shrinking of the planet-born who had never been in space, or was it a cautionary impulse triggered by something else?

Whichever it might be Jofre was on guard. There were a number of attendants around but none of them showed the characteristic features of the Asborgan-born. These were mainly off-worlders and some were truly alien. However, it was one planet-born who centered Jofre’s regard. In this very mixed group he might not have attracted the general eye, for he was wearing the livery of a high lowland house and accompanying a young Highblood.

His livery was not in any way suggestive of what might really be his duties but to Jofre there was no mistaking a Shadow—even though he had never seen the man before.

The position he was careful to keep, about two steps behind that of the young Highblood, was that of a guard, even though only the hilt of a ceremonial sword showed at his girdle. So another of the Brothers was bound off-world on an oathed mission. Jofre might have given a surreptitious gesture of recognition, but his own status was too equivocal. The chances were that they would never meet.

These two were well ahead of him now, almost as if the young lord was very eager to get aboard. And the Asborgans were already swinging upward on one of the lifts by the time he and Zurzal reached the takeoff mat.

They stepped onto their own transport, one of the attendants sweeping their baggage up beside them, and began to swing upward. Jofre fought his sudden, and to him shameful, reaction to that rise. Instead he made himself stare determinedly down at the port, and beyond it the old city, and beyond that—the only world he could remember.

CHAPTER 8

WAYRIGHT WAS A CROSSROADS
for the star lanes. The many differences between races, species, sentient beings, which Jofre had been introduced to at the spaceport hotel on Asborgan, were here set forth even more plainly. He had to keep tight rein on himself not to turn and gape after the passing of what might be a vast lump of dough riding on a small antigravity plate and putting forth now and then eyestalks to survey something which caught the fancy of that particular traveler. Even an imagination honed and trained by issha teaching could not supply an idea of the world from which
THAT
had come.

Though the humanoid form was the more prevalent, there were also insectoids, some scuttling along on six legs, others, taller even than the Zacathan, progressing on powerful hind legs alone, using their upper and middle limbs in quick gestures to augment their click-clack talk. He caught a glimpse of one of the crested males of the bird people and, next to him, a warty-skinned, broad-bellied creature which resembled one of the pond dwelling amphibians of Asborgan. What passed here began to be like a nightmare in which eye refused to accept what was to be seen. Jofre fell back on an issha’s refusal to be tricked even by his own senses.

The street was divided down the middle by a board rail of what gleamed like metal. Down that glided seated platforms which picked up or dropped passengers along the way. But Zurzal had chosen to walk. The Zacathan was apparently absorbed in his own thoughts. He had not spoken since they left their quarters.

This thoroughfare was lined on either side by many-storied buildings of an architecture new to Jofre. The first floors were square, as were those above; however, each was smaller as the structure rose floor by floor. And that larger section so left as a balcony surrounding each floor was occupied by potted and tubbed vegetation interspersed by seats and tables of different sizes and shapes to accommodate very dissimilar bodies.

This was a way planet, a meeting place for several of the major star lanes. Its principal industry and the livelihood of its natives was based almost entirely on serving the needs and desires of travelers en route to hundreds of different worlds. Beyond the inner city there were parks, carefully landscaped to catch the eye and tastes of a very mixed lot of visitors and there were amusements in plenty to fill any idle waiting hours.

The building towards which Zurzal headed was one of the more imposing ones. There was a deeply set insignia over the wide door and the automan that stepped aside when the Zacathan showed his identity disc was, Jofre was certain, armed.

The door opened automatically and they were in a wide hallway with many doors along each side. Zurzal did not halt his confident advance until he had reached the third of those on the left side. Again a door slid at their approach to admit them into a room thickly carpeted, containing several easirests and a wide table behind which, half-crouched, half-resting its thorax on a high cushion, was one of the insectoids.

As Zurzal approached, the alien, with one of its middle limbs, pushed into place between them a square box crowned by an upstanding, fan shaped attachment. The insectoid’s claw tip touched a button at the same time it chittered its unintelligible speech.

“Welcome, Histechneer Zurzal Our resources are at your command.” The words clicked mechanically from the direction of that fan, and Jofre realized it was a translator.

“Rest and refresh yourselves, far travelers,” the insectoid continued.

Jofre, however, did not follow Zurzal’s example as the Zacathan seated himself in one of the easirests, rather he stationed himself in a proper guard position by the door, a point from which he could keep the whole room and its occupants in constant sight.

“Greetings to you, Fifthborn,” Zurzal spoke directly to the fan and was echoed by a series of sharp clicks. “It is well with hive and hatchlings?”

“Well. And with you, Learned One?”

“Well.” Zurzal’s return was as terse as the others. “I would take now that which is mine.”

The insectoid’s middle limb clawed at another of a range of buttons running down one side of the desk. “There has been an asking—” The fan squawked.

Zurzal shifted in the seat which instantly accommodated itself to his body. “Sssssssooooo?” The hissing which underlay all his speech suddenly was more apparent. “What kind of an asking, Fifthborn?”

“From one of power, Learned One. This one also has dealings with the Hivehold and to no small profit. He is one to be listened to.”

“Sssss—” again that hiss. “And the name of this powerful one, Fifthborn?”

“He is—” the insectoid appeared to hesitate, “well-known enough—the Holder of Tssek.”

The metallically sharp words brought silence. Jofre moved a half step forward. His issha sense caught that silent tensity in Zurzal’s body, a sudden rigidity of spine. The Zacathan was not pleased by that answer, rather he found it disturbing.

“The Holder of Tssek,” he answered now, slowly, spacing his words as if he would keep all emotion which might underlie them carefully hidden, “is known, I am not. What does he want with one who has been discredited even by his off-world peers? There is no reason to be interested in me.”

“The hive repeats only messages given for the relay, Learned One. There is one named Sopt s’Qu, who is a highly placed follower of the Holder. This one is now at the Inn of the Three Fountains and wishes speech with you. He left the message some five daybreaks ago. There was no other message save that that one would see you as soon as possible.”

“Well enough.” Zurzal had relaxed a fraction but still it was apparent to Jofre that he was disturbed. “My thanks to the hive for the courtesy of message passing.”

The insectoid made a gesture of assent and then pushed another button. “That which you left to hive care we return to you, Histechneer Zurzal.” The words bore some of the formality of a ritual.

“I have been out of touch with many things for a space,” Zurzal remarked. “There have been changes which a prudent being should know?”

The insectoid placed the sharp elbows of its higher pair of arms on the desk and latched that set of claws together. The feathery antennae on its head inclined towards the Zacathan.

“Changes? Not many and minor ones only, such as occur with the passing of time and can never be countered against nor truly foreseen. There are rumors of Jacks operating in the Alaban system, and there is the usual unrest on Vors—but there they are never happy unless they are unhappy—a most strange people. Of course Tssek is about to celebrate its Holder’s Fiftieth.”

“An auspicious occasion.” There was a dry note in Zurzal’s answer to that, as if he personally disagreed.

Before the insectoid could answer, if he were inclined to do so, a section of the wall at the left opened. Jofre was at half crouch at once, hand to belt butt, and then straightened, but did not release his hold on that weapon hilt as the small antigrav plate raised to the height of the tabletop and made for a landing on that. The insectoid lifted off its cargo, a black case with a handhold set in the top but no sign of any hinge or fastening on its smooth sides.

“Your hive desposit, Histechneer.”

Zurzal was on his feet and approached the table, his hand out to close about that handle.

“I accept. My thanks, Fifthborn, for the courtesy and the aid of the hive.”

“May you prosper in your going, Histechneer Zurzal.”

“May the hive prosper with many hatchings, Fifthborn,” Zurzal returned. He half bowed and the insectoid echoed him a little awkwardly, its body not made for such action.

As they issued forth from the building Jofre would have taken the handled box from the Zacathan but the other shook his head. “This I take—then if any harm comes to its contents I am alone responsible. But I do not like what I have heard.”

“About the Holder of Tssek?” deduced Jofre.

“Just sssssooo—” again that hiss. “The Holder is bad news in any instance. Why he should be interested in me I have not the least idea but I am going to keep glancing over my shoulder from now on—”

Jofre shook his head. “The looking is mine, I am your oathed. But a man should know what he can of his enemies—who is this Holder and why is he considered a man of power?”

“It’s a story, all right,” Zurzal returned. “Let me get this back to our inn and into their safe room there. Then I’ll tell you what I know. Which is common knowledge to most of stellar space in this quarter. My people have had no dealings with Tssek.” He seemed to be speaking his thoughts aloud now. “What was there, suitable for inclusion in the archives, was routed out long ago. It is an old world and mainly inlooking, being occupied with a number of bloody events in the past.”

Jofre was alert as they returned to their lodging but there was no sign that he could detect that any of that mixed multitude thronging the streets had the least interest in them. After Zurzal had turned his burden over to the security captain the Zacathan led the way onto one of those terraces ringing the building and took a seat at a table which was screened on three sides by the potted growths and well away from its nearest neighbor. Having dialed drinks from the button menu on the table, he settled back in his seat, looking thoughtfully at Jofre.

“The hive tenders do not mention things they consider of little interest. Therefore, this business of the Holder is important enough to lead them to pass it on. They are the conservers and transferrers of credit; their vaults are entirely safe and have never been raided; they are keepers of a great many secrets. Doubtless even a number of the Holder’s!

“Now—we come to the matter of Tssek. Over the centuries since First-In contact that world has not been too healthy a place, not only for off-worlders but for its own people. There appears to be some quirk in character there which leads to constant intrigue and war. For a long time there was no stable government, merely a string of very quarrelsome and warring small nations.

“A little more than a century ago there was born one of those individuals who appear in all our histories from time to time—a person of charisma and with inborn qualities of leadership to make him supreme. On Tssek this was Fer s’Rang. He set about vigorously and within twenty years he had united one continent under a government which for the first time appeared stable and likely to last. From there he went on to bring the eastern continent also under his control.

“Not only was he a born leader but he had the happy gift of being able to pick just the right followers for each job. And Tssek settled down into peace for the first time in the memory of that world. Things went very well indeed. Fer s’Rang, after he was proclaimed Holder, opened the spaceports for trade; he sponsored manufacturing and raised the standard of living and was generally what is seldom found, a genuinely benevolent dictator, and Tssek prospered.

“There was some dissatisfaction, of course; there could not help being, given the past history. But it was growing less and less. Then there came the Great Ingathering.

“All the clans which had been warring were invited to this. War was already a thing of the past and it was to be a peaceful celebration. In the midst of the festivities Fer s’Rang died. It was also a peaceful death, expected since he had been ailing for some time, though it was accepted that the exertion he had been put to in the last weeks of his life had told on him. He fell dead while receiving the homage of the last of the families who had caused him trouble.

“His second-in-command at once took over and it seemed for a space that there would be no change in what Fer s’Rang had started. However, the government began to tighten here and there, to dominate quietly, to take over. Now Tssek is a tight dictatorship and from all rumors a very unhappy world.

“The present Holder keeps aloof, as far as I have heard, from any off-world contact. And, as you know, only when a world is one of the Great Council can there be any examination of its internal problems. Tssek has never applied for such an inclusion. The rumor is that Fer s’Rang was on the verge of it when he died.

“There is a good amount of trade with Tssek. They provide a number of very much needed minerals as well as manufactured goods. But off-worlder contact is limited to the spaceport, as it is on any non-Council world, even as it was on Asborgan. There is good reason to believe that the Holder is anything but beloved by his present subjects. However, that is not for off-worlders to meddle with.”

“But this Holder wants contact with you—” said Jofre slowly.

“Just sssoooo—and why? Not for anything I think I would have an interest in,” Zurzal returned.

Jofre’s movement was so sudden that it might have been intended to deceive the eye. The nose of his sidearm appeared on the surface of the table, pointing past the Zacathan at the screens provided by two of the potted plants which were large and thick enough to be considered bushes and far too good a cover. The Shadow was on his feet in one supple movement. Though the eyes of his companion glittered and his frill stirred Zurzal made no move himself. Instead he raised his voice a fraction.

“Company expecting welcome moves in the open,” he stated, then swung around in turn, though he produced no weapon of his own.

Their answer came from another direction: a man advanced into the open with the casualness of one moving about his proper business. He was fully humanoid—perhaps even Terran stock—but small. And he lacked the heavy browning of skin developed by a spacer. Against the high collar of his tunic his chin was jowly, and his eyes were small, set in darkened pouches of unhealthy grayish-appearing skin.

They were half-shadowed by the bill of a uniform cap generously embroidered with glittering thread, a matching device worked also on that high collar, and modifications of it up the sleeves of his tunic. The color of that tunic was a dead black, as were his tight breeches and the boots beneath. He also sported a wide belt from which hung, close to hand, a blaster sheath.

Jofre’s second move had taken him crabwise, so that he was now in a position to defend the Zacathan from both this newcomer and that bush screen behind which his alert senses told him there was at least one more lurker.