“The baron?”
“Exactly.”
Dumont clenched his teeth, furious that his guess had been correct. He forced himself to stay calm.
“Congratulations, my dear. Best of luck in your new life.” His mind worked swiftly. Liza had an ego the size of Darkon. She’d not give up the stage quite so easily. If there were some way to tempt her into staying on, at least for a while.…
The actress’s smile grew. “Oh, but that’s not all. You’re not only losing your leading lady. You’re losing your Demoiselle—you damned slaver,” she hissed.
Dumont went rigid.
“I know what you keep in the storage room. And this mirror here—” she brushed at her hair in front of the wardrobe mirror “—well, Gelaar will be relieved that his daughter didn’t run away with that sell-sword in Mordent after all, won’t he? I’m sure the good elven folk of Nevuchar Springs will be delighted to apprehend a slave ship.”
Fear and anger shot through Dumont. He’d be ruined. Twenty years spent traveling, carefully building the reputation of La Demoiselle du Musarde. That was all at risk now, thanks to one petulant soprano.
“I’ve got you on the run now, haven’t I, Raoul? You’ve slithered away from me like the snake you are before, but, oh, yes, I’ve got you now!”
He moved toward her, and she carefully placed between them the small table at which he had been studying. Her cheeks were flushed and her green eyes sparkling. Her low-cut dress, the same one she had worn at dinner, revealed the tops of her breasts. She was absolutely stunning in her rage.
“For the last two years, I’ve watched you eyeing Larissa when you think nobody sees. I don’t know why you haven’t tried anything on her yet, but you’re not going to now. What else have you got in that hold, Raoul?”
Something chilled to ice inside Dumont at the mention of Larissa’s name. Even more than Liza’s threats to expose him, her accusations of his intentions toward Larissa enraged him. His green eyes, which had been snapping fire, suddenly went cold.
“Oh, many things worth seeing,” he said quietly. “A pseudodragon, though it’s more trouble than it’s worth, and one of those rare colorcats they told us about in G’Henna. I’ve an owl maid, a nereid, and a host of other magical creatures. It’s quite a collection, and it’s made my boat the wonder it is.”
Slowly he walked around the table toward her, one big hand casually reaching to pick up a white scarf he had draped on the bedpost. Liza’s anger evaporated, and she took a half-step backward toward the door.
“This scarf,” continued the captain, “belonged to the nereid. It’s mine now, and so is she. As for you—well, you’re a pretty thing, Liza. Baron Tahlyn has excellent taste. We’re going to miss that fabulous voice. You were a treasure, but a bit expensive to maintain.”
Liza was frightened now, and when Dumont lunged at her she reacted swiftly. She shoved a chair in Dumont’s path, slowing him down but not stopping him, and fled for the door.
“Help!” she cried, unaware that nothing could be heard outside once the door was closed. Dumont cursed as he regained his balance and went after her. He hadn’t locked the door, and if she got out—
With a gasp, the terrified singer tugged the door open.
Dragoneyes was there. He seized Liza and clamped a hand across her mouth, leaning back against the door to shut it. Liza struggled vainly, and in a heartbeat Dumont had reached her, wrapping the magical white scarf about the singer’s throat and jerking it tight. She fought briefly, but at last she sagged and her falling body tugged the silky material free from his hands.
Panting, Dumont looked at Dragoneyes. The half-elf regarded him evenly. There was no hint of condemnation in those golden orbs.
“She knew about the collection, and that damned baron proposed to her. She was going to marry him and turn me over to the people of Nevuchar Springs.”
“Elf folk’d hang you for sure for slaving,” answered Dragoneyes. He glanced down at the limp body. “I’ll miss her singing. Her understudy’ll be pleased, though. What should we do with the body?”
A cruel smile twisted Dumont’s lips. “I have a great idea.… ”
Yes, Dumont mused to himself now as the alcohol finally began to hit him, he’d had a great idea that had gone more wrong than he could possibly imagine.
“Liza, m’dear,” he slurred, “if your cursed ghost haunts my boat, I’ll bet you’re damn pleased with the way things are working out.”
He took another long pull at the almost empty bottle. As he did so, he told himself that the peal of vindictive laughter he heard in his head was only his whiskey-soaked imagination.
* * * * *
A loud crash of thunder woke Willen. He blinked sleepily, confused for a moment, then remembered he needed to get up to the pilothouse. The rain was coming down heavily now, and he winced inwardly. The swamp was a bad place to be when it rained. As he had told Larissa, the folk of Port d’Elhour called it “Death’s riding weather,” and he knew just how right they were.
He yawned and rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand. Curious thing, sleep, he mused to himself. It had been difficult at first for Willen to understand the human need for sleep, undeniable though it was. How odd that the body would simply stop cooperating, that the mind would refuse to focus, until the human lay down and turned off conscious thought for a few hours. He dressed, splashed some cold water on his face, and stepped out into the downpour.
He had been up in the pilothouse for only a few moments when Sardan knocked on the door.
“I come bearing gifts, O lucky pilot,” the tenor said, setting down a tray laden with a pot of tea, two cups, bread, and slices of meat. “And if my lady has stayed where I left her … yes, here she is—” he beamed as he withdrew his mandolin from the stairway “—you’ll have food for the body and food for the soul.” Sardan poured a mugful of steaming tea and handed it to Willen, who took it gratefully.
“I heard the captain tell you to go on duty in this horrible weather, so I thought I’d come up and entertain you,” he explained as he poured a cup of tea for himself.
Willen smiled at him, touched. “Thank you, Sardan.”
The handsome bard grimaced. “Don’t get any rumors started or my reputation will be ruined,” he joked.
Willen took a sip of the fragrant tea, savoring its taste, then set it aside and addressed himself to his task.
There were no lights in the pilothouse at night. It was easier to navigate by the moon and starlight outside, though the rain made certain there was little enough of that. Sardan sat in the back, shadowed in darkness, strumming his mandolin. Willen’s mind began to wander.
Lond had turned the majority of the crew into undead minions. The only ones spared were the cooking staff and those that piloted the ship—Willen, Tane, and Jahedrin. Willen assumed that Lond recognized that the pilots had to have fast reflexes in order to deal with any problems the capricious river might hurl their way.
With the exception of Casilda, the cast of the play remained untouched. It didn’t make sense to Willen. While he rejoiced that they had not fallen victim to Lond’s evil, he couldn’t understand why they had been spared. The more zombies on the boat, the better, as far as the evil wizard was concerned. So why leave the cast alone? They, and the few living crewmen, sensed that there was something amiss. They seemed to believe the “swamp fever” story, but Willen wondered how long it would take before somebody figured out what was really going on.
Sardan finished one song that Willen recognized from The Pirate’s Pleasure and started on another one. The pilot gritted his teeth.
“Don’t you know anything but the score from the show?” he asked the tenor, annoyed.
“Of course I do,” replied Sardan testily. “I used to be a bard, you know. A long time ago, before I gave in to the easy life. Captain won’t hear any music aboard La Demoiselle other than what’s in the score. And nobody but cast members can sing. It’s a direct order.”
Wi
llen’s eyes widened, and he was glad of the darkness in the pilothouse so that Sardan couldn’t see his reaction. He remembered visiting the prisoners and hearing strains of Rose’s solo. What he’d seen of Dumont’s magic was also linked to music.
“Is The Pirate’s Pleasure a traditional play?” Willen asked, trying not to sound overanxious as his idea began to take shape.
At that, Sardan laughed aloud. “It’s a pretty poor show. Anything traditional would have to be a lot better to last more than a week. No, the tragic tale of Florian and Rose is our good captain’s own creation. Although, to be fair, it’s not bad for an amateur.”
Willen’s grin was enormous now. He had guessed correctly. If Dumont had written the score, then the songs from the musical were probably laced with magical words and notes. He’d have to tell the Maiden about this, and fast. The cast rehearsed every afternoon, and each time the spell was performed the bonds holding the prisoners would grow stronger.
FIFTEEN
“It has no form,” the Maiden whispered softly as Larissa floated quietly in the pool. “It expands to fill the container. Become the container. Take water into you, Larissa. Feel it inside of you, feel it in your hands, your head, your body. Know that it is part of you, that it cannot hurt you. Now, when you are ready, perform the dance and feel the water in your lungs.”
Lying quietly in the spring, keeping her eyes closed, her mind tranquil, Larissa reached up and ran her fingers through her hair. Air, she thought. She contracted her stomach muscles and undulated just enough so that her head was beneath the surface. Water, she thought. Breathe …
Larissa flailed, bolting for the surface and coughing desperately.
“I simply don’t understand why this is so difficult for you,” the Maiden said. “Come out and try again. Don’t jerk—roll your hips.”
Larissa’s lungs hurt, but she obediently climbed out of the pool. She tried, but she had been practicing all morning and was so tired that she wasn’t even able to come close to emulating her teacher’s liquid movements. The Maiden sighed.
“Rest for a while, my dear. We’ll try again this afternoon. You must master water. That is the primary element in Souragne.”
She held out her hands to Larissa, and the girl eagerly helped herself to the ripe fruit the Maiden offered. As Larissa bit into a peach, the juice running down her chin, the Maiden cocked her head.
“We have visitors,” she told her student. Larissa got to her feet, gazing in the direction of the river. A small canoe came into sight, bearing Deniri and a tall, muscular man clad in swamp-soiled rags. They negotiated the strong current expertly, docking easily and pulling the boat well onto the shore.
The man looked to be in his early fifties, but it was hard for Larissa to tell. The shaggy gray beard could have belonged to an old man, but the muscles that swelled beneath the tattered shreds of clothing and the twinkling gray eyes set in the weatherworn face attested to a more youthful age.
“Greetings, Kaedrin, Deniri. Thank you for coming. I disturb you only because of our great necessity,” said the Maiden as the pair approached.
Before anyone else had a chance to speak, a weasel stuck its head out of one of the man’s pockets. It fixed the Maiden with bright eyes, whiskers twitching, then dived back into the warm comfort of the pocket. As if the weasel’s emergence had been a cue, two mice emerged from another pocket and sniffed about cautiously. A harsh caw distracted Larissa’s attention in time to see a magnificent raven swoop down from a nearby tree to perch on the man’s shoulder.
Kaedrin smiled at the raven and stroked the ebony head gently with a respectful touch. He turned toward Larissa and gazed at the dancer for a moment.
“Greetings, Whitemane Larissa,” he said formally. “Kaedrin, son of Mailir, son of Ash-Tari, is at your service.”
Larissa opened her mouth to reply, then froze. A large snake, covered with rust-colored diamond patches, twined its way into the sunlight from the man’s shirt. A black tongue flickered, scenting Larissa, and beady eyes fixed her in a cold, reptilian stare.
“Child, what—oh,” Kaedrin said, suddenly comprehending. “I know she’s poisonous, but we’re good friends. She’ll not harm you.” Completely unafraid, the ranger picked up the slowly twisting serpent and held it out toward Larissa. “Just pat her and—”
“No!” the dancer cried. Fear swelled inside her. “Get it away.… ”
“She obviously dislikes snakes, Kaedrin,” said the Maiden gently. Abashed, the ranger reinserted the snake into his shirt.
“I’m sorry,” Larissa apologized. She felt her cheeks flush with embarrassment and hastened to explain. “It’s just—”
“No need,” said Kaedrin quickly. “When I return, I’ll come without some of my friends, eh?” He smiled warmly at her. “We must go. Deniri and I have hunting to do. Larissa, we will bring you back some of our kill. The Maiden can’t conjure a good roast rabbit.” He turned without another word, and he and the pretty minx walked hand in hand back to their canoe.
“After meeting Longears, I don’t know if I can eat roast rabbit,” Larissa said to the Maiden.
The Maiden shrugged. “Life and death are a part of the natural cycle. If one of his people may provide sustenance for you, Longears will not be angry. Wasteful killing, where none benefit—that is another matter. That is a violation of the balance.”
Larissa finished her meal quietly, lying on her back and gazing at the blue sky. After all too short a time, the Maiden stood over her. “Come, Larissa. Fire, I think, will be your next lesson.”
The dancer groaned, but sat up.
* * * * *
The new scouting party turned up as empty-handed as the one before. Dumont was starting to truly worry about the fate of his ward. Lond was no help. He had closeted himself in his cabin, unable or unwilling to locate Larissa through magic.
Dumont swore to himself and took another pull at the whiskey bottle. He had always been fond of liquor, but now he found that its warm haze took away some of the strange pangs of regret that were beginning to haunt him since Larissa’s disappearance.
His mind wandered as he lay sprawled on his bed, one brawny arm behind his head and the other balancing the bottle on his chest. For the first time since he had laid eyes on Larissa, Dumont wondered if the young woman might not have been better off if he had left her with her father.
Her father. Dumont had spotted the man right away that night when he came aboard La Demoiselle.…
Aubrey Helson had worn the gaunt, haggard look of a man who was harried by his own personal demons. The man was thin to the point of emaciation, his pale face covered with stubble, and his eyes blinked rapidly as he spoke. Helson’s clothes had obviously once been fine. Equally as obvious was the fact that the man’s fortunes had been spiraling downward for some time now.
It had been no effort at all for Dumont to entice the man into a game of “Lords and Ladies.” In the lounge area, surrounded by the beauty of wrought brass, polished wood, and stained-glass windows, they each acquired a drink and a handful of tokens. They played a few rounds, and Dumont swiftly got a feel for his opponent. He threw the first two games, and Helson’s pleasure as his pile of tokens grew was most satisfying to the captain.
Still, Helson’s hands shook as he held his cards, and he drained his glass rapidly and often. So, Dumont mused to himself, gambling and liquor are the names of his demons. The captain drew a card, looked at it without changing expression, and inserted it into his hand.
“Papa,” Larissa said softly, draping a slim arm about her father’s shoulder, “may I dance outside? I’m tired of sitting.”
Helson dragged his bloodshot eyes away from the cards and gazed up at his daughter. A smile tugged at his mouth. The gesture took years off his haunted face.
“Well, let’s see if that’s all right with the captain.” He glanced over the table at Dumont, and the furtive look resettled on his features.
“By all means,” Dumont beamed. “I’d like
to watch you sometime, my dear, if I may. After all, there are worse things to do with your life than become a dancer aboard a showboat.”
Larissa’s blue eyes lit up, and she smiled. A blush crept across her face. What an uncommonly pretty child, Dumont thought to himself. And that long white hair … uncommon indeed. “Thank you, Captain Dumont. I’ll try not to disturb anybody,” she said politely, and hastened outside.
With a mock sigh, Dumont spread out his hand. “Your win again, my friend. Perhaps that pretty child of yours is Lady Luck in disguise.”
Helson glanced after his daughter fondly. “She’s been my best luck ever since she was born,” he said, his voice soft.
Briskly Dumont reached for the pack of cards and began to shuffle them expertly. “Another round?” he queried nonchalantly.
“Oh, yes!” exclaimed Helson, his eyes too bright. Dumont nodded to himself. Time to make the kill, he thought.
He dealt the cards, keeping up an easy banter that distracted the gambler from the delicate movements of the captain’s fingers. Dumont had magically marked the cards, and each one radiated a different sensation to his knowing fingers. He gathered his own hand and perused the faces.
The goal of “Lords and Ladies” was to collect as many female cards as possible, preferably ones of high rank. Only two women smiled up at him from the cards, none of whom were Ladies of Power.
The captain concentrated, rubbing the cards slightly with his thumb, and the faces shimmered and changed. Now Dumont held the Lady of the Sea, the Star Queen, Earth’s Daughter, and the Fire Maiden. He left the comparatively weak card, Hearthkeeper, unchanged and decided to hold onto the handsome River Lord. Helson, the captain knew, had only one Lady of Power—the Dark Lady—and the rest were all common suit cards. He suppressed a smile.
The hour wore on. The cards Helson drew were good, but not good enough to surpass Dumont’s cheating magic. Helson grew paler and paler, and when Dumont spread his hand and the gambler laid down his own pathetic set of cards, the color was nearly gone from his face.
Dance of the Dead Page 18
