Quest for the Well of Souls

Ortega’s Office, South Zone

The intercom on Serge Ortega’s desk buzzed and he punched it. “Yes?”

“They’re here, sir,” his secretary answered. “They?” he responded, then decided quibbling wasn’t worth the trouble. “Send them in.”

The door slid back, and two creatures slow-hopped in. They looked very much like meter-and-a-half-long frogs, with legs in proportion, although one was slightly smaller than the other and had a lighter green complexion. On their whitish undersides elaborate symbols were tattooed.

“Antor Trelig,” Ortega nodded. “And?”

“My wife, Burodir,” the larger of the two frogs responded.

“Charmed,” the snake-man replied dryly. He looked around. There were spaces for Uliks to curl and some chairs and a couch for visiting humanoids, but there seemed to be nothing appropriate for frogs. “Have a seat if anything fits.”

The chairs did, surprisingly. As the frogs sat, they looked almost human, curved legs slightly crossed. “You know what’s up, I assume, so I won’t beat around the bush,” Ortega began. “The Yaxa have Mavra Chang, and they are ready to start any moment with Chang and Yulin into the North. We have to get there—if not ahead of them, then at roughly the same time as they do. It’ll be a rough trip out, and there may be a fight at the end. It’s very much like a miniature replay of the Wars of the Well on neutral turf.”

Trelig nodded. “I understand. You have my complete cooperation, Ambassador Ortega.”

“Cooperation, yes—but I think we understand each other, Trelig,” the Ulik answered pointedly. “Don’t cross me. I’m sending some people with you as my representatives. One is an Agitar, and you know what kind of power he has.”

Trelig nodded.

Ortega continued, “Also along will be a Lata, whose sting works on Makiem, and who will have flying speed on New Pompeii—and some male and female Dillian centaurs to help carry supplies. In addition, one of the Yaxa who’s along with the other side, goes by the name Wooley, is a former sponge-addict Entry.”

Trelig, former head of the sponge syndicate, gasped.

“She has sworn to kill you at any cost and has tried several times,” the snake-man continued. “She’ll try again up North. The Yaxa are among the most cunning and deadly creatures on the Well World, so you can afford no mistakes.”

Trelig nodded soberly. “I have gotten this far and this high by not making any. I assure you that self-preservation is a primary objective with me.”

“All right then,” Ortega said. “You brought two Makiem suits?”

“Already being worked on by your people,” Burodir put in. “We will be set to go as soon as they are through.”

Ortega sighed. “Okay, then. Get your supplies transferred as quickly as possible, and be back here for briefing at 0400.”

The Makiem rose and made for the exit. Trelig turned slightly, and said, “You won’t regret this, Ortega.”

“You bet I won’t,” the snake-man replied, and watched them go out. The door closed. “You son of a bitch,” he added.

Two figures emerged from behind a partition.

“So that’s Trelig,” Renard breathed. “Now he looks just like he always was—slimy. Color matches, too. He hasn’t changed a bit.”

“I notice you didn’t tell him who that Agitar was,” Vistaru the Lata said.

Ortega chuckled. “No, and I think you better have an alias, Renard. Something that won’t give you away—and he’d better not find out, so don’t slip.”

Renard’s grin lent a particularly evil effect to his devil’s face. “I won’t slip. But nothing will stop me from electrocuting the son of a bitch once we don’t need him any more. You understand that.”

Ortega did. Trelig had picked Renard from a Comworld mental institution, fed him massive doses of sponge, and enslaved him on New Pompeii. More than anyone, Renard knew Trelig’s basic evil, his degradation. The man was a monster. But Trelig did not know that Renard was Renard—and if there were no slips, he would not. While Trelig worried about a vengeful Yaxa, right next to him would be an enemy who knew him well, knew New Pompeii well, and hated him with a passion that defied description.

“I just wish it’d been Mavra,” Vistaru said between clenched teeth. “That bitch Wooley! I’ll get her if it’s the last thing I do.”

Ortega looked thoughtful, then sighed. “Renard, will you see to some of the final preparations?” he prodded. The Agitar turned to go, and Vistaru started to follow. “No, Vistaru, not you. Stay here a minute.”

She looked puzzled, and Renard left. The door hissed shut again.

“I think,” Ortega said slowly, “it’s time to tell you a few things you don’t know. Wooley knows—I had to tell her in order to save Mavra Chang’s life these many years. Now it’s time for you.”

Vistaru experienced a creeping dread within her, as if she didn’t really want to know what Ortega was about to tell her, but dimly guessed the truth.

Ortega sighed and pulled some papers from a desk drawer, a thick file marked chang, mavra in indecipherable Ulik, but the Lata knew what it was from the photo on the jacket.

“I better start from the beginning, all the way,” he said carefully. “It begins fifty-four years ago, back when you found Nathan Brazil…”