Dance of the Dead Read online

  A light mist swirled a few feet off the ground as he left the road, the gravel of a wide but ill-kept path gritting under his feet. Moonlight brightened the scene, flickering amid the branches of live oak and elm and cedar, giving ghostly illumination to the stone sarcophagi. Souragne was too marshy, even this far away from the swamp, for corpses to be buried. Diggers struck water three feet down. As a result, even thieves and murderers rotted in large, elaborate sepulchers instead of moldering in the soil.

  Lond walked to the wrought-iron gate, spoke a few abrupt words, and made fluttering gestures with his gloved hands. Like a snake uncoiling, the chain wrapped securely about the iron bars unwound itself and fell with a dull thud to the soft soil. With a slow creak, the doors reluctantly yielded to the wizard’s touch and permitted him entrance.

  The black-cloaked man strode through the cemetery with absolute familiarity. He headed straight for a certain unadorned tomb far from the main gate, striding briskly past the last resting places of warriors, noblemen, and the base-born rich. The fog swirled damply around his knees, but he paid it no heed. There was nothing in this cemetery that could harm Lond.

  He came to the tomb he wanted. “Rogue’s Rest” was its nickname, where the nameless dead were carelessly tossed. Again the wizard reached in his pocket, emerging with a small length of leather string. Chanting softly, he tied it into a loop and tossed it onto the tomb’s lid. Lond raised his hands, and the enormously heavy stone slab trembled and began to rise. It floated upward until it was six feet over the tomb, then hovered in the air.

  A horrible stench wafted from the tomb, but it did not bother Lond. He smiled to himself as he peered inside.

  The bones of many dead were piled high in the grave. Atop them was a comparatively fresh corpse. Lond looked closer and began to smile as he recognized the dead man’s features.

  “Well, good fellow,” he said. “You’ll do splendidly. You’ll impress the good captain no end, I daresay.”

  He tugged off the glove from his left hand and draped it carefully on the tomb wall. Then he rolled up his black sleeve to the elbow and drew his knife. The finely honed blade glinted in the moonlight as Lond, biting back a cry of painful pleasure, drew the dagger across his own forearm.

  SEVEN

  Larissa stood alone on the main deck of La Demoiselle. The mists pressed in thickly on three sides, but before her loomed the gray-green swamp and tea-colored water. The young dancer gazed down at the water, and a slow smile spread across her face. She felt strong, and her body began to move to an inner music.

  As she danced, reveling in her new confidence, there came a disturbance in the muddy water. It roiled angrily, and slowly, steadily, a serpentine monster rose from the depths. Larissa felt no fear, just as she was no longer worried by either the mists or the swamp. She was surprised but not alarmed when the snake began to speak to her in Willen’s friendly voice. She couldn’t understand its garbled words, but the tones were so gentle and concerned that she listened anyway.

  In the middle of speaking, the creature began to bleed. Wounds spontaneously erupted on its scaly body, spewing crimson streams. Redness spattered Larissa, staining her clothes and white hair.

  The dancer’s unnatural peace was shattered. She screamed, but the creature kept right on talking. It was then that she realized that it wasn’t even alive. It was only the corpse of a snakelike creature, and suddenly the voice wasn’t Willen’s, but Dumont’s. The undead snake-thing began to slither toward her. She tried to flee but her feet wouldn’t obey her.

  The girl had heard stories of how snakes hypnotized their victims, and Larissa knew that she had been caught. Somehow she knew that if she could move, could dance, she could escape, but it was too late, too late.…

  A sharp rap on the door caused Larissa to bolt upright, wide awake though completely disoriented. “Y-yes?” she called, her voice cracking.

  “Are you going to stay in bed all day?” came Casilda’s voice.

  It was a welcome intrusion of normalcy after Larissa’s dream and the confusing incidents of last night. The dancer hurried to the door to admit her friend.

  “Did you hear me last night? Oh, gods, I sounded like a calf at slaughtering time, bellowing away—” Casilda stopped abruptly when she saw her friend’s pale visage. “What’s wrong?”

  Larissa shook her head. “Nothing. I just didn’t sleep very well.” Casilda looked skeptical. Larissa squeezed her friend’s arm reassuringly. “Really.”

  “Poor Larissa. You don’t like this place at all, do you?” Casilda gave the dancer an impulsive hug. “Come on. Some breakfast will make you feel better.”

  Larissa thought quickly. The dining hall at breakfast was a likely place to run into Dumont. The dancer realized that it would be impossible to avoid her guardian for very long on a space as enclosed as La Demoiselle, but after last night she wanted to postpone that meeting as long as possible.

  “No, I think I’ll go practice first.” The thought calmed her. Yes, Larissa decided, I need to dance.

  Without Gelaar’s illusions to enliven the stage, it was a bare, wooden floor. The chairs were pushed back to the far end of the room, thus permitting the actors to rehearse on the stage area while the dancers went over their numbers where the audience would normally be. Larissa, wearing the short, bare-armed cotton chemise that was her practice outfit, smiled to herself as she entered. She began to warm up her sleep-stiff body by doing gentle stretches.

  A wolf whistle caused her to look up, hoping it wasn’t Dumont. However, it was only Sardan, and she glowered at him.

  “If you’re going to spy on my dancing, at least you can play for me.”

  Sardan bowed. “Delighted to be of service to so lovely a lady,” he replied gallantly.

  Larissa snorted. “Save it for the paying customers,” she retorted, but a hint of a smile touched her face. After fleeing from Dumont, Sardan’s blatant yet harmless flirting was refreshing.

  He plucked on his ever-present mandolin, cocking his head to listen for the pitch, then adjusting the strings. Larissa sighed inwardly. When it came to his music, Sardan was a perfectionist, even when it was just for rehearsal. At last the bard looked up at her and nodded, satisfied with the instrument’s tone.

  “What song do you want?” he asked, strumming absently.

  “ ‘And So Floweth Love,’ ” the dancer replied, referring to the Lady of the Sea’s final number, where she relinquishes her hold on Florian. Sardan began to play.

  Larissa had been growing increasingly dissatisfied with the choreography of this dance. The older she grew and the more she performed, the more demands she made on herself and her art. It was time to experiment with some new steps for this number. She began to move. Her fingers traced patterns in the air, and her feet were as light as foam on the ocean’s waves. She half-closed her eyes and allowed her body to sway more freely.

  Even though the Lady of the Sea was ostensibly the villain, you have to pity her a bit, she thought to herself as her fingers mimed tears flowing down her face. All coldness and lack of feeling, until this sailor entered her heart. Larissa’s feet brushed lightly, rhythmically, on the boards of the stage. She wrapped her long arms about her body, weaving back and forth with the Lady of the Sea’s anguish. And she must let him leave, return to the world of air and sunlight, to the woman he loves.

  Larissa’s chest contracted with emotion. Her movements became more powerful and yet more graceful. The young woman was no longer aware of the wooden boards beneath her feet, or of the rivulets of sweat beginning to trickle down her flushed face. Her unbound white hair floated freely, and it felt to her as if she were submerged in water. She breathed, but did not notice the air she gasped in; danced, but knew not what movements she made.

  She felt herself growing, as if she and her gestures filled every corner of the suddenly confining room. Heat flooded her body. Movement was effortless and undirected, and she leaped and swirled about the stage with utter oblivion, surrendering to th
at inner heat, to the power that suddenly swelled within her and—

  “Larissa!”

  There was a painful pressure about her wrists, and her movement, her glorious, wild movement was abruptly halted. Larissa’s blue eyes flew open, but she saw nothing as she struggled against her captor. She heard herself cry out, a sharp, high wail. He was not letting her dance, and she would die if he did not—

  “Larissa, look at me! Stop it and look at me!”

  It was Sardan’s voice, coming as though from a great distance. With an effort that drained her, Larissa focused her eyes and met his frantic gaze.

  Sardan was pale and his eyes were enormous with fright. He gripped each of her wrists in a strong hand. The singer waited until he was sure that she was fully aware of her surroundings before he let his grip relax. “Are you all right?”

  Larissa discovered that her heart was pounding furiously. She licked dry lips and nodded slowly. She felt very tired all of a sudden. As if he sensed this, Sardan helped her to the back of the room and eased her into a chair. He waited until she had caught her breath before asking slowly, “What happened when you were dancing?”

  “Nothing. Just—just going over some new ideas.”

  Sardan shook his head, his eyes still concerned. “I’ve watched you dance for the last four years. You’ve never looked like that. That was—” he floundered for words. “Larissa, your dancing is flawless.”

  She opened her mouth to protest, but he held up a hand and continued. “No, I mean that. You’re perfect. Almost too perfect. A few minutes ago you were wild. You looked like—like some kind of monster, or fairy, or something not human.” He paused, not meeting her eyes for a moment. When he did, his look was wary. “You really frightened me. It was almost as though you weren’t there anymore.”

  Larissa tried to reassure him. “Really, Sardan, it was just a dance. You’re imagining—”

  He arched an eyebrow. “You look exhausted, and don’t tell me you’re not. You try doing something like that every night and you’ll be dead inside of a week.”

  “I’m fine … just a little thirsty. Could you get me some water?” she suggested, hoping to buy a few moments of time to collect herself. The young man sprinted off.

  Larissa exhaled and rested her head in her hands, willing her heart to slow its erratic beating. She had gotten carried away with the music before, but never like this. For a few moments she had tasted ecstasy, and her body had flamed with energy. It had been a terrifying sensation, yet oddly compelling. If she had been able to use that energy, harness it somehow, what might she have done?

  “Here,” said Sardan, handing her a goblet of cold water. She drank gratefully.

  “I didn’t have anything to eat this morning,” said Larissa. “Maybe that might have something to do with it.”

  Sardan looked dubious. “Maybe. Get something to eat and then go back to sleep. You’ve got a performance tonight.” He helped her up, and she gave him a tired smile.

  “One might think you actually cared,” she joked.

  Sardan feigned offense. “I’m only protecting my chances of seducing you.”

  * * * * *

  Larissa had experienced many opening nights with The Pirate’s Pleasure, but none like this. The entertainment-hungry folk of Port d’Elhour had turned out in force, and the show was sold out.

  Safely invisible, Larissa looked at the delighted faces in the audience and grinned. No one had missed a cue. The dancers had performed magnificently. It seemed to her that the tired, clichéd musical suddenly sparkled with, if not exactly wit, then warmth. The love story was a sweet one, and she, the Lady of the Sea, full of beautiful, alluring peril.

  Larissa listened to Casilda sing “Alas! My Love Is No More” with anticipation. She hoped the luck of the evening would rub off on her friend. Casilda, too, was caught up in the excitement and joy of performing before so receptive an audience and was doing her finest job yet. But she still couldn’t hit that last note.

  Larissa was glad the audience appeared oblivious. The applause for each number was deafening, and the cast received a thunderous standing ovation. When they left the stage, the sweaty, elated performers hugged each other and laughed with sheer pleasure. It was nights like this, nights when everything came together almost as magically as one of Gelaar’s illusions, that made everything worthwhile.

  Still walking on air, Larissa literally danced back to her cabin. Crewman, cast member, or patron alike who crossed her path was treated to a radiant smile. She removed her makeup and changed swiftly, then went to the main deck to meet the patrons as all the cast did after each show. When she arrived, she had another pleasant surprise.

  The boat was glowing with dozens of small lights, fastened to the railings at regular intervals. They twinkled softly, like stars that had wandered down from the heavens and decided to stay for a while. They blinked and shimmered, shedding their cool, pleasant light on the laughing cast members, their guests from the town, and the wine-bearing crewmen. As Larissa watched, a young man trying to impress a giggling chorus girl attempted to touch one of the lights. It immediately went dark, but resumed glowing when the man withdrew his hand.

  Larissa assumed the effect was another one of Gelaar’s illusions. She looked around for the elf and spotted him standing alone down near the paddlewheel. Smiling to herself, she hastened down the deck toward him. He glanced over at her briefly, then returned his attention to the small glowing lights. His slim, long-fingered hand stretched out to one of them, but didn’t touch it. It glowed brightly.

  “They’re beautiful, Gelaar,” Larissa said warmly. “One of the nicest illusions I’ve ever seen. Everyone loves them.”

  Gelaar looked at her oddly. “I can’t take credit for them, Miss Snowmane,” he said in a cold voice. “They are something the captain has provided for the ship.”

  “And a fine job, too,” came Dragoneyes’ silky voice. Gelaar turned to the first mate, and his expression hardened even further.

  Larissa felt a vague stirring of discomfort penetrate her euphoria. The half-elf mate and the elven mage had a tenuous truce at best. Like a wolf and a tiger, they were natural enemies.

  “You might want to take better care of yourself, Gelaar,” Dragoneyes continued in a mock-concerned tone. “You’re seeming pretty tired these days. Looked in a mirror lately?” He laughed harshly, and Larissa cringed from the hate-filled expression on Gelaar’s gaunt face.

  “Excuse me, Miss Snowmane,” the mage said, his voice emotionless. “The night has suddenly grown unpleasant.” He nodded courteously, then swept past Dragoneyes with a dignity that would have embarrassed anyone but the half-elf. Dragoneyes merely watched the illusionist leave. He looked over at Larissa, touched his forelock in a casual salute, and left.

  Larissa watched him go, discontent stirring within her. She shook her head, trying to forget the unpleasant incident she’d just been witness to, and leaned over the rail so she could get a better look at the twinkling lights.

  Their brightness fluctuated, and they sometimes even blinked rapidly. The young dancer watched, fascinated, and, to her pleasure, saw that the colors even changed, going from yellow to green to blue to purple and myriad other shades in between. Like a child, she laughed aloud.

  “Aren’t they gorgeous?” said Casilda.

  Larissa beamed. “More than anything I’ve ever seen. I feel like—like I’ve just walked into a fairy tale or something.”

  The two women stood quietly, watching the display of uncanny, lovely lights that festooned La Demoiselle.

  “The crowd was so good, I wish I’d been able to hit that damned note,” Casilda sighed at last.

  Larissa squeezed her arm. “You were so good, the crowd didn’t even care.”

  “Mademoiselle Snowmane?” came a tentative voice, and Larissa glanced up to see the innkeeper of the Two Hares gazing sheepishly at her. He removed his hat and played with it nervously, rendering it into a shapeless mass. “I have come for my tour. You
remember?”

  “Of course!” Larissa smiled, and Jean felt as if he had just seen the sun rise. “Casilda, this is Jean. He owns an inn in Port d’Elhour with the funniest sign I’ve ever seen.” Quickly she described the drunken rabbits, and Casilda chuckled.

  “The rabbits are from an old folk story,” said Jean. He was delighted to be so well received by two lovely young ladies. “There are two heroes, Longears and Bouki. Longears is the clever one. Poor Bouki, he is always finding a way to get into trouble and Longears must always get him out of it.”

  “If your sign was any indication, Bouki is going to have one terrible headache in the morning,” laughed Casilda. “Larissa, what’s this about a tour?

  When Larissa explained, carefully leaving out any mention of Willen, Casilda brightened. “Well,” the singer said, “we can’t take you everywhere, but we will give you a quick tour of La Demoiselle’s decks.”

  Jean couldn’t believe his good fortune. He knew that these were ladies, and that nothing untoward was going to happen. Still, it would make a great taproom tale, of the night when Jean the innkeeper was escorted about a magical boat with a stunning woman on either arm. He laughed, a warm, booming sound that mixed pleasantly with the animated chatter from the other guests.

  “Larissa, my dear,” came Dumont’s voice, “I don’t believe you have introduced me to your friend.”

  The young dancer had been apprehensive about running into her guardian, but the effervescent mood of the evening apparently lingered on. She turned, smiling, to Dumont.

  “Uncle Raoul, this is Jean, the innkeeper at the Two Hares. Last night, I had no money with me because I was in costume, and he was good enough to forgive me for it. I promised him a tour.”

  There was a bit of quiet defiance in her attitude, and she knew it. Larissa’s message was clear: she would ignore what had happened last night if Dumont would. The captain’s green-eyed gaze met hers evenly.