Andre Norton - Brother To Shadows

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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

enwrapped 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.

The history of the Brothers was thickly entangled with the intrigues and conspiracies of

many small courts and kingdoms. All they knew of off-world came largely through

hearsay. Many, such as the Shagga priest, wanted to keep it that way. Only because the

Master had been far looking and ambitious in a new fashion did Jofre have those scraps

he clung to.

A city had been already established on the plain where the first spacer exploring starship

had set down on Asborgan. Now there were, in fact, two cities, the old and a new one

which had grown up nearer the port landing and in which there were strange off-world

buildings housing beings of different races, different species even.

On the outer fringe of this newer city along the port side there was a third collection of

buildings, seedy inns, trading marts in which there were few questions asked as to the

source of goods offered. Here the outcasts of both Asborgan's native stock and the scum

which followed the star lanes as a blot gathered and held a strong hold of their own.

Jofre had heard of the Thieves Guild, which spread talons to seize across half the star

lanes. There was said to be a branch of that which had gained a foothold here,

incorporating into its very diverse assembly native talent. In addition there were those

who had met with such misfortune that they had fallen to a point of no return. He had

been told of drugs which drove men wild, giving them great power for a short time, but

condemning them to miserable deaths. All the evil which an intelligent mind could

conceive gathered there in that dismal sink.

Yet that must be his own first goal. As a Brother he could not shelter in the old city—for

he wore no lord's badge. Also there would be a need for coins to pay his way. The better

portion of the space city would see him as a curiosity and so suspect. No, he must dive

into the dark quarter until he could find his way about.

In his decision Jofre had no fear of either the law or the lawless. The conception that a

Brother could be taken anywhere, used at any time against his own will, or the will of his

Master, was inconceivable. He had skills of body and will, honed mastery of mind to

shield him there. But when he tried to think to whom he might offer those skills now he

found himself at a loss.

Finally, deciding that sure attempts at foreseeing were only useless, he shut down that

portion of his mind and concentrated on the journey itself.

It was twilight when he came to where he must take the cutoff for the pass. Long trained

to scout work, he could slip through the bare-branched brush and work his way up into

the heights easily enough. He sheltered that night in a half cave where two great rocks

tilted together.

Once he had his fire, hardly wider than his two hands held thumb to thumb, and had

chewed the tough trail mix of meat pounded with dried fruit into a strip, he turned to the

fitting of himself for what might well be the trials of tomorrow.

First he sought out The Center of All Things, concentrating on the mental symbols which

marked the existence of that. Then he visualized the inner workings of his own body, the

muscles, the nerves, the blood and bones, the knitting of the flesh. From his toes he began

to use The Flow of Inner Life, drawing it up through him, into his mid body, his arms and

shoulders, until his hands, where they rested on his knees as he sat cross-legged, grew

warm and each finger tingled.

Into his throat, his head, the flood continued. There was a feeling of elation but that he

was swift to dampen. He was not summoning battle power. Only the strength needed for

travel.

He breathed deeply three times, to lock in that warmth. Then he relaxed, aware that he

had prepared himself as best he could. Now he set his sentinels of alarm that he might

take a full night's rest. At least those were available to all travelers and so the Shagga

priest could not refuse him them.

Jofre worked the three large pebbles out of their traveling bag and, with a knowing eye,

in spite of the dark which had now closed in, he positioned them in the gravel about the

rock. Such were quick to give alarm when approached by anything warm-blooded to

which they had not been bound, as he had bound these with a drop of his own blood and

the warmth of his bared hand.

Having taken his precautions, Jofre rolled in his double blanket and went to sleep, rest

easily summoned by his long training.

There was no show of either moon tonight and clouds were heavy, though they had not

yet loosed their burdens. Through their thickness sped the Kag. The creature lit on a spur

of rock and hunched into a motionless blot of darkness, only to launch itself again and

seize a warfin which had ventured out to hunt. Bearing the bird to its chosen perch, it

ripped apart the body and fed ravenously, then settled to rest as had its quarry below.

Jofre awoke at dawn. He chewed another strip of journey rations, adding to that only a

single finger scoop of yellowish paste from a small box. The Brothers did not depend

often on stimulants but they had their own kinds of energy-inducing herbal concoctions.

He gathered up his sentries, returned them to their pouch, and swung his pack up on his

shoulder. However, when only a few feet from his last night's camp, he paused to eye

something protruding slantwise from the rubble which must have descended in a small

slide from the heights he must now face.

It was certainly not the remains of any bush, or sapling. No, he had seen—and used—its

like before. This was a pass staff which, in the right hands, could even confront a steel

swinging opponent. The flash of recognition sent his hand out to close firmly about it.

The slide held it well in grip and he had to work it loose. When he had it wholly free he

could see that the hook at its end had been bent out of shape, but it was still a weapon of

which he could make excellent use. His issha was assuredly strong—

But whence had it come? He took several steps backward so he could view the upslant of

the way before him more clearly. Then he saw it—a clean angle which was not of nature.

There had been—still was—a wall!

Jofre closed his eyes for a moment and drew to the fore of his mind the map. No, he was

certain that there had been no hint of any such along the route he had chosen. How could

he have gotten so far off trace? He turned his attention to the staff he now held. It was old

but it had been painstakingly carven of armor wood—that precious growth which could

be worked by a great deal of effort, but once shaped would perhaps well outlast its maker.

He pulled off his thick glove and took the shaft into his bare hand, allowing it to slide

along between his fingers as he held it closer to centered sight. Then that grip tightened.

His breath came with the faintest hiss.

Qaw-en-itter!

Dead Lair, long dead Lair! And by all the teaching of assha a site to be avoided lest the ill

fortune of that place still weave some pattern to entrap. Even as his own home Lair would

now be regarded by any chancing close to its deserted compound. However—Jofre slid

the staff back and forth between both hands as he sifted logic from superstition.

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