Asam never dreamed; at least, he couldn’t remember his dreams beyond a couple of extremely vivid childhood nightmares. Still, he thought he must be dreaming, there being no other explanation for it.
A rustling sound awakened him—at least he thought so—but his eyes saw nothing in the darkness at first. Then, slowly, the room seemed to be filling with a ghostly kind of white light.
The booze, he thought. It must be the booze. But it was the booze that clouded his memory, that and the fatigue he felt, from recognizing at once a sight he had not seen in a long while but knew well.
Then with a start he did realize what it was, and his hand went to his sword. Guns might do only superficial damage to the damned things, but they could be sliced the same as anybody else.
“Put the sword away, Colonel. I’m here to talk, not to fight,” said the Dahbi as it oozed the last few centimeters out of the floor and solidified in front of him, not three meters away.
His hand didn’t leave the sword hilt, but while he tensed he did not yet pull it out.
“What the hell do you want?” he croaked.
“What I said. Talk. Nothing more. I have already harmed you far more than putting a knife in your heart, as you must be aware. You will never know how much satisfaction that gave me, nor how it pains me to have to offer to give her back to you.”
He relaxed, but just slightly, a cold chill coming over him. “Sangh. Gunit Sangh himself!” he breathed. “You got guts, I’ll give you that.”
“There’s very little threat, really,” the Dahbi replied. “I can swim through the very rock, you know. Besides, I wanted you to know that I personally supervised the little operation earlier this evening. It lends force—and a little justice—to it all, don’t you think?”
“You got your bloody nerve,” he spat. “Justice!”
“Temper, Colonel, temper!” Gunit Sangh said mockingly. “I have something you want. You have something I want. Obviously what I have can not be far away—there hasn’t been time, and you people are, ah, rather bulky, shall we say? But you’ll never find her. You might, if you had a few weeks to look, but we’re currently marching on you and you are shortly going to be far too busy to do so. Besides, discovery would only mean her death.”
“You bastard,” Asam seethed. “How do I know you haven’t killed her already?”
The Dahbi acted stricken. “My word isn’t good enough? Well, perhaps it isn’t. But I need her—alive. Dead she’s of no use to anyone. Alive, she’s a hostage to Brazil and to you.”
Asam chuckled sourly. “She’s no hostage to Brazil,” he told the creature. “That bastard stopped caring for other folks a million years ago. He’s as cold as you are, Sangh.”
“Sorry to hear that,” the Dahbi responded, sounding sincere. “But that just makes things easier in a different way. If he’s unpleasant even to you, then what I ask should be all the simpler.”
The Dillian eyed the other suspiciously. “What the hell do you mean by that?”
“A trade. Brazil trusts you. I can only assume that he intends to leave your forces before the battle, using your deaths as a diversion—perhaps leaving another simulacrum in his place to fool us. But it won’t work. We’re going to be looking for that. The odds are he’ll never make it to the Avenue, let alone the Well.”
“Then what do you need with me?” Asam growled.
“We might miss him. The odds are very much against it, but it’s possible. He is tricky.” He paused a moment. “Ah, you are sure which is the right Brazil, aren’t you?”
“I know who’s who,” the Colonel told him.
“So, you see, I cover the last possibility. The trade is simple—Mavra Chang for Brazil. Within the next day. Let’s say, by this time tomorrow night, at the latest. That will not only accomplish the main objective but also prevent the coming battles. There will be no need to ask people to fight and die, you see?”
Asam frowned. “I don’t trust you one bit, Sangh. Since when do you care who lives and who dies except for yourself? I have no guarantees.”
“You have several,” Gunit Sangh responded. “You get Brazil to a Zone Gate and bring him through. Diplomatic immunity, remember? Even though the council is against you, they will not violate Zone. Take him to your own embassy. We will make the swap right there. Even better, you have couriers from here. Take Brazil, but don’t put him through until a courier comes with word that a living Mavra Chang is in my embassy at Zone.”
Asam fully relaxed now, thinking about it. Finally he said, “Why are you doing this, Sangh? Why agree to be the commander at all? What the hell are you getting out of this?”
“Consider,” the Dahbi replied, “what honors will come to the one who captures Nathan Brazil. The honors, the power, and the influence. Consider the perfect prison, under hundreds of meters of solid granite, the tunnel used to take him down collapsed about him save for a small mechanism to provide food and water. The council will not have Brazil. The Dahbi—I—will have Brazil. An unspoken hostage, so to speak. And I will have the gratitude of all those who did not lose their lives in foolish battles. Consider the effect on Ortega, no longer as feared or as in charge. His place will pass to me, and that fat ancient snake will die at last, his grip on the Well World and the council broken. It’s already been suggested that, as an old friend of Brazil’s, he can not be trusted in this matter. The possibilities are endless.”
Asam shivered slightly, thinking of an unchecked Gunit Sangh in charge, but, oddly, this sinister plan also reassured him. Sangh was being honest with him, partly out of confidence, partly out of the sheer arrogance he exuded. He was saying the stakes were too high to risk a double cross now.
“We will transfer her to Zone after dark tomorrow, as quickly as possible,” the Dahbi told him. “We will receive any envoy you like at our embassy there to verify it. Then you will have eight hours to deliver your end of the bargain.”
“And after that?” he asked, thinking about it.
“You will be free to return to Dillia together,” Sangh told him. “Naturally, this will not settle anything personally between us. That will remain outstanding—as it has. Safe passage for you and the woman, alive, back to Dill’a is all I guarantee. After that we have no more bargain.”
He sighed. “I’ll consider it,” he told the creature. “And if I do not come through?”
“Then the woman will be the object of a ritual feast by my embassy personnel and no trace of her will remain,” the Dahbi responded coldly.
“You bastard,” Asam swore angrily. “You dirty bastard. You and I will settle this personally one day.”
“One day,” the Dahbi agreed. “But not in the next two days.” It turned into its milky white state and slowly oozed into the ground until the last traces of it were gone.
“You bastard,” Asam repeated to the dark, but his mind was already whirling. Schemes, plots, ideas, were already hatching. He considered Gypsy—but, no. He couldn’t be sure he could trust the strange little man, and something might go wrong, betray them. Sangh was on to the plan anyway, and would still be looking for a Brazil getaway. No, it had to be on the square. He had to choose between Mavra and Brazil, it was that simple. And a simple choice.
Dahir
The ranch was barely twenty kilometers below the border, yet it was isolated enough and far enough for their purposes. Two were Dahbi, the others were Krithians, their huge, beating wings marking time to the call of one to the other. They carried in between them a huge blanket in which lay their heavy burden, unconscious still from the tranquilizers they had shot into her from ambush.
They had been puffing hard when they reached the border, barely able to carry her as far as they did and proud that they had made it with such a burden, but now, in Dahir, they had been aided by the magic of the native priests, and the flying was easy. She seemed to have no weight at all now and they felt renewed strength.
The priests had been riding below them on their hakaks, unicornlike mounts, easily
keeping pace and providing what they called the proper energy flow to the flyers. They could also handle a fair degree of trouble should some lucky searcher from the enemy discover them.
Two Dahir stood ready to receive the burden as they landed. They greeted the priests with upraised arms, then turned to the unconscious form now deposited in the area in front of the hukak stables. It was a clear night; the massive, swirling starfield was shining in full glory and seemed to reflect against their bright, shiny exoskeletons as the humanoid insects went to work, first righting her so she was standing on four feet, then assisting the others in dragging her into a large barn. She was still out cold and knew nothing of this.
“Shall we bind her?” the Dahir leader asked the nearest Dahbi. “It would not do for her to get free.”
“Bindings can be loosened, or worked free,” the white creature responded. “We can not take a chance on such a thing.”
“Do we kill her, then?” the gleaming creature wanted to know.
“No. We promised her alive in the exchange. We will have to make good on that promise.”
“A simple spell,” one of the priests suggested. “It would be absolutely effective—and we have to disguise her when we move her to the Gate tomorrow, anyway.”
“Disguise is up to you,” the Dahbi told the priests. “That should not be difficult here. But your spells are effective only here. They would be undone by the Gate.”
“And could be redone as soon as we were in Zone,” the priest pointed out. “Our magic is effective there, at least on a limited basis.”
“Too risky,” the Dahbi responded. “We can give her no avenue for escape. Also, our master, His Holiness Gunit Sangh, has directed a suitable remedy. Here,” the creature pointed, “at the base of the neck, are the primary nerve connections from the brain to the spinal chord. Severed, it will cut off control to the upper torso.” With that the creature used its right foreleg with its sharp, knifelike chitin and struck deeply, yet expertly. Some blood gushed out, but not a great deal, and they were on the wound with salve and bandages in a moment.
“And here, at the base of the upper torso, a connector for the other, larger half, almost a second although nonsentient brain directed from the first,” the Dahbi noted, and again the vicious blade struck and jerked once inside. It came out covered with dark-red blood, which was again seen to.
“The Dillian is now totally paralyzed,” the white creature told them, wiping off its blood-stained foreleg. “The effect is permanent, the damage beyond repair. Note how the arms and legs are frozen in position, a protective biological mechanism when there is nervous damage. They can die if not on their feet, so they freeze when the nerves are cut or damaged to avoid this. The autonomic functions are not affected; they are taken care of by a different set of nervous controls on the other side of the cartilage that routes and supports them. I was careful not to touch those areas.”
“They will not go for this,” the Dahir priest warned darkly. “They will not trade Brazil for this one in such a condition.”
The Dahbi chuckled. “Your magic could freeze her like a statue here. Could not your magic also make her walk?”
The head of the Dahir cocked itself slightly to one side as the priest considered it. “Why, yes, of course.”
“And then again in Zone?”
“Ah!” The priest brightened.
“You see? No chance for escape, for without your spells she is frozen helplessly. But the evidence will be otherwise. It will be so reported, the exchange will take place, and the woman will be returned to Dillia.”
“Magic has no worth in Dillia,” the priest pointed out. “She will arrive a helpless cripple.”
“Exactly,” responded the Dahbi. “Our bargain was to deliver her alive. Nothing else. We keep our word —to the letter.”
“It seems a bit cruel, though,” the Dahir commented, not sounding as if he was particularly upset by the idea.
“My master, His Holiness Gunit Sangh, has a claim against the one who loves her,” the Dahbi told him. “Killing him would be so very… final. And quick. Nor is he easy to kill. This will haunt him and harm him worse than any. His love a hopeless cripple for the rest of her life, and he a betrayer of his cause and his trust, branded so forever even into the histories and legends, and with no prize to show.”
The priest nodded admiringly. “It is incredible. Such a settlement of a debt of honor is beyond all save admiration.” He looked over at Mavra. “And how much control does she retain?”
“A statue, totally, as if made of stone, from the neck down,” the Dahbi assured him. She will be able to control only her eyes, ears, nose, and mouth. All else is forever frozen.”
“She can talk, then,” the priest noted. “Only if we let her,” responded the Dahbi.
She awoke before dawn and almost immediately realized what must have happened. Mad, upset, her pride hurt, she had stalked out of the meeting and wandered, eventually, down to the river where she had just walked along, occasionally kicking this or that or just looking at the stars.
They hadn’t even made much of concealment. She knew that creatures were in the trees ahead, could see an occasional shape shift or even hear occasional whispers. You just didn’t think about risk when surrounded by ten thousand of your own people.
They had used some sort of tranquilizer gun, the kind used on vicious wild animals when you had to get close to them or capture them but not kill. She had no idea what the stuff was, but it was certainly fast: she had heard the report, felt the sting, whirled and started to cry out, and then lost first her balance and then consciousness in what must have been, oh, no more than fifteen or twenty seconds.
She tried to move, to see what sort of bindings they had on her now and where and in what she might be, but found she could not. There was a sudden, eerie sense of deja vu about all this. Once before on this strange world she had been captured, paralyzed, and stored in a stable. At that time she had been a sacrifice to the Well by those who had worshiped the thing and had been turned into a malformed monster because of it.
There wasn’t much light in the place, although she heard the movements of what appeared to be other large animals, and the aftereffects of the drug, she guessed, were keeping her more or less muddy in the head.
She stood there, unable to do anything, afraid to say anything, for quite some time. Once someone had come, opened a door to one side, and peered in for a moment, but they were out of her peripheral vision and did not come in, but for a very long time now she had just had to stand there stiffly and try and fight through the malaise in her mind.
Now, though, she heard the rustling of something, like feed going through straw, coming close to her. She was surprised, for she would have bet that there were none but animals in the stable up to now. She waited, more curious than apprehensive, to see who it might be—and what. That they would kill her was unlikely; she knew a hostage when she saw one, even if it was her.
The creature stepped out of the shadows and walked almost up to her face. She brightened when she saw it, and the creature put up a shaggy rounded finger to its snout to signify silence.
“We must act quickly,” whispered the Gedemondan. “We have very little time and much to do.”
“How… how long have you been here?” she asked it quietly.
“We have been with you since Gedemondas,” the creature told her. “We have kept out of sight and out of mind, as is our wont and our ability. We thought they would try for Brazil, not for you, which is why we couldn’t prevent this. The damage to the Well is clouding our perceptions.”
“They couldn’t be sure it was him,” she explained. “So they figure to blackmail him through me. Fat chance on that.”
“Nevertheless, you are essential to him,” the Gedemondan assured her. “He will not make the repairs without you. And he may not get the opportunity. My brothers and sisters with your force yet tell me that it is not Brazil but one who cares deeply for you who is being blackmailed
.”
She was puzzled. “Who? Oh—Asam? But—what could he do?”
“Deliver Brazil in exchange for you,” she was told.
“And we believe he might do so.” Briefly the Gedemondan explained to her the sadistic plot he had overheard in the same barn only a few hours earlier.
“But what can we do about it?” she wanted to know. “If what you say is true I… I’m paralyzed.
Completely.” It shook her to say it, as if voicing it would make it an actuality.
“There are two alternatives,” the Gedemondan told her. “The first is to kill you. That would deprive them of a hostage and would, at least, give Brazil a chance to do the right thing.”
She considered it. “I think I would rather be dead than… like this… for so long.” She meant it, but it seemed somehow abstract, as if discussing a theoretical problem or someone else, not her. She needed more time to get used to the idea she was a statue, a living lump of immobile flesh.
“There is only one other alternative, and it is a risk and an experiment,” the Gedemondan told her.
“Please accept my assurance that they have done an expert job on you. There is no way that your body will move again except under the magic of the Dahir.”
She had an uneasy feeling, and seemed to recall little donkeylike creatures in the back of her mind. “What’s the alternative?”
“There is a procedure, an odd one, used by a few Well World races, mostly in the North,” the white creature explained. “Only in one spot here in the South is it done—and it is as hazardous to the doer as to the subject. It involves the transference of the soul.”
She stared at him. “You mean changing bodies?”
The Gedemondan nodded. “Exactly so. The intellect is a thing which may, under certain conditions, be wrenched from the body. We, ourselves, have done this, but always returning to our own physical selves. In your case, of course, that is not possible, nor could we teach it to you in the hours, perhaps minutes, we have left.”
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