The people were friendly, open, and seemed reasonably happy, and neither of us gave them any cause to get mad at us, particularly after we saw a few of the cursed and the changelings. The cursed were more prominent since they weren’t bad off enough to be able to drop out of society. Mostly they just covered up as best they could, but you could always tell. A club foot, a withered arm, a scarred face, or some deformity even worse stood out rather well in a society so well protected by the interior Wardens that cuts always stopped bleeding and never left scars and even amputated limbs grew back.
The knowledge that many of our fellow townspeople could throw curses like these wasn’t very comforting, and the discovery that you could actually buy curses in the marketplace didn’t help either. One old woman who sold them in a small stall explained to me that it didn’t pay as well as weaving, for example, but it was a living.
The changelings, which were beyond the power of an untrained or self-trained local (or so I was assured) were far more bizarre. Many were former apts themselves who had literally done it to themselves, either for psychological reasons or because something got away from them, or they had displeased Kokul or others of great power and training. Kokul was the best around, as he said, but each of the Companies also had a sore of considerable power to add to the changeling population—and since, unlike Kokul, the Company sores were employees of the Company and not the government, they were often willing to do the cruel bidding of their employers, meting out reward and punishment with equal ease. I ached to learn something of that power, but I had neither the time nor the teacher—not at this stage of the game.
For example, there was this two-meter frog that sat on a rock just down from the town staring out to sea and smoking big, fat cigars. Well, actually, I hadn’t a notion what a frog really looked like, but I read the fairy tales just like everybody else and this one sure looked like a fairy-tale frog, standing on its hind bow legs, balancing on big webbed feet.
There were others around too—halflings that were half human and half something else, almost anything else it seemed, and probably more that I never fully recognized as such because they were so completely transformed. They never came into town, though, and were generally shunned by people, although I suppose somebody had to trade with them on at least a barter basis—how else did the frog get his or her cigars? There was supposedly a small colony of them out on the point north of the town, but nobody ever went there that I could find.
I saw more of them on Company lands, since people there were more at the mercy of Company officials and the local sore and apts. I was out at Thunderkor, a Company that was basically involved in softwood logging and milling, when I had my first direct encounter with a changeling. I was on my way back from the mill after checking production schedules, and I’d decided to walk rather than ride back to Sanroth Hall, the Company headquarters, because it was a nice day and I felt I was getting soft, when I ran into her.
She was a halfling and at one time had obviously been a very beautiful young woman. The woman’s body remained, down to the lower chest, but from that point it became the bottom part of a uhar or uhar-like animal, with powerful saurian legs and, coming out from the spine, the long, thick saurian tail. Her color was a leaf-green rather than the blue of the uhar clan, including her long hair which was, however, a far darker green in color. She walked with the peculiar angle that showed that the tail was needed as a counterbalance, and she was walking up the road about ten meters in front of me. At first I took her for some kind of animal—there were a great number on Charon—and she heard me despite the fact that I stopped in my tracks; she herself stopped and turned around. Her face showed more annoyance than surprise at the sight of me, and certainly no fear. Hers was a pretty face, even in its shades of green, exotic and quite sensual, though she did have a long, sharp horn protruding from the center of her forehead.
She stood there, and I stood there, and finally I decided that it was the better part of valor to keep on. Besides, I was more curious than fearful or repelled.
“Good morning!” I said cheerfully as I approached. After all, what else do you say to a half-woman, half-lizard standing in your way? “A nice day, isn’t it?”
She stared at me strangely for a moment, and I wondered if she could still speak—and which half, the human or animal, was in control. That thought hadn’t really occurred to me until I was too close to run.
She was large, in proportion to her saurian half, and almost towered over me. Almost everybody did, of course, even Zala, but I was used to that disproportion. This was more than the usual—she was certainly over two meters, even slightly bent like that.
“You’re the new T.A. from Outside,” she said, her voice sounding deep but otherwise quite ordinary. I was relieved.
I stopped near her, just out of range of that horn, and nodded. “Park Lacoch.”
“Well? What the hell you staring at?” she snapped.
I shrugged sheepishly. “Remember, I’m new here—not just to here, but to Charon,” I reminded her. “Let’s just say you’re a bit, ah, different, than most of the people I meet.”
She laughed at that. “That’s true enough. Am I the first changeling you’ve ever seen?”
“No, but you’re the first one I’ve met” I told her.
“And?”
I wasn’t sure if she was fishing for a compliment or spoiling for a fight. “And what?” I responded. “I find you—and the whole idea—fascinating.”
She gave a sort of snort. “Fascinating! That’s one word for it, I guess.”
“You work here for Thunderkor?”
“What else? They hitch me up and I pull things they want moved. My arms aren’t much use but I’ve got real pull in the legs.”
I looked at them and wasn’t in any mood to argue that point. “What did you do—before?” I asked as delicately as I could.
“Before? Hah! I was a river-woman. Ran log floats, that kind of thing. Takes more skill than strength.”
I was impressed. “I would have thought you’d have been up at Sanroth,” I told her. “With your looks…”
She smiled grimly. “Yeah. My looks. That’s what got me into trouble. I was born and bred on the river, into a family of river people. I had the talent and loved the work, ever since I was little, but everybody said I was too pretty for it, that I should get married and make babies. Hell, I loved that job. Even the men admitted I was the best—that’s why they wanted me out of there. I embarrassed them.”
I could see the situation in this particular culture.
“Well, anyway, one day this old guy, Jimrod Gneezer, comes down from Sanroth and sees me. Next thing I know I’m ordered up to the Hall—never been there in my life. Real Mr. Ego, too.”
“I think I’ve met him,” I told her, recalling a distinguished-looking man of middle age.
“Well, he thinks I’m supposed to swoon all over him. I tell him where to go. He gets real mad, tries to force himself, and I belted him one—knocked him cold, walked out, and went home. Next thing I know, Simber, the dirty sore, comes down, tells me I better go back. He reminds me that he could cast a spell and I’d be Gneezer’s willing slave. I tell him to go ahead, that that was the only way I’d go back to the bastard, but it turns out that the guy’s got such a big head he don’t like no spells for that. His pride’s hurt So Simber takes some hair and nail clippings—I couldn’t stop him, he being a sore—and the next thing I know this little brat of an apt, Isil, shows up and tells me all about how I’ve been given to him now and he’s very creative. Yeah, very.”