it's one of the major waterways in this part of the Dreamlands."
But she didn't seem to pay attention as she examined her cute round face in the water. "Oh, bugger. I wanted to see what I looked like."
Differel understood what she meant. The water appeared so clear it seemed invisible.
Margaret eyed the canteen. "You sure that's safe to drink?"
She stood up as she stopped it. "Perfectly. Further down it picks up junk from the fields, but here it's practically pure." She placed the jug back in the pouch.
Margaret took off a glove and filled her hand, then slurped it up. "Mmmm, fantastic! I've never tasted water that fresh and clean before!"
"Part of it's because there's no pollution, but part is due to the nature of Lands themselves. Hungry?"
"I could eat." She stood up and Differel handed her a piece of bread and a handful of jerky.
She chuckled when Margaret made a face. "The bread looks like hardtack, but it lasts three times longer and tastes like pastry. But you can only get it in the Cavern of Flame." She watched as she nibbled at it, and laughed when he face lit up in surprised enjoyment.
While Margaret ate, she loaded her pistols. She took a practice shot with each and reloaded them.
"I thought you said this place was sword and sorcery." She spoke around a mouthful of food.
"That's basically correct, but not strictly so. Nothing that was invented after 1500 in the Waking World can exist here. No one knows why, though most believe it's because it takes 500 years for something to become embedded in the collective unconscious. Regardless, there are exceptions, but there are also items and technologies that people think are modern but are actually much older. Firearms and gunpowder are two examples. These are called wheellock pistols. The mechanism was invented just before the sixteenth century. They look like flintlocks, but they use an internal spring-loaded wheel to create sparks. They're bloody complicated to maintain and clean, but I feel more comfortable with one of them in my hand than a sword. I have quite a collection by now; these two will put it at nearly 400."
"You always were a packrat, Dribble."
She felt her irritation flare. "At least I collect something other than men, Maggot."
Coming in April.
From "The Surrogate"
Shasta watched as her hostess poured coffee into two cups before setting the pot on a ceramic hot plate. She then added a touch of brandy and a drop of honey to her own.
"And what would you like?" She gestured to the dozen silver or ceramic containers spread across the top of a glass-shelved cart standing at her left elbow.
Shasta gave them all a quick glance. "Just...a little milk, please." She felt too nervous to ask for anything else.
She saw the corners of Ms. MacCandels 's mouth twitch in a quickly suppressed smile. That made her feel even worse. It seemed to her the woman toyed with her, and not for the first time she asked herself why she sat in the breakfast nook of her mansion having high tea. A $25-a-trick street whore meant nothing to a woman of her social and financial standing. With interests in real estate, biotechnology, mining and banking--to name only a few--she wielded a lot of power in Colorado. And she used her enormous wealth to support universities and hospitals around the country, provide endowments to the arts and sciences, establish scholarships and fellowships, and donate huge sums to many charities, both public and private.
Still, she was there, and that meant there had to be a reason. One thing she knew for certain, if Ms. MacCandels did want something from her, she would undoubtedly get it. She had a reputation for being ruthless in her business dealings, even cutthroat, and rumors of foul play followed her like her own shadow. She would simply take her time, and play her games, and try to break her before making her demands. Knowing all that did not ease Shasta's nervousness, but it could help her give the old bitch a good fight.
Ms. MacCandels passed the cup across the frosted glass table top and then turned to the cart on her right. It carried platters of fruit, muffins, cookies, slices of cake and pie, and candies. Shasta's mouth watered just looking at it all. She rarely got the chance to see that much food, much less eat it. Her pimp took the lion's share of her nightly take, so she considered herself lucky if she had twenty dollars to her name. Fortunately she could live on that, being as she made her home in the basement of an abandoned, rat-infested tenement. But to keep herself reasonably well-dressed and groomed, certain sacrifices had to be made, such as food. However, she didn't want to give her another chance to humiliate her, so over the protests of her stomach she politely refused more than a plate of fruit.
Ms. MacCandels, however, had no such compulsions. She took a sample of everything, big samples at that. Shasta envied how the woman could eat so much and still remain trim, but that wasn't her only desirable characteristic. She had to be at least sixty, but looked less than half that. In point of fact, she had the kind of face many in Shasta's profession, including herself, would kill for. Each feature looked delicate and finely sculptured, except for her full, wide lips and her large, soft brown eyes. Her face had a round shape with no plumpness as well as being well framed by her shoulder-length hair. Its blue-black color contrasted with her milky complexion so that her face stood out. Any prostitute could have an alluring figure, with the proper combination of costume and props, but a face like hers was impossible without measures most street tarts could not afford.
"So, my dear, tell me: what's it like to be a 'working girl'?"
Shasta grimaced in distaste. Everyone asked her that, even her johns. She got so sick of hearing it, but she realized that Ms. MacCandels also used it as part of her little mind game. Well, she felt sick and tired of playing that, too. She knew the bitch had her outclassed. She decided it would be better to go straight to business and skip all the society-style sparing.
She slowly and carefully set her fork down, trying to calm the fluttering in her stomach. Determined she might be, but it didn't relieve her anxiety. "Ms. MacCandels--"
"Oh, please dear, call me Clarrisa. We are, after all, going to be friends."
She hesitated as she did a mental double-take. The interruption startled her, but her statement unnerved her.
What did she mean by friends?
Momentarily gaining control of herself she began again. "Clarrisa, I..." She paused, her voice cracking when a stray thought occurred to her. Not all of her "clients" were men. That actually didn't bother her, but who knew what a woman like Clarrisa MacCandels considered good clean fun between the sheets?
Clarrisa feigned a concerned look. "Yes, dear, is something wrong?"
So, the bitch is enjoying this too. That made Shasta so angry that her hesitancy fled in the face of it.
Alright, damn it! Let's get this over with. Say it. The worse thing that can happen is I'll be sent back to my pimp empty-handed. Just say it.
"Clarrisa."
That's good. Sound confident, keep your face neutral, don't give that bitch any more ammunition.
"Justin, my manager, told me you gave him $1000 to send me out here. I doubt it was to have tea and make small talk. Just what is it you want from me? If it's sex, I have to tell you, I don't do anything weird or kinky."
Clarrisa looked at Shasta as if she had finally noticed her for the first time. A taut smile appeared on her face, perhaps a product of a grudging respect.
She set her fork down and pushed her plates away from her. Folding her arms across the table top she leaned forward. "Very well, dear. You want all the cards on the table, so to speak. I don't mind; in fact, I've been waiting to see if you had the backbone to stand up to me. You are the eighth girl I've interviewed, and you are the first to show both intelligence and spirit. You see, I have need of both."
That made her cautious. "For what?" Anxiety replaced her anger as it evaporated.
"You guessed correctly, I want sex, but not for myself. And you won't have to do anything you are uncomfortable with. All I want you to do is seduce my son."
Shasta r
elaxed as soon as she heard that. That didn't sound too bad; in fact, she had heard of that kind of thing being done, though she had assumed it was just an urban folk tale. And yet something didn't feel right. She couldn't be sure if her suspicion was real or simply part of her anxiety, but she had to make certain before she went through with her request.
"I'm sorry, but I don't know about this. It all sounds rather strange to me."
For a brief moment it looked as if a worried expression flickered across Clarrisa's face, after which it resumed its usual casual contemptuousness. "Oh? In what way, my dear?"
"Well, for instance, why are you setting this up? Why wouldn't he simply hire me himself?"
Clarrisa chuckled, as if she humored a small child, but Shasta didn't buy it, not after what she saw a moment before. "I'm afraid my son would never have thought of this himself, and besides I want to surprise him."
"Why, is it his birthday or something?"
"No, I just like to do nice things for him on occasion."
Shasta shook her head in confusion. "This doesn't make any sense. Why wouldn't he think of this himself? Why someone like me, and not some high-priced fancy escort? And why are you doing this for him? Why would you care?"
Clarrisa's smile turned into a thin, hard line. "Why would you care what my reasons are, as long as you are getting paid?"
"But you already paid Justin for my time."
Clarrisa managed to look hurt, as if her
The Adventure of the Denver Walker Page 11