Zurzal was threading a way which wound between window-walled units and Jofre followed, though for all his efforts he could not keep his eyes from straying now and then to the occupants of other roomlets they passed.
In one which was floored with the grass (if it were grass) there were planted two of what looked to be misshapen trees, wide trunks extending horizontally. Perched on these were two beings of surely a very alien stock. One was fragile of body, the proudly held head was covered with what seemed to be curled silver white feathers. The eyes in an oval face were very large and set rather to the side, while the mouth and nose were united in what could almost be termed a beak. From a wide gemmed collar about the slender throat floated a series of panels of gauzy stuff, the color shading from pearl-white to rose, constantly rippling with every movement of the slender body they were apparently to adorn rather than cover. Jofre thought this must be a female, for her companion, plainly of the same strange species, had a feathered head with an upstanding crest, and feathers extended across his shoulders and down the outer side of his arms. The hands he used in quick gestures were more taloned than fingered. His clothing was more practical perhaps, what there was of it, as it consisted of breeches of a shiny material and boots quite like those of any spacer.
The birdlike couple were neighbored by a stretch of sand wherein several large rocks had been assembled. On these squatted things—Jofre could not at that moment accept them as sentient beings—not emotionally—they were too much like, or rather suggested, carvings the Shagga priests used to express the forces of evil. Yet their shelled, near-insectal bodies were at ease and two of them held with foreclaws what were plainly large mugs into which from time to time they would dip a long tube tongue from between ranged jaws. Their attitude was so much like a trio of elders discoursing on a formal piece of business that Jofre was shaken.
He grasped the significance of this hall; its builders had made a conscious effort to suit not only humanoids but those of alien cultures. And for the first time it struck firmly home to him how very diverse life-forms along the star lanes must be—how utterly different, perhaps even repellent to his kind, some of those other worlds might seem, and how narrow his own life had been.
Zurzal reached the end of the corridor which ran between the "home world" sections of the lobby. Overhead this space reached to the top of the tower and was there roofed over with a yellow, partly transparent oval covering the whole of the circle through which any light outside would filter down changed into the likeness of sunshine. The Zacathan beckoned to Jofre and stepped upon a platform, which, when it held both their weights, arose, passing by two levels of balcony until it locked against the side of the third, and the railing there swung back. They were faced by the outlines of a door in the wall and Zurzal stepped forward to plant his hand flat against that. The panel moved and slid away and once more the Zacathan waved his companion forward into what was undoubtedly his own private quarters.
The glow of the lamp was very dim, but not enough to disguise the anger on the face of the man who stood facing a visitor. That he had not expected company was plain, for he wore a loose chamber robe belted with a twist of cord about him. Behind him was the pile of sleeping cushions from which a private alarm had drawn him and in the air was the faint scent of the brewing herbs intended to settle nerves and drive away the day's cares—so much had the man called Ras Zarn taken to lowland customs.
A loose hanging curtain was pulled to one side and his unexpected and undesired visitor entered.
"There is no need—" Zarn near spat the words; at his side his hands twitched as if he wished nothing more than to make plain his resentment with a physical blow.
"There is every need," returned the other, low-voiced. Her cloak was all concealing, but with every movement its folds loosed a second scent into the air. "I have conveyed to my Master your instructions. He returns this: None that he oaths undertakes another commission until the first oath is blood erased. He is angry that you have questioned this and tried to lay a new duty on me. Though it does not greatly matter, as the path I follow now leads off-world and I will not be here to serve as your hound. I will be star borne at sunrise." She spoke without emotion though the other's growing rage was almost a tangible thing.
"By the Death of Shagga—"
She had been on the point of turning to leave, now her hooded head was on her shoulder.
"Master's oath—not Shagga—is my bond, and so it has always been. Apply to the Master for the weapon you wish, priest."
And she was gone. He twisted his hands together as if he had them about her neck. Fools, worse than fools! Traitors if what he and others suspected was true! Now—there was nothing he could do this night, save think. And think he must.
JOFRE SAT UNEASILY AND TOO COMFORTABLY ON ONE OF those platform-raised cushion chairs. He was facing the outer wall of the room, which was a curve as transparent as were the divisions in the lobby below. There was a faint sprinkling of watch lights from the old town, reflections of the more brilliant illumination here. At his side, on a waist-high table, stood a drinking vessel, seeming so fragile a too quick grasp might shatter it, the green of verjuice showing through its sides.
Zurzal, having equipped himself with a drink also— which as mysteriously appeared as had the verjuice in a wall space after the Zacathan had pressed some buttons— seated himself opposite his only partly willing guest.
"You say you are not oathed."
"I cannot be—there is no Master who will coswear with me."
Jofre had dropped his pack by the door. It would be ready to hand when he left.
"You are issha—is there any way that you can retreat from that?"
Jofre stiffened. What games did the alien want to play? Surely fortune had not been that good to him that he could find employment so easily, even for a short time.
"I am issha."
"I know something of the Shadow Brothers," the Zacathan continued. "It is part of the nature of my race to learn all we can about the ways and customs of others. It is true that your services are always contracted for through a Lair Master. How much power has this Shagga priest of yours?"
Jofre considered. "In oathing the Masters alone control us. The Shagga sometimes serve as special eyes and ears, they are advisors to the Masters—"
"The Masters can overrule them then?"
"Twice in our history it has been so. But to those who disputed with the Shagga misfortune came later—they were assha lost."
"As was your Master," Zurzal pointed out. "Could it be that he was a target then for Shagga ill will?"
Jofre swallowed. "He did not listen to advice he thought was too conservative, too lacking in a desire to learn new."
"So he therefore became one of the Elder Shadows."
"How do you know what—" Jofre flared.
"I told you, I would learn all that I can. There is talk in the old city of the Brothers, perhaps some of it rumor only; but even in rumor there is a core of truth. Think, Night wanderer, your Master was not a second voice for Shagga and he is now gone. Just as you have been hunted forth from the fellowship. You are freed by the very one who would condemn you, the Shagga. You have no Master save yourself. Therefore as a self-master you may be oathed."