“Good Jean,” he said at last, “you are kind. My ward is right to treat you as hospitably as you have treated her. Enjoy your tour.”
The three walked toward the bow of the ship, Larissa chatting enthusiastically about La Demoiselle. Dumont watched them with narrowed eyes. Larissa was not angry with him, but neither was she cowed. He deliberately loosened his shoulders and puffed on his pipe, forcing his thoughts to take a happier turn.
The boat had been packed. Both performers and audience had apparently had the time of their lives. The little lights that had cost the lives of four men twinkled gaily. They had the ability to manipulate emotions, for they had made Dumont feel happy when he’d looked at them yesterday. Now he had harnessed their energy, and they were making everyone on the whole damned boat feel happy. This ebullience was a boon to business, but Dumont wondered if his crew would still be as efficient when they were giddy with magically induced pleasure. He’d have to wait and see. Or else, he mused to himself, he’d just pack the glowing creatures away during work times.
The captain leaned up against the railing, his eyes on the shimmer of the lights reflected in the water. A movement on the shore caught his eye, and he drew deeply on his pipe, suddenly alert.
As the newcomers drew closer, Dumont recognized one of them as Lond. The mage’s companion was clad in a dark cloak that hid his face completely. The two men came on board. The throng of happy, chattering people parted for them unconsciously, their pleasure not abating a bit. Lond and his comrade walked up the ramp onto the main deck, heading directly for Dumont. As they drew closer, the wind shifted and the captain grimaced. A terrible stench was emanating from the two, borne on the hot, muggy breeze.
“I have completed the first part of my own performance. May we retire to your cabin, Captain?” came Lond’s raspy whisper.
Dumont frowned, clenching his pipe between his teeth. He tried to concentrate on its fruity fragrance.
“Who is your friend?” he demanded. The stranger kept his head down and his face turned away.
“You shall meet him momentarily, Captain. Let us go to your room.”
“You will not toy with me. If you won’t introduce me, you and your stinking friend can leave right now.”
Lond sighed. “Very well, Captain. Although there is in truth no need, for you know this man.”
Lond stepped in front of the stranger and rearranged the hood so that Dumont could see the newcomer’s face clearly. The captain stepped back, eyes wide.
It was Handsome Jack.
The corpse’s ugly face was still recognizable, but the first stages of decay had begun to set in on its two-day-dead body. Its skin was a sickly gray, and its milky eyes were unfocused. Dumont’s startled gaze dropped to the dead man’s stomach, and he pulled aside the cloak enough to see dried blood encrusted on the white shirt.
“No,” he whispered. “You’re dead!”
“Yes, Captain Dumont, he is,” Lond agreed. “Now, may we retire to your cabin?”
EIGHT
“You’re goin’ to go where?” The man’s face grew pale.
“Through the swamp,” Dumont repeated with strained patience. “How familiar are you with its waterways?”
The would-be sailor shook his head rapidly. “Sorry, Captain Dumont. I’d love to join you, but I’ll not be goin’ nowhere near that place. There’s bad magic in there, there is. Ain’t nobody told you? That’s the home of the Lord of the Dead!”
It was the fourteenth time this morning Dumont had heard the “advice,” and it took every ounce of control he possessed not to stand up and throttle the man.
“I have heard that, yes,” the captain replied. “If you do not wish to sign up, you may go.”
The man opened his mouth as if to say more, but a good look at the anger in Dumont’s eyes apparently changed his mind. He bowed clumsily and hastened back down to the ramp.
Dumont, seated at a small table on the bow of the main deck, frowned to himself. He had thought it would be easy to hire a few new crew members after last night’s opening performance had been so well received. Dumont had not bargained on how terrified these people were of the swamp.
“They were turned out thicker than wolves in Arkandale earlier,” he growled to Dragoneyes, who was lounging against the railing.
“Not to worry. There’ll be a couple willing to face the swamp, I’m sure,” the mate replied, concentrating on his whittling. The breeze stirred his silver hair. He seemed to take no interest in the proceedings, though he was discreetly observing everything with his slitted, amber eyes. Only his pose and dress were casual.
Dumont, in sharp contrast, was dressed in full uniform. The sun glinted brightly on the shiny gold buttons and braids of the blue outfit, and his green eyes raked the potential crewmen more obviously than did Dragoneyes. The next applicant stepped up to the table.
Dumont glanced up. There was something familiar about this one. “Do I know you, son?” he inquired politely.
The youth smiled. “No, Captain.”
“Name?” Dumont asked briskly.
“Willen.”
The captain duly inscribed the youth’s name on the parchment. “Present occupation?”
“None.”
“Residence?”
“The swamp, until about—oh, three, four days ago.”
Dumont glanced up from the parchment. “I must,” he drawled sarcastically, “hear the explanation for this.”
Willen met Dumont’s gaze and smiled disarmingly. “Well, Captain, I grew up in the swamp. My mother was a hermit, and she took me with her when I was a baby.”
The captain didn’t avert his gaze from Willen’s, but he noticed that Dragoneyes had stopped whittling. That was a clear sign that the crewman was interested in a candidate. Dumont continued.
“What are your qualifications for working aboard my vessel? Have you ever served on a boat before?”
Willen looked a bit abashed, and his grin turned slightly sheepish. “Well, truth be told, no, sir. Unless you count the canoes we use in the swamp. We call them pirogues, and I know those very well. Even know how to make them out of cypress logs. I know the swamp well, too.”
He leaned forward slightly and placed his hands on the table. All hint of shamefacedness was gone, replaced by a quiet competence. Willen continued.
“I know every turn, where the currents flow fast and at what time of year, what’s underneath every foot of the water’s surface. I know what’s dangerous and what isn’t, how to avoid trouble and how to treat it when it comes looking for you.
“The rest of the folk around these parts, they’re scared of the swamp. They don’t know a thing about it except the superstitions, and they don’t want to get close enough to it to learn anything more than that. You ask them. They won’t want to go. If you’ve a mind to head on down there, well, you won’t find anyone better suited than I am to take you through it.”
There was nothing in Willen’s manner that bespoke a braggart. Dumont decided that the young man was telling the truth. He narrowed his jade eyes.
Brynn’s discovery of the light creatures was the only thing of interest his men had discovered in Souragne thus far. The little port town, though delightfully corrupt in some places, was disappointingly normal. Few here knew any magic at all, apparently. Certainly no one—other than Lond, of course—had any knowledge or item worthy of Dumont’s attention.
It would be foolish to traverse the swamp without a guide. Dumont was also in desperate need of another pilot. Handsome Jack was first drunk, then dead, and now a mindless, walking corpse. The enthusiastic youth before him seemed to be a gift from the heavens.
The captain turned his gaze back to the piece of parchment and circled Willen’s name.
“Where can I reach you if I need you, Will?” He deliberately changed the youth’s name. If the boy had an ego …
“I’m here and there. I won’t go far, though. You’ll be able to find me easily enough if you want to.”
> “Well, then, I’ll be talking to you more later.”
Willen’s face split into a big grin. “Thank you, Captain Dumont!” He glanced over at the watching Dragoneyes and gave him the same friendly smile, then sauntered down the ramp, whistling.
Dumont turned his attention to his first mate, and to his surprise found the half-elf watching Willen’s retreat. There was a slight smile on Dragoneyes’ lips. He turned his amber gaze on his captain.
“I like that man, Captain. You could do a lot worse than hire him.” He resumed his whittling.
Dragoneyes’ attitude was curious. The crewman didn’t much like anyone except Dumont, and the captain made a mental note of the half-elf’s comment.
* * * * *
“What do you mean, you are going through the swamp?” Lond demanded.
The mage and the captain were in Dumont’s cabin, a few hours after the last crew candidate had left the ship. The Pirate’s Pleasure was in performance on the deck below them, and strains of the music floated in occasionally. Its sweet, innocent melodies were a vivid contrast with the scene of darkness and death that was playing itself out around Dumont.
For his part, the captain did not permit himself to become angry. He stood, towering over Lond’s slight frame. Even the two dead men who stood at the mage’s side didn’t worry Dumont.
“I mean exactly what I said. You want to get out of Souragne? Fine. You have passage aboard my boat, but La Demoiselle du Musarde is leaving via the swamp. The only thing of interest in this boring little hole has come from there, and I want to find more. I’ve told you how my boat works, what—and who—we use to make her what she is. My goal is to make La Demoiselle legendary.”
“If you travel through that darkness, you will pass into legend!” the mage protested.
“Just what is in there that has everybody so terrified?” Dumont stepped closer, and Lond averted his shadowed face. “You said when we first met that you knew what was in the swamp. Tell me.”
The black-cloaked figure did not reply at once. Then, he chuckled throatily.
“Death, Captain Dumont. Death dwells in the swamp. But Death dwells aboard your lovely showboat, too … death under my control.” He walked behind Brynn, stroking the crewman’s back almost affectionately as he passed.
Both corpses stared ahead impassively. Brynn, in Dumont’s mind, was the real triumph of Lond’s obviously powerful magic. The riverboat captain had seen zombies before. One tended to run into many horrible things if one traveled enough, and Dumont had been steaming up and down dark waterways for over twenty years. Handsome Jack’s appearance had startled him badly, but had not horrified or surprised him.
Brynn, however, was something else again. He was capable of passing for a living being. Dumont had concocted a story about Brynn having contracted swamp fever, an illness that left the red-haired crewman listless and smelling rather foul. The zombie was lifelike enough that no one had questioned the explanation. Lond had promised more such crewmen—crewmen who never ate or complained and who could work tirelessly.
“I am an ambitious man myself, Captain,” Lond resumed. “I appreciate your desires, but a wise man recognizes the value of discretion. You already have the feu follets. They are unique to this place. Are they not enough for you?”
“Oh, so that’s what the little lights are called. Feu follets, you say? Like will-o’-the-wisps, are they?”
Lond’s cloaked body radiated tension. “You can’t seriously be thinking about navigating this huge boat down those tiny waterways.”
Dumont reached for his pipe and leisurely began to pack it. “That is precisely what I’m going to do.”
“Handsome Jack is in no condition to pilot a boat.”
Dumont glanced at the corpse and uttered a harsh, quick laugh. “That’s for certain. I’ve hired a new pilot today, a young man who grew up in the swamp. He’ll get us through safely.”
The captain had not, in fact, actually hired Willen. However, Lond’s reluctance only whet his appetite to explore the swamp, and it would be foolish not to hire the only man who knew the area—and who was willing to travel through the swamp.
Lond fell silent. “You leave me no choice. I wish to leave this island, and I must travel by the route you choose.” He exited without another word. Brynn followed, as did Handsome Jack. Dumont opened the window to let the stench of death escape, lit his pipe, then went to the theater to enjoy the rest of the evening’s show.
The performance went beautifully, and Dumont almost wished that he could linger in Port d’Elhour. Almost. After the show, he asked the cast to remain in the theater while the patrons went up to the main deck to partake of refreshments.
Larissa had no idea what Dumont wished to talk with the cast about, but she was mistrustful. Casilda, however, was excited.
“Maybe we’ll dock here for a long time. The audiences seem to be enjoying themselves, and I know I am,” she gushed.
The dancer shook her head slowly. “I hope so, but I doubt it somehow. Uncle never likes to stay in one place very long.”
Their chatter was cut short as Brynn shuffled toward the back of the room, passing them without sparing a glance. Larissa shuddered to herself. She had never much cared for Brynn, with his icy eyes and aura of tightly leashed violence. After he had recovered from the swamp fever, though, she found him even less appealing. He looked paler than usual, as though the brief illness had sapped his vigor, and moved with a deliberateness that he had never before exhibited. It was obvious he hadn’t bathed in days, too. He seemed polite enough, though of few words. But it was his gaze that really unsettled the young woman. It was a dull stare, quite unlike his customary, piercing scrutiny, as if there was no life behind the brown orbs.
Casilda, too, felt uncomfortable around him. “He gives me the shudders,” she told Larissa in a low voice. Her friend nodded.
Dumont walked onto the stage and faced his cast and crew. “Ladies and gentlemen, I know we’ve enjoyed our time in Port d’Elhour, but there are too few patrons here to make it worth our while. We’ll be in port a few more days, then we’ll be leaving.”
The jovial mood dissipated somewhat. “Into the mists again,” someone muttered.
Dumont heard the comment. “Yes, into the mists. We have traveled them safely before, haven’t we? Before we leave Souragne altogether, I’d like to take a look at what’s on the other side of the island. We’ll be traveling through the swamp to reach the southern parts.”
Low murmuring began to ripple through the room. Some had heard rumors about the swamp, and even those who hadn’t felt little desire to enter the forbidding, muddy waters.
Larissa grew pale, her eyes wide. Airmoss dripping from the trees … snakes twined around trunks of brooding cypress … dark waters, broken only by some hidden creature dwelling in the depths … dancing lights that called to her … Angrily, she shook her head to clear the eerie images from her mind.
Dumont ignored the reaction of his cast. “We have someone who’ll take us safely through. Will, come up here. I’d like to introduce you to my cast and crew.” Beaming paternally, he motioned the young man forward.
Smiling sheepishly, Willen joined Dumont on the stage. His eyes found Larissa’s, and the smile widened. He gave her a wink.
“Well, he’s quite handsome,” Casilda whispered, “even if he is a bit bold. Did you see that wink?”
Larissa nodded, feeling a blush creep to her cheeks.
The dancer hadn’t ever really expected to see the strange young man again, and at this moment wasn’t sure that it was fortuitous. Handsome? Yes, she supposed he was that, especially with the light catching the glimmer of mirth in his brown eyes. But he aroused in her more than admiration with that smile and those deep eyes, and the feeling was disconcerting. He threatened to thoroughly disrupt the comfortable routine into which Larissa had fallen over the last eight years. Through her doubt and strange attraction, one emotion welled to the surface: she was suddenly quite glad that he
was on La Demoiselle.
She came back to herself with a start and realized that Dumont had been introducing Willen. Larissa frowned to herself. Dumont never introduced a new crewman to the cast, much less encouraged him to mingle with them, as the young man was now doing. She raised a white eyebrow, watching the youth chatting animatedly with everyone from Gelaar to Sardan.
“Well, I’m going to say hello,” announced Casilda, smoothing her raven curls. Larissa grinned, but hung back a bit. She suspected that Dumont wouldn’t be nearly as fond of his newest crewman if he guessed that Willen and Larissa had already met—and under what circumstances.
“And this is Dragoneyes,” continued Dumont. Willen stuck out a big hand. The half-elf hesitated, then shook it. A slow, tentative smile spread across his sharp features.
“Welcome aboard,” he said in tones that sounded like he truly meant the words.
Willen stared openly at the feature that had given Dragoneyes his nickname. “Your pupils are slitted, just like a snake’s!” he exclaimed. “How interesting! Why are they like that?”
Larissa shuddered in distaste. The analogy she’d used, when she thought about it, was a cat. Cats were much more pleasant than snakes.
There was a sudden silence. Dumont’s righthand man was almost as much feared and avoided as the captain himself. No one had ever dared ask Dragoneyes about his curious eyes before. For a moment, no one moved. Dumont himself waited for the half-elf’s reply.
Then Dragoneyes smiled again. “My mother always said my father was a snake. ’Course, there are some that said he was a monster, but never to her face. Glad I got my mother’s teeth, though. Kind of hard to chew with fangs.”
Out of profound relief, everyone laughed much harder than the joke warranted—everyone except for Willen, who squeezed Dragoneyes’ hand one last time and gave him a look of tremendous pity. Only the first mate and the observant Larissa noticed. A shadow of pain brushed across the half-elf’s face for a moment, then was replaced by the emotionless mask.
“Dragoneyes, I’m going to take Will downstairs and teach him how to handle the supplies.”
Dance of the Dead Page 10
