Dancer's Illusion

  Also from Orbit by Ann Maxwell:

  FIRE DANCER

  DANCER’S LUCK

  Ann Maxwell

  Dancer’s Illusion

  Futura

  An Orbit Book

  Copyright © in 1983 by Signet Books in the USA

  First published in Great Britain in 1988

  by Futura Publications, a Division of

  Macdonald & Co (Publishers) Ltd

  London & Sydney

  All characters in this publication are fictitious

  and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead,

  is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  ISBN 0 7088 8270 6

  Printed and bound in Great Britain by

  Collins, Glasgow

  Futura Publications

  A Division of

  Macdonald & Co (Publishers) Ltd

  Greater London House

  Hampstead Road

  London NW1 7QX

  A member of Maxwell Pergamon Publishing Corporation plc

  I

  The tension in the Devalon’s crowded control room was as unbearable as the air. The ship’s life-support systems were overloaded. Passengers and crew were being kept alive, but not in comfort. Rheba wiped her forehead with the back of her arm. Both arm and face were sweaty, both pulsed with intricate gold lines that were visible manifestations of the power latent within her.

  She looked at her Bre’n. Rivulets of sweat darkened Kirtn’s suede-textured skin. The fine, very short copper fur that covered his powerful body made the control room’s heat even more exhausting for him than it was for her.

  “Ready?” she said, wiping her face again.

  “Yesss,” hissed Fssa, dangling his head out of her hair. His thin, infinitely flexible body was alive with metallic colors. He loved heat.

  “Not you, snake,” Rheba muttered. “Kirtn.”

  The Bre’n smiled, making his yellow eyes seem even more slanted in their mask of almost invisibly fine gold fur. “Ready. Maybe it will be an ice planet,” he added hopefully.

  Rheba looked around the control room at the sweaty faces of Fourth People she had rescued from a lifetime of slavery on Loo. Some were furred, some not. They had as many colors as Rainbow, the Zaarain construct that was at the moment a necklace knocking against Kirtn’s chest.

  All of the passengers had two things in common: their past slavery on Loo and their present hope that it would be their planet’s number that would be chosen by the Devalon’s computer in the lottery. The winner was given the best prize of all—a trip home.

  The owners of the ship, Rheba and Kirtn, were not included in the lottery. Their home had died beneath the hot lash of an unstable sun, sending the young Bre’n and his even younger Senyas fire dancer fleeing for their lives. They had survived, and they had managed to find two others who had survived. One was Ilfn, a woman of Kirtn’s race. The other was her storm dancer, a blind boy called Lheket. Rheba had sworn to find more survivors, to comb the galaxy until she had found enough Bre’ns and Senyasi to ensure that neither race became extinct.

  But first she had light-years to go and promises to keep. She had to deliver each one of the people on the ship to his, her, or hir home. The first such delivery—to a planet called Daemen—had nearly killed both her and Kirtn. Since then there had been several other planets, none dangerous. But each number the computer spat out could be another Daemen.

  “You may be ready,” Rheba sighed, “but I’m not sure I am.”

  She licked her lips, then whistled a phrase in the intricate, poetic Bre’n language. Instantly the computer displayed a number in the air just above her head.

  311: Yhelle

  Kirtn whistled in lyric relief. That was the most civilized planet in the Yhelle Equality. Certainly there could be no difficulty there. Besides, the Yhelle illusionists on board had more than earned their chance to go home. Without them, Kirtn certainly would have died on Daemen, and Rheba, too.

  On the other hand, they would miss the illusionists. It was piquant not knowing who or what would appear in the crowded corridors of the Devalon.

  Fssa keened softly into Rheba’s ear. He, too, would miss the illusionists. When they were practicing their trade, they had a fey energy about them that could appeal only to a Fssireeme—or another illusionist.

  “I know, snake,” Rheba said, stroking him with a fingertip. She sent currents of energy through her hair to console the Fssireeme. “But it wouldn’t be fair to ask them to wait just because we like their company.”

  Fssa subsided. With a final soft sound he vanished into her seething gold hair.

  Rheba stood on tiptoe to see over the heads of the people crowding the control room. “Where are they?”

  Kirtn, taller than anyone else, spotted the illusionists. “By the hall.”

  “Are they happy?”

  “With an illusionist, who can tell?” he said dryly. Then he relented and lifted Rheba so that she could see.

  “They don’t look happy,” she said.

  Kirtn whistled a phrase from the “Autumn Song,” one of Deva’s most famous poems, variations on the theme of parting.

  “Yes, but they still should be happy,” whistled Rheba. “They’re going home.”

  All of her longing for the home she had lost was in her Bre’n whistle. Kirtn’s arms tightened around her. She had been so young; she had so few memories to comfort her.

  And she was right. The illusionists did not look happy.

  With a silent sigh, Kirtn put her back on her own feet. He tried to imagine why anyone would be reluctant to go back home after years of slavery. What he imagined did not comfort him. At best, they might simply dislike their planet. At worst, they might have been exiled and therefore did not expect to be welcomed back.

  He pushed through the disappointed people who were slowly leaving the control room. Rheba followed, unobtrusively protected by two J/taals. On Loo, the mercenaries had chosen her as their J/taaleri, the focus of their devotion. They continued to protect her whenever she permitted it—and even when she did not.

  “Congratulations,” said Kirtn, smiling at the illusionists. “The ship is computing replacements from here to Yhelle. Are there any defenses we should know about?”

  F’lTiri tried to smile. “Probably not. No one has fought with Yhelle for thousands of years. The last people who did conquered us. They retreated five years later, babbling.” This time he managed a true smile. “Yhelle is hard on people who expect reality to be what it seems to be.”

  “Is that what you’re doing?” said Rheba. “Practicing?”

  I’sNara’s confusion showed in her voice as well as her face. “What do you mean? We’re appearing as ourselves right now. No illusions.”

  “Then why aren’t you happy?” Rheba asked bluntly. “You’re going home.”

  The two illusionists looked quickly at one another. At the same instant, both of them appeared to glow with pleasure. Rheba made an impatient gesture. She had been with them long enough to separate their illusions from their reality . . . some of the time.

  “Forget it,” she snapped. “Just tell me what’s wrong.”

  “Nothing,” they said in unison. “We’re just overcome with surprise,” added i’sNara. “We never expected to go home so soon.”

  Kirtn grunted. Their voices were as unhappy as their faces had been a few mome
nts ago. “Fssa, tell everyone to clear the control room and get ready for replacement.”

  The Fssireeme slid out of Rheba’s hair into her hands. There he underwent a series of astonishing transformations as he made the necessary apparatus to speak a multitude of languages simultaneously. It was not difficult for the Fssireeme. The snakes had evolved on a hot, gigantic planet as sonic mimics, then had been genetically modified during one of the earlier Cycles. The result was a resilient, nearly indestructible translator who needed only a few phrases to learn any new language.

  In response to the languages pouring out of the snake, people hurried out of the control room. When the illusionists turned to go, Kirtn stopped them. “Not you two.”

  He waited until only four plus Fssireeme were left in the room. He stretched with obvious pleasure, flexing his powerful body. The Devalon had been designed originally for twelve crew members and hurriedly rigged for the two who had survived Deva’s solar flare. Even after dropping off people on five planets, the remainder of the refugees from Loo’s slave pens seriously overloaded the ship’s facilities. As a result, Kirtn spent most of his time trying not to crush smaller beings.

  “Now,” he said, focusing on i’sNara and f’lTiri, “what’s the problem?”

  The illusionists looked at each other, then at him, then at Rheba. “We’re not sure we should go home,” said i’sNara simply.

  “Why?” asked Rheba, slipping Fssa back into her hair.

  The illusionists looked at each other again. “We are appearing naked before you,” said f’lTiri, his voice strained.

  Rheba blinked and began to object that they were fully dressed as far as she could tell, then realized that they meant naked of illusions, not clothes. “That’s rare in your culture, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” they said together. “Only with children, very close friends and sometimes with lovers. A sign of deep trust.”

  “I see.” Rheba hesitated, knowing the illusionists were proud as only ex-slaves could be. “You didn’t leave your planet voluntarily . . . ?”

  “No.”

  Rheba and Kirtn exchanged a long look. She slid her fingers between his. They did not have the intraspecies telepathy of the J/taals or the interspecies telepathy of master mind dancers, yet they sometimes could catch each other’s thoughts when they were in physical contact. Once, on Daemen, telepathy had come without contact; but Kirtn had been dying then, too high a price to pay for soundless speech. Now there was no urgency, just a long sigh and the word trouble shared between them.

  “Tell us.” Rheba’s tone was more commanding than inviting, but her smile was sympathetic.

  “It’s a long story,” began f’lTiri, “and rather complex.”

  Kirtn laughed shortly. “I’d expect nothing else from a culture based on pure illusions.”

  “Don’t leave anything out,” added Rheba. “If we’d known more about Daemen, we would have had less trouble there.”

  F’lTiri sighed. “I’d rather be invisible while I talk,” he muttered. “Holding invisibility couldn’t be much harder than telling you. . . .” He made a curt gesture. “As you said, our society is based on illusion. Nearly all Yhelles can project illusions. Some are better than others. There are different categories of illusion, as well.”

  Rheba remembered the young Yhelle illusionist she had seen on Loo. His gift was appearing to be the essence of everyone’s individual sexual desire. The result had been compelling for the audience and confusing for her—she had seen the appearance of Kirtn on the young illusionist, yet Kirtn was her mentor, not her lover. The image still returned to disturb her. She banished it each time, telling herself that it was merely her knowledge of legendary Bre’n sensuality that had caused her to identify Yhelle illusion as Bre’n reality.

  “The result is that while other societies have tangible means of rewarding their members, Yhelle doesn’t,” continued f’lTiri. “What good is a jeweled badge when even children can make the appearance of that badge on themselves? What good is a magnificent house when most Yhelles can project the appearance of a castle? What good is a famous face when almost anyone can duplicate the appearance of that face? What good is beauty? Even poetry can appear more exquisite than it is. One of my daughters could project a poem that would make you weep . . . but when anyone else read the words, they were merely ordinary.”

  The illusionist sighed, and i’sNara took up the explanation. “He doesn’t mean that everything on Yhelle is illusory. Our money is real enough most of the time, because we need it for the framework of real food and cloth and shelter we build our illusions on. But the elaboration of necessity that is the foundation of most societies just doesn’t exist on Yhelle. We have nearly everything we want—or at least the appearance of having it.” She looked anxiously from. Bre’n to Senyas. “Do you understand?”

  “I doubt it,” said Kirtn, “but I’m trying. Do you mean that a Yhelle could take mush and make it appear to be a feast?”

  “Yes,” said i’sNara eagerly. “A good illusionist can even make it taste like a feast.”

  “But can’t you see through the illusions?” asked Rheba.

  Both illusionists looked very uncomfortable. “That’s a . . . difficult . . . subject for us. Like cowardice for the J/taals or reproduction for the Lerns.”

  “That may be,” said Rheba neutrally, “but it’s crucial. We won’t be shocked.”

  F’lTiri almost smiled. Even so, his words were slow, his tone reluctant. “Some illusions are easier to penetrate than others. It depends on your skill, and the power of the creator. But it is unspeakably . . . crude . . . to comment on reality. And who would want to? Who prefers real mush to an apparent feast? Especially as they are equally nourishing. Do you understand?”

  Bre’n and Senyas exchanged a long silence. “Keep going,” said Rheba at last. “We’re behind you, but we’re not out of breath yet.”

  I’sNara’s laughter was light and pleasing. Rheba realized that it was the first time she had heard either Yhelle really laugh.

  “You’ll catch up soon,” said f’lTiri confidently. “After Loo and Daemen, I don’t think anything can stay ahead of either of you.”

  Rheba smiled sourly and said nothing. They had been lucky to survive those planets.

  “We don’t have much government,” continued f’lTiri. “It’s difficult to tax illusions, and without taxes government isn’t much more than an amusement for wellborn families. There’s some structure, of course. We are Fourth People, and Fourth People seem doomed to hierarchy. We’re organized into clans, or rather, disorganized into clans. Each clan specializes—traders or artists or carpenters, that sort of thing. I’sNara and I belong to the Liberation clan. We’re master snatchers,” he said proudly. “Thieves.”

  Rheba blinked. The illusionists treated reality as a dirty word and thievery as a proud occupation. She sensed Kirtn’s yellow eyes on her but did not return his look. She was afraid she would laugh, offending the Yhelles.

  “And quite good at it,” said Kirtn blandly, “if Onan is any proof of your skill. Without you two we’d still be stuck in Nontondondo, trying to scrape up the price of an Equality navtrix.”

  F’lTiri made a modest noise. “We were out of practice. The only thing we’ve stolen in five years worth mentioning is our freedom—and you stole that for us.” He sighed. “Anyway, we weren’t good enough on Yhelle. We were assigned to steal the Ecstasy Stones from the Redistribution clan. We were caught and sold to Loo.”

  “I’m out of breath,” said Rheba flatly. “You spent a lot of time telling us about appearances being equal or superior to reality, then you tell us that you tried to steal something. Why? Couldn’t you just make an illusion of the Ecstasy Stones?”

  “That’s the whole point. Oh, we could make something that looked like the Stones, but no illusionist in Yhelle history has been able to make anything that felt like the Stones. That’s their value,” said f’lTiri. “They make you feel loved. That’s their illusion.�
�

  Rheba looked at Kirtn, silently asking if he understood. He smiled. “You’re too pragmatic, fire dancer. It’s your Senyas genes. Think of it this way. The Yhelles have, or seem to have, everything that Fourth People have pursued since the First of the Seventeen Cycles. Wealth, beauty, power over their environment—if there is a name for it, the Yhelles have someone able to make it appear. Or,” he added dryly, “appear to appear. The illusion of love is the only exception.”

  He looked at the illusionists. They moved their hands in a gesture of agreement. “Exactly,” said the Yhelles together.

  F’lTiri continued, “We create illusions, but we aren’t deluded by them. Illusionists who fool themselves are, by definition, fools. So when it comes to love, we’re no better off than the rest of the Fourth People.”

  “Except for the Stones,” put in i’sNara. “Their fabulous illusion—if it indeed is an illusion—is love. They love you totally. The more Stones you have, the more intense is the feeling of loving and being loved.”

  “That would make them valuable in any society,” said Rheba.

  “Perhaps,” conceded f’lTiri. “But in Serriolia, the city-state where we were born and the most accomplished illusionists live, the illusion of everything is available. Except love. In Serriolia, the Ecstasy Stones are priceless. Most of our history hinges on the masterful illusions that have gone into stealing one or more of the Stones. Master snatchers of each generation used to try their skills on whoever owned one or more Stones.”

  “Used to?” asked Kirtn. “What happened?”

  “The Redis—the Redistribution clan—snatched almost all of Serriolia’s Stones. You see, the Redis were formed out of the discontented thieves of various clans. That was hundreds of years ago. For generations, the clan trained and sent out platoons of master snatchers. In the beginning, the clan’s sole reason for existence was to steal Ecstasy Stones from the selfish few who had them. The Redis hoped to combine the Stones into one Grand Illusion available to every citizen.”

  “That doesn’t sound too bad,” said Rheba hesitantly.