that closed the matter.
And, of course, it took some time before the aide realized that he had not had an answer at all.
The passage across Ambreza had been swift and easy. Roads were cleared for them; vehicles, in fact, were provided. They avoided the major cities—no use in giving any provocations, he decided—and the Ambreza and allied forces they met along the way mostly stared, gawked, and even snapped pictures occasionally. The cold, crisp weather had the Hakazit breathing steam, and that leant an even more sinister touch to everything. Marquoz liked it. It was good theater.
It was easy to see where Ambreza ended and Glathriel began. It was winter in Ambreza, and the trees were barren and the soil frosted. But there, shimmering slightly, was a lush, green world ahead of them. It was like walking through some sort of invisible curtain from late fall into deepest summer. Glathriel was a tropical hex, and, as they saw, it was one that didn’t stop just because an army was passing through.
They were all around, these creatures that looked so much like the dominant race of the Com from which he had come. And why not? These were the prototypes, smaller than the average Com human, but that might have been climate or diet or a combination of things, and darker, too, but very much “human” all the same. Most were naked or wore only clouts or loincloths—that, and collars.
Here were the great plantations from which Ambreza tobacco came, and tropical fruits as well, men, women, children, all ages out in those fields working, working, working, all worked by these human slaves supervised by Ambreza overlords. Occasionally they would stop and gawk at the hordes passing along the road, but not for very long and certainly not without cowering in abject fear and terror.
Over a thousand years, Marquoz guessed, they’d had the aggressiveness bred out of them and the traits needed to do this sort of job emphasized.
There was a commotion ahead, and Marquoz rushed to find the reason for it. To his surprise, he found three very young human women there, seemingly begging or pleading and looking nervously around. They were naked, wore brass collars, and seemed no different from the rest—except they had the nerve to approach the column where nobody could understand them or would even deign to notice them.
“What’s the meaning of this?” he thundered.
The women reacted as if they’d suddenly gone mad. “You can hear us!” they cried. “You can understand us! Thank God!”
They nodded. He turned to the leaders of the column. “I want the word passed down the line. Any Glathrielites who approach us are to be taken under our protection and kept awaiting my inspection. Clear?”
Word was passed. Shouldn’t overlook any bets or reject any soldiers, no matter how small or flimsy-looking, he decided. Besides, one of ’em might be Gypsy—er, Nathan Brazil. Wouldn’t do to leave him behind after going to all this trouble to pick him up, he thought sardonically.
At the night’s camp he had them brought to him. They had picked up a few more—perhaps twenty in all— along the way, two males and the rest females. They had come through, of course, as had everybody else, and had awakened in Ambreza. The Well didn’t recognize hex-swapping, so Ambreza Entries were deposited in old Ambreza, or Glathriel, while the reverse was true for humans. It made them stand out, of course, and they had been quickly picked up and carted off to Glathriel, where they had been assigned to the fields and had the collars welded on. None could believe the horrible system, and less comprehensible still was the absolute submission of the natives.
His orders had been to reach the northwestern facet of Glathriel and proceed along it to the coast, then turn north into Ginzin and head north until he linked up with Mavra’s army moving due west. His communications were good; Jorgasnovarians, who were huge, ugly, flat creatures with gaping mouths and somehow flew like birds, often raced hundreds of kilometers to an accessible Zone Gate for news, then returned. He knew of the battle in Olborn, and the progress beyond it, almost within hours of their happening—and they now were hearing from him.
Ginzin rose before them along the Sea of Turagin now, and still no Brazil. The nasty, hot, volcanic land was inhospitable to most of their kind, but here, right where the land met the sea, it was passable.
He began to wonder if something had slipped.
The going was slow up the coast, and they had particular troubles with their heavy equipment, which helped take his mind off the anxiety some of the time. Still, he had expected Brazil by now—or, rather, a Brazil look-alike he knew well but which would be Brazil as far as everyone else knew. Where was he?
Finally, on the last evening in Ginzin, they camped as best they could, all strung out up and down the beach, and watched the sun slowly set. He sat there, idly watching the play of sunlight on the rolling waves, although the sun was setting behind him and would be gone before it truly set, when he thought he saw something out there. He stared into the gathering gloom, trying to make it out. A ship—there was a ship out there! Waynir was high- tech, and he could see the billowing smoke from belching stacks as the great craft steamed onward to the northwest. It seemed oddly near to shore, though, taking something of a risk; there were reefs and shoals hidden in the shallows here, a product of lava flows from Ginzin reaching the sea and then being covered with coral and other sea creatures. He reached for his field glasses, gogglelike affairs specially built for his strange eyes. They were effective.
He watched as long as the light permitted him, watched as the mystery ship, without cutting steam, lowered a small boat, which headed in toward the beach.
Suspicious of the whole thing, Marquoz notified the guard to put everyone on alert. Here, in a non-tech hex, backs to the sea on one side and the volcanic cliffs on the other, would be the perfect place to attack.
They watched and waited warily as the small boat approached. Finally, it came in and two dark figures jumped out and pulled it up on what passed for a beach. The only other member of the boat party waited, then got up and jumped down into the shallow water. He shook hands with the other two—who looked, Marquoz saw, like Type 41 humans—and then as the other two pushed off and jumped in, the passenger made his way up to the waiting force, which visibly relaxed now.
He heard the humans in his own party gasp as they recognized the figure, and for the first time he felt a bit better about this whole thing. He walked down to meet the figure.
“Welcome to the war, ah, Brazil,” he called out.
The figure stopped, staring for a moment at the huge, looming creature only half-visible in the darkness, its red eyes blazing. “That you, Marquoz?” he called.
“Yeah, it’s me,” he replied. “Come ahead. We were beginning to give up on you.”
All fires had been extinguished on the sound of the alert, but now they were being restoked. He stepped up to the nearest one, shivered slightly in the slight chill, and nodded in satisfaction.
He was dressed in a pea-green tunic and trousers and wore sandals. His hair was extremely long, down past his shoulders, and he looked slightly weather-beaten and somewhat older than Marquoz remembered—but, then, he’d been here awhile.
Marquoz guessed that the real Brazil probably looked
“Any problems?” Brazil asked casually.
“Nothing we couldn’t handle,” Marquoz told him. “You wouldn’t like Glathriel. It’s pretty unpleasant. Plantation slavery. But, still, we got through without a shot fired, much to the disappointment of some of the boys. I’ll give you a rundown later.”
Brazil nodded. “Well, we’ll have a fight now. If I were the opposition, I’d try and get a force in between ours and Mavra’s before we can link up. Might be hairy if we can’t make time.”
Marquoz stared at him suspiciously. For a moment he found himself wondering, wondering if this was, indeed, Gypsy. The mannerisms, the tone and accent, they were all consistent with Brazil. Could it be…?
And then Brazil reached into his tunic and pulled out a cigarette, reached down for an ember and lit it.
Marquoz felt better.
Brazil made a face as he inhaled. “Local stuff,” he muttered grumpily. “Almost all cigar and pipe tobacco. Not really good for cigarettes.”
“We all have to make sacrifices in war,” Marquoz responded with mock sympathy.
At that moment the humans in the party could not be restrained and started running for the small figure by the fire. He looked up at the commotion, his face a mixture of shock and revulsion.
