"The Magical Mystery Tour is waiting to take you away..."
                                                -The Beatles
						
"Nonsense.  Space is blue and birds fly through it."
                                                -Heisenberg


Jameson W. Walker, part IV
__________________________


     When the guard had finally finished questioning her, she left
Glorshanned Keep and returned to Dragons Lane, heading toward the East
Gates.  Her proximity detector had gone off at least six times while
the guards had escorted her and the prisoners to the Keep for
statements and complaints and such.  Possibly more than six.  The poor
little machine had almost gone schizoid in between a pair of
architectural monstrosities just before the Keep.  Fortunately, no one
had noticed the quiet beeping amidst the excitement of one of the
prisoners almost breaking away.  She was amused and almost exasperated
at the number of gateways, just lying about.  The Fabric must be
strong here, for the various Doors to not act on one another,
distorting fields.

     She stopped in between the two buildings labeled The Great
Library and The Mages Guild.  Glad she'd turned her proximity detector
off, she looked closely at the mishmash of architecture.  

     "Yes, that's very distinct.  And that ... obvious.  Possibly ...?
No.  He was ... wait, he didn't quite.  But she did ... hmm.  Yes,
there's that, but I have no idea about the piece hanging ...  Oh!  I
see, but that doesn't ... well, I suppose it doesn't have to..."  She
didn't realize she was talking to herself until she noticed a
well-dressed couple move to the other side of the lane.  Smiling
brightly at them, she waved the borrowed juggling clubs in their
general direction and walked on, heading toward another structure that
had set her detector off before she'd even imagined these two.

     Glancing up at the well-lit sign, she noted that a different
artist had painted this dragon, (versus the one on the street sign, if
you haven't been following).  Opening the door and entering, a low
murmur of voices washed over her.  She made her way through the crowd
toward the bar, where an older man seemed to preside.

     Resting her pack on the bar, she leaned over, to speak into his
ear and be heard over the din.
     "Good sir, a bath and a room for a night, possibly longer.  With
whom should I speak?"
     He smiled at her tolerantly, "You've found the man, lass.
Littlefair's the name."  He stuck out a thick hand.  Awkwardly, she
switched the clubs about and submitted her right hand to be engulfed.
Her grip seemed to make a good showing though, "Your request, meals
included, will require a fair number of coppers, a pair o'silver, or a
small bit of gold (with change of course)."

     Digging into her pockets, she came up with a very well worn gold
piece and some small silvers which she handed to him.  Winking, he
indicated the wash room, currently unoccupied, then handed her a key
with a numbered tag, gesturing toward the steps.

     Gratefully, she took the key, failed to pick up the pack in the
hand that had the clubs, tried to switch the clubs back to her right,
decided against it and finally grabbed her bag in her right hand and
moved off in the direction of the wash room, trailing dust behind.
Mary shook her head, smiling.  Littlefair wiped the dirt off his bar.

     The girl was gone for just on half an hour when the door opened
and a mild looking young woman, with damp but neatly combed hair, a
clean shirt and well brushed trous exited the bath.  Being quite sure
no one else had entered in the meantime, Littlefair was pleasantly
surprised by the change.  She walked calmly through the multi-cultural
crowd, headed for the stairway and disappeared into her room on the
second floor.

     Thanking luck that she had enough coin for her own room, she sat,
sinking into the softness of the bed and losing her grip on the clubs
to drop them with a clatter.  Wincing at the noise, she leaned down to
remove her already unlaced boots.  She tied the boots to the pack and
placed the pack at the head of the bed, next to her pillow.  Looking
down at the clubs thoughtfully, she scooped them up and set them in
front of the door.  Anyone who tried to enter would cause some
clatter.  Returning to the bed, she lay down, wound an arm through one
of the shoulder straps and fell immediately into a deep and dreamless
sleep.

				 -*-

     Waking in full daylight, she felt much better.  Easing out of
bed, she stood, did some slow stretches, then brushed out her hair.
She put on her boots, slung her pack over her shoulder, picked up the
clubs and left, locking the door behind her.  The key she pocketed
before going downstairs.

     Entering the common room, she took a more careful inventory of
the various peoples.  She moved carefully through the crowd, trying
not to bump into any short-tempered fighter types.  Managing to reach
the bar, she ordered fresh juice and a slab or two of their most
recently baked bread from the smiling young woman.  She succeeded in
settling into a small table, where she set her pack before her.  When
the juice and toasted bread arrived, she had just managed to dig her
protein rations out of her pack.  She spread a tiny cube of the stuff
along with the half-melted butter and quietly consumed the meal.  Her
eyes travelled the room a number of times while she ate, and she made
a number of observations.

     She catalogued the races she had met during her time spent on
this world so far -- Elves, Dwarves, Orcs, Goblins, Centaurs, Ano,
Lizardfolk, Merfolk, and Humans seemed to be native, or close enough
to native that it didn't matter.  The Ano had stories of coming from a
distant land through a doorway, as did a number of the other races.
But if and when it had happened, it had been millenia ago.  And, each
race had many substrata, as she had seen and as was evidenced here.
She contemplated a pair of Drow Elves and noted a number of Elven
mixtures and one Golden Elf.

     She considered the number of strains of lycanthropy, some
degenerative, some non-degenerative, that she had encountered or heard
about.  Discounting hysterical stories, she had several accounts that
correlated accurately.  One or two strains had actually adapted
genetically to become a natural and even useful trait.

     Natural psionics were not necessarily common, but nonetheless
easily found and genetically linked for the most part.  Certain races
had a predilection for them, while others had no tendencies whatsoever.
Humanity was a wild card race, where the trait might or might not
follow inheritance laws.

     The ability to perform magic generally appeared to be one that
was learned through practice, although the disposition or talent for
it seemed to be an inheritable trait, much like musical ability.  

     However, it was possibly also dependent on the concentration of
magic in the area.  This was the puzzling part.  Magic did not seem to
be an active field nor an innate mental talent, although both could be
manipulated with magic.  And, that which is considered magic seemed to
exist on a large number of the worlds she had visited.  There seemed
to be internal consistency -- a set of laws governing magic on each
world -- but cross-dimensional laws became tangled.
     In the shamanistic tradition, it was a closeness with the land
and the spiritual existence of all living matter that allowed a
different level of perception and manipulation from the average,
"blind" individual.  But this was governed by the laws of nature.  It
was a shaping and adapting kind of magic.  
     Conjuring was a communication and control ability with regard to
the elemental planes.  It involved either innate talent or a strict
set of rules for binding.  
     Then there was the power of the Cleric -- prayer magic.
Depending upon the god, the god's abilities, the cleric's devotion and
the particular ritual, almost anything could be achieved.  
     And rune-casting apparently involved psionics and strict training
in the tracing out of patterns.  But, from experience, she knew that
innate ability was not necessary.  With the right tools, knowledge of
the correct patterns and the ability to concentrate, a fair amount of
rune work could be done by almost anyone.
     Power.  Much of magic involved the manipulation, attainment or
loss of power.  Some magics needed to draw on internal reserves, some
on external sources.  Lines of power or ... what had they been called?
Ley lines, that was it.  They seemed to used for strength.  It was
like matter and energy.  Magic drew on matter --a Human's hair, an
Elf's blood, a blessed object, a small animal, a sacrifice, a Dwarf's
beard, a bone, a beating heart, a scroll-- and turned it into energy.
Or, magic drew on energy --the driving force of survival, the energy
pattern structuring a dimension, the innate reserves of the caster,
the life of energy-based beings-- and channelled it into another kind
of energy.

     Or, Jameson mused as she watched one patron stealthily remove a
purse from another, magic could be something else altogether.  In
fact, she continued mentally as the second patron casually snapped his
fingers and was suddenly in possession two small bags, magic was
probably all of the above plus some.  Different worlds had had
different concentrations.  The most common she'd encountered was
shamanistic, followed by cleric, psionic and vampiristic respectively.
The odd thing being that most worlds, and she mentally emphasized
"most" to herself, had only one sort, possibly two if they were
compatible or reliant upon each other.  This world seemed to have them
all plus some variations she'd not yet encountered.  Nexus.  That was
the name an traveller she'd met in Verland had called this place, this
world.  Certainly was a valid name.

     Shaking herself from her reverie, she withdrew yet another gadget
from her bag.  This one had a glowing gridded screen.  She pressed a
button and a square lit up.  Tapping on a key with an arrow imprinted
on in, the square blew up to be the whole screen.  Another keystroke
marked the square off into another grid.  Clearing the screen, she
stowed the machine, donned her pack, collected her clubs and walked to
the bar.  

     The unflappable barman smiled at her.  "Hello, lass.  What can I
get you?"
     "I was just wondering if you knew you had an extra-dimensional
hole under your bar?"
     The barman's left eyebrow lifted and was joined shortly by his
right.  He took a step back and peered under the bar.  Looking up he
smiled at Jameson.
     "That, lass, is ...sage's mailbox."
     Jameson blinked.  "His mailbox."
     The barman nodded solemnly.
     Jameson blinked again.  "Right.  Thank you."  She turned on her
heel and left the inn.

     Outside, in the bright near-noonday sun she stood indecisive,
smiling quietly to herself.  Should she find Drummer and return his
clubs first or go to the library first?  Looking at the bulky
inconvenience of the clubs, she decided to look for Drummer.  Glancing
up and looking around the city, she briefly reconsidered.  Perhaps she
needed a map first?  Shaking her head and settling her pack, she aimed
for the market where she'd met him yesterday.  Chances were if he
wasn't there, someone might know where to find him.

				 -*-