Twilight at the Well of Souls

matter how bizarre their form and life style. The Gedemondans had known her and been interested in her once. Perhaps again?

She turned and walked away from the stream and waterfall, down the path toward the small village she knew was there, conscious of the fact that she was traveling down the same route that her grandfather had so very long ago, and with the same ultimate destination in mind: the Well of Souls computer itself. Her grandparents had gone there with Brazil, although not really by their own plan.

The village sat at the source of a great glacial lake, far removed from the mainstream of Dillian life. It had remained relatively small, still something of a wilderness community, despite the passing centuries —mostly because the population of the hex was kept relatively stable. There was no overpopulation on the Well World, and therefore none of the pressures that would long ago have forced this area to develop. Nor were there resources here worth despoiling the land; this was a semitech hex, nothing more than steam power allowed, and the deposits of seemingly inexhaustible coal and crude oil were far to the south.

What resources there were here were of greater import to the local population. Fish spawned here throughout the myriad streams that fed the lake, creating a bountiful and carefully managed industry that fed, in more than one way, the food, fertilizer, and special-oils industries elsewhere—Downlake, as the rest of the hex was known to these people. That, and the bountiful game of the Uplake forests, were the resources that counted up here.

Still, she saw, things had changed quite a bit from the last time she had been here. The village was larger; there seemed to be more cabins in and between the forest groves, and things seemed a bit more modern. Torches had been replaced by gas lamps, apparently fed from a huge natural- gas canister, near the lake itself, that had connectors for marine refilling. There also seemed to be a large number of small boats moored in neat rows around the small harbor; almost a marina, she thought. The buildings, too, looked newer, not merely the log cabin style of earlier times but some prefabricated units as well. Change was slow to come to places on the Well World, yet change was inevitable everywhere. Still, it disappointed her in a way. Some of the personality seemed to have gone.

Her nakedness didn’t bother her; with the coming of warm weather most of the centaurs went without clothing, and only her pale complexion really set her apart from the more weathered bodies moving about.

She sought out the office of the local constable, the only real government they had up here. No sense in going around ignorant and alone when these people had always been a friendly bunch.

She couldn’t read the signs, of course, but only one small building, a prefab, had official-looking seals on both sides of the door, seals that could only be the Great Seal of the hex. That meant officialdom, and unless they had really changed, that meant who she was looking for.

Things had changed, but it didn’t matter. The town, it seemed, had become incorporated, mostly to keep the tourists under control, and this was city hall. A mighty small city hall it was, too; if all four officials the mayor, treasurer, clerk, and constable had decided to be in at the same time, there would have been no room even for furnishings. But, the clerk assured her, that never happened. Things changed, but not all that much. The three others were all on the lake, fishing.

The clerk, a sharp-nosed, businesslike woman with mottled gray-and-white body hair, proved pleasant enough. “My name is Hovna,” she told Mavra. “Somehow, when we heard there were a bunch of Entries from your part of space, we expected at least one of you to show up here.”

Mavra’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “Oh?”

The clerk shrugged. “Four times in our history people from your area have come in, and all four times at least one has wound up here. Must be some kind of affinity.”

That interested her. “Are there any others here now?”

“Oh, no,” the woman laughed. “Last one was hundreds of years ago, before any of our times. I think you’re the first Entry in my records, in fact, from anywhere.”

That will change shortly, Mavra thought sourly. She would have to alert the authorities here so that some sort of temporary accommodations that wouldn’t screw up this pretty and peaceful place could be made for the newcomers. For now she just said, “Well, I’m pleased to be here. My grandfather was once one of you, back in the old days.”

The clerk frowned. “Grandfather? I don’t remember… Anyway, how could that be? Once here, you’re here.”

“Not if you go out through the Well of Souls,” Mavra replied.

The clerk, obviously confused, just shrugged and said, “Before my time.”

Mavra didn’t press the matter. “For now, I only need a few days to get my bearings and such. I’m afraid I’m not your typical Entry—I have some work I was sent here to do.”

Her statement was even more puzzling. “Work?” The clerk gave a sideways look that indicated she thought the newcomer was more than a little mentally unbalanced. Still, there was an official register for such cases that declared her a citizen and the like and gave her certain legal rights, which weren’t much —but it was a pretty loose government, anyway. Only her first name was taken; the Dillians used only one name and never saw much necessity for two. Fortunately, her name, Mavra, was composed of syllables common to the Dillian tongue and needed no alteration.

“There’s a guest lodge at the head of the lake,” the clerk told her, scribbling something on a piece of official stationery. “You take this over to them and they’ll give you a room until you can get settled. It’s still early in the season, so there’ll be rooms. You can eat there as well, if you like.” Again a second note. “And take this to the smith down the street. You’ll need shoes in this country anyway. Beyond that it’ll be up to you to find your place here. Lots of things to do if you like this part of the country, or go Downlake for more civilized and paved-over type work.” She said the last disdainfully. There were city people and country people, and she made no attempt at concealing which she was.

Mavra looked at the two sheets. “I’m sure this will be fine,” she assured the clerk. “Um… I can’t read them, you know. Which one’s which?”

The clerk looked apologetic, then drew a little inverted horseshoe on one. Mavra nodded, thanked her, and left.

She felt hungry, but decided to look around the town before going up to the lodge. Shoes… Funny, she hadn’t thought of that, she told herself. The Rhone, the centaurs of her old sector, had developed rather sophisticated protections that didn’t require them—but shoes might be a good idea here. She headed for the smith’s.

This was rather like having a broken bone and having to go to a doctor, she decided. The fact that it wasn’t supposed to hurt and would be over quickly didn’t diminish the anxiety that came from the thought that the huge, burly, chestnut-colored centaur, who looked as if he could bend steel bars like noodles, was going to drive a bunch of nails into the bottom of her feet.

When she entered the smithy, the smith, a friendly man named Torgix, eyed her appreciatively as any man might, grinned like a schoolboy through a thick beard, and hurried over to her. He took the paper with the horseshoe mark, glanced at it, and told her where to stand.

“Just relax, beautiful,” he roared in a voice that fit his physique, “and I’ll have it done in a jiffy.”

It was pretty nerve-racking to see him measure her hooves, then bend red-hot steel to the proper shape with an artisan’s quick skill, and she couldn’t bear to watch as he drove the special nails through the small holes in the shoes and then into her hooves. It was true that she felt no real pain, except, perhaps, a residual muscle ache from the force of the blows— truly the man had no idea of his own strength—but the psychic pain was intense. Glad when he was finished, she walked about hesitantly, feeling the extra weight and the odd balance the horseshoes gave her.

“You’ll get used to them,” he assured her. “In a couple of days you’ll forget what it felt like not to wear ’em—and your feet will thank you in the days and months to come. The alloy is good; there’ll be no rust or warping, although the nails, naturally, come loose over time. If you have any problems, any smith can do simple repairs. Anything else I can do for you?”

She shook her head. “Nothing, thanks. But I could use a drink, I think.” She hesitated. “But that takes money or some kind of payment, doesn’t it?”

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” he chuckled. “You’re the most beautiful woman in these here parts, I’ll tell you, and you got the moves, too, beggin’ your pardon, if you know what I mean. You won’t have no trouble gettin’ a