Castle Dreams Page 2

  “Rats,” Gene said mildly, throwing in his hand.

  “You should've been content with the little slam,” Snowclaw said.

  “Content,” Gene mused.

  “You seem kinda troubled, chum."

  “Weltschmerz."

  “What's that?"

  Linda said, “Sounds German. Gene, you're always using foreign words to show off."

  “Yeah, that's me, your basic intellectual snob. You ought to hear me swear in Sanskrit."

  “Is that a town?” Snowclaw asked.

  “You're thinking of Scranton,” Gene said. “And I've uttered mighty oaths there, too.” Gene slowly got to his feet. “Well, I think I'll take a walk."

  “Want some company?” Snowclaw asked.

  “No, thanks, big guy. I think I want to solo this time. Got to do some thinking."

  “Suit yourself."

  “See you later, people,” Gene said in general farewell, waving as he strolled away.

  Snowclaw watched him leave, then shook his massive head. “I dunno. I'm kind of worried about him. He's been acting funny lately."

  “Cabin fever,” Linda said. “You hang around the castle too much, you get it."

  Melanie walked over. A steel string was dangling from her guitar.

  “Busted my high-E,” she said. “I'll have to go back home to find another."

  “No need for that,” Linda said. She sat back, crossed her arms, and closed her eyes. Something materialized on the card table—a small packet.

  Melanie reached for it eagerly. “Bless my soul, a new guitar string!” In fact, she was not in the least surprised, having witnessed Linda's materialization talents many times. “Thanks, Linda."

  “No problem,” Linda said, then yawned. Recovered, she asked, “Where are your kids?"

  As if on cue, two bonneted nursemaids, each bearing a swaddled infant, entered the hall.

  “Here they are!” Melanie said, running to meet them. She took one of the babies and carried it back to the table.

  “Can you tell them apart yet?” Linda asked.

  “Always could,” Melanie said, holding the infant up. “This one's Rafe. Want to hold him?"

  “Me? Sure!"

  “Hey, I want one of those,” Deena said.

  “Your own, or one of these?"

  “Both, but for now, I'll take this one's brother."

  “You get Gareth. Here, Linda. Be sure to support his head. Like this, see?"

  Linda gingerly accepted the precious burden. “Oh, he's a heavy little rascal, isn't he?"

  Melanie took the other baby and went to Deena. “They're both gaining weight fast."

  Deena expertly enfolded Gareth in her arms.

  Linda tickled Rafe's tiny dimpled chin. “Hey, there, kiddo.” Not yet cognizant of humorous gestures, Rafe was dismayed.

  “Thank you!” Melanie called after the nursemaids as they left the room. To Linda she said, “They eat like lumberjacks. My boobs are always sore."

  “You're lucky to have enough milk to breast-feed,” Deena said.

  “Breast-feeding is best for babies if it's possible. But it's hard to nurse twins. By the way, where was Gene off to?"

  “Nowhere in particular,” Linda told her.

  “He's been looking kind of depressed lately."

  “It really hasn't shown until recently, but he's been unhappy since Vaya ditched him,” Linda said. “He won't admit it, but she was the love of his life."

  “She must have been something."

  “A real bombshell."

  With eyebrows arched appreciatively, Dalton said, “I'll second that."

  “Ever since,” Linda went on, “Gene's been traipsing through one castle aspect after another, trying to find something to take his mind off her. As I said, he'd never admit it, but it's the truth."

  “When did he lose her?” Melanie wanted to know.

  “Shortly before you came to the castle, I think it was."

  “I don't understand you humans,” Snowclaw said.

  Linda turned her head. “What don't you understand, Snowy?"

  “Mating. I mean, the way humans carry on about it."

  “How is it handled in your world? I don't think I've ever asked before."

  “Handled?"

  “How is it ... uh, you know ... done?"

  Snowclaw shrugged. “Well, you just do it. It's something that's got to be done, and you just go out and get it over with, that's all. And then you go back home and sleep for a week."

  “I see. Um..."

  “Maybe that's preferable,” Dalton commented. “No fuss, no hearts and flowers."

  “Maybe it's the best way,” Linda said, “but it doesn't sound like very much fun."

  “Fun?” Snowclaw said dubiously. “What does fun have to do with it?"

  Linda began, “Well, you—” Then she thought better of it. “Uh, Snowy, maybe you'd better talk to Gene about this."

  “Anything you say, Linda. Actually, I'm not all that interested in the subject, if you want to know the truth."

  Dalton interjected, “Sometimes I think the subject isn't worthy of all the attention that's usually paid it."

  “Anyway,” Linda said, “I wish Gene would forget about the past. He's been so glum lately he hasn't been much fun at all. One thing he knows how to do is liven things up. When he's in the right mood."

  “He'll get over her,” Melanie said. “Just like I got over the father of these little joy-bundles."

  “You don't still think of Chad?” Linda asked pointedly.

  Melanie gave a wan smile. “Oh, every once in a while. Sometimes, at night, when the castle is quiet...” Melanie suddenly frowned. “You know, Linda, for months now I've been telling you all the secrets of my love life, and just now it suddenly struck me that I know zero about yours. Fair is fair."

  Linda snorted. “Me? What love life?"

  “Oh, come on."

  “I've been ditched so many times I've thought of buying a backhoe."

  “I think you did mention a boyfriend once."

  “Yeah, I had one or two of those, and even a fiancé. But it all came to zilch zip."

  “I feel as though I'm eavesdropping,” Dalton said, eyes on the chessboard.

  “I got no dirt to hide, no scandal,” Linda said. “Kind of wish I did."

  Melanie struck a pose. “Meanwhile I must struggle with the stigma of the Unwed Mother,” she said, giving the line a dramatic reading.

  “Aw, nobody cares about that any more,” Linda said.

  “I do. I still believe in marriage. Call me old-fashioned."

  “Like sex,” Dalton said, “and love, for that matter, marriage is beyond the realm of fashion. It's a necessary institution. Always was, always will be."

  “You're an old fogey, Mr. Dalton,” Linda said.

  “My dear, you are quite right. And I glow with pride of it."

  Snowclaw asked, “Just what is marriage, anyway?"

  There was an awkward silence.

  Dalton began, “Well, it's..."

  There was a commotion in the corridor. Shouts, then murmuring voices.

  “I wonder what's up?” Linda said.

  “I'll go see,” Melanie said and hurried to the open door.

  “Maybe it's the excitement Gene was looking for,” Dalton speculated. “In Castle Perilous, you don't have to wait very long for some."

  “I don't like excitement,” Deena said nervously. “I like it when it's quiet."

  Linda said, “I kind of get nostalgic for the calmer periods myself, sometimes, especially when the sludge starts hitting the whirling blades."

  “Yeah, I can do without that sludge stuff,” Deena said, scowling. “Ever since I come here it's been flyin'. First it was the Blue Meanies invadin', then it was demons, then crazy people comin’ out of mirrors scarin’ everybody."3 Deena shook her head. “I don't need that."

  [3. Castle for Rent and Castle War!]

  “It does get interesting around here at times,”
Dalton admitted. “But it's good for the circulation. Gets the blood racing. It's always good to—"

  “Hah hah!"

  Dalton regarded his chess opponent, from whom the outburst had come. “What on earth has got into you?"

  Lord Peter sat back, a triumphant smirk on his lips. “I moved!"

  “Well, congratulations. What did you move?"

  “Bishop to queen's three. There. You're in check."

  Dalton studied the board. “So I am."

  “You always manage to squirm out of it, but this time I've got you. You're hemmed in on all sides. You must either move your king or take the bishop with the queen, but doing the latter will put your queen in jeopardy. And if you move your king, it's only a matter of time before I corner you.” Lord Peter folded his arms and gloated.

  “What a jam,” Dalton said appreciatively. “Quite a nice little trap you set for me."

  “And have just sprung mercilessly."

  “So you have, so you have. Unless..."

  Lord Peter sat up. “Unless?"

  “Well, if I'm not mistaken, if I take your king's bishop with my queen's, you're in check ... and—unless I'm entirely misapprehending the strategic situation—that's mate."

  Lord Peter saw with horror that Dalton was right. “Impossible!"

  “I would not kid his lordship."

  Lord Peter looked ill. “I think I'll go to my room and blow my bloody brains out."

  “Here, here, that's hardly called for. Besides, you'll have the chambermaids all upset."

  Lord Peter thought it over. “You're right, they'll refuse to step into the place and there'll be no end of mess.” He gave the matter more consideration. “I'll throw myself off the King's Tower."

  “Now you're being reasonable."

  The giggling from Deena and Linda quickly faded as Melanie came running into the room. They saw the look on her face.

  “Melanie, what's wrong?” Linda asked uneasily.

  “It's the servants,” Melanie said grimly. “They're saying something happened to Lord Incarnadine. Word came through from the aspect he's in."

  “My God, what—?"

  “They're saying...” Melanie swallowed hard and tried again. “They're saying he's dead."

  KEEP—NEAR THE QUEEN'S TOWER—LOWER LEVELS

  Lugging a huge sheaf of fan-folded paper—a computer printout—Gene trudged the hallways of Castle Perilous, looking for a doorway into an interesting universe. His explorations of the past two weeks hadn't turned up a portal worth spitting into, and this outing was no exception.

  He stopped. Before him stood an anomaly, an archway that opened onto a pleasant landscape of trees, grass, shrubs, and bright sunlight. The anomaly consisted in the fact that this innocuous scenery did not lie outside the castle in the normal sense. It was part of another world, one belonging to a universe entirely separate from the one that the castle occupied. In the castle nomenclature, this doorway to a strange cosmos was an “aspect."

  He consulted the printout. It was a list of aspects with names and descriptions, grouped according to location in the castle. Gene thumbed through the pages covering the 14th floor of the keep. There were hundreds of listings, and the locations were somewhat vague. For instance: “Twelve paces east, along common bearing-wall between Tinker's Stall and Queen's Ladies’ Sewing Room: to right of foliated pilaster."

  Big help. There were hundreds of empty rooms on this floor. No one knew which had been what a millennium or two ago, when this catalogue of aspects been compiled (the data had come out of an ancient book in the castle library and had recently been sorted by the castle's mainframe computer).

  But Gene thought he had this aspect pegged.

  “'Arcadia,'” he read aloud from the printout. “'Clement, peaceful; salubrious climate. Fauna: small and inoffensive. Population: by all indications uninhabited. Flora: extensive, variegated. Otherwise undistinguished.’”

  Another parklike aspect, of which the castle had thousands. Pleasant, good for picnics and outings. Hills, trees, and grass. Of little interest to a man hungering for high adventure.

  Gene moved on.

  He had changed from castle clothes—the usual neo-medieval attire—to an all-weather one-piece outdoor suit that Linda had conjured for him, at his behest and to his specifications. Fashioned of a sturdy synthetic material and dyed in camouflage, it featured numerous zippered pockets and a wide utility belt. The belt had pouches holding compass and other accouterments, along with a hunting knife and scabbard. With hiking boots and backpack, he was set for any climate and terrain, within certain limits, from high desert to subarctic tundra. Very hot and very cold climates would be problematical—but of course the choice of world was his.

  He simply couldn't decide.

  The backpack bulged with a week's rations, and his canteen held a three-day supply of water. The trouble was that he didn't know quite what he had in mind. Was this a recreational outing? Just a backpacking trip? If so, perhaps he merely wanted to spend a week alone and watch fish break the crystalline surface of a mountain lake, or observe a canopy of silent, alien stars slowly wheeling, or look for fossils in the uplifted limestone beds of ancient seas, or maybe just contemplate the involuted folds of his navel....

  Then again, maybe he actually wanted to explore an inhabited aspect, one with an interesting culture that merited scrutiny. It might be entertaining to find an aspect set in a historical period similar to one of Earth's. A rough-and-tumble milieu. A war.

  Was that what he hungered for? Violence? Sobering thought. He didn't think of himself as particularly bloodthirsty. True, he liked proving himself with a sword, and had parried and lunged in many a fencing duel—but all of his fighting had been in one cause or another: defending his friends and the castle against invaders, or overthrowing a particularly odious regime in one of the inhabited aspects, or generally fighting the good fight. All perfectly justifiable. Yes, he'd killed men, several. And quasi-men: non-humans and not-quite-humans.

  So, did he want more of that? Did he feel the overwhelming need to seek out such confrontations? To what purpose? Must he spill blood to set his own racing?

  He stopped in front of another aspect, this one desiccated and bleak. He walked on.

  No, he didn't like spilling blood. He was tired of conflict. The castle had gone through one convulsion after another in the past few years: siege, palace intrigue, dissension, invasion, and castlequake (extreme instability caused by stress and disharmony in the multiverse). He wanted a reprise of any of that? Absolutely not. The last thing he wanted was more Sturm und Drang.

  Another portal, another world. There was not much out there but salt flats under a deep purple sky. He continued down the stone-lined corridor.

  What he craved was adventure. He wanted to undertake an expedition to discover something. Search for the source of the Nile. Climb Everest. Sled through the Antarctic. Plumb the depths of the Marianas Trench in a bathyscaphe.

  Or find equivalents of any of those things in one of these worlds.

  Here was yet another aspect. And yet another picnic ground. He thumbed through the printout, vainly trying to find something of interest. He'd come to this floor because a few of the descriptions sounded promising. He had failed to locate any of the aspects described.

  He flipped through page after page. Jeremy, the castle data-processing chief, had given him the printout, but could neither vouch for the data's accuracy nor warrant that it wasn't completely obsolete. Aspects sometimes shifted around, and this list had been compiled thousands of years ago. Efforts were being made to update the records, but the job was time-consuming.

  Perhaps only Incarnadine, King of the Realms Perilous, knew every aspect, where it was and what it was. However, he claimed he didn't, and everyone usually took him at his kingly word.

  Gene lost his grip on the unwieldy printout and a section of it dropped to the floor, trailing its paper tail. He stooped to pick up the spill but in the doing dropped more. This produc
ed a blood-chilling oath. He kicked at the pile. Paper all over the place.

  He gathered up the whole mess and threw it into the nearest alcove. Dusting his hands, he walked away.

  He saw a room to his right and entered. It was one of the castle's countless sitting rooms, furnished as usual with dark carved chairs, a settee, and a few tables. Tapestries depicting hunting scenes draped the stone walls. This room seemed to get some use—there was a bowl of fresh fruit on one of the tables.

  Gene shucked his backpack. He took an apple, lounged on the settee, and munched abstractedly.

  This was useless. Either he wasn't being systematic enough or his luck had turned bad. Never before had he run into the problem of finding an interesting aspect. Used to be they popped up at the drop of a hat.

  Maybe there was another problem. What used to be a novelty had long ago become commonplace. Maybe he'd seen enough interesting new worlds. Maybe he needed to go back home to his own.

  But the longer he thought about going home, the less attractive the prospect seemed. Home? What was home? What was Earth, for that matter? One big heaving ball of storm and stress. He wondered what current world crisis was grabbing the headlines.

  Not that he cared.

  So, not going home left the alternative of staying here, which was boring. He wondered what in the world was wrong with him. Why could nothing in a fantastic enchanted castle captivate his imagination?

  Could he be just plain depressed—clinically depressed? It happens to lots of people, he thought. Who granted you immunity?

  But he didn't feel depressed, exactly; though what he was feeling—restlessness, boredom, and a sense that nothing really mattered—were suspicious symptoms. He gave some thought to the notion of seeking professional help.

  Therapy? He was skeptical of its value. Something about all that shrink business had always struck him as questionable. Sure, therapy had it clinical uses, but for a person in generally good mental health to sit himself down...

  Or was he just rationalizing? He considered his reluctance as a candidate for the symptom category.

  Boy, they get you coming and going. Feel the need for therapy? No? Well, that simply means you need therapy.