Castle Spellbound Read online

  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 Mc-Daniel'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."

  “No, I was just commenting, dear.” M. DuQuesne looked around. “Seems everyone has left. Almost everyone, anyway."

  “I wonder what time it is, castle time. I don't feel sleepy."

  DuQuesne looked at his watch. “Good reason. It's rather late in the afternoon at the castle."

  “Is that all? Hell, I might as well have another drink. Waiter!"

  “You haven't finished that one,” DuQuesne said, pointing.

  Deena looked. “Oh.” She picked up the glass and drank.

  A man with a German accent sitting next to DuQuesne said, “Perhaps you should switch to something less sweet, Deena. That is a very fancy concoction to be drinking so many of."

  “I like ‘em. Can't be too sweet for me. I got a sweet tooth."

  Thaxton and Dalton came walking across the tennis courts. Thaxton had to be steered a bit.

  “Hey,” Deena called. “How'd your moonlight swim go?"

  “Excellent,” Dalton said. “His lordship passed out on the beach."

  “Didn't so much pass out, old boy, as took a bit of a nap."

  “Right."

  Deena asked, “Where're your lady friends?"

  “Don't quite know,” Dalton said. “They seem to have left us."

  “Swam away, they did,” Thaxton contended as he slumped to a deck chair. “Mermaids. Lovely sea horses. Sea mares. Farewell, farewell."

  “Boy, he's flyin',” Deena said.

  “He's cruising at about thirty-five thousand feet,” Dalton confirmed.

  “Perfectly sober, old boy. Perfectly sober."

  “Perfectly smashed,” Deena countered.

  “Nonsense. By the way, can a fellow get a drink in this place?” Thaxton turned and called, “Garçon!"

  Deena asked, “Who's this Garson guy people been callin’ all night?"

  “No, my dear, that's French for—"

  Deena shot daggers at DuQuesne. “It's a joke, stupid. Don't you think I know that?"

  M. DuQuesne was somewhat flustered. “Very sorry, my dear."

  “Forget it.” Deena leaned back wearily. “Uh-oh."

  “What, Deena?"

  “I'm turnin’ into a mean drunk. When that happens, I gotta stop drinkin'.” Deena set her glass aside.

  “Don't worry about it,” M. DuQuesne said.

  “No, no matter what time it is, I gotta get me some sleep. Hey, who's heading back to the castle?"

  Melanie stopped playing. “Me. Party's just about over, looks like.” She reached for her guitar case.

  “I will say good night,” the German-speaking gentleman said. He got up and walked off. “Very glad to see you all. Nice party."

  “Goo’ night, Karl baby,” Deena said. “Nice talkin’ with ya, honey."

  “Good night."

  “Here comes old Gene,” Dalton observed.

  Hands in his pockets, Gene came walking through the courts to join the group.

  “Yo,” he said.

  “Gene, where you been?” Deena asked. “Takin’ a moonlight swim with some new hot momma?"

  “Sure.” Gene sat in one of the deck chairs.

  “Where's Linda?"

  “Don't know."

  “Where'd she get to, anyhow? I ain't seen her in a while."

  “We saw her last with Gene on the beach,” Dalton tattled.

  “What? Gene, was you out there skinny dippin’ with Linda?"

  Gene shook his head. “Nope. She went back to the castle a while ago."

  “You was, you gonna have to answer to me."

  “No such luck."

  “They were wrestling in the sand,” Dalton said. “I think that's what they were doing."

  “What the hell you talkin’ about? Him and Linda? You crazy."

  “All in fun,” Gene said.

  “Must be, ‘cause Linda don't fool around with nobody."

  “Nope.” Gene sighed.

  “She got principles."

  “Yup."

  “She don't go sleepin’ around."

  Gene's chin sank to his chest. “Negative."

  “How come you never asked me?"

  Gene jerked his head up. “Huh?"

  “You go takin’ after Linda. You go takin’ after everybody, this universe, that universe, boppin’ ‘em over, one, two, three, draggin’ ‘em back by the hair. And here I have to sleep alone. Shit.” Deena reached and had another go at her Mai Tai.

  “Had I known—” Gene began.

  “Had you known shit, fool.” Deena gave her head a quick shake. “Man, I must be flyin’ myself."

  Melanie had to suppress a giggle.

  “Well, I'm going to head back to the castle,” Barnaby Walsh announced.

  “Don't you talk to me, either."

  “Who's talking to you?"

  Deena told everyone, “Last time he left his shoes under my bed he was wearin’ baby sneakers."

  “Deena, you're smashed."

  “Don't I know it. I'm gonna regret it in the mornin'."

  “I'm regretting it now,” Barnaby said, getting up.

  “Where's that bloody waiter?” Thaxton demanded to know.

  “Is Lord Peter a mean drunk, too?” Deena asked suspiciously.

  “I've never seen him drunk before,” Dalton said. “A bit tipsy, perhaps."

  “I'm not drunk!” Thaxton insisted. “Where is that—? Oh, well, finally."

  A white-jacketed waiter came over. “Yes, sir?"

  “I'd like a bottle of your finest plonk—Chateau Fleet Street will do nicely."

  “Sir, I'm afraid you've had enough for the evening."

  Thaxton bristled. “I beg your pardon?"

  “Sorry, sir. You're intoxicated and I can't serve you. Hotel policy. Insurance regulations, sir."

  “Excuse me. What is your name?"

  “Fenton, sir."

  “Tell me this, Fenton. Are you a real flesh-and-blood human being, or are you simply part of the window dressing here?"

  “Sir?"

  “You know very well what I'm talking about. Are you real or are you not?"

  “Well, I suppose ... not quite
, sir."

  “Ah. Not quite. And you—a bloody phantasm conjured out of the ether by some bloody mumbo jumbo—are presuming to tell me when and how much I can drink?"

  “Sir, I am. Lady Sheila's orders, sir."

  The wind spilled out of Thaxton's sails. “Blast. Oh, bugger all, get me a cup of coffee, then."

  “Right away, sir.” Fenton spun on his heel and left.

  Dalton regarded Thaxton archly. “Do you want me to send for the pukka boy now so you can whip him?"

  “Well, he was impertinent!"

  “These aren't the great days of the Raj, Thaxton, old boy."

  “Never bloody said they were."

  Deena cranked her tired body upward. “Come on, everybody ... uhhh ... let's head back.” She got to her feet, teetering.

  Rising, M. DuQuesne said, “Good idea."

  “Let's go, Colonel-sahib,” Dalton said with a squeeze to Thaxton's shoulder.

  “But my coffee—?"

  “We'll drop into the dining hall for a late snack,” Dalton said, looking at his watch, “or actually tea, to be more precise. It's about five P.M. castle time."

  “I could eat again,” Deena said. “Count me in."

  Thaxton in tow, they all trooped into the hotel, making a ragged beeline for the elevators.

  “Well, I wasn't being nasty at all, so far as I can see,” Thaxton was arguing as they all emerged from the lift and stepped into the stone stronghold of the castle keep. “Just asserting my rights."

  “You were downright beastly,” Dalton scolded, “and I'm calling you on it."

  “See here, that's hardly a fair characterization of the incident,” Thaxton said, the hint of a petulant whine to his voice.

  “Let's drop it."

  “I'm more than willing."

  “This group better stay away from alcohol,” Deena said as they walked along the corridor. “You guys and booze don't mix."

  “Demon rum,” Gene mused.

  “Yeah, that ol’ demon'll getcha every time."

  They passed through an intersecting corridor. No one saw the odd gnomish creature as it crossed behind them, broom in hand.

  “Actually, I rarely drink,” Gene said. “Just on social occasions."

  “I like bein’ social."

  “A social drinker. Actually, I'm a socialist drinker."

  Deena shot him a curious look. “What the hell's a socialist drinker?"

  “One who believes in the collective ownership of the means of distillation."

  “Damn, there he goes again. Talkin’ crazy."

  Dalton said, “Quite a novel political concept you have there, Gene."

  “Yeah, but I don't advocate the violent overthrow of the existing distillation system. That's what separates a gradualist like me from—"

  Gene stopped in his tracks at the sight of the approaching apparition: a broom-bearing gnome in bib overalls. Everyone halted with him.

  They all stood watching as the creature passed. It moved with a curious bobbing gait, head swaying, its misshapen eyes averted.

  When it turned a corner and was gone, Deena said, “What the hell was that?"

  Dalton rubbed his sharp chin. “You know, I've seen all manner of strange critters in this place. But there's something about that one, something odd."

  “Yeah,” Barnaby Walsh said. “What do you think it was?"

  “A homunculus,” Gene replied. “Horrible little malformed thing. Reminds me of a film producer I once knew."

  “Dwarf, gnome,” Dalton offered.

  “Hobbit?” Gene ventured. “No, its feet weren't hairy."

  “No, you're right. ‘Homunculus’ is le mot juste."

  “What's the problem?” Thaxton wanted to know. “As you said yourself, Dalton, old boy, not a day goes by when we don't see some abomination in the castle. Frightful beasties at every turn."

  “But that thing is passing strange,” Dalton insisted.

  “Wouldn't have given it a second thought if you hadn't—"

  Yet another homunculus, pink and bald and dressed in blue bib overalls, turned the corner ahead and came toward them.

  Dalton said, “You were saying?"

  “Bloody hell."

  As before, the creature shambled by without giving them so much as a passing glance.

  “Weird shit goin’ on here,” Deena muttered. “I'm goin’ to bed. Good night, y'all.” She hurried down the corridor.

  “Wait, we'll walk you,” Gene called after her.

  “My room's right down the hall,” Deena told him as she paused at the next intersection to peer around the corner. She checked both directions before heading left.

  The rest of the group turned right toward the Queen's Dining Hall.

  “Well, it's probably nothing,” Thaxton said. “A few stray creatures fallen in from one balmy universe or another. God knows there are enough of them in this place. Balmy universes, that is."

  “Nothing to it, huh?” Dalton asked as yet another homunculus crossed their path.

  Thaxton stopped and put his fists to his hips. “Something is going on."

  “Why brooms, do you think?” Gene wondered.

  “Brooms,” Dalton pondered. “Haven't a clue."

  “Could they be a new type of servant?” Melanie asked.

  “Now there's a rational explanation,” Dalton said. “Maybe the Chamberlain knows something."

  “Let's go up to Edwin's quarters and ask him,” Gene suggested.

  “We should ask Tyrene,” Thaxton said. “If the Captain of the Guard doesn't know about this, he should be informed."

  Dalton began, “I do believe—” but was interrupted by a shout.

  “What's the matter?” Gene called to Deena as she came running up the corridor.

  “They're in my room!” she cried out. “Little guys!"

  “In your—?"

  They all rushed to Deena's quarters.

  The door was wide open.

  “They're in there ... cleanin'!” Deena wailed. “They're sweepin’ up my goddamn room!"

  “Maybe they're supposed to?” Dalton said, half-suggesting, half-disbelieving.

  “I sure as hell don't want ‘em to! Ain't I got any say in it?"

  They all peeked around the doorjamb. Sure enough, inside were four of the curious creatures, furiously but efficiently tidying up the bedroom, brooms whisking, rags snapping. The faint scent of lemon oil arose from the place.

  “Damnedest thing,” Thaxton said.

  Mykos

  The gate to the city was an imposing structure topped by two stone lions confronting each other. The gate itself consisted of immense bronze doors that opened onto the main avenue of the citadel. The walls of Mykos were made of great blocks of stone, fitted one to another with extreme precision. From afar the buildings and temples of the city looked modern. No columns crowned with acanthus, no friezes. No statuary save for the lions. This was not a classical age. The city within the gates was the stronghold of a warlord.

  The gatekeeper was a spear-carrying soldier wearing a helmet made of segments of ivory—probably boar's tusks—sewn together and stitched to a leather lining. He wore bronze greaves and a leather breastplate over his red tunic.

  “Halt and state your name and your business."

  “I am Trent, brother of Inkarnases the magician. Here is his signet to prove it. I am here at the behest of His Majesty the king."

  The guard took one look at the ring.

  “You are expected, Honorable. Please enter. If it please you, an escort will be provided to the royal palace."

  “It pleases me. I thank you kindly."

  Trent was waved through the gate. Inside, he was met by two more spear-carriers who bade him follow them. This he did, and found himself touring the citadel by foot.

  He was still amazed at how clean and functional the architecture looked. He had half-expected porticos and Corinthian façades. But this was not Greece, nor was it an analogue to the Greece of Pericles. If this world corre
sponded with any earthly period, it evoked a dim past that was mostly legend. However prehistoric, though, the architecture was not primitive by any means. It was functional and graceful at the same time. Its lines were sharply geometrical, unadorned, yet comfortably human, quite unlike the rigid, uncompromising Bauhaus style of another universe and another time.

  This curious style diverged from the modern in another way: the buildings were painted in very bright, sometimes gaudy colors.

  A gradually rising earthen ramp gave him a sweeping view. On the city's western fringe lay a circular wall that enclosed what looked like a cemetery with huge stones marking grave sites. To the east stood an enclave of simple buildings that probably housed artisans and their workshops. Beyond them lay a section of more elaborate structures that might have been the digs of royal functionaries or perhaps the clergy.

  The ramp led up to the foot of a broad stone stairway, which mounted to the summit of the eminence that commanded the plains below, and to the acropolis, whereon stood the palace and the various temples.

  Trent lagged behind his escort, and they slowed their pace to accommodate him. Ancient history had never held any special attraction for him, but this milieu was greatly interesting.

  One of the soldiers glanced back at him curiously, and he increased his pace. He'd be here a while; time enough later to rubberneck.

  The entrance to the palace complex was a narrow gate set in a high wall enclosing a courtyard.

  The palace itself was imposing, painted in bright colors that looked at once barbaric and decadent. The massive tapered columns flanking the entrance were iridescent red, banded in yellow and blue.

  He followed his escort through the columns and into a spacious entry hall, where he was announced to the palace guards. These detached two of their number to lead him through high corridors and into the palace proper.

  They passed through a smaller courtyard, then threaded two more huge pillars, entering another corridor, at the end of which was a vestibule that gave access to a great hall. This high chamber was done in a color scheme even more garish than that of the exterior.

  Bright shades of all the primary hues were represented in stripes, bands, and zigzags. Cryptic signs and patterns abounded, among them stars, crosses, and, disconcertingly, swastikas (an ancient symbol in many worlds, it would seem). Bordered by the decorations, frescoes depicting animals and birds festooned the walls.