By Andre Norton
Cruelly forged out of an order of spies, assassins, and bodyguards, Jofre is pressured out into an unusual global, the place he encounters an obsessed alien archaeologist and a stunning, lethal rival. Reprint.
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Example text
No, I do not hunt what the Guild would consider useful—the only market for my hopedfor finds would be my own people and, therefore, no market at all. I search for archives and perhaps the only way I can find them is by reaching into the past with the scanner for long enough to pinpoint the position of what I seek. Having made such a find, I will have redeemed myself in the eyes of my colleagues as well as added to the sum of our knowledge. " Zurzal gave an impatient shake of the head. "No, as I said, here I seek a man, if he still lives.
Tensely Jofre waited for the Tarken's reaction. But there was not so much as a flutter of the eyelid to suggest that such a request was in any way out of the ordinary. " At least he was giving Jofre the name lowlanders bestowed upon his kind. " Jofre nodded curtly and swung on his heel, going back to the display of knives and swords, eyeing as he went the various arms hanging on the walls. There were two small knives which might do for sleeve weapons, though whether they could be easily concealed in any clothing save the wide-sleeved coats his kind favored he was not sure.
He was as sure of that as if some priest still stood there leering at him. The priest who had expelled him from the Lair company had certainly held no kind thoughts towards him, but why would he want to carry on any feud now that Jofre was no longer contaminating the Brotherhood? That pain— he worked the stone out of the girdle folds. There was no light in its depths now—it was opaquely dead. But there was still warmth in it as he handled it, turning it around in his hand. Whatever it was it answered to Shagga power.