Dance of the Dead Page 8

  The flute case clattered to the shiny wet stones as a big hand reached down and closed on Marcel’s throat.

  SIX

  It had been a very bad evening for Captain Dumont.

  The young man might not have been lying when he said he had seen Larissa run down Old Cypress Way. Still, Dumont had failed to locate his young ward. He spent about an hour going in and out of the brothels that lined the street, asking questions and receiving no information. Some of the young women were attractive enough, but Dumont had no inclination to sample their charms tonight. After assuring himself that the frightened girl hadn’t sought shelter in one of the houses, he assumed that Larissa had returned to the safety of the boat.

  He strode angrily up the ramp around midnight, thoughts on Larissa, but was distracted by the curious message that Caleb, the crewman standing watch, gave him.

  “Someone came to see you, sir. Said his name was Lond and that he had urgent business to discuss.”

  Dumont fixed the hapless Caleb, a young man barely old enough to shave, with a sharp look.

  “Did he say when he’d be back?”

  Caleb looked frightened. “He—he didn’t leave, Captain. He insisted on waiting for you in your cabin.” The boy shuddered. “I didn’t like him, sir. All wrapped up, he was, and I never did get a look at his face.”

  Dumont frowned. “Very well, Caleb. I’ll deal with him shortly.”

  Before he spoke to the stranger waiting for him, Dumont wanted to check on Brynn. He hoped that a hot bath and some of Brock’s fine cooking had settled the crewman’s wits somewhat. Brynn had information locked up in that terrified brain, and Dumont wanted it.

  He hastened up the deck stairs to the tub room and found Dragoneyes leaning against the door, whittling. A twisted shape with batlike wings was starting to emerge from the half-carved wood, and there was a pile of shavings at the mate’s feet.

  “No problems?” Dumont asked.

  “None, sir,” Dragoneyes replied. “Brock sent up some dinner a few hours ago, and I took it in. Brynn seemed a little calmer. He asked for some paper and pen and ink.”

  “That’s odd. Brynn’s barely literate.”

  The half-elf’s thin lips twisted in a smile. “Well, he seemed pretty insistent, so I got the stuff for him. It’s been quiet in there since. I thought he needed some privacy.”

  “Be just my luck if he fell asleep and drowned in the tub. Well, let’s see what we can coax from him now.” He rapped on the door. “Brynn, it’s Captain Dumont. I’ve come to see how you’re doing, son.” There was no answer. Dumont gestured to Dragoneyes. The first mate pocketed his unsettling carving and stepped forward to unlock the door with the master key. The door swung open, and Dumont peered into the darkness.

  The tub room was unique to the showboat. While most of the costumes in The Pirate’s Pleasure were sturdy enough, there were a few delicate items of clothing, mostly belonging to Larissa and Casilda, that needed to be gently washed by hand in pure water. There were two tubs, one for washing and one for rinsing. Other than that, there was no decoration; the room was not even painted. The captain bathed here and occasionally granted similar privileges to the cast. The crew members had to content themselves with swimming in the river.

  Costumes drying in the rafters brushed their faces as Dumont and Dragoneyes entered. There were lanterns, but Brynn had apparently not noticed they had guttered out. Dumont whistled a simple series of notes, and the keys Dragoneyes held began to glow brightly, illuminating the bare room. The magical radiance revealed a sight that filled Dumont with angry frustration and faint nausea.

  Brynn was still in the tub, but he hadn’t drowned. The water in which his fish-white corpse floated was a dark crimson. The knife he had used to open his veins lay on the floor beside the tub. One hand rested on the side, the ragged flesh of the wrist a pale reddish gray.

  Dumont strode up to the tub and glared down at the body accusingly, as if his displeasure would be enough to animate the bloodless corpse.

  “Here’s what he wanted to write so badly,” the half-elf mate told his captain, handing Dumont a crumpled piece of paper. Scrawled in Brynn’s messy, childish hand was a message: FOR MERCYS SAKE BURN MY BODDY DONT BERY IT. Dumont read Brynn’s last message and shook his head. He wondered briefly what had so terrified the rough crewman that he had taken his own life.

  “Ah, Brynn, you never could spell worth a damn.” Angrily, he crumpled the note. “Why’d you go and cut yourself before you told me what was in that swamp?”

  “I know what is in the swamp,” came a raspy voice.

  Startled, the captain wheeled to encounter a slender, cloaked figure of medium height. The stranger had pulled the hood down so no part of his face could be seen. The cloak was ebony, and matching gloves covered the man’s hands.

  Dragoneyes had already unsheathed his dagger. He stood tensely, awaiting his captain’s command. Dumont recognized the intruder from the crewman’s description.

  “You are Lond, I assume,” he stated coolly. The only hint of his anger was the fire in his jade-green eyes.

  The stranger bowed in acknowledgment. “You have a magnificent boat, Captain Dumont. I congratulate you on it.”

  “You should know. You’ve trespassed through enough of it tonight.”

  The dark shape in the doorway shrugged. “It was a long wait.” Nonchalantly Lond moved forward, closing the door behind him.

  Dumont had been startled by Lond’s strange and silent appearance, but he had recovered. He flicked his right wrist and a knife slid into his hand from his sleeve. “I’m extremely protective of my boat,” he said conversationally. “Men have died for lesser infractions than trespassing aboard her.”

  Because of the hood, Dumont was unable to see Lond’s reaction, but his slim figure revealed no apprehension. “I have not come to spy or to threaten you, Captain. I have a business proposition for you, which I think you will find most agreeable.”

  “I’m always willing to talk business,” Dumont admitted, “but I like to know my partners first.”

  Lond’s slim shoulders began to shake, and a scratchy, gurgling laugh issued forth from inside the hood. The captain frowned.

  “Ah, good Captain Dumont, you wish my credentials, is that it? I am happy to prove myself to you. But perhaps you wish to dismiss your mate?”

  Dumont glanced at the half-elf. He had not moved from his position of armed alertness. “Dragoneyes stays.”

  “What I have to say is for your ears, Captain, not those of a crewman.”

  “Dragoneyes is my most trusted man. He stays,” Dumont repeated. Dragoneyes quirked an eyebrow, and the captain nodded slightly. Keeping his slit-pupiled eyes on Lond, the half-elf lowered his weapon. Dumont sheathed his own dagger and spread his hands. “So. Let us talk.”

  “Here?” queried Lond, somewhat surprised.

  “Here. Now.”

  The black figure shrugged. “As you wish. I was at the performance tonight in the market square. You have quite a cadre of talent here—both magical and mundane. It must have taken years to find such talent and to master such magic.

  “I am a wizard, like you,” the mysterious hooded man continued, moving about the room as he spoke, occasionally reaching out a gloved hand to touch the wooden walls or a dangling costume. “I appreciate such things. However, I may have certain advantages over you, Captain. I have not had to burden myself with the running of a showboat. I know a great deal about Souragne, and that knowledge coupled with my magic could prove very useful to someone like you.”

  “What do you mean, someone like me?”

  “A wizard,” repeated Lond, his voice mild and placating. “A connoisseur of the finer things … a collector, as it were, of rare and interesting items.” Lond paused to let his words sink in.

  Dumont kept his face expressionless. “Go on.”

  “I know where to find the sorts of things you are seeking. I know how to put them to excellent use. I can get you a crew that wi
ll work hard and cost little to maintain. I offer you my service, skill, and wisdom.”

  Dumont let his handsome face crinkle into a sneer. “Of course, you want something in return.”

  “I want to get out of this watery hole.” The voice was cold and flat. “Eventually, you will be leaving Souragne. I want you to take me with you. I have learned all I can learn here. This place is too trifling for my talents, and I yearn to stretch my skills. Surely, what I offer is worth what I ask.”

  “I don’t know,” answered the captain. “I’m not about to take someone on faith—especially not someone who creeps up on me as you do. How do I know you are what you say?”

  Again the raspy laugh. “Allow me a chance to prove it to you.”

  The caped figure brushed past Dumont and Dragoneyes as if they weren’t there and stood gazing down at the marble-fleshed form of the dead Brynn. “What did that last note say?”

  A bit nonplussed, Dumont replied, “He wanted to be cremated, not buried.”

  “That will not be possible here. No one is cremated.”

  “Why not?”

  Lond did not reply at once, then said, “It’s a local custom. The Souragniens, as you will no doubt discover, are extremely superstitious. They believe burning the dead offends … the higher powers that rule this place.” He turned toward Dumont, still keeping his face hidden. “I will take care of the body. You will allow me to empty the tub first?”

  A bucket, used for filling the tub, rested nearby. Lond grasped it with his gloved hands. He dipped the bucket into the blood-tinted water and partially filled it. For a moment, he swirled it about, gazing into its maroon depths as if scrying. Dragoneyes and Dumont exchanged glances, but did not interrupt the wizard. Then, to the horror of the watching men, Lond lifted the liquid to his hidden mouth and drank a noisy gulp.

  As one, Dumont and Dragoneyes tackled the cloaked mage. The bucket went flying, its crimson contents spattering then soaking into the wooden beams of the floor.

  “You are the sickest—” began Dumont, but the words turned into a grunt of pain as icy coldness numbed his hands. The chill spread up his arms, as if he had plunged his hands into a snowdrift. He heard Dragoneyes gasp softly and guessed the half-elf was feeling the strange sensation as well. Dumont released his hold and warmth flooded painfully into his icy hands.

  Lond scrambled to his feet. “You fools!” he hissed angrily. “This is part of my magic! Your nerves are those of children! Would you see my demonstration, Captain Raoul Dumont, or will your weak stomach not tolerate it?”

  Dumont was stung by the insult, and his own anger stirred. “You startled me, nothing more. I have seen—and done—far worse. The dead are the dead. Brynn is yours to do with as you will, now that I know what to expect from your kind of magic.”

  Lond appeared mollified. “Have your men drain the tub, but keep the water. Then lay out the crewman’s body. I will return with proof of my power.”

  Without another word, Lond dipped up another bucketful of the bloody water and left. Dragoneyes tensed to spring after him, but Dumont laid a warning hand on his friend’s arm and shook his head. “Let him go.”

  “He’s carrying a bucket of blood!” the mate protested.

  “Young Caleb already knows of Lond. He’s not likely to go out of his way to question our guest’s departure.”

  The half-elf narrowed his eyes, and his voice was deep with misgiving. “I think you’re making a mistake. There’s something about that man … I don’t trust him, Raoul.”

  “Neither do I,” Dumont replied. “Not for a moment. But I want to see what he can do that would be so important to me. We’ll watch him, old friend.” He smiled coldly. “We’ll watch him like a pair of wolves in winter.”

  * * * * *

  Caleb shuddered as Lond strode past him, walking briskly down the ramp onto the dock. As Dumont had predicted, the young crewman was too glad to see the sinister figure leaving to question him. Lond’s dark shape was soon swallowed up by the surrounding darkness.

  The market square was as quiet as a cemetery at this time of night. The torches had been permitted to burn out and would not be relit until the following nightfall. Lond was midway across the square when he heard the drums start up again, an urgent counterpoint to the distant rumble of thunder. He frowned underneath his hood. He knew what creatures dwelt in the swamp of Souragne, and he disliked the interest they were taking in the strangers from the boat.

  His rapid stride soon carried him beyond the market square into the less savory portion of town referred to as Past-the-Port. Few walked here even in daylight hours without a weapon and a readiness to use it. After night fell on Past-the-Port, one didn’t walk at all, unless one was going about business as foul as that practiced by the other inhabitants. Even murderous intentions were no guarantee against things darker—and deadlier—than a pure soul could conceive. Fear dwelled in the slum of Past-the-Port, along with her companion, Death.

  Lond knew Past-the-Port intimately, and his slender, black-cloaked frame was recognized and given a wide berth by most ne’er-do-wells. The cloaked man laughed to himself as he caught the big, burly would-be killers blanching and turning away. He knew that with a few well-spoken words and the right ingredients he could shatter their tiny minds and warp their souls. They knew it, too.

  There was only one person in Past-the-Port who welcomed Lond’s arrival. Murduc lived in a shabby, gloomy little house with boarded-up windows in the worst part of the slum. He’d have been murdered long ago, his throat slit or his neck broken in some dark side street, had it not been for Lond’s protection. Everyone knew that the skinny old madman who played with poisons was somehow in the cloaked man’s favor, and thus the pathetic hovel hadn’t been torched or ransacked.

  The street was dark and deserted. Most of the buildings were abandoned or were homes only to rats. The notable exception was the one across from Murduc’s shack. It looked like a tavern, and indeed even had a sign that proclaimed it the Cat and Mouse. Lond, however, knew it to be a meeting place of the most unsavory of a bad group of men. Light crept out of the cracks in the wall and from under the door.

  Lond knocked on Murduc’s door, feeling the rotting timbers shudder beneath his gloved knuckles. A good wind would collapse the entire building, he thought to himself. He heard scuffling sounds from within.

  “Who’s there?” came the old man’s thin voice.

  “Why, who but your master?” answered Lond, smiling to himself. He heard the sound of several bolts being drawn back. Then Murduc peered out cautiously, a lantern clutched in one grimy hand. His toothless mouth widened in a grin, and he opened the door to the only guest who ever visited.

  “My laird, my laird!” he enthused in his thin, high voice. “Come in at once! How kin yer humble servant help ye?”

  “Good evening, Murduc.” Lond’s sharp eyes flitted disinterestedly about the place as he entered. Murduc set the lantern on a precarious table, then scurried to bolt the door behind his guest.

  The little man did not keep a tidy shop. Herbs were scattered carelessly in piles in the corners, their fragrances both pleasant and noxious. More hung drying from the wooden rafters. Murduc’s bed, a pile of filthy rags, occupied one corner. As Lond watched, a rat scurried from under the pile and hastened out through a large hole in the wall.

  “I will need large quantities of the usual items—and take care that you don’t confuse them like you did last time,” the wizard added. The last time he had employed Murduc’s services, the senile old fool had accidentally switched an aphrodisiac with a deadly poison. Lond had ended up with a corpse instead of a passionate lover, and had been mightily displeased.

  Murduc cringed visibly at the memory. Lond’s anger was a terrible thing, and he had no wish to incur it again. “Aye, my laird,” he said, ducking his head respectfully. “That’ll no happen again, I assure ye.”

  He scurried about like a scrawny spider, scooping up various herbs and placing them in small pouche
s. Shelves filled with bottles of potions, some of them thick with dust, lined all four walls. Lond helped himself to several, carefully checking the crudely written labels. Occasionally he would open a bottle to examine and sniff the contents.

  At last, Murduc turned to him, grinning. “All collected, sair. Shall I put ’em in a sack for ye?”

  “Yes, that would be helpful,” Lond answered absently. He took several more jars and bottles from the shelf.

  “Oh, sair, ye’ve practically bought me out!” Murduc exclaimed happily, peering at the bottles in Lond’s arms. These, too, were placed in the sack. The wizard fished out ten gold coins from the pouch at his side and handed them to the stunned poisoner.

  Murduc’s eyes grew enormous. “My laird!” he whispered. “I’ll ne’er have to sell another thing!” His hand trembled as his thin fingers closed about the gold.

  “True enough, Murduc. True enough. Farewell.” He swept out of the room like a shadow, closing the door behind him, then went to the Cat and Mouse Tavern.

  He opened the door without a pause. Several men with scarred and angry visages clustered around a table. The dim light threw their unhandsome features into sharp relief as they turned to look at the intruder. They averted their eyes, however, when they saw who it was.

  “The little poisoner has ten gold pieces in his hands right now,” Lond told them. “Kill him and burn his filthy shop, and the money’s yours.”

  He had scarcely gone five paces when he heard the door burst open behind him. Ten minutes later, the night grew orange, and smoke spiraled up into the overcast skies. Lond smiled to himself. He was leaving Souragne, and had no more use for the little man.

  The cloaked man paused a few yards out of the city limits and fished an agate out of his pouch. He pulled down his black hood and, murmuring an incantation, gently rubbed the stone on his eyelids. When he opened them a few moments later, he could see as well as a night creature. Replacing the agate in his pocket, he carefully pulled his hood back on.

  The wizard continued on down the main road, called Tristepas, toward a place seldom visited by people during the daylight and avoided after nightfall: the graveyard.