Demons of the Dancing Gods

by Jack L. Chalker

  The people at the table were a little taken aback by the giant barbarian in their company, but they soon relaxed and warmed to him as the place filled with those more mysterious sorts and various kinds of not very pleasant-appearing fairies.

  The squat, middle-aged man with a light beard and no mustache was Jeklir the grainer; the pudgy, middle-aged woman with him was his wife Asarak; and the teen-ager with them who looked every bit their progeny was their son Takgis.

  So you're from Sachalin, Joe noted. On your way home from a trip?

  Going on one, rather, Jeklir responded. Time to visit the wife's relatives in Mobadan, at least for a week or two.

  Joe's eyebrows raised a bit. I would think this would be your busy season. I came through a good bit of farmland, and it looked as if the harvest was just coming up.

  Jeklir's eyes darted nervously at the crowd around the inn. Um, usually you would be right, barbarian, but ordinarily merchants would welcome a convention, not close up shop and leave as it dawned, if you get my meaning.

  Joe did. I guess the ones coming will be a pretty scary group, if what we've seen is any indication. My—partner— and I ran into some unlucky thieves this past morning who had run afoul of a sorcerer.

  You have no idea, Asarak assured him. Every time this convention comes to a town, horrible things happen. Be just a trifle slow with the ale, and they turn you into who knows what; and the adepts—they're the worst, practicing spells on all the honest people with abandon. If you're going into the city, you watch your step, young man. They pour love potions in the punch, make people bark like dogs, and worse, just for the fun of it. The authorities can't do a thing, either.

  I'm surprised anybody will have them, if what you say is true, Joe noted between bites of the first really good, solid food in a week.

  What choice do they have? Jeklir responded. I mean, it's always sponsored by a master sorcerer, and if your local sorcerer decides to host it, what can anybody, even the government, do?

  Joe nodded sympathetically. Yeah, I can see that. But you mean the whole town will be closed up?

  Oh, no. First of all, the government can't close, so all those people have to stay and they have to have their services. The hotels can't close—they're booked. And the bars, restaurants, and shows will be open, of course. Many of the owners will keep a low profile and send their families out of town, but they hire a lot of farmers and contract for a lot of serf labor to be out front. There are always the ones who do so good they get special favors, too, and some of it can be put right after, particularly the stuff done by the adepts. That doesn't help the embarrassment and degradation while it's happening to you, though.

  Joe understood. Like all conventioneers, these magical ones would let their inhibitions down and have a totally good time— for them. In the process, they'd drive the town nuts, but there was always a cleanup crew of powerful sorcerers around to fix things. He wondered how long it took and whether everything ever got fixed, but he suspected that, within the confines of the host town or city, anyway, things were under more careful watch than they seemed to be. In the end, it was mental anguish applied to ordinary people that was the real price—but the rewards, too, were great. Few groups had conventions this large, and while some might get stuck a hundred times with phony money or gems that vanished, others found overly generous rewards. It really meant millions to the city, too.

  Not, however, for a grain merchant. Joe couldn't blame the family for getting out for a while.

  He finished his meal and settled his accounts. But after saying luck and farewell to the temporary refugee family, he still hadn't caught sight of Marge and he began to grow a little worried. He found the innkeeper and asked if he'd seen her.

  The sexy fairy lady? Yeah, I seen her. Don't worry. She'll be back down in a little while, like she has been.

  Joe stared at the man. Like she has been?

  Quickly and a little bit nervously, the innkeeper described Marge's activities of the past couple of hours. Joe was incredulous and more than a little hurt. He stalked outside to the stable area, got the horse and the mule, saddled them, and reset the packs, brooding all the time.

  Marge came out of the inn entrance and spotted him, then walked over to him with a very light and sassy manner. She stopped short, though, about ten feet from him, and the smile faded as she sensed his emotional turmoil. She instantly understood the problem, but couldn't really sympathize all that much. Well? What did you expect? she asked him. You just kept lying there, snoring like mad.

  Yeah, but... he tried lamely. It's so... cheap.

  It's not that, she told him, stepping more into the light and putting out her hand. He looked at it and saw two large and obviously very valuable rings on her fingers. He saw, too, that she wore a very expensive-looking gold necklace. In her left hand she held a small velvet case. I found out a lot of things already tonight, and one of them is that you must give a gift to a Kauri or she owns your soul. The first man practically fell all over himself finding something to give me.

  Well, at least you'll always be able to buy what you need, he grumped.

  Oh, Joe—it's just in my nature. It's one of the things I do.

  Yeah, but—so many?

  She shrugged and got on the mule. It was like eating peanuts. Once I got started, I just couldn't stop.

  He sighed and mounted his horse. Well, you ought to have real fun in convention city up ahead.

  I intend to, she told him. But don't be so damned sanctimonious about it all. I heard Houma and Grogha talking in little-kid whispers about the virgins of Kidim. It didn't matter when it was you men against scared, defenseless girls, now did it?

  But that was different! he protested.

  How?

  Well, um, the damned town deserved it, that's all. They staked you out for the dragon, remember!

  Even if that were a good excuse for the seduction of innocent kids, which I doubt, it certainly wasn't true that first night. You didn't know about it.

  But you were celibate then. A virgin witch!

  And you weren't then and aren't now. The only difference is that I'm not now, either. Deep down you're just like all men, you know. It's okay when you do it, but women—uhuh. And I'm even more of a threat—a woman who can control the emotions of men. A woman in command, you might say. No, Joe, don't pull that hurt act on me. Not until you can explain to me why I'm an immoral prostitute while you're just having a boy's night of fun out on the town. With that she kicked the mule and started out onto the darkened road.

  He waited a moment, not at all agreeing with her position but unable at the moment to figure out why she was wrong, then followed her.

  It took two more days' ride to reach the city, and during that time he still hadn't really figured it out, but he'd partially come to accept it. He did more or less understand why he took it so personally, though. It was one thing for him, say, to meet a woman he didn't know and have a fling in the hay, but Marge was something else, somebody special and important to him. People he knew and cared about just didn't do things like that.

  Except, of course, once he'd known and cared about a very special young woman, who'd even borne him a son, but now, in another world and in another life, she was living with another guy and probably griping about never getting any more alimony. And he'd tried more than once to pick up truck-stop waitresses and lady truckers, some of whom he knew very well indeed, and sometimes he'd succeeded. In a sense, he realized, he'd taken refuge in Marge's former self. She'd been safe, dependable, nobody else's, even if not his.

  But, irrational or not, he couldn't shake his sense of hurt and perhaps jealousy, at least not yet, and he consistently refused her advances as if, somehow, at least that could be preserved between them. She would remain, then, somehow, his partner and his friend and nothing more, in the same way that, were she a male and a womanizer, he might accept but not approve.

  It was, damn it, just that she was so damned desirable...

  Sachalin was
truly deserving of the term city, rather than the less important designation of town. It spread out for miles along the shores of Lake Zahias, a lake so huge that it resembled an ocean or, at least, one of the Great Lakes, and had tides.

  The city was built up against a series of low hills that were, perhaps, the moraines of the great glacier that carved and became Lake Zahias. Also deep, the lake actually made Sachalin a major port, since at its southern end the River of Sorrows began, winding its way through deep gorges to Lake Bragha, then slowly between the mountain ranges to Lake Ogome, until finally, as a great river, it reached the Dancing Gods itself. A parallel canal had been built between Zahias and Bragha, but two great falls prevented full access to the sea. Still, it was a simple transfer of goods from ship to barge to ship to get materials easily into the interior of Husaquahr, and this made Sachalin a rich and important city indeed.

  The volcanic soil from the Firehills covered hundreds of square miles to the north and west of the city and lake, meaning that a tremendous amount of food, principally grains, was sent back down from the port all the way to the City-States and beyond.

  Sachalin was set only slightly inland from the port and the white, sandy beaches, and it seemed to be constructed of uniformly blocky buildings, two to six stories high, built of some white stone and masonry materials, topped with characteristic red shingle roofs. Unlike most cities and towns in Husaquahr, it was not walled, being far too large and sprawling for that, but it did have big, open arches at its entrance that served a strictly decorative function. The road led along the lakeshore after that, where Marge and Joe could see countless fishing vessels tied up in neat rows for the night, as well as occasional yachts and luxury vessels. The heavy-goods commercial port was north of the city, leaving the center for public beaches and pleasure use and not spoiling the view.

  They arrived in early evening. The city did not die after dark as most towns did, but took on a whole new character. Uniformed men of the watch, as they were called, walked every street, lighting lamps with long lamplighter torches. The glass containers for the streetlamps were irregular and often multicolored, their bright flames inside producing not only more than ample light but also colorful, dancing patterns against the white stucco buildings. It was, in a sense, fairyland by engineering rather than by magic, but it was no less effective.

  Although neither Joe nor Marge could read the language, the pictograms on the signs were easy enough to follow. When they reached a broad park with beach on one side and town on the other, the road formed a circle around a huge monument to some very odd-looking creature. Leading into the circle from town was a tremendously wide avenue, paved with tiny little bricks and lined with trees the entire way. It seemed to have a series of circles through town to the hills in back, each one with a small park and monument in the middle, but far back, against and seemingly either carved out of or sitting on a ledge in the hills, was the great capitol building itself, looking less like any capitol building they had seen than a huge, columnar, Grecian-style temple to some ancient gods, bathed in great lights.

  They turned toward the capitol and started into the city proper, following directions on the small map Ruddygore had sketched for them of the city center. The large buildings behind the trees on either side seemed to be mostly banks and offices— shipping brokers, the grain exchange, and other such institutions. This was the financial heart of the city, it was clear.

  It's beautiful, Marge said, mostly to herself. And everything's so clean.

  Joe understood what she meant. Even the best of towns they'd seen in Husaquahr had been straight out of the Middle Ages, with sanitation to match. Here, though, it looked as if an entire crew of workmen came out each night and scrubbed the place clean, removing trash, droppings, and just about everything else, then even polishing the brick and scrubbing the building^ facades. The air was crisp and clean-smelling, with no hints of garbage or even horse droppings.

  At that moment, Joe's horse relieved herself on the bright roadway, and he felt suddenly very guilty for her doing so. He hurried on a bit, and they were a couple of blocks up and at the next circle before he halted at Marge's call. Hey, Joe— look back!

  He looked and saw dozens of tiny fairy gnomes emerge from the trees up and down the whole block where his horse had violated the scenery. They hurried quickly to the center of the street, swept up the droppings and took them away, then scrubbed the whole area and vanished once more into the treelined sides of the boulevard. It figures, he muttered, then turned and continued on.

  Although the hotel and entertainment district was in the dead center of the city, the fancy hotels for the business clientele who would be visiting those financial centers were all directly on this main, wide boulevard, and the grandest of them was the Imperial Grand, a huge, fancy structure that took up more than a square block. Like all the buildings, it wasn't really very high—though at eight stories it was one of the tallest buildings in the city—but it was fancy.

  The front, in fact, was almost entirely of glass, rising from street level up four full stories, creating a massive atrium and lobby which was like a glass-covered right angle viewed from the side. This connected to a solid four-storey stone and stucco block with balconies sculpted on its face, so that anyone coming out of any room would have a free view of the open space area. On top of this were three four-storey cubes, giving the whole building a distinctive look. It reminded Joe of some fancy American hotels, as if designed by Mayan temple designers. There was even a parking entrance on the side, which led down below the hotel to an underground stable that looked fancy indeed. Liveried attendants helped Marge and Joe off their animals, unloaded saddle and packs, put small collars on both horse and mule and a sticker on the saddle, then handed Joe three embossed leather claim checks. Another packed up their meager luggage in an odd-looking cart, and they followed him to a wide, beltlike structure rising at a steep angle. Strong, thin boards were spaced about eight feet apart going up. They were instructed to sit down, and the attendant then went over and rang a large bell.

  A real bellman, Marge noted dryly.

  Suddenly the belt started moving slowly upward. It so startled them, despite the obvious intent of the gadget, that both almost fell off. The bellman, as soon as they were clear, rolled his cart onto the next plank below them and hopped on himself. Joe looked nervously around and saw that they were going to be raised just above lobby level, followed by a steep drop. The ascent wasn't very fast, but they were traveling backward.

  When they were most of the way up, the bellman reached over and grabbed another rope, ringing the bell below once more; just as Joe rose up so that his feet were clear of the floor level, the device stopped and he and Marge jumped off. It then moved again, and the bellman and his load were lifted up.

  Joe looked at the bellman with unconcealed curiosity. How does it work?

  The bellman smiled, telling them both that this was his most asked question. There's a treadmill down there. Put some mules on it every once in a while and it winds up a tremendous spring. When we need to run it, we just take the brake off and it goes up until we hit the brake. During the busy periods, we just keep the treadmill going all the time. Smart, huh? Wait till you see what else this place has. There's no other hotel like it anywhere.

  They looked around the broad, glass-enclosed atrium, but there were few people about, and Marge remarked on it. Oh, they'll start coming in big tomorrow, the bellman assured her. We're full up the next seven days. Tonight we'd normally be about half full, but with most of the businesses down the boulevard taking a holiday during the convention, there are only some early arrivers like you now. Ah, you are here for (he convention, right?

  They nodded. We thought we were late, I guess we made better time than we expected, Marge commented.

  They followed him to the registration desk, a massive horseshoe-shaped affair of stained and polished oak. The desk clerk, dressed in almost regal splendor, eyed both of them with some suspicion and a nose high
in the air. Yesssss... he virtually hissed at them, trying to avoid any sort of eye contact.

  We may be a little early, but we're supposed to have rooms reserved for us here, Joe told him.

  Now the beady little eyes focused first on Joe, then on Marge. Are you certain you have the correct hotel? This is the Imperial Grand Hotel, I presume. It most certainly is. Well, we're in the right place, then. The clerk gave a bored sigh. Very well, then. Name? Joseph the Golden, Castle Terindell, Valisandra. How original, the clerk muttered patronizingly. A barbarian with a mailing address. He checked through his large card file, then checked again, and finally said, As I suspected, there is nothing, and our hotel is booked for the next week.

  Joe thought a moment. We are with Ruddygore of Terindell, he told the clerk. We are a part of his party.

  The clerk was unimpressed and yet he dutifully checked and cross-checked his file cards once more. Finally he nodded to himself. Ah, yes. Ruddygore, Throckmorton P., party of seven. Let's see... Yes, an Imir is already in as the advance man for the party. I will send a runner up to approve you. He turned and tapped a small bell on the desk. From a place somewhere beneath him, a tiny pixie, no more than two or three inches high, popped up and waited for further instructions, its transparent multiple wings beating so fast they were virtually invisible. The clerk jotted something on a pad, tore off the top sheet, folded it in quarters, and handed it to the little creature. Lake Suite, he told it.

  The creature was off in a flash, flying into one of a number of round tubes that seemed to go into the wall in back of the clerk.

  Those tubes go to every room in the place? Joe asked a little suspiciously. If pixies could use them, so could other things, and they made nice sound conductors as well.

  Oh, my, no! the clerk huffed. They go to each floor of each wing, and the messenger then rings a bell.

  Joe nodded, feeling a little better. He didn't trust hotels at all, and his experience with any of the larger ones in Husaquahr had been less than pleasant.