Dance of the Dead

by Christie Golden

  The morning was fast becoming afternoon. The trees were still, and the moss that covered them dripped down unmolested by a cooling breeze. Dumont’s green eyes roved the swamp, then traveled back to the dock area and the proud mansions to the south. He began to smile. This was new, unexplored territory for him and his boat. He could hardly wait until tomorrow.

  “What do you hold for me?” he whispered to the trees and waters, to the slums and the mansions. “What will I find?”

  FOUR

  “Come in,” Larissa called, putting the cork back on the small jar of blue paint.

  Casilda, clad in her costume of Rose for the parade, entered. Her garb was a stunning example of the fashions of Richemulot, Dumont’s homeland. A low-cut pink gown of softly rustling silk clung to her full, shapely figure and revealed it to the best advantage. Her raven hair was up and tied with embroidered bows, and her hazel eyes sparkled underneath the heavy layer of eye coloring. Her mouth and cheeks had been pinkened to the same shade as her garb.

  Larissa glanced up at her in the mirror and smiled as she finished applying her own makeup. “Oh, Cas, you always look so lovely in that outfit. Rose suits you.”

  Casilda rolled her eyes and made a face, and both girls erupted with laughter. In The Pirate’s Pleasure, Rose was the nauseatingly sweet maiden who won the love of the tormented Florian, freeing him from the grasp of the evil Lady of the Sea—Larissa’s role.

  Casilda smiled at her friend. “If I didn’t move like a cow, I’d rather have your part. It’s much more fun.”

  Larissa laughed. “Yes, but the only reason I got it is because I have all the singing talent of a crow with a sore throat.” It was not a modest statement. She squawked when she sang and so did very little of it.

  “The Lady of the Sea” rose and finished putting on her costume. Casilda shook her head admiringly. She had seen Larissa in this outfit hundreds of times by now, but the sight never failed to send a shiver down her spine. Larissa was a lovely young woman even in the plainest attire. In her guise as the Lady of the Sea, however, she was breathtakingly beautiful.

  Her slim body was covered with a tight-fitting, shimmering blue material that encased her from her neck down, leaving little to the imagination. Wisps of fluttering blue-green, gauzy fabric did little to disguise her slim figure. Tiny seashells were fastened to her garments and braided into her hair. The dancer’s uncanny white mane, as Dumont had noted so often, looked like sea-foam. The overall impression was of a powerful woman who appeared slightly unreal, and the audiences never failed to inhale swiftly at her first appearance.

  Casilda’s thoughts turned suddenly sober. “Are you going to be all right out there? You were pretty upset last night.”

  Larissa hesitated, then nodded. Her bold words to Dumont after their conversation had been false bravado. As soon as she had left her guardian’s cabin, the dancer had spent the rest of the day and all of the night huddled in her bed. Casilda had come to check on her after dinner, and Larissa had explained the situation. Casilda sympathized, of course, but couldn’t completely understand. No one could.

  After Casilda had left, Larissa had tried to sleep. The distant pounding of the drums had started again, this time refusing to be silenced—even when she put a pillow over her ears. Thankfully, they had stopped some time during the night.

  Now Larissa rose, opened one of the drawers, and pulled out the silver locket, gently fingering the downy hair, and remembered Aubrey Helson. As always when she thought of her father, a wave of mingled sorrow and resentment rolled through the young woman. Larissa’s father had been a good man, but a weak one, and her last memories of him were tainted with recollections of his drunkenness and penchant for gambling. Eight years ago, he had abandoned Larissa and Raoul Dumont had stepped in to raise her. Eight years ago, Larissa Snowmane had been born.

  The whistle blew, interrupting her morose reflections. “Already?” moaned Larissa, grabbing the cloak she wore to disguise her outfit during the parade.

  Casilda opened the door and mockingly bowed her friend through.

  * * * * *

  “Well?” queried Dumont. “The parade’s about to start, so give me your report quickly.”

  Dragoneyes shook his head. “Nothing of any interest, Captain. If there’s anything worthwhile here at all, they do a damn good job of hiding both it and any knowledge of it.”

  “They’re an awful superstitious lot,” Jahedrin volunteered. “There’s lots of talk about nature gods, everything from animals to spirits, and things in the swamp. The folks’re really afraid of that swamp,” he emphasized.

  Dragoneyes nodded. “They say it’s the home of the Lord of the Dead. Most of the time, he leaves well enough alone. If you don’t go into the swamp, you’re pretty safe. But sometimes, the swamp comes after them.”

  Dumont frowned. The yawl he had sent into the swamp was overdue. He hoped nothing had gone wrong. “It sounds like the swamp might be where we should concentrate our efforts,” he mused.

  There was an uncomfortable silence. “There’s good beer at the Two Hares Inn,” Tane volunteered. Dumont laughed, breaking the tension.

  “Well, that is important information,” he chuckled. “Fine job, lads. Go get your grub.” Dumont wasn’t angry with the men. If they had found nothing, he knew it was not from the lack of looking.

  As the crewmen left, the captain climbed up the stairway to the pilothouse. From this vantage point, Dumont watched with satisfaction as his cast paraded into the town. The crowd was so thick, he wondered if the entire population of the island had turned out for the event.

  The jugglers, fire-eaters, and other traditional performers went first, followed by Sardan and his mandolin. Dumont noted with amusement that the fastidious ladies who were unimpressed by the feats of manual dexterity were enchanted by the bard’s sweet voice and youthful good looks. Sardan was the swashbuckling Florian, and Dumont suspected that in Port d’Elhour, as always, the boyishly pretty actor would not lack for female companionship.

  Next was Gelaar, striding purposefully into the crowd, which parted readily for him. Amazement and not a little fear was on the faces of the townsfolk as they watched him pass. An illusionary griffin, phoenix, and unicorn pranced at his side, eliciting gasps and applause. The paved road under his feet suddenly shimmered and changed into a flower-strewn country road, and the crowd applauded madly.

  Whooping and laughing, the tumblers were next, followed by the chorus, clad in garb similar to but not as dramatic as Larissa’s. Larissa and Casilda had gone on ahead earlier to prepare for the performance in the town square. They would be performing a scene from the second act, in which the Lady of the Sea imprisons virtuous Rose.

  Dumont had turned to descend the stairs when he caught a movement out of the corner of his eye. The yawl, a raft that was little more than a few planks tied together, was returning. Only one man appeared to be on it, using the paddle to propel himself along. It was too far away for the captain to make out which of the crewmen it was.

  Dumont swore angrily. The fool! He could hardly have picked a worse time to arrive than during the parade. Dumont looked back anxiously at the crowd lining the road. To his relief, he saw that the parade was leaving the dock area and the throng was happily following.

  Dumont went down to the main deck, shielding his eyes from the last rays of the dying sun. The lone crewman on the yawl was Brynn. The red-haired sailor paddled the yawl along steadily, almost mechanically. He was close enough now that Dumont could see that his clothing was torn and stained with blood.

  Silent as a shadow, Dragoneyes stepped beside Dumont. Captain and half-elf mate both stared down, startled, at the crewman as the yawl drew alongside La Demoiselle.

  Brynn was a native of Invidia, a land whose inhabitants were not known for their gentleness or trusting natures. Fear was second-nature to the Invidians. Brynn was the exception, being possessed of an icy calm. He had joined the crew when the showboat had stopped in the port city of Karina.
A hard man with more than one murder on his hands, the sailor had gone on many “explorations” for Dumont in the past. The captain knew there was very little that could shake the redhead’s cool composure.

  Something obviously had done just that. Brynn huddled on the wooden floor of the yawl, his clothing torn and covered with blood from innumerable scratches. He shook uncontrollably, and his normally icy eyes were bloodshot and filled with terror. He made no attempt to secure the yawl to the showboat.

  Dragoneyes climbed down and began to tie the wooden raft securely to the larger boat. Brynn didn’t even appear to notice him, and Dumont had to call his name twice before he looked up and blinked dazedly.

  “Captain?”

  “Brynn, what happened to you? Where are the others?”

  Brynn didn’t answer, only licked dry lips. Dumont and Dragoneyes exchanged glances, then the captain frowned.

  “Damn you, I order you to report or I’ll throw you to whatever creatures live in that swamp!”

  The threat seemed to penetrate Brynn’s trance, and his eyes refocused. “They got them, sir,” he answered in a frail voice. “Philippe went first, when the—” he shuddered and looked away. “And then Kandrix … But he was the one who found them for you, Captain, and he and Astyn caught them and brought them back to the yawl.”

  Brynn paused, and his brown eyes went vacant again. Dragoneyes shook him roughly. With a start, the sailor continued.

  “But in the water, it—it got them, both of them, and it tried to get me, too, but I got in and poled like a madman. So I got ’em for you, sir, right here, I got ’em.” To Dumont’s consternation, tears welled up in the haunted brown eyes and spilled in rivulets down Brynn’s freckled face.

  Dumont shook his head, then extended a hand and helped Brynn clamber out of the yawl. Once on the dock, the sailor simply stood there, trembling and blinking stupidly. His captain sighed. There’d be no getting anything useful out of the man for a while.

  “Go to the tub room, Brynn,” Dumont ordered. “Dragoneyes will draw you a bath, and I’ll have Brock send you up something for dinner—including a stiff drink or two. Don’t leave that room until I come, though, you understand?” Softly he said to Dragoneyes, “Don’t let him out—or anyone but Brock in.” Dragoneyes nodded.

  “Come on,” the half-elf said in an uncharacteristically gentle voice, taking Brynn’s arm. “A hot bath will do you a world of good.”

  As Brynn shuffled off with Dragoneyes, he muttered to himself. “Things like that … man to do … terrible …”

  The captain listened, watching the broken man hobbling away, then turned his attention to the box that remained in the bottom of the yawl. Carefully he stepped onto the yawl. He prodded the box gingerly with a booted foot. There was no reaction. The captain reached out a hand to touch the seemingly ordinary box. The wood felt warm, warmer than being in the setting sun would warrant. Dumont frowned to himself, picked the box up, and returned to the deck. He tucked it under his arm and hastened up the nearby stairs to the empty pilothouse and then into the safety of his cabin.

  Dumont placed the box on the table and examined it for a moment. It still retained its curious heat. Carefully, he sat down, peering at the box. He closed his eyes and began to sing softly. The incantation would have baffled most listeners, but the tune was from The Pirate’s Pleasure. Dumont’s cabin had been heavily warded many times, as had the ship itself. There was little that could harm him here, but Dumont was in no mood to take a chance. Whatever was in that box had some connection with Brynn’s breakdown.

  The spell finished, Dumont opened his eyes. The box looked just the same. The captain flexed his hands, then cautiously eased the box open just a crack.

  White light spilled out, caressing his hands softly. The sensation was extremely pleasurable, but Dumont was disconcerted and let the lid drop. The pleasure ceased. His heart starting to beat faster, the captain opened the box again and peered inside.

  Dozens of tiny white lights blinked rapidly and milled about inside the box. Their radiance stroked his face. Suddenly Dumont was filled with long-forgotten memories of his childhood, when he and his father would ride through green fields together, when his younger sister Jeanne-Marie was still alive, when the shadows hadn’t begun to lengthen on his energetic life.

  Unconsciously, filled with the joy of it, he raised the lid higher … higher …

  And slammed it down again when the little lights, having nearly lulled him into carelessness, tried to escape. Dumont began to laugh uproariously. What a find! He had no idea what the tiny creatures were, but he already knew how to harness the pleasurable sensations they caused.

  “Well done, Brynn!” he said to himself, thinking that such a prize was well worth the lives of three crewmen and the sanity of a fourth. If Brynn recovered sufficiently, he would find himself treated to a night on the town he would never forget.

  Carefully cradling the precious box in his arms, Dumont went to the wardrobe. He placed his treasure on the floor, then closed and magically locked the door. He hesitated. His curiosity about the lights urged him to stay and find out more about them, but the sun was sinking low on the horizon. Dumont would have to hurry if he wished to get to the performance on time.

  * * * * *

  The market square in Port d’Elhour was unremarkable. It was a literal square, flanked by sad little storefronts and dingy alleys. Uneven stones made for difficult walking, and most people kept to the sides, where the shops were. There was a large basinlike object in the center, used to catch rain, and every roof had gutters and ample rain barrels. Everything seemed functional, but little more.

  This shabby scene was what the inhabitants of Souragne had seen for years. Not tonight. Gelaar had given them a little taste of paradise. Gone were the uneven gray stones, replaced by silken white sands. The cypresses were palm trees, the storefronts the open ocean. One woman, clutching her children, wept openly at the beauty.

  Florian’s apparently dead body lay on the shore. Sardan had taken care to sprawl in a fashion that accentuated his broad chest and strong thighs. Rose wept prettily above his corpse, then launched into her solo, “Alas! My Love Is No More.”

  Larissa watched the performance, her hand closed firmly about the pendant draped about her neck. An emerald with a small jet stone embedded in it was set in an oval of silver. The overall affect was that of an open eye. When held so that the eye was “covered,” the wearer of the pendant was invisible, as Larissa was now.

  Dumont had spent years collecting various magical items, using them to further the appeal of La Demoiselle. The Eye, as Dumont called it, was one of the most valuable, and also produced an excited reaction when the wearer uncovered it and magically appeared onstage. The dancer listened to Casilda and held her breath as the song drew near its conclusion. Concentrate, Cas, Larissa thought. I know you can hit that note!

  “Alas, my hopes have faded

  Like the light in my love’s eyes;

  Like a dream at morning,

  Like summertime, he dies!”

  Casilda’s sweet voice swelled, reached for the high note—and went flat, as she always did. Not badly so, but enough that Larissa knew she’d be consoling her friend after the performance. She shook her head in sympathy, assumed her position, and uncovered the Eye.

  The crowd gasped and drew back a little as the beautiful, white-haired Lady of the Sea materialized. She leaped onto the sand, a fey water sprite of beauty and danger. Larissa closed her eyes and surrendered to the music and the role.

  From the crowd, Raoul Dumont watched her, a hot light smoldering in his eyes. Watching his star dancer perform always awakened the banked fires that lurked inside of him. This role in particular showcased her young body’s beauty and grace, and Dumont grinned a tigerish grin. Tonight, he would have her—provided, of course, that idiot Handsome Jack remembered to play his role properly.

  Larissa leaped upward and kicked, arching her back and letting her seashell-braided white
mane toss like a wave, then twirled about the prone body of Florian, who magically awoke. Part of the young woman exulted in the fact that she was performing well; this was a good night. She felt the music flowing in her as if it were her lifeblood. The other part of her did not care that she was executing her role well. It just reveled in the movement.

  Suddenly, the drums that had haunted Larissa the day before began to beat again. Their deep, ominous rhythm clashed with the music of the dance. Startled by the unexpected sound booming out of the darkness, Larissa stumbled, and her blue eyes flew open in horror at the error.

  The dancer recovered quickly, and the audience noticed nothing. Her fellow performers, however, caught the brief misstep, and they were as stunned as she was. Larissa was little short of magical in her dancing—no one had ever known her to make a mistake. Larissa finished, assumed a dramatic pose, and closed her hand about the Eye.

  The minute she was safely invisible, Larissa ran to the fringes of the crowd and leaned against one of the big cypress trees, breathing heavily. She was furious with herself. Nothing in the world was as important to her as her dancing. Certainly the drums were a distraction, especially as she knew nothing about their origins, but she was a professional. She shouldn’t have let the new rhythm interfere with her performing.

  She struck the cypress with her fist in impotent anger. It hurt, and she was even more annoyed with herself.

  “The trees don’t like that. And I don’t think it does much good for your hand, either,” came a voice from behind her.

  Startled, Larissa whirled around. She came face-to-face with a young man who was looking directly at her and smiling. For an instant she thought she had loosened her grasp on the magical pendant, but her hand was securely closed around it. She gasped in surprise.

  “Can you see me?” she asked.

  “ ’Course I can,” the young man replied, his grin widening. “How else would I know that you were hitting a tree?” He leaned up against the cypress and folded his hands, his eyes bright with amusement. He seemed to be enjoying her discomfiture, but there was no sense of malice in his mirth.