Ice and Shadow (19 page)

She stepped to one side as the men following her fanned out. Imfry was at another door of the room, the Sergeant flanking him, both with those guns in their hands. The Colonel edged open that barrier, looked beyond, and then waved them on.

So they came into the heart of Urkermark High Keep. And it was through its rooms Imfry led them. Twice Roane waited with a beating heart, listening to the sound of shots loud in these echoing rooms. And once she hurried by a body lying face down, from under which runneled a thin red stream.

But there was no unified resistance to their passage and they went swiftly. Here and there small squads of the company broke off under low-voiced orders. So that when they reached another door, before which the Colonel again paused, there were only ten of them, counting Roane, left.

Imfry tried the latch carefully before he gave a quick, sharp pull, at the same time moving to face whoever might be within, gun ready.

“Drop it!”

There was a queer sound like broken laughter. The Colonel was already inside, the rest crowding behind him, so Roane was the last to enter. She did not find a battle about to begin, but rather a strange scene, as if the actors had been frozen in place by their entrance.

On a couch lay Ludorica, her eyes closed, her dress disordered, even torn, with draggled trails of black lace hanging from the bodice. Her hair was loose, matted in tangles.

Beyond her was a chair in which sat Shambry. He held both hands breast-high before him, and on them rested a glowing ball of rippling light. His mouth was slackly open, a thread of spittle drooling from one corner. But as he looked at Imfry his lips wrinkled in a hideous grin.

“Quiet, sir, the Queen sleeps. She sleeps, she dreams, dreams of us, and if she wakes, why, we shall all cease to be. Because we are her dream creatures. Only I, Shambry, can keep her dreaming so, and us alive!”

The men moved uneasily, edged a little away. Only Imfry continued to front the Soothspeaker. Then he went into action before Shambry could dodge, plucked the ball from the other’s hold.

With a cry of pure terror, Shambry flung himself at Imfry, his crooked fingers reaching for the ball, or perhaps the Colonel’s throat. But Wuldon interposed, hurling the man, now mouthing curses, back into his chair with such force that it went over, spilling Shambry to the floor.

Roane was already at the Princess’s side. Ludorica’s face was very pale, worn, but it had lost that shadow of evil the crown had laid upon it. Her skin was hot and dry as if she burned with fever, her lips cracked and peeling. But she still lived, and her breathing was the even rise and fall of one who slept.

Wuldon had his hands hooked in the collar of the Soothspeaker’s black cloak, was pulling the groveling Shambry to his feet. He shook the man, who now hung limply in his grasp, and looked to Imfry.

“He is really over the edge, sir. You will not get any sense out of him now. What has he done to the Queen?”

Imfry moved to the couch, took one of Ludorica’s hands between his.

“She is under mind-globe, I think. If so, there is one drastic remedy for that.” He turned and caught up the ball, which had spun away to the floor. Raising it high, he deliberately smashed it. Shambry gave a wild beast’s cry, fought with such a frenzy that Wuldon could not hold him alone. Two of the men came to his aid.

Ludorica’s head turned on the pillow. Then her eyes opened. But there was no recognition in them.

“See to her,” Imfry told Roane. “There is one lacking from this company who must be found.”

He strode across the chamber to the second door, setting his shoulder to burst it open by force. Beyond, Roane saw part of a pillared hall, most of which swept beyond her range of vision. But what the door framed was undoubtedly a throne on a dais, yet set low enough for her to see that it was occupied. He who sat there wore a crown which was a glitter of icy splendor. And he did not turn his head to view Imfry’s abrupt entrance.

Neither was he alone. But those who companied him were not standing to attention in their king’s presence, but rather sprawled on the floor before him, so that when the Colonel, gun still at ready, went to confront the usurper, he had to step over and around their bodies.

“Reddick!”

There was no sign that the Duke either heard or saw Imfry. He sat so still he might have been frozen by the ice of the Crown. The Colonel studied him, and then went swiftly up to the throne and laid a hand on his enemy’s shoulder.

He started back with a quickly suppressed cry, for his touch broke the dream in the form of a man. There was a chime of sound; the Crown shattered, fell in a rain of splinters about the head and shoulders of him who wore it. Then Reddick shriveled, blackened, turned into something Roane could not bear to look upon. She cried out and hid her face in her hands.

Lamplight showed the richness of the heavily embroidered cover on the daised bed. Though that radiance was far less than what Roane had been used to, it was enough to fully illumine Ludorica’s face. They had propped her up on a backing of pillows and Roane fed her bite by bite, giving her many sips of watered wine.

The Queen did not lift her hands, seemed unable to help herself. She smiled now and then, once murmured Imfry’s name when he came to look upon her. And in that much they were assured she had some measure of consciousness. Only she was very weak.

Roane tried with caution two of the remedies from her kit. But neither seemed to give any strengthening to this slender girl who was now a helpless child in her care.

Perhaps they would never know what had happened in the High Keep before their coming. It could be that Reddick had already taken the Ice Crown to wear before that fateful moment when the distant controls had blazed into nothingness. That could well explain his gruesome death on the throne, the ending of those committed to his rule—for all in that chamber were dead. Shambry was insane, retreating into a catatonic state they could not break.

Roane watched the Queen. She was now afraid that Ludorica might be beyond the aid of untrained help, though they could cling to the hope that she would gradually awaken fully. But Roane had told Imfry the truth, that it would be well to seek the aid they needed elsewhere. And his messengers had already ridden to ask it.

Meanwhile the keep was coming to life. That town which had been in the iron grip of Reddick’s traitors was freed. Some of the lawful councilors had been killed, one or two had disappeared, but four had been found, brought back. The servants were returning, other help had been recruited from the city, and the guards were all Imfry’s men and so trustworthy. Roane knew this was in progress, but her own field of battle remained this bedroom.

She had two of the Princess’s maids with her. They had been discovered locked in their chambers and freed by Imfry’s searchers. They had at first been jealous of Roane, but then were worried enough about the state of their mistress to welcome the stranger’s aid. At night Roane herself rested on a divan at the other end of the room, ready for any summons.

Imfry had not returned since she had begged him to send a messenger to contact her own people. If the LB was still there, and the off-worlders were willing, now that the installation was gone and Clio was no longer slave to the past, they could have better help than any she thought native to Clio. But it could be they were too late in seeking it.

The Queen opened her eyes. She fell asleep during these hours in the blink of an eyelid and roused as quickly. Roane took those two inert hands into hers.

“Ludorica!” she called softly as a summons.

It seemed that this time those blue eyes did indeed focus on her and hold steady—as if she were a recognized person and not a part of the room. The cracked lips Roane had soothed with salve parted and the faintest ghost of a whisper reached her:

“Roane?”

“Yes, oh, yes!” The off-world girl tightened her grip eagerly. “I am Roane!” That the other knew her was a great leap forward out of that shadow land.

“Stay—”

Roane understood that as a question.

“Yes, I shall stay.” But she could not be sure she had replied in time for the other to understand, for the heavy lids had fallen again and once more the Queen slept—though this time Roane watched with a lighter heart. She thought Ludorica’s sleep more natural, not just a giving way to a blanking unconsciousness. At last she laid down the hands she held and at that moment one of the maids came into the circle of lamplight and beckoned, slipping into Roane’s place as she arose.

The chamber door was ajar and she went to it. Imfry was in the room beyond. He was wearing full uniform, and his thin face was shaven. He had been, she was aware, on his self-imposed duties to bring order out of chaos.

“Your star ship was gone.” He broke it to her abruptly.

For a moment all she thought of was the lost opportunity to aid the Queen. Then the true meaning struck home. They had gone, leaving her behind, marooned it might well be for life if the Service decided against any further contact. Roane put out her hand for support, suddenly feeling a little dizzy, reaching for a chair back. But her hand was caught as he came to her, steadied her.

“I am sorry,” he said and that crispness of command, much in his voice these past few days, was softened. “I should not have told you so.”

“No, it does not matter.” She shook her head. “I could not have expected otherwise. They knew we had been discovered, and they would not wait to find me. They may never come again. But Nelis, listen—the Queen—Ludorica—a short time ago she knew me! Perhaps we can hope she will come back to us. We might not need their help after all.”

“You are sure—she is on the mend?” Something in his eagerness, the way he turned his head to look at the door into the bedchamber made Roane want to move away. She tried to pull her hand from his, but he would not loose it.

“I have a duty.” He spoke slowly, almost as if what he said now was painful. “You have heard her call me ‘kinsman’—”

Because, thought Roane with a wry inner hurt, Ludorica wished perhaps an even closer relationship with her Colonel.

“You see, there is in truth a bond between us—”

This she did not want to hear. If the bleak truth was not put into words, if she did not have to hear it just yet—And to have
him
say it! But she was not able to protest, and he was continuing:

“I took an oath long ago at my father’s wishes—and it has ruled my life. Our rulers marry for reasons of state, the well-being of their countries. But often such unions are no more than formal alliances, though they are required for the begetting of true heirs.

“Our King Niklas accepted the royal bride from Vordain, as his advisers made plain was his duty. But his heart had already been given elsewhere. And such affairs can lead not only to pain but to cankers like Reddick’s ambition—which was in part my father’s fear after my birth.

“My mother was the King’s daughter, but no princess. She wanted nothing from her father; in fact she refused all he would have gladly given her. And when she wed with my father she was pleased to leave the court.

“By her wish I was to claim nothing from the King, and this was my father’s desire also. I was not to be ‘kinsman’ though I could easily have been so. To me Ludorica will always be the Queen whom I serve and honor. Beyond the service I owe her thus, I go my way, and she that which destiny points for her. Do you understand what I would have you believe?”

Roane could not answer save with a nod. She was unable to sort out her emotions. For that she needed time and quiet and a chance to face a new self, a very new self which she must learn to know.

“What of you? Your people have left you—”

“Yes.”

“But that is only as you think; the truth is otherwise!” There was hot emotion in his voice which she was too bewildered even to try to read.
“Those
have gone, your people are here! You are of Reveny, as much as if you were born among her hills, schooled in some stead hall. Believe that, Roane, believe it! For it is true!”

She was not just imagining what he said—it was the truth now. And with the tone of one wholeheartedly swearing allegiance she found voice enough to answer: “I do—Nelis, I do!”

BROTHER

TO

SHADOWS

CHAPTER 1

THE CHILL FINGERS OF THE DAWN
wind clawed. Behind the spires of the Listeners the sky was the color of a well-honed throwing knife. There was not any answer to time’s passing in Ho-Le-Far Lair.

Brothers stood in the courtyard as they had since twilight, keeping the Face-the-great-storm position with a purpose that rose above any cramping of limb or protest of body. Only their eyes were apprehensive and what they watched was that oval set at the crown of the arch which marked the door of the Master’s great hall. What should have showed a glow of light was lifeless, as dull as the stone in which it was set.

Now through that door, which gaped like a skull’s lipless jaws at the top of a flight of stairs, came the long awaited figure muffled in robes the hue of dried blood—The Shagga Priest.

He spoke and his voice, though low-pitched, carried as it had been trained to do.

“The Master has fulfilled his issha vow.”

No one in those lines below wavered, though this was an ending to all the life they had known.

Those two to the fore of the waiting company raised hands in Sky-draw-down gestures. Then they strode forward with matching steps while the priest descended further to meet them. He stopped, still above their level, so they must look up to meet his eyes. In the growing light their Shadow garments were a steel to match the lowering sky.

TarrHos, Right Hand to the Master, crossed his hands at breast level, drawing with action too quick for the eye to truly follow, slender daggers.

“It is permitted?” he asked of the priest, his voice as hard as the weapons he displayed.

“It is permitted—by the Issha of this Brotherhood it is so.” The priest nodded his shaven head and his own hands advanced, like predators on the prowl, from the shadows of his wide sleeves to sketch certain age-old gestures.

TarrHos went to his knees. Three times he bowed, not to the priest but to that lifeless stone above. It was a blinded eye now; that force which it had contained had fled, no brother or priest could tell why or how. It had been, it was not, and with it went the life of this Lair.

TarrHos’s weapons swept in the ritual gesture. There was no sound from the man who crumpled forward, only the moaning of the wind. Red spattered upward, not quite reaching the perch of the priest.

LasStir, Left Hand of the Master, took another step forward. He did not look at his dead fellow.

“It is permitted?” His voice, rendered harsh by an old throat wound, outrode the wind.

“It is permitted—the issha holds.”

With the same dexterity of weapons LasStir joined his colieutenant in death.

The Shagga descended the last two steps, making no effort to draw back the hem of his robe from the spreading pools of blood coming to join as one.

Ten more made up that assembly left below, younger men, some near boys. Their short cloaks were black, the sign of those who had not made at least ten forays for the honor of the Lair. One in that line dared to speak to the Shagga.

“It is permitted?” His voice was a little too high, too shrill.

“It is not permitted!” The priest silenced him. “A Lair dies when its heart is no longer fed by the will of its Master. The unblooded and half-sworn do not take up the issha.

“Rather you shall serve in other Lairs still as is demanded of you. Ho-Le-Far has ceased to be.” He made the Descent-of-Darkest-Night wave with his left hand—so setting an end to all which had existed here, erasing a long and valiant history. “Here no longer is there a Post of Shadows.”

For the first time there was a slight movement in that assembly. This was a thing of disaster, almost of terror, and it was an evil fate to be caught in it.

The Shagga moved along the line slowly, stopping to eye each one, and to address that one alone:

“HasGan and CarFur,” he singled out the first two on the left. “Draw supplies and weapons, go to the Lair of Tig-Nor-Tu. DisNov and YasWar, you will do likewise, but go over mountain to Ou-Quar-Nin.”

So it went until the priest reached the last in that line. He had to look up to meet eye to eye with the waiting novice and now that it was fully light it was plain to see the sparks of malice in his sunken eyes, the vicious twist of his lips as he shaped words which he had long savored and held ready for this moment.

“Outlander—misborn—no-blood—Out with you to where you will—you are not of the Oath and by the Will of TransGar you never shall be. You are an abomination, a stain. No doubt the Master’s force death has come through you. You will take no weapons—for those are of the Brotherhood, and henceforth you will go your own way!”

The hooded listener refused the Shagga the satisfaction of seeing how deep that thrust went. He had long known that the priest hated him, looked upon his being there as a blot on the honor of the Lair. Since the force stone had started to fail he had foreseen this and tried to plan beyond it. But so much of his life was tied here that it was hard to break the bonds of discipline, to think of himself as moving without orders on a wayward path which had no real goal

Within the Lair only the Master had ever shown him any concern. He had been told why only three moon speds ago. The Brothers to Shadows, trained assassins, spies, bodyguards, had been in service on Asborgan for centuries. Rulers employed their services knowing well that, once oathed, they were absolutely loyal to their employer for the agreed-upon length of their bond. However, recently there had been a rumor that their particular talents were in demand off-world also and that was a new source of income for the Lairs. To employ one of off-world blood off-world would be setting that Lair to the fore of the new idea and the Master had been a forward-looking man—which was, Jofre thought, a hidden point of disagreement between him and the custom-bound Shagga.

Jofre was the Master’s own find, a literal find, for the Master, on one of his scout training missions, had come upon the wreck of an escape craft, one of those which sometimes could make a perilous rescue from a spacer in dire trouble. Jofre had been the only living thing in that tiny vessel, a child so young he could remember only a few scraps of scenes of his life before he had been taken into the Lair to be given the grilling training of the Brothers.

Though in frame he was larger than the rest of the novices, he quickly absorbed all he was taught, proving more proficient in some of the necessary skills than others. At the same time the Master had seen that he was given lessons in the off-world trade tongue, passed to him information which seeped from the airport to the Lair, brought by traders and travelers. Though both Master and student knew well there were large and awkward gaps in what he absorbed with a will. His greater reach and strength as he approached manhood had awakened envy in his fellows, something he had long known that the Shagga Priest had fostered. However, he knew that he was competent enough for a mission and that the Master had had plans for him.

The Master and the force stone . . . Each Lair was endowed with such a stone and no one knew from where these came or what was the purpose—save that at long intervals their glow died. That was taken as a direct sign that the force of the Master had gone also and that he must pay for whatever secret failing had brought about the death of his power. With the stone died also the Lair as this one had here and now. But it had been a long time since any Lair had come to an end, and it was a bitter thing which brought a faint touch of fear to every other Lair when it happened.

Jofre continued to meet the priest eye to eye. The man would see him dead if he could. But he could not, for Jofre had passed the first oathing four seasons ago and Brother could not shed the blood of Brother. However, the Shagga was settling his fate in another way. This was the season of mountain cold. To be cast out of shelter without weapons or full supplies was a delayed sentence of death—or so the priest believed.

“I am assha if not issha.” Jofre spoke the words slowly as he might ready his knives for a final thrust. “Weapons you may take from me, for they are of the Lair. I claim therefore traveler’s rights under the law.” On this point custom would bear him out and he would hold to it.

The priest scowled and then flung away after the others, who were already moving off to make up their packs ready for the journeying to their newly appointed stations.

Jofre faced the force stone again. Slowly he moved forward. The light which had centered it was certainly gone—it was now as dull as the age-worn stone which held it. At least ten Masters had lived and died in its light—the eleventh had the misfortune to see that light fail.

The young man skirted the bodies of the lieutenants and climbed the steps. He expected some outcry from the Shagga though what he would do was no profanation. However, that did not come and he passed into the darkness of the hall above, where the only faint light came from two lamps at the far end.

Between them lay that other body—the Master. For some reason Jofre needed to do this but he could not explain that reason even to himself. He came to stand beside the man who had saved his life, even though just perhaps because he saw in Jofre a tool to be well employed at a future date.

Jofre’s hands moved Star-Of-Morning—Journey-into-Light. The fingers shaped that message in the air. Farewell-far-journey-triumph-to-the-warrior. As he did this there welled into him an inflow of strength, almost as if some of the will and purpose of the dead Master passed to him as a bequest.

Only a tenth night ago he had knelt at this very spot, had spread before him certain maps and papers, known the carefully hidden excitement of one being prepared for a mission.

“It is thus,” the Master had spoken as one who shared thought, “these off-worlders change every world they enter. They cannot help but do so to us. We have lived by a certain pattern for ten centuries now. The valley lords have their feuds which have become as formally programmed as the IDD dances. They hire us as bodyguards, as Slipshadows to dispose of those whose power threatens them or whom they wish to clear from their paths. It has become in a manner a game—a blood game.

“But to all patterns there comes a time of breaking, for weaving grows thinner with years. So it comes for us—though many of the Masters would say no to that. But we must change or perish.” There had been force in those words as if the Master were oath giving.

“The Master of Ros-hing-qua has shown the way. He has oathed two Brother Shadows, one Sister Shadow off-world to men who seek easement to trouble on their own home globe. Word has come that they carried out their assignment in keeping with issha traditions. Now it is our turn to think of such a thing. There is news from the port that there has been talk of others coming from the far starways to seek the arts we have long cultivated. You are not of our blood, Jofre, by birth. But we claimed you and you have eaten of our bread, drunk brother-toasts, learned what was our own way. Off-world you can use all you know and yet not be betrayed by the fact you are born of us. Therefore, when the time comes, this mission shall be yours—either you will be sent to be the shoulder shield, body armor for some far lord, or you will be the hunter with steel.”

Jofre had dared then to break the pause which followed:

“Master, you place in me great trust but there are those within these walls who would speak against that.”

“The Shagga, yes. It is the manner of most priests to cling to tradition, to be jealous guardians of custom. He would not take departure from the old ways happily. But here I am Master—”

Yes, here he had been Master—until the issha and the door crystal had failed him. Jofre’s lips tightened against his teeth under the half-mask scarf of his headdress. Could the Shagga have, in some way, brought this ruin here? There were tales upon tales of how they had strange powers but he had never seen such manifest and besides, were such a thing possible, all the Masters of Lairs would rise and even the Shagga would face death.

Jofre knelt now and touched his turbaned head three times to the floor, the proper answer to one given a mission.

“Master, hearing, I obey.”

He was not being sent forth officially, no. For no Lair would offer him shelter with the Shagga against him, nor did he want to remain where he was not a true brother. Off-worlder they called him. But as the Master had pointed out he had certain skills which could well be useful on any planet where men envied other men, or feared for their lives, or sought power. The spaceport would be his goal and from there he would await what fortune his issha would offer.

Now he left the hall and its dead and went directly to the storehouse, in which there was a bustle. A line of burden quir were waiting with pack racks already on their ridged backs. Hurrying back and forth were the Brothers, already in their thick journey clothing, loading on those ugly-tempered beasts all which must be transported now to their future homes.

The Shagga priest stood by the door but as Jofre approached he turned with a whirl of his robes to face him.

“Off with you—But first—There—” he pointed to the ground at his feet already befouled by the droppings of the quir, “your weapons, nameless one.”

Under his half-mask Jofre snarled. Yet, this too, was a part of the tradition. Since they declared him not of any Lair, he could not bear the arms of one.

His long knife, his two throwing sleeve knives, his chainball throw, his hollow blowtube. One by one he threw them at the priest’s feet. At last he held but one knife.

“This,” he said levelly, “I keep—by traveler’s law.”

The priest’s mouth worked as if he would both spit and curse in one. But he did not deny that.

Nor did Jofre draw back now. Though the priest and the Brothers with their supplies tended to block the doorway.

“I claim traveler’s right supplies,” the young man stated firmly.

“You will get them!” The priest seized upon one of the boys just returning for another load. “Bring forth that prepared for this one. Then get you forth, cursed one.”

The Brother ducked within and returned in a moment with a shoulder pack, a very small one, lacking much, Jofre thought, of what he would really need. Yet the Shagga had obeyed the letter of the law and if he protested, it would achieve nothing but to render him less in the eyes of these who had so recently been his oathed Brothers.