Brother To Shadows m-5 Read online

  Brother To Shadows

  ( Moonsinger - 5 )

  Norton, Andre

  Brother to Shadows by Andre Norton

  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 Slip-shadows 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 chain-ball 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.

  He took up the pack which had been tossed contemptuously in his direction and, without a word, turned and went toward the wide open gate in the wall. In that last meeting with the Master he had memorized from the map the route he must take. Of his destination he knew only what he had learned by study and by listening to the talk of the traders who now and then visited the Lair.

  There was a road of sorts. However, that followed a winding way and he would lose time. By the heft of the pack he had little in the way of supplies. Though the Brothers were trained to live off the land, this was the beginning of the cold season and much which could be converted to food would be hard to find. The herbs were frost burnt and dead; the small animals had mainly retreated to burrows. It was at least ten days travel on foot before he would reach farming land and then he must be wary of attempting to obtain supplies. The Brothers were feared by commoners. A Brother alone might well be fair game. No, it would be better to strike straight over the Pass of the Kymer, if that was not snow choked by an early storm. In a way he would thus be seeking out his own roots, as it was on the slope of the Ta-Kymer that the escapeboat in which he had been found had made a crash landing.

  Jofre did not turn and look back at the only home he could remember. Instead he centered all his concentration on what lay before him, marshaling all strengths to face the mountain path.

  The Shagga priest stood in the middle of that narrow room which had been his own quarters at the Lair. There were blanks of lighter strips on the wall where the rolls of the WORDS OF SKAG had been hung only moments earlier. All his belongings were enwra
pped in weather-resistant orff skin bags to wait by the door.

  He plucked at his lower lip as was his habit in thought, though there was so little skin to be gathered there.

  Outside the narrow slit of window the pale sun was being cloud hidden. A storm, early in the season, that might most easily answer his problem. But no man could count on the whims of nature. It was best to cover all possible points in planning an attack.

  There was one other object there in the room. A cage in which a black blot huddled. The priest went to haul out that occupant. He held something which was neither bird nor mammal but a combination of both and faintly repulsive. The thing expanded leathery wings, releasing more of its disgusting, musty body odor.

  Its head twisted and turned on a long neck as if it were trying to escape, not the priest's hold upon its body, but the glare of his eyes. Until at last the man's will overcame that of the Kag, the turning head was still, and it was held eye to eye with him as if being hypnotized, which it was after a manner.

  There was a long pause and then the priest stepped quickly to the window and the Kag arose and was gone, spiraling out over the countryside, but still as much under his control as if he held it on a leash. It would follow, it would spy. When death struck down that upstart its master would speedily learn.

  JOFRE NOTED THOSE SIGNS OF STORM, YET HE DID NOT quicken pace. For the first hour after leaving the Lair he had country comparatively easy to travel. For he could keep for awhile to the travelers' road. He swung along at the controlled gait for a long journey, with a divided mind which had come from his training.

  One-half of his attention was for his surroundings and footing, the other probed into the future. He felt so oddly alone, though the Brothers, for the most part, operated singly, but always on a set task, and he was without that guidance. He set to gaining full control, first visualizing the map he was to follow, then examining in turn all the possible points of knowledge which could aid him in the future.