Jack Chalker - Quest for the Well of Souls

“What good’s that here?” Grune asked. “This is a nontech hex. You know that.”

“Idiot!” snapped the Parmiter. “So the launchers are spring-loaded, see? With a boost from a fuse and gunpowder charge underneath. They blow up by chemical action triggered by the shock. No power supply, see? They work here, and they’ll blow a hole we can sail through in that damned packet.”

“Oh,” said Grune.

The Yaxa drifted across the shoreline, its strange eyes searching the ground. It had been a difficult journey; almost twenty days’ worth. Now it was over; now the Yaxa had reached its goal. True, there would be some journeying back, but not as much. It needed only to make a Zone Gate it could use without attracting undue attention. Its prize was destined for Zone, for the Yaxa embassy.

It had been a hard and grueling flight over territory not very friendly or hospitable; she knew that her superiors had been against her going because she was so involved in the forthcoming expedition. But she had insisted and had managed to communicate through friendly Zone Gates to assure her compatriots that all was well.

But, in the end, this had been her part of the project from the beginnings—the long-ago beginnings, when the wars were fought. As the only Entry in Yaxa history from a “human” world, she had special qualifications. The others didn’t understand human nature, no matter what its forms. She did, in all of its variations.

To her sisters’ credit, they recognized her unique capability and had given her the prized task. Her loyalty was unquestioned, her dedication unmatched. Through her influence and authority, she had kept them from sending out a squad or commissioning a gang to kill Mavra Chang. Not Trelig—no, they’d tried to get at him ten times or more, but that slippery frog was always too smart for them.

She’d told them that Chang was loyal to no side but her own, which was true, and that the strange woman was valuable as an alternative to Yulin, just in case. They had accepted what she said. To some extent, it had been the truth. But she had other reasons, ones they, perhaps, would never understand, but ones that Mavra probably would in time.

Now as she circled the compound, she saw immediately that something was wrong. The front wall had been smashed by something huge and powerful, and there had been a fire afterward. Part of the compound was in ruins, and a storage area behind stood open and empty. She felt momentary panic. Robbers? Pirates? Was she, then, too late?

But, no, as she studied further she saw Ambreza and signs of a frantic search through the area. Dead? Or—?

She swung out to sea, to avoid Ambreza eyes and to think, gliding lazily on updrafts high above the whitecapped, blue-green waters.

She couldn’t believe Mavra Chang was dead, wouldn’t allow herself to believe that—not until she saw the body, or the grave. Not after all this, oh, no. But—if not dead, then what? If pirates did hit the place, and she got away… where would she go? To the Ambreza? No. The Ambreza below looked too much like search parties, even the one out in a small boat.

Not south to Ambreza, nor north to deadly Ginzin, either. By water, then?

But that would mean—kidnapped? Who would want to kidnap Mavra Chang except her, the Yaxa wondered? Not Ortega, certainly. He had her. Then—Antor Trelig.

It had to be, she decided. Maybe to make a deal with Ortega, since Trelig was the only player in the game still without his own access to the North. If that were so, he’d hardly take her to Zone. The Makiem didn’t have the defenses of a Yaxa, and he could hardly be expected to shield her presence for long from Ortega.

They would have come by ship, she decided. And that’s how they’d get away—probably north, then, to Domien, which was neutral enough and would allow Trelig a hiding place to bargain with.

No, no, she reprimanded herself. You’re thinking too straight. That’s where Ortega and the Ambreza would look first. They’d surely sail south first, to avoid patrols, then maybe up along the middle coast of that double-hex island until they felt in the clear, then shoot over for Domien.

The Yaxa turned southeast, praying she was right.

It was an unusual horse farm. True, it had much of the look of such places—rolling acres of lush, green grass, a large stable, and a ranch-style house. But there were no fences, no track, either. The saddles were strangely shaped to accommodate the instruments in them—wind-speed indicators, altimeters, and the like. Even the casual visitor to Agitar didn’t have to wait long or wonder why, if one of those horses came around. They were huge beasts in pretty lavenders and blues and greens and yellows and all the other colors of the rainbow. And they had wings.

Whigs, like those of a great swan lay folded in two parallel lines along the length of their great bodies. And, yes, they flew, for they were only externally equine; their internal construction included the ability to shift their center of gravity, hollow bones, and a host of other refinements. The creatures were more fragile than they looked, too, for they weighed less than half what anyone would guess.

The lord and master of this, the only major breeding farm for pegasi in all Agitar, had gone there to work over twenty years earlier as a trainer. Thousands of Agitar had learned to ride the beasts in the Wars, but only a special few possessed the affinity for them that made for good trainers. He was one.

His judgment, skill, and plain hard work had been rewarded. First he became Chief Trainer, then Master of Livestock, and now he was General Manager. The government owned the place, of course, but he lived in the big house and he was the boss.

He was also about 140 centimeters tall. Below the waist his body resembled the hindquarters of a goat—thick muscular calves draped in heavy, curly hair of deep blue became incredibly thin legs that terminated in small cloven hoofs. Like the pegasus, he had a great deal of control over his center of gravity and moved with the grace and ease of a ballet dancer always on point.

Above the waist he resembled a muscular human, skin still deep blue and very porous, whose triangular face sported a blue-black goatee flecked with gray. Between two small, pointed horns, close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair sat atop a demon’s face.

He looked over the place with satisfaction. His name was Renard, an unusual name for an Agitar. Once he was librarian back on a Comworld called New Muscovy. Then he had been picked up by one Antor Trelig, who needed a classicist for his neo-Roman library on New Pompeii and addicted him to sponge. Renard was the one who’d helped Mavra Chang escape and who had originally crashed with her in among the giant cyclops of Teliagin. Mavra kept him alive until rescue, when Ortega ran him through the Well to cure his addiction. He came out an Agitar. The ship he’d crashed in had started the wars, and, before he knew what happened, he was drafted, put atop a pegasus, and sent off to fight—in alliance with none other than Antor Trelig.

Renard deserted, of course, and found Mavra. With two Lata they flew across the seas on his pegasus Doma. In Olborn he kept Mavra from being transformed completely into a mule, and eventually they all witnessed the destruction of the spaceship engines in Gedemondas.

Renard accompanied Mavra Chang into exile, but she drove him off. Even after all these years, he still worried about her. He occasionally received word of her from Ortega, although, because of his responsibilities he had never returned to see her. He felt guilty about that—and knew he should—but it just hadn’t happened.

Mavra had predicted the Agitar would welcome him back as a hero. Well, they hardly did that, but they had dropped the desertion charges because he was a new Entry and did, after all, owe Mavra Chang something. They’d been impressed with his odyssey on Doma, too, and his ability to walk the beast on mountain trails when flying was impossible.