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.
