Dance of the Dead

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Dance of the Dead Page 26

by Christie Golden


  “This is my fault,” he moaned. “All my fault.” He began to cry in harsh, racking sobs. He glanced up when Dragoneyes entered. Catching his breath, Willen summoned anger to replace the grief. “What do you want now?”

  “Willen, can you hear me?”

  The feu follet gasped. Dragoneyes’ mouth had moved, but the voice that issued forth had been Larissa’s! He almost shouted for joy, then grew suspicious. “Is this a trick? Pretty clever, Lond, but it won’t work.”

  “It’s really me, Beloved. Remember when you shared your name with me?”

  “Yes, I told you,” he said, still cautious.

  Dragoneyes shook his head. “Your fellow feu follets showed me.”

  “How can you speak through the dead? Larissa, what’s happened? Are you—”

  “Love, I’m fine. Listen to me. I can’t keep this up much longer. We’ll be coming soon, and I need to know everything you can tell me about Lond and Dumont. What’s happening there now? I can’t see you, I can only hear you.”

  “I’m in the slave hold. Can you get Dragoneyes to release us?”

  “No. He’ll say what I say, but he’ll only do what he’s used to doing. If I force him to free you, I’ll lose all contact.”

  “Well, at least you can hear me. They’ve been torturing Bouki and me for information. We’re both all right, though,” he lied. He glanced over at the rabbit, winced, and looked away. Bouki had started on his other forepaw and was sitting in a scarlet puddle of his own blood.

  “We’re located past the storage area, in the livestock hold,” the feu follet continued. “Dumont keeps a key in his room. You can get here either by going through the theater, or else there’s a trap door in the floor of Dumont’s cabin. Lond’s well prepared. The Maiden will know what I mean by that. He has all kinds of bottles and candles and—”

  “How are you imprisoned?”

  “Just shackles for me. The rest of us are in cages or harnesses, some magical, some not.”

  “Courage, Beloved. It will not be too much longer now.” Dragoneyes fell silent, then turned slowly and left, locking the door behind him. Willen felt disappointment and fear stab through him at the thought of the dancer’s power to manipulate the dead.

  “Oh, Larissa,” he whispered to himself. “What kind of bargain have you struck?”

  TWENTY-TWO

  “I hate moss,” Jahedrin muttered as he peered at the dark, swampy water through the spokes of the wheel.

  The pilot did indeed hate the gray-green airmoss that draped itself like a shroud across the trees. He hated the twisted, hunching cypress trees, too, and the tea-colored water that seemed to be more mud than liquid. The pilot hated the shallowness of the waterway—seldom did the depth exceed “mark one,” or six feet—and the sickly sweet smell of the place.

  More than anything else, though, Jahedrin hated what the fetid air of Souragne had done to his fellow crewmen. All but the pilots and the kitchen staff walked around with empty eyes and mechanical movements. “Seems like that swamp fever sucked the souls right out of ’em,” Tane had said just yesterday. “D’you remember the story that pilot back in Invidia told us?”

  “Yes,” Jahedrin had replied. “About the man who walked in his sleep and still navigated the boat better than anybody else aboard.”

  Tane nodded. “Except that Invidian fellow said he wasn’t asleep. Said he was dead.” He looked at his friend archly. “Kinda makes you wonder, don’t it?”

  The idea had so disturbed Jahedrin that he had to pummel his fellow pilot until the fear had gone.

  Now Jahedrin rolled his head back and forth, trying to loosen his tense neck and shoulders. Another thing the pilot hated was the night shift aboard La Demoiselle. It hadn’t been so bad when Handsome Jack, and then Willen, had been rotated in and out. Now that Handsome Jack had been killed back in Port d’Elhour and Willen had disappeared, it was up to Jahedrin and Tane. Jahedrin rubbed his bleary eyes and peered ahead into the green, gray, and black shadows that were the swamp.

  The pilot’s hands lay lightly on the huge steering wheel of La Demoiselle, and a slight gesture was all that was needed to keep the boat on course.

  “Thanks, Sardan,” he said aloud to the bard who kept him company. “I think I’d fall asleep up here if you didn’t come and play for me.”

  The blond singer strummed idly on his mandolin. “No problem. Since Larissa … well, the cast is pretty boring these days. They really hate this swamp.”

  The pilot snorted and eased the wheel starboard. “They ain’t the only ones. I’ll be mighty glad to see the last of this muddy pit. It’s a minor miracle we ain’t lodged on a sandbar yet.” He yawned again. “Captain’s friend Lond says we’ll be clear of this place within a day or so.”

  Sardan rose and stood by his friend. “The captain won’t leave without Larissa.”

  “He may have to. Trying to find her in this place … Well, I miss the pretty little thing, but I think it’s a fool’s errand.”

  “The captain doesn’t.”

  Jahedrin was silent for a moment. Then he said in a low voice, “Think he’ll find her?”

  Sardan shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “Hope so.”

  The thick, marshy river twined ahead, vanishing into the darkness. The full moonlight caught its sparkle, but only made the night landscape seem more sinister. Sardan shook his head. It was hard to believe that Larissa was somewhere out in that malevolent darkness. He hoped she was safe.

  “Here,” he said to the weary Jahedrin as he carefully laid down his mandolin, “why don’t you let me take the wheel for a while? You look pretty tired.”

  Jahedrin hesitated. “If the captain found out …”

  “Oh, come on. I did it for Tane half his shift the other night.”

  Jahedrin’s bushy eyebrows reached skyward, and he scowled. “Really? The lucky bastard. Damn, if he gets to sleep through half his shift, I should get at least an hour or so.”

  “If there’s a problem, I’ll wake you. Go ahead, take a quick nap. I won’t let you sleep too long, I promise.”

  The pilot glanced back down at the river. The silence was broken only by the steady splashing of the paddlewheel. It didn’t look as though they were in a particularly difficult part of the swamp.

  Jahedrin closed his eyes for a second, then nodded. “All right, but you wake me the minute something don’t look right to you, understand?”

  Sardan nodded with seeming casualness. In reality, he was extremely excited about finally getting to pilot La Demoiselle. He’d lied about Tane, of course. Willen had talked a lot about the theory of piloting and had even let Sardan man the wheel for a few moments here and there, but Jahedrin was trusting him with the task unsupervised. It filled the bard with elation.

  With a groan of pleasure, Jahedrin eased himself down on the divan. “Oh, damn, that feels good,” he mumbled. The next sound Sardan heard from him was deep, regular snoring. The tenor smiled to himself as he caressed the wheel like a lover.

  La Demoiselle was protected by magic, Sardan knew, and that magic was regulated by Captain Dumont, but there was a power in the simple act of steering the boat that thrilled the singer. Oh, you pretty thing, he thought to the boat, no wonder you’re referred to as a lady.

  It was an uneventful trip for the next hour or so, and Sardan’s mercurial mind began to grow bored. He started to hum to himself, then sing softly, letting his mind drift. When he next glanced ahead and really noticed what he saw, his heart leaped into his mouth. There was something large moving in the water a few yards down the river. Sardan blanched.

  “Jahedrin!”

  The pilot bolted awake. “What is it, Sardan?”

  The tenor pointed a trembling finger. Stumbling a bit, the still-drowsy pilot peered ahead, and he, too, went pale.

  The lush vegetation that flourished on the banks and below the surface of the river was moving. Purposefully but slowly, vines were reaching to clasp one another across the waterway. Trees slid from the
ir rooted places to form a dam. River weeds sprouted, waving in the night air. The way ahead would soon be completely blocked.

  Jahedrin acted swiftly. He pulled on the whistle three times, hard, sending harsh cries to shatter the quiet of the night. Then, shouldering Sardan aside, he seized the boat telegraph, turning the handle to “reverse.” He grabbed the speaking tube and blew into it, sending a piercing whistle to the crew in the engine room. “Full reverse!” he cried. “Now!”

  Before Jahedrin realized it Dumont was there, coming up behind the pilot. He gazed out the window, his eyes narrowing speculatively. Mist was rising from the stagnant brown water like steam from a kettle—little, ghostlike wisps of fog that nonetheless were beginning to do a fine job of obscuring vision. Through gaps in the rapidly rising curtain, the captain could just glimpse the barrier of vegetation. As he watched, he could see the plants moving.

  The boat slowed, stopped, then shuddered back to life again, this time backing away from the lump of encroaching plants.

  “Stop reverse,” he told the pilot, brushing past Sardan as if the blond singer wasn’t even there.

  “Captain?” Jahedrin was thoroughly confused.

  “Stop reverse until further orders,” Dumont growled. He had a hunch, and over the last twenty years he’d learned to listen to his hunches. Dumont clattered down the stairs back to his cabin and grabbed the Eye and his sword. He then hastened to the stern of the boat, running along the sun deck.

  The giant paddlewheel was still. In the quiet, Dumont could hear the water dripping from the red spokes into the river. He held the pendant up to his eye, and he was able to see through the darkness and the rising mists. As he had feared, a similar blockage was being formed behind them as well. Something—or someone—was trying to trap them.

  The captain slowly scanned the water from one side to the other, but nothing more was revealed to him. He slipped the pendant around his neck and let it drop. There was no sound at first, and then he heard it—a deep, heartbeat rhythm that sounded like distant drums.

  Hadn’t Larissa heard drums, that first night in Souragne?

  Rage filled him, and he pounded his fist impotently on the railing. One of the trapped feu follets close to him flickered wildly for an instant before its light faded with a terrible finality.

  Dumont didn’t even notice. “Battle stations!” he boomed, running swiftly back toward the pilothouse and banging on every door he passed. He took the stairs down to the next deck, two at a time, and began waking up the cast members. “Get to the stage!” he demanded as they peered out sleepily at him. “Hurry!” The cast members muttered, but complied.

  “Captain Dumont, what is it, that you disturb my men at this hour?” came Lond’s cold voice from the deck above. The door to Lond’s cabin was slightly ajar, revealing a dull, red gleam from within. The mage stood looking down at the captain of La Demoiselle du Musarde, his slim, cowled black form almost invisible in the darkness. Where his gloved hands clutched the railing, the feu follets went dark.

  Dumont frowned. “Take a glance fore and aft and you’ll see why I need my men on the main deck. I’m going to need your help in defending the boat.”

  He didn’t wait for Lond’s reaction, but hastened to the theater. The cast, in various stages of undress, sat sullenly in the chairs. “On stage,” he barked.

  Dumont faced his cast. His face was florid as he addressed them. “Now, you coddled bastards are going to sing for me.”

  The actors glanced at each other, confused. One of the chorus members, a spoiled young man who was Sardan’s understudy, snapped irritably, “Captain, are you mad? Do you have any idea what time it is?”

  Dumont leaped onto the stage, drawing his sword and running the unfortunate actor through with the bright blade. The youth’s eyes bulged, and he collapsed to the stage. Someone screamed. Dumont whipped around, sword dripping crimson and jade eyes scanning the crowd for the miscreant. “Anyone else want to question my orders?”

  There was utter silence. They stared at him with terror-filled faces.

  “Fine. Now, damn you, sing!”

  Elann, the elf who had understudied Cas’s role, spoke up hesitantly. “What would you like to hear, sir?”

  “The opening number, then ‘She Waits For Him,’ then ‘Water Cold.’ After that, just keep singing until I tell you to stop!” He tore out of the room as the cast hesitantly began the opening number. He paused only to magically lock the door before continuing to Lond’s room.

  * * * * *

  Willen tensed, listening. Yes, it was singing all right. “Listen!” he cried. “They’re singing in the theater. We’ve got to counteract it if we can. Anyone know any songs?”

  Bushtail glanced at him, narrowing his eyes and cocking his head. “Yes, but I do not understand.”

  “The songs are spells,” Willen explained quickly. “The fact that they’re singing now, at this hour, means that my friends are boarding the boat. If we set up a counter-rhythm—”

  “Say no more, mon ami!” The fox threw back his russet head and began to croon a song in his native tongue. Bushtail’s voice was an astoundingly clear baritone.

  Skreesha, the ravenkin, was still bound by the spell that enveloped his cage, and the colorcat had no idea what was going on and so remained elegantly silent. But the pseudodragon keened away, his voice a piercing yowl, and Bouki looked up.

  His paws had all regenerated, but the legs were still covered with crusted blood. The noose still closed tightly about his thick, furry neck. “I can thump and sing,” he announced proudly.

  Willen’s heart swelled, and unexpected tears stung his eyes. “Sometimes, Bouki, I think you’re smarter than Longears.”

  The rabbit loah began to sing a piece of doggerel about how he always made the gumbo, but Longears ate it first. His enormous hind leg kept a pounding rhythm. For his part, Willen gave voice to a song of hunting that Deniri had once sung.

  It was a riot of sounds within the hold, but Willen was certain he’d never heard sweeter music. His heart rose with every note.

  * * * * *

  When the boat had halted and then shifted into reverse without warning, many of Lond’s magical vials had been knocked from their shelves. Some lay shattered on the floor, their gruesome contents forming sticky puddles on the wood. Others the evil wizard had managed to catch before any damage was done. The disturbance below had distracted him momentarily, but after speaking with Dumont he had returned to his room. Now, he was carefully placing all intact items in a box to guard against further jostling.

  When someone began pounding on his door, Lond did not immediately respond. Finally, he waved a hand absently, unlocking the door. He knew who it was—Dumont. No one else aboard La Demoiselle would dare disturb him.

  The captain stuck his head in. “You’re needed on deck,” he growled. “We’re under attack.”

  Lond did not even glance up from his task of carefully packing the crates. “I shall be with you later, Captain,” he said mildly.

  Dumont was already halfway out the door, assuming that Lond would comply at once. He paused, turning a gaze of anger mixed with incredulity back to the wizard. “You’ll come with me now, curse you. This is my boat, Lond, and when I give an order, it’s followed!”

  Lond glanced up from his task, and Dumont could see the glitter of his cold eyes in the dark shadows of the cowl. “You have apparently been oblivious as to what has been transpiring aboard this boat you hold so dear, Captain Dumont,” he said icily. “Your crew now obeys me. With a handful of powder and the right word, I could take your soul just as easily. You are captain by my kindness, not your bluster. Have no fear—the safety of my person, such as it is, depends upon the safety of the boat. I’ll defend it, certainly, but you shall not tell me when or how.

  “For the moment, you must fend for yourself. That is, if you’re sober enough to do so. It can be rather amusing to watch a drunken wizard try to cast spells. There are often interesting results.” Lond laug
hed softly to himself.

  Dumont flushed with shame and anger. Lond was right—the boat was no longer his. Swallowing his pride, he said, “Then at least surrender control of your zombies to me. I need them to help me maneuver the boat and to fight if—”

  Irritated, the dark wizard waved a black-gloved hand in the captain’s direction. “They will obey you until I have need of them. Go and defend your boat, Captain. I weary of this conversation.”

  Shame fled Dumont. Only hatred and rage remained. He stormed out of the room, slamming the door shut behind him. Once out of the stifling place, he breathed deeply of the humid air and examined his options.

  He had a zombie crew, assembling stiffly even now on the main deck. He had two pilots who were still human, a terrified cast, and a handful of prisoners who were no doubt only too eager to turn against him. Then, suddenly, Dumont smiled.

  He also had Gelaar.

  He hastened toward the elven mage’s cabin, but Gelaar was already awake and on deck. Dumont’s heavy hand clamped down hard on his shoulder. The illusionist spun around quickly, but remembered to hood the hatred in his eyes before Dumont noticed.

  “What is your will, Captain?”

  Dumont scanned the river. The fog had increased, its damp fingers limned by the moon’s glow. The banks, not all that far away, were completely obscured. Even Dumont’s clairvoyance yielded little, save to confirm that there was something out there hidden by magic.

  “If I can’t see them, they can’t see me,” he muttered to himself. To Gelaar he said, “Noise. Men’s voices. An active crew preparing for battle. Stay up on this level unless I put you somewhere else. You’ll be safer here than on the main deck.”

  Gelaar nodded and fished in his pouch until he found a small ball of wax. Quickly he worked the material in his hands until it was pliant, then nipped off a small piece and molded it into his ear. He pushed the sleeves of his heavy robe back from his lower arms, and began to cast the spell.

 

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