Demons of the Dancing Gods (15 page)

its handle a magnificently carved, solid gold lion's head in full

roar. He snapped his fingers and Macore scampered around

him, reached inside the sedan chair, and brought out a flat disk

which he then shook with his wrist, causing the disk to form

into a great top hat matching the formal outfit. The little thief,

playing the part to the hilt, handed the hat to Ruddygore, who

idly placed it on his head, then snapped his fingers once more.

Durin, his fairy chef, a very round and cherubic figure, who

looked like a five-foot-tall version of a Disney dwarf, was

attired in splendid white fur. He walked from behind the sedan

chair and around Ruddygore and Macore to the front desk. The

uniformed desk crew, already accustomed to serving all manner

of humans and creatures, nonetheless was gathered together

awaiting what came next. "Throckmorton P. Ruddygore, Master

of Castle Terindell, Vice Chairman of the Council of Thirteen,

Grand Master of the Society of Thaumaturgists, Keeper

of the Threshold of Worlds, Th.D., Ph.D.,M.D., and D.O.G."

Ruddygore smiled and bowed.

The desk clerk was not officious but also not all that impressed.

A hand went down and he called out, "Front, please!"

Several bellmen engaged in a pushing and tripping contest to

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see who could make it first to what was obviously a big tipper.

"Show Dr. Ruddygore and his party to the Lake Suite," the

clerk instructed the winning bellman.

That one grinned, went over, and bowed to the master sorcerer.

"If you will foilov/ me, sir," the bellman intoned and

started off with his body militarily erect, aware that he was

leading a parade.

Macore followed, adapting the same manner of walk, then

Ruddygore, and finally the little chef, obviously having the

time of his considerable fairy life. Joe chugged down the remains

of his tankard—it was full of straight hypercaffeinated

tea, anyway—and decided he'd take the stairs. Even if he

didn't hurry, he knew that, by the time they all took that set

of elevator contraptions, he'd be ten minutes ahead of them.

As he made for the stairs, he heard the clerk snap, "You muscle

guys! Get that rig back down where it belongs!"

Joe was certainly ahead of the game as he knocked on the

suite's large door. Poquah answered, looked at the big man's

face, and said sourly, "I assume he's arrived?"

"And how! Did he come all the way here with that outfit?"

"No, actually he had me rent it a couple of days ago here

in the city, and they picked him up on the edge of town. Cost

a fortune, too, not to mention a lot of my time. Do you know

how hard it is to find four men who not only can bear that kind

of weight but also are about the same size?"

"I can guess," Joe sympathized. "Whoops! I think I hear

them coming now!"

It was pretty unmistakable, hearing the clanging and clattering

of the car arriving and then the bunch of them getting

out of it. Joe chuckled. "I hope they have a really heavy-duty

set of springs on that gadget."

Poquah went over, opened the double doors wide, then did

a double check of the bar stock and of several large trays of

pastries sitting on the kitchenette counter. Satisfied, he waited.

Soon the batch of them walked in, led by the bellman. They

stood there a moment while the sorcerer looked over the place.

When he nodded, Poquah went over to the bellman. "Arrange

for the bags to be delivered as soon as possible," he instructed,

"and do not touch or disturb the seals on them if you value

your life."

The bellman, not easily intimidated, just stood there. Finally,

out of the comer of his mouth, Ruddygore ordered, "Tip

him, you idiot!"

The Imir sighed, took a pouch from his belt, and gave the

bellman three gold coins. Joe didn't know how much it was,

but it certainly was less than the hotel man had expected,

judging by his expression. "More if the bags arrive quickly

and in perfect condition," Poquah told him. "Now—go!"

The bellman nodded glumly, turned, and left, and Poquah

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shut the doors behind him. At that moment they all relaxed,

and Ruddygore broke into hearty laughter. The big man went

over, grabbed a pastry, and plopped into one of the plush chairs,

which groaned and sagged noticeably. "God!" he exclaimed.

"I've been wanting to make an entrance like that ever since I

saw The Thief of Baghdad'."

Joe was the only one who even slightly understood the

comment, although he'd never seen the movie. Ruddygore,

with his ability to go between the worlds, was equally at home

in either one.

"So what's a D.O.G.?" he asked with a smile.

Ruddy gore's eyebrows rose. "Why, hello, Joe! A pleasant,

successful, and uneventful trip, I trust?"

"Not exactly," he responded, "but that will wait."

"Yes, I do want to talk to you in a bit, after we're settled

in and I find out what godawful stuff they have me doing at

the convention. Poquah, did you get a program?"

"They were late, as usual," the [mir replied. "They only

finished carving the plates the night before last. Naturally, they

had lots of last-minute changes."

The sorcerer sighed, "I suppose we ought to give them the

idea of the Gutenberg press, eh? I think movable type's time

has come for Husaquahr. It's almost impossible to have anything

accurate when it takes a team of scribes a month to carve

out each page." He turned back to Joe. "A D.O.G., if you

must know, is a Doctor of Oddball Gimmickry. It's irritating

at times, but a lot of titles, particularly in academia and the

Society, have rather unfortunate initials. Try not to laugh at

them when you hear them if you don't want to be turned into

a toad."

"I'll remember," Joe assured the wizard.

Ruddygore reached into his inside jacket pocket and took

out a cigar, lighting it by pointing his index finger at the tip.

A tiny spark jumped, and he was puffing away. He sighed.

"It's been a wearing trip, I fear. With a week to go, I really

should just take it easy today and get a decent night's sleep,

but I probably won't. That was one of the reasons for the grand

entrance down there, though. If I just walked through the door,

I'd run into three dozen people, all of whom are either old

friends not seen in a long time or people who have to talk to

me or to whom I have to talk. I'd be hours just getting across

the lobby."

"It was effective," Joe told him. "You overawed everybody

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except the desk clerks."

Ruddygore shrugged. "Can't win 'em all. I assume Marge

is sleeping during this pretty day?"

"I guess," Joe answered. "I don't know. We had private

rooms last night."

The sorcerer frowned and looked thoughtful for a moment.

Finally, he sighed and got up. "I think perhaps we'd better

have our little talk now. Come on into my room." He looked

questioningly at Poquah, who indicated which door, then grabbed

several more of the gooier pastries, opened the side door to his

bedroom, and walked in. Joe followed, deciding he might grab

one of the pastries himself on the way.

The master bedroom was truly huge, with a massive bed,

a full parlor area, its own water closet, and a mini-bar. Ruddygore

slipped off his coat and boots and tossed the hat on the

bed. Almost as an afterthought, he turned back and stuck his

head into the parlor. "Poquah, when the bags come, prepare

some of what's in the red canister," he instructed. "Then have

it brought in." He then slid the door closed, indicated a chair

to Joe, and took one himself, sprawling comfortably. For a

while he said nothing, just looked at the big man across from

him. Then he sighed. "I gather you do not approve of the new

Marge."

Joe shrugged. "What can I say?"

"Just be honest, that's all, particularly with me. Joe, before

I started this operation, I consulted a series of oracles who are

pretty good at seeing future trends. Trends only—I've yet to

find a reliable perfect predictor, and I'm not sure I'd like the

implications of one if I found him or her. The trend was entirely

the Dark Baron's way, and it was highly unpleasant in the

extreme. The threat went far beyond Husaquahr to the entire

world and from it even to yours. It's an end-around to millennia

of darkness, even if it fails beyond this world. At the very

least, millions of lives were at stake, their children's lives, and

their children's children's, not to mention my own ancient hide.

Most of what I organized to fight them—and it's a vast and

complex system—is better for you not to know, but in all those

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predictors I kept hitting a blind spot, an irregularity that skewed

anything that might be in my favor and reinforced the Baron.

It took no great deduction to see that he was being backed by

forces from Hell itself, directly, on stage, in violation of every

agreement between Heaven and Hell ever made, but it was so

clever, so subtle, I couldn't get the proof I needed."

Joe nodded. "I met that demon, remember."

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"Indeed you did and you escaped when none should have.

That's what I saw as well. If the Baron had a joker, a real

demon prince, to help him, then I needed a wild card of my

own. That wild card, Joe, is you."

"So you've said. But I'm not magic, and I'm no match for

demons."

"Oh, but you are, Joe," the sorcerer told him. "You are

indeed. And so is Marge. I couldn't stand up to a demon prince,

Joe—but you not only could, you did. He had no power over

you, and, if you had been able to strike at him, you might have

actually wounded him. That's because any demon prince coming

through to Husaquahr is attuned to Husaquahr. Things,

people, even souls are very subtly different between worlds,

Joe, and they must be on the right frequency, so to speak. The

demons of your world could harm you, but not one here. That's

what I was looking for when I went shopping, as it were, over

Earth way."

"But magic works on me here," Joe pointed out. "I'm as

vulnerable as anybody else."

"No, Joe. Your body is vulnerable, since flesh is flesh. But

if the flesh were all that mattered, then the Baron would have

no need of a demon prince, would he? No, Joe—the demon

can't even perceive flesh, believe it or not. He sees that permanent

part of you, your soul, your true self. It's on that level

that demons get you, twist you, corrupt you, often in spite of

yourself. Not you, though, Joe—or Marge, either, for that

matter. That doesn't mean you can't be corrupted, but you

can't be reached on that level against your conscious will here,

and that's a vital but very fine point. When that demon saw

you both, it reached out to command your souls—and it couldn't.

Thus, you were able to break free, use the Lamp, and escape.

And, because of that, the Baron was deprived of the Lamp and

its powers, and we were able to win the battle. All because

you were there, Joe, as predicted—you and not one of this

world."

"Yeah—but why me?"

"You fitted the bill. You were a big man with a strong ego,

an independent with no real ties, and the probabilities said you

would be killed in an accident that very night we met. I set up

the conditions to divert you to me, and you were diverted.

Somehow, inadvertently, those conditions also brought Marge

first to you and then to me as well. I didn't expect her, but I

couldn't complain, either. But I was prepared for you, not for

her, and that caused some problems. Unlike you, her ego, her

self-esteem, and her self-image were extremely weak, and never

so weak as at the point when we crossed over. Forces that are

too complex to explain operated, and while you, with a little

help from me, were able to shrug them off, they took hold of

her. This is a world of magic, and magical forces are strongest

on the nonintellectual level, on the emotional line, as you can

see in your own world, in the example of religious fervor. To

Marge, back then, the intellect had failed. Her college availed

her nothing, her knowledge and skills went unneeded or unappreciated,

and the only thing she'd done, once she'd sunk

very low, that worked was selling herself, turning herself into

an object, a thing for the momentary gratification of strangers.

This was the pattern she brought with her as she crossed the

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Sea of Dreams."

Joe nodded, following him on at least the intellectual level,

although finding it impossible to see how somebody so bright