Marion Zimmer Bradley's Sword and Sorceress XXVI Read online

  "Hallah, this is all our fault," Gerta said with a flick of her golden braids. "Obviously, we killed too many bandits last month, so the mountain passes are safe for now. No one needs us."

  "Oh, there's always more bandits," I said. "They're just skulking up there, refusing to come out and do their duty."

  Gerta's golden brows contracted. "Their duty?"

  Although valiant and absolutely fierce in battle, my sister-in-arms has never been the brightest campfire on the continent. "It's the way things are supposed to work." I held my dagger up and polished a smudge with my thumb. "The bandits attack people who try to cross the mountains, who then pay us to escort their caravans and protect them. Goods flow between all the kingdoms. We can pay for our supper, and you in particular can drink yourself cross-eyed on ale. Everyone makes a living."

  "Except for the ones we kill," she said solemnly.

  I sighed. As they say, even a broken sundial is right twice a day.

  The taverna's door banged open. A blast of chill air surged through the empty room, and a wild-eyed young man dressed in traveling leathers tricked out in fancy gold filigree darted in. He had black curls cascading to his shoulders, a black beard tied into decorative knots, and a most winsome flush. He slammed the door and leaned on it, arms wide. "You have to help me!"

  "He's pretty!" A feral grin snaked across Gerta's lips. "I stake first claim! You can have him next week after I'm done."

  I leaned back against the wall, put my boots up on the table, and pared my nails with my second-best dagger. "Look closer."

  She squinted through the dimness, then slumped. "Oh."

  He bore the sorcerer's mark, a blue triskelion emblazoned on his forehead. "We don't mess with magic, bucko," I said. "It's nasty sticky stuff, hard to get rid of once you rub up against it. Beat it and let us starve in peace."

  "But—!" His hands knotted.

  "You can leave your purse behind, though." The ever-practical Gerta drew her sword, Gut-Slasher. "We'll look after that for you."

  The wretch looked from Gerta to me. "But—!"

  "Doesn't have much of a vocabulary, does he?" I plopped my boots back to the unswept floor. Dust rose and I sneezed.

  The door surged open again, sending him stumbling. A head thrust inside, far larger than a human's. Its lips seemed to be made of mud and its eyes were the gray of striated granite. It shrieked in a voice full of bass gravel.

  The sorcerer struggled back onto his feet, then forced the door shut again. "Keep it out," he said over his shoulder, "or we'll all wind up its dinner!"

  "Don't you mean breakfast?" Gerta said.

  Now, I have a serious aversion to being killed. It always hurts like hell and I never feel the same afterwards no matter how carefully I have all the bits sewn back on. I shoved the table across the floor with a screech and braced it against the door. A second later, Gerta joined in and the three of us piled the rest of the benches and trestle tables in an untidy heap.

  The thing, whatever it was, roared in frustration. The door thumped as it rained blows. Plaster seeped from the ceiling.

  The sorcerer sighed with relief. "T-thanks!"

  "Don't thank us yet, sonny," I said. "Has it perhaps occurred to you that this place also has a back door?"

  His head whipped around. His blue eyes narrowed with fear.

  "Might I suggest that we leave before it also wraps its mind around the possibility?" I said.

  "I made it big, not smart." He dashed behind the counter.

  We followed, Gerta snatching a loaf of stale bread as we passed the cowering serving maid. I grabbed the girl by the arm. "Come on," I said. "You can't stay here."

  Tears coursed down her face. "But—"

  "Yeah, yeah," I said. "Come on!"

  We burst outside into the crisp winter air. The sun was overbright so that I had to squint. Frustrated roars came from the front of the taverna. "What is that thing?" Gerta said.

  "It's a—a—" The sorcerer looked from Gerta to me, then at the little serving maid. "I'm not sure."

  "You said that you made it," I reminded him.

  "I was trying to conjure an ogre for the Winter's Eve Festival Dance Contest next week," he said abjectly. "King Mytchell announced a prize for the best dancing creature, you know, something to make the royal progeny laugh."

  "And you thought an ogre would be a good idea?" I said.

  "A tame ogre," he said. "I was going to teach it the Damery Twelve-Step Rag so it could perform like a dancing bear, but I haven't quite got the tame part right."

  Something splintered on the other side of the taverna. "You think?" I said.

  "Unconjure it," the maid said. "Before it tears down the taverna! My master is going to be furious!"

  "I—" His hand went to his belt, then his flush paled to whitest white. "I seem to have misplaced my wand."

  I clapped him on the shoulder. "Well, I guess we'll be on our way then. Good luck with this little magic project."

  "Wait!"

  The front of the taverna collapsed, then a monstrous head with spikes for hair poked out the back door. The creature's shoulders caught in the doorway and it fought to free itself.

  "I'll pay you!" the sorcerer said. "Just kill it now!"

  I studied my fingernails. "How much?"

  "Whatever you want!" He backed away as the doorway cracked.

  I turned to Gerta. "What do you think?"

  "I would like to see a dancing ogre." Her blue eyes were wide. "If we kill it, the beast won't be able to dance at all."

  The creature burst free. With a cry of panic, the sorcerer dropped to his knees and covered his head with his arms.

  "Oh, all right, we'll take care of your little mistake," I said, drawing my beautiful sword Esmeralda with its lovely embossed elephant-head-hilt. "Move aside."

  The sorcerer scurried away on his hands and knees until Gerta snagged him by the collar. I turned to the ogre which was glaring at all of us. "What can I do for you?" I said.

  It roared. Its hands knotted as though it wanted to pound the whole world into paste and just didn't know where to start.

  "So," I said, raising Esmeralda. "Do you really want to be skewered like a shish kabob? If so, come ahead!"

  It stumped back a few steps on its treelike legs and collided with the corner of the taverna. It wasn't as stupid as some ogres, I thought. "Don't you want to dance for the King and his children?" I said. "I'm sure they'll have great snacks after the competition is over, maybe even the Chocolate Lava Cake that erupts whole strawberries everyone at court always raves about."

  Its eyebrows looked like sandy pebbles that had been glued onto its rocky face. It lifted one with an audible creak. Sand sifted out of the corners of its eyes like—tears.

  "Hallah, stop upsetting the poor thing!" Gerta turned on me.

  "Kill it!" the trembling sorcerer whispered, struggling to free himself from Gerta's grip. "Kill it now!"

  The creature threw back its spiky head and roared.

  "Stop with the K-word already!" I said.

  The ogre plonked down on the ground and grubbed up a handful of dirt, then munched on it abstractedly.

  "Are you sure that's a real ogre?" Gerta asked. "We had a few across the channel in my homeland, Doria, and I don't remember them eating dirt. They were after pigs and goats."

  The creature snuffled more sand-tears. Its spiky stick-hair drooped and it huddled in upon itself, apparently miserable.

  "Well, I might have gotten it mixed up with some other kind of earth spirit," the sorcerer said, fingering a knot in his beard. "An orc, perhaps, or even a djinn. Who can remember all those long fancy words in the right order?"

  I turned on him, my sword at the ready. "You conjured a djinn—right here in the middle of town?"

  "A dancing one," he said sullenly.

  "Who," I said, "exactly are you?"

  He made an abbreviated bow. "Balwick the Mage," he said, his eyes on the dejected djinn. "Late of His Majesty King Bentley t
he Culinary's Court."

  "How 'late?'" I said.

  "About three years now," he said. "I accidently turned his mother-in-law into a flying pig, and it seems the queen has no sense of humor." He scuffed the toe of his black boot in the dirt. "The snout only lasted a month and she hardly ever flies anymore. I can't imagine why the king was so touchy." He sighed. "Since I fled Damery, the economy everywhere I go is simply terrible. No one is hiring court magicians these days. I was hoping, if I won this competition, I might be able to secure a position with one of the kingdoms to the west."

  "How much is the prize?" I said.

  "Twenty gold ducats," he said.

  "All right, we'll help you," I said, "for fifteen ducats."

  His face flushed. "That's robbery!" he said.

  "Or you can handle this lovely young djinn on your own," I said. "I wonder what the cost of building a new taverna is?"

  The djinn, if that indeed was the right designation, broke off a chunk of foundation, then munched dispiritedly.

  "All right," he said. "But get it out of here now!"

  Gerta went for the horses, while I sent Balwick back into the ruined taverna to search for his wand. The djinn lurched to its monstrously sized feet as he disappeared inside, crying out in a voice that sounded like a foghorn.

  Screams sounded from the street beyond. I heard panicked horses galloping away. "Bad djinn!" I said. "You're frightening everyone. You'll never win that competition that way."

  It tried to follow Balwick, but the door had collapsed and there wasn't room for its bulk. It had fixated upon the sorcerer, apparently, in the same way that a duckling follows its mother as soon as it hatches. The djinn's chunky fingers pried disconsolately at the damaged building.

  "He's coming back," I said. "Just give him a minute."

  Sand-tears were falling from its eyes again.

  Who would have thought that djinn were so emotional? I sighed. "Hurry up!" I called to Balwick.

  Swearing, he squeezed back out, his wand in one hand, his fancy leathers scraped. "Let's go," he said, glancing over his shoulder. The serving maid had left and was now returning with a large overfleshed fellow who looked decidedly miffed.

  "We'll take your creation out of town," I said as Gerta appeared with our packs, but no horses.

  "They're being held until we pay our bill," Gerta said dejectedly. "We'll have to walk."

  I sighed. "We need to find someplace quiet and safe where you can work with it. When is the Royal competition?"

  "Next Tuesday," he said. He closed his eyes and sighed. "I'll never be ready in time."

  "Oh, yes, you will," I said grimly.

  * * * *

  Djinn, it turned out, were not natural dancers.

  "Is it too late for Balwick to conjure something else?" Gerta asked the next morning as the poor djinn careened about the grove where we'd set up camp, knocking down trees and dislodging boulders in its efforts to learn a basic time-step. "I think this one is broken."

  The creature was sweating grit and its dusty skin sloughed off dirt with every stumpy pirouette. "Nonsense," I said in an effort to lighten the mood. "It just needs practice."

  The sad djinn gazed at me, then redoubled its efforts as Balwick clapped out the beats. "One, two, three, four!" he said.

  It was desperately attached to the sorcerer, squealing forlornly whenever he disappeared into the trees to take care of personal needs, trying to snuggle against his back when he wanted to sleep. Unfortunately, its voice had all the charm of two rocks being ground together.

  I watched, my eyes squinted, as the djinn took up the beat—sort of—again. "You know," I said, "they say it isn't that a bear dances well, it's just that it dances at all."

  "But they've never seen a djinn," Gerta said. Bundled up in her cloak, she was roasting an elderly rabbit over the campfire.

  "What are the rules to this contest?" I asked Balwick.

  "Magically summoned creatures are to dance," he said, narrowly dodging the djinn's flailing arms as it spun. "Best dance wins twenty gold ducats and a contract to entertain at the Winter's Eve Festival of Tea Lights."

  Well, the djinn wasn't graceful, but it really was trying. I sighed and picked up a few fist-sized rocks. "Here," I said, handing them to the djinn, "take a break."

  It settled onto its haunches and stuffed one of the rocks into its maw. Crushed pebbles dribbled out through its teeth.

  "Where do djinn come from anyway?" I asked.

  "The Howling Desert of Despair," Balwick said. "I suppose I'll send it back after the contest."

  It glanced at him sharply. The remaining rock dropped from its massive hand. Sandy tears poured from its eyes.

  That wasn't the gaze of a child adoring its parent. I suddenly recognized the signs of sheer sodding teenage puppy love. "You know," I said, "I think maybe what we have here is a lady djinn, and a young one at that."

  "Maybe," Balwick said. He studied his grimy fingernails. "Male, female, whatever. It still has to dance or we're toast."

  "Look at her," I said. "She doesn't need a dance instructor; she needs a partner."

  The djinn rose, staring soulfully at Balwick.

  I seized him by the collar and dragged him over to the djinn. "Take her hands."

  "Her what?" He squirmed, but I had a solid grip.

  "Assume ballroom position," I said and shoved him into the djinn's arms. "One, two, three, four! One, two, three, four!"

  The djinn clutched him close to her dusty chest and whirled around the clearing, her eyes closed, her chin resting upon the top of his head. Her steps were not clumsy now, but swift and certain. Balwick was struggling, but she didn't even seem to notice. "At least make her stop leading!" he croaked.

  Gerta was watching in awe as the djinn danced her unwilling partner back and forth. Most of the time his feet didn't touch the ground. "Well, I'll be a horned swaggled owl!" she said.

  "Yes," I said, already counting the gold ducats in my head, "I think quite possibly you will."

  * * * *

  The day of the competition dawned bright and cold. Frost rimed the trees and cobblestones as we traveled to the castle for King Mytchell the Extremely Picky's dancing creature contest.

  We met other contestants on the way, a lumbering golem with runes branded into its cheeks, a hellhound with smoldering red eyes, a huge be-spelled ostrich even taller than our djinn.

  "Never mind," I said to the djinn, "I'm sure you're better."

  She snuffled, then munched on a handful of gravel.

  "I think you need a name to keep your spirits up," I said. "How about Sally?"

  The djinn just shuffled along.

  "Betty?" I said. "Anastasia? Twinkle-Foot? Ermentine?"

  "I know," Gerta said suddenly. "How about Precious?"

  The djinn gazed back at Gerta, her granite eyes intent.

  "Don't be ridiculous!" Balwick said, who had become even crankier since being drafted as the djinn's dance partner.

  "Actually I think she likes that," I said. "Precious it is."

  "Kill me now," Balwick muttered, crossing his arms.

  "All right." Gerta drew her sword with a ringing hiss.

  "Don't say such things unless you mean it!" I said sternly, moving between them. "Gerta has a very literal mind."

  At the castle, we fell into line just outside the portcullis and shuffled forward slowly as a bored majordomo in maroon palace livery took down each contestant's name. It was past noon now. "Precious and her partner, Balwick," I said when it was our turn.

  He peered down his long bold nose at us. "What exactly do you call that?" He gestured disdainfully at Precious.

  "It's a lady djinn," I said, "fresh from her whirlwind tour of Doria and ready to delight the king's children."

  "I see," he said, tapping his pen against his double chin.

  I quite hoped he did not.

  We followed the line into the next yard, where the acts were being previewed and rated for safety so the royal progen
y would not be in danger of being eaten in the course of a merry gavotte.

  The oversized ostrich had pounced on a highborn lady's yappy lapdog and was now being ejected while still trying to swallow it. Faint barking sounded from the bird's throat as the demoralized trainer hustled his charge away.

  Then the golem shuffled a few steps, badly out of time, before making a stiff bow. The thing's nose fell off and its handler scooped it up as though nothing had happened.

  "Approved," the official said, scratching his ear. "Next!"

  Precious glanced at me, one pebbly eyebrow quirked. I nodded. "Dance with your partner," I said softly. "Show what the two of you can do."

  The djinn curtsied, then snatched up Balwick's hands and whirled him away to music that apparently only she could hear. Cursing, the sorcerer did his best to keep up, but she was dancing faster and faster and his feet kept getting tangled.

  "Enough!" the official said. "The djinn's not bad though her partner's a sore disappointment." He checked off the names on his list. "Approved. Go through with the rest."

  The remainder of the afternoon was spent in waiting for our turn. It seemed that every two-bit magician for miles around had conjured up something and was now competing for the gold ducats.

  The royal chamber orchestra, composed of two violins, an accordion, and a didgeridoo, provided the music. Again, the golem with its handler performed just before us. It apparently got stage-fright because it locked up and fell over on the goodies table, squashing the erupting chocolate lava cake.

  "Take it away!" cried Prince Carleton, a disagreeable jug-eared youth of ten summers who had eaten too many sweets already that day and was thoroughly flushed. "It's stupid!"

  "Well, I liked it!" his golden-haired twin sister, Princess Daisytoes, said, ruffling the flounces of her puce party gown. It was rumored the two never agreed on anything.

  The disappointed golem was hustled out of the royal presence.

  "Okay," I whispered to Precious, "it's our turn. Knock their socks off, kid!"

  Gerta turned to me, her brow wrinkled. "I thought she was supposed to dance."

  Balwick sighed and held his hands out to the djinn, resigned and wooden. "Let's get this farce over with."