Castle Spellbound c-7 Page 4

  "Whensoever it pleaseth His Majesty. I am at your service, good my lord."

  Incarnadine smiled. "You're getting pretty good with those Shakespearean turns. Make a habit of that `good my lord' stuff and you'll be going around in tights and doublet carrying a skull. I've seen it happen to other Guests."

  "But where else do I get the chance to use all those ruffles and flourishes? It's fun."

  "Have a ball. Listen, I'm going to sidle over and try to talk to my brother. Make a golf date with my secretary and I'll try like hell to keep it. Really I will. And we won't use the public course. I have a private one. It's a little wild but a lot more fun."

  "Sounds interesting. Will do, sire."

  "See you later."

  Incarnadine strolled across the patio. His brother the prince was still at it, bantering volubly. Trent could be garrulous, especially when he was the center of attention. And charming, quite charming.

  Old Prince Charming, he of the butter-colored hair and strong jaw. Fine figure of a man, for a former nasty creep who'd caused no end of bother in his time. But no more. Trent had reformed. At least he claimed as much. And Incarnadine believed it. If Trent's recent behavior had been any indication, it was true. He was a changed man. Trent had lent a hand during the dust-up with the Hosts of Hell. Later he'd been kidnapped by them and dumped into this backwater world with Sheila, whom he eventually married. She was of common stock; moreover, she was a castle Guest. The castle nobility had just about written Trent off, but he didn't seem to care; and he 'did indeed appear to be free of his longtime obsession with seizing the throne, the Siege Perilous.

  All true. But it might be good insurance now and then to keep him busy. Hence this little mission. It wouldn't keep him away long.

  Just a decade or so.

  "… so the hooker said to the chicken, `Sure, honey, throw in a jar of mayonnaise and you got yourself a deal."' A burst of laughter.

  An attendant came up bearing a tray of drinks. "A refill, sire?"

  Incarnadine shook his head and set his half-full glass on the tray.

  "That was cute," a tall horse-faced woman told Trent. "Filthy, but cute."

  "I am nothing if not filthy but cute," Trent said.

  She giggled. "Well, I know you're cute. Your filthiness I know only by reputation." She batted her eyelashes.

  "Oh, so it's gotten around? I'll have to hire a PR flack to put another spin on it."

  "I bet you've given a few women a spin in your time."

  "My dear, women are like yo-yos."

  "Oh? How so?"

  "You let 'em turn at the end of a string for a while, then you snap your wrist and they jump up into the palm of your hand."

  "What a charming metaphor."

  "Yes, rather."

  "That's sexist," someone alleged.

  "You mean `sexy,"' Trent said with an evil smirk.

  "You're incorrigible," said the horse-faced woman. "A real throwback. An atavist."

  "Attaboy, I always say." More giggles.

  Trent happened to glance Incarnadine's way and did a take. "Your Kinghood! Do join the party."

  "I've been watching from afar," Incarnadine said, "making comparisons."

  "None invidious, I hope."

  "Wilde, Bernard Shaw, and their ilk spring to mind."

  "Not exactly the ilk of human kindness, but it's nice to know I'm in stellar company. Thank you, Inky."

  "Don't let it go to your head. Might I have a word with you in private, old chum?"

  "Certainly, old bean. Ladies, excuse us?"

  "Please don't keep him too long, my lord," the woman said. "He's the life of the party."

  "And I don't even play the piano," Trent said.

  The king led Trent over to the side of the swimming pool, now once again placid and empty of revelers.

  "What's up?" Trent asked.

  "I know it's short notice, but can you leave tonight?"

  "Leave? But I thought you said-"

  "I didn't know how to break it to Sheila. There is some urgency. This is a diplomatic mission as well as a military one. You can handle that aspect as well. Can you get away?"

  "Well, if it's necessary, yes, I suppose I can leave. It's that urgent?"

  "Yes. One thing you have to keep in mind. This world you're going to-"

  "Which one is it, by the way?"

  "It's called Hellas in the castle worlds list. And the analogues are fairly obvious."

  "Never heard of it. Greekish, is it? Well, as long as they don't come bearing gifts."

  "Then it's set? You can leave now?"

  "Now? Right now?"

  "Yes."

  Trent shrugged. "Well, I'll have to tell Sheila."

  "Yes."

  "Uh, I'll make it quick."

  "It'd be best."

  "Should I tell her how long, approximately?"

  "Say a few days."

  "Is that true?"

  "True enough. Go do it. I'll meet you in the bar."

  Trent nodded and went off to find his wife.

  Incarnadine crossed the patio and went through wide glass doors into the deserted bar, where he took a booth and fiddled with swizzle sticks for a few minutes until Trent came walking in.

  Incarnadine looked up at him. "All set?" Trent gave a quick nod.

  "She's distraught?"

  "Not so you'd notice. Let's go."

  Incarnadine collapsed his little house of swizzle sticks and got up.

  They walked through the bar and out into the spacious lobby, which they crossed to a bank of elevators. One set of doors stood off by itself. These opened. A sign above the doors read CASTLE EXPRESS.

  "One thing you have to remember about the universe of Hellas," Incarnadine said as the doors rolled shut.

  "What's that?"

  "The temporal differential is severe." The elevator began to descend.

  "Oh? How severe?"

  "Very. On the order of three hundred to one."

  Trent was amazed. "Are you kidding me?"

  The king shook his head. "You could stay a year subjective time, but here…"

  "Nothing. Well, that's fine from Sheila's point of view." The elevator went down two floors and stopped. Doors set into the back wall of the elevator opened onto a stone-lined corridor lighted by wall-mounted torches that looked like glowing jewels.

  They stepped out into the keep of Castle Perilous.

  "So you want a quick war," Trent said as they walked the corridor. "Quick and clean, though. Not quick and dirty."

  "Yes. If possible."

  "Not always possible."

  "No, not always. And for `quick' in this context, read `relatively quick.' This is an archaic world. Nothing happens quickly but death."

  "Right. So, how long, do you figure?"

  "That's going to be up to you. There's a fleet assembled from many cities-city-states, really-all over this culture. They've been ready to sail, but there've been political problems. And financial. Squabbles over sharing the costs of the war, etcetera."

  "Some things never change."

  "You said it. Anyway, the fleet is about ready to sail. But they don't have a rational battle plan. I came up with one, but it will never be followed if I'm not there to hector and cajole. And as I said, I can't be there."

  Trent asked, "You want me to follow your game plan?"

  "No! I trust you implicitly in this. Your strategy may be better than mine or worse, but it will be yours. You'll have faith in it at least. And you'd change mine, anyway."

  "Probably."

  "So, that's that. You'll have enough time to size up the strategic situation yourself and come up with a campaign to suit."

  "But how much control will I have?"

  "You'll have the ear of the commander in chief. The kingpin of the whole operation trusts me implicitly. He's a good leader but is not his world's greatest chess player, if you know what I mean."

  "Likes frontal assaults."

  "They all do in this world. But th
is guy knows his limitations-"

  "What's the guy's name?"

  "Anthaemion. He realizes he's in over his head, and he knows he has to win this one. So he's open to suggestions."

  "But will he be open to my suggestions?"

  "Will he listen to a special emissary, my own brother, a prince of the realm? Sure he will. He doesn't like me being away, but we've talked, and he understands."

  "How much does he understand, about Perilous and such matters?"

  "The usual cover story. I'm his court magician. I come from a distant foreign land, far, far away. Hyperborea, Shangri-la, und so weiter."

  Trent chuckled. "How many potentates play Arthur to your Merlin?"

  "Gods! If I had a farthing."

  "Okay. By the way, what's the objective? Another city-state, I take it. What's the name of the place?"

  "Dardania."

  Trent looked thoughtful. "This is beginning to resonate. And what's Anthaemion's outfit called?"

  "His city-state? Mykos. The members of the joint military command he heads are generally known as Arkadians, though they don't think of themselves much in that light. This can be a shaky alliance at times."

  "Hmm. Let me ask this. What set the whole shootingmatch off? What's the war all about?"

  "Well, again, the usual thing. They're all pirates in this culture, really. Raid each other constantly, harass the hell out of each other's shipping, and so forth, and it's tolerated to a degree. All's fair, up to a point. But then someone goes too far, breaks an unwritten rule. Then everyone gangs up on the transgressor, and all hell breaks loose."

  "But what precipitated it?"

  "One gang made off with another gang's women, which is nothing original. They all do it, and worse, but this time the ringleader kidnapped the big king's little brother's wife, and… What's the matter?"

  Trent had come to a halt, arms folded, regarding Incarnadine with withering skepticism. "Don't tell me. This king's brother's wife. Her name wouldn't happen to be-?"

  "It's Alena."

  "Ye gods, Inky! What in the name of-"

  "The analogues are there, but they're superficial, really."

  "Oh, sure."

  "No, I'm not kidding. I know it sounds fishy, but-"

  "Just a little skirmish, you said. A quick assault. One-two punch and they're out. Right!"

  Incarnadine leaned against the smooth stone wall. "Trent, do you want to bow out? No hard feelings if you do."

  "Well… damn it."

  "Seriously, I'll understand."

  "So you say now. But you said you were in a bind."

  "I'll get by somehow. Don't worry about it."

  Scowling, Trent eyed his brother askance.

  "It's okay, Trent," Incarnadine said mildly. "Really."

  With a deep sigh of resignation, Trent started walking again. "You con artist. You rotten, no-good swindler… "

  "Really, if you think you can't handle it-"

  "Oh, shut up. You know I'm not going to chicken out now."

  Watching his brother stalk away, Incarnadine grinned wryly. "I knew I could count on you," he said.

  Trent walked resolutely on. "Up yours. Your frigging Majesty."

  Incarnadine followed after, his laughter reverberating in the stone corridor.

  KEEP — EAST WING, NEAR THE SOUTHWEST TOWER

  Kwip the thief stepped casually along the hallway, whistling tunelessly. He was a small man, preferring his native dress: jerkin, pantaloons, a hat not unlike a beret though larger, and soft black leather boots. He had dark eyes and dark hair and looked to be in his middle years or somewhat younger. He passed the opening to a smaller side passageway and stopped a few feet beyond.

  He looked up and down the hallway, his manner still relaxed, perhaps calculatedly so. He listened.

  No one about, nobody coming. He walked back to the side passageway, entered it, and covered the short distance to its end, where a stout oak door stood. After a last glance over his shoulder, he reached into a pocket on his jerkin and took out a large skeleton key.

  The key was halfway into its hole when he froze. There was something amiss.

  He carefully withdrew the key and grasped the door's wrought-iron handle. He pulled gently. The door eased open a few inches. He listened, heard nothing.

  He stepped back and quietly drew his sword. Again taking the door handle in his free hand, he paused for a moment to draw a breath.

  Then he threw the door open and charged into the secret abandoned chamber that was his storeroom, sword raised and ready to strike.

  He stopped in the middle of the floor. There was no one here. But the place had changed. Poised like a heroic statue, sword still on high, he kept turning about, amazed at what he saw.

  The room had been straightened up. Dust and debris were gone, and all his booty-all the fine articles of gold and silver, all the fine jewelry-was arranged in neat piles on shelves and on and about the floor. Treasure chests, jewelry boxes and other containers were arrayed in rows. Instead of a jumble of expensive junk there was now an orderly selection, as in a dealer's stall at some bazaar.

  Slowly, he lowered his sword. "What in the name of-?"

  He took a quick inventory, moving about the room and sorting through everything. He opened strongboxes, used his sword to stir up the metallic stew of gold and silver coins. He counted necklaces and trinkets, gold plates and chalices, everything.

  Done, he could not ascertain that there was one item missing. But he was not satisfied. He counted and sorted and itemized again.

  Finally he gave up. No, nothing had been filched, not a bauble missing. All his swag was present and accounted for. He sheathed his sword, closed a trunk, and sat. He pondered long and hard. Servants? No, this was too far from the living quarters of the keep. Servants never came here. Nor did anybody, for this was one of the wilder areas of the castle.

  Who, then? Why did they tidy up? Why did they not take anything?

  He decided to put it down to castle strangeness. Yes. The storeroom was located in one of the more unstable areas of the fortress, and that meant that anything could happen. The floor could disappear beneath your feet. Walls could shift and slide. And baffling, anomalous things could happen, including a room deciding to tidy itself up.

  Yes, that must be it. Castle strangeness. Put it down to that and forget it. Well, he must give some thought to relocating his stash. That would be a bother, yes. But think on it he must. To say the least. In fact, moving would be the prudent thing to do in any case. But why in the name of all the gods…?

  Yes, the vagaries of living in Castle Perilous. The uncertainties, the risks. He looked about him. Aye, and the rewards.

  When he'd first blundered into Perilous he was shocked by the alien strangeness of the place. The stuff of legend and myth. After recovering from this initial disorientation, he began to cast his thieving eyes about for professional opportunities, for all castles worth their salt had treasure rooms. Knowing this, he looked high and low.

  And had come up empty-handed. If the castle had a treasure house it had eluded Kwip completely. And well it might, for the castle was enchanted beyond his powers of comprehension, and any valuables therein would doubtless be under magical protection.

  So, he had widened his search for loot into the sundry magical worlds of the castle's aspects. All this booty had come from forays into other realms, into myriad fairy kingdoms and countless enchanted lands. He had traveled far and wide and come back laden each trip. And he'd dumped the stuff here.

  To what purpose, though? What would he do with it all? He'd often asked himself that. Perhaps he simply needed something to do. Perhaps… just to keep his hand in his trade?

  No matter. Whatever the reason, stealing was his profession, the only one he knew.

  Something nettled him. This damned business. He flatly didn't believe the castle theory. Someone had been in here, someone now knew of his doings. He had to find out who that person was.

  But first, he h
ad to move all the swag. A major effort. He picked up an inlaid box of trinkets and tucked it under his arm, then thought better of it and set it back down. No, he would find a new place first, then come back and begin making trips.

  But what if the intruder returned? Unsettling possibility. Perhaps he went to fetch help, confederates. There was too much loot for one man. Yes, that was it. The thieves would be back in force. Well, he'd simply wait for them.

  But… what if there were too many of them?

  He picked up the inlaid box again. First, get the stuff out of here, as fast as possible. Shove it all in his room in the Guest wing. Under the bed, in the wardrobe, closets, whatever. Fast. Now. Then… well, then he'd think what to do next. The important thing was speed.

  He put the box down yet again and began filling his pockets with the loose stuff.

  CLUB SHEILA

  The party had wound down. The bartenders were washing glasses, the caterers busy cleaning scraps off the food tables. The moon hung low in the sky, hiding under drooping palms, as the night grew ever older. The big Victorian-style hotel was dark and quiet, the sound of the breaking surf muffled by a rising night breeze.

  A group of castle Guests were still at it, though, sitting in lawn chairs by the pool, quietly drinking-among them Deena Williams, a black woman from Brooklyn. She was dressed in a bright orange chemise and had her hair done in an acorn cut.

  Barnaby Walsh occupied the chaise next to her. Plump and pale of face, he sat raptly listening to Melanie McDaniel's guitar variations on an Irish folk melody. Everyone else was talking.

  "I'm through drinkin'," Deena said, setting her Mai Tai down on the umbrella table next to her. "I'm over my limit now."

  "You don't seem intoxicated," the man everyone called M. DuQuesne told her. He was in evening dress: black tie, boiled shirt, patent leather pumps. Which wasn't unusual for him; in fact, he always dressed formally. He spoke English fluently but with a heavy accent. "What is your limit, by the way?"

  "Six."

  "Six Mai Tais?"

  "Six of anything. Six beers, even."

  "Well, it's been a nice affair. I quite enjoyed myself."

  "I didn't say I didn't enjoy myself. If I have another Mai Tai, I'm gonna have to be towed back to the castle."