Ann Maxwell - Concord 2-A Dead God Dancing

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A Dead God Dancing

Concord, Book 2

Ann Maxwell

1979

ISBN: 0-380-44644-8

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THERE WERE FIVE ON THE TEAM:

Lhar—the group leader whose psi powers hid a very human heart.

Syza—the healer, an unwilling participant, a woman plagued by a nightmare, and possessor of the

greatest medicine in the universe.

Nevin—the holy, a naive adventurer on his first deep space mission, but whose knowledge was the

key to Tal-Lith’s survival

T’Mero—the guardian, master of the assassin’s craft, whose quartz knife stood between success and

death.

Diri—the dancer, her silver skin electrified any being’s sensuality—but would she sacrifice the lives

of an entire people to her arrogance?

THEIR MISSION WAS RESURRECTION

EXCERPTS FROM CLOSED COUNCIL CONFERENCE. EMERGENCY CONTACT

SUPERVISOR YAHUE KE NOMEN SPEAKING. [Background music is the Chanteuse’s Sixth

Elegy.]

“... extreme haste. Nonetheless, our computer selected fifteen probables, from which I chose a group

of five. They have just completed intensive imprinting. They now know as much about the culture and

conditions on Tal-Lith as we do.” [Scattered laughter.]

“I wish I could laugh with you. The mission has a deadline mimax. Think about that, Councilors:

within a few hours I may send five hastily trained people to their deaths on an unknown planet orbiting an

unstable star ...

“I violated Contact procedure seventeen separate times in selecting this group. You are here to judge

whether the violations make the mission unacceptable to the Concord. In my summation I will

concentrate on the major violations. As is customary, all measurements are on a logarithmic scale of 1 to

10. “Tov Ryth Lhar, group leader. Recent infac [psychic integration factor] is an ideal 7.316. He first

worked for Contact as an integrator and has since become my most valuable field leader. Synthesist

9.15. Psi 8.798. Violation: he returned from leading a group on Saman less than eight days ago.”

[Random exclamations.]

“Yes. Saman. I believe one of you personally decorated him for ‘Unique Service to the Concord’...

“Nevin lo Skewml, specialist in energy-level-3b-cultures. He is extremely skillful in his specialty.

Negligible psi. Good infac. Violation: no prior field experience.

“T’Mero Verial Silariaoen, guardian and assassin. Extremely adept in the use of 3b weapons. Five

maturities of Contact experience. Normal infac. Psi 5.613. Violation: he has not worked as a guardian for

three centuries.

“Skandiri-Li, Lythen dancer. I see that some of you remember her; perhaps you were fortunate

enough to see her dance the role of Keriamian. The computer determined that her skill and phenotype

admirably matched Tal-Lith’s god myth. Marginally acceptable infac. No psi. Violation: she is not nor has

she ever been a Contact agent.

“Syza Zomal, healer. Probably the most gifted healer known to the Concord. I need not stress how

valuable she could be on a no-technology Contact. She became a provisional Contact agent before she

entered first maturity. We have not tested her since. We have no usable infac, no psi index; we have

nothing but the certainty that she, alone, somehow preserved a Contact on Bjmsk. Violation: she refused

integration after the Bjmsk assignment and was placed on inactive status. She still refuses integration; we

have no reliable means of assessing her mental stability. Violation: she was coerced into accepting this

assignment; the alternative choice was forced integration, which is a probable death sentence.

“No precedent for either of these two violations can be found in the history of Contact. Yet the

computer would not give an acceptable mimax for Tal-Lith unless Syza Zomal was included in the group.

When I questioned the computer it quoted the Concord Privacy Code. My application for override was

refused.”

[Exclamations.]

“Yes. Refused. Like the singer whose voice haunts our conference, Syza Zomal is among those

select galactic citizens who are exempt from official curiosity.

“There is one other violation that must be mentioned. Only agent Tov Ryth Lhar will be able to send

off-planet messages. He will communicate only in an extreme emergency; or, hopefully, when the mission

has been successful.

“Now, Councilors, if I may have your decision ....”

PROCEED WITH EMERGENCY CONTACT AND EVACUATION

PLATEAUS ROSE LIKE STONE WAVES FROM TROUGHS OF shadow. Crests eternally

flattened by wind and scoured by sand, the plateaus forbade casual habitation. Talkyer, the natives called

it, Place of the Wind. The wind stretched over black depressions, scraped cold fingernails of grit across

unfeeling rock, boomed hollowly down blind canyons.

Lhar’s taman moved restlessly, eager to join the others below. Lhar tightened the guide rein and

spoke soothingly until the sound of the taman’s gnashing teeth lapsed into silence. The wind curled

around him, smelling of stone and drought and time. With narrowed eyes he watched the Contact group

ride carefully through the boulder field at the base of the plateau. T’Mero was already far in the lead,

scouting trails that would lead from the jumble of plateaus and canyons to the brackish marsh that

showed only as a smudge across the distant horizon.

T’Mero vanished into a cleft between ochre walls; Lhar hoped it was not another blind canyon. The

route that they had chosen from recent survey holocubes had proved impassable. In the tenth-cycle

between survey and landing a rockfall had sealed a crucial pass. Their alternate route was still

open—barely. Numerous detours had tripled the length of the journey. For three days they had been on

half-rations of water; today the ration was reduced to one-third. The animals had none, but fared better;

if necessary they could work without water for up to eight days. That left five days for T’Mero to find a

trail out of the stone maze.

Lhar watched Kevin’s taman move out of sight, following T’Mero’s tracks. The trail was plain; no

other living thing had passed that way. Diri’s taman followed a short distance behind, moving with an odd

gait. When Diri had not been able to control the beast, T’Mero had snubbed its nose to its chest. It was

awkward for both taman and rider, but preferable to having a famished omnivore loose among the

smaller animals.

After an interval of emptiness and wind, Syza rode into view on his left. The muzzled pack taman she

led were roped together in a long line. Occasionally a drifsen would lope up and encourage a lagging

taman. Syza’s whistle pierced the wind; with a golden blur of speed the drifsen returned to help its mate

with the drifs. Unlike taman, drifs were not belligerent; two well-trained drifsen could control a large

herd.

With a last clear whistle Syza and the animals moved into a shallow trough. They would be out of

sight until they circled the boulder field. Lhar held his impatient taman and waited for the animals to

reappear. As he waited, strange music drifted up, a sound not unlike the wind. He forced his taman to

stand quietly and listened with total concentration. All he could hear was the erratic click of hooves on

rock. His taman’s ears flicked forward, remained in an erect fan to gather in the vagrant sound. Lhar held

his breath and thought he heard a faint melody telling of loss and wind and the beauty of a cold mauve

desert beneath an alien sun.

Long after the sound had died he waited quietly, hoping to hear more, not really believing he had

heard anything. A sudden wind enveloped the plateau. His taman’s skin rippled nervously; its long neck

stretched into the cold wind. With a snort, the taman cleared its nostril hairs of dust. Lhar looked up from

the boulder field to the distant horizon.

The horizon had disappeared.

Where land had been rose a film of dust. As he watched, sky and desert became a heaving ochre

curtain. He sensed its distant, turgid weight, power which would flay and grind all beneath it. His taman

snorted again and began a low, booming call. The hair on Lhar’s skull stirred in primal response; if he had

not already sensed danger, he would have known its presence by the taman’s call. His mind reached out

to T’Mero, urgently.

*Storm coming. Bad. Any cover ahead?*

*We’re on a long incline. Might be something at the bottom.*

*Run for it. I’ll help Syza with the animals.*

Lhar’s golden taman needed no urging to slide down the plateau and race through the boulders.

Every instinct in the taman demanded that it intercept the pack taman and lead them to shelter. Over the

wind and the rush of his own taman, Lhar heard a continuous rumbling. Through wind-teared eyes he

saw the pack taman hurtling toward him. Syza’s distant but still piercing whistles punctuated the thunder

of hooves.

Lhar reined his taman up sharply. There was no need to warn Syza of the danger; taman, drifs and

drifsen were in full flight toward him. He prayed to childhood gods that the harnesses held. The loss of

tools and clothes would be inconvenient. The loss of waterbags could be fatal. Lhar fought with his

plunging taman and his eyes strained to distinguish a rider in the mass of running animals. He cursed

Syza’s refusal of mindtouch and the unbending will which enforced it.

A pack taman stumbled, somersaulted, fell in a tangle of harness and flailing legs. When it tried to get

up the beast fell again, hobbled by a loop of harness. Behind the struggling animal loomed the frightened

racing herd of drifs. The drifs did not swerve; in their panic, the downed taman did not exist. A drifsen

slashed razor fangs across the lead drifs shoulder in a futile attempt to turn the herd.

The taman was doomed, and with it as many of the drifs as were killed or maimed in the pile of flesh

that would come as one drif after another was tripped and trampled. And Lhar could only watch. The

drifs would reach the taman long before he could.

A dark shape separated from the laboring drifs. A taman fully extended, head down, ropy tail lashing.

Stretched low over its driving shoulders rode Syza. In her hand a quartz knife refracted light in splintered

colors. Behind her ran the golden shadow of a drifsen. A crystal arc flashed over the harness and the

taman was free of its hobbling pack, but the animal was too dazed to get to its feet. The running drifsen

leaped on the taman and sank its claws deep into struggling flesh. With a scream of terror the taman was

on its feet and running.

Drifs poured over the pack and harness in a bellowing mass. A few went down to be trampled into

shapeless smears, but the rest of the herd survived.

With a shout Lhar released his taman and raced along a diagonal that would intercept the pack

taman. When he appeared in front of the running animals his taman gave a hoarse call, and repeated it

until the other taman followed. Lhar eased his taman toward the cleft, slowing the pace by degrees until

the animals were no longer in panic flight. Soon he heard what he had been straining to hear above the

staccato of hooves—Syza’s shrill commands to her drifsen. The herd was catching up.

As was the storm. Lhar felt a sudden thickening in the air, a gritty swirl heavier than the dust stirred

by running animals. He looked back and saw the drifs just as the storm overtook them. He yanked on the

rein, forcing his taman in a wide turn. After a few instants of confusion, the baggage taman ran ahead

without their leader, spurred by their fear of the storm. After a fierce, swift battle, Lhar’s golden taman

obeyed its rider and matched strides with Syza’s mount.

Lhar shouted over the sound of wind and hooves, but Syza could not hear him. His anger blazed

through her tightly held mind. He saw the instant negation which swept over her face, sensed the force of

her resistance ... and felt the cold reluctance of her mind-touch.

*T’Mero found shelter, 20° right.*

Syza’s whistled commands split the air. Drifsen deflected the herd toward the right. Then T’Mero’s

mind, cool and machinelike as always, told Lhar of trouble ahead. Lhar allowed his taman to overtake

the pack animals as he relayed information to Syza.

*Cliff before shelter. Narrow path at end of boulder field. Slow drifs or they’ll be killed.*

More whistles sent the drifsen ahead of the herd. Just as Lhar managed to turn the pack taman

toward the cleft, the leading edge of the storm enveloped them. In an instant, ground and sky melded.

Abrasive wind scoured even the thick-furred taman, driving them before its irresistible power. The pack

taman turned their backs as one to the storm and slowed to a walk, bodies heaving, coughing when even

their bristled nostrils failed to filter all the grit from the air.

It was no longer possible to lead the animals. Instinct decreed that they turn their rumps to the force

of the storm. If their gold-coated leader wanted to expose his head to the cutting wind he would do so

alone. Nor would they be driven. Lhar would force one to walk at an angle to the wind, only to have it

swiftly turn back the moment he concentrated on another. He could either drift with them before the

storm or tie them together and try to lead them at an angle to it.

Under normal conditions, roping the taman one to another would have taken only moments. But

wind-driven sand made vision painful. Lhar counted to himself as he tied the taman one to another. He

was working on the eleventh rope when a blast of wind yanked it from his hands. The rope leaped and

the knotted end cracked against his cheekbone. The jagged cut spilled blood which the wind spattered

over his eyebrows and hair. In moments his face was matted with a mixture of blood and grit. The twelfth

rope was slippery with blood.

Lhar waited for his dizziness to pass. One side of his face sent searing messages to his brain. One eye

pounded with the magnified rhythm of his heart. Calmly, he began to work with the pain. His body took

on the relaxed tension of mental effort. He did not deny the validity of the body’s warnings. He

acknowledged the pain fully, then damped down its urgency. When he resumed normal consciousness,

T’Mero was patiently repeating his efforts at mindtouch.

*The drifs are safe. Syza is out looking for you. Said you were hurt.*

Lhar readjusted his hood and scarf. *How long ago did she leave?*

*Four and one-half standard minutes.*

*Hold mindtouch.* Lhar widened his mental awareness, letting his senses lift, float, and seek

T’Mero. He felt a distinct pull toward his left. As he had suspected, the storm’s direction had shifted

while he was roping the taman together. *I’ll find Syza. Hold mindtouch for bearing.*

The grit had thickened. During some gusts Lhar barely could see past his taman’s ears.

*Syza.*

*Here.* Reluctantly.

Lhar let his awareness float again until he sensed a presence like an ice sculpture, burning with green

flame. She was directly between him and T’Mero. Lhar kept contact as he urged his mount toward

her—and was nearly jerked out of the saddle as the guiderope he held snapped taut. The taman, though

securely roped together, still had no intention of exposing their heads to the storm. He tied the lead rope

to his saddle and once again urged his taman forward. With glacial reluctance, the string of animals

confronted the wind.

*Go back, Syza.*

*No.*

For the first time he sensed an emotion other than distaste in her contact. Danger.

*The storm will break soon.*

Lhar squinted at the pulsing waves of wind-driven rock dust, felt again the abrasive, implacable edge

of the storm, rocked as a gust of wind nearly blew him off the taman.

*Break! Sweet Xantha, if it gets any worse—send me your drifsen.*

Then Syza appeared just in front of him. Her dark purple hood and gritscarf completely covered her

face; even her eyes were muffled. She made no sound, yet the drifsen ran quickly along the line of

laggard taman. On an impulse, Lhar’s mind reached out to a drifsen; there was awareness, but it was as

slippery as quicksilver. The taman began to trot as the drifsen moved among them like fanged shadows.

The trot became a pace, then a lope. Lhar pulled his hood over his face and concentrated on T’Mero.

A choking wall of grit and small pebbles broke over them. Both riders bent low on their mounts,

coaxing greater speed. Lhar coughed repeatedly, though the air he breathed was strained through both

scarf and hood. For the taman it was worse. The protective hair in and around their nostrils was clogged

with grit. Constant snorts gave only fleeting relief. He could hear the sound of their labored breathing

even above the storm.

Lhar knew they could either stop and pray that the storm did not kill them or run and pray that the

cliffs did not kill them.

*Syza. Has the storm peaked?*

*No. We must get to shelter before it does. Soon!*

For the first time Lhar struck his taman. With the will and stamina of the desert-born, the taman

stretched into a labored gallop. The drifsen made sure that the others kept pace through the choking

purple wind and staggering changes in air pressure. An arrhythmic, blind plunge into darkness finally

ended with a jarring slide down into the shelter of an ancient gully. Somehow they had avoided the cliffs.

The taman snorted and coughed, clearing their nostrils in the quieter air of the ravine. Without urging

they walked forward, following the sinuous course of a long-dead river. Dust sifted over everything, but

the steep walls and turns of the ravine baffled the full power of the wind. The ravine deepened into a

narrow canyon, free from all but occasional shouts of wind.

Lhar lowered his hood and unwrapped his gritscarf, grimacing as the cut over his eye reopened. The

eye itself was swollen shut, but he could see well enough to guide his taman beneath an overhanging ledge

of rock When he dismounted, T’Mero was waiting.

“Where—drifs?” said Lhar, coughing.

“Up canyon. There’s a blind spur. The drifsen will keep them there.”

“Good. Where—”

Lhar stopped as Syza rode in and pulled her grit-scarf off. On her face streaks of sweat-washed skin

alternated with irregular bands of dust, but most startling were the dark channels of exhaustion around her

eyes. Wordlessly she dismounted and began unpacking the lead taman. Her hands shook over the knots.

She reached for the pack bag, heaved it onto her shoulder and would have gone sprawling in the dirt had

not Lhar and T’Mero leaped forward to catch, her. Lhar took the pack.

“T’Mero, send Diri to help with the taman. They’re too tired to bite even her.”

Syza started to speak, coughed, then managed a hoarse whisper. “You’ll have to sponge out their

nostrils and mouths. A tiny drink.” She saw Lhar’s blood-streaked face and swollen eye, then looked

away. “You require healing,” she said tonelessly.

“After you rest.”

Lhar felt her surprise and her acute relief. He watched narrowly as she was half led, half carried to

the shelter of overhanging stone, and he wondered why she radiated fear at the thought of healing.

Somewhere in the Centrex files was the answer. He ran his fingers absently over the coarse fiber belt that

concealed the many fine wires of his psitran. He could assemble the psitran, contact Yarle ... and be told

again about the Privacy Code.

With a feeling of unease he turned and began removing packs from the taman. By the time he

finished, his mind was already immersed in other difficulties. A reluctant healer was the least of the

problems he faced on Tal-Lith.

The storm thrashed and groaned and spat grit over the steep canyon walls. Occasional blasts of wind

evaded the natural baffles protecting the huddled animals; the pervasive dust made breathing miserable

and seeing impractical.

“How can she sleep so long?” said Nevin, looking enviously at Syza.

Lhar shook out his gritscarf and replaced it before opening his mouth. “Exhaustion. Controlling those

taman and drifsen is work. Especially the drifsen. Their minds are elusive.”

“Minds?”

“Syza used psi to control the drifsen. How do you think she heals if not with her mind?”

Nevin moved uneasily. “I never thought about it. All my time has been spent studying retrograde

cultures.”

“That’s why you’re here. You worry about nursing this culture through exodus intact. I’ll worry about

Syza.”

“Glad it’s your job.?

Lhar let go of the tent flap and turned back toward the younger man. “Psi talents are no better or

worse than a talent for singing or dancing or leather working,” said Lhar slowly. “The Chanteuse was

born with a special ability. Do you dislike her for that?”

Nevin looked shocked. “No one could dislike her for anything! The whole galaxy loves her, whoever

and wherever she is.”

Lhar smiled. “Psi is just another talent, no matter what your native culture taught you.” He turned

back toward the flap. “I have to check on the drifs.”

“They’d better stay healthy. In this culture they’re second only to water as the source of life.”

“And prestige.”

“Ugly beasts,” said Nevin. “They smell like singed zarf.”

“A matter of taste,” said Lhar over his shoulder. “You’ll acquire it.”

As Lhar had expected, the drifsen had the animals under tight control. None looked sick or lame. He

took his time checking them anyway. As he finished he sensed T’Mero approaching from behind.

“Everything clear?” asked Lhar.

“No large animals have moved into the canyon. No water lines anywhere on the canyon wall.

N’Lith’s storms are dry.”

“Was Syza awake?” said Lhar, assuming that T’Mero had also checked the tent.

“No.”

“Diri?”

“Coping with Nevin.”

Lhar gave a last pat to the drifsen lounging at his feet. “I hope Nevin’s innocence was more apparent

than real. Were the waterbags secure?”

“As long as Diri is busy, yes. Her discipline goes no further than dancing.”

“She’ll learn.”

Lhar and T’Mero walked slowly to the tent. Syza was awake, examining harness for signs of wear in

the muted tent light. She glanced up at their entrance, then returned to her work without a word.

“How do you feel?” asked Lhar.

“Better.”

“Your drifsen have the animals well under their fangs.”

Syza said nothing.

*There’s more to this assignment than animals and harness. We are supposed to be a native khaner,

a breeding group, an extended family. Friends. Your preference for being left alone does not coincide

with the reality of a native khaner.*

Syza’s slim, chapped fingers tightened on the harness and her mind shied from the unwanted contact.

When she looked up her green eyes slid away from his unhealed cheek.

“Yes, the drifsen are very quick,” she said quietly. “It’s a pleasure to work with them.”

Before Lhar could respond, Diri and Nevin pushed aside the flap separating the sleeping area of the

tent. Nevin watched Diri with a look of stunned admiration; obviously his innocence had been real. Lhar

quickly decided that this was an excellent time to test the depth of Nevin’s Tal-Lith imprint.

“Nevin, what’s your function within the khaner?”

Nevin looked blank, then said hastily, “I’m a miran.”

Lhar waited.

“I’m mur-Lith. My life is spent pursuing the subtleties of her truth and essence.”

“What is Her first command?”

“Waste nothing,” said Nevin promptly, “especially not water, children, and fertile women.”

“Where do you come from?”

“The place you—the natives we will meet—call n’Lith, without Lith.”

“A lie,” said T’Mero. “No one can live in n’Lith.”

“We live on the edge of the desert, as you do,” said Nevin easily, wholly into his role. “Surely your

legends speak of the past when the river flowed longer and people settled on the far side of n’Lith?”

T’Mero grunted, but said no more.

“Legend,” said Lhar. “You’re real. How did you get here?”

“Lift was bountiful this year. The river stretched its tongue very far into the desert.”

“Is that true, Syza?” said Lhar.

Syza looked up again. “It’s true. Ask your First Khaner if the river was not larger than in past

memory.”

“Who leads your khaner?”

“If the question concerns Lith, that one,” she said, pointing to Nevin.

“If not?” said Lhar.

“The one called Lhar rides the golden taman.”

“And you?” said Lhar, turning suddenly on Diri.

“I am mur-Lith. I dance for Her.”

“Why are you hidden in all those robes? We can’t even see your eyes clearly. Are you n’gat?”

“I’m not deformed! When I dance at the Festival of Union, you’ll see the truth.”

Lhar turned on T’Mero. “You?”

“T’Mero the Hunter.”

“Syza, what is the history of Tal-Lith, particularly the far side of n’Lith?”

Syza set aside the harness. Her eyes were iridescent in the dusky tent light.

“Long ago,” she began, “before the time of my khaner’s memory, Tal-Lith rolled green and fertile

beneath the sun. But we were sinful. We turned away from Her beauty. Lith removed Herself from our

wickedness and Her river no longer laughed. The land became dry, barren, empty. At last my people

stopped crossing the rocks. We called them n’Lith and became isolated from others.

“Nevin mur-Lith believed we were being punished for straying from Her. He believed that if we could

find Her river and the people who drank from it we would once more hear Her laughter.”

“You’ve caught the melody of their ritual speech,” Lhar said. “Excellent. Are the facts correct,

Nevin?”

“Basically. The target population does have stories of a people beyond n’Lith. Apparently there was

trading before the desert became impassable. This has been a good year, though. It’s possible that

pilgrims would try a crossing.”

“Our trade items?” pressed Lhar.

“Gifts to Lith’s people. The artifacts we have are different enough from the native wares to be

unusual, but not different enough to be alien.”

“What about us?” said Diri. “Even with me wrapped up we’re a zarf’s nightmare.”

“Well within native standards,” said Lhar, wondering if her imprinting had failed. “They’ve had an

extraordinary mutation rate in the last several thousand cycles.”

Diri’s silver hands flashed restlessly out of her muffling robes. “This Festival of Union I’m going to

dance at—what if we’re late? The kerden storm is as strong as ever.”

“The storm will end tomorrow,” said Syza quietly.

Lhar accepted her comment without question. “We’ll use the time to perfect our roles,” he said,

ignoring Nevin’s sudden questioning look. “Once we reach the river and follow it toward the city we can

expect contact within days. Diri will dance at the Festival, be worshiped as Lith’s image, tell the natives

we’re Her messengers ... and leave. Within one cycle, three at most, the population of the city will be

prepared for exodus and resettlement on a new planet. And you will have the pleasure of knowing you

helped save a race from extinction.”

Diri grumbled and thrust her hands out of sight in her sleeves.

“Anything else?” asked Lhar.

“Songs or chants or both,” said Nevin quickly. “They’re nearly as important as the dance. I can’t

carry a tune in a gray net. Who is our khaner’s voice?”

“Syza.”

Syza drew in her breath suddenly. “I’m a healer, not a singer.”

“Contact said you had a pleasing voice.” Lhar looked at her with sudden intentness as his mind

correlated odd facts into an improbable theory. Her eyes burned in her pale face and she stared

unwaveringly at him.

“Is nothing private?” she asked bitterly.

“Not on a mission. Ask Nevin—”

Nevin looked puzzled, then squirmed as comprehension came.

Syza ignored him. “How can the natives expect a khaner this small to have both singer and dancer?”

“We aren’t just any khaner. We have Lith’s image with us.”

Syza said nothing.

“Is public singing taboo in your native culture?” asked Nevin curiously.

Syza picked up a piece of harness and began rubbing oil into it.

“T’Mero,” said Lhar, “start Nevin and Diri on the throwing stones.”

Lhar waited until the others had left before he sat across from Syza and unceremoniously took the

harness from her hands.

“Agent Zomal, either you convince me that there is a very good reason why you shouldn’t sing or I

will trip the psi net and get a ship to pick you up.”

“My songs are wordless. They aren’t at all like native songs.”

“Wordless ... did you sing while you were herding drifs?” he asked suddenly.

“No.”

The lie did not bother him as much as the reason behind it. He sat very quietly, recalculating Syza’s

relation to the whole of the mission in view of the new facts. He sensed Syza watching him covertly

through the curtain of bronze hair which swung out from her downcast head. He had an odd, double

sensation in which he was her, wondering what thoughts lay behind the handsome mask of his face. The

sensation vanished.

*Beauty is a matter of taste and culture, Syza. We must have much in common; to me you are very

beautiful. And if what I suspect about you is true ...*

There was no response. He realized that she did not know she had inadvertently reached out in

mindtouch.

He sighed, and when he spoke his voice echoed his inner regrets.

“I’m sorry, Syza. You’ll have to go back. I can live with Bjmsk, but I can’t live with a hostile team

member. It’s too dangerous.”

“Who is Bjmsk?” she asked in a thin voice. “Is he or she dead? Was it someone I couldn’t heal?”

“Bjmsk is a planet. According to Contact, you healed it very nicely.”

Syza looked at him without comprehension, fear darkening her eyes.

“Kere Zomal died on Bjmsk,” he said bluntly, and sensed tremors of memory swaying through her

mind.

“Did he ... ?”

“Part of you knows, Syza. Remember.”

“I married Zomal on Earth,” she said dully. “He had entered Decline. I healed him and healed him

and healed, and then I lived on Fshamn. Alone. Alone. No one demanded my energy in healing or my

soul in song. Free.”

“You’ll never be free until you remember,” he said softly.

“You mean I’ll never heal until I remember! Or didn’t Contact tell you that I lost my talent when I lost

that year from my life?”

“You can no more lose that than you can lose the color of your eyes. Was it difficult for you to heal

before Bjmsk?”

“No,” said Syza, brushing her hair away from her face with an impatient movement. “What was hard

was ignoring the truth.”

“I don’t understand,” said Lhar, his voice undemanding.

Syza was silent for so long that he was afraid he had lost the fragile thread of rapport. Finally she

spoke in an emotionless voice.

“I was raised in an Earth commune by Uniparents. They couldn’t train my talent. It was a long time

before I found out that I could bypass a patient’s consciousness and still heal. I was forever discovering

things in their minds. When I told my Uniparents they insisted I was lying. ‘Dear kind brother Yim could

never lust after his Unidaughter, Syza,’” she said in a voice of grating mimicry. “‘You must cleanse your

mind of such thoughts, child. If you think of evil you will be evil.’”

Lhar listened quietly, intently, trying to feel what it had been like to be a sighted child in a world of the

determined blind.

“They taught me to lie and called it truth. They taught me I was evil but could be redeemed by healing

them. They—” Syza spread her fingers in a rigid gesture of rejection. “Zomal taught me to heal using only

their bodies. He also taught me that Uniparents were not the only people in the universe. They did not

know the whole of creation.”

“And you loved Zomal.”

“Of course.”

“And he loved you ... of course.”

Syza’s eyes narrowed. “You sound just like them. They didn’t believe anyone could love me either.

They were wrong. I’m not evil.”

“You misunderstood, Syza. I know you are not evil.”

“It’s enough that I know.”

Lhar sat unmoving, mind racing to analyze and correlate and extrapolate from her reactions and his

own scant knowledge of Zomal and Bjmsk. It had been his choice to accept Syza without a recent infac.

Now he had to live with it or send her back under a virtual death sentence. Or force an integration right

here and probably kill her himself.

“What is singing to you that you risk forced integration rather than share your voice?”

He looked at the tight planes of her face and thought his gamble had lost. Then the hair on his body

stirred as thick impossible harmony surrounded him. Wordless, yes, but gravid with despair and

hopelessness, a shroud of song that sucked light out of the air, smothering, crushing, a clear melody

revealing a clouded soul. The voice was one he had often listened to with pleasure. Now it was a curse.

“Enough, Chanteuse.”

His eyes were unfocused as he integrated her identity into the probabilities of Tal-Lith. When he

finally spoke his voice was tight.

“You will heal us?”

“Since Zomal I—”

“Will you heal us?”

“I’ll try.”

“You will sing if I require it?”

When she said nothing, he took her cold hand between his fingers and spoke gently within her mind.

*Work with us, Syza. I don’t want to order the destruction of your mind.*

A chaos of painful images swept through him and vanished before he could do more than sense their

presence.

*I will sing.*

The minute sounds of Diri’s stealthy approach brought Lhar into full wakefulness. He waited until her

hand touched the waterbag, then said casually, “You’re early, Diri. No water until we’re ready to leave.”

Diri’s eyes blinked in the sudden flickering light of the candle Lhar lit; she saw that he slept as naked

as she did.

“I didn’t come for that kind of water.”

As she walked toward him the golden candlelight added to her incomparable dancer’s grace. She

knelt so close to him that he could feel the heat of her body through the marvelous suede texture of her

silver skin/fur. Her hands moved over him deftly.

“You’re an expert, Diri. But you still don’t get any drinking water now.”

Diri just smiled slightly and continued her work. Though Lhar read the meaning of her smile he did

nothing to evade her hands. Instead, he pulled her across his body in a long, sensual caress.

She smiled widely. As his breathing deepened and he became hot and heavy to her touch, she

redoubled her subtle undulations, knowing that soon he would be in an agony of desire. When she judged

the moment to be ripe, she collapsed and whimpered of thirst.

Lhar’s laughter woke everybody in the tent.

For a moment Diri was too surprised to speak, then she cursed him vividly. When that had no effect

she reminded him that she was indispensable for getting the natives off Tal-Lith.

“Give me water or I’ll blow this contact all the way to Centrex. And you with it!”

The curtain parted, revealing T’Mero. In his hand a quartz knife dripped candlelight. A tremor

rippled through Diri as she felt orange eyes measure her.

“I doubt that we’ll need the knife,” said Lhar.

T’Mero sheathed the knife with a hissing sound.

“Diri is only dangerous so long as she believes herself powerful,” continued Lhar. “You’re a

convenience, Diri. No more. If you won’t cooperate, we’ll do without you.”

Diri lay unmoving for a long moment, then rose to glare imperiously at them.

“I am Lith. There is no other. I am All.”

“You are merely Lith’s messenger,” said Lhar coldly. “There are other ways of delivering a

message.”

Syza stepped forward into the sphere of candlelight. Behind her, Nevin watched and learned.

“You endanger us, Diri,” said Syza. “Not just your pig thirst for water, but your selfishness in all

things.”

“You should know about selfishness, healer,” said Diri sarcastically, pointing to Lhar’s raw cheek. “I

at least share my talents.”

Syza’s eyes shone like green opals against her pale face. Diri dismissed her with a contemptuous

look.

“Ask your anthropologist if I’m only a convenience,” she said to Lhar.

Lhar spoke before Nevin could tell the uncomfortable truth.

“I don’t have to ask, Diri. I know.”

“I don’t.”

She smiled insolently and approached the waterbag. Syza and T’Mero moved simultaneously to

intercept her. Lhar signaled for T’Mero to step back.

“Tell us why we need you,” said Syza. “I don’t quite understand.”

Though her tone was innocent of any threat, Lhar’s senses leaped at a feeling of raw danger and he

remembered that eight people had died mysteriously on Bjmsk.

His mind poised for attack. “Syza,” he said in a low, penetrating voice.

At Lhar’s quiet word, color returned to Syza’s face and her eyes lost their strange sheen. Diri leaned

close to Syza and spoke in a sibilant whisper.

“You need me because the natives wouldn’t follow your bony ass to water if they were dying of

thirst.”

“Your arrogance will kill us,” said Nevin. “If we can’t function as a group we’ll all die.”

Diri’s laugh shattered Nevin into silence. “But I don’t need anyone,” she said triumphantly. “All I

have to do is take off my clothes and the natives will worship me.”

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ADeadGodDancingConcord,Book2AnnMaxwell1979 ISBN:0-380-44644-8 Spell-checked.Read. THEREWEREFIVEONTHETEAM:Lhar—thegroupleaderwhosepsipowershidaveryhumanheart.Syza—thehealer,anunwillingparticipant,awomanplaguedbyanightmare,andpossessorofthegreatestmedicineintheuniverse.Nevin—theholy,anaiveadventurero...

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