He checked out several, looking particularly at the big symbol on their chests—a sort of double wheel with two diagonal crossbars. To be safe, he decided to act as if a double wheel with any crossbars was a cop.
The city's size and complexity gave him no small measure of anonymity; he was just one of the crowd. It suited him for a while, although shelter would have to be attended to, and sooner or later he'd have to face the problem of money and food—there were no big, fat insects or groves around here. He'd never stolen anything small, but it shouldn't be all that hard.
He checked out the massive stone buildings with the towers and the flags. Government buildings without a doubt, the largest of which, with a tremendous amount of impressive brass grillwork and high iron spiked gates to snare the unwary intruder, was obviously the royal palace. At the gate there were guards armed with vicious-looking crossbows and pikes, and an impossibly complex symbol on their chests matched the ones wrought in iron at regular intervals in the fence.
The royal symbol, obviously. He was learning fast.
The itching was getting to him. His skin felt dry and uncomfortable, almost as if it was ready to peel off. He decided to head down to the big lake. It was a beautiful setting, particularly against the waning sun. A sparkling lake, fresh and surprisingly clean considering the nearby population, dotted with myriad islands and flanked by small but imposing granite mountains.
The lake was somewhat crowded, but not enough to cause real problems. He slipped into the water with ease, and found it surprisingly cold. The chill lasted for only a few moments, however, and then, somehow, the water temperature seemed to rise until it was just perfect. Cold-blooded, he decided. It wasn't the water temperature that had risen, but his body temperature that had lowered to match the water.
Swimming was as easy as leaping had been. His rear legs, large and thickly webbed, propelled him, and he floated naturally across the top of the lake. This, however, didn't get rid of the itch on his back, and when he got out a ways he angled downward.
A strange thing happened suddenly. A membrane came down over his eyes, transparent as glass, yet totally protective. And too, his vision seemed to alter, becoming less depth- and color-sensitive but tremendously respondent to changes in light and dark. His nose also seemed to close off by internal flaps, but he experienced no discomfort from not breathing. He wondered how long he could stay under; quite some time, he thought, and decided to test it.
The longer he stayed down, the less he seemed to mind it. He had the uncanny sensation that he was breathing, slightly and shallowly, although there were no bubbles. No gills, either. He finally decided that something in his skin could absorb a certain amount of oxygen from the water. It was not, as he found out with time, enough for him to live underwater, but it was sufficient for him to stay down at least half an hour, perhaps much longer, before coming up for air.
He came up near one of the islands and looked around. The water felt soothing and comfortable. Lazily, he turned and looked back at the hilly city. It was getting dark, and lights were coming on—and not just torchlights, either, although there were plenty of those. No, those strange glass streetlights he'd seen were what he guessed they might be—gas lamps. These people were at the peak of their technological limits.
The great palace, on the highest bill, was illuminated by torches and multicolored gas lamps almost completely. It had a fairy-tale look to it, an air of unreality that, he suspected, was deliberate.
Reluctantly, he headed back toward shore. Hunger was starting to creep into him, and there was much to do. He made shore swiftly, experiencing the slight shock of getting out of the water into what felt, curiously, like almost oppressively hot, thick air. His body adjusted to it in moments, though, and he went on.
He first looked for the inevitable low-dive district common to all big cities, but, after much searching, he had to admit defeat. A lot of neighborhood bars, with big frogs reclining on form-fitting cushions so they almost sat up like humans, gulping beers and other spirits from enormously wide glasses with narrow stems. The glasses had one gentle flat side, and you drank by putting it to your mouth and raising the glass while throwing your head slightly back.
No dives, though.
What was missing, he decided, was sex. They just didn't seem to engage in it or be motivated by it. No romantic couples, no advances—lots of friendly groups, mixed and not, but nothing at all sexual. Even he, a mature and young Makiem, had felt nothing particularly inside him when near any of the females. Only the Comworlds where cloning was the norm and everyone was an identical neuter approached the sexlessness of this society, yet there were clearly two distinct sexes. It was a puzzle for later.
In his wanderings, he found that he had waited too long. The streets were brightly lit; so were the apartments, with some people relaxing on the street outside, others in their open doorways or, from the sounds, on the roofs. There were regular beat patrolmen, too.
He decided to head toward the outskirts of the city, the direction from which he'd come. Maybe something would present itself; if it didn't, well, he could always go back to that glade where he woke up and chance that, if, as was likely, it was somebody's property, he could use it as a base temporarily.
* * *
The female Makiem at first seemed almost heaven-sent. She was obviously well-off, perhaps a farmer just in the city for the evening. No tattoo. And young and very small.
And drunk out of her mind.
She couldn't hop; she could barely crawl, mumbling something to herself or perhaps singing although so badly and distorted that it sounded like the rumbling and croaking it was even to Trelig. She tried one last hop, fell flat on her face, and rolled over into a ditch. A nice, dark drainage ditch.
"Oh, shit!" he heard her exclaim loudly. Then, a few seconds later, he heard tremendous snoring. She had passed out in the culvert.
He bounded over to her. His night vision was about the same as it had been as a human, and so, though it was dark and shadowy—and mucky—it wasn't a helpless situation.
She was lying on her back, big bow-legs outstretched. He took a moment to study her. He'd discovered, by necessity and experience, how a Makiem went to the bathroom and where, but by no stretch of the imagination could that apparatus be sexual. There wasn't much of a clue with her, either. A fine little puzzle, he thought sardonically. I know most of what it's like to be a Makiem except the facts of life. He turned to other, more pressing matters. He carefully felt her jaw-pouch; it definitely had something in it, perhaps a moneybag. He hesitated an instant, then shook her. She didn't wake up, didn't even react. He shook her harder. Still nothing.
Satisfied that she was dead to the world, he leaned over and tried to pry her mouth open.
And tried. And tried.
It was shut as tightly as if it were welded in place.
He was about to give up when she gave a great snore, and the mouth opened a bit as she turned slightly on her side. Carefully, he reached inside—and felt a smooth, bone-hard plate that fit so exactly he couldn't even get a grip on it. And then the mouth shut. She didn't wake up, it just shut, right on his hand. He tried to pull it free, and couldn't. He spent the better part of half an hour trying to get his hand out. She turned more, almost pulling him on top of her, but he couldn't remove that hand.
He was almost in a panic, particularly when her ribbonlike tongue came over to explore the object. He felt its stickiness and felt it wrap around his hand, wondering what he could do. There were no teeth in the front part of the jaw, but there were three rows not far back. If the tongue pulled his hand just a little bit more . . . ! Then, mercifully, the tongue recoiled and her mouth opened. She let out a nasty hiss and turned some more. He almost fell backward into the ditch and cursed softly to himself, nursing his hand, which was now feeling bruised. She must not have liked the taste, he decided with thanks. He sighed, knowing now that personal robbery here, unless it was armed robbery, was pretty near impossible.
&n
bsp; He thought things over. He could drift for a while, make do, but only as a beggar and a fugitive. Force was out; he didn't know how to fight as a Makiem, and they'd probably beat the shit out of him. Furthermore, he would not be able to enter Makiem society at his own pleasure.
The only thing left to do was to turn himself in.
* * *
The guards looked bored. They sat there, motionless except for an occasional blink, as only reptiles could—but they were very much awake. Eyes were on him as he approached, and the crossbows were armed and cocked in their hands. Still, they looked like nothing so much as statues.
He marched up to one. "Pardon me, sir, but is this the royal palace?" he asked pleasantly. He had no desire to fall into the hands of local police or lower-level bureaucrats.
The guard stood still, but his eyes gave the newcomer a once-over that could almost be felt. The guard's mouth didn't move, showing once again that the sound-producing apparatus was elsewhere, but he said, "Go away, farmboy. No visitors except on Shrivedays."
"It is the palace, though?" he persisted.
"Naw, it's the headquarters of the limbush-producers union," the guard responded sarcastically. "Now, go away before you get hurt."
Trelig decided on another tack. He took a deep breath. "Are you still looking for any Entries like the circulars said?" he asked casually.
The guard's eyes lit up with renewed interest. "You know of an Entry in Makiem?" The question was sharp, businesslike, but interested.
"I do," Trelig told him. "Who do I talk to about it?"
"Me," the guard replied. "If I like what you say, I'll pass it on."
Like fun you would, Trelig thought. Only if there was something in it for you. "All right then," he said flatly, resigned. "If you're not interested then . . ." He turned to leave.
"Hold it!" called a different voice, perhaps the other guard. The tone was commanding, and Trelig froze, smiling inwardly.
"If somebody else gets it, and it is an Entry, it'll be our skins," the new voice pointed out. "Better we should take him to the old man."
"Oh, all right," grumbled the first. "I'll do it. But what's in it for us?"
"I know what we're in for if he's okay and we blow it," the other responded. "Go on."
Trelig turned back around. "Come on, you. Follow me," the first guard mumbled resignedly, and came to life, turning and slow-hopping with short motions up the brick-paved walkway. Trelig followed, feeling better. If, as Ortega had said, all the races of this universe—and this world—including humanity had sprung from a single source, all the races so created would have certain things in common reflecting their creators. Human nature was Antor Trelig's life and profession, and it didn't matter to him what form that human took.
They entered a side door of the palace, and went into a gas-lit room that was peculiar indeed. A guard was on duty, and nodded slightly to his leader as they entered.
Two walls of the room held a great many strange-looking similar devices. There was a top part that resembled giant padded headphones, and a rubbery suction-cup device with a hole in the center underneath. They were on spring-loaded coils of tubing of the same material. Above each of the dozens of such devices was a plaque with something in that crazy writing.
Trelig watched curiously as the guard took the headphones and placed them over his head, just behind the jaw joints where the tiny ear openings were. Then the suction cup was attached almost to the center of the tattooed insignia on its chest. The guard expanded his chest, letting go an extremely loud and annoying rumble.
Trelig understood the thing now. It transmitted direct sound to various points in the palace, the hollow tube itself moving the air. He suspected the voices sounded hollow, tinny, and terribly far away, but it worked. A primitive, nontechnological telephone.
Nontechnological, hell! he corrected himself. These people were tremendously advanced technologically. Everything that could work they had created, ingeniously.
"Yes, sir," the guard literally shouted, so loud that Trelig wished he had ear flaps to match the nose ones. "Says he knows of an Entry, yes, sir." Pause. "No, nothing odd." Pause. "Personally, sir? But—" Pause. "All right, sir. Right away," the guard completed the call, detached the suction cup, which coiled back into its built-in holder, and replaced the headphones on their rack. He turned to Trelig.
"Come on, you," he grumbled. He followed the guard out.
There were no stairs or ramps, and Trelig had a bad time when they reached a high opening, four walls of bare, smooth stone, obviously a junction for the hallways on the multistoried castle, and the guard simply started walking up the wall.
Trelig hesitated, then decided, hell, why not? If it doesn't work I think I can survive the fall. What he had to do, he saw from the guard, was press his finger-cups solidly on the stone, pull himself up, then use leg-cups on the webbed hind feet to support him while he reached farther up. If he managed it in a smooth series of motions, like climbing a ladder, it would be effortless, but doing so proved awkward and slow for Antor Trelig. He was conscious of the guards' stares and chuckles in the corridor below, and heard the guard above growl, "Come on, you! Can't keep the old man waiting!"
He made it, with difficulty, to the third story, thankful that they didn't have to go any farther. That took some getting used to. Getting down, looking down the whole way, would be worse. He put the thought out of his mind.
They passed by great rooms, some sumptuously furnished with silks and fancy rugs and woven tapestries. A few doors were closed, but, no matter what, the place reeked of opulence. There was a lot of fancy metal art, too, and most of it wasn't brass or iron, either—it was solid gold, often encrusted with jewels of amazing proportions.
Finally they entered what had to be some sort of reception hall. It was rectangular, but too small to be the king's regular place. The ceiling was still a good ten meters high, and the walls were draped with maroon and gold velvet curtains. There was a thick rug of some soft fur from the door sill to every corner of the room, and a slightly raised dais near the far wall with the most comfortable-looking of those strange cushion-chairs he'd ever seen. He looked around, mentally betting himself that there was another entrance somewhere, probably just behind that dais.
He was right. The curtains behind the chair moved, and an elderly Makiem walked in on all fours, got up on the dais, and turned, settling back onto the broad cushion-chair. The effect was remarkably human, as if a man, leaning about forty-five degrees forward in a chair were sitting there. The old man even crossed his huge legs a little, and rested his arms on two small wooden adjustable rails.
The old one looked at the newcomer critically, then looked over at the guard. "That will be all, Zubir. I'll call you if I need you." The guard bent its head slightly and withdrew, closing the big wooden door behind him.
The old man turned back to Trelig. "You know the whereabouts of an Entry?" he asked, his voice crackling with energy. His skin was blotched and old and bloated, but this was a very lively individual, Trelig decided.
"I do, sir," Trelig responded carefully. "He has sent me here to find out what is in store for him before he turns himself in."
The old man chuckled. "Insolent, too. I like that." He suddenly leaned farther forward and pointed. "You're the Entry and you know it!" he snapped, then his tone softened again, became friendlier. "You are a terrible wall-climber, although a smooth liar. I'll give you that. Now, come! Who are you really?"
Trelig considered his answer. He could be any one of several people, and perhaps be the better for it. Either Zinder was out—he was too mature to be the daughter and not versed well enough in technology to be the father. The same for Ben Yulin, and that wouldn't be much of an improvement, anyway. Renard or Mavra Chang? The former wouldn't hold up—too slick at the start to pretend to be a guard now; this old guy was no fool—and Mavra Chang would be conspicuous if alive. So the best he could do was try and get into their good graces by the truth.
He imitate
d the guard by flexing his elbows so that his body lowered to the floor, then came back up again. "Antor Trelig, at your service, sir," he said. "And who might I have the honor of talking to?"
The old man smiled slightly. A Makiem smile was far different from a human one, but Trelig recognized it. "Consider all the angles before you act, don't you, Trelig?" he said offhandedly. "I could see all the possible lies going through your head before the truth came out. As to who I am, I am Soncoro, Minister of Agriculture."
Trelig barely suppressed a chuckle. "And the man who really makes all the decisions around here," he stated flatly.
Soncoro liked that. "And what brings you to that conclusion?"
"Because the guard sent me to the minister of agriculture, not the prime minister, king, or even state security. You were his first and only choice. Those types know who's who."
Soncoro nodded. "I think I'm going to like you, Trelig. We're two of a kind. I like you—and I'll never trust you. You understand that. Just as you wouldn't trust me, in reversed circumstances."
Trelig did understand. "I'm much too new to be a threat, Soncoro. Let's say a partnership until then."
The old man considered that. "Quite so. You understand what you have that we want, don't you? And why we are delighted and relieved that you are who you are?"
"Because I can pilot a spaceship," the former syndicate boss replied easily. "And because I'm able to open up everything on New Pompeii." Trelig felt vastly relieved. He had been afraid that he would wind up in a water hex, or, if not that, in a hex whose government had neither designs on New Pompeii nor people like Soncoro. But then, he reflected, if we have a common beginning, the odds were always in my favor.
Trelig looked at the old man. "You're going after the one in the North?"
Soncoro shook his head. "No, that would involve almost insuperable obstacles. We looked at it, of course. You went down a good ways in, in a nontech hex, so we would not only have to get to it, and no Southerner has ever been into the North, we would somehow have to move it close to two hundred kilometers to make it flyable, then set it straight up so it would be well away before the Well could snare it. And—this is equally important—to do it one would have to pass through a number of hexes with life so alien one couldn't understand it, control it, or trust it; and in some atmospheres that are lethal. No, I'm afraid we leave your ship to the Uchjin."
Exiles at the Well of Souls Page 23