Midnight at the Well of Souls

“They must have some tame nasties on the Comworlds,” he replied sardonically. “You’re a hostage, Wuju. You’re his handle on me.”

She looked uncertain. “Nathan? What if it really came down to that? Would you do what he asked for me?”

“It won’t come to that,” he assured her. “Believe me, it won’t. Varnett has already figured out why, although he’s forgotten in his youthful excitement.”

“Then what will you do?”

“I will lead them all to the Well—Skander can do that anyway, so could Varnett. I intend to show them everything they want. But they will learn that this treasure hunt is full of thorns when they discover what the price really is. I’ll bet you that, once in the control room of their dreams, they will think the price is too high.”

She shook her head in wonder. “I don’t understand any of this.”

“You will,” he replied cryptically, “at midnight at the Well of Souls.”

* * *

The trip was uncomfortable and bumpy. They traveled on a huge wooden sled with runners. Pulling them swiftly were eight huge beasts they could not fully see—sandsharks, the Ghlmonese called them. Only huge gray backs and huge, razor-sharp fins were visible as they pulled their heavy load and were kept in check by a Ghlmonese driver with reins for each of the huge creatures.

The sandsharks were giant mammals who lived in the sand as fish lived in water. They breathed air—a single huge nostril opened whenever their great backs broke the surface—and moved at eight to ten kilometers per hour.

By the end of the day the travelers were all sore and bruised, but more than halfway there. They spread rugs out on the sand, and ate food heated by the fiery breath of their driver. There was no problem sleeping that evening, despite the hot air, blowing wind, and strange surroundings.

The next day was a repeat of the first. They passed several other sleds carrying Ghlmonese, and occasionally saw individuals riding in huge saddles on the backs of sandsharks. Once in a while they would see a cluster of what appeared to be huge chimneys with crews keeping the openings from being blocked by sand. Far below, they knew, there were towns, perhaps large cities.

Finally, near dusk of the second day, structures appeared ahead of them, growing rapidly larger as they approached. These proved to be a network of towers and spires made of small rocks, reaching fifty or more meters in the air, like the tops of some medieval fortress.

They slowed, and came to a halt near two towers with a wide gate between. A number of Ghlmonese stood around; others were busy going to or from unknown places.

An officious-looking dinosaur, in ornate red livery, came up to them. “You are the alien party from Orgondo?” he asked gruffly.

“They are,” their driver replied. “All yours and welcome. I have to see to my sharks. They’ve had a tough journey.”

“Which of you is Mr. Brazil?” the official inquired.

“I am,” Brazil replied.

The official looked surprised, since Brazil was, after all, still a giant stag, but he recovered quickly. “Come with me, then. The rest of you will be taken to temporary quarters.” He motioned to some other Ghlmonese, also in the red livery, and they came up to escort the party. Although the smallest of the humans was a head taller than any of the guards, no one felt like arguing.

“Go with them,” Brazil instructed his group. “There’ll be no problems. I’ll join you as soon as I can.”

They had no choice, and walked to the tower nearest them. Brazil turned to the official. “What now?” he asked.

“Ambassador Ortega and the other alien party are camped out near the base of The Avenue,” the official replied. “I am to take you to them.”

“Lead on,” Brazil urged, unconcern in his voice.

The Avenue proved to be a broad trench, thirty or more meters across, that was just beyond the towers and spires. It was also more than fifteen meters below ground level, but, despite only the most rudimentary stone buffers, the sand didn’t seem to blow into the obviously artificial culvert, but over and past it.

Broad stone stairs led down to the flat, almost shiny surface below. Brazil had some trouble negotiating the stairs, but finally made it. The buildings of Oodlikm seemed to line The Avenue on both sides, like medieval castles used to be built into the sides of steep river valleys back on Old Earth. There were many stairways and hundreds of doors, windows, and even ports for defense along both sides of The Avenue wall. As for the valley itself, its level, jewellike surface seemed to stretch to the ocean on Brazil’s right, and off to the horizon on his left.

Brazil’s hooves clacked on the shiny surface. He towered over countless stalls selling all sorts of things and over the crowds which gaped at him and made way as he passed. He and his escort walked toward the ocean, past the last shops, and finally to what was obviously a more official, less commercial section, across which had been hastily erected a barricade with a heavy wooden gate and armed guards.

The official approached the gate, showed a pass he produced from his coat pocket. After the guards inspected his pass carefully, the gates opened and they passed through. Inside were more guards—huge numbers, in fact. In the center of The Avenue were an Akkafian, a Czillian, a Umiau in what looked like a square bathtub, and—something else.

Brazil studied The Diviner and The Rel, and the last pieces fit into place. The role of the Northerner had been unclear to him from the start, and he knew nothing of the creature’s hex, physically or culturally. He was certain that the thing was at the heart of much of the mischief that had been worked, though.

Darkness had fallen, and the stars started showing through. Small gaslights had been lit, giving the entire scene an eerie glow.

“Remain with the others,” the official instructed him. “I will get Ambassador Ortega.”

Brazil went over to the alien creatures, ignoring all except the Umiau.

“So you’re Elkinos Skander,” he said flatly.

The mermaid gave a puzzled look. “So? And who or what are you?”

“Nathan Brazil,” he replied crisply. “That name means little to you? Perhaps it will be better to say that I am here to avenge seven murders.”

The Umiau opened her mouth in surprise. “Seven—what the hell do you mean?”

Brazil’s independent eyes showed Skander on the right, and the interest of the other three on the left. The others were all watching the two tensely.

“I was the captain of the freighter who found the bodies on Dalgonia. Seven bodies, charred, left on a barren world. None of them ever did you harm, nor was there any reason for their deaths.”

“I didn’t kill them,” Skander responded in a surly tone. “Varnett killed them. But, what of it? Would you have preferred to open this world to the Coms?”

“So that was it,” Brazil said sadly. “The seven died because you feared that their governments would get control. Skander, you know who killed them, and I know who killed them, but even beyond that is the fact that they needn’t have died even for so dubious a reason. The Gate would not have opened for them.”

“Of course it would!” Skander snapped. “It opened when Varnett and I found the mathematical key to the computer. And it was still open for you and your party to fall through!”

Brazil shook his head slowly. “No, Skander. It opened only because the two of you wanted it open. That’s the key, you know. Even though you didn’t know that the Gate didn’t lead to the Dalgonian brain, but to here, you knew that some sort of Gate must exist and you wanted desperately to find it. You had already decided to kill Varnett and the others before you found it. Varnett knew it. He had a desire to find the Gate, and the fear of death to fix it. That’s what opened it up, not your mathematical discoveries. It hadn’t opened since the Markovians, and it wouldn’t have opened again unless the conditions were right.”

“The how did you fall through?” Skander retorted. “Why did it open for you?”

“It didn’t,” Brazil replied evenly. “Although I should have known it was there.”