Songs of the Dancing Gods dg-4

by Jack L. Chalker

  For Mia, riding behind him on her horse while keeping the packhorse in the rear in line, the same logic and questions had gnawed even further at her. More bothersome than the skills she did have were the memories she did not. Tiana had gone to school on Earth, in Switzerland, one of the countries there, but she had no memory of the schooling, or the country, or even where it might be. She didn’t even remember being a mermaid, as they’d reminisced, or anything between the palace life and the night they defeated the Baron. Even the palace memories were odd, as if she were someone else, watching Tiana rather than being her.

  Memories long suppressed, strange memories but familiar ones, now came to the fore. Of all those kids jammed in a one-room hovel, of playing naked with other dirty kids in a town square, of running away at age eleven when her mother died in childbirth, determined that it would not happen to her. Of reaching a big city and being befriended by a man who was at the start very nice, but who later taught her to dance with the other girls for crowds of leering men, renting out her young body to some of them, and, finally, being arrested, where a kindly woman Procurator listened sympathetically to her life story and sentenced her to be a slave, ward of the state, and trained as a maid… Of being in the palace after Joe and Tiana left, of men in black who’d seized her, to awaken in a strange place on a strange world… Of seeing her Highness helpless, in some room…

  It hit her all at once with a force that almost knocked her off the horse. By the gods! I have been mad! I am not Tiana! I am the slave Mia!

  After the initial shock wore off, though, the realization brought not horror and regret but a sense of peace in her mind. She was not forced into slavery, she was simply now returned to her proper role and self! It was all right, then! No more inner struggles, no more anguish. Instead, she felt great pride in herself, that she, a mere ignorant whore turned slave, had managed to fool even Joe into thinking she was of the blood royal. And, for those few months, she’d had him, essentially as an equal, something beyond even the most impossible, wild dreams of one such as her. It was over now, she knew, but if she died tomorrow, it still would be enough.

  The trouble was, how to tell him! She decided that she could not; it would embarrass him. But, if he suspected at some time, if he asked, then she would admit the truth.

  It took ten hours to reach Machang, a pretty big city by Husaquahrian standards, teeming with life and busy people, its huge bridge at the northern end dominating the skyline and marking the end of navigation on the Rossignol.

  They selected a low-rent hostelry near the riverfront for their night’s lodging, first going into a back alley and awakening a still slightly groggy Marge, telling her where they’d be, and letting her manage to fly up to the rooftops to finish her slumbers.

  Mia helped unload, then unpacked, got the room ready as much as she could, then went back down to arrange to stable the horses. She felt buoyant, giddy, almost supercharged, like a whole new person, free to act and think like a teenager again.

  Joe plopped down on the bed, feeling tireder than he knew he should, simply because of the monotony of the ride. And there were weeks and weeks of this to come, with the climate, both real and political, turning worse as they went.

  Marge tapped outside his third-story window and he got up and raised it fully to let her in. He was glad to see her. “Any trouble finding me?”

  “Naw. Really freaked out a couple folks who saw me peekin’ in, but most of ’em were doin’ anything but lookin’ out the window.” She grinned evilly. “You may be the only person in this joint who’s here to sleep.”

  “I think I’d be a little too conspicuous staying in one of the fancy places. Besides, I couldn’t even dress for dinner.”

  “Mia’s not back yet?”

  “No, she just left to stable the horses a few minutes ago.”

  “You’re down in the dumps about something, I can tell. Just what’s ahead?”

  “Well, that, but not really. I just never really been this alone on a long trip since I drove a truck, and then I had a CB and the stereo.”

  “What you’re really saying is that you can’t relate to Mia as you could to Ti and you can’t just take Mia as Mia.”

  He nodded. “That’s part of it.”

  “Joe, I think maybe I oughta tell you something. I checked it out last night after Ruddygore told me and it holds up, but it’s a big shock. I wasn’t supposed to tell, but I’m exercising that judgment the old boy thinks I have.”

  “I’m listening.”

  She told him the whole thing, beginning to end, including how she’d run into this lonely half-baked magician in Terdiera who’d looked up the literacy thing in the Rules for her and confirmed it. Joe listened with so little expression, saying nothing even after she’d finished, that she had to prompt him. “Well?”

  “I—I was beginning to suspect as much, but it’s still a shock to find out the woman you thought was your wife is some sixteen-year-old slave girl I don’t even remember. It also means I’ve been had and living a lie for many months, and, most of all, it means Ti’s really gone.”

  She hadn’t thought of that last one. “Oh, Joe. I’m so sorry! Damn me!”

  “No, no. You were right to tell me. It’s better to know. The question is, does she know?”

  “I think so, now. Fairy intuition, maybe. This was supposed to take a week to kick in, but I can’t stand it. Ask her when she gets back. Ask her if she knows the truth about herself.”

  “And if she does and admits it? What then?”

  “Then I’d tell her it’s okay, that it’s good to know, and that it’s closed. And then I’d blow out the light and make love to her. Not as Joe and Ti, but as Joe and slave girl.”

  “Huh?”

  “Trust me. Do that and all the ice will melt. After that, you can relate to her and she to you as people in their relative positions. The feminine fairy nose knows. How would you guys ever survive if you didn’t have women to tell you what to do?”

  And, it turned out, she was exactly right.

  The next day dawned as clear and warm as the one before; good traveling weather. Mia was like a different person—which, in a way, she was—up and about before dawn, getting things packed and ready before he awoke and without awakening him, somehow even finding hot water for the basin and giving him a morning wash. To himself, guiltily, he had to admit grudgingly that he liked such treatment and could easily grow used to it. She refused breakfast, saying she’d eat something later, and, while he ate at a dingy riverfront cafe, she went and settled the livery bill, got the horses and packed things away, then brought it all to him.

  “That’s a hell of a girl you got there, Mister,” the grizzled proprietor of the cafe noted as she arrived. “You want to sell her?”

  “Never,” he responded. “She’s absolutely essential to me.”

  They picked up Marge in the alley, and she crawled in her “hidey hole” as she called it and was soon off to dreamland, but feeling a little smug. She still didn’t care for this slave girl bit; it went against her grain. But if she had to see it, then it was a lot easier to accept a little slave girl raised to this level, at least, rather than a Tiana sunk to it. After all, Tiana hadn’t given a thought to slaves waiting on her hand and foot, both male and female, as being anything other than her due. That didn’t make it right, but Marge had been around long enough to lose, if not her ideals, at least her hopes that one could cure the evils of the world without also inventing totally new ones.

  Mia was still rigorous about her exercises and her running, but she also begged for some regular training in defense that might be useful, and Joe stopped at least once every day in a relatively uninhabited spot to help her out. She was really good with a knife, and could handle a bow at relatively short distances, but what surprised him was her karatelike kicks, which, with her powerful legs, dancer’s agility, and toughened feet, managed to break a small log in half.

  “Where’d you learn those moves?” he asked her, genuine
ly impressed.

  “Irving taught them to me, Master,” she responded. “It was a new kind of fighting, perfect for me to defend myself.”

  “Huh! And I thought he was just play-acting out Kung-Fu movies. I’ll be damned!”

  Mia was pretty good as it was, but much was improvised. If she could only have taken classes in it, he thought, she’d shoot to black belt in no time.

  They stopped at a roadhouse just before the Valisandran border. By now Joe’s facial hair had developed into a full, thick beard, and it so dramatically altered his looks while retaining his image that he was willing to overlook the few gray streaks. It gave the beard character, aged him gracefully, and spoke of hard-won experience. Although he never got used to getting stuff in a mustache, or found a way short of regular trims not to eat some hair, he wasn’t about to get rid of it, particularly after the roadhouse.

  Mia came up to him quietly while he relaxed outside. She had a paper in her hand, and said, “Master, I think you better look at this.”

  He took it and immediately saw what she meant. He couldn’t read a word of it—in fact, none of them could—but the two woodcuts, while somewhat crude, were unmistakable. Lean, hard face, high cheekbones, long black hair… It wasn’t very flattering, but, when taken with what was probably a physical description, it was recognizable. The other cut wasn’t nearly as much help; he knew it was supposed to be Mia, but it could have been about every fifth girl in Marquewood, and the picture certainly had no slave ring, the one thing about her face that everyone focused on almost immediately.

  At the bottom was a symbol that resembled a nasty, black falcon’s head, only a falcon out of the dark side of faerie, superimposed over the outline of a crest that appeared to be a cyclops on one side and a dwarf on the other. “The Hypboreyan imperial seal, I’d bet,” he commented. “I wonder if I can find anybody inside to read it to me?”

  “Oh, no, Master! You can’t!”

  He grinned. “Sure I can. Just remember, those aren’t pictures of us! Who knows, we might come across this pair and collect a fat reward. Don’t worry. I want to know whom you deliver them to if you capture them. Who, and where.”

  The barman looked at the flyer and frowned. “Says this pair are fugitives from a treason charge in Hypboreya—not that that’s unusual. Seems like most anything over there’s treason now. They must want them pretty bad, though. The usual’s ten gold pieces a head. These are ten thousand a head!” He whistled. “And twenty-five thousand for both! Man, I’ll settle for just one of ’em, guilty or innocent. With ten thousand I’d walk away from this place, get myself a yacht, and just sail the river and loaf.”

  “That’s why I wanted the details. What happens if you catch one or both? What do you do then?”

  “Bring ’em here and I’ll split with you!” the innkeeper responded. “No, seriously, it says they must be alive, but condition’s not important, and to notify any Hypboreyan legation or trade representative, or to notify the Witches’ Guild!”

  “Surely all witches and warlocks aren’t working for Hypboreya,” Joe responded. He knew some pretty nice folks who were witches—and, of course, a ton that made the fairy-tale ones look like saints.

  The barman shrugged. “Who knows? You figure they got somebody in almost all the locals. Probably got some kind of magical reward for them as a processing fee the likes of this cash so that few witches could turn it down. Most any of ’em around here are in league with the Dark One anyway. It was real creepy when this was occupied territory, you know, but they pretty well left us alone. Too busy pushing south then. They’re still around, though. Just kind of low key, if you know what I mean.”

  “You do business with them?”

  He shrugged. “I ain’t never.been very political. Besides, it’s a long ways to the nearest Marquewood army, and, with Ruddy-gore off the Council, we ain’t got the privileged position we once did. I guess we got enough strength to protect the big cities, which is why they ain’t done nothin’ more and made the truce, but that don’t cut beans around here. Where you heading?”

  “Valisandra for now,” he replied. “Still, I figured there might be some work coming up for somebody in my profession.”

  “Yeah? How come them instead of south?”

  Joe tapped the paper. “Because they pay better, for one thing. And because I’ve seen the south and tested the winds, and I like to be on the side,of the winner. Winners pay. Losers run or hang.”

  “Yeah, well, there’s something to that, I guess. Still, this bunch could stab you through the heart and then you’d still fight for ’em—for free!”

  “Those zombies are formidable,” he agreed, “but you can’t win a war or even a major battle with them alone. There’s no substitute for thinkers; men who can hold their own in the midst of battle and instantly size up the situation and the move and countermove. They’re okay as infantry, but a good fire line could destroy them and have them marching in to be consumed before they could get the order to turn. Then your cavalry could leap right through and behind them and get at the ones who direct them. Remove the controllers and the zombies are just so much rubble.”

  “You sound like you know your business, all right, Mister ah-”

  “Cochise.”

  “Interesting name.”

  “All barbarian mercenaries have interesting names,” Joe responded lightly. “Book Fourteen, page one hundred and sixty-one.”

  “Well, you just watch your back, Mister Cochise, when you cross that border, ’cause over there the blackest sort of magic rules unchecked.”

  “I fought with the Baron at Sorrow’s Gorge,” Joe responded menacingly. “It’ll be just like coming home.”

  He only wished he’d meant that.

  “You get many going north these days?” Joe asked him, curious.

  “Some. Salesmen, tradespeople, officials, that kind of thing, and some I’d rather not discuss. Been a ton of real mean fairies headin’ in, too, I hear, but most don’t come near here. A few nuts, too. Had one guy through, not long ago, crazy as a loon. Said he was on some kind of epic quest. Little guy. Just kept singin’ this dumb song in some foreign tongue. Claimed he was lookin’ for some desert island. Desert island! In Valisandra! Can you beat that?”

  Joe grew suddenly interested. “How long ago did that little fellow come through? ”

  The innkeeper shrugged. “Couple weeks back, I think. Glad to get rid of him. Gave me the creeps, he did.”

  Marge, like all faerie, recognized no human borders and particularly not their formalities. She flew over to Valisandra that night, arranging to catch up with the other two when they cleared and were well inside the country.

  The border crossing looked pretty standard, if a bit more elaborate than most; the uniforms were different, the accent on the border guards was a bit off, but it hardly seemed the gateway to Hell. They were a lot more officious, though, and they did more touching of Mia than a border guard should.

  “She’ll have to get down and come inside,” he said at last.

  “Huh? Why?” Joe was suddenly defensive and suspicious and his hand almost went to his sword.

  “She’s got to have her head shaved,” the guard said. “It’s the law here, no exceptions.”

  Joe was surprised that Mia didn’t recoil from that. He sure did. “How long has that been the law?”

  “It used to be a custom among certain of our people and those of Hypboreya,” he told them. “Now it’s the law. Absolute. No exceptions.”

  Joe looked at her long, beautiful hair. “And if I refuse?”

  He shrugged. “Then she don’t get allowed in. It’s your decision, Mister. She’s your property. I don’t make the laws, I just have to enforce them.”

  Be cold, be tough, he reminded himself. “Okay, but only in my presence.”

  “Okay with me.”

  She got down and went inside and sat in the chair they indicated. One of the guards brought these big, sharp scissors and started cutting. It didn
’t take very long to have a mound of hair on the floor and a scraggly mess on top. Getting the scraggly mess down was more involved, but finally they had it very short. Then they literally shaved her with foamy soap and a straight razor. He was surprised when that wasn’t the end of it; they shaved her underarms, her arms, legs, even her pubic hair, leaving only her eyebrows. Then they finished it by applying a greenish liquid over not only her scalp but every place they’d shaved. But for the brows, she was totally hairless. It looked very strange, with her bald as a cue ball, but she did have the head for it, and it made her look rather exotic, statuesque.

  Joe felt his own still unfamiliar beard and said, “I guess I’m going to have to buy a razor.”

  “No, the potion we finished with kills all the roots,” the guard said casually. “I’d get her a hafiid as soon as I hit my first town… A collar with loop is also required. Until then, the earrings, bracelets, and anklets are okay, but she can’t wear anything else. Understand?”

  “Uh, yeah,” Joe responded, still in a state of shock. They walked back outside.

  Finally, the head man tore off a piece of paper and handed it to Joe. “Can you read?”

  “No.”

  “All right, then. This is a conditional entry into the country for you and your property. Carry it with you at all times and don’t lose it. You’ll be asked to produce it for almost anything, from purchases to rooms to even using the roads. Failure to produce it can result in immediate arrest. It’s good for seven days and must be renewed at a constabulary every seven days to remain valid. Travel only on main roads and only in daylight. Use or entry to any posted road or building is prohibited. Camping is prohibited without permission. That’s for your protection, believe me. You understand?”

  Joe nodded. “Yeah. What, you don’t want me to give blood every day, too?”

  “Don’t be a wise ass. That’s the way to get in real trouble here.”

  “Take it easy! I’m just looking to see if there’s any work for my talents up here.”

  “Yeah, well, could be. That’s up to you. Go along, now.”