Ziantha stood before the door smoothing a
tight-fitting glove with her other hand. Under its clinging
material her flesh tingled from the energy controls which had been
woven so skillfully into that covering. She had seen the glove
used, had practiced—but before this moment had never tried it
to its full potential.
For a last time she mind-searched up and down the corridor. All
clear, just as Ennia had promised, not that any Guildsperson ever
depended on anything save his or her own wits, skills, and
defenses. With that prickling hot on her palm, she reached forward
and set her hand flat against the persona-lock. Yasa had paid a
fabulous price for the loan of that glove; now it would be
demonstrated whether that fee was justified.
Tongue tip pushing a little between set teeth, Ziantha waited
for seconds frozen in time. Just when she was sure Yasa had lost
her gamble, the door slid noiselessly into the wall. So far, so
good!
Mind-seek again, to make sure there were no inner guards except
those she had been trained to locate and disarm. It would seem that
High Lord Jucundus was old-fashioned enough to use only the
conventional protectives which were as child’s toys to the
Thieves’ Guild. But still Ziantha made very sure, her bare
hand on that girdle (wherein the supposed decorative gems were tiny
but very effective detects) before she crossed into the room
beyond, snapping down at that moment her dark sight
band—which also masqueraded as part of an elaborate,
high-fashion headdress, just as the cloak about her, at the
pressure of a collar stud, was now a sight distort. The equipment
she wore would have cost the yearly revenue of a small planet had
it ever come to buying and selling; her own mathematical sense was
not enough even to set a sum to its value.
The chamber had every luxury that could be offered on Korwar,
the pleasure world. Treasures . . . but she was
here for only one thing. Pulling the cloak tightly about her so
that it might not brush against any piece of furniture and so
discharge energy, traces of which could later be detected, Ziantha
threaded a careful path to the far wall. If all went as Yasa
wished, if it were a clean foray, Jucundus would never have a clue
that his secrets had been penetrated. That is, until their
substance had been safely sold.
With the nightsight at her service she might be in a
well-lighted room. And not only was her sight an aid. Twice she
paused at warnings offered by her belt detects and was able to
mind-hold protection devices long enough to slip by, though each
check heightened her uneasiness, drew upon her psychic energy.
On the wall was a tri-dee mural portraying an off-world scene.
But she had been briefed as to the next step. With her tongue,
answered by a blazing shock, she touched the latch of the glove,
not daring to lift her other fingers from the detects. The glove
responded by splitting down the back so she could hook it to her
belt and pull her hand free.
Then the girl drew from beneath her cloak a pendant, raised it
to one of the flashing stars on the wall display, pressed it there.
An answering sound her ears could barely catch followed; the
vibration of it was a pain in her head.
A portion of the wall lifted to display a cupboard. So far the
skills and devices of the Guild had been successful. But the rest
of her mission depended upon her own talents.
The cupboard safe was filled with neat piles of cubes so small
she could have cradled three or four at a time in her palm. There
were so many, and in a very limited time she must sort out the few
that mattered, psychometrize their contents.
Her breath quickened as she set finger tip to the first in the
top row. Not that, nor that—Her finger flickered on down,
none in that row was what she wanted, though she guessed all had
value. Jucundus’s records: if all the rumors about him were
true, it did not matter in the least that he had been forced into
exile, his planetary holdings confiscated. With these microrecords
he could still use men, build again, perhaps even to greater
power.
Here! From the middle shelf she brought out the cube, pushing it
above the band of her nightsight so it rested against the bare
flesh of her forehead. This was the most dangerous part of her
foray, for at this moment she must forget everything else—the
detects on her belt, her own mind-barrier—and concentrate
only on what she could “read” from the cube. Also, it
had little meaning for her: no vivid pictures, only code symbols to
be memorized. That was it. With a release of breath that was close
to a sigh of relief, she put it back, sliding her finger along the
rows seeking another. Yasa had thought two—but make very
sure.
The second! Once more she had to wait out in danger that
transfer of knowledge that left her so defenseless while it was in
progress. Now she must make sure there was not a third cube. But
her questing finger did not find one. She closed the panel, new
relief flooding in. She had only to leave, to relock the door.
Once more drawing her distort cloak tight, Ziantha turned. Touch
nothing else, leave no trace to be picked up. This was—
Ziantha froze. She had reached with her now ungloved hand to
draw in a corner of the cloak which had threatened to sweep across
a small curio table. Now the edge of material fell from between her
fingers, her hand stretched out farther, not by conscious will on
her part, but as if her wrist had been seized in a powerful grip
and jerked forward.
For a second or two the girl believed that she might have been
caught in some new protect device that her belt had not been able
to pick up. Then she realized that this was a psychic demand for
her attention.
Never before had she had such an experience. When she
psychometrized it was always by will, by her own volition. This was
a demand she did not understand, which brought with it fear and the
beginning of panic. On the table lay something that was
“charged,” just as the Guild devices were charged, with
psychic energy so great it could command her attention.
Ziantha’s first stab of fear faded. This was new, so the
experience caught her even though she knew the danger of lingering.
She had to see what demanded recognition from her by provoking such
an answering surge of her talent.
Six objects on the table. There was a weird animal form carved
from a semiprecious stone. A flat block of veriform rose-crystal
with a gauze-winged free-flower from Virgal III imprisoned in it. A
box of Styrian stone-wood and next to that one of those inter-ring
puzzles made by the natives of Lysander. A trinket basket of
tri-fold filigree sapphire held some acid-sweets. But the
last— A lump of dusty clay, or so it looked.
Ziantha leaned closer. The lump had odd markings on
it—pulling her— She snatched back her hand as if her
fingers had neared leaping flames. But she had not touched that
ugly lump, and she must not! She knew that if she did she would be
totally lost.
Feverishly she wrapped her hand in a fold of her cloak, edged
around the table as if it were a trap. For at that moment that was
exactly what she felt it to be. A subtle trap, perhaps set not by
Jucundus but by some other power to imperil any one with her
talent.
Ziantha scuttled across the room as if she were fleeing the
clang of an alarm that would bring the whole city patrol. Outside
in the corridor, the room again sealed, she stood breathing with
the painful, rib-raising force of one who has fled for her life,
fighting back the need to return, to take into her hand that lump
of baked clay, or earth-encrusted stone, or whatever it
was—to know!
With shaking hands she made those swift alterations to her
clothing which concealed the double purpose of her garments,
allowing her to appear a person who had every right to walk here.
What was the matter with her? She had succeeded, could return to
Yasa now with exactly the information she had been sent to get.
Still she had no feeling of exultation, only the nagging doubt that
she had left behind something of infinitely greater value,
disastrously spurned.
The branch corridor united with the main one, and Rhin stepped
from the shadows where he had concealed himself so well that he
startled even Ziantha on his appearance. He wore the weapon belt of
a personal guard, the one branch of the Thieves’ Guild that
had quasi-legality, since they offered protection against
assassins. And some of the galactic elite who made Korwar their
playground had good reason to fear sudden death.
At his glance she nodded, but they did not speak as he fell into
step a pace or so behind her, as was determined by their present
roles. Now and then as she moved, but not with undue haste, Ziantha
caught sight of them both in a mirror. It gave her a slight shock
to see herself in the trappings of a Zhol Maiden, her natural
complexion and features concealed by the paint of an entertainer.
Her cloak, its distort switched off, was a golden orange, in
keeping with the richness of the gems in her headdress, girdle, and
necklace. Garnished like this, she had the haughty look that was
part of her role, quite unlike her usual self.
They were on the down ramp now and here were others, a motley of
clothing, of racial types, of species. Korwar was both a playground
and a crossroads for this part of the galaxy. As such, its
transient population was most varied. And among them her present
guise attracted no attention. The company of a Zhol Maiden for an
evening, a week, a month, was a symbol of prestige for many
galactic lords. She had had excellent coaching from Ennia, whose
semblance she wore tonight—Ennia, who companied with High
Lord Jucundus, keeping him well occupied elsewhere.
They reached the main hall, where the flow of guests moving in
and out, seeking banqueting halls, gaming rooms, was a steady river
into which they dropped. Yet Ziantha did not turn her head even to
look at Rhin, though she longed to search faces, probe. Had her
venture of the evening, the drain on her talents, brought this odd
feeling of being shadowed? Or was it that her meeting with that
lump had shaken her into this uneasiness? She sensed—what?
The pull of the rock, yes, but that was something she could and
would control.
This was something different, a feeling of being watched—a
Patrol sensitive? In these garments she was protected by every
device the Guild possessed against mind-touch. And all knew that
the Guild had techniques that never appeared on the market or were
known to the authorities.
Yet she could not throw off the sensation that somewhere there
was a questing—a searching. Though as yet she was sure it had
not found her. If it had she would have known instantly.
Rhin went ahead, summoned a private flitter with a Zhol
registration. Ziantha pulled up the collar of her cloak as she went
into the night, sure now that her imagination was overactive, that
she need not fear anything at all—not now.
Tikil was all jewels of light, strains of music, exuberant life,
and she felt the lifting of a burden, began to enjoy the knowledge
that she had repaid tonight the long years of training and
guardianship. Sometimes lately she had chafed under that
indebtedness, though Yasa had never reminded her of it. Still
Ziantha was not free—would she ever be?
But at least she was freer than some. As their flitter climbed
to the upper lanes, swung out in a circle to bring them to
Yasa’s villa, they crossed the edge of the Dipple, where the
jeweled lights of the city were cut off by that wedge of gloom as
dark and gray as the huddle of barracks below were by day, as
depressing to the spirit to see as they were to those who still
endured a dreary existence within their drab walls.
Almost her full lifetime the Dipple had been there, a blot that
Korwar, and this part of the galaxy, tried to forget but could not
destroy.
Ziantha need only look down on that grayness as they swept over
to realize that there were degrees of freedom and that what she now
had was infinitely preferable to what lay down there. She was one
of the lucky ones. How could she ever doubt that?
All because Yasa had seen her on begging detail that time at the
spaceport and had witnessed the guessing trick she had taught
herself. She had thought it was only a trick, something anyone
could do if he wished. But Yasa had known that only a latent
sensitive could have done as well as Ziantha. Perhaps that was
because Yasa was an alien, a Salarika.
Through Yasa’s interest she had been brought out of the
Dipple, taken to the villa, which had seemed a miracle of beauty,
put to school. Though the Salarika had demanded instant obedience
and grueling hours of learning, it was all meat and drink to
Ziantha, who had starved and thirsted for such without knowing it
before. She was what those months and years of training had made
her, an efficient tool of the Guild, a prized possession of
Yasa’s.
Like all her feline-evolved race, Yasa was highly practical,
utterly self-centered, but able to company with other species to a
workable degree without ever losing her individuality. Her
intelligence was of a very high order, even if she approached
matters from a slightly different angle than would one of
Ziantha’s species. She had great presence and powers of
command and was one of the few fems who had risen to the inner
ranks of the Guild. Her own past history was a mystery; even her
age was unknown. But on more than one planet her slightly hissed
word was law to more beings than the conventional and legal rulers
could control.
Ziantha was a human of Terran—or
part-Terran—descent. But from what race or planet she had
come in that dim beginning, when the inhabitants of dozens of
worlds (the noncombatants, that is) had been driven by war to land
in the “temporary” camp of the Dipple, she could not
tell. Her appearance was not in any way remarkable. She had no
outstanding features, hue of skin, inches of height, which could
easily place her. And because she was unremarkable in her own
person, she was of even more value. She could be taught to take on
the appearance of many races, even of one or two nonhuman species,
when there was need. Like Yasa, her age was an unsolved question.
It was apparent she was longer in maturing than some races, though
her mind absorbed quickly all the teaching it was given, and her
psychic talent tested very high indeed.
Gratitude, and later the Guild oath, bound her to Yasa. She was
part of an organization that operated across the galaxy in a loose
confederacy of shadows and underworlds. Governments might rise and
fall, but the Guild remained, sometimes powerful enough to juggle
the governments themselves, sometimes driven undercover to build in
the dark. They had their ambassadors, their veeps, and their own
laws, which to defy was quick death. Now and then the law itself
dealt with the Guild, as was true in the case of Jucundus.
The Dipple was well behind now as they cruised above the gardens
and carefully preserved bits of wild which separated villa from
villa. Ziantha’s hands clenched under the border of her
cloak. The thought of tonight’s work—not the work, no,
rather that lump—filled her mind. An ache as strong as hunger
gripped her.
She must see Ogan as soon as she discharged into the waiting
tapes the memories she carried—she must see Ogan, discover
what was the matter. This obsession which rode her was not natural,
certainly. And it upset her thinking, could be a threat to her
talent. Ogan, the renegade parapsychologist who had trained her,
was the only one who could tell her the meaning of this need.
The flitter set down on a landing roof, where a dim light was
sentinel. As a cover Yasa claimed a Salariki headship of a trading
firm and so possessed a profitable and legal business in Tikil.
That establishment she ran with the same efficiency as she did her
Guild concerns. Nor was she the only one within that organization
to live a double existence. On Korwar she was the Lady Yasa, and
her wealth brought respect and authority.
Ziantha sped across to the grav shaft. Late as it was, the house
was alive, as usual, though the sounds were few and muted. But
there was never any unawareness under a roof where Yasa ruled. As
if only by eternal vigilance could she continue to hold in her long
clawed hands the threads of power she must weave together for her
purposes.
At the scratch of her fingernails on a plexiglass panel into
which had been set a glory of ferns, that panel rolled back, and
Ziantha faced the heavily scented chamber of Yasa’s main
quarters. On the threshold she paused dutifully while blowers of
perfumed spray set up about that portal gave her a quick bath of
the scent which was Yasa’s preference at the moment.
Quite used to this, Ziantha allowed her cloak to slip to the
floor, turned slowly amid the puffing of vapor. To her own sense of
smell the odor was oppressively powerful; to the Salarika it made
her acceptable as a close companion. It was the one weakness of the
species, their extreme susceptibility to alien scents. And they
took precautions to render their lives among aliens bearable in
this way.
As she endured that anointing, Ziantha lifted off the headdress
of Zhol fashion. Her head ached, but that was only to be expected
after the strain she had put on her talent and nerves tonight. Once
she had delivered what she brought, Ogan might entrance her into a
healing sleep, if she asked for it.
The light in the room was subdued, again because of the mistress
here. Yasa did not need bright illumination. She was curled among
the cushions which formed her favorite seat. By the open window was
an eazi-rest, in which Ogan lay at full length. The rumors, which
were many, said that he was a Psycho-tech, one of the proscribed
group. Like Yasa, he was ageless on the surface, and could well
have had several life-prolonging treatments. But on what world he
had been born no one knew.
Unlike the Salarikis who served in Yasa’s villa, he was a
small frail man, seeming a desiccated shadow beside them. He was
not only a master of mental talents, but he possessed certain
infighting skills which made him legend. Now he lay with his head
turned away, facing the open window, as if the strong perfume
bothered him. However, as Ziantha came forward, he turned to watch
her, his face expressionless as always.
In that single moment the girl knew that she had no intention of
telling him about the lump. Ogan might give her peace, but that she
did not want at the price of letting him know what had surprised
and frightened her. Let that remain her secret—at least for
now. Why should Ogan be always full master?
“Welcome—” There was a purring in Yasa’s
voice. She was slim, and the most graceful creature in movement
Ziantha had ever seen. And, in her way, the most beautiful as well.
Black hair, more like plushy fur, was thick and satiny on her head
and shoulders and down the upper sides of her arms. Her face, not
quite as broad and flat as those of most of her species, narrowed
to an almost sharply pointed chin. But it was the wonder of her
very large eyes which drew away attention from all other features.
Slanted a little in her skull, their pupils contracting and
expanding in degrees of light, like those of her far-off feline
ancestors, these were a deep red-gold, their color so vivid against
her naturally grayish skin as to make them resemble those koros
stones that were the marvel and great wealth of her home world.
Two such stones were set now in a wide collar about her throat,
but they seemed dimmed by her eyes, even though they radiated
slightly in the low-lighted room.
She put forth a hand equipped with retractable nails now
sheathed in filigree metal caps, and beckoned Ziantha. Her short
golden robe, caught in by a girdle from which hung scent bags,
shimmered as she moved. From down in her throat came a tiny murmur
of sound the girl knew of old. Yasa purred, Yasa was well
pleased.
“I do not ask, cubling, if all went well. That is apparent
in your presence here. Ogan—”
He did not answer her, but the eazi-rest moved, bringing him
upright. It was his turn to beckon Ziantha. She sat down on a stool
near the table and picked up the waiting headband. Stripping off
the long, now far too hot wig, she slipped the band over her own
close-cropped hair. A few minutes more and she would be free of all
the knowledge she had brought with her. For following her report,
the machine that recorded it would purge her memory of factors it
might be dangerous for her to know. It was a safeguard her kind had
demanded before they would use their talents, so that they could
not be forced by any enemy to talk after such a mission.
The girl unlocked her memory, knowing that every symbol she had
read from the cubes was being recorded. What if she kept on,
allowed the machine to read and then erase her reaction to the
lump? But if she did that, those already reading her report on the
visa-screen of the machine would know it too. No—her hand
moved close to the cut-off key—she would prevent that.
There. Her finger came down and she experienced the familiar
moment or two of giddiness, of disorientation. Now she would
remember up to the opening of Jucundus’s safe and after, but
not what she had “read.”
“Excellent.” Yasa’s purr was louder when
Ziantha was again aware of the room and those about her. “A
first-level foray in every way. Now, cubling, you must be most
tired—go to your nest.”
She was tired, achingly tired. The lifting of her mental burden
drained her, as it always did, though this was her first really big
foray. Those in the past had been but token employment compared to
this. Ogan was at her side with a cup of that milky-looking
restorative. She gulped that avidly and went to gather up her cloak
and headdress.
“Fair dreams.” Yasa’s lips wrinkled in her
equivalent of a smile. “Dream of what you wish most, cubling.
For this night’s work I shall make it yours.”
Ziantha nodded, too tired to answer with words. What she wanted
most—that was no idle promise. Yasa would indeed make it come
true. Those of the Guild were not niggardly with anyone who brought
off a successful foray. What she wanted most now was sleep, though
not of Ogan’s sending.
Back in her own chamber Ziantha pulled off the rest of the Zhol
dress, dropped the trappings in a bundle on the floor. Tired as she
was, she would not go to bed with that stiff, cracking mask of
paint and overleaf on her face. She went into the fresher, set the
dials, stepped into the waves of cleansing vapor. It was good to be
her real self again.
As if to assure herself she had returned to Ziantha, she looked
into the cruelly bright mirror, cruel because being so often used
to check a disguising makeup, it revealed rather than softened
every defect of complexion and feature. There was the real outward
Ziantha. And with this hour and her great fatigue, that sight was a
blow to any vanity.
She was very thin and her skin was pallid. Her hair, from the
warm steam of her bath, curled tightly to her head, no lock of it
longer than one of her fingers. In color it was silver fair, though
in daylight it would show a little darker. Her eyes were gray, so
pale as to seem silver too. The mouth below was large, her lips
with little curve, but a clear red. As for the rest— She
scowled at the true Ziantha and shrugged on her night robe, letting
the light of that revelation die behind her as she left the
room.
Dream of what she wanted most, Yasa had said. What if she asked
for a complete cosmetic-change—to be someone else all the
time, not just at those intervals when she played games for the
Guild? Would Yasa agree to that? Perhaps she would, if Ziantha
asked, but she only played with the idea.
But of course, what she wanted most—right now—was
that lump of clay or carved stone. To have it right here in her two
hands that she might learn its secret!
Ziantha gasped. What had put that in her mind? She had not been
thinking of it at all, and then—suddenly—there it was
as clear as if she could indeed reach out and cup it in her palms.
And she did want it. What had happened to her this night?
Shivering, she ran to the bed, threw herself into its soft
hollow, and pulled the covers up over her trembling body—even
over her head.
Ziantha stood before the door smoothing a
tight-fitting glove with her other hand. Under its clinging
material her flesh tingled from the energy controls which had been
woven so skillfully into that covering. She had seen the glove
used, had practiced—but before this moment had never tried it
to its full potential.
For a last time she mind-searched up and down the corridor. All
clear, just as Ennia had promised, not that any Guildsperson ever
depended on anything save his or her own wits, skills, and
defenses. With that prickling hot on her palm, she reached forward
and set her hand flat against the persona-lock. Yasa had paid a
fabulous price for the loan of that glove; now it would be
demonstrated whether that fee was justified.
Tongue tip pushing a little between set teeth, Ziantha waited
for seconds frozen in time. Just when she was sure Yasa had lost
her gamble, the door slid noiselessly into the wall. So far, so
good!
Mind-seek again, to make sure there were no inner guards except
those she had been trained to locate and disarm. It would seem that
High Lord Jucundus was old-fashioned enough to use only the
conventional protectives which were as child’s toys to the
Thieves’ Guild. But still Ziantha made very sure, her bare
hand on that girdle (wherein the supposed decorative gems were tiny
but very effective detects) before she crossed into the room
beyond, snapping down at that moment her dark sight
band—which also masqueraded as part of an elaborate,
high-fashion headdress, just as the cloak about her, at the
pressure of a collar stud, was now a sight distort. The equipment
she wore would have cost the yearly revenue of a small planet had
it ever come to buying and selling; her own mathematical sense was
not enough even to set a sum to its value.
The chamber had every luxury that could be offered on Korwar,
the pleasure world. Treasures . . . but she was
here for only one thing. Pulling the cloak tightly about her so
that it might not brush against any piece of furniture and so
discharge energy, traces of which could later be detected, Ziantha
threaded a careful path to the far wall. If all went as Yasa
wished, if it were a clean foray, Jucundus would never have a clue
that his secrets had been penetrated. That is, until their
substance had been safely sold.
With the nightsight at her service she might be in a
well-lighted room. And not only was her sight an aid. Twice she
paused at warnings offered by her belt detects and was able to
mind-hold protection devices long enough to slip by, though each
check heightened her uneasiness, drew upon her psychic energy.
On the wall was a tri-dee mural portraying an off-world scene.
But she had been briefed as to the next step. With her tongue,
answered by a blazing shock, she touched the latch of the glove,
not daring to lift her other fingers from the detects. The glove
responded by splitting down the back so she could hook it to her
belt and pull her hand free.
Then the girl drew from beneath her cloak a pendant, raised it
to one of the flashing stars on the wall display, pressed it there.
An answering sound her ears could barely catch followed; the
vibration of it was a pain in her head.
A portion of the wall lifted to display a cupboard. So far the
skills and devices of the Guild had been successful. But the rest
of her mission depended upon her own talents.
The cupboard safe was filled with neat piles of cubes so small
she could have cradled three or four at a time in her palm. There
were so many, and in a very limited time she must sort out the few
that mattered, psychometrize their contents.
Her breath quickened as she set finger tip to the first in the
top row. Not that, nor that—Her finger flickered on down,
none in that row was what she wanted, though she guessed all had
value. Jucundus’s records: if all the rumors about him were
true, it did not matter in the least that he had been forced into
exile, his planetary holdings confiscated. With these microrecords
he could still use men, build again, perhaps even to greater
power.
Here! From the middle shelf she brought out the cube, pushing it
above the band of her nightsight so it rested against the bare
flesh of her forehead. This was the most dangerous part of her
foray, for at this moment she must forget everything else—the
detects on her belt, her own mind-barrier—and concentrate
only on what she could “read” from the cube. Also, it
had little meaning for her: no vivid pictures, only code symbols to
be memorized. That was it. With a release of breath that was close
to a sigh of relief, she put it back, sliding her finger along the
rows seeking another. Yasa had thought two—but make very
sure.
The second! Once more she had to wait out in danger that
transfer of knowledge that left her so defenseless while it was in
progress. Now she must make sure there was not a third cube. But
her questing finger did not find one. She closed the panel, new
relief flooding in. She had only to leave, to relock the door.
Once more drawing her distort cloak tight, Ziantha turned. Touch
nothing else, leave no trace to be picked up. This was—
Ziantha froze. She had reached with her now ungloved hand to
draw in a corner of the cloak which had threatened to sweep across
a small curio table. Now the edge of material fell from between her
fingers, her hand stretched out farther, not by conscious will on
her part, but as if her wrist had been seized in a powerful grip
and jerked forward.
For a second or two the girl believed that she might have been
caught in some new protect device that her belt had not been able
to pick up. Then she realized that this was a psychic demand for
her attention.
Never before had she had such an experience. When she
psychometrized it was always by will, by her own volition. This was
a demand she did not understand, which brought with it fear and the
beginning of panic. On the table lay something that was
“charged,” just as the Guild devices were charged, with
psychic energy so great it could command her attention.
Ziantha’s first stab of fear faded. This was new, so the
experience caught her even though she knew the danger of lingering.
She had to see what demanded recognition from her by provoking such
an answering surge of her talent.
Six objects on the table. There was a weird animal form carved
from a semiprecious stone. A flat block of veriform rose-crystal
with a gauze-winged free-flower from Virgal III imprisoned in it. A
box of Styrian stone-wood and next to that one of those inter-ring
puzzles made by the natives of Lysander. A trinket basket of
tri-fold filigree sapphire held some acid-sweets. But the
last— A lump of dusty clay, or so it looked.
Ziantha leaned closer. The lump had odd markings on
it—pulling her— She snatched back her hand as if her
fingers had neared leaping flames. But she had not touched that
ugly lump, and she must not! She knew that if she did she would be
totally lost.
Feverishly she wrapped her hand in a fold of her cloak, edged
around the table as if it were a trap. For at that moment that was
exactly what she felt it to be. A subtle trap, perhaps set not by
Jucundus but by some other power to imperil any one with her
talent.
Ziantha scuttled across the room as if she were fleeing the
clang of an alarm that would bring the whole city patrol. Outside
in the corridor, the room again sealed, she stood breathing with
the painful, rib-raising force of one who has fled for her life,
fighting back the need to return, to take into her hand that lump
of baked clay, or earth-encrusted stone, or whatever it
was—to know!
With shaking hands she made those swift alterations to her
clothing which concealed the double purpose of her garments,
allowing her to appear a person who had every right to walk here.
What was the matter with her? She had succeeded, could return to
Yasa now with exactly the information she had been sent to get.
Still she had no feeling of exultation, only the nagging doubt that
she had left behind something of infinitely greater value,
disastrously spurned.
The branch corridor united with the main one, and Rhin stepped
from the shadows where he had concealed himself so well that he
startled even Ziantha on his appearance. He wore the weapon belt of
a personal guard, the one branch of the Thieves’ Guild that
had quasi-legality, since they offered protection against
assassins. And some of the galactic elite who made Korwar their
playground had good reason to fear sudden death.
At his glance she nodded, but they did not speak as he fell into
step a pace or so behind her, as was determined by their present
roles. Now and then as she moved, but not with undue haste, Ziantha
caught sight of them both in a mirror. It gave her a slight shock
to see herself in the trappings of a Zhol Maiden, her natural
complexion and features concealed by the paint of an entertainer.
Her cloak, its distort switched off, was a golden orange, in
keeping with the richness of the gems in her headdress, girdle, and
necklace. Garnished like this, she had the haughty look that was
part of her role, quite unlike her usual self.
They were on the down ramp now and here were others, a motley of
clothing, of racial types, of species. Korwar was both a playground
and a crossroads for this part of the galaxy. As such, its
transient population was most varied. And among them her present
guise attracted no attention. The company of a Zhol Maiden for an
evening, a week, a month, was a symbol of prestige for many
galactic lords. She had had excellent coaching from Ennia, whose
semblance she wore tonight—Ennia, who companied with High
Lord Jucundus, keeping him well occupied elsewhere.
They reached the main hall, where the flow of guests moving in
and out, seeking banqueting halls, gaming rooms, was a steady river
into which they dropped. Yet Ziantha did not turn her head even to
look at Rhin, though she longed to search faces, probe. Had her
venture of the evening, the drain on her talents, brought this odd
feeling of being shadowed? Or was it that her meeting with that
lump had shaken her into this uneasiness? She sensed—what?
The pull of the rock, yes, but that was something she could and
would control.
This was something different, a feeling of being watched—a
Patrol sensitive? In these garments she was protected by every
device the Guild possessed against mind-touch. And all knew that
the Guild had techniques that never appeared on the market or were
known to the authorities.
Yet she could not throw off the sensation that somewhere there
was a questing—a searching. Though as yet she was sure it had
not found her. If it had she would have known instantly.
Rhin went ahead, summoned a private flitter with a Zhol
registration. Ziantha pulled up the collar of her cloak as she went
into the night, sure now that her imagination was overactive, that
she need not fear anything at all—not now.
Tikil was all jewels of light, strains of music, exuberant life,
and she felt the lifting of a burden, began to enjoy the knowledge
that she had repaid tonight the long years of training and
guardianship. Sometimes lately she had chafed under that
indebtedness, though Yasa had never reminded her of it. Still
Ziantha was not free—would she ever be?
But at least she was freer than some. As their flitter climbed
to the upper lanes, swung out in a circle to bring them to
Yasa’s villa, they crossed the edge of the Dipple, where the
jeweled lights of the city were cut off by that wedge of gloom as
dark and gray as the huddle of barracks below were by day, as
depressing to the spirit to see as they were to those who still
endured a dreary existence within their drab walls.
Almost her full lifetime the Dipple had been there, a blot that
Korwar, and this part of the galaxy, tried to forget but could not
destroy.
Ziantha need only look down on that grayness as they swept over
to realize that there were degrees of freedom and that what she now
had was infinitely preferable to what lay down there. She was one
of the lucky ones. How could she ever doubt that?
All because Yasa had seen her on begging detail that time at the
spaceport and had witnessed the guessing trick she had taught
herself. She had thought it was only a trick, something anyone
could do if he wished. But Yasa had known that only a latent
sensitive could have done as well as Ziantha. Perhaps that was
because Yasa was an alien, a Salarika.
Through Yasa’s interest she had been brought out of the
Dipple, taken to the villa, which had seemed a miracle of beauty,
put to school. Though the Salarika had demanded instant obedience
and grueling hours of learning, it was all meat and drink to
Ziantha, who had starved and thirsted for such without knowing it
before. She was what those months and years of training had made
her, an efficient tool of the Guild, a prized possession of
Yasa’s.
Like all her feline-evolved race, Yasa was highly practical,
utterly self-centered, but able to company with other species to a
workable degree without ever losing her individuality. Her
intelligence was of a very high order, even if she approached
matters from a slightly different angle than would one of
Ziantha’s species. She had great presence and powers of
command and was one of the few fems who had risen to the inner
ranks of the Guild. Her own past history was a mystery; even her
age was unknown. But on more than one planet her slightly hissed
word was law to more beings than the conventional and legal rulers
could control.
Ziantha was a human of Terran—or
part-Terran—descent. But from what race or planet she had
come in that dim beginning, when the inhabitants of dozens of
worlds (the noncombatants, that is) had been driven by war to land
in the “temporary” camp of the Dipple, she could not
tell. Her appearance was not in any way remarkable. She had no
outstanding features, hue of skin, inches of height, which could
easily place her. And because she was unremarkable in her own
person, she was of even more value. She could be taught to take on
the appearance of many races, even of one or two nonhuman species,
when there was need. Like Yasa, her age was an unsolved question.
It was apparent she was longer in maturing than some races, though
her mind absorbed quickly all the teaching it was given, and her
psychic talent tested very high indeed.
Gratitude, and later the Guild oath, bound her to Yasa. She was
part of an organization that operated across the galaxy in a loose
confederacy of shadows and underworlds. Governments might rise and
fall, but the Guild remained, sometimes powerful enough to juggle
the governments themselves, sometimes driven undercover to build in
the dark. They had their ambassadors, their veeps, and their own
laws, which to defy was quick death. Now and then the law itself
dealt with the Guild, as was true in the case of Jucundus.
The Dipple was well behind now as they cruised above the gardens
and carefully preserved bits of wild which separated villa from
villa. Ziantha’s hands clenched under the border of her
cloak. The thought of tonight’s work—not the work, no,
rather that lump—filled her mind. An ache as strong as hunger
gripped her.
She must see Ogan as soon as she discharged into the waiting
tapes the memories she carried—she must see Ogan, discover
what was the matter. This obsession which rode her was not natural,
certainly. And it upset her thinking, could be a threat to her
talent. Ogan, the renegade parapsychologist who had trained her,
was the only one who could tell her the meaning of this need.
The flitter set down on a landing roof, where a dim light was
sentinel. As a cover Yasa claimed a Salariki headship of a trading
firm and so possessed a profitable and legal business in Tikil.
That establishment she ran with the same efficiency as she did her
Guild concerns. Nor was she the only one within that organization
to live a double existence. On Korwar she was the Lady Yasa, and
her wealth brought respect and authority.
Ziantha sped across to the grav shaft. Late as it was, the house
was alive, as usual, though the sounds were few and muted. But
there was never any unawareness under a roof where Yasa ruled. As
if only by eternal vigilance could she continue to hold in her long
clawed hands the threads of power she must weave together for her
purposes.
At the scratch of her fingernails on a plexiglass panel into
which had been set a glory of ferns, that panel rolled back, and
Ziantha faced the heavily scented chamber of Yasa’s main
quarters. On the threshold she paused dutifully while blowers of
perfumed spray set up about that portal gave her a quick bath of
the scent which was Yasa’s preference at the moment.
Quite used to this, Ziantha allowed her cloak to slip to the
floor, turned slowly amid the puffing of vapor. To her own sense of
smell the odor was oppressively powerful; to the Salarika it made
her acceptable as a close companion. It was the one weakness of the
species, their extreme susceptibility to alien scents. And they
took precautions to render their lives among aliens bearable in
this way.
As she endured that anointing, Ziantha lifted off the headdress
of Zhol fashion. Her head ached, but that was only to be expected
after the strain she had put on her talent and nerves tonight. Once
she had delivered what she brought, Ogan might entrance her into a
healing sleep, if she asked for it.
The light in the room was subdued, again because of the mistress
here. Yasa did not need bright illumination. She was curled among
the cushions which formed her favorite seat. By the open window was
an eazi-rest, in which Ogan lay at full length. The rumors, which
were many, said that he was a Psycho-tech, one of the proscribed
group. Like Yasa, he was ageless on the surface, and could well
have had several life-prolonging treatments. But on what world he
had been born no one knew.
Unlike the Salarikis who served in Yasa’s villa, he was a
small frail man, seeming a desiccated shadow beside them. He was
not only a master of mental talents, but he possessed certain
infighting skills which made him legend. Now he lay with his head
turned away, facing the open window, as if the strong perfume
bothered him. However, as Ziantha came forward, he turned to watch
her, his face expressionless as always.
In that single moment the girl knew that she had no intention of
telling him about the lump. Ogan might give her peace, but that she
did not want at the price of letting him know what had surprised
and frightened her. Let that remain her secret—at least for
now. Why should Ogan be always full master?
“Welcome—” There was a purring in Yasa’s
voice. She was slim, and the most graceful creature in movement
Ziantha had ever seen. And, in her way, the most beautiful as well.
Black hair, more like plushy fur, was thick and satiny on her head
and shoulders and down the upper sides of her arms. Her face, not
quite as broad and flat as those of most of her species, narrowed
to an almost sharply pointed chin. But it was the wonder of her
very large eyes which drew away attention from all other features.
Slanted a little in her skull, their pupils contracting and
expanding in degrees of light, like those of her far-off feline
ancestors, these were a deep red-gold, their color so vivid against
her naturally grayish skin as to make them resemble those koros
stones that were the marvel and great wealth of her home world.
Two such stones were set now in a wide collar about her throat,
but they seemed dimmed by her eyes, even though they radiated
slightly in the low-lighted room.
She put forth a hand equipped with retractable nails now
sheathed in filigree metal caps, and beckoned Ziantha. Her short
golden robe, caught in by a girdle from which hung scent bags,
shimmered as she moved. From down in her throat came a tiny murmur
of sound the girl knew of old. Yasa purred, Yasa was well
pleased.
“I do not ask, cubling, if all went well. That is apparent
in your presence here. Ogan—”
He did not answer her, but the eazi-rest moved, bringing him
upright. It was his turn to beckon Ziantha. She sat down on a stool
near the table and picked up the waiting headband. Stripping off
the long, now far too hot wig, she slipped the band over her own
close-cropped hair. A few minutes more and she would be free of all
the knowledge she had brought with her. For following her report,
the machine that recorded it would purge her memory of factors it
might be dangerous for her to know. It was a safeguard her kind had
demanded before they would use their talents, so that they could
not be forced by any enemy to talk after such a mission.
The girl unlocked her memory, knowing that every symbol she had
read from the cubes was being recorded. What if she kept on,
allowed the machine to read and then erase her reaction to the
lump? But if she did that, those already reading her report on the
visa-screen of the machine would know it too. No—her hand
moved close to the cut-off key—she would prevent that.
There. Her finger came down and she experienced the familiar
moment or two of giddiness, of disorientation. Now she would
remember up to the opening of Jucundus’s safe and after, but
not what she had “read.”
“Excellent.” Yasa’s purr was louder when
Ziantha was again aware of the room and those about her. “A
first-level foray in every way. Now, cubling, you must be most
tired—go to your nest.”
She was tired, achingly tired. The lifting of her mental burden
drained her, as it always did, though this was her first really big
foray. Those in the past had been but token employment compared to
this. Ogan was at her side with a cup of that milky-looking
restorative. She gulped that avidly and went to gather up her cloak
and headdress.
“Fair dreams.” Yasa’s lips wrinkled in her
equivalent of a smile. “Dream of what you wish most, cubling.
For this night’s work I shall make it yours.”
Ziantha nodded, too tired to answer with words. What she wanted
most—that was no idle promise. Yasa would indeed make it come
true. Those of the Guild were not niggardly with anyone who brought
off a successful foray. What she wanted most now was sleep, though
not of Ogan’s sending.
Back in her own chamber Ziantha pulled off the rest of the Zhol
dress, dropped the trappings in a bundle on the floor. Tired as she
was, she would not go to bed with that stiff, cracking mask of
paint and overleaf on her face. She went into the fresher, set the
dials, stepped into the waves of cleansing vapor. It was good to be
her real self again.
As if to assure herself she had returned to Ziantha, she looked
into the cruelly bright mirror, cruel because being so often used
to check a disguising makeup, it revealed rather than softened
every defect of complexion and feature. There was the real outward
Ziantha. And with this hour and her great fatigue, that sight was a
blow to any vanity.
She was very thin and her skin was pallid. Her hair, from the
warm steam of her bath, curled tightly to her head, no lock of it
longer than one of her fingers. In color it was silver fair, though
in daylight it would show a little darker. Her eyes were gray, so
pale as to seem silver too. The mouth below was large, her lips
with little curve, but a clear red. As for the rest— She
scowled at the true Ziantha and shrugged on her night robe, letting
the light of that revelation die behind her as she left the
room.
Dream of what she wanted most, Yasa had said. What if she asked
for a complete cosmetic-change—to be someone else all the
time, not just at those intervals when she played games for the
Guild? Would Yasa agree to that? Perhaps she would, if Ziantha
asked, but she only played with the idea.
But of course, what she wanted most—right now—was
that lump of clay or carved stone. To have it right here in her two
hands that she might learn its secret!
Ziantha gasped. What had put that in her mind? She had not been
thinking of it at all, and then—suddenly—there it was
as clear as if she could indeed reach out and cup it in her palms.
And she did want it. What had happened to her this night?
Shivering, she ran to the bed, threw herself into its soft
hollow, and pulled the covers up over her trembling body—even
over her head.