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the Principate -- far more than any of the larger towns or cities that diversified their industrial base. No, Sandon wanted to find Men Darnak, but he wanted to do it without attracting notice.

The padder suddenly lifted its tail and gave a loud flatulent burst, followed by a satisfied grumble. Sandon screwed up his face and waved his hand in front of his nose. The animals really were unpleasant creatures, but at least it was better than having to walk, marginally better. He felt like he'd lost all of the feeling in his rear end over the past couple of days, and he wondered whether he'd ever walk properly again. As if to emphasize the thought, the padder stumbled, slamming its bony back into Sandon's rear for what seemed like the hundredth time. He gritted his teeth and growled deep in his throat. Cursed animals. Cursed Storm Season. That they were always reduced to this just wasn't right. He was reminded of the skeleton hulk they'd seen on the way here. The Prophet had played a cruel joke, stripping them of so much of their knowledge and technology on the way down to what had promised to be a potential paradise. Vast tracts of knowledge had been lost with the transport ships that hadn't made it. One of these days, the Guild of Technologists might finally come up with a real solution to the transport problems they faced in the midst of Storm Season, and for Sandon, that time just couldn't come soon enough.

Avoiding Bortruz had brought with it a new set of problems. He should have made the connection as soon as Manais had mentioned it. Ahead of him lay the Bodrum River, its vast flow growing as it made its way across the plains down from the Yarik escarpment, fed by various tributaries and streams along its length. Bortruz itself used the river to good advantage, for in the depths of Storm Season, when travel of all forms proved more hazardous, the waterway provided another means of carrying produce across the face of the land. Long, flat ore boats plied its way, heading downstream to Darthan and other industrial centers, to return later bearing goods and supplies from the manufacturing complexes further downriver.

A network of man-made canals crossed Bortruz, allowing easy access for the transportation wagons. Across these canals, and across the Bodrum River itself were flexible bridges, built to withstand the land's instability, but easily reconstructed should they be damaged. Ahead of him, the river provided no such crossing, and with its body swollen by storm water, there was no way Sandon would be able to cross. If there were any ford ahead of him, it would be unusable now. He sighed and turned the padder around, heading it back in the direction of Bortruz.

Another couple of hours and the ramshackle collection of buildings that was the town of Bortruz grew ahead of him. He set his lips in a thin line. There was nothing else for it. He'd have to brazen his way through. He flexed his shoulders, feeling the stiffness of his arms and back, the reward for having spent most of the day astride the cursed animal beneath him. At least he'd have an excuse to get on his own feet again.

As he drew closer to the township, the path grew worse, not better. Deep ruts marred the surface, and with the consistent downpours, these had turned to mud. At least it wasn't raining. Sandon cast a glance upward, but the cloud cover looked unthreatening, and he looked back to concentrate on the path ahead. He tried as well as he could to steer the padder around the deeper pools and muddiest looking ground. He'd hate to come off the beast and land in that mess. Garbed as he was, he was enough of a sight, without being covered in mud as well. He didn't need to be taken for one of those wandering madmen that the Atavist community sometimes produced. Despite his best efforts, the cantankerous animal insisted on choosing its own path, and it sloshed through puddles, or squelched through muddy tracks regardless. Eventually he just gave up and let the beast have its head.

The first few buildings he passed were rudely cobbled wooden affairs, put together from planks of the prized ajura wood. Sandon shook his head at the evident waste. Still, he supposed they kept out the weather. Bortruz obviously benefited from its place within the trading chain. This close to a major Kallathik hive, plenty of the wood would pass through here. Besides, they probably used it for struts and beams within the mines as well. Here, at the outskirts, the town was quiet. Further in, he'd be sure to encounter local residents or miners returning from their daily work. It was getting late in the day, and the current shift would have to be nearing its end. He hadn't even thought about what he was going to do for the night, and that presented a whole new set of problems. He'd been through Bortruz a couple of times in the past, but paid it scant attention. He thought he remembered a bar and a store somewhere near the center of the town, but there were only vague impressions to drag up from his memory. He did recall, however, that Bortruz was not the most peaceful place in the world.

He crossed one intersection, then another. The buildings grew more solid, but it was hardly ordered. A few more cross streets, and he should be nearing the town's center. At last, he passed a group of miners, trudging wearily back from their day's work. Their grime-streaked faces were written with fatigue. Sandon held his breath, waiting for a reaction, but their gazes slid tiredly past or simply through him. They barely glanced up as he passed. Good. He let out the breath, and headed on by. The Atavist was nearly invisible in the world. Lower than the lowest, they were truly virtually beneath notice. It was just as he had hoped.

The smell of baking food wafted to him from one of the passing houses, and his mouth started watering. He was hungry, but for the moment, he preferred to hang on to the supplies that Manais had so kindly given him. He didn't know how long he'd have to travel before reaching his goal and the food might be precious. He could always scavenge from surrounding farmlands, but it was hardly proper food. The seasonal crops tended to be mainly root vegetables, reasonably tasteless and unpalatable when raw. Not his preferred method of keeping his belly full at all. Thoughts of food put him in mind of the communal meals in the Atavist camp -- vast spreads of wholesome home-cooked produce--and the thought set his mouth watering again.

He passed two more groups of miners, and one or two townsfolk going about their business. They all ignored or simply failed to register his presence. Eventually, he drew into the center of Bortruz proper. He reined in the padder, which grumbled in response, and looked around the central square. More official-looking buildings ringed the open, muddy expanse. On the opposite side lay the official Guild and Principate office with its wide balcony and steps. Over to the left sat the bar that he remembered, and directly opposite, the main store where he could have picked up more provisions had he anything to pay for them. He fingered his beard looking from side to opposite side of the square and tried to decide his next step. One thing was sure -- here for the first time, he would have to start using his new name. Just as well to get into the habit now.

He pulled on the reins and steered the padder into a small side street that led back behind the row of buildings containing the bar, his most likely prospect for the moment. He certainly wouldn't be using the front entrance dressed as he was. The bar would likely give him his best source of information. If he could find a way to be inside, unnoticed, keeping his ears open, he might have a chance of picking up something useful. Sandon was good at listening without being seen; he'd had years of practice.

He eased his animal up the rear alleyway, wrinkling his nose at the waft of rotting garbage stirred up by the padder's feet. He found the back of the bar without any trouble. Large bins sat outside the rear door, uncovered, with piles of damp refuse trailing out of their tops. He drew the padder to a stop and looked around in vain for a patch of clear ground. Even mud would be better than the unidentifiable mounds of stuff strewn along the alleyway. Barely containing his distaste, he slid down and landed ankle deep in the putrescent mess. He found a place to cinch the padder's reins, and then stepped gingerly toward the bar's rear door, lifting his feet as high as he could with each step. Trying not to breathe through his nose, he crossed the intervening space. Bortruz. What a town.

Sandon hesitated a few moments outside the door. He had no idea how they would react. Still, there was nothing else for it. He had practiced the speech in his head several times. Lifting a hand, he gave a solid knock and waited. The sounds of shuffling came from inside, and then faded again. His hand still poised, Sandon knocked on the hard wooden door again. This time, there were steps, the sound of a bolt being drawn, and the door creaked slowly open. A big, square, stubbled face peered out.

"What is it?" said a gruff voice. Then a pause as the owner of the voice registered surprise, disbelief and then suspicion. The door opened wider, revealing a beefy man dressed in an apron, his hand reaching up to scratch the back of his head.

There was a long pause, then the man spoke again. "What do you want?"

"I am Tchardo," said Sandon. "I am seeking any honest work you might have. I can clean. I can carry. I can help with whatever you need. All I ask is some food, a place to sleep, perhaps enough to purchase some feed for my animal. I would be grateful of anything you can provide, if the Prophet wills it."

Confusion flitted across the man's face, and then he called back over his shoulder. "Hey, Milana. Come and look at what we've got here."

A moment later, and a short stocky woman with ruddy cheeks, also wearing an apron, poked her head around the man's broad frame.

"Would you believe it?" said the man. "It's an Atavist. Says he's looking for work."

"I can see what he is, Benjo. What's he asking for?"

The woman, Milana, seemed less flustered by his appearance than her companion, so Sandon addressed the next to her. "I can clean. I can carry. Any help you need. I am Tchardo."

"Says he wants a place to sleep, some food, maybe a little credit."

"Let him speak," she said.

"As he has said, Sister. That is all I want."

"I thought you people wanted nothing to do with honest folk like us," said Benjo. "What do you think, Milana?"

"Well..." she said. "I never knew any harm to come from their type, and from what I've seen, they work hard enough. It's not as if we couldn't use the help. How's it different from the other workers who come through here?"

The man called Benjo grunted. There was a pause.

"It's up to you," said Milana.

Benjo pursed his lips and scratched at one cheek. "I guess... yeah, why not. It's not as if it's going to cost us much. Here, but we'll have to find you something to wear. We can't have you getting around the