Brazil balled it up and tossed it into the fire. “Civil chap, isn’t he?” he remarked with a snide smile.
“Like a poisonous spider or hungry snake,” Asam snorted.
“I think we’ve underestimated him, though, so far,” Brazil noted, watching the note burn. “Somehow I thought Serge Ortega would be the big problem, but this fellow is Ortega without . . . without . . .”
“Conscience?” Asam prompted.
“A sense of honor,” Brazil finished. “Conscience is something Serge has little of, but he’s an honorable man in his own way. He does what he thinks is right for everybody according to his own lights—whether it is right or not and whether it kills or cures. From what I’ve learned of Gunit Sangh, he might possibly be, at the moment, the most dangerous man alive. I’ve run into his kind many times before, among my own kind.”
Asam looked straight at Brazil. “Are you going to take his offer?”
Brazil smiled humorlessly. “Always it’s the easy way out they offer you,” he reflected. “Just do this that I want and that’s all there is to what I want— except . . . There’s always an ‘except,’ you know. No, I’m not going to turn myself over to him, or Ortega, or anybody else for that matter. And, don’t worry, no matter what he says, he isn’t going to kill her. He’ll figure that it’s the only leverage he’s got on me if I get into the Well—and he’s right, of course. That may be where he’s made his mistake, though. Once I get into the Well, get to the little computer governing this little planet, there’s not a damned thing he can do to her, to me, to anybody, but a hell of a lot I can do to him. I’m starting to build up a whole backlog of folks I’d like to get even with, Asam. I think for the first time I really do want to get into the Well.”
“Do you think you can?” the centaur asked seriously. “I mean, he says it pretty flat out in the note.”
“It’s possible,” he replied. “More than possible. We’ll keep ’em guessing with Gypsy here, of course, so he won’t be able to spare his big army coming here to block me, and Gypsy today is down with Yua, not only briefing her but being seen—as me. That’ll confuse ’em just enough that Khutir will have to move on her. And I still have a trick or two up my sleeve. Yeah, I think I can get in. I’ll leave tonight, in fact, after Gypsy gets back.”
Asam said nothing for a moment, then echoed, dryly, “Tonight,” and walked back toward his tent to think for a while.
There were staff meetings, commander’s briefings, organizational information, deployment, all during much of the afternoon, and that helped Asam a little in his emotional dilemma. What you don’t have to think about can’t really get to you.
Still, it was always there in the back of his mind, always a dull ache somewhere inside him. He had thought himself in love more than once before, but now he knew that those were hollow things—physical attraction, mostly, or feelings mistaken for love because, not having experienced the real thing, he thought that was what it was. But he loved Mavra Chang. He knew it, deep down to the core of his soul; knew that she meant more to him than his own life, even his own personal honor, which he had cherished most. He hated himself for feeling this way; somehow, in his own mind, he had diminished by falling so totally a victim to such feelings, feelings he had seen in others and regarded only with contempt.
The worst part of it, the most demeaning of all, was the knowledge that Gunit Sangh had identified this vulnerability, placed his slimy foreleg directly on this weak spot in Asam’s soul, and applied pressure with such relish.
Briefly, very briefly, he had entertained the hope that Brazil would take the burden from him, call a halt to this madness and resolve the situation. But, no, that way out had been shut. Brazil would try for the Well of Souls tonight, two or three days even by air from this point, and Mavra? Brazil was too confident of Sangh; he, Asam, knew the bastard better. Mavra would be slowly, ritually eaten alive, there was no doubt of that. She herself would see to that rather than be such a hostage, he felt certain; She would convince him that, to Brazil, she was no hostage at all.
Playing on him, too, was a far different feeling, one that his conscious mind would never admit. From the start he had rebelled at Mavra entering the Well with Brazil, just the two of them. Right now, he felt, she loved him, at least in a way. Brazil said she craved love, the father she had never had, and he was at least that to her and perhaps a good deal more. Left the way she was, he knew deep down that the two of them would spend the rest of their lives together on the Well World; good, full, rich lives. But with Brazil, inside the Well, there was that awful nagging fear that she would not come out a Dillian—if, in fact, she came out at all.
He considered Brazil and the cause for which all these creatures from so many hexes were fighting. Why were they fighting? Silly, deluded Entries that even Mavra admitted were products of a cult who believed in a false ending to this; Dillians, out at first for revenge, who had by now had their emotions sated and were trapped in the march; and ones like the Hakazit, who cared nothing for causes but fought because it was fun, a drive built into their massive, hideous genes.
And Brazil himself—some god! A bored, cynical little man who didn’t really care about anyone or anything, and who said himself he neither understood the Well’s operating principles nor would do anything but leave the universe to go its current stupid way or recreate it in the same image all over again. He was just a man, like so many other men except that one bit of knowledge made him the object of so much misguided devotion. Just a silly little man whose only attribute was that he had lived too damned long . . .
Even further back in Asam’s subconscious, where none would ever recognize it, lurked the feeling that Brazil was somehow his rival, that he might offer Mavra what she could not refuse.
He made up his mind for what he considered reasonable, realistic reasons. He made up his mind, then checked the dispensary for what he needed, made a few surreptitious inquiries on dosages and tolerances for Glathrielites, then prepared his means and methods of escape. Like Mavra’s kidnapers, he would need aid in the air, which was easy to arrange. He had quite a reputation here; he was the commander of the forces, and they simply wouldn’t question what he was doing. The Jorgasnovarians, in particular, had been talked into this by Marquoz and the Hakazit and weren’t Entries. They were alien, those flying, ten-drilous gumdrops, so much so that they would find it impossible to pick Brazil out of a group of naked Glathrielites. One looked just like another to them, and that was good enough.
Near dusk all was in readiness, and, as luck would have it, Brazil had retired to a small tent to get some sleep in expectation of being awake all night. It was going to be so easy it was unbelievable. He only hoped Sangh understood the time problem and would do nothing rash.
He entered Brazil’s tent and closed the flap behind him. The little man lay there, face up, mouth open, snoring slightly. So easy, so vulnerable . . . And yet, he hesitated. Love and honor conflicted, hate and the face of Gunit Sangh seemed to mock him.
His hands trembled as he took the small bottle and filled the syringe with two cc. of the clear fluid. There was no one else about; it would be dark in another hour and his own forces could move in, helped by some convenient guard shifts, night training exercises, and meal schedules he had arranged earlier in the day. It would work. Silently he approached the sleeping man, syringe raised.
“O foolish man!” boomed a voice behind him.
He whirled, syringe still in hand, and Brazil snorted and popped awake, then froze as he saw the full tableau.
There were three of them—huge hairy white creatures so out of place in this atmosphere. Asam knew what they were in an instant; he had wanted to meet them almost all his life.
“What the hell?” Brazil wanted to know, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. “What’s all this about, Asam? And who and what are you three?”
“He knows us,” said the huge speaker.
“You—you are Gedemondans,” Asam croaked, his voice almost stilled by a combination of shock and shame at discovery.
Brazil looked gravely at the incriminating syringe still in Asam’s hand. “So you were going to sell me out,” he said sadly. “The great Colonel Asam.”
“Sangh . . . came to me. Here. In the middle of the camp. He can swim right through rock, no place is really safe from him,” the Dillian told them, his tone wooden, like a man in a dream. “He was prepared to eat her alive, Brazil. Eat her alive!”
“And you were going to trust a bastard like that to deliver her safe and sound,” the little man responded, shaking his head sadly. “I don’t know if we’ll ever learn. Asam, a very long time ago on my own people’s world a man like Gunit Sangh asked us to trust him. We did, and he swallowed nations whole, one after another, then summarily executed and tortured millions. It cost more millions of lives to finally defeat him—and still people turned around and did the same damned thing with other sons of bitches again and again. You of all people should know that Sangh would never keep his word. We discussed it earlier today. Honor is a foreign word to him—as it seems to be elastic to you. For jealousy you would betray all those who have already fought and died in her cause.”
“Jealousy? No, Brazil! Love, yes, but not jealousy!” the Colonel exclaimed heatedly.
“So you know yourself so little,” Brazil sighed. “All right, Asam. It’s done now.”
He nodded. “It’s done. I shall, of course, no longer be a burden to you. She is effectively dead now, and I don’t want to survive her.”
“O foolish man, she lives,” the Gedemondan told him.
“But for how long?” he came back.
“She was totally crippled by cruel surgery,” the white creature told them. “She would have been a helpless cripple forever, save by Dahir magic. You would have won a living corpse.”
The syringe dropped from his hand, and, for the first time in his life, Colonel Asam cried. The Gede-mondans stood there impassively, and Brazil sat quietly and waited, waited for him to cry himself out. Finally, after a couple of minutes, he just stood there, head down in shame, silently waiting for his judgment.
Finally Brazil said to the Gedemondans, “I notice you said she would have been a helpless cripple, not that she is.”
The Gedemondan nodded. “Two brothers and a sister saw the attack and managed to go along,” it told him. “It puzzled the creatures who carried her why she should be so heavy, but they did not see us.” There seemed a private amusement at that. “When they could, they contacted her—but it was too late to help her. Our powers are somewhat diminished outside of Gedemondas; we can not influence events nor see them as clearly, and, large as we are, we would have been no match for their force, particularly not in Dahir. The Dahir magic is strong, and beyond our control.”
He nodded. “I understand. But you did something, huh?”
“They attempted the only thing possible under the circumstances,” the Gedemondan told him. “There is a process called transference, for want of a better word. It is something we are aware of, although this was the first time to our knowledge that Gedemondans actually attempted it. It involves removing the essence of an individual, the soul, the intellect, whatever you wish to call it, and placing it in the body of an animal.”
“Yeah! Sure! I know that process!” Brazil exclaimed, mentally kicking himself for not thinking of it before. “The Murnies once used it on me when my body was destroyed.”
“It is so,” the Gedemondan agreed. “Those of Murithel are the only practitioners in the South, and then only on very rare occasions. Despite their odd and violent way of life and their unusual superstitions, a few of their wisest have come upon many of the same powers and secrets as we. It was, in fact, through accounts of their actions that we stumbled upon it.”
Brazil looked over at Asam. “You see, Colonel? She’s alive, she’s okay, and out of the hands of the enemy. All they’ve got is an empty husk.”
Asam managed a slight smile. “I’m glad for that,” he almost whispered.
“You haven’t lost her yet, Colonel,” Brazil tried to reassure him. “She’s in animal form right now, but inside the Well she can be whatever she wants to be. It’s her choice, Colonel. It’s always been her choice. That much I swear to you.”
“Would you care to see her?” the Gedemondan asked. “We have not brought her near the main camp because a large animal in the vicinity of an army with a large number of carnivores would be tempting fate too much, but we can take you to her.”
“No,” Asam replied. “Not now, anyway. Not after . . . after all this. If she chooses, if she returns, then, perhaps I can face her again. As for me, I will lead this army in battle and I will win the battle. I will live until I can kill Gunit Sangh myself, no matter what the cost.” He looked first at the Gedemondans, then at Brazil. “Am I free to go?”
Brazil nodded. “Go on back to your tent, Colonel. It’s out of your hands now.”
Asam left hurriedly, his feelings too complex to face, his self-loathing beyond imagining.
Brazil sighed and sat back down on his cot, leaned back, and looked at the Gedemondans.
“So what sort of animal did you use?” he asked them.
“We had very little time,” the Gedemondan explained, sounding a little apologetic. “We were in a barn in an alien hex full of magic and power and surrounded by enemies. We had, in addition to the time problem, a limited number of animals to choose from—and we still had to get her out and past enemy forces without raising suspicion.”
“I understand all that,” he told them impatiently. “Damn it, they made me into a stag.”
“Our choices were two,” the Gedemondan went on. “First were the horned mounts of the Dahir—but that raised a problem. They do not run free, and are used as mounts and draft animals. A wild one would be seen and captured quickly as it has some value. That left the other creature, one that’s put out to pasture and allowed to roam free until it is needed. You would call it, in your language, a sort of a cow.”
Lamotien, a Little before Midnight
gunit sangh was quite literally climbing the walls, the ceiling, and oozing in and out through the floor. Others were nervous to even approach his command tent for some time; he had killed the first two messengers who went in there and had issued orders for all sorts of mass executions. None had been carried out, but nobody was willing even to go close enough to tell him this.
Initial rage had come from the first message, which had been from Dahir. It told him that, when the creatures, along with his own agents, had gone to get Mavra Chang and establish the proper spells to get her walking and moving to the Zone Gate, they had met with no success. A cursory examination had been performed and the general diagnosis was that, while autonomic functions still operated, there was, in effect, total brain death insofar as any voluntary motions were concerned. She was, in effect, a vegetable, and even their magic could not work on a body that no longer was able to comprehend an order to send a message over magically relinked nerves.
No one could explain it, but there were tracks outside and around the barn area of no known type. The conclusion: Mavra Chang had been discovered by her friends, somehow, and they, having seen her mutilated state, had done this so that she could give no information or messages.
He had ordered everyone on the ranch immediately executed, but except for the two Dahbi, it was unlikely the order would be carried out. The Dahir were pragmatists, and even the Dahir, not being stupid, would probably be an awfully long time going home or rejoining their forces.
Then had come the second message that Brazil had been spotted with the Awbrian forces moving up from the south. This, together with his routine intelligence asssuring him that Brazil, was, in fact, still with the Dillians and Hakazits not too many hills away in Bache, did nothing to improve his confidence. He felt like his whole beautiful world of dreams was crashing down about him.
Finally, though, he did calm down and came out of the tent. A milling throng of officers of many races had gathered near by, but they all pulled back when he appeared, fully unfolded and extended, a truly awesome sight.
“Fools! I will not hurt you!” he snapped. “We must act and act now or all is surely lost! Make use of the rest of the night to mobilize your entire force. All plans are now in force, all alerts are now proclaimed. We will engage the enemy as soon after first light as is practical. Move!”
They moved, fast and frenzied.
Sangh pointed a foreleg at his intelligence officer. “You! Any further messages? Quit shivering, idiot! I won’t eat you! I’m over that—now.”
The officer in question, a tiny, weasellike Orarc, continued to shiver, but it responded, “There is a strange, impossible message from your embassy at Zone, sir.”
Sangh froze. More bad news would be more than he could stand. “What?”
The Orarc swallowed hard. “According to this— it’s unbelievable—but, according to this—”
“Come on! Out with it!”
“Ambassador Ortega is no longer at Zone,” the creature told him.
Gunit Sangh froze, stunned. He realized immediately the import of that news—and its total lack of credibility. If Ortega left Zone, then he broke the spell that restrained his aging, and he was already an old man. It was the end of an era that had stretched back to almost two thousand years before the elderly Dahbi himself had been born, the end of a power and personality that had pervaded and colored the only Well World that Sangh, or anybody else, had ever known.
“It must be a mistake,” he responded, dismissing the news. “He was just taking a crap or something.” He turned to go back into the tent.
“It’s definite, sir,” the Orarc insisted. “Some of our own people saw him go through the Zone Gate. No doubles, no duplicates, no other Ulik mistaken for him. There is a new, young Ulik ambassador at Zone and Ortega is definitely gone. Gone home, they said, to die.”
Gunit Sangh snorted. “Oh, no. There’s something dirtier afoot than that. Ortega would only do that if he were certain not only that he was not going to die but also that the odds favored his plan somehow. I want to know as soon as possible what he did after arriving back in Ulik. I want to know where Serge Ortega is and what he is doing if he survived the trip —and I’m certain he did.”
“At once, sir,” the intelligence officer responded and turned to go.
Gunit Sangh felt totally calm, but very uneasy. Up to now it was a simple battle of wits. He was losing, yes, but he always had the chance of winning and he always had known the score. Not now. With Ortega suddenly in the game—outside of Zone! incredible!—he had the uneasy feeling that something momentous was going on, some force was coming into play that was beyond understanding or control.
He was suddenly conscious that more than history was being made now; the future itself, and for a long, long time to come. The future was being molded by unseen hands. A changing future, not a static one.
All his life his efforts had gone to maintain the status quo, which he liked very much indeed, and increase his personal role in the leadership of that. But —Ortega gone? Brazil inside the Well?
He spread out the relief maps and tried to occupy his mind with preparations for battle For the first time in his long life, Gunit Sangh felt afraid.