Songs of the Dancing Gods

Joe got up to leave, then hesitated. “What about Macore? I could use a master thief on this kind of job.”

Ruddygore sighed. “I’m afraid he’s gone mad, and I’m not certain where he is now. Again, fallout from that last unpleasantness. It started that first night, when he was exposed for the first time to that infernal cable television and wound up watching one hundred and twenty-two consecutive episodes of Gilligan’s Island.”

Joe chuckled. “I remember.”

“If there’s a better argument for keeping technology out of Husaquahr, this is it. On the way back, he bought, or more likely stole, a battery-powered television, a battery videocassette player, and, somehow, he got all of the hundreds of episodes of that infernal show. Naturally, being from here, he never really understood about batteries, and it didn’t take long for the batteries to run down. He was frantic! He offered all and sundry anything, slavery for life, any theft of anything, you name it— anything—for a battery recharge. I could have done it, of course, but I thought that, if it seemed impossible, he’d eventually give it up! Instead, he set out on a quest for someone, anyone, who could put more ‘magic energy’ into his batteries. When he was asked where he was going, he responded…” Ruddygore coughed apologetically. “He said he was going on a three-hour tour…”

Ti was very pleased with the way she had unpacked and laid out the room, although, truth to tell, there wasn’t much to unpack. Well, traveling light made for easy work, and she never minded that.

She wanted to do her exercises, but she wasn’t certain if she should. She’d been upset about something, although she wasn’t sure what—oh, yes, they wouldn’t let her clean up in the kitchen—and then that elf came to take her to the room and she had some kind of dizzy spell. Probably due to overeating that rich food after so long on short rations. It really screwed up the system. Well, she’d skip it one more day. After sleeping a night in a damp forest on wood chips, she felt as if she hadn’t slept at all.

She went over and stared out the window. It was dark, but there were torches all along the outer wall reflecting eerily on the river below. It was kind of pretty, really. She imagined herself dancing along that wall, beneath those torches. It would be kind of neat to do it. She still felt a bit confused, almost as if she were two people, one Ti the slave girl that she felt was her true self, the other the grander figure of some other time and place and world, which she remembered but somehow could no longer quite comprehend.

Joe came in, looking tired and oddly bothered, and she said, “Is there anything I can get you, Master?”

He started to tell her never to call him “Master,” always “Joe,” then stopped. Even though it made him feel that he was trapped in an old episode of I Dream of Jeannie as much as Macore was hung up on Gilligan’s Island, it was the proper slave response here. If he was going to be using an alias in enemy country, and if she was what she now was, it was far better if she did call him “Master” and went through the rest of the rigmarole as well.

Instead he said, “Yeah, Ti, it’s fine. Come, sit here. I have to talk some important things over with you.”

She came over and sat on the rug at his feet, looking up at him.

Briefly, but spelling out as much of the implications as he could, he told her the situation with their old bodies, Sugasto, and what Ruddygore was proposing. She listened attentively, but couldn’t conceal from her face that she didn’t like what she was hearing very much at all.

“Any comments?” he prompted. “Speak freely and honestly. It’s your old body and your neck.”

“My neck belongs to you,” she noted, “along with the rest of me. But I cannot say mat the news that my old self still lives does not fill me with longing, and the idea that we are to destroy it, well, it is very hard. When I thought it dead, that was that, but to find that it is alive, and that we are to kill it… If it lives, there is always some hope. If it dies, then I am a slave forever.”

“I know. The odds are we won’t get the chance anyway. We’re taking a journey through lands we don’t know, held by people we do know and who hate us as much as we hate them, toward a goal we really don’t want to reach, and even if we do would most likely put us in the hands of our worst enemies.” He paused. “You do not have to go, you know. I know you’re not supposed to make big decisions for yourself, but this is one you must make. You can remain here, in service of Castle Terindell, and look after Irving for me.”

“But you are going, regardless?”

“It was put to me in Ruddygore’s usual democratic fashion, which is basically, ‘You don’t have to do this, it’s your choice, but, remember, if you don’t, evil will win, millions will die, and it’ll be all your fault.’ Yes, I have to go.”

“Then I go.”

“You’re sure?”

She looked up at him. “If you go, and never return, then all of this was for nothing. If you go, and fail because I was not there when you needed me, it will be even worse. Perhaps this is why destiny has bound me to you. In the past, sometime, you have needed me before in such matters.”

“We’ll probably be killed. Or worse, caught by Sugasto.”

“Then we go opposing evil, and that has meaning. And we might just beat them, as before, which would make everything worth it.”

There was more of the old Tiana beneath this servile veneer than he’d thought or feared. It made him feel better.

“Okay, then. It means starting out again in just a couple of days. We have a long journey, and the clock is running, and we don’t know how long the clock runs.”

“This Sugasto is a coward at heart or he would not have stopped his war,” she noted. “There are only two bodies that will do. He will not risk them until he is very, very sure of them.”

“Good point,” he agreed. He looked over near the window. “What’s that on the floor?”

“A straw mat,” she responded. “It is for me to sleep on.”

“Bullshit! Blow out that oil lamp and come sleep in this big featherbed with me! Who knows when we’ll get the chance to be this luxurious again?”

She grinned happily and blew out the light.

Joe was walking across the great hall on his way outside when a firm soprano voice suddenly said, in English, in a solid West Texas accent, “Hi, sailor! New in town? Want to have a good time?”

He stopped dead, turned, and there, sitting on a fur-covered stool, was a creature of faerie. She was small, perhaps a bit over four feet in height, and quite sexy; almost a deep red variation of a nymph, to whom her sort were closely related, but with big, varicolored wings that seemed to catch any light and throw back a beauteous, changing, yet butterflylike appearance.

“Marge!” he shouted, and she ran to him and gave him a big hug. He hesitated to return it for a moment because of the wings, but she said, playfully, “You ought to know by now that these wings can’t be damaged by hugs!”

“What are you doing here?” he asked her, happy enough to see her in any event. “Did Ruddygore send for you?”

“No, he doesn’t have to. I’m kind of tuned in to you folks and I just sort of know when things are wrong and trouble’s brewing, and that always brings me like a wildcatter to oil. So, how are you?”

“Not good,” he replied honestly. “Everything’s going the wrong way, as usual.”

“Nasty job? I assume the Baron slipped the noose.”

“How’d you know that?”

“I’ve just been around here long enough now to figure things like that out. The moment they brought that bastard back here I knew we’d eventually be in for it.”

“Well, that’s part of it, but not the main job. And there are— well, complications.”

“C’mon. Tell Auntie Marge about them. She’s a very good confessor.”

Marge was a changeling, one of those very rare individuals who arrived in this world with just some long- unsuspected single gene or trace of ancient faerie in her that caused the Rules to change her outright to her ancestral race. A former English teacher in Texas who’d lost her job and wound up a battered wife, she’d been