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  Trent chewed his cigar. “Well, I’m no expert on castle magic.” He took the cigar out and tapped the ash into a ceramic tray. “So, you say it never occurred to you to find out what happened to me.”

  “I’m embarrassed to say that although I certainly wondered, I always thought you could take care of yourself in any situation.”

  “I see.” Trent’s smile formed a small crescent. “Actually it was years before I discovered the gateway had skedaddled. I like it here, as you knew.”

  “One of the reasons I never really worried about you.”

  “Well, you were never very solicitous of my welfare.”

  “Nor you of mine, Trent.”

  Trent grunted. “Let’s be frank. We were rivals for the throne. Dad favored you, and that’s all there was to it.” Trent tapped out the cigar. “Look. We have lots to talk about. Let’s drive out to my place. We’ll have dinner, hash over old times. What do you say?”

  “Sounds friendly.”

  “It is, Inky. Wait a minute.” Trent got up, parted the curtain, and called out: “I’m leaving early. I’ll drive. Get a cab home.”

  “Yes, Mr. Trent.”

  Trent unhooked a camel’s-hair overcoat from an antique coat tree and pulled it on. “Let’s go.”

  The car was a blue Mercedes sedan, meticulously polished and parked next to a sign that read ABSOLUTELY NO PARKING.

  “Hell of a nice car to leave on the street,” Incarnadine remarked.

  “I have a few friends on the police force who look after it for me.”

  “Nice to have friends.”

  They got in and Trent started it up and headed east.

  “I’m surprised you still have the old shop. Still need a front?”

  “Nah, not really. You were very lucky to find me there. My employees open the place up maybe two, three days a week. Most of my business is strictly legitimate these days. Real estate, stocks, the usual. The shop’s still a good write-off, though.” He chuckled. “I’ve been depreciating the same inventory for decades.”

  “Still deal in art?”

  “My old hobby. I own a gallery on the West Side. Keeps the creative juices flowing.” Trent honked at a taxi that cut in front of him. “Tell me this, why the hell didn’t you try to stabilize the aspect from the other side? Why did you risk coming through and getting stranded?”

  “I tried everything I could think of back home, but nothing worked. Something’s changed. The stresses between the two universes have shifted over the years. It’s not the same. Probably why the old spell failed.”

  Trent nodded. “I see.” He made a series of lefts and rights, then turned north on First Avenue.

  They were in the midtown tunnel when Trent asked, “Do you think you can tunnel back?”

  “I’m going to give it the old college try. If I flunk out … can you take on a new employee?”

  Ice Island

  Snowclaw had been kneeling all day on an ice floe, waiting for a huge sea animal called the jhalrakk to come within range of his harpoon. But the jhalrakk had other ideas. It was content to stay where it was, just out of reach, half submerged in the shallow icy waters of the inlet. It had been feeding all day, ingesting vast quantities of water and filtering out what was edible. Only when it had its fill would it move out to sea again, and maybe — just maybe — its course would take it near Snowy’s position.

  Snowclaw knew it was a big jhalrakk (the word was sort of a growl, done with a snap of the jaws). He’d wanted to bag a big one all his life. This might be his chance.

  It was cold. It was always cold here; the perennial question was how cold. Today, it was very cold. Bone-freezing cold. You had to watch when you took a leak outside, so as not to wind up stuck to one end of a pisscicle. It was cold.

  Snowclaw hadn’t moved for a very long time. Slowly he brought his four-digited hand to his belly, where the fur was a little thinner and finer than that which covered the rest of him, but just as milk-white. Bone-white claws extruded from the ends of his fingers. He scratched carefully, exhaling.

  His feet, which were huge and padded with thick spongelike tissue at sole and heel, were cold. His left knee was cold. His butt was cold.

  Damn, he thought. I’m cold.

  He didn’t know whether he’d be better off bagging the jhalrakk or not. If he did, he’d be all night gutting it, cutting it, and dragging the carcass back to his shack. And tomorrow would go to rendering blubber, seasoning hide, and doing a hundred different other things with all the products and by-products that jhalrakks produced. He didn’t look forward to any of that; it was all hard work. He just might freeze if he had to stay outdoors any longer. On the other hand, if he didn’t bag something soon, he would starve. But at least he wouldn’t have to break his back doing all that damn work.

  It had been a very lean hunting season. He needed a little luck, or he didn’t know what he was going to do.

  The jhalrakk suddenly began moving. Snowclaw tensed, his left hand coming up to grip the front of the harpoon’s shaft, his right moving back along its length.

  The jhalrakk was heading straight for the floe. Snowclaw rose to a crouch and brought the point of the harpoon in line with the sharp, spiny back of the jhalrakk as it cut through the water, steaming toward him like a great ship, the kind Snowclaw would spy far out to sea sometimes. The spine rose, revealing the broad rubbery expanse of the beast’s flanks. Then the head came out of the water. Its six eyes seemed to focus right on Snowclaw. The beast’s great maw opened, revealing row on row of needlelike teeth.

  Snowclaw swallowed hard and ran his tongue across his frost-white fangs. He stood up.

  Come on right at me, big fellow.

  Snowclaw made his shot. The harpoon skidded off the blubbery flank of the jhalrakk and plopped into the water. Snowclaw grabbed the line but his numbed hands couldn’t stop it until it had paid all the way out, pulling taut against the iron anchor spike which had been pounded into the ice. Snowy growled and pulled on the line, but the jhalrakk had run over it, and now the big animal was diving. The beast slid out of sight, disappearing into the frigid, blue-black depths of the inlet.

  Big it was, the largest that Snowy had ever seen. The jhalrakk was now underneath the floe. Snowy prayed that it would stay submerged and pass on out to sea. But the way it had looked at him …

  The floe lifted out of the water, tilting sharply to the right. Snowclaw threw himself flat and hung on to the iron spike.

  The floe soon became almost vertical and seemed about to tip over. Snowy knew he was in for a dunking, anyway, so he let go and slid into the water, hoping that he could swim away before the huge slab of ice flipped over on him.

  It didn’t. Snowclaw surfaced and watched the massive ice island slide off to one side and slip back into the water edgewise. The jhalrakk appeared satisfied that it had done enough damage. With a mocking wave of its flukes, it moved off serenely toward the open sea.

  Snowy couldn’t recall ever hearing of a jhalrakk big enough to lift an ice floe; a good-size one could overturn a large boat, for sure. But a huge, weighty mass of ice? It was ridiculous.

  He swam back to the floe and climbed painfully back up on the ice. The wind hit him, making his waterlogged hide feel like a suit of fire. He pulled in the line, only to discover that he’d lost his best harpoon. With a savage growl, he yanked out the spike and threw it and the line as far as he could out to sea.

  * * * *

  Some time later, grumbling, cursing, and generally bad-mouthing the world and everything that crawled or swam or walked in it, Snowclaw waded through deep drifts on his way to the only really warm spot he knew. He hadn’t thought he would ever go back, but he was at the end of his tether. Maybe the time he’d spent away had made him go soft. He was losing his touch. You couldn’t have asked for a more perfect setup shot on that jhalrakk. And he’d missed. Blown it completely.

  He was just about frozen through, and could barely move, his fur a stiff mat of ice. The wind was ho
wling out of the north throwing light snow, and night was falling. He could barely see through the icy rime forming over the fur around his eyes.

  He found the crevasse and the steps he’d cut out of the ice going down into it. Minding where he put his feet, he descended the treacherous staircase.

  The mouth of the cave was only a few steps from the bottom of the stairway. He went in, and the temperature immediately rose a few degrees. A few more steps inside the cave brought a warm draft from within. It felt like heaven.

  There was a Gothic arch at the end of the tunnel, passing him through to a stone-walled corridor.

  He was back in Castle Perilous.

  The first time he’d stumbled in here, he and his hairless buddy Gene had met up and trooped around together. They’d wandered through the damn place for weeks, hopelessly lost. But after a while they’d become seasoned Guests of the castle, acquiring a sixth sense that allowed them to navigate the vast edifice with a reasonable chance of at least finding a way to the lavatory.

  He made a series of lefts and rights, moving through bare hallways lit by jewel-tipped light fixtures in their wrought-iron mounts.

  At length he smelled food: human food, which ordinarily he found rather tasteless. But if he talked nice to the cooks, they would whip up something more to his liking. If Linda was around, she’d do it for him no questions asked.

  He found the Queen’s dining room and walked in. There were a number of hairless types — humans — at the table, his old friends among them.

  “Snowclaw!”

  Linda jumped up, ran over, and hugged him. He hugged back, careful not to crush the little human female, of whom he was greatly fond.

  “Snowy, you’re soaking wet!”

  “Yeah, I been swimming.”

  Gene Ferraro thumped him on the back. “I knew you’d come back.”

  “You knew something I didn’t,” Snowclaw said. “Not that I didn’t miss you, Gene, old buddy. How’s it going?”

  “Oh, been pretty quiet around here.”

  “Find a way back to your world yet?”

  “Nope,” Gene said. “Still working on it.”

  “That’s too bad. We’ll have to mount a search party. After all, you helped me find my aspect.”

  “It was nothing. Yours is one of the stable ones.”

  “So far. You know what they say, though. Any aspect can close up on you, anytime.”

  “Yeah, but I wouldn’t worry about it.”

  Linda asked, “Why did you come back, Snowy?”

  “Couldn’t make it in the real world. I’m hungry.”

  Snowclaw scanned the table for anything he could eat. He grabbed a candle out of its sconce, dipped it into gooey white salad dressing, and took a bite. The thin man sitting in front of the empty sconce looked up and smiled bleakly at him.

  “Sorry, pal,” Snowclaw said. “Was that yours?”

  “No, quite all right. You ought to try the silverware.”

  Gene said, “I’m glad you showed up, Snowy. I’ve been giving some thought to going exploring. Just picking an interesting aspect and heading off into it. Feel like going with me?”

  “Sure, let’s go. Just so it’s someplace warm.”

  “I thought you didn’t take to heat.”

  “I’m slowly becoming a convert to your way of thinking.”

  “Well, let me finish breakfast, and we’ll scout around and see if we can find something interesting. Have a seat, Snowy.”

  Snowy said, “Linda, can I talk you into whipping up some grub for me?”

  “Sure thing. What would you like?”

  “Oh, the usual.”

  “You mean that fishmeal mush you like? The icky green stuff?”

  “If it won’t make you puke.”

  “Don’t be silly. You have to eat the food your body needs. Hold on a minute.”

  Linda closed her eyes briefly, extending her right hand palm-down over the table. A large wooden bowl materialized under her hand. It was filled with icky green stuff.

  “Thanks, Linda,” Snowclaw said, taking the bowl and scooping out a gob of mush with his fingers. His fierce yellow eyes lit up as he sat down and began to eat in earnest.

  “I don’t know about you two running off like that,” Linda said. “I’m going to worry about you.”

  “We’ll be fine,” Gene said, helping himself to more chicken a la king.

  Snowclaw had sat down next to a chubby young man with a straggly beard who was staring at him with a mixture of awe and repugnance. Snowclaw caught his stare.

  “Something bothering you, friend?”

  “Huh?” The young man’s face turned a shade paler. “No! Not a thing. Really. Uh … ”

  Linda intervened with, “Snowy, this is Barnaby Walsh. He’s a new Guest. Barnaby, I’d like you to meet our friend, Snowclaw.”

  “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Snowclaw.”

  “Same here. Pass that salt, would you?”

  “Certainly. Here you are.”

  “Thanks.”

  Linda said, “Barnaby is an American, just like us.”

  “That’s real nice.”

  “Uh … ” Barnaby smiled sheepishly. “I don’t understand. I mean, obviously Mr. Snowclaw is … well, he’s not a human being. But I can understand him perfectly. He even sounds American! But how could that be?”

  “The translation spell,” Gene said.

  “The what?”

  “It’s operative throughout the entire castle. It’s a magic spell that gives you an instantaneous running translation of any language. Snowy’s speaking in his own tongue, just like everybody else here. Take Mr. Hoffmann over there, for example. He’s German, and he speaks no English. Right, Mr. Hoffmann?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I don’t get it,” Walsh said. “He just spoke English.”

  “No, he didn’t. He said it in German. Didn’t you, Mr. Hoffmann?”

  “Ja.”

  “Well, I heard it that time,” Walsh said.

  “You can turn the translation off if you want to. For instance, just listen to the sound of Snowy’s voice for a while. He grunts and barks and growls, but you understand him perfectly.”

  “But how?”

  “It’s magic!” everyone at the table chorused. Then they all laughed, except Walsh.

  “I think I’m going insane,” Walsh said, covering his face with his chubby hands.

  Linda reached out a hand. “Now, Barnaby, don’t lose it. Come on. If I could adjust, so can you. I was in worse shape than you when I wandered in here.”

  “It’s just all so fantastic. So unbelievable.”

  “It’s real. Just go with it. Don’t fight it. It’s fun, mostly. Things can get a little dangerous sometimes, but magic is the rule here. Anything goes.”

  “Do you really think … ” Barnaby steadied himself with a gulp of coffee. “Will I really develop magic powers?”

  “Everyone who becomes a Guest does. Castle Perilous is like a big dynamo, spinning off this fantastic energy. We act sort of like conductors. But each person’s powers are unique. Everyone can do something different.”

  “You mean I might not be able to materialize things, like you, but I’ll get some other power?”

  “Right. For instance, Snowy here can teleport like a champ.”

  “Really? No kidding.”

  Snowclaw nodded. “Yeah, I can zip all over the damn place just by thinking about it.”

  “And Gene is the greatest swordsman in this and a few other worlds.”

  “Zat is becawse ah am French.”

  “You’re French?”

  “Of course. Why else would ah have zis ridiculous accent, eh?”

  “French accents are not necessarily ridiculous,” said a gentleman named DuQuesne. “I wish you could hear what most Americans sound like when they try to speak French.”

  “Whoops, looks like I put my foot in it again,” Gene said. “Sorry, Monsieur DuQuesne.”

  M. DuQuesne
laughed. “I was teasing you, Gene.”

  “Well, I don’t mean to go treading on nationalist feelings. I mean, we’ve all got —” Gene caught sight of something and trailed off.

  He was staring over Linda’s head. Linda turned to see three blue-skinned creatures enter the dining room and stop to survey it imperiously. They could have been the same three who had shown up on the picnic grounds.

  They sauntered over to the table. One of them looked over the wide selection of comestibles spread from one end of the table to the other.

  “Scavenger leavings,” it said with disgust. “Garbage.”

  No one argued with the creature.

  The middle one had picked up a turkey leg to sniff. The creature tossed the thing over its shoulder contemptuously.

  “If you speak to the cook,” Gene suggested to the first creature, “I’m sure you’ll be taken care of.”

  The creature didn’t answer. It stalked the length of the long table, sizing everyone up. It stopped at a place opposite Gene and stood arms akimbo, glaring, flashing its gleaming teeth. “What if I think your cook is garbage as well?”

  “Then you’ll starve, pal.” Gene shrugged. “Those are the breaks.”

  “Breaks?” The creature’s head turned slightly to one side, as if giving ear to an unseen interpreter. Then it nodded. “Understand. Yes. Luck. You are lucky I am under orders. I will not kill you now. But I might take some pleasure kicking your miserable carcass about this room.”

  “You’ll take pleasure in this first, friend,” Gene said, laying a hand on the hilt of his sword. His heart was jumping into his mouth as he said it.

  “That would give me immense pleasure.”

  “Suits me,” Gene said. “And now suits me as well as later.”

  The creature smiled the wickedest, toothiest smile Gene had ever seen or could ever have imagined. “You are brave. Surprising, inasmuch as your race is so cravenly peaceful.”

  Gene laughed. “He don’t know humans very well, do he?”

  Nobody else laughed.

  “Gene … ” Linda’s warning was also a plea.

  “Reconsidering,” the creature said, “it might be worth being court-martialed to see this hovel tastefully decorated with your entrails — if you have any left after I am finished with you.”