Durbis, on the Coast of Flotish
HE WALKED ALONG THE DOCK IN THE GATHERING twilight, slowly, confidently. He reached into a pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes, removing one and lighting it with a custom-made lighter. The sound of his boots clumped hollowly on the boardwalk as he approached a particular dock and looked at the ship anchored there.
“Hello, aboard!” he called out.
The ship, a sleek two-masted schooner, seemed deserted.
“Hello, there!” he yelled again. “Anybody aboard?”
A scaly horror of a face peered over the rail at him, fish eyes, unblinking, staring at him suspiciously. “Hello, yourself,” the creature croaked. “Who the hell are you and what do you want?”
“I contacted your agency in Zone,” he called back. “I understand you are for charter.”
“Come aboard,” the creature said sharply.
He walked confidently up the gangplank and onto the ship. The creature turned to meet him, both round eyes still fixed on the stranger.
The creature was a Flotish; humanoid in that it had head, arms, and legs in the right places, but otherwise totally alien. It was a sea creature, of that there was no doubt; its thick, scaly body looked somewhat armorplated, like scales atop an exoskeleton; its hands and feet were webbed and clawed and oversize for the body, and its face was a horror with unblinking large yellow eyes. It had fins in several places and a dorsal fin on its back. It had no business here, not in the upper air, and in fact it normally breathed through gills although it could exist in air for several hours before it would finally suffocate. It solved its breathing problem simply, with a small apparatus worn helmet-like around its gills and resting above the dorsal on its back. Not good for long periods, it nonetheless allowed the creature a measure of comfort in the atmosphere.
“Come into the main cabin,” the Flotish invited. “I have a tank there that makes things easier on me.”
He followed and saw that it was so; the tank allowed the creature to relax in sea water while keeping its head out in the air. There was no furniture that fit his form, which was natural, so he sat on the edge of a table and faced the strange sea creature.
“It’s not often that I see water-breathers with surface ships,” he remarked.
“They go down in our waters, we get them, fix them up, refloat them, and sell them for a profit,” the Flotish replied. “It’s a good business, salvage, particularly good when you’re bordered by land on four sides.”
He nodded. “I wish to buy this one,” he told the creature.
“Medium?”
He smiled. “Gold, if you want, or diamonds. Even if you don’t use the medium yourself they’re useful in exchange.”
“Either is acceptable,” the Flotish replied agreeably. “We’ll deal in gold. This ship has been completely refitted. It’s in tip-top shape, was down because it was swamped by an incompetent captain in a storm. No structural damage; we had it refloated within two days. Good hardwood, solid.”
He nodded. “I like the looks of it. There’s an auxiliary engine?”
“Steam,” the sea creature said. “Brand new, not salvage. You can see the small stack aft. Useful only in emergencies, though. You wouldn’t make two knots with it. It’s when you let out the sail in a fair breeze that this thing really moves. Eighteen, twenty knots. A fantastic ship. As is, forty-seven kilos.”
The man laughed. “You’ve got to be kidding. Forty-seven kilos of gold? You could buy a dreadnaught for that.”
“But dreadnaughts require records,” the Flotish responded. “This does not. No records, no bills of sale, yet all legal and aboveboard. Not traceable, since it’s a salvage refit.”
“I could buy a new one for half that amount,” the man retorted.
“Less,” the creature agreed. “But you wouldn’t be here if that were your first criterion. I don’t know what you’re planning—smuggling, piracy, or what. But we wouldn’t be meeting in this way if it was anything honest and you know it. You get what you pay for and what you’re paying for is a great ship and total anonymity.”
The visitor chuckled again. “It’s not as bad as that,” he told the creature. “It’s convenience. Flotish is near where I have to be, and timing is more important than hidden registry. Twenty kilos and I’m being robbed at that.”
The creature chuckled evilly. “Twenty won’t get you a lifeboat. Forty.”
They went back and forth for a while, each giving a little, until finally they were haggling over grams and not kilograms.
“Thirty-one, my final offer,” the man told the Flotish. “That’s it. Any more and I’ll gamble on a little extra time and go up to Vergutz.”
The creature spit. “They’ll sell you trash. But—all right! Thirty-one it is. You’ll make the transfer through Zone?”
He nodded. “You’ll know the name. Nobody else is likely to use anything remotely like it. Now I’ll need a crew. Versatile, good sailors, experienced on this type of craft. Men who stay bought if overpaid.”
The Flotish looked thoughtful. “I think something might be arranged.”
“I’m sure it can,” Gypsy replied.
South Zone
they were coming in by the thousands. it was unbelievable, Ortega thought. He wondered how the hell Brazil had managed it. The Well was coping, sending Entries evenly to the Southern hexes, but so far the impact had been small. If this kept up, though, it would soon tax their entire resources. Already he was getting reports of killings in some of the hexes and a panic mentality setting in. People had been killed because they were thought to be Entries.
They trooped down the hall in a steady stream, halting only every once in a while so that an ambassador from a water hex could flood the chamber and move to a gate himself to report home.
The Entries moved under the watchful eyes of hardened troops of dozens of races, all armed with wicked crossbows and similar weapons. Although all technology worked here, sophisticated weapons would not keep the peace. It didn’t matter what killed you, though; a bolt of searing fire or a spring-propelled arrow.
It was more than a week before something new happened. He heard it, heard the shouts and yells and screams and tramping of feet, and was immediately out into the corridor. Frightened Olympians pressed back against the walls to avoid being trampled by the formidable serpentine ambassador as he moved with amazing speed toward the source of the commotion.
There were a number of soldiers there, all standing around something, some great insects with nasty-looking projectile weapons, were all staring down at a body on the floor.
He pushed his way through the mob and came up to the body, still bleeding profusely. No less than sixteen arrows penetrated all parts of the body, including the skull which was crushed from the back.
The figure was a man, lying face down in a pool of blood. He leaned over and examined the body carefully. There was no question; it was dead beyond any hope of magical resurrection or reconstruction. This was no trick. Slowly, carefully, Ortega turned the body over. The look of stunned surprise was still on the dead face, eyes staring wide but no longer seeing the missiles which killed him.
He felt odd, not relieved one bit but almost unbelieving at that face.
“So it was a crock of shit all along,” he sighed, talking to the dead body. “And your luck finally ran out.” He looked up at the insectile soldiers who had done the deed. “You can relax a little now. You’ve just done the impossible. There’s no doubt in my mind. Nathan Brazil is dead at last.”
*
This adventure will conclude in
TWILIGHT AT THE WELL OF SOULS:
The Legacy of Nathan Brazil,
Volume 5 of The Saga of The Well World.
About the Author
jack l. chalker was born in Norfolk, Virginia, on December 17, 1944, but was raised and has spent most of his life in Baltimore, Maryland. He learned to read almost from the moment of entering school, and by working odd jobs had amassed a large book collection by the time he was in junior high school, a collection now too large for containment in his quarters. Science fiction, history, and geography all fascinated him early on, interests that continue.
Chalker joined the Washington Science Fiction Association in 1958 and began publishing an amateur SF journal, Mirage, in 1960. After high school he decided to be a trial lawyer, but money problems and the lack of a firm caused him to switch to teaching. He holds bachelor degrees in history and English, and an M.L.A. from the Johns Hopkins University. He taught history and geography in the Baltimore public schools between 1966 and 1978, and now makes his living as a freelance writer. Additionally, out of the amateur journals he founded a publishing house, The Mirage Press, Ltd., devoted to nonfiction and bibliographic works on science fiction and fantasy. This company has produced more than twenty books in the last nine years. His hobbies include esoteric audio, travel, working on science-fiction convention committees, and guest lecturing on SF to institutions such as the Smithsonian. He is an active conservationist and National Parks supporter, and he has an intensive love of ferryboats, with the avowed goal of riding every ferry in the world. In fact, in 1978, he was married to Eva Whitley on an ancient ferryboat in midriver. They live in the Catoctin Mountain region of western Maryland.