Demons of the Dancing Gods (44 page)

is reinforcing all this, but that just makes it easier. You were

not, however, able to see her in person?"

Marge shook her head from side to side. "I tried to. Just

missed her once. But she takes a leaf from your book and turns

herself into a great white dove, or something similar, and gets

places faster than I can."

"Hmmm... This complicates matters. Have you any idea

how often she returns to the castle?"

The Kauri shrugged. "Hard to say. They're transforming

the place into a really stunning supertemple, by the way, at

least on the outside. All marble and spires."

Boquillas thought for a moment. "But you said Fajera was

trying to arrange an appearance in Todra. Any idea when?"

"The Goddess is due to appear in the City-States—which

arc, by the way, mostly very cynical but very curious—next

month. Does that help?"

"Yes and no. I hate giving him so much more time to

establish and consolidate his program, but this has to go exactly

right or it's no go. You'll be down there when she shows and

give us a firsthand account, plus that all-important spell information.

I've told you what to look for—the one string that ties

her to Kaladon."

Marge nodded.

"I don't see why I have to wait," Joe put in. "I mean, in

just a couple of weeks I'll be ready again to sneak in there.

Should be particularly easy with all the workmen."

"Perhaps, but we can't take any chances we don't have to,"

Boquillas replied. "First of all, I don't want you meeting the

Goddess. The spell would grab you, and that would be that.

Secondly, we might catch Kaladon with the barriers down for

a few days, even a week, but certainly not a month. He's bound

to notice, busy as he is, that he has no protection. You're the

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key man, Joe, the only human we can afford to use in this

operation. Marge and Poquah will handle the rest, but they

can't get in without you."

"Okay, but I just get itchy sitting around here, that's all."

"Better itchy than lost forever," the Count warned.

Four weeks and three nightly transformations for Joe later,

the conspirators held another meeting, this one far more pressing.

"I've seen her," Marge told them. "Man! Is she something'.

I tell you, I knew what was going on and I was immune from

the spell she radiates and I still almost bought it. This empathic

thing is a two-way sword. She radiated such, well, godliness

that it almost overwhelmed me."

"It probably would have overwhelmed any other Kauri,"

Boquillas told her. "Your mind and your past are your strength."

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243

She nodded. "Joe, she is ten feet tall and looks just like

those statues all over the place. Also, every little blemish and

imperfection is gone, and so is that great dark tan. She's almost

blindingly smooth and white, and her hair's now silver—and

I mean silver, not white or gray—and her eyes are a deep

emerald green. She still has her slight German accent, but her

voice is real soft and musical and super-sexy; yet it will carry

in a square jammed with ten thousand people, somehow. You

ought to see Kaladon, though. Wearing snow-white robes with

silver trim, he looks just like an angel from an old religious

movie."

"You have the spell, I hope?" Boquillas prompted.

She sighed. "Damned hard to do, I'll tell you. That white

inner glow is almost blinding, and I had to do it in daylight.

Bless old Ruddygore's dark goggles! I doubt if anybody without

'em could see through the glare enough to figure out the pattern."

"A smart move on Kaladon's part," Boquillas noted. "Just

in case some of the other councillors get ideas."

Marge passed him her sketch of the spell in colored pencils.

"Took me five different appearances to get it all down," she

told him, "and each time it was harder not to join the cult."

Boquillas studied the incredibly complex pattern for several

minutes, then grabbed a pad and began sketching his own series

of lines, shapes, forms, and relationships. It looked like kindergarten

scribble to Joe, but Poquah in particular was gazing

over the former sorcerer's shoulder and nodding.

"Can you do it?" Boquillas asked the Imir.

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"Of course," the adept responded. "It is not difficult when

you diagram it that way, but I can think of no other mind save

perhaps Ruddygore's that could have solved the pattern from

so basic a sketch."

"I was a theoretician far longer than I was an activist," the

Count told him. "In fact, Kaladon is cloddish enough or egomaniacal

enough to have used a slight variation of one of my

own designs. I suppose he no longer considers me a threat.

Still, a wise teacher never tells his student all he knows." He

looked up, smiled, and said to the Imir, "You have all the rest

of the preparation. Joe, you have the latest reports from Poquah's

and Marge's fairy friends about what's going on in

Morikay. Let's see... Your next cycle is in eight more nights,

right?"

Joe nodded. "Yeah, that's about it."

"And we have here from Marge evidence that our dear

Goddess will formally and personally dedicate Fajera's temple

a week from tomorrow." He sighed. "That's pretty dicey, and

cutting things rather fine, but I think we might manage. No, I

think we have to. If we let this go on another month, we won't

be able to get near the place without being converted ourselves.

Let's do it. Eight nights from tonight, Joe, you will be in

Morikay, and so will Marge and Poquah. If your phenomenal

luck holds, nine days from today we will free this world from

Kaladon, not to mention Tiana."

"I can hardly wait," Joe said truthfully.

It was easier to get into Castle Morikay, or the Palace of

the Angels, as it was referred to, than it was to stomach

two days in the city itself. The building boom was amazing,

with all sorts of bright-eyed men and women, aided by the

Halflings of equal fervor, working like insects in a hive for the

glory of the Goddess. How so many statues had been made in

so short a time without a production line was beyond Joe and

the others, and they were probably magical products, but it

was both stunning and disturbing to see them, not only as

decorations but actual objects of worship.

The people drove themselves with total fanaticism, calling

one another Brother and Sister and praising the Goddess all

the while they slaved. Even though he lay low and kept away

from much contact, Joe got blessed more times than a Swiss

guard at the Vatican. He had to admit, however, that, if it

wasn't for the sheer fanaticism of the people and the fact that

they looked malnourished and horribly overworked, he approved

of the face lift in progress. It was still hard to tell just

what the final thing would look like, though.

The great castle on the flat hilltop in the center of town was

getting a new marble facade, its towers extended, and, in front,

a tremendous statue of Tiana was being installed.

Still and all, Joe had the same distaste for this cult that he

had for the cults back home on Earth. About the only nice

thing he could say for this one was that at least they didn't ask

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for money all the time. In fact, he couldn't pay for anything

at all.

Not that there was an awful lot to be had. Restaurants and

cafes seemed a thing of the past, and inns were closed and

deserted. He had to depend on the charity of some of the brighteyed

converts for what food he could get, and they were sharing

obviously meager rations. The economic and trading system

had been given a lower priority than the building of Kaladon's

dream city.

As for the castle, or temple, or whatever it was now, passing

through into the inner courtyard proved quite easy in the evening,

since work never seemed to stop. As a mule, though,

Joe put in one hell of a tough night's work and almost had it

all go for nothing when they moved to take the animals out

come daylight. Fortunately, animals worked better when fed,

and there was an area inside the courtyard where the horses

and mules could munch on hay. Near sunup, he positioned

himself in the middle of a large group of animals and managed

to change back unseen, although he was almost chomped and

trampled getting out of the mob.

He wasted no time issuing his invitation with the earring he

still had, and he prayed that the batteries hadn't run down.

They had worked fine in a test the night before, but one never

knew.

His problem now was that he was naked and unarmed in

the midst of the enemy camp and he had no real way out.

Boquillas' memories of the inner castle, though, proved right

on the mark. After a few hairy near misses with some of the

people inside, who did not look or act completely entranced,

he found the right section and also found, to his relief, that it

was still used as an inner storage area. In fact, it had been

stuffed with lots of junk left over from the siege, causing him

no end of trouble to locate a comfortable place. He only hoped

that Marge would find him, preferably with a roast turkey or

a thick steak.

Fortunately, the night's work as a mule, powering-a complex

pulley system for the main steeple, had tired him out so much

that he just passed out for the day.

Marge got in, somehow, before nightfall, with a large cold

cuts sandwich and a small gourd of water. It was better than

JACK L. CHALKER

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nothing, and he ate the food quickly. As planned, they remained

together until the full moon was again in the sky, making Joe

once more a twin of Marge; but this time a different Marge

was involved. The last time she'd been just a pixiewoman, but

now she was a full Kauri again—and could fly.

That gave him the double immunity of the were's curse and

a fairy form, as well as flying ability.

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"Poquah?" he asked her.

"By midnight," she told him. "He's using some of his magical

talents and coming in as a pilgrim worker."

"I just wish Tiana were back," he said. "I want to get this

over and done with."

"She is back. Came here in midmoming, as a huge white

bird with Kaladon perched on her back."

"Something symbolic in that."

Marge smiled and nodded. They settled down to wait in the

dark storeroom for Poquah.

"You know," Joe remarked, "it's a wonder they don't do

this sort of infiltrating each other all the time. Esmerada, for

example, would love to replace the Goddess with herself."

"They would if they could," Marge pointed out. "Remember,

it's only these neat little transmitters that make all this

possible. Kaladon's people are watching for any strangers, and

they'd prevent anybody new from talking to anybody outside.

They check every working person coming up here thoroughly,

too. No, Ruddygore's beaten the system with a were and some

Japanese transistors. Nobody else has even one, let alone both."

"Maybe I should rent myself out to bite specific people, if

being a were is so important."

They waited nervously for hours, but it was almost dawn

before the storeroom door creaked and a shadowy figure entered.

"I had real problems," the Imir told them as soon as they

saw that it was indeed he. "The spells to detect other spells

are very tight. This is a well-defended place, I'll have you

know. I had to—radio, isn't that the term?—Boquillas for

additional help."

"Boquillas! He's here?" Marge was both amazed and worried.

"He is. Hiding out in the cellar of a deserted inn just down

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the hill, and a good thing, too. He said either we do it or he

might as well join the cult. There was no purpose in his staying

away. I can communicate with him through Macore's little

devices." He pointed to a small object, like a golden hearing

aid, in his pointed left ear.

"Well, I just changed back, without even getting to fly

once," Joe grumped. "Damn! What do we do now?"

Poquah paused, as if listening, then nodded. "The Count

suggests that we either act straightaway or wait until dark once

again. The rest of the time, the halls will be filled with functionaries."

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"Take a chance and go now," Joe suggested. "I don't think

I can stand another night in this place."

Poquah, nodding agreement, pulled up his hood and silently

slipped away.

They almost went crazy waiting, but finally he returned

after what not only seemed like but might have been hours.

The impassive Imir was not in a better mood. "Problems," he