“Thirty-one, my final offer,” the man told the Flotish. “That’s it. Any more and I’ll gamble on a little extra time and go up to Vergutz.”
The creature spit. “They’ll sell you trash. But—all right! Thirty-one it is. You’ll make the transfer through Zone?”
He nodded. “You’ll know the name. Nobody else is likely to use anything remotely like it. Now I’ll need a crew. Versatile, good sailors, experienced on this type of craft. Men who stay bought if overpaid.”
The Flotish looked thoughtful. “I think something might be arranged.”
“I’m sure it can,” Gypsy replied.
South Zone
they were coming in by the thousands. it wasunbelievable, Ortega thought. He wondered how the hell Brazil had managed it. The Well was coping, sending Entries evenly to the Southern hexes, but so far the impact had been small. If this kept up, though, it would soon tax their entire resources. Already he was getting reports of killings in some of the hexes and a panic mentality setting in. People had been killed because they were thought to be Entries.
They trooped down the hall in a steady stream, halting only every once in a while so that an ambassador from a water hex could flood the chamber and move to a gate himself to report home.
The Entries moved under the watchful eyes of hardened troops of dozens of races, all armed with wicked crossbows and similar weapons. Although all technology worked here, sophisticated weapons would not keep the peace. It didn’t matter what killed you, though; a bolt of searing fire or a spring-propelled arrow.
It was more than a week before something new happened. He heard it, heard the shouts and yells and screams and tramping of feet, and was immediately out into the corridor. Frightened Olympians pressed back against the walls to avoid being trampled by the formidable serpentine ambassador as he moved with amazing speed toward the source of the commotion.
There were a number of soldiers there, all standing around something, some great insects with nasty-looking projectile weapons, were all staring down at a body on the floor.
He pushed his way through the mob and came up to the body, still bleeding profusely. No less than sixteen arrows penetrated all parts of the body, including the skull which was crushed from the back.
The figure was a man, lying face down in a pool of blood. He leaned over and examined the body carefully. There was no question; it was dead beyond any hope of magical resurrection or reconstruction. This was no trick. Slowly, carefully, Ortega turned the body over. The look of stunned surprise was still on the dead face, eyes staring wide but no longer seeing the missiles which killed him.
He felt odd, not relieved one bit but almost unbelieving at that face.
“So it was a crock of shit all along,” he sighed, talking to the dead body. “And your luck finally ran out.” He looked up at the insectile soldiers who had done the deed. “You can relax a little now. You’ve just done the impossible. There’s no doubt in my mind. Nathan Brazil is dead at last.”