Demons of the Dancing Gods (4 page)

"I think you know," she responded. "At least, you'd better

know."

"Well, I don't know," Joe grumbled.

Ruddygore just nodded. "I think it's best you go and do it

as soon as possible. Events are moving at a far faster pace than

I had anticipated. Something very odd is going on in the Baron's

lands, and that spells trouble. I may need you both at any

time."

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That interested the big man. "You mean another battle?"

"Not like the old one, Joe. I think the Baron has learned

his lesson on that one. But there are disturbing reports from

the south. Whole military units seem to have vanished or been

broken up and re-formed elsewhere. Boundary defenses have

been strengthened, although obviously we can't possibly mount

a successful counterattack, and it's getting tougher to get in

and out of his areas. Something's up, something new, and we

can't get a handle on it; but it's certain that the only reason for

such ironclad border control, other than to repel invasion, is

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JACK L. CHALKER

19

either to keep your own people in—and he has other means

to do that—or to keep the flow of information to a minimum.

Our usual spies have been next to useless, I'm afraid, so I'm

hoping to leam something at the convention."

"Convention?" Marge prompted.

The sorcerer nodded. "Yes, the annual meeting of the sorcerers,

magicians, and adepts of Husaquahr. It's a rather large,

elaborate affair lasting five days, and it's only three weeks

away. This year it's in Sachalin, Marquewood's capital. I leave

in ten days for it, since it's a long way. Everybody will be

there, though—the entire Council, as a courtesy, including

those members, both greater and lesser, from the Baron's lands.

I might leam something useful."

"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

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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.

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JACK L. CHALKER

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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

ofZabeet, 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

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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

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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 violating 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

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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