The clerk shrugged. “Four times in our history people from your area have come in, and all four times at least one has wound up here. Must be some kind of affinity.”
That interested her. “Are there any others here now?”
“Oh, no,” the woman laughed. “Last one was hundreds of years ago, before any of our times. I think you’re the first Entry in my records, in fact, from anywhere.”
That will change shortly, Mavra thought sourly. She would have to alert the authorities here so that some sort of temporary accommodations that wouldn’t screw up this pretty and peaceful place could be made for the newcomers. For now she just said, “Well, I’m pleased to be here. My grandfather was once one of you, back in the old days.”
The clerk frowned. “Grandfather? I don’t remember… Anyway, how could that be? Once here, you’re here.”
“Not if you go out through the Well of Souls,” Mavra replied.
The clerk, obviously confused, just shrugged and said, “Before my time.”
Mavra didn’t press the matter. “For now, I only need a few days to get my bearings and such. I’m afraid I’m not your typical Entry—I have some work I was sent here to do.”
Her statement was even more puzzling. “Work?” The clerk gave a sideways look that indicated she thought the newcomer was more than a little mentally unbalanced. Still, there was an official register for such cases that declared her a citizen and the like and gave her certain legal rights, which weren’t much —but it was a pretty loose government, anyway. Only her first name was taken; the Dillians used only one name and never saw much necessity for two. Fortunately, her name, Mavra, was composed of syllables common to the Dillian tongue and needed no alteration.
“There’s a guest lodge at the head of the lake,” the clerk told her, scribbling something on a piece of official stationery. “You take this over to them and they’ll give you a room until you can get settled. It’s still early in the season, so there’ll be rooms. You can eat there as well, if you like.” Again a second note. “And take this to the smith down the street. You’ll need shoes in this country anyway. Beyond that it’ll be up to you to find your place here. Lots of things to do if you like this part of the country, or go Downlake for more civilized and paved-over type work.” She said the last disdainfully. There were city people and country people, and she made no attempt at concealing which she was.
Mavra looked at the two sheets. “I’m sure this will be fine,” she assured the clerk. “Um… I can’t read them, you know. Which one’s which?”
The clerk looked apologetic, then drew a little inverted horseshoe on one. Mavra nodded, thanked her, and left.
She felt hungry, but decided to look around the town before going up to the lodge. Shoes… Funny, she hadn’t thought of that, she told herself. The Rhone, the centaurs of her old sector, had developed rather sophisticated protections that didn’t require them—but shoes might be a good idea here. She headed for the smith’s.
This was rather like having a broken bone and having to go to a doctor, she decided. The fact that it wasn’t supposed to hurt and would be over quickly didn’t diminish the anxiety that came from the thought that the huge, burly, chestnut-colored centaur, who looked as if he could bend steel bars like noodles, was going to drive a bunch of nails into the bottom of her feet.
When she entered the smithy, the smith, a friendly man named Torgix, eyed her appreciatively as any man might, grinned like a schoolboy through a thick beard, and hurried over to her. He took the paper with the horseshoe mark, glanced at it, and told her where to stand.
“Just relax, beautiful,” he roared in a voice that fit his physique, “and I’ll have it done in a jiffy.”
It was pretty nerve-racking to see him measure her hooves, then bend red-hot steel to the proper shape with an artisan’s quick skill, and she couldn’t bear to watch as he drove the special nails through the small holes in the shoes and then into her hooves. It was true that she felt no real pain, except, perhaps, a residual muscle ache from the force of the blows— truly the man had no idea of his own strength—but the psychic pain was intense. Glad when he was finished, she walked about hesitantly, feeling the extra weight and the odd balance the horseshoes gave her.
“You’ll get used to them,” he assured her. “In a couple of days you’ll forget what it felt like not to wear ’em—and your feet will thank you in the days and months to come. The alloy is good; there’ll be no rust or warping, although the nails, naturally, come loose over time. If you have any problems, any smith can do simple repairs. Anything else I can do for you?”
She shook her head. “Nothing, thanks. But I could use a drink, I think.” She hesitated. “But that takes money or some kind of payment, doesn’t it?”
“I wouldn’t worry about it,” he chuckled. “You’re the most beautiful woman in these here parts, I’ll tell you, and you got the moves, too, beggin’ your pardon, if you know what I mean. You won’t have no trouble gettin’ a drink. You was a woman—before?”
She nodded.
“Then you know what I means,” he said knowingly, and winked.
She smiled slightly. Yes, she knew exactly what he meant.
The culture she remembered from her last time through Dillia had been communal. If there had been any money, it hadn’t been used here, in the village Uplake. Again things had changed, although not to the complicated degrees found elsewhere even on the Well World. You had a number—she had a number, on those notes—and that gave you an account, kept by the clerk in the village where you were registered. It wasn’t a very definite kind of thing—the units were sloppy and not even named—and the only thing required was to do some sort of productive work known to the community to keep your account open. There was no trouble going to a store or seller’s stall and just getting what you needed—as long as you worked and produced.
She wondered how far an Entry’s account stretched before it ran dry. A little, anyway, she decided. There hadn’t, really been a time limit—although, of course, the clerk hadn’t explained the system nor read her out her number, either. Best to be wary with folk from alien cultures who might abuse a charge account, she decided. But she was beautiful, and she did, unconsciously, have the moves, as the blacksmith had said, and the system was easily explained to her.
She had gotten sloppy and lazy, she decided. Bars had always been her element; she grew up in and around them, worked them and worked in them. She had always been what others thought of as cute, which had worked to good advantage, but she was now the center of attention and she was rusty at handling it. Obie had been a close friend, a companion, the closest thinking being to her for a long, long time, and she missed him terribly. But he had also been a drug, she was now realizing, a magic genie that could give you anything you wanted or needed at the snap of a finger. The old tough, totally self-reliant Mavra Chang had been lost somewhere along the line. It had been an insidious kind of thing, not missed until needed, and now she realized the disadvantage she was at.
She had been a total world unto herself for the early part of her life, and fiercely proud of it. She had clawed her way to the top by her own wits and abilities—not without a helping hand here and there, but that was true of everyone in the universe, she knew. She had changed, though. Magic wands do that to you.
She found the men and women in the bar mostly loud, boisterous, and very boorish. That had always been the case, of course, but she had always been able to tolerate such behavior and to fake fitting in to get what she wanted. Doing so was increasingly difficult now; the routine social acting seemed somehow impossible, the pawing and passes hard to ignore and easy to cause irritation. She left as quickly as she could and walked up to the lodge, a huge wooden building of logs with a wide porch fronting on the marina and lake.
It was a pretty place inside; the entire first floor was open, except for the huge log ceiling bracing beams, and there was a fireplace at each end and one in the center with an exhaust vent rising up to the roof. The roo
ms split off in two-story wings from the back of the main social hall, small and basic but what was needed. Dillians slept standing up, although they liked to be braced for sheer relaxation, and there was an area with two padded rails for that; also a sink with running spring water, a pitcher, and some linen for just washing up. The common latrine was down the hall, just a bunch of stalls you backed into. Nothing fancy, but it would do.
Between the two wings was the dining area, posted with signs she couldn’t read but which were easily translated by a friendly staffer as serving times by room number. The basically vegetarian Dillians prepared their plants in a thousand different and delicious ways, both hot and cold, and always highly seasoned, but no one would ever starve in this forest land, no matter what. In a pinch, all Dillians could eat just about any plant matter, including grass and leaves, although the taste often left something to be desired.
She stayed a few days like this, mostly wandering the back trails, staring at the mountains, and trying to find that old self she needed now so much. At one time she had been proud of isolation, reveling in being totally alone and on her own. She still thought she did, but she could not shake the feeling of intense isolation from these simple folks. Part of the difference, she told herself, was that, now, she was working for someone else’s ends—but, no, she had always taken commissions from others and always delivered. Still, it had been her plan, her preparation. Even with Obie she had the sense of being independent, doing what she wanted, the way she wanted it. Not now, though.
What had changed in her, she wondered. Was it the same with people as with this hex, this village? Subtle changes as you grew older, all changing you beyond recognition? Had she changed so much that she no longer had the tools to do a job?
That, of course, was it. Tools were more than fancy equipment; they were also mental. Extreme self-confidence was a must, but also the social tools to get what you wanted from anybody you needed. That was what her life with Obie had robbed her of: the instinct for making people and events bend to her will. She hadn’t needed it; Obie was the ultimate persuader. She had lost the ability, somewhere, and she couldn’t seem to discover where. Take Marquoz—he still had it, had always had it. The Chugach was firmly in charge not only of himself but of those around him, the way she used to be. And Gypsy—whoever, whereever he was—he, too, had it. Where did they get it? They weren’t born with it, certainly. It was something you acquired as you grew—something some acquired. And how did you lose it? By not using it constantly, as Marquoz and Gypsy had always used it.
She was, she thought, like the big frontier fighter who had fought and clawed his way to the top, then wound up in a huge mansion with all that he desired at his beck and call. Take that away after many years and he would be lost. His skills would be rusty, out of date, or, worse, atrophied from long years of disuse.
Atrophied. That bothered her. The wild catlike animal she had been had become tame, domesticated, fat, and lazy. Now that it was thrown again into the wild, its pampered self found that wilderness an alien place, no longer its element at all.
There was no getting around that fact, although she hated to admit it even to her innermost self. She not only needed other people, she needed people she could depend upon, even trust with her life. Perhaps if she had had more time, or were more in control of events and able to alter the plan or the schedule to suit her, she might have reclaimed more of her old abilities, reverted to the wild whence she had come. But she could not, and time was running out even now. Events beyond her control would soon force actions and reactions of which she had foreknowledge— her best weapon—but could not change.
She walked along the riverbank in the late afternoon thinking about this when a curious, harelike animal leaped into view. Its gigantic ears and exaggerated buckteeth gave it an almost comical, cartoon-ish quality that was offset by one look at those powerful legs. It was also more than 150 centimeters high, even without the ears—a formidable size indeed —although the species was harmless. It stared at her, more in curiosity than in fear, and she stared back. Somewhere in the corners of her mind a notion stirred and forced itself to the fore. There was something decidedly odd about the animal, something she couldn’t quite place but which seemed somehow important.
In a moment she realized that the animal was brown from the face down to its shorter forelegs, but beyond that the hair slowly was replaced by snow-white fur. Looking closer, she could see signs of occasional white fringes even in the light brown.
She had seen such creatures before, but they had been mostly white or mostly brown. Now, suddenly, she knew why. White was its winter coloration, making it almost invisible against the snow. Now, with spring here and every day getting a bit warmer than the last, the animal was turning brown, a better protective color for the now blossoming forest. Slowly the white was being pushed out, with the seasonal change—and that meant that, for one of two times a year, the beast was unable to rely on its camouflage for any sort of protection. Now, during early spring as it would be later in fall, it was a target. Hunting parties were coming Uplake now; she had seen them, and cursed herself for not putting the facts together.
Hunting was a major industry for Dillians; the natives used the furs and skins for a variety of things and sold the meat to adjoining hexes. Hunting parties —professionals, mostly—meant tough people who knew their way around. But the hunting wasn’t done in Dillia—that was possible only in Uplake, and Uplake’s wildlife was reserved for Uptake’s permanent residents in order to conserve it. No, Dillian hunting was done in Gedemondas, on the high trails.
She decided that her best place was back in town after all, this time looking for a way into Gedemondas. What she needed from Dillia could be arranged for later; Gedemondas was more critical, particularly since there might not be time enough later to do anything.
Early attempts at linking up with an expedition resulted in failure. Although the hunting parties were composed of females as well as males, the Dillians having few sexual distinctions when there was a job to do, she was too soft, too pretty for them to take seriously. It was a frustrating experience for her. All her life she had been not merely small but tiny, and had never been taken seriously then, either—until it was too late. But now, to be scorned because she was too attractive, that was an unkind blow. Not that the hunters, particularly the huge, strutting males, weren’t interested in her—they just weren’t interested from the business standpoint.
She felt as if she were going back to her beginnings, when, poor and trapped on a backward frontier world, she had gained money, influence, and eventually a way out by renting her body and other services. But things were different now; Dillia had some similarities, but not that way out—not now and not here. And she had nothing else, not even a thick coat for the wintry cold of the hunting grounds, nor any real weapons skills. Oh, she knew a laser pistol and its related cousins inside and out, but this was a semitech hex, where nothing beyond combustion weapons would work; and the hunting ground, Gedemondas, was a nontech hex, where killing was accomplished with bows and arrows and similar weapons, weapons that required a constant honing of skills, of which she had almost none, particularly in this new and larger body.
She was becoming discouraged, and some attempts with both bow and crossbow hadn’t given her any more of a lift. She was lousy with them.
Still she continued to meet, greet, and talk to the parties still coming in, now in a rush to make sure they would still be able to stake out some unclaimed hunting territory. They were all at the bar, and one man, the leader of a party, was gustily downing huge mugs of ale and telling the locals about Gedemondas. Most had never been there and never would go there; it was a mysterious and dangerous place even for those who knew it well, and what common sense didn’t prevent, superstition did. Despite the fact that Dillian young could discuss hexes and creatures halfway around the Well World, nobody knew much about their next-door neighbors. They maintained no embassy at Zone, and histories said nothing ab
out them. Geographies generally described them as shy, but nasty, savages glimpsed only from distances. Dillia did not have permission to hunt in Gedemondas, but there had never been an objection. All these made the hex an eerie, forbidding place of legend.
The hunter, whose name was Asam, was a big burly Dillian in early middle age but aging extremely well. His tanned lean, muscular figure was matched by a craggy, handsome face that looked as if it had seen the misery of the world; yet, somehow, there was a kindness there, perhaps accented by his unusual deep-green eyes. His beard, flecked with white, was perfectly trimmed and he was, overall, rugged but well-groomed. His voice matched his looks: thick, low, rich, melodic, and extremely masculine.
“It’s always winter up there,” he was saying between long pulls on a two-liter-plus mug of ale. “Aye, a warm summer’s day could freeze yer hair solid. We hav’ta take extra care, rubbin’ each other down regular so the sweat don’t turn into little iceballs. And y’do sweat, make no mistake. Some of them old trails are almost straight up, and yer’ carryin’ a heavy pack. Sometimes you lose the trail completely—hav’ta go out onto the snow and ice, which is double bad this time o’ year, for snow melts from the ground up and the sun do beat down, it does. So y’get hidden crevasses that can swallow a party whole and never leave a trace, and nasty slicks and soft spots, and snow bridges, where it looks like solid ground but there’s nothin’ underneath ya but air when ya try it.”
His accent was peculiar; it translated to her brain as something out of a children’s pirate epic, colorful and unique. She wondered how much of it was put on for the show of attention, or whether, as with some others she had known, he had put on the act so often that he had become the character he liked to play.
His audience was mostly young, of course, and they peppered him with questions. Mavra eased over to one of them and whispered, “Who is he, anyway?”
The youngster looked shocked. “Why, that’s Asam —the Colonel himself!” came the awed reply.
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