Castle Dreams

by John Dechancie

  The door flew open with a bang.

  “Right."

  Trent noticed that several people had stopped along the street to stare. He smiled, waved. They all hurried away.

  He shrugged, then turned to regard the interior. It was dim. He walked to the door and looked in. A narrow corridor went off to the left an oddly long distance before it made an L. There was only the left turn, one way to go. He glanced outside and compared the dimensions of the building to the apparent length of the corridor. There was a disorienting mismatch.

  “Neat trick."

  He entered and began walking along the dark corridor toward the corner. He had gone only a half-dozen steps before the door slammed violently, shutting out all light and sound from the outside world.

  All light, except that from his butane lighter, already out and burning. He held it high and proceeded with some caution, peering around the corner before turning it. The walk to the next L was even longer, and as he went along he heard strange noises up ahead. Sub-audial rumblings mixed with sharp, high-pitched squeaks, like a high-end stereo system with bowel trouble.

  Then, more sounds. Subhuman growling. Groans. The scrabbling of claws. A scream.

  He kept walking, whistling a nameless tune.

  A bone-chilling demonic howl made him stop.

  “Good, good.” He smiled and nodded in admiration.

  Another turn, and another. Leading nowhere.

  He walked the maze for the next five minutes and got no nearer his goal, which, to his chagrin, was now a bathroom. He berated himself for not doing his business before entering. But a little nervousness can work its influence very quickly. And this, for all its mumbo jumbo, was nervous-making.

  The butane lighter was getting hot. He snapped it off, and stood in darkness for a while.

  When he clicked it on again the flame picked out the form of a monstrous creature, green-eyed and fearsomely clawed, advancing toward him out of the gloom.

  “Hello there!” Trent greeted it. “Know where I can take a pee?"

  “In your breeches, mortal,” the demon roared, the chitin of its face splitting into a feculent smile.

  “Ooops,” Trent said.

  Just before the flame went out, the demon lunged.

  Darkness.

  There came a hideous yowl; then, a burst of flame lit up the corridor. The flash diminished, subsided.

  The remnants of something torn into several pieces lay smoking and burning on the floor.

  Trent walked out of the shadows and bent to examine the remains, turning up his nose at the stench. He straightened up and stepped over them, walked on.

  “Okay, people. I've seen the floor show. Now, when do I get some service?"

  More screeching and howling came from up ahead.

  “Right. I'm starting to get just a little annoyed."

  The floor heaved and vibrated. The rough-boarded walls shook.

  “Just a little ticked off, people."

  Abruptly, everything ceased: the thunder, the shaking, the horror-movie soundtrack. There was a doorway ahead, light coming through. He walked toward it.

  He stepped out into a cramped office of crowded shelves, messy desks, gooseneck lamps, and general shabbiness. A closed door marked private was set into the far wall.

  There were two people in the room. A woman worked at a desk in the corner, hitting the keys of a curious machine that must have been a typewriter but looked like a medieval version of one. A man, short, stooped, and bespectacled—a real Bob Crachitt type, ink-sleeves and all—sat at a roll-top desk nearer the door, writing in a ledger with a long black pen, the point of which he dipped frequently into an squat ink bottle.

  The woman, middle-aged and matronly in a bun and bifocals, kept typing, but the man looked up. He had thinning hair and a sallow face and smiled with large yellow teeth.

  “What can I do for you, sir?"

  Trent pocketed the Bic lighter.

  “What was all that mummery about?"

  The clerk's smile broadened. “Our apprentice test. You passed. Do you want to join the guild?"

  “How much are dues?"

  “A tithe of your yearly earnings. One third payable on signing a membership agreement, the second third due—"

  “Not interested,” Trent said. “I want information."

  “Oh? How may I help you, sir?"

  “I want to know who murdered my brother."

  The clerk raised his bushy eyebrows. “Oh.” He carefully laid down the pen. “I see. And your brother was ...?"

  “Oh, come on."

  “But I assure you, sir—"

  “I want to see your boss. Who's the head honcho in this chickenshit outfit?"

  “I beg your pardon? Sir, this is the office of the Chief Steward of Local 218. But I am afraid that at the moment, sir, he is not available. If you wish to make an appointment, I can do that for you."

  “In about two minutes, I'm going to start taking this place apart beam from rafter."

  “Sir, threats will not—"

  Trent raised his arms and the room began to tremble.

  “I can do the scary bits, too, you know."

  The clerk looked around nervously.

  The vibrations increased. Books fell from shelves, and a lamp toppled over. Ink sloshed over the clerk's ledger.

  “Oh, dear!"

  The woman shrieked and jumped up, hands clapped over her ears.

  A section of ceiling plaster shattered on the clerk's already disorganized desk.

  The clerk sprang to his feet and scurried toward the door marked private.

  “I'll see if the Steward will receive you!"

  “Hey, thanks! Nice of you."

  The clerk knocked first before he opened the door a crack and edged through.

  “Nice day,” Trent told the woman.

  “Very nice,” she said, nodding. She sat back down, fanned herself briefly with a file folder, then resumed pecking away at the anomalous typewriter.

  Presently the clerk poked his head out.

  “The Steward will see you."

  “Oh? Well, that's kind of him, I must say. Thank you. Thank you very much."

  The clerk ushered Trent in and slinked out, closing the door.

  Trent surveyed the office into which he had stepped. It was in sharp contrast to the anteroom. The carpeting was thick enough to hide grazing sheep. The room was comfortably furnished in leathers, the walls covered in damask. A marble fireplace stood to one side, burning cheerily. Various objets d'art supplied accents around the room: vases, statuary, decorated glass, a painting here and there.

  The man at the desk had a long beard and wore a traditional conical cap with stars and crescent moons. He rose in greeting.

  “Welcome, Trent, brother of Incarnadine."

  “Hello. I have the honor of addressing—?"

  “Mylor, at your service, my lord."

  “I hope I am not disturbing you?"

  “Not at all. Please sit down. May I offer you refreshment?"

  “None, thank you."

  “Please, my lord, make yourself comfortable."

  Trent took his seat in one of the wing chairs by the fireplace. Mylor came round the desk and took the one opposite.

  “How may I serve you, prince of Perilous?"

  “Ah, so you know our home world?"

  “Well. I've visited Castle Perilous on occasion. I was on good terms with your distinguished brother. A fine man. A great magician. One of the greatest, possibly, in the entire cosmos."

  “Yet someone here killed him."

  Mylor stared into the flames before saying, “You're quite sure of that?"

  “Yes. I recognize the hand at work. At least, I think I do. It could be one of a number of people, actually. But I do know this for sure. Somebody from Perilous is here and is working magic, possibly in conjunction with one of your people."

  Mylor continued to find something of interest in the flickering firelight.

  After a lo
ng interval he stated, “This is very disturbing indeed."

  “All I ask of you is to tell me if there is someone from Perilous here. And if so, where is he?"

  “My lord, you place me in an awkward situation."

  “No doubt."

  “On the one hand, I wish to see justice done. On the other, in my capacity as an official of the Guild I cannot betray a fellow member. If there has been wrongdoing, the matter must be handled by the Guild itself. I cannot in good conscience permit outside interference."

  “I understand,” Trent said. “But you must understand my position. I must bring my brother's murderer to justice or my chance at the throne is in jeopardy."

  “I did not know you were the heir apparent."

  “There is some contention over that point. And now the shadow of suspicion falls on me concerning my brother's death."

  “Naturally. Still, my lord, there is not much I can do save look into the matter myself with a view toward a possible internal investigation."

  “Pardon me for saying so, but I don't trust the Guild to dispense justice. You guys run a cozy little club here. You look out for your own. My brother was doubtless viewed as an intruder here in this world—"

  “He was a Guild member."

  “Naturally, Inky wouldn't scab. But he was probably resented. After all, he was Court Magician to the Elector. A juicy little plum of a post."

  “And was soon to be appointed to the court of His Imperial Majesty."

  “Ah-hah.” Trent nodded appreciatively. “Thank you. Thank you very much for that. But I suppose you couldn't tell me who else was in line for the job."

  “That I'm afraid I couldn't do, no."

  “I see. Well, now I know the motive. It seems to me that a spell that could kill Inky would be a major one. I don't quite understand how it could have overcome Inky's defenses or how anyone here could have whipped up a spell that powerful. But it worked, so I have to assume it was a real lulu."

  “It still is."

  “Eh? You mean it's still working?"

  “Yes. It's been giving me headaches for days. And my teeth hurt."

  “Still working,” Trent repeated with a puzzled frown. “I don't get it."

  “Neither do I."

  “You know the source."

  “Naturally."

  “But you won't reveal it."

  “I am constrained by many things, not the least of which is the penalty I would incur by violating my oath of membership in the Guild."

  “I quite understand. But can you tell me this? Does this big spell have transuniversal dimensions?"

  “I suspect so. Otherwise I don't understand the need for all the power. It's been draining reserves around here."

  “And it's still working. That's a riddle, that is."

  “Perplexing. As I said, it's putting a considerable strain on the local dynamics. I'd be most pleased if the spell were to cease operation."

  “Let me see if something can't be done about that."

  “You'll be going up against one of the best locals. He's pretty good. And teamed up with your compatriot, he might be invincible."

  “You're forgetting one thing,” Trent said. “The spell's taking all his power."

  “Why, yes, of course. You're absolutely right. Unless they can disengage it temporarily."

  “I've a hunch they can't."

  “Let's hope you're right about that, too."

  “One more thing. If I can identify the vibrations, I can locate the source. But I'm not familiar enough with the local harmonics. Does your oath forbid coaching me?"

  “Not at all. Though it might be difficult to do."

  “Can you give me a musical analogue?"

  “That's all you'd need?"

  “I think."

  “Fine, but I don't know your musical system."

  “You know the one Inky was fond of?"

  “Oh. Yes, it's similar to ours. Let's see if I can..."

  Mylor thought a moment.

  “The spell's carrier vibrations are tuned to the key of C-sharp minor, with modulations to A minor and F minor."

  “So that was what all that background spookiness I noticed on arrival here was? Thought it was just the magical din of the city. That's the spell?"

  “That's it. Is that sufficient for you? You have perfect pitch, I take it."

  “Yes, a family trait.” Trent smiled. “You've been most helpful."

  “And I think I did it without risk of waking up someday with my body parts artfully positioned around the room."

  “You didn't have to, but you did."

  Mylor smiled back. “I didn't want you taking this place apart beam from rafter."

  Trent chuckled. “Sorry about that. Didn't know what I was up against."

  “Sorry I didn't recognize you right off. Should have."

  “'Tis nothing. Well, I shall be leaving."

  They rose and shook hands.

  “Good luck,” Mylor said. “Of course, I'll be starting an official investigation, the wheels of which will no doubt turn much too slowly for your satisfaction."

  “You're right. But all I need is some proof, proof to take back and confront the Privy Council with. Or least firm knowledge of who the culprit was. I'll try not to muddy the waters too much here. I just want my guy. Your guy I'll leave to you."

  “I appreciate that."

  “And thanks again."

  “Don't mention it."

  Mylor showed his guest out.

  Passing the clerk's desk, Trent dropped a gold coin into the mess of paperwork.

  “Bob, take the rest of the day off. And a Merry Christmas to you."

  “Why, thank you, s—” Bob did a take. “I beg your pardon?"

  Trent stepped through the outer door into a long waiting room. Gone was the maze. A man and a woman were waiting, reading magazines. They looked up as he passed through.

  “They let witches into the Guild?” Trent asked of her. She was quite pretty.

  “Not all female magicians are witches,” she said pleasantly.

  “They badgered us until we had to let them in,” the man complained.

  “Albin, how would you like spending the rest of the day sunning yourself on a lily pad out in the goldfish pond?"

  “Ree-deeep,” Albin said sheepishly and hid his face in the dog-eared pages of Occult Weekly.

  Laughing, Trent went out the door.

  Twenty Three

  MINE

  Running in the dark, running from sounds of pursuit. Turning corners into blind alleys. Running, always running, desperately looking for another safety shaft, a way up, a way out.

  Running and running some more.

  Past arsenals of the tools of war, high-tech weapon in hand, racing through darkness, pounding footsteps echoed by those at your back, drawing, it seems, ever nearer. Gaining. Endless dark tunnel ahead.

  Gene stopped to peer around a corner. Nothing coming, so he waved Sativa on. She ran past him, turned the corner, and sprinted ten yards before ducking behind a pile of shipping containers. He came out from cover, dashed past her position and took a firing position between two refrigerator-size plastic crates. He watched Sativa advance down the tunnel at a crouching lope.

  In this manner they kept moving through the underground warren, dodging unseen pursuers whose voices sometimes rose to a shout.

  But it was not long before pursued met pursuer.

  Gene turned the corner and surprised a man in combat fatigues and futuristic helmet bolting out of an ambush position, apparently unaware of Gene's approach. Gene fired wildly, two shots, and ducked for cover.

  The gun made a curious sound, rather like a crossbow, perhaps louder. But it was nothing like the ear-splitting crack of a conventional weapon.

  He heard a groan and looked over the edge of the crate. The man was lying supine, his weapon out of reach.

  Gene rose from cover as Sativa came jogging past. She went to the man and leaned over him.

  The rebel s
olider turned his head and scanned her through red night-sight goggles.

  She raised her weapon and aimed at his chest.

  “Sativa, no!"

  Gene's shout was in vain. She fired, and the man died as Gene looked helplessly on.

  She met his bewildered look with a face twisted by hatred and the immense effort of self-justification.

  “You don't understand. Members of my family have died in their terrorist attacks. My half-brother was tortured to death by these scum."

  He said nothing.

  “Let's try this direction. I don't think—"

  Shouts in the direction in which she pointed drove them back, but that route also had its disadvantages. More voices and more boots thumping against the level tunnel floor.

  Fairly soon, no direction seemed likely to yield an escape route. Shots came out of the darkness at them.

  They took up positions on opposite sides of the tunnel and alternated fire in both directions.

  Gene wondered how many rounds his weapon had, trying to remember whether she had told him seven hundred or seventeen hundred—or was it just seventy?

  He sprayed on full automatic for a while, then switched to single shot in case the lowest figure was correct. He had two extra clips in his knapsack but doubted he could reload under fire. It had been difficult enough in “training."

  Slugs chunked into the wall near him, not ricocheting even when hitting at a sharp angle. They packed a lot of wallop, these weapons did. The man Sativa had shot would probably have died in any case, possibly from shock alone. With that grim consolation. Gene assuaged his feeling of half-earned guilt.

  But that wasn't really bothering him. The prospect of imminent death was. They were trapped, and this was possibly the end. As he fired, he thought of giving up.

  No. There had been a death; an execution, yet. As he saw it, that pretty much blew chances for a negotiated settlement or clemency on the captors’ part. Anyway, Sativa probably had not lied about these guys. They certainly weren't pulling any punches.

  Or were they? They were returning fire very conservatively.

  Of course. They were afraid of setting off all this ammo.