Dance of the Dead

by Christie Golden

  Dragoneyes raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure, Captain?”

  Dumont frowned. He didn’t like his judgment questioned, not even by Dragoneyes, and certainly not in front of the cast and crew.

  “Of course I’m sure. And tell Jahedrin that I want Will instructed in piloting. He’s big enough to manage the wheel, and he’s going to be our guide. He ought to know how to handle the boat. The rest of you,” he said, addressing the cast and crew who still pressed about Willen, “on deck. We’ve patrons waiting.”

  Larissa turned to leave with the others, but a hand closed on her arm. “Miss Snowmane,” said Willen as she turned to face him, “I just wanted to say how nice it is to finally meet you after watching you perform.”

  His face and voice revealed nothing but courteous sincerity, and a surge of relief at his discretion went through Larissa.

  “Thank you,” she replied in a like tone. At the last minute, she remembered to use the nickname the captain had given him, not the name he had used to introduce himself. “Welcome aboard La Demoiselle du Musarde, Will.” She smiled politely at Dumont, then went up to the main deck.

  Willen and Dumont watched her go. “Of all the many treasures on my boat, she is the brightest. Do you find her beautiful, Will?”

  “Anyone would, sir.”

  Dumont laughed. “A perfect answer, both complimentary and cautious. I’ll tell you what I tell all my men—keep your hands off her and you’ll keep your hands. Now, as to our present business.” He turned to face the youth, his arms folded across his chest. “La Demoiselle’s a showboat. We entertain. And the better we can make our entertainment, the more profit we turn. Simple enough. You’ve seen the show. The elf Gelaar is responsible for some of the wonderful effects. But that’s not all there is to this boat, not by any means.”

  He strode to a door at the back of the theater. It was fairly well concealed, painted to blend in with the rest of the wall, but certainly not hidden. Dumont fished out a large ring of keys and located the appropriate one. He inserted it into the lock and whistled a series of notes. The key started to glow faintly, and the door unlocked. Willen raised an inquiring eyebrow.

  “It’s a key, certainly, but it’s also magical,” Dumont explained, pulling the door open and descending a small, dark stairway. Willen followed. “There are certain notes you have to whistle, which I’ll teach you later. The door can’t be opened without both the key and the song.”

  As they descended into the darkness, Dumont whistled again and the key ring began to glow, illuminating their way with a gentle blue light. Dumont glanced back at Willen.

  “I know all this magic must be disconcerting to you, but you’ll get used to it. La Demoiselle practically teems with magic, and she damn well ought to, after all the years of effort I’ve put into her.”

  The stairs ended, and Willen looked around. The large room contained boxes, pieces of equipment, extra chairs, tools, sacks of flour, and other items.

  “We often have to travel for long periods of time between towns,” Dumont said, “and I don’t like to be caught short. This is the main storage area. Back here’s where we keep the livestock.” Dumont turned to another door and opened it with a magical key, motioning for Willen to enter.

  Without warning the young man found himself sprawled facedown on a pile of hay. He heard the door slam behind him and hastened to get up, but Dumont planted a heavy boot on his neck.

  “You’ll get up slowly, my lad, and take a good look around. If I’m not satisfied with your reaction, you don’t leave this room alive.”

  The captain removed his boot. Hardly breathing, Willen rose, easing himself into a sitting position. Only then did he look around the room.

  It was about the same size as the first storage room. The only illumination came from Dumont’s keys, though there were a few empty sconces on the walls. The floor was covered with dirty hay, and Willen saw the livestock that Dumont had mentioned—two calves, several chickens, a few sheep, and pigs. They stared back at him without curiosity. It was not the ordinary livestock that stunned the young man, however. The startling thing was the other creatures also kept in the dark, close room.

  La Demoiselle was obviously a showboat. It was also a slave galley.

  A small, slight, dark-haired human woman was shackled to the walls. She might have been pretty once, but now she was emaciated and dirty, and only dull fear burned in her large, unusually round eyes as she regarded Willen. Her clothes hung in tattered rags about her bony frame.

  A gigantic fox, the size of one of the calves, lay in one corner. As he glared at Dumont, a low rumble began in his throat. He, too, was securely chained, and a harness of sorts crisscrossed his white breast.

  In a golden cage hung from the ceiling a raven huddled. Nearby, a black cat with a leather collar was busy grooming itself. Its chain was just short enough to prevent it attacking the raven. It tried to studiously ignore Dumont and Willen. At one point, though, it paused in its cleaning and fixed the two intruding humans with a gaze that radiated hatred.

  As Willen watched, the animal’s fur began to change color. A bright blue began at its tail and bled across its body, and the creature hissed, flattening its ears. Willen saw that its incisors were twice as long as those of a normal cat. The sound awakened a reptile that looked like a miniature dragon. Confined to a small, barred cage, the creature raised its red, scaly head and narrowed its gold eyes as it looked at Dumont.

  “You see before you my collection,” Dumont drawled. “Each of these creatures contributes something of value to the boat or to me personally. I’ve harvested them from all over. Let me introduce you. This pretty thing,” he said, kneeling by the brunette woman, “is an owl maid from Falkovnia. When I permit her, she becomes a night bird and scouts ahead for me. Isn’t that right, Yelusa, my sweet?” He reached out and stroked her grimy cheek possessively. She stayed quiet and unresisting, her eyes lowered.

  Dumont rose and continued. “The fox is from Richemulot. The fellow has staggering speed. I can tap it for the boat when I need to make a hasty exit. Bushtail, are you hungry? Hmmm?” The fox regarded him with glittering eyes. “We haven’t fed him for two days now. He’s been uncooperative recently. Bet you’d love one of those chickens right now, wouldn’t you?”

  Bushtail bared his teeth. “You bastard,” he growled. “I would sink my teeth into you, except you are so wicked you would make me sick. Bah!” The fox shook his head as if to get a bad taste from his mouth.

  The captain only laughed and went on. “The ravenkin hails from Barovia, and he knows more about the history of every land hereabouts than any other creature I’ve run across. He knows better than to lie to me, don’t you, Skreesha?”

  The bird cawed, but no noise issued forth. Dumont chuckled. “The cage keeps him silent. His knowledge is only for me, not his fellow prisoners.

  “Colorcats,” he continued, “are extremely rare. They’re found only in G’Henna. Their fur is invaluable to Gelaar’s illusion spells. The pseudodragon, whom I picked up in Mordent, will occasionally cooperate in my spell casting—when he’s been hurt enough.”

  The captain turned his gaze toward his newest crewman. “So, Will, are you impressed with my collection?”

  The youth searched Dumont’s eyes, then looked around at the prisoners. “Impressed is hardly the word,” he said slowly. He stuck out his hand, and Dumont hauled him to his feet. “What you’ve done is truly amazing, Captain Dumont. And I see that you’ve already found the feu follets.”

  Dumont’s eyes narrowed. “What do you know about them?”

  Willen smiled. “A lot. I’m from the swamp, remember? Feu follets are related to will-o’-the-wisps, except instead of feeding on pain and unhappiness, they live on good feelings. Perfect for your showboat.”

  Dumont grinned avariciously. He had made the right choice in hiring this young man. Willen couldn’t have reacted better if he had read the captain’s mind.

  “Are there other creatures in the sw
amp that you think we could use?”

  The youth’s smile widened. “Hundreds,” he said. “And I can take you right to them.”

  “Will, you almost make me believe in the gods again.”

  “There are those in the swamp, too.”

  Dumont threw back his head and laughed.

  * * * * *

  An hour later, Willen bade good night to his new employer and retired to his cabin. Alone, he closed the door, locked it, then pressed his flushed face up against the cool wood. He let down the barrier he had erected for the evening, and a tidal wave of emotions flooded him, causing him to gasp and then sob with pain. Uncaring, he slid down the door, shaking as tears poured down his face.

  During the time he had been in Dumont’s livestock area, he had been buffeted with the prisoners’ emotions. Some of them had been chained down there for years. He felt their physical pain and emotional anguish, their despair, their hatred. The young man let himself weep until he had regained a finger hold on control, then rose shakily. He poured some water into a basin and splashed his face, forcing himself to calm down.

  A few minutes later, Willen left the cabin and went down to the main deck. The guests had returned to their homes on shore, and the cast and crew had retired for the night. Only a watchman or two patrolled a lazy route about the boat. As nonchalantly as possible, Willen strolled up to the railing and leaned over, ostensibly gazing at the waxing moon’s reflection in the gently rolling water.

  As soon as they felt his presence, the little lights held in magical chains to the boat began to shine more brightly. Their colors changed swiftly, and they crowded as close to Willen as their magical bonds would let them. Again, Willen felt tears sting his eyes and hastily blinked them back. He glanced around. Fortunately, he was alone for the moment.

  Willen extended his big hand toward one of the lights. Its radiance increased, and it blinked quickly. An answering light began to glow softly from the ring on the youth’s right hand. He accepted the creature’s comfort and felt the ice in his chest begin to melt.

  “Oh, my brothers, I am so sorry,” he whispered.

  NINE

  “ ’Morning, Miss Snowmane,” Willen chirped.

  Larissa, hastening up the stairs on her way back from breakfast, smiled briefly at him and stepped aside to let him pass. Instead, Willen appeared to miss a step and bumped into her heavily. She stumbled, barely catching her balance, then felt his boot slide along her ankle. The dancer crashed to the stairs in a graceless heap, staring up at the new crewman with a startled and irritated expression. He had deliberately tripped her!

  “Oh, Miss Snowmane!” Willen exclaimed as he grabbed her hands and pulled her to her feet, “I am so sorry! That was very clumsy of me! Are you all right?”

  His expression was concerned and chagrined, but not overly so. Something crinkled against Larissa’s palm, and her hand closed over a small piece of paper. Suddenly Willen’s eyes were not casually polite, but leaping with an intense light.

  Larissa found her tongue. “Why, yes, Will, I’m fine. Thank you. If you’ll excuse me?” She swept coolly past him, her hand clutching the scrap of paper he had slipped her. Larissa waited until she was safely in her cabin with the door locked before unfolding Willen’s note with trembling hands.

  Miss Snowmane,

  I have to speak to you on a matter of the utmost importance. My shift ends soon, and I will be waiting for you at the Two Hares in an hour.

  Please come.

  Larissa sat on her bed, thinking and chewing her lower lip. She read the message twice, then set the paper in a small dish and touched a candle flame to it. The paper twisted as it burned, smoking and turning black. Larissa watched, but her mind was not on the burning paper.

  She knew she ought to just leave well enough alone, that to get any more involved with the handsome young crewman simply meant trouble.

  Nevertheless, an hour later she was waiting outside the Two Hares.

  Despite the sultriness of the day, she had pulled on a lightweight cloak and tugged the hood low over her head. Her white hair was unmistakable, and she wanted no word of her whereabouts to drift back to Dumont’s eager ears.

  “I’m so glad you came,” said Willen’s warm, sweet voice. She turned, a bit startled. She had not heard him approach. He extended a hand and Larissa hesitated, then took it.

  “Your hand,” she gasped as she felt its roughness on her palm. She glanced down and saw that his palm was crusted with scabs from recent and present blisters. Where the skin was not lacerated it was as soft and pink as her own. Quickly Willen clenched his fist.

  “Come,” he said softly. “It wouldn’t do for any of the captain’s men to see me with you.”

  “Where are we going?”

  Willen hesitated, then said, “Someplace where I can be sure we’ll be safe.”

  Larissa narrowed her eyes, slightly suspicious, but Willen was already walking swiftly away from the inn. Questions tumbled in her mind like an avalanche, but she held her tongue.

  They walked in silence for a time, striding down the road. As on the night she and Dumont had left the market square, the business area of the town fell away. However, Willen was not taking them to mansions or plantations, but into a much wilder area.

  Larissa began to grow apprehensive. The earth was becoming increasingly soggy. She kept her voice steady when she asked “Willen, are you taking me to the swamp?”

  He nodded. “It’s safe there. We—”

  Larissa stopped, anger flashing in her blue eyes. “I am going nowhere near that horrible place.” She turned on her heel and marched back along the road, her back rigid and her stride swift.

  He was beside her in an instant, his hands warm and strong on her shoulders. “Because of what happened there when you were a child. I’m sorry. I didn’t think.”

  She twisted, pulling free and turning to face him. “Who told you about that?”

  He seemed uncomfortable. “No one.” She threw him a disgusted look and walked on. “Larissa, wait. You’re in danger!”

  “Spin me another tale.”

  He grew agitated, almost frantic. “You have to believe me. You could be killed, or—You have to trust me on this. Did I let you down before?”

  Her steps slowed, halted. He was right. He had never given her any cause to doubt him, up to this very moment. She turned to face him, still skeptical.

  “Let me prove that you can trust me. Give me your hand.”

  Slowly, reluctantly, Larissa did so. Swiftly he covered it with his and gazed into her eyes, penetrating, it seemed, to her very soul. She stared back, hardly breathing, transfixed.

  “Your hair wasn’t always this color. It turned white when you were a child, here in Souragne.”

  She nodded, and he continued. “You didn’t grow up in a real home, because your father was always traveling. When you were twelve, he ran off and left you, and since then, the showboat has been your home. The only thing you’ve kept from your childhood is a silver locket, with a scrap of your own blond hair in it.

  “You hear drums from the swamp at night, but you don’t tell anyone about it because no one else seems to hear them.” He paused, his hands tightening about hers, his dark eyes gazing into her soul. “I hear them, Larissa.”

  Her mouth went suddenly dry.

  “You haven’t wept since you were twelve. You’re afraid of tears, afraid of being weak, scared to death that weakness will be your downfall.”

  The dancer gasped. It was her dark, hard, proud secret, that terror of tears. There was no way Willen could have known about this, not unless—

  “You said I’m in danger,” Larissa whispered. “Go on, then. I’m listening.”

  * * * * *

  It was a glorious sunset, and Casilda lingered a few minutes longer than usual to enjoy the spectacle. She propped her elbows up on the railing and rested her slightly round cheek on her hands.

  Here in Souragne, it seemed that the sun was closer than it was in
some of the other lands that La Demoiselle had visited. The island was the warmest place Casilda had ever traveled, certainly, and as the sun neared the horizon it appeared enormous to the young woman. Slowly, in its orange and yellow glory, the orb began to sink below the horizon. The sky’s hues cooled, taking on twilight shades. The water turned a darker color, too. Casilda enjoyed the sight, but her thoughts started drifting toward Larissa.

  Casilda and Larissa had been the closest of friends for the last two years, ever since the singer had joined La Demoiselle in Valachan. Larissa was easy company. She never seemed to have any problems, and Casilda envied her that. She, on the other hand, had wept on the dancer’s shoulder many a time, but had never had to return the favor. This morning, when Larissa had left for a stroll in town, she seemed uneasy. She hadn’t returned yet, either. Casilda hoped her friend was all right. She probably was; Larissa knew how to take care of herself.

  The sun was almost gone. With a sigh, she turned away, ready to go to her cabin and prepare for the evening’s performance.

  “Hey, Casilda!” came Sardan’s voice. “Can you do me a favor?” His cabin door was partially open, and he peered out at her as he fiddled with the ties on his voluminous shirt. “I left my mandolin in the pilothouse. Can you get it for me?”

  Sardan often played for the pilots. It kept them awake and alert during what could often be a rather dull shift, and the hardworking crewmen appreciated it.

  Casilda frowned. “Sardan, my dear, I have to make the same curtain time as you, and I haven’t even started dressing.”

  His boyish face grew pleading. “Oh, come on. Please? I don’t have my trousers on.”

  “You know cast members aren’t allowed in the pilothouse. You’re the only exception. The captain will be furious.”

  “It’s an off shift right now. Nobody’ll be there. It’s right by the—”

  “Oh, all right.”

  “Casilda, beloved, my heart is yours.”

  “Mine and every other woman’s,” the singer retorted. She was annoyed, but she hastened to the task and scurried up to the sun deck. She glanced around to make sure there was no one about, then quickly ascended the stairs to the pilothouse.