Songs of the Dancing Gods

could—but the two woodcuts, while somewhat crude, were unmistakable. Lean, hard face, high cheekbones, long black hair… It wasn’t very flattering, but, when taken with what was probably a physical description, it was recognizable. The other cut wasn’t nearly as much help; he knew it was supposed to be Mia, but it could have been about every fifth girl in Marquewood, and the picture certainly had no slave ring, the one thing about her face that everyone focused on almost immediately.

At the bottom was a symbol that resembled a nasty, black falcon’s head, only a falcon out of the dark side of faerie, superimposed over the outline of a crest that appeared to be a cyclops on one side and a dwarf on the other. “The Hypboreyan imperial seal, I’d bet,” he commented. “I wonder if I can find anybody inside to read it to me?”

“Oh, no, Master! You can’t!”

He grinned. “Sure I can. Just remember, those aren’t pictures of us! Who knows, we might come across this pair and collect a fat reward. Don’t worry. I want to know whom you deliver them to if you capture them. Who, and where.”

The barman looked at the flyer and frowned. “Says this pair are fugitives from a treason charge in Hypboreya—not that that’s unusual. Seems like most anything over there’s treason now. They must want them pretty bad, though. The usual’s ten gold pieces a head. These are ten thousand a head!” He whistled. “And twenty-five thousand for both! Man, I’ll settle for just one of ’em, guilty or innocent. With ten thousand I’d walk away from this place, get myself a yacht, and just sail the river and loaf.”

“That’s why I wanted the details. What happens if you catch one or both? What do you do then?”

“Bring ’em here and I’ll split with you!” the innkeeper responded. “No, seriously, it says they must be alive, but condition’s not important, and to notify any Hypboreyan legation or trade representative, or to notify the Witches’ Guild!”

“Surely all witches and warlocks aren’t working for Hypboreya,” Joe responded. He knew some pretty nice folks who were witches—and, of course, a ton that made the fairy-tale ones look like saints.

The barman shrugged. “Who knows? You figure they got somebody in almost all the locals. Probably got some kind of magical reward for them as a processing fee the likes of this cash so that few witches could turn it down. Most any of ’em around here are in league with the Dark One anyway. It was real creepy when this was occupied territory, you know, but they pretty well left us alone. Too busy pushing south then. They’re still around, though. Just kind of low key, if you know what I mean.”

“You do business with them?”

He shrugged. “I ain’t never.been very political. Besides, it’s a long ways to the nearest Marquewood army, and, with Ruddy-gore off the Council, we ain’t got the privileged position we once did. I guess we got enough strength to protect the big cities, which is why they ain’t done nothin’ more and made the truce, but that don’t cut beans around here. Where you heading?”

“Valisandra for now,” he replied. “Still, I figured there might be some work coming up for somebody in my profession.”

“Yeah? How come them instead of south?”

Joe tapped the paper. “Because they pay better, for one thing. And because I’ve seen the south and tested the winds, and I like to be on the side,of the winner. Winners pay. Losers run or hang.”

“Yeah, well, there’s something to that, I guess. Still, this bunch could stab you through the heart and then you’d still fight for ’em—for free!”

“Those zombies are formidable,” he agreed, “but you can’t win a war or even a major battle with them alone. There’s no substitute for thinkers; men who can hold their own in the midst of battle and instantly size up the situation and the move and countermove. They’re okay as infantry, but a good fire line could destroy them and have them marching in to be consumed before they could get the order to turn. Then your cavalry could leap right through and behind them and get at the ones who direct them. Remove the controllers and the zombies are just so much rubble.”

“You sound like you know your business, all right, Mister ah-”

“Cochise.”

“Interesting name.”

“All barbarian mercenaries have interesting names,” Joe responded lightly. “Book Fourteen, page one hundred and sixty-one.”

“Well, you just watch your back, Mister Cochise, when you cross that border, ’cause over there the blackest sort of magic rules unchecked.”

“I fought with the Baron at Sorrow’s Gorge,” Joe responded menacingly. “It’ll be just like coming home.”

He only wished he’d meant that.

“You get many going north these days?” Joe asked him, curious.

“Some. Salesmen, tradespeople, officials, that kind of thing, and some I’d rather not discuss. Been a ton of real mean fairies headin’ in, too, I hear, but most don’t come near here. A few nuts, too. Had one guy through, not long ago, crazy as a loon. Said he was on some kind of epic quest. Little guy. Just kept singin’ this dumb song in some foreign tongue. Claimed he was lookin’ for some desert island. Desert island! In Valisandra! Can you beat that?”

Joe grew suddenly interested. “How long ago did that little fellow come through? ”

The innkeeper shrugged. “Couple weeks back, I think. Glad to get rid of him. Gave me the creeps, he did.”

Marge, like all faerie, recognized no human borders and particularly not their formalities. She flew over to Valisandra that night, arranging to catch up with the other two when they cleared and were well inside the country.

The border crossing looked pretty standard, if a bit more elaborate than most; the uniforms were different, the accent on the border guards was a bit off, but it hardly seemed the gateway to Hell. They were a lot more officious, though, and they did more touching of Mia than a border guard should.

“She’ll have to get down and come inside,” he said at last.

“Huh? Why?” Joe was suddenly defensive and suspicious and his hand almost went to his sword.

“She’s got to have her head shaved,” the guard said. “It’s the law here, no exceptions.”

Joe was surprised that Mia didn’t recoil from that. He sure did. “How long has that been the law?”

“It used to be a custom among certain of our people and those of Hypboreya,” he told them. “Now it’s the law. Absolute. No exceptions.”

Joe looked at her long, beautiful hair. “And if I refuse?”

He shrugged. “Then she don’t get allowed in. It’s your decision, Mister. She’s your property. I don’t make the laws, I just have to enforce them.”

Be cold, be tough, he reminded himself. “Okay, but only in my presence.”

“Okay with me.”

She got down and went inside and sat in the chair they indicated. One of the guards brought these big, sharp scissors and started cutting. It didn’t take very long to have a mound of hair on the floor and a scraggly mess on top. Getting the scraggly mess down was more involved, but finally they had it very short. Then they literally shaved her with foamy soap and a straight razor. He was surprised when that wasn’t the end of it; they shaved her underarms, her arms, legs, even her pubic hair, leaving only her eyebrows. Then they finished it by applying a greenish liquid over not only her scalp but every place they’d shaved. But for the brows, she was totally hairless. It looked very strange, with her bald as a cue ball, but she did have the head for it, and it made her look rather exotic, statuesque.

Joe felt his own still unfamiliar beard and said, “I guess I’m going to have to buy a razor.”

“No, the potion we finished with kills all the roots,” the guard said casually. “I’d get her a hafiid as soon as I hit my first town… A collar with loop is also required. Until then, the earrings, bracelets, and anklets are okay, but she can’t wear anything else. Understand?”

“Uh, yeah,” Joe responded, still in a state of shock. They walked back outside.

Finally, the head man tore off a piece of paper and handed it to Joe. “Can you read?”

“No.”