Songs Of The Dancing Gods

by Jack L. Chalker

  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, genuinely 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 Ruddygore 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 c
old, 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."

  They went through the border and entered Valisandra. Almost instantly the landscape seemed a little meaner, a little more threatening, and the atmosphere seemed thick and menacing.

  There was no real physical difference, nothing you could put your finger on or put into words, but it was tangible none the less. There was the smell of evil about, and it was unmistakable and unpleasant. Even the horses sensed it and grew a bit more nervous.

  "Jeez! I'm as pissed off as you are about the hair," he told her.

  "I am only sorry you no longer find me pleasing to look at, Master," she replied. "I was warned of this back in Terdiera, when I suggested to the Imir that the alchemist might wish to dye my hair in disguise as well."

  "You knew? Why didn't you say something, then?"

  "There was no purpose to it. We had to come, so it was inevitable."

  "Well, for the record, I don't think you look bad at all. Incredibly different, but I guess I'd look different with all my hair off, too. But it makes you look sexy and exotic. On some people it would be a disaster."

  "You are kind to say so, Master."

  "I can see that it bothers you, though. When we get back, we'll have the good Doctor Mujahn put it back as good as before. If he can grow hair on an old Injun like me, he can sure do it for you."

  "Thank you, Master. I do not know how it looks, but it makes me feel, oddly, naked in a way I have not ever felt before."

  "Well, we're going into colder climates pretty quickly now. The only direction other than north is up. What the hell is the hafiid they talked about? Sheesh! Seems to me like you'd want more hair in a place like we're going, not less!"

  "I believe the idea is to insure a slave is always under control," she responded. "The hafiid is a garment, much like a robe, usually of wool, and a headdress of sorts. One wears it with boots or barefoot while outside. There is also a mask and gloves for when it is very cold. When a slave enters a warm place, she surrenders it to her master, or to the person in charge of the place, and gets it back when she leaves. You are unlikely to go outside or into places you should not when you are like this and it is cold out.''

  "Huh! What do they do with the guys?"

  "I, too, was curious about that. Much the same, although they are allowed a codpiece. Their garment is a hooded black woolen robe, tied at the waist."

  "Huh! They get shaved, too?"

  She nodded. "All over. The same. They are often, but not always, neutered as well. I believe when Valisandrans speak of geldings they are not speaking of horses."

  He felt a twinge in the vital areas there. "This has been a custom in Valisandra?"

  "No, Master. It is a custom in most of the tribes of Hypboreya, the only land left in all Husaquahr where the child of a slave is a slave as well. Some of the same tribes lived across the river here and practiced Hypboreyan customs. Clearly those customs are now becoming the law here, until both countries are the same. What you see here is what would be extended to Marquewood as well, if they win, and High Pothique, and then all Husaquahr."

  "Well, it certainly puts-new juice to do the job and do it right here." He shook his head. "And they call me a barbarian!"

  In most of Husaquahr slaves were always regarded as people; they were just legally domestic animals. Here, or at least in the customs that had dribbled over and were now law, slaves were . regarded as animals, not human at all. Somehow that sounded like a nice distinction, but for the life of him he couldn't figure out exactly what it was. Maybe it was mostly in the fact that in southern society slavery at least wasn't inherited.

  Of course, back home once, millions of men fought a bitter war to end slavery and they won, so now the descendants of slaves had the right to sharecrop a farm or get hooked on drugs or live in squalid ghettos as welfare wards, right? And high-sounding academic types could go on talk shows and blabber about liberation and equality while thousands more kids got hooked on drugs or put in a pimp's "stable" and forced to work the streets, and those high-sounders could forget that most of the rest of the world lived not much different than Husaquahr. Maybe it was only different by degree after all. He broke off that reverie since it got him nowhere and did nobody any good. But, man, it was tough not to get real cynical when the good guys weren't really good, they just weren't as all-out bad as the bad guys.

  At least they'd passed the first hurdle, the first real test, and if the truth about Mia hadn't come out, both of them would have flunked, and he knew it. Tiana, no matter what, would have killed herself rather than allow them to do to her what was just done to Mia, and he'd have turned around and said the hell with it rather than sit back and watch it done.

  "How'd you find out so much about this?" he asked her.

  "I, too, had my briefing, Master," she replied.

  "Oh, yeah? Anything else you know that you're not telling me?"

  "Nothing of importance.''

  He looked around. "I wonder where Marge is? It's pretty late for her to be up, but I hope she didn't go to sleep in that forest waiting for us. There's something just, well, dangerous about this place."

  Marge, however, finally did appear, sleepy but aware. "Oh, boy!" she said, looking at Mia. "They really do a job, don't they? Hey, it doesn't look so bad! Just wear the big earrings to set it all off."

  "What took you so long?" Joe asked. "I was beginning to get worried."

  "When I saw you hung up at the station, I took the time to do a little scouting of the land. It's real oppressive. Can't you feel it?"

  He nodded. "You can cut it with a knife."

  "Even the forest's ugly. The trees are starting to grow weird and twist around, and there are lots more ugly weeds."

  He stared emptily into the trees for a moment, then
said, "It's because the wood nymphs are sick. They can't do their job properly. If this keeps up, they'll eventually die, and the satyrs who husband the animals will turn wild and vicious."

  Now, how did he know that? Not by learning, but instinctively. And he felt it, the nausea from the trees.

  Marge frowned, knowing how he knew what he did. "So maybe there really is such a thing as an evil wood. If this is the way it is just inside the country, and a country that's only controlled by the bad guys, I'm not anxious at all to see their land."

  He nodded. "You watch it. There's a lot of evil fairies ascendant in this land. Maybe as bad or worse than evil humans. And some of them can fly, too."

  "Uh-huh," she responded, settling in for her sleep.

  Mia looked around. "It is as if there is a great shadow on this land, darkening all that live within it," she said. "Is that not what we are to try and lift?''

  "Yeah, that's the idea, but we've got a long way to go."

  Just a few miles farther on, though, came the second test. Someone had built an ersatz gate of logs across the road, and that someone was six of the meanest-looking guys he'd seen in a long time.

  He came up to just in front of the gate and stopped. "What is this about?" he demanded to know.

  Their leader, a big man, dressed in black jerkin and leather boots and carrying a crossbow under his arm stepped forward. Joe could swear he could count the fleas on the man.

  "This here's a tollgate," he said in the light tone of a man who is totally in charge. "You got to pay a toll to go on."

  "I see. And you are with the government?"

  Several of the men sniggered at that.