Songs of the Dancing Gods

inherited an entire duplicate set of Kauri powers and instincts, and, yes, compulsions, so, too, had the damned curse duplicated not only Mia, but the full deck of Rules governing her as well. “As weres are supposed to exactly duplicate what they are nearest, it can happen.”

“This is madness!” Mia protested. “How can he own himself?”

“Because the ring’s a fake, really part of him,” Marge answered. “He’s not really a slave, he’s just duplicating, imitating one exactly.” She sighed. “So now what do we do?”

“He surely cannot go out like that,” Mia pointed out.

“And I can’t stay in,” Marge said. “After last night I need a recharge and a hotshot in spades, and, Mia, since you duplicated me exactly, so do you.”

“I can do nothing but spend the night here, my ladies,” Joe responded. “There is clearly nothing else I can do.”

“Yeah, and hope that this at least means the curse is no longer out of whack,” Marge responded. “Otherwise, tomorrow daytime, there’ll be two slaves and no master.”

Mia thought for a moment. “Uh, I would not leave this room all night in any case,” she told him. “The town is filled with soldiers and they all have been pressing me to dance, and, you know.”

“Besides,” Marge noted, “you don’t have the collar.”

“I shall behave, my lady,” he responded. How odd to be doing that to Mia! “I shall sit here and worry about the two of you.”

Marge laughed. “Don’t worry about us! We’re.not about to do any snooping tonight. Too hot out there for that! Come on, Mia! Let’s blow this joint!”

Joe watched them go, then went over to the nightstand where there was some barely nibbled-on fruits and vegetables. What a time! he thought grumpily, finishing them off. While doing so, he was suddenly seized with the thought of how unkempt and messy it all was. By the time he was finished, he’d practically scrubbed the place down with the washbasin water and was checking for things to mend. The only thing he could do nothing about was the dishes and the festering food in the chamber pot.

The trouble was, he couldn’t just throw it out the window as he had the dirty water.

It was quite late by this time; all the raucous noises of earlier in the evening had died down, and the town was basically closed. Maybe he could just sneak down…

No, that was madness. Suppose he ran into a bunch of drunken soldiers who wouldn’t take no for an answer? He’d already been the victim of one compulsion he hadn’t wanted to do; he sure as hell didn’t want that.

Why couldn’t I be standing next to Sugasto when a full moon comes up sometime? he wondered, frustrated and upset. Of course, he then would have Sugasto’s potential, but it would be moot, since he wouldn’t have all those years and years of training, practice, and self-discipline to make any real use of it. Still, it certainly would be better than this.

That mess in the chamber pot kept bothering him, though. The accumulated buzzing of the flies alone was enough to drive him nuts. He went over to the window and stuck his head out and listened. Almost dead quiet. The hell with it. I’ve done a lot of stupid things in my life. Maybe this is one of them, he thought, but he picked up the trash can, gingerly, then, quietly, opened the door. The hall was dark, the only illumination coming from the reception area downstairs, which was just fine with him.

Quietly, he tiptoed down the hall to the stairs, then started down. The whole downstairs was dimly lit and looked empty. He continued down, feeling it was going to be fine, when suddenly a deep, rich male voice said, “You there! Come here!”

He jumped, turned, and saw, sitting at a table almost under the stairway… Holy cats! It’s Sugasto himself!

At least he didn’t have to stimulate a look of abject terror on his Mia-slave face.

“Come here! Now!” the sorcerer ordered, and he scampered over and knelt, head bowed.

“Yes, my lord?”

The Master of the Dead reached out a hand under the slave girl’s chin and slowly raised the head, studying it. “Where are you going? Why are you up and about at this hour?” he demanded.

“M-my master has been ill,” he managed, never feeling closer to doom than right this second. “I—I am throwing out what his stomach could not take.”

Sugasto looked over at the chamber pot, but not too closely. “Ick! Yuck!” he exclaimed, disgusted. He reached out a hand and the chamber pot flew from Joe’s hand. A bolt of blue-white light came from the sorcerer’s fingers, enveloped the chamber pot, and the entire thing vanished in a puff of smoke.

Joe turned back to Sugasto, suitably impressed, and waited. The man had certainly aged since the last time he and Joe had seen one another. The face was pitted and puffy, the eyes surrounded with lines, the hair mostly gray, and he’d put on a fair amount of weight. Still, there was no mistaking the bastard. The worst part was, Joe realized, if he’d been there, as Joe, with his sword at his side, two inches from Sugasto’s neck, he would have been just as helpless as he was now.

“Where’s your collar, child?” the sorcerer asked, almost kindly.

“My lord, we came only a few days ago out of Marquewood. The collar which my master purchased did not seal and fell away and we have not yet had chance to get another.”

When the only defense you had was your wits, you used what you had.

“Hmmm… Make a note of that, Quod,” the sorcerer commented, and for the first time Joe saw that the sorcerer was not alone. With him was a Ben tar officer, looking meaner and oilier than most of them already did.

“Of what, sir?” the officer asked.

“I think I made a mistake on the regulations. I like this plain, unadorned look. If restraints are needed, they can use shackles. No collars from now on. Get the word out. No jewelry or such of any kind.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Tell me, child,” the sorcerer said, turning back to Joe, who had remained on one knee, “how do you like the new fashion in slaves?”

“My lord, it is not for such as I to like or dislike.”

“Well said. Don’t worry about returning thus to Marquewood. By this time next year, this will be the fashion there as well.” He reached out suddenly and put his hand on the slave’s bald pate. “Do you know that just by doing thus I could remove that which is you and put it in that little bottle there?”

“N-no, my lord.”

“No?” The sorcerer seemed genuinely surprised. “Do you not know who I am?”

“No, my lord. I have no doubt you are the greatest of all sorcerers, but I concern myself only with serving my master.”

He let go of the head and Joe had to suppress his feeling of intense relief. But the hand continued down the body, not missing what on any but a slave would be considered private parts.

Sugasto stopped that suddenly, then reached up and touched the nose ring. “Hmmm… Odd pattern. This is no common magician’s product. The way it’s done, it almost seems like… Who put this ring in your nose? And where?”

“My lord, I do not know the names. A big town in Marquewood. The ring was purchased there.”

“The one who put the ring in—was he a big, old man with a flowing white beard?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“I thought so!” He took Joe’s face by the chin and held it up, as if looking at a bust, and studied it. “I could almost… No, it would be inconceivable. Still—how ill is your master, girl?”

“He is recovering well, my lord. It appears to have been a touch of bad food. There is not much here. He was sleeping well when I left him.”

Sugasto nodded. “Very well. If he’s well enough to ride tomorrow, you tell him to come to the military camp outside of town. You tell him the Master of the Dead commands his presence. Can you remember that?”