Dance of the Dead

by Christie Golden

  Larissa was utterly confused and continued staring at the stranger. Admittedly, he was worth staring at. His clothes were plain but functional: a voluminous white shirt, plain vest, breeches, and short leather boots. The youth was tall, topping six feet, and well-built, though not laden with muscles. Thick, wavy brown hair matched dancing brown eyes. His face was well-chiseled and strong, but there were laugh lines around his eyes and mouth that suggested he didn’t take himself too seriously.

  Larissa found herself smiling as well. She opened her mouth to ask him how he could see through the magic when she realized the music had stopped. Larissa groaned. For the second time in the same evening, she’d done something wrong. Now she was late for the final bow.

  The dancer fled the company of the charming young man and hastened to take her place beside Casilda and Sardan. The applause was tremendous, and the faces above the clapping hands were alight with pleasure. Their people in the audience had clearly had the time of their lives.

  Curtsying, Larissa searched about the crowd until she found Dumont, and she felt a sudden chill. He was not smiling, and his green eyes were as hard as jade.

  He’d noticed the misstep too, she realized. And the fact that she was late for the final bow. Larissa felt herself shrinking inside. It would seem that it wasn’t going to be such a good night after all.

  She stole a furtive glance in the direction of the young man, but he had gone. The dancer felt curiously disappointed. The crowd came up to congratulate the players, and idle conversation replaced songs and music.

  Wordlessly Dumont held out his hand. Larissa removed the Eye and dropped it into the callused palm. The captain was extremely protective of his treasures.

  “What happened to you?” Dumont demanded, putting the pendant safely away in a pouch around his neck.

  Larissa lowered her eyes. “I’m sorry, Uncle. The drums distracted me.”

  Dumont’s face was like stone. “What drums? The drums that got you so upset the other day?” he demanded.

  Larissa stared up at him, dumfounded. They were still going on, their pounding rhythm weaving through the night sounds of cicadas and human voices. Was it possible he couldn’t hear them? “Those drums,” she said, gesturing in the direction of the swamp.

  Dumont’s expression didn’t soften. “Everyone makes mistakes,” he said in a voice that was carefully patient. “But you can’t learn from them if you pretend they’re not there. Don’t blame your bad step on nonexistent drumming! This is the second time you say you’ve heard them, and I simply cannot. I’ve had about enough of that particular excuse.”

  Larissa couldn’t believe it. There the drums were, pounding away in a rhythm that pulled at her soul, and the captain claimed he couldn’t hear them. She tried to continue the argument, but was abruptly interrupted.

  “Ah, Captain Dumont!” exclaimed Foquelaine, striding up to them with a huge smile on his face. “What a performance! What talent you have aboard your showboat!”

  “Thank you, Mayor Foquelaine,” said Dumont. “Mayor, this is my ward, Larissa Snowmane. Larissa, my dear, may I present Mayor Bernard Foquelaine.”

  Foquelaine, delighted, took the dancer’s hand and planted an unpleasantly moist kiss on it.

  “Such a pleasure, mademoiselle,” he enthused. “Your Lady of the Sea was stunning! Never have I seen such graceful movement! Captain, you and your marvelous boat must stay for a little while here at Port d’Elhour.”

  Dumont’s smile returned. “It would be an honor to perform for your people. They do seem to have enjoyed themselves.”

  He looked out on the sea of smiling faces, illuminated by the many torches in the square. The illusion of the island paradise had gone, but its memory lingered. The market square somehow didn’t seem as bleak as it had before. The cast and entertainers were mingling; the folk of Souragne seemed to have forgotten their initial suspicion and were now chatting animatedly.

  “There is, of course, the question of cost,” said Foquelaine. “The people of this land do not have much money.”

  Dumont allowed himself a laugh. “I see fine clothes, beautiful jewelry, lovely homes. No money, sir?”

  “We barter here. Services, goods, so on. I would think that a copper or two …”

  Larissa allowed herself to ignore the conversation as it floated off into a bargaining contest. She returned her attention to the drums and looked around. Nobody else seemed to be bothered by the steady pounding. She could understand that perhaps the Souragniens were used to the sound, but what of the cast of The Pirate’s Pleasure?

  Casilda was chatting with a handsome young fellow, and Sardan was the center of a group of giggling young girls. Neither of them seemed the least bit discomfited. To her disappointment, Larissa did not glimpse the handsome face of the strange young man in the happy throng. She allowed herself to remember his broad grin and the laughing light in his eyes. Where could he have gone?

  A gentle touch on Larissa’s arm brought her back. Foquelaine had departed, and Dumont was now gazing at her intently. “Where were you a moment ago, cherie?” he asked, his normally robust voice velvet soft.

  She blushed and wasn’t sure why. “Nowhere, just going over that bad step,” she lied. “What kind of a deal did you strike with the mayor?”

  “One silver piece per person, plus all our supplies for the duration of our stay. But you don’t care about that. Come, it is too hot a night to be pressed so close to the crowd. Will you join me on a little walk?” He proffered his arm.

  Larissa smiled back, relieved to see the more familiar guardian reappear. She took the arm and squeezed it affectionately as the captain of La Demoiselle led her away from the babbling of the market square and down a cobblestone lane.

  They walked for a while in silence. The road took them out of the main town and into the countryside, winding past some of the beautiful houses they had glimpsed from the boat. The mansions were located back from the cobblestone road, each having its own pathway, often guarded by fences. Larissa gazed up at one of the rich homes, a dream of luxury made of cypress wood and stone. It was too dark for her to see much detail of the manor itself, but she could tell there were large windows—an expensive luxury in an isolated community. Carved dragons holding flickering torches guarded a wrought-iron gate that blocked the path to the house. The broad road wound on, but Dumont paused and took Larissa’s hands in his. She gazed up at him inquiringly.

  “I didn’t mean to snap at you yesterday,” Dumont said sincerely. “You were very, very brave, the way you handled that mist horror. Just understand, I was afraid for your safety.”

  “I know that, Uncle,” Larissa said affectionately, squeezing his hands. “And I promise I—oh!”

  A large, hunched shape had suddenly darted out in front of them. The man wore a black hood and gripped a sword, which he swiftly pointed at Larissa’s throat. He stood calmly, quite certain of his armed advantage on the dark, deserted road.

  “One wrong move, and the girl dies,” he hissed menacingly.

  FIVE

  Larissa was not about to make one wrong move. In fact, she didn’t move a muscle. Sardan’s teachings had taught her how to handle drunken, leering men and lovestruck young pups. Ruffians with swords at her neck were another matter indeed, and she held very still while her mind went over various courses of action.

  “That’s right,” said the hooded man. “Now, sir, if you would be so good as to hand over all the money on your person?”

  Larissa blinked. There was something familiar about that voice, about the whole situation. She prayed Dumont would cooperate and the thug would retreat, but to her dismay she heard the snick of a sword being unsheathed.

  “Get away from her, you pathetic excuse for a man,” Dumont growled, his expression switching from surprised to brutal in a heartbeat “I’m loathe to spill blood in a hosting town, but I will.”

  “Choose you death, then, you dog? So be it! Have at you!” The hooded man darted away from Larissa, maki
ng a clumsy swipe at Dumont that the captain effortlessly parried. Larissa didn’t waste a moment. She dived for cover, getting one of the stone dragons between her and the thug.

  The man grunted and struck again. Dumont blocked the blow and heaved the man backward. He stumbled but didn’t lose his balance. He stood for a moment, panting. Dumont hadn’t even broken into a sweat. The captain balanced, ready to block whatever blow his enemy might make.

  “A brave, brave fight, yet my sword shall taste your blood ere long. See how it thirsts!” The robber waved the sword in the air before charging Dumont again.

  Larissa gasped. Now she knew why this was so familiar. The words the man had been uttering were stolen directly from the third act of The Pirate’s Pleasure.

  “No!” cried Larissa, stepping out from behind the stone dragon. “Uncle, stop it! He’s not a killer! Someone’s playing a joke on you—” But her words were lost in the singing of steel.

  The thug landed a lucky blow, and Dumont gasped with pain. The faint torchlight illuminated a bloody gash across his bicep, making the red liquid seem black. He turned his angry gaze upon the robber, who looked as startled as he.

  “The game’s over,” Dumont growled and began to attack in earnest. The robber didn’t stand a chance. Desperately, the man tried to fend off blows that came with staggering speed. He succeeded for a few seconds, but Dumont’s skill was by far the superior. With the efficiency of a panther slaying a rabbit, Dumont slid his blade home. The false robber gazed down at his midsection. He stared at the blood that was beginning to turn his shirt front a wet black.

  “Scum like you deserve to die,” Dumont said coldly.

  The man staggered, collapsing to his knees with a grunt. He looked up at Larissa who, frozen with horror, could only return his stare. “Liza …” he said, then pitched forward to sprawl on the stone. An inky puddle began to seep out from under his body.

  For a moment there was silence, broken only by the steady rhythm of the distant drums that apparently only Larissa could hear. Slowly the dancer dragged her gaze from the dead man. “Uncle,” she said in a steady voice, “what about Liza?”

  Dumont had fished out a handkerchief and was fastidiously cleaning the blood off his blade, but he froze at her words. Carefully, he asked, “What do you mean?”

  “That man said—”

  “He said ‘lies,’ Larissa dear, not Liza. I called him scum, he claimed my insults were lies. Poor child, this has upset you dreadfully, I can see that.” He sheathed his sword and went to the fallen man. “Let’s see who you are, my good—Jack!”

  Dumont’s voice was filled with feigned shock. Larissa turned her head away after she recognized the face of the chief pilot. Pity for the pilot’s idiocy surged through her. What had possessed him to play such a trick on Dumont? He should have known how the captain would react. The dead man’s eyes were wide open, filled with pained surprise.

  “Oh, Jacky lad,” Dumont sighed, kneeling beside the corpse. “Why’d you do such a crazy thing?” He bent his head in mock sorrow, then rose. He turned, arms extended, to Larissa. She backed up a step, and he paused. “Larissa!”

  The name was infused with genuine pain. Dumont had entertained happy thoughts of Larissa embracing him gratefully after he had slain the wretch on her behalf. He had decided to eliminate Handsome Jack even before he invited the man to participate in the incident. The pilot, stupid though he was, knew enough about Dumont to make him dangerous, and his drinking was getting worse, not better. There was no telling what he’d say if his tongue was loose enough.

  But it had been a bad gamble for the captain of La Demoiselle. Dumont apparently had lost not only his pilot but also Larissa’s trust. “Larissa!” he said again.

  The pain in her guardian’s voice softened Larissa’s mistrust, and she felt ashamed of herself. Even if it was a crewman Dumont had slain, he’d been disguised and he’d been pointing a sword at her throat. Dumont could have done no less than attack him.

  “I’m sorry, Uncle, it’s just …”

  “There, there, ma cherie,” Dumont soothed, stepping to her quickly and embracing her. “You were just frightened, that’s all.”

  She hugged him, nestling her head against his broad chest as she had done so often over the last eight years. Dumont caressed her long white hair and slid an arm about her waist, pressing her against him. Desire began to blend with the excitement of the kill.

  “Larissa …” His voice was deeper, huskier, and he turned her face up to his.

  Larissa had heard that note in men’s voices before and had learned to mistrust it. Hearing it from Dumont filled her with shock and a sense of betrayal. She pushed him away and stared up at him, anger, fear, and disbelief mingled in her face. Displeasure darkened his own as he stepped forward.

  Larissa panicked and dived for the sword the unfortunate Handsome Jack had dropped. It was far heavier than the prop swords she had handled from time to time, and her wrist hurt as she picked it up. Nevertheless, she grasped it with both hands and grimly aimed its point at Dumont’s stomach.

  “Keep away,” she warned in a voice that shook.

  Through his rising rage, Dumont laughed, a harsh, cruel sound. “You haven’t the slightest idea how to use that,” he reminded her. He was right, of course, and Larissa knew it full well. Still, she kept her grip on the weapon and set her jaw to indicate a confidence she didn’t feel.

  “Maybe not,” she admitted, “but it’s still a sword, and I can still swing it.”

  Dumont had had enough. Everything seemed to be going wrong on this island, from the attack of the mist horror to Brynn’s unexpected gibbering to this present disagreeable turn of events. He had no patience left to squander arguing with Larissa. He straightened, and the flickering of the torchlight over his face gave it a demonic cast.

  “You are such a child,” he snapped. “And I am in no mood to play games. It’s time to grow up.” Larissa held her position, glaring at him defiantly to mask her fear. Dumont frowned. “You will give me that sword!” He strode toward her, appearing to the confused young woman far more menacing than Handsome Jack had been.

  “Take it, then!” she cried, hurling the heavy weapon at him with all her strength. The sword tripped him, cutting with a grating pain across his left shin, and he hit the ground heavily.

  Larissa didn’t linger to see the results of her efforts. She had turned away the minute the sword left her hands and fled back toward the town as fast as her legs would carry her. The angry bellow behind her told her that Dumont was giving chase.

  She hadn’t realized just how far away from the center of Port d’Elhour—and the safety of lights and people—they had wandered. As she sped past the stately mansions, she wondered briefly if she should seek sanctuary from their inhabitants. A quick glance up at the menacing gargoyles that guarded the gates made her decide against such action.

  She heard Dumont calling her name, then narrowed her eyes in determination. Her legs pumped rapidly and, in her costume, she was unencumbered by long skirts, but she didn’t know how long she could keep ahead of the longer-legged captain.

  Larissa had never felt so frightened or so alone in her life. The moonlight illuminated her way only enough to emphasize the shadows on the sides of the cobblestone path. Ground fog began to swirl about her ankles, hiding the road, and she nearly fell more than once. The sounds of the drums increased in volume, and she said a silent prayer. The town was near.

  “Larissa!”

  Her heart, already pounding, leaped painfully. Without breaking stride, the young dancer swerved to the left and climbed like a squirrel over a rusty iron fence. She hit the ground running, smiling grimly at the knowledge that Dumont would not be able to negotiate the fence as easily as she. It would buy her a few precious seconds.

  She bolted down a dark alleyway and rounded a corner, realizing that she had nearly made it back to the market square. It was only a few streets away. Larissa didn’t stop to think that she was safe now.
Her world was in shambles around her. She was a hunted beast and wanted only to escape.

  The small wooden building on her right was an inn. Its sign proclaimed it to be the Scolding Jay and depicted a riled bird shrieking away at a meddlesome squirrel. Off-key music and voices drifted to her ears, almost drowned out by the pounding of the drums from the swamp.

  Larissa leaped upward without even stopping to think, grabbed onto the sturdy beam from which the sign hung and shinnied up until she was sitting on it. She edged backward onto the shingled roof, bracing her feet against the gutters that ran alongside the inn’s roof. Larissa moved cautiously down the other side. She winced as a splinter dug its way into her thigh, but kept utterly silent.

  When Dumont rounded the corner, his shin was bleeding and he ran with a limp. The captain’s rugged face was contorted with rage, and he looked around angrily, furious that she had apparently vanished. The sign of the Scolding Jay was still swinging, but he didn’t seem to notice. He went inside. The door slammed shut behind him, and Larissa heard him talking to the innkeeper. She let her breath out in a quavering sigh and closed her eyes, permitting relief to wash over her. She was safe.

  “Well, well, what kind of pretty bird are you, up there on the roof?”

  Larissa was so startled she nearly lost her precarious grip. She craned her neck to see who had spoken and recognized the dark-haired youth she had talked to earlier. He was standing directly below her, his arms folded and a grin on his face. The girl put a finger to her lips and shook her head.

  Grinning broadly, the young man nodded and disappeared from her view. Larissa’s heart sank when she heard him fling open the door and cry, “Milord, I’ve seen that girl you were chasing!”

  “Where?” came Dumont’s cold voice.

  “She took off down Old Cypress Way. She might try to hide in one of the, uh, houses.”