human ears from her head and replace them with large, almost meter-long jackass ears, still out of the same human skin material. Then continue the woman’s hair down across the back a bit into a thicker mane of the same color hair, extending along the spine to about where the breasts hung down on the underside. And, since the torso hasn’t been otherwise altered, remember to put Mavra’s horse’s tail growing out of the waist at the base of the spinal column, above the hips, actually starting slightly in front of the hind legs, and drape it crudely over the rectum.
The others felt tears of pity rise within them. “Oh, my god!” was all Renard could say, and he felt bad about it as soon as it was out.
She shifted slightly, then turned her head to one side, almost far enough to look directly at him. Her hair hung down well below her face, crazily. Her voice was the same; even, level, and rich, but her eyes, when she turned her head to one side to look at them, said something else was inside her.
“I know,” she told them. “I figured it out. Those little mules they have—they make them with that stone in there, from people. I touched it twice, then got away when you arrived. Tell me—is anything else changed?”
Choking back tears, Renard sat beside her and gently described her to herself, including the ears and misplaced tail.
The odd thing was, they all thought, she looked strange and exotic, to Renard almost erotic, a curious and not unattractive little creature that engendered affection with the pity. But it was still an impractical, misdesigned creature, a one-of-a-kind on a world with 1560 races.
“Maybe I should go back in and complete the process,” she suggested, hoping the hoarseness and thickness in her speech would not betray how she really felt.
“I wouldn’t,” Vistaru said softly, sympathetically. Mavra was already beginning to hate that tone. “You saw how they treated those mules? The thing does something to the mind, too. You’d be an animal, as good as dead.”
Renard had a sudden thought. “Look!” he said excitedly. “It isn’t forever!”
“The priest said it was irreversible,” Mavra responded. “He said it so joyfully I believed him.”
“No! No!” the Agitar protested. “You haven’t been through the Well Gate yet!”
“The priest said the stone’s power was from the Well,” she retorted.
“That’s true,” Vistaru put in, “but so is everything else on the Well World. Why that stone is there and why it does what it does we’ll probably never know—it’s a substitute for something they would have to handle on their own planet, that’s all. Like the magic hexes here, which really mean they can tap a limited part of the Well to compensate for something in their designed homes. You still haven’t been classified and added to the Well’s input, so whatever changes the stone made won’t affect that.”
Mavra felt renewed hope. “Not forever,” she almost breathed, and seemed to relax. Suddenly she was upset that she’d let something show through the armor, and she took a deep breath.
“Not forever,” Renard agreed. “Look, want to head for a Zone Gate now? Not Olborn’s certainly, but we can get in somewhere, I’m sure. We can run you through like you ran me through.”
Mavra shook her head violently. “No, no, not yet. Later, yes. As soon as possible. But the surrounding hexes are in the war.
“I can do that!” Vistaru protested.
Mavra shook her head again. “No, you can’t. You won’t know what the engine module looks like, nor how it’s destroyed. Besides, I have never ever backed out on a commission yet once I’ve accepted it. They wanted me along and I said yes. After—a Zone Gate—maybe in Gedemondas, if they’ll talk to us at all, or in Dillia next door.”
“Be reasonable, Mavra!” Renard protested. “Look at you! You can’t see three meters ahead of you. You can’t feed yourself, you’re stark naked with no protection against the elements, in the middle of territory whose natives would take you back to the stone and finish the job in an instant.” He got up, looked down on her, and gently moved the horse’s tail aside. “You’re even going to have bathroom trouble. Your vagina’s where your ass should be, and the ass is farther up. The human anatomy is designed for sitting or squatting. Those legs are not designed for your body. You
She tried to look at him squarely, failed. It hurt too much. “I’m going,” she maintained stubbornly. “With you if you’ll have me. Without you if not. If you want, you can be my guide and aide when I have to see far or eat, and clean me off when I shit. If not, I’ll go anyway, and I’ll make it. When you were sucking your thumb on sponge, and I didn’t know where I was, I didn’t let you go, and I didn’t quit. This won’t stop me, either.”
“She’s right, you know,” Hosuru said quietly. “At least, about completing the mission first. The whole world is at stake in Gedemondas. She’s needed there. If we can get her there, it’s our duty to try.”
“Okay,” Vistaru said dubiously, trying to see the flaw in the other Lata’s logic. “If you’re going to be stubborn, we’ll all go. But I think a day or two in that new condition may cure you of this bravado. If it does, don’t feel ashamed, weak, or a failure to ask us to get you to a Zone Gate.
Mavra chuckled mirthlessly. “Shame and weakness don’t scare me, but I die when I’m a failure to myself.” She shifted again. “Did anybody get my clothes? I might still manage some of them, with Renard’s soldier’s kit. And we ought to get out of here. Sooner or later somebody’s going to notice the high priest didn’t come back and raise a hue and cry. We’d best be well away.”
Renard threw up his hands. “I have your clothes. We’ll see, later. Now, let’s move! This way!” There was resignation and a total lack of understanding in his voice.
He wouldn’t understand, Mavra thought. None of them would.
Apparently the shock of the slayings was too much for the Olbornians. There was no pursuit that they ever knew about.
Mavra found that she could trot, like the little mules. Left legs out,
Morning had them some distance away. Renard mounted Doma, whom he’d been leading, and they scouted the terrain. It was clear that things were not going to be as difficult as they feared from the Olbornian score.
For the “Well’s Chosen Ones,” they were quite obviously getting the hell beat out of them. They had run afoul of a coast watch set around the Sacred Stones areas; it had been sheer bad luck to pick that spot to camp. The rest of the country was wide open, with the telltale signs of a war going badly all over: military carts drawn by teams of mules hauling supplies and large cannon and mortars south; a steady stream of aimless refugees north.
They stuck to open country, which was mostly deserted now, everyone down south into the fight or guarding the Sacred Stones and Zone Gate. They were able to relax and straighten out their situation.
Because of the precariousness of the camp, Doma’s packs had never been unloaded, so they still had their supplies. They ate first; to Mavra, it was a humiliating type of experience she would have to get used to. They’d started to spoon-feed her, but she’d resisted that. They opened a tin of meat which Renard warmed, then broke up some small fruit, and put it in a wooden bowl. By standing on her hind legs and kneeling on her forelegs, she could eat, like a dog or cat. It was hard; the thin legs were even thinner at the ankles, and the legs moved forward, not back, and the damned bowl kept moving, but she managed it and the food tasted good. Water she drank by two methods: lapping, like an animal, and sticking her face in the pan and drinking the top half down.
But it worked, and that was enough for her.
Vistaru tied her hair up between and in back of her enormous ears with an elastic band, which kept it out of her face and food. She could even see level in front of her, by standing on her forelegs while kneeling on the hind ones. That position, too, was uncomfortable, but she didn’t mind. It gave her neck some relief, and allowed her to see.
The clothing was more of a problem, though she’d need it. It was slightly chilly in Olborn, and it would be
