Demons of the Dancing Gods

by Jack L. Chalker

  Wait a minute, Joe put in. You mean to tell me that even the Baron's side will be there? In a country they just tried to conquer?

  Ruddygore smiled. Yes, it does sound odd, but the Society is above politics, and politics often intrudes but never interferes. They'll all be there—but on their best nonpolitical behavior, I assure you. The guarantee is that there will be so much magical power and skill present that any side in a dispute will be in the minority—and the majority will act decisively and ruthlessly, I assure you, if the bond of the society is violated.

  The Dark Baron—he'll be there, too? Marge asked, temporarily forgetting her purpose.

  Oh, yes, but not under that guise. He'll be his usual self and impossible to detect by normal means. It's interesting. He may greet me warmly, then buy me a drink—or I might buy him one. All the time he'll know, while I'll just wonder at each and every one of them. But, no matter, some slip, some slight thing, might be betrayed in such an atmosphere, and we must be on the watch for it.

  We? both of them echoed.

  Oh, yes. I certainly want you there as my guests and part of my entourage. Poquah will also be there, along with other interested members of the household, but they'll all have been there before. You two will be fresh, unknown to other attendees and they to you; you might pick up something that familiarity misses. If you leave tomorrow, you can make Mohr Jerahl, then take the old road through the Firehills and get there in plenty of time.

  Joe frowned. Now, one of you want to tell me what this is all about?

  Marge laughed and turned to the big man. Poor Joe! I'm sorry! I'm going to the home of—well, my people, I guess I could say. I want to complete the transformation quickly, just get it over with.

  The way is possibly dangerous, Joe, the sorcerer added, although probably no more than any place else in Husaquahr. The perils are more likely thieves and the like than any really magical dangers, though there might be some. You must remember by experience what sort of things might lurk off every trail. Going, Marge will be extremely vulnerable to such dangers, which is why I'm asking you to go. Once you get there, you'll be in more danger than she, so when you reach the edge of Mohr Jerahl you'll have to camp and wait for her. The kind of magic the fairy folk have on their own home turf is beyond you or most others, Joe, and I don't want to lose you. I'm going to need you when the time comes again for sword and spear.

  Well, I don't know...

  Trust me, Joe, Ruddygore urged sincerely. Even I would think twice about going in there without all the armaments of the magical art, and you have none. The Kauri are particularly powerful, which is why, once the transformation is completed, you and Marge will make the perfect team. You will complement each other almost absolutely, and that will make the two of you among the most dangerous pair in all of Husaquahr.

  Joe thought that over. The most dangerous pair... I kind of like that. And I've been bored stiff, anyway.

  Then go with my blessings and heed my warnings, the sorcerer told them. We will meet again three weeks hence at the Imperial Grand Hotel in Sachalin.

  Much to Joe's disgust, the journey was without incident and through rolling farm country. They decided to skip the long and treacherous trollbridge near Terdiera and made their way along the Rossignol and its good trading road to the much larger town of Machang, which, being at a particularly sharp and inward angle of the river, was a convergence of many roads and trade routes and had a bridge there built and run by the government.

  The Rossignol at this point was barely a hundred yards wide, but the channel was still more than ten feet deep, hardly fordable. The falls to the east of the town offered too risky and slippery a crossing on horseback; beyond that, the river was heavily patrolled and the border strongly fenced, as the water was shallow enough for anybody to walk across.

  The formalities on the Valisandran side of the border were few; a small shack contained an official and a sorry-looking soldier who barely seemed interested in checking anybody going out. On the other side, though, was the tiny Marquewood town of Zabeet, a poor and rundown little place that seemed to subsist on cheap tourist trinkets sold to those who, coming along the trade routes for one reason or another, wanted to say they'd been to Marquewood without actually having to go there. The people were poor and dressed in rags; many of the children weren't dressed at all, and everybody seemed anxious to sell travelers something petty and crude that they had no desire for.

  Still, for such a forgotten part of the country, it had one hell of an official entry station—a gigantic building entrants actually had to ride through, complete with officious clerks who were dressed in uniforms that suggested they were chief generals in some big army. The little man with the ten stars on each shoulder and the fourteen stripes down his blue uniform's sleeves was at least thorough.

  Names?

  Joseph the Golden and Marge of Mohr Jerahl, Marge responded, already a little bit annoyed.

  The eyebrows went up. Mohr Jerahl? Then you are a citizen of Marquewood?

  In a way I guess I am, she admitted.

  Documents, then?

  The fairy folk need none, as you know.

  And if you were truly of Mohr Jerahl, you wouldn't need this bridge, either, the clerk responded coldly. Insufficient documentation. Entry refused. And you?

  Joe was growing a little irritated at the man's manner and drew his sword. It was an impressive weapon, being one of the last of the legendary dwarf-swords and thus magical, with a mind and personality of its own. To the consternation of all, Joe had named it Irving, after his small son a world away; but looking at the thing induced only respect, not derision.

  The clerk was unfazed. Striking a customs and immigration official with a sword, magical or not, is an offense punishable by not less than ten years at hard labor and/or a fine not to exceed fifty thousand marques, he said casually. Undocumented and threatening. Entry refused. He turned to go back to his station, and Joe roared.

  How arc you gonna impose that punishment if you're dead?

  The clerk stopped, turned, and looked at the big man as if he were a small child or an idiot. I am only a small cog in a great bureaucratic machine. What happens to me will not alter things one bit. It will simply trigger the crossbows now aimed at you both and, if you survive them by some miracle, will make you wanted fugitives. It is not my job to bring you in or punish you. We have police and army units to do that.

  Why, you cold little—machine! Marge snapped, and started for him.

  Wait! Joe shouted, sheathing his sword. As an old trucker, I should have realized that you don't fight his type with weapons. He saw Marge stop and look hesitant and he turned back to the little man.

  Tell me, Mr. Official, what is the penalty for bribing an officer of the government at an official entry station?

  The clerk thought a moment. It would depend on the amount.

  Joe reached into his saddlebag, found a small pouch, opened it, and removed two medium-sized diamonds. He dismounted and walked over to the little man and handed him the two stones. How about for this amount?

  The clerk reached into a shirt pocket, pulled out a jeweler's magnifier, and looked them both over critically. He placed both the stones and the magnifier back in his pocket, then took out a small pad and scribbled something on it that neither of them could read, handing two sheets to Joe. Documentation all in order. Have a pleasant and enjoyable stay in our beautiful country, he said. He turned and went back inside.

  Joe grinned, looked at Marge, and said, Let's mount up.

  They were through the little, shabby town and out onto the Eastern Road before they slowed and pulled alongside each other. Joe was still grinning. No doubt about it, he said. People really are the same all over.

  She shook her head wonderingly. You know, he wasn't kidding about those crossbows. I spotted them all over, on some kind of lever and spring mechanism. Either he or a buddy could have made pincushions of us. What made you sure he'd take the bribe and not just arrest us for viola
ting some rule thus-and-so?

  The big man chuckled. Because people are the same. The more straightlaced and officious they are, the more corrupt they wind up being. That fellow had no flexibility at all, yet here he is at the only major border crossing to a town dependent on tourists. He wouldn't last long there if he was for real—the people in that poor little town would have lynched him. No, he's an old pro. He spotted us for people likely to have money and tried the good old shakedown. I've seen his type many times, usually at seldom-used border stations.

  She was still shaking her head. But what if he was wrong? What if we didn't have the money or never caught on? I notice he never asked for a bribe, and you never actually offered one.

  Well, if we hadn't gone across, we'd have gone back and stayed in Machang long enough to gripe about him. Somebody would cue us in—bet on it. Somebody working with him, most likely. And that same somebody would find out if we had no money and offer to get us across for something—say one of the horses. Don't worry—that fellow will spend the end of his days either a very rich and comfortable man or in jail. Bet on his being rich. Don't believe what they told you in school— crime pays real good. That's why so many people are in the business.

  She thought about that for a minute. Uh—were you ever in that business?

  He laughed. At one time or another, I think most everybody is. For truckers, it's maybe half the time. Not even the most honest, flag-waving Jesus man doesn't run an overloaded rig once in a while and skip the coops—weigh stations—or maybe run at ten or twenty over the speed limit. About a quarter of us haul stuff we shouldn't in addition to what's on the waybill, to make a few bucks. You talk as if you never did anything illegal, either.

  Let's not talk about that, she responded, and they rode on.

  Again the road followed the river for a long way; but midway through the second day out from the border crossing, the main road diverged into three branches, one heading west, one south, and one southeast. Joe looked at Marge quizzically. Which one?

  She didn't hesitate. None of them. We go due east now. That way. She pointed.

  He looked in the indicated direction and could make out a not-very-worn dirt path that went out over the meadows and toward a wild forested area far to the east. You sure?

  She nodded. Forget the maps and road markers now. I can—well, I can feel it. It's kind of like a—magnet, is the best way I can say it.

  He shrugged, and they set off on the primitive path.

  And yet it wasn't so much a magnet as a presence, she decided. There was something there, something warm and alive, something that she could feel with every step now. It was an odd, indescribable feeling, and she could only hope that Joe would trust her.

  Joe really had no choice. He let her take the lead, although the path was still clear enough to follow, and just relaxed.

  They camped well into the forest that night. It was a pretty peaceful place, but he didn't want to take any chances; he suggested they alternate sleeping, with Marge going first. She tried it, but soon was back by the small fire.

  Trouble?

  She shrugged. I don't know. We're very close now, Joe. We'll reach it easily tomorrow with time to spare.

  Cold feet, huh?

  Something like that. I mean, I don't know what to say, what to do. I really don't know what's going to happen to me— what I'm really turning into, if that makes any sense.

  He nodded sympathetically. Yeah, I think I know. It's been pretty rough on you here.

  Oh, no, not really. Remember, I was a total washout back home. I was on my way to kill myself when I ran into you, you know. No, it's the other side. I've been happy here. For the first time in my life since I was a kid, I've been happy. I really like this place. And now, somehow, I'm afraid again. This—whatever it is—is forever. What if I don't like it? Or what if they don't accept me? What if I change into somebody you and all my other friends don't like or can't relate to? It seems that every time I have something right, it goes wrong.

  He squeezed her hand tightly. Don't worry so much. You'll have a real home here, with people you can call your own. None of the people of faerie I've met are any kind of holy terrors if you just treat 'em as people. Besides, Ruddygore said we were gonna be a super team, and he wouldn't say that if we couldn't stand each other, right?

  She smiled and kissed him lightly. You're right, I guess. But I can't help worrying.

  She was able to go to sleep after that, but she started him thinking in odd directions, some of which he didn't like. He wished for one thing that he were as confident of this changeling thing as he made out. He really cared for her, and that made her special in more than one way. He also valued her because she was his only link back to Earth, to the world in which both of them had been born and raised. Oh, sure, Ruddygore went back and forth all the time, but he was still a man of this world, not of the other, and he was hardly around all the time. Joe needed Marge, he knew—she was the one link he had to all that had been his world. He couldn't help but fear that she would have no such need of him—not after this.

  No matter how he sliced it, after tomorrow she would be at least as much of this world as of their native land, and she would have roots, family, tribe, grounding. Not he. Even here he was the outcast, the outsider, the barbarian from a far-off land that didn't really exist.

  The Kauri would be her new roots, her anchor, he knew— but she was the only family he'd ever have here. He wasn't like her. He'd never read all those books, dreamed those fancy romantic dreams, the way she had. He hadn't wanted to be here and had never felt at home here.

  He wondered what all those trainees who watched him knock their arrows from the air and all those people who cleared the streets for him would say if they knew that this big, hulking brute of a muscleman was scared to death.

  Chapter 4

  BECOMING AN ELEMENTAL SUBJECT

  Faerie seats of power may not be invaded by mortals without permission without exacting severe penalties.

  —Rules, XIX, 106(c)

  They reached the bird's breath, little more than a creek at this point, about midday. The air was hot and thick and insects buzzed around them in constant frenzy, setting up a cacophony of buzzing sounds. Marge halted and turned to Joe.

  This is where we split up, she said a bit nervously. Make camp somewhere along here and wait for me. She turned back and pointed to a dark grove of trees beyond the small river. That is the start of Mohr Jerahl.

  He stared at it, but could tell no difference between the forest they'd been traveling through and the one on the other side. Still, he knew, there was little to distinguish the Glen Dinig from the surrounding countryside, either, and it was certainly a real and, for him. deadly place. I still think I should go with you, at least as far as I can, he argued. You don't know what's there, really.

  No. Absolutely not. First of all, you remember Ruddygore's warning. That's magic over there, Joe—a place of enchantment.

  If you remember, Irving and I have done pretty good against enchanted places and things. As for Ruddygore—he's not my father, whom I never listened to, anyway. I paid my dues to the fat man; he don't own me any more—just rents me for a bit.

  She grew alarmed at his stubbornness, remembering Huspeth's very dark scenario. As best she could, she tried to explain the position to him. It was possibly true that Joe could survive, even triumph, but not without dire cost to her. For my sake, Joe, stay here. Promise me. Give me your solemn word.

  He sensed her genuine concern and, although he put up something of a front, he knew from that point on that he'd lost the argument. He glanced around. Okay. Two days from right now—then I'm coming in looking for you.

  Two days! Joe, I don't know how long this is going to take! It could be going just right and then you'll come in and screw it all up!

  Thanks for the confidence, he grumbled, but two days is it.

  She thought a moment. How about this, then? If I'm delayed for any reason, I'll send a message some
how. One that could only come from me. Fair enough?

  He considered it. Maybe. But remember, we've got a hard way to go to that wizard's convention yet. We'll see. That's the best I'll do for now.

  And, in fact, it was the most she could get out of him, and she decided it would have to do. She realized that his attitude was entirely based on his concern for her safety, and that made it really impossible to go further. She got down from her horse and turned toward Mohr Jerahl.

  You gonna walk? he called out, surprised.

  She nodded. I think it's best. I know it is, somehow.

  No weapons or food or stuff?

  No, Joe. This one I walk into clean. You take care of yourself. You're going to be a sitting duck out here for a couple of days, and this kind of place holds who knows what kind of dangers.

  I can take care of myself, he assured her. Just make sure you can.

  She blew him a kiss. I think I'll be pretty safe once I get across the creek. With that, she walked down to the riverbank and into the water. It wasn't very deep; even at the center, it did not come up beyond her waist, and the current was weak and lazy. She had no trouble making the other side. Emerging, she turned and saw him, still there atop his horse, staring after her. She waved at him, then turned and disappeared into the forest.

  * * *

  That feeling that she'd had since they diverged from the road less than two days earlier was tremendous now. She'd felt its overpowering influence from the first time she'd looked at the place across the river, but now she was in it and the feeling was all around her. For the first time she sensed, at least, what the nature of that strange sensation was.

  It was raw power.

  Mohr Jerahl was in some ways an analog to the Glen Dinig; it was a place of enormous magical power, power that could be seen, touched, felt. But while Huspeth's small realm was under tight and absolute control, Mohr Jerahl was not. The term raw power was literally correct—this was no tame and obedient magic, neatly tied into complex spells, but a force of supernature, an unbridled power that just was. It was incredibly strong, yet it had a single defined center, a locus, that she instinctively headed for. There, at that central radiation point, would be Kauri. There she would meet what she must become.