Exiles at the Well of Souls

disappeared into the thick growth. He picked one and started off. It didn’t take long to come upon some others. He saw them from a great distance off, once he realized that a lot of the rustling he’d heard in the upper trees wasn’t just birds and insects.

Ahead was a grove of giant trees almost set off from the rest of the forest, a small lake to one side. There were houses in those trees—intricate structures woven between the branches out of some straw or bamboolike material that almost certainly grew in the marshes.

One of the creatures appeared in the lower doorway of one of the houses, looked around for a moment, then stepped out and walked down the almost ninety-degree angle of the trunk to the ground! Trelig understood now what those suction cups were for. Very handy.

The creature resembled nothing so much as a great giant frog, its legs incredibly long when stretched out for walking, a light and smooth greenish-brown texture from the lower jaw down to the crotch, the same rough spotted green elsewhere.

The creature went up to a large wooden box set on a stake near the road, sat up on its powerful hind legs, lifted the lid, and looked inside. Nodding to itself, it reached in and picked out several large brown envelopes. Trelig realized with some surprise that the thing was a mailbox.

He approached slowly, not wanting either to alarm the creature or to seem out of place. It shifted an eye in his direction—its head was almost too integral a part of the body to allow flexible movement, but the eyes made up for it—and nodded politely to him. He sensed that there was anger in the creature’s expression, but not directed at him.

Trelig remembered that Ortega had said that the Well would provide the language. He decided just to talk normally.

“Good day, sir!” the new frog said to the long-time resident. “A nice day, isn’t it?”

The other snorted contemptuously. “You must work for the government to say something like that,” he growled in a deep bass that was not unpleasant but that seemed to originate from deep in the chest cavity. The creature held up one of the envelopes. “Tax bills! Always tax bills!” he almost shouted. “I don’t know how the sons of bitches expect an honest man to make a living these days.” The phrase wasn’t really “sons of bitches,” but some local equivalent, but that’s how Trelig’s mind understood it.

He nodded slightly in sympathy. “No, I don’t work for the government,” he replied, “although I might some day. But I understand and sympathize with your problems.”

That statement seemed to satisfy the other, who opened another envelope, pulling out a long yellow sheet of paper. He glanced at it, then balled it up in disgust.

“Hmph! First they want your life’s blood, then they ask you to do them favors!” he snorted.

Trelig frowned. “Huh?” was all he could manage.

The frog-man tossed the rolled up paper slightly in his hand, like a ball. “Report any Entries that you might meet to the local police at once,” he spat. “What the hell do I pay all these taxes for, anyway? So I can do their jobs while they hunch on their fat asses eating imported sweetmeats bought with my money?”

Trelig took the opportunity to glance at the tax bill. He couldn’t read it, couldn’t make any sense at all out of the crazy and illogical nonpatterns there. Obviously reading was not considered a necessary skill by the Well computer.

“You ain’t seen no Entries, have you?” the man asked, not a little trace of sarcasm in his voice. “Maybe we’ll form a search party. Go out yelling, ‘Here, Entry! Nice Entry!’ ”

Trelig liked him. If he were representative of this hex’s people, he would not find life unbearable.

“No,” he chuckled. “I haven’t seen any Entries. Have you? Ever, I mean?”

The grouch shook his head slightly as a negative. “Nope. And never will, either. Met one, once, a long time ago. Big, nasty-looking birdlike reptile from Cebu. Kind of a local celebrity for a while. Big deal.”

Trelig was relieved to hear that Entries weren’t boiled in oil or something, but the official notice that the man had received said that this was no ordinary case. Somehow, he decided, they were on to him. At least, he had to act that way. And he wanted to check out the lay of this new land before revealing himself, if he could. It might be easier than he’d thought, considering how automatically he was acting and how readily this man had accepted him. He hoped so.

“Been traveling far?” the man asked him.

Trelig nodded. Farther than this creature could imagine.

“Headin’ for Druhon for the government tests, I’ll bet,” the frog-man guessed.

“Yes, you guessed it exactly,” Trelig replied. “I’ve thought of nothing else since”—he started to say “since I got here” but caught himself—“I was very small,” he finished. “At least it’ll give me a chance to see the government in action, no matter what.”

That started the other off again. “The government inaction is what you’ll see, but that’s the future for you. Shoulda done it myself when I was young. But, no, I had to get into farming. Free and independent, I said. No bosses.” He let out an angry, snakelike hiss. “So you wind up being run by the government, bossed by the government, taxes and regulations, regulations and taxes. Some freedom!”

Trelig clucked sympathetically. “I understand you perfectly.” He looked around, as if sensing time was pressing and he had an appointment. “Well, it was nice talking to you, and I wish you better luck and much prosperity in the future, but I must be getting on.”

The man seemed to appreciate the nice comments. “Been a pleasure, really. Sure you won’t come in for a drink of good beer? It’s only an hour or two more to Druhon.”

Thatwas good news. His cup was running over today. “Thank you, no,” he replied. “I must be in the city. But I’ll remember you, sir, when I’m rich and powerful.”

“You do that, sonny,” the other chuckled. Trelig went on.

He wondered as he continued what the old man had farmed; there was no sign of fields or cultivation of any kind. Best not to ask and appear too ignorant, particularly with a wanted poster out.

There was also the matter of money. He saw a number of the creatures as he went on, living together in groups or singly, on the ground, in trees, and even some floating dwellings in the countless lakes and marshes. All wore no clothing of any kind, and he wondered where you’d put money if you had it. He worried that there was some sort of identity system that would unmask him. But, no, he told himself, technology was obviously primitive here. There were torch stands all over, but not a sign of a powered light or device. Besides, if they had such a system they wouldn’t bother sending out all those wanted circulars on him.

More confident and proficient now, he stopped and talked to several others along the way. They were mostly plain, simple creatures, close to the soil. Females were slightly smaller and had smoother top skin than the males, their voices slightly higher and smoother, but they were otherwise identical. He was a male; their comments told him that, even without the skin-texture difference, he was a young one at that. That made the first few days easier. He was expected to be curious and not expected to know anything.

But he learned. A casual reference told him that the country, the hex, was called Makiem, as were the people. It was a common, although not universal, practice on the Well World to have the race name and place name coincide. He learned, too, that it was a hereditary monarchy—which was bad. But the hex was administered by a large corps of civil servants, chosen by merit of brilliance and aptitude through a massive battery of tests, from those of every class and walk of society—which was good. That meant that the king of Makiem would listen to and take seriously advice from anyone he considered qualified, thus decisions were almost certainly made not by the royal family but by an individual or council who would be the best, greediest, most ambitious and able people in the country.

His kind of people.

Druhon, the capital city, was a surprise. First, it was huge—a great city, really, carved out of the jungle and sitting on a series of low hills that raised it slightly above the swamp. There was a broad, clear lake off to the west, and it was crowded with swimmers. Trelig had been feeling slightly itchy and uncomfortable; now he guessed the reason. Although these were land people, they stayed very close to the sea that gave them birth, and they had to return to it occasionally to wet down their skins. Once a day, probably, although in all likelihood a washdown with a hose would do as well.

Another surprise was the buildings themselves. Great castles and huge buildings of stone showing superior masonry skills, and homes and businesses built of good handmade brick mortared so well that nothing would get