Castle Murders c-5

  Castle Murders

  ( Castle - 5 )

  John Dechancie

  Partying to death? A parlous party at the Castle Perilous comes to a dead halt when the body of viscount Oren is discovered and foul play is suspected. But who is the killer? And where is the murder weapon? The rambunctious revelers at Castle P. join in a treacherous treasure hunt for party favors of a decidedly deadly nature.the murder weapon must be hidden behind one of the 144,000 doors, or will it be buried in the back of the next victim?

  John DeChancie

  Castle Murders

  And this huge Castle, standing here sublime,

  I love to see the look with which it braves,

  ― Cased in the unfeeling armour of old time ―

  The lightning, the fierce wind, and trampling waves.

  ― Wordsworth

  The Eidolons of the King: Preface to the Castle Edition

  Ordinarily an introduction or prolegomenon is expected to shed some light on the material it prefaces or introduces, enough so that the reader may find his way through an unfamiliar literary landscape. In the present case, however, this prefatory note to the work now known as The Eidolons of the King: Tales of Castle Perilous can serve only to delimit areas of shadow that shroud the work in mystery.

  Particularly obscure is the question of its origin and authorship. To say that its provenance is mysterious is to put it mildly. To put the matter simply: the original paperbound volumes of the books of The Eidolons ― cheap pulp paper, hastily glued bindings, garish covers and all ― were found one day in the castle library, having been shelved among finely wrought leatherbound tomes of bardic sagas and epic poetry. No one knows who put them there.

  Would that this were the only mystery! The deeper and more fundamental question, of course, is: Who wrote these books and how did their author come by his intimate knowledge of Castle Perilous? to say nothing of his apparent clairvoyance in producing these accounts of the storm of recent events that have raged round it.

  Castle Perilous! At its very mention the heart skips a beat. For the benefit of the reader and especially for those castle Guests who seek a general orientation within these pages, it might do well to pause here and describe what the name evokes for we who make the castle our home.

  For the castle itself is a mystery. Its very existence maintained from second to second by a transmutational spell laid long ago on a great demon, Castle Perilous is a magical construction. Its huge bulk ― far more than what mortal hands could amass piling stone upon stone ― bestrides a citadel commanding the bleak Plains of Baranthe in the Western Pale. The castle is a world in itself; but far more than that, it contains countless worlds.

  Some explication is needed. As would any structure of its size, Perilous has innumerable doors and windows; but the anomaly is that some of these are portals to other worlds. Pass through any of the castle's "aspects," as they are called, and you cross into a strange new cosmos. There are exactly 144,000 aspects in the castle. Any resident or Guest of the castle can describe the sensation of wonder engendered when, after traversing gloomy hallways, one goes through an archway or alcove and steps out onto a vast savannah where herds of animals graze ― or into a deep forest limned in cathedral light ― or onto a desolate plain whereon sits a domed city under an alien sun.

  But let us return to the controversy surrounding the authorship of The Eidolons.

  Who is the man whose name is emblazoned (immodestly so, if I might add) across the covers of these "paperbacks"? Where does he live? As the language of these works is contemporary (if quasi-grammatical) English with lapses into pseudo-Elizabethan cant, one might well conclude that the author hails from the castle aspect known as Earth. But, truth be told, a thorough search of the appropriate reference volumes has failed to produce any mention of either the author or his works. Moreover, no trace can be found of the publisher whose name and address is printed on the verso of the title page! (There are attendant minor mysteries, of which we should make passing mention. The author's surname, for instance. What nationality is it? English, via Anglo-Norman? French? Anglicized Italian? The name is very possibly a pseudonym. And who are the individuals whose fawning endorsements are bruited on and about the cover? Presumably approving critics or admiring colleagues of the author, and we would be forced to conclude one or the other or both, were it not for the fact that no trace can be found of these people either. Phantoms all! Then there is the matter of the cover "art." What sort of deranged soul could…? But let us set these relatively trivial matters aside.)

  What, then, are we to make of all this? The only conjecture to acquire any currency has it that The Eidolons originated in a world that is a variant of Earth and one in which the castle is a fiction, not the reality we know. Here we tread disputed ground, for some hold that there are more than 144,000 universes. In fact, there may be an infinite number of them, of which the assortment provided by the castle is only a random and constantly shifting sample. Be that as it may, the conjecture that these books were generated in some backwater universe does not explain how they came to the castle, nor how they were written. Indeed, it makes the issue all the more obscure, for how could a stranger to the castle, a stranger even to the universe in which the castle exists, have produced these highly romanticized but essentially accurate accounts, even to describing the intimate thoughts and sometimes inexplicable actions of the master of Castle Perilous, Incarnadine, King by the grace of the gods and Lord of the Western Pale?

  We can dismiss out of hand the notion that His Majesty penned The Eidolons, for he has categorically denied it.

  Who then? A Guest? If so, why the secrecy? What is he (or she) hiding?

  I have no answers to these questions, but, as Royal Librarian, I can here offer a somewhat different explanation for the origin of The Eidolons.

  The castle's library is an enigma in itself. Not a day goes by when the library staff is not surprised by finding some new wonder on its shelves, books that were not even suspected to exist. Marvelous books, strange books ― even dangerous books. (One such describes the construction of a weapon so terrible that I cannot bring myself to describe its intended effects. Another provides schematics for an infernal device which, from what can be made of it, is intended for the express purpose of trapping a god. Which deity is to be bagged is not specified. Needless to say, these and other dismaying oddities have been sequestered in the Closed Stacks, where, if I have anything to say in the matter, they will remain indefinitely.) Where do these books come from? Not even Lord Incarnadine can say. He himself has added very few books to the collection. Thus, I am not beyond imagining that the library itself has magically generated The Eidolons. How? I know not. Why has it chosen to do so in such a peculiar idiom? I cannot fathom it. But the works exist, and that is enough for me. Their significance and importance cannot be questioned.

  You hold in your hand a new edition of The Eidolons, painstakingly set in movable type from the originals, printed on vellum stock, and bound in fine-grained leather with gilt lettering and filigree. The text is faithfully reproduced without editorial emendation or gloss.

  Read The Eidolons and wonder, taking with a grain of salt its melodramatic excesses. Written in an uneven style by turns breezy, serviceable, and sesquipedalian, these tales hew close to all the conventions of the popular romance, and are consequently guilty of the faults and foibles that go along with such fare. But minor narrative flaws can be ignored, as can the occasional textual solecism. (In the first volume, "portfolio" is used where "folio" is meant. A typo, or the result of the author's ignorance? We will charitably opt for the former, as "folio" does appear elsewhere.) It is the story, after all, that is of prime interest.

  Above all, read the castle tales
and enjoy them. The magic casements open; the perilous seas and all of Creation lie before you….

  ― Osmirik, Royal Scribe and Librarian

  Foreword to the Fifth Volume

  Enigma upon enigma!

  Initially only four volumes of the Castle Edition of The Eidolons were planned, for the simple reason that only four original paperbacks were found. Now, a fifth penny dreadful (Really ― how long are these cheap books expected to last? ― surely no more than a fortnight!) has appeared in its rightful place on the shelf next to its kin.

  Curiously, the "Preface" to the first edition was reproduced in this new volume, thereby giving new life to the "inside job" theory of authorship. You may well imagine my chagrin at finding myself quoted on the back cover. "Read the castle tales and enjoy!", indeed.

  But what is absolutely mystifying… there are no words to express the emotion… is that this very "Foreword" appeared as well ― paradoxically so, for I had not even begun to write it!

  Yet here it is, written in an uncanny imitation of my own style, complete with expressions of my astonishment at finding it.

  I will not begin an attempt at explanation. The librarian proposes, the library disposes!

  Read on.

  ― Osmirik, Ryl. Scrb. & Lbrn.

  Why the vaguely Yiddish usage? Incidentally, even this footnote appears in the original.

  One

  Abelard, South Dakota

  It was a stark and dormy night.

  The campus was quiet. Northeastern State University wasn't the liveliest of schools, and it was Monday night, and it was snowing again, the wind howling out of the plains. Nothing to do but stay in the dorm and study.

  There was enough on Melanie McDaniel's study agenda. Deadlines were approaching: a paper for Philosophy 101 on Aristotle's Ethics was due in three days, and one on Conrad's Nostromo, for English 125 (20th Century British Novels), had been due three days ago. There was a calculus test tomorrow. Other stuff. But Melanie didn't feel much like studying. She didn't feel much like doing anything but fiddling on her computer.

  Fiddling was what it was. Melanie was on-line via modem to the campus's computer bulletin board system, or "BBS." Through it she was plugged into a worldwide network of amateur computer users called the CyberNet. The Net was a forum, a meeting place, for people who liked to gab about anything and everything. The discussions were grouped into topic-areas, with subjects ranging from current events to "Star Trek" to computer software. Melanie posted messages in many areas, but she particularly liked Woman Talk: The National Women's Forum, a cross between a slumber party and a backroom political caucus.

  The cathode-ray tube of Melanie's IBM clone displayed:

  To: Melanie McDaniel

  From: Cindy Thayer

  Msg

  Subject: Men again!

  I second the emotion. Men are congenitally polygamous, as in Higgamus Piggamus. When WE'RE that way, we're "sluts." You can't win, kid. Sorry you lost him. But there are a lot of fish in that sea ― except that they're all kind of slimy and scaly. Keep your chin up. Bye!

  Cindy

  ―

  Origin: The Boardinghouse: Cooperstown, NY (1:398/276.9)

  She looked out the window. Icy snowflakes ticked against the glass. Abelard was completely blotted out. Nothing was visible except an outside light in the quadrangle, a yellow halo in the darkness. She thought about Chad and about how the last thing he had said to her was that he needed "space" and that the relationship wasn't going anywhere and that he needed to be free of commitments in order to concentrate on getting through a tough term on his way to his economics degree. Maybe when he was through grad school and had his MBA he'd be ready for a serious relationship.

  Yeah? So then what was he doing now, impaled as he was on the claws of Nadine Borkowski? She was into him deep. He'd even cut his hair and sold his BMW motorcycle. She wasn't about to ride on the back of that thing, so what did he need it for? Yes, Nadine. Anything you say, Nadine.

  Chad wasn't polygamous. He was just dumb. Dumb to fall for that domineering, scheming, lowborn, vile, deceitful…

  She took a deep breath. So what? She'd lost him, and that was that. Did she still love him? Of course; he was terrifically good-looking and a lot of fun. But someone else had snared him, and Melanie was history. Life goes on.

  Yes, she was still in love with him.

  Melanie typed at the keyboard, telling the BBS to search for messages with the name McDaniel in the "To: " line. A pair popped up, and she keyed in the digits for the first one.

  To: Melanie McDaniel

  From: Fran DiMiro

  Subject: Abortion

  The Fundamentalists aren't going to change tactics now. Sure, some recent court decisions have been going their way, but

  Melanie squelched the message. Another go-around on the abortion issue. She wasn't in the mood for serious discussion right now. Besides, she didn't know how she felt about the issue any more. For years she had harbored the suspicion, unspoken and even unrealized until very recently, that if she were indeed ever faced with the decision of whether to have an abortion, she wouldn't be able to go through with it. Not because of moral qualms, but general queasiness.

  Well, now she was faced with it. She was almost sure she was pregnant with Chad's baby. You don't miss two periods and put it down to the whims of nature. Not if you knew your diaphragm had slipped off on at least one occasion. There was an outside chance that the missed periods were due to something else, but…

  An abortion? She just didn't think she could go through with it. Funny how you could intellectually believe in a thing and not be able to accept it emotionally.

  Without logging off the system, she left the desk and lay down on the bed to cry quietly for a while.

  When she was done she got up and sat back down at the computer. She hoped The Blues weren't returning: her depression. She had suffered with it off and on since her early teens, and had once been prescribed medication for it. Now, what with Chad and the pregnancy, a bad bout of The Blues was a danger.

  Drying her eyes, she punched in the other message number.

  To: Melanie McDaniel

  From: Linda Barclay

  Msg

  Subject: Boyfriends

  Melanie smiled. She liked Linda and had been exchanging messages with her for several months over the private channel of the system. Linda knew everything about Chad and about Chad's straying off to Nadine. Melanie had been very open, spilling everything but the pregnancy. That was still top secret.

  The body of Linda's message read:

  You sounded pretty down in your last post. Did something new happen? I mean something BAD new? If so, tell me about it. Don't stew. I know you've heard it all before, but it isn't the end of the world when your boyfriend dumps you. Life goes on. Doesn't help, does it? Okay, but talk about it. It might stop hurting just a little bit. Post back soon. See ya.

  ―

  Origin: The Castle BBS (1:897/675)

  Melanie gave the computer instructions to boot up the wherewithal to post a message. The process was the computerized equivalent of writing a note on a piece of paper and thumbtacking it to a cork bulletin board, except that it was done with electrons, not paper and metal and cork.

  To: Linda Barclay

  From: Melanie McDaniel

  Subject: Life

  You're right, I'm not feeling very good. Its like what's outside tonight, just snow swrling around and darkness and lonliness. Sometimes i think i just want everything to go dark forever, and no more Melanie. I guess im in a pretty bad way. Hell. Damn. Know any good fourletter words? You cant say the F word on the Net or the moderator will come around and wjs

  Her eyes filled with tears and she was blinded. By the time she'd dabbed her face dry with a tissue she saw that she had inadvertently hit Control-s. The message had been "Saved" and posted on the system. Well, she'd just kill it and start all over again ― but then she shrugged. What the hell. Leave it. She didn't feel l
ike BBSing any more tonight.

  She was about to log off, when she noticed something blinking in the upper left corner of the screen. It was a prompt, and it read PRESS "R" TO READ INCOMING MESSAGE. She'd never seen anything like it before. Was the System Operator trying to talk to her on-line?

  She hit R and the message spilled across the screen at 2400 bits per second.

  To: Melanie McDaniel

  From: Linda Barclay

  Pvt Msg

  Subject: Worried

  No, you don't sound at all good. Something did happen. Tell me about it. Post back immediately. I can talk to you on-line. Please answer!

  ― Linda

  ―

  Origin: The Castle BBS

  Melanie was puzzled. All this time she had assumed that Linda was posting from a BBS far away in another city. It took days, sometimes weeks for a message on the CyberNet to negotiate the maze of interconnecting phone lines and reach its intended recipient, and the same length of time for an answer to get back. The Net was not a direct-communication system. That would cost a lot of money, and the Net was a nonprofit system. A bulletin board didn't work like that. It was slow; however, it was cheap.

  But Linda was answering a message that Melanie had just posted minutes ago. That was impossible, if Melanie understood the way the Net operated. The only way it could happen was if Linda were sitting at the terminal of the university's BBS computer over in the Student Union, just a block away.

  But the message's Origin line had read "The Castle BBS," not the "Eagle's Eyrie," the name of the university system. Melanie had never noticed a location tag for The Castle, but it had to be outside the university.

  At the SELECT: prompt she hit R for "Reply" and TO: LINDA BARCLAY came up automatically. For "Subject" she hit the RETURN key and the computer reproduced Linda's subject line: WORRIED. She began typing the body of the message.