with them but this took precedence. Right now the prelimi-
nary word is that they're some sort of plant-animal hybrid,
unisexual, possibly capable of photosynthesis but bearing and
nursing live young. Of course, we don*t know that for sure,
and we're guessing about die latter, and will until we see
some live young in who knows when? 1 mean, those people
don't even know themselves yet. The breasts indicate live,
nursing young, of course, which poses the question of why a
photosynthesizing species needs mammaries, and mat tail—
me end of it resembles, well, a male sexual organ. They're
tike nothing anyone's ever seen before. They're in shock, of
course, and most will need our psychic help to adjust, but it
should be fascinating to see how they develop as a species.
It's never been done before with civilized people—they've
always gone in and wiped them out. Only among primitive
colonials who weren't found earlier, and even men the num-
ber was small. This could be a species mat begins in the
millions. Ah—here we are,"
Coleel parted the crowd and Dorion followed, then stopped
short when he saw the scene, being kept clear by Hedum
sentries.
It was Halagar, all right, his eyes wide, his expression one
of stark terror, frozen there now until the elements ate it
away, his throat a bloody mess. Dorion felt a mixture of
revulsion and satisfaction at the sight. The bastard had gotten
what he deserved, and quickly, too. Maybe there was such a
thing as justice in the universe after all.
"The giri?" he asked. "Where's the girt?"
"We don't know. Gone, that's all."
"Chariey wouldn't—couldn't—do that. Not like that. And
she was under your spelt. . . ."
200 Jack L. Chalker
"That spell was broken the moment he died, so right now
she's free meat, with a slave ring and no master. She'd
become the property of the first person who touches that ring,
and that might have been what happened, although nobody
else nearby seems to be missing or unaccounted for according
to the group here. But, no, she didn't do it. That did."
Dorion looked where the adept pointed and saw the still
form of Shadowcat, eyes also glazed in death, caked blood on
the side of its mouth and in a pool beneath its head in the dirt.
"Well, I'll be damned," Dorion sighed. "I didn't know a
cat's mourn could open that wide. Remind me never to have
one if I need a familiar. But how did it get here?"
"The only way short of very powerful magic is embarrass-
ing, I'm afraid," Coleel commented, "and will do my stand-
ing no good at all. It had to come with us, maybe even
feeding off you or Boday. It wouldn't have dared touch me,
but have you noticed any small wounds or punctures on
yourself or Boday?''
Dorion frowned, lifted up his robe, and there was a large,
bruised area on his thigh and tiny puncture wounds. "I'll be
damned! It's been itching like crazy, but I just figured it was
a bruise.".
The adept nodded. "That's how it kept going, although it
wouldn't have had full strength. It must have made psychic
contact with the girl, came here, waited, somehow fed on her
and gotten strong again even though my spell would have her
reject it so she must have been asleep, then waited for its
chance." He sighed. "There's a lot of loyalty and a lot of
guts there in that little form. I disagree with you, Dorion. 1
think a cat like that is exactly what I'd want for a familiar."
Dorion walked around the site, wishing he wasn't so tired
so he could think more clearly. Suppose, just suppose, Coleel
was wrong about Charley. Suppose the cat had used her for
strength, and by killing Halagar, had broken Coleel's spell. If
Shadowcat did his job, and made certain Charley had all her
wits about her," she wouldn't just wander into the crowd.
These other tough mercenaries would have been sleeping on
both sides and she'd have walked into one of them, who
would have grabbed her. She certainly wouldn't have walked
towards the null, even though she could see it, because it
would have meant going through more masses of sleeping
WAR OF THE MAELSTROM 201
bodies and guards. No, she'd go back into the woods and try
and get as far away as possible. That had to be it. Otherwise
she wouldn't have gotten far enough to be lost in this mob.
It wasn't certain, but it was the only possibility with an out
for him or her. But if she did go back there, then she didn't
stand a chance of survival. Not blind.
He went back over to Coleel. "Well, there's nothing more
to be done here. Can I ask what's going to be done with me
now?"
"Just hang around. Go to sleep—it looks like you need it.
We have the Boday matter to handle yet as well as mopping
up here. When they can spare the people and time, a board of
magicians will be convened on you in accordance with our
oaths, and you'll have a chance to justify your continuing
existence. If you fail, you will be stripped of your powers,
cleansed of your spells and geases, fitted with a ring, and
thrown in the slave pens."
That was a chilling end to all this. "Considering that,
you've been pretty generous with my freedom."
Coleel shrugged. "What can you do? Forgive me, but I can
tell your relative magic strength and abilities, and they are not
threatening. You haven't the proper spell and charm to be
authorized past the borders of this camp, so all know you are
a potential enemy. If you tried anything foolish, you would
simply lose your right to the board hearing, and it would save
everyone time and trouble." He looked out at the null. "Be-
sides, what would be me point? You no longer have a master
or cause to serve. Now, forgive me, 1 must get this mess
certified and cleaned up and tend to my regular duties. You
can find your own way back, I trust." And, with that, he
walked off back down to the tent city.
The crowd was dispersing now; there wasn't much left to
see, and the gory sights being hauled back in wagons from
across the null provided more prurient interest to those who
loved to gawk at such things. Dorion walked slowly away,
trying to think about what to do.
If only there was some way for him to slip away. He wished
he had the nerve even if there was such a way, but he was
between a rock and a hard place as it was. They'd give him
his board, but they couldn't trust him or what he said and,
frankly, he wasn't powerful enough to warrant their attention.
202 Jack L. Chalker
With power, even solid Third Rank power, they might purge
his mind and "turn" him to their cause because they needed
more magicians than they had, but he was nothing, almost a
fraud.
He watched as four Akhbreed slaves, looking exhausted
and drawn, walked through the crowd towards Halagar's
remains, there to get rid of the body and clean it up. Every-
body just, well, ignored them, and why not? They could only
obey, after all, and there were tons of them doing the shitwork
around. . . .
Almost a fraud. ...
He walked down towards the small tents where the prison-
ers from Masalur were being fitted with slave rings. He
stayed there a bit. talking "shop" with the overworked magi-
cians, who knew he was not one of them in all respects but
who just didn't give a damn, and, after a while, he wandered
away again. The rings had been there by the carton load;
sensitized, but "raw," waiting for the binding spell and the
insertion. It was no big trick to palm one, which he now
fingered loosely.
In here, the tents were so packed it was difficult to walk
between them. He went over to where the VIP horses were
informally stabled, ducked between two tents just before the
stable area. then kicked off his boots, leggings, robe,
undershirt—everything. He looked at the ring and let the
simplest of slave spells flow into it, the kind they were doing
out of necessity. He wished he could totally fake it, or make
the owner tag his own, but that would be seen through very
quickly. He therefore sensitized it to Charley and, taking a
deep breath, invoked the final spell that caused the ring to
pass relatively painlessly through the bridge of his nose with-
out breaking skin and lodge, hanging, inside.
Waiting until it was as clear as it could be, he slipped
around the back of the tent and into the rear of the stable area.
The water troughs there had splashed all around, causing a
nice mess of red mud, and there was other dirt around as
well, although he decided to pass on the most obvious scent.
Now, filthy, ringed with a spell that wouldn't read false, and
looking lousy from his lack of sleep in any case, he got up
and simply walked out into the mass and back up towards the
tree line.
WAR OF THE MAELSTROM 203
There were loads of people around, Akhbreed and colonial
alike, but none gave him more than curious glances and then
ignored him. A couple of brown-robed magicians walked near
and he felt their automatic probe for anything unusual, but he
read true to them and it probably didn't even register in their
minds that they'd done it.
Normally his nerves would have given him away, but since
the first activated items in the sensitizing spell for the rings
was a compulsion to present yourself to your master, he had
no choice. He had to find Charley, and that quieted all other
fears and replaced them with wariness.
He passed quite close to where Halagar's body had lain,
and close, too, to many of the people who'd been there when
he was, but, as usual, they had seen the brown robe more
than him, and he looked quite different now. Before they had
seen a magician; now they saw a slave moving with purpose
and obviously carrying out a command. Not even the Hedum
guards gave him a second glance. He headed for a likely
spot—the field latrines just in the woods—but as soon as he
was close to there he veered off to the right and doubled back
behind the death scene.
There were no obvious signs immediately behind, and he
paused a moment. Think, Dorion, tired as you are! You're
blind and you have to get away and be sure you do. You can't
see, and you don't have the null reference after this point, so
how can you be sure?
Hearing. That assemblage out there made a constant, terri-
ble racket that he'd gotten used to through the night. So you
walk away from the noise. Well, that gave him a place to
start.
After several hours, he was beginning to panic, fearing that
he'd made a dreadful mistake. The area, even assuming
walking generally away from the noise, included a wide
triangle, and there was almost certainty that she wouldn't
have managed anything close to a straight line. Might there
be something up there that would stop her? A wall or steep
drop, perhaps? Go directly away and see—it was the only
thing he could think of that he hadn't already tried.
About a third of a mile in the woods, he hit the creek,
meandering peacefully through the forest. At first it was only
welcome water, far too small and too shallow to be the kind
204 ]ack L. Chalker
of barrier he sought, but as he went down to it to drink, he
lost his fooling in the soft earth, and slid down into it. Now a
bit bruised and mud-caked, he sat there in the water suddenly
feeling like a fool and hoping it was only exhaustion. Sure—he
could see this thing and know it wasn't much, but she couldn't!
To her this might be nothing, or it might be a great, wide
river or sea. He drank, then picked a direction, and started
walking.
Now, for a change, the fates were with him. Less than a
hundred yards from his starting point he found a part of the
bank given way and signs that someone had done pretty much
what he'd done. It was so broken he thought she'd fallen
down and then clamored back up, and he did likewise and
searched the area but could not find her. He returned to the
break and looked across the stream and now could see what
might be signs of somebody getting out the other side. That
was discouraging, since it meant the creek hadn't stopped her
after all, and he might have an even wider area to search.
Driven by his self-imposed compulsion and against the pro-
tests of his body, he waded across to the other side and
climbed up on the other bank, telling himself that no matter
how wrecked he was, he was still in better shape than those
poor wretches back at the border.
Still, he knew that even to complete his compulsion he'd
have to get some rest. He was feeling dizzy, had a hell of a
headache, and was seeing things all blurry. He began search-
ing along the creek bank for some kind of decent cover he
could use to lie down just for a little bit, to get himself back
into some kind of shape.
And suddenly he saw her, lying there like some dirty, limp
rag doll, unmoving behind the bushes. He ran to her, fearing
that she might be dead, and knelt down beside her. He took
her, shook her gently, and said, "Mistress! Mistress! Are you
all right? Wake up and speak to me!"
She stirred, mumbled something, then suddenly her eyes
were open and she was aware first that she was in someone's
grip and began to scream and push away, but then she saw
him. Not Dorion, of course, but that magic aura whose dis-
tinctive shape she'd shared most of a long journey with.
"Dorion?"
He felt like crying. "Mistress, you live! You are all right'"
WAR OF THE MAELSTROM 205
She frowned, unable to see the shape he was in, reached
out, and began to run her hand over his body. "Dorion—why
are you—oh my! Sorry!—naked? And what's this mistress
crap?"
He lay down beside her and tried to relax, then told her the
whole story. She had slept so hard that, while still exhausted,
she felt wide awake and clear-headed, although her head was
killing her when she moved. She listened, fascinated.
"Let me get this straight. To get out of there without
getting noticed, you made yourself my slave? Jeez! All the
time I been here, I been somebody else's property. Will it
wear off?"
"No. Mistress. It can only be removed by two magicians
of some skill. Third Rank, or a Second Rank sorcerer with
some time and a lot of work. It's not supposed to be easy to
undo."
"Even if I gave you.freedom?"
"No, Mistress, that would be worse. Then I'd be a stave