“No,” Cousin Bat replied. “Not from here. An arm of the ocean comes in to the east, and from what I’ve heard of the Pia we’ll take the Murnies on dry land. To go up the other way we’d go through Dunh’gran, a land of nicely civilized flightless birds, but then we’d have to cut through Tsfrin, where the giant, crablike inhabitants are quite antisocial—not to mention armor-plated—and down in through Alisst, about which I know nothing. Not to mention about fourteen hundred kilometers.”
“He’s right, Wuju,” Brazil said. “We’ll have to try to sneak through the Murnies.”
“Any weapons?” Cousin Bat asked.
“I’ve got a light-pistol,” Brazil told him. “In the pack, there.”
“No good,” the bat replied. “Nontecbnological hex. Those great weapons are never any use where you need them.”
Brazil rooted around in the pack and pulled out a gleaming short sword. Looking at Wu Julee, he asked, “Remember this?”
“It’s that Com girl’s!” she exclaimed. “So that’s what that damned thing was that kept hitting me on the side! How in the world did you wind up with it?”
“It was left in Serge’s office at Zone,” he reminded her. “I went back there a few days after arriving in my home hex. I found the Zone Gate, dodged Ambreza guards, and jumped in, managing to get word to Ortega before those giant beavers made me into a domesticated pet. Old Serge gave it to me. Said it might come in handy. Ever used one?”
She looked at it strangely. “I—I don’t think I’ve ever even killed a bug. I don’t know if I could.”
“Well, you’ll have to find out now,” he told her. “Your arm muscles and speed make it a better weapon for you than for me.”
“What will you use, then?” she asked.
“Five thousand safety matches and a can of flammable grease,” he replied cryptically. “You’ll see. What about you, Cousin Bat?”
“Carrying a weapon would keep me off-balance, but I can always pick up and drop rocks,” the creature replied. “Besides, my teeth and my airborne punch are extremely effective.”
“Okay, then,” Brazil nodded, reasonably satisfied. “We’re as good as we’re gonna get. Remember, our
Wuju took the sword and tried a few awkward thrusts. She didn’t look sure or confident. “What—what do I aim at if I have to use it?” she asked uncertainly.
“The head’s always the best,” Cousin Bat told her. “Even if it isn’t the brain, at least it’s the eyes, nose— things that matter. A second choice is the genitals, if any.”
No roads led to the Murithel border, and they had to walk the last several kilometers in the dark.
“We’ll stay on this side through tomorrow,” Brazil said tensely. “Then, near sundown, we’ll go.”
They spent the night talking, except for an hour or so when Cousin Bat left for his nightly feeding. Brazil tried to keep Wuju awake most of the night, so they would sleep the following day, but well before the night was half over she had succumbed.
He decided to let her sleep, and spent the earlier hours talking to the bat. The creature was easy to talk to, but gave little useful information and rather glib lies.
Brazil resisted the temptation several times to come right out and ask Cousin Bat who he really was and what he wanted, but never quite got to the point of doing so.
Both finally were asleep by morning.
Wuju was up first, of course, but she didn’t stray far from them. Brazil slept until almost midday, and Bat finally had to be awakened later on when he showed every sign of sleeping until dark.
Murithel was clearly visible from their camp. It didn’t look very menacing; in fact, it looked beautiful.
Brazil had one of those uneasy memories again. He remembered a place long vanished and forgotten. He’d been standing on a barren hill overlooking some rough but scenic landscape. A couple of thousand meters from that hill ran a line of trees lending color to the landscape. What he could see of Murithel reminded him of that long ago day, and gave him the same feelings, for the river that had fed those trees was something called the Little Bighorn, and a few years before he had seen it, others had as well. He bet that that landscape had looked as quiet and peaceful as this one did to that general who came into primitive territory.
How many Indians are behind those rocks and trees? he asked himself.
The landscape was formed of low, rocky mountains and rolling hills, some made up of bright orange rock eroded into strange and eerie patterns. Others were more a dull pink, with clumps of trees here and there and grass on the tougher portions. A line of trees betrayed a small river or stream off to their left. The sky was cloudy and the sun reflected strange shadows off the landscape.
“I think it’s beautiful,” Wuju said. “But it looks so
“No problem on a clear night,” Brazil replied. “Just head toward the big, bluish-orange nebula. Looks as if it’s clouding up in there, though.”
“I agree,” the bat put in, concern in his voice. “We might have some rain. Bad for navigation, bad for flying if need be. It’ll slow us down.”
“But it’ll also keep the Murnies down,” Brazil pointed out. “If we get rain, we keep going as long as it’s possible. The Slongornians say that that low pinkish range of hills with the little bit of green goes pretty much northeast for almost half the distance. I’d say we get to it and follow it. Looks as if there may be caves and shelters there, too.”
The bat nodded approval. “I agree. If I were to live in such a place, I’d make my camps and villages along river and stream courses, on the flats but in defensible positions. If we stay away from such places unless absolutely necessary, we might just make it.”
“As close to sunset as possible, I want you to reconnoiter the area from the air,” Brazil told Cousin Bat. “I want to know as- much as possible about what’s in there, reasonable paths and the like, before we go.” He went over and pulled the sword out of the pack, and changed his shirt to the long-sleeved one with gloves. With Bat’s help, they tore the shirt he had been wearing, twisted and tied it to make a makeshift scabbard fixed around Wuju’s neck and draped to one side so all but the hilt was in the shirt.
“That ought to hold,” he said with satisfaction, “if the sword doesn’t tear through the material and if you remember to hold the cloth when taking out the sword.” Next he removed a small, battered tin and took out something that looked like oily grease.
“What’s that?” she asked, curious.
“Slongornian cooking fat,” he replied, applying the stuff to his face and neck. “Something in it is like a dye. Bat’s black and you’re brown, but my light skin will be a giveaway in close quarters. I want to be able to blend in.”
Satisfied, they settled back to wait for sundown.
THE BARONY OF AZKFRU, AKKAFIAN EMPIRE
Vardia regained consciousness slowly. Even with the aid of what looked like a sunlamp, it was almost half an hour before she could make any movement at all.
The Umiau she knew as Cannot groaned softly. With great effort she turned her head a little and saw that the mermaid was having a similar struggle to regain muscle movement.
“Son of a bitch!” the Umiau swore in Confederacy plain talk.
