Castle for Rent

by John Dechancie

  “Well, there’s only one way to find out, big fella.”

  Snowclaw stood up. He towered at least two feet over the creature. “You’re in my light, Blueface.” Snowclaw placed a hand flat against the creature’s shiny green breastplate and shoved. The creature went staggering backward but managed to stay on his feet.

  Gene gulped uncomfortably. Any other living thing would have gone crashing into the wall.

  The three intruders drew their swords almost in unison. Gene jumped up and followed suit, as did a number of armed males at the table. Snowclaw snarled and leaped toward the first creature, coming to a karate fighting stance, milky claws at their maximum extension.

  “Halt!”

  The voice had come from the arched entrance to the dining hall. There stood another blue-skinned creature, scowling in the direction of the one Snowclaw had shoved.

  The first creature came to attention with its sword at present-arms. The others followed suit.

  “There will be none of this,” the creature at the door said.

  “Yes, Squad Leader,” the first creature acknowledged.

  “You will report back to headquarters immediately. Consider yourself under arrest.”

  “Yes, Squad Leader.”

  “Go.”

  The three soldiers left. The squad leader lingered at the doorway for a moment, its cold eyes taking the measure of the room and the beings contained therein. Then, abruptly, it turned and marched off.

  Everybody breathed again.

  “Gene, I don’t believe you did that.” Linda rolled her eyes and put her hands to her head.

  Gene looked unhappy. “It wasn’t me, it was the magic. This castle turns me into a cross between John Wayne and Cyrano de Bergerac, and something compels me to act out the role. Besides, that guy was getting on my nerves.”

  “Yeah, they’re kinda pushy, aren’t they?” Snowclaw said.

  “What were those … things?” Barnaby Walsh asked, his face the color of Chinese bean curd.

  “I don’t know what you’d call them,” Gene said. “‘Blueface’ is as good as anything.”

  “Where do they come from?”

  Gene shrugged. “One aspect or another.”

  “I’ve never seen them before,” Hoffmann said. “But I’ve heard other Guests mention seeing them.”

  “Still want to go exploring, Gene?” Snowclaw asked.

  Gene frowned and shook his head. “Not until we find out what these blue guys are up to.”

  “Goody, goody. I hope there’s a rip-roaring fight in it.”

  Barnaby Walsh gave Snowclaw a look of dismay.

  “I could use a good fight,” Snowclaw told him. “I really like it when the fur flies and the guts go spilling all over the place.” Snowy licked a gob of mush from his thin pink lips. “Kinda pretty.”

  Walsh belched. “Excuse me,” he said, getting up from the table. “I don’t feel quite —” He riffed again, tottering away.

  “Was it something I said?” Snowclaw asked.

  Long Island

  Trent’s house was of dark red brick with black wood trim, and stood on wooded grounds somewhere in the wilds of Nassau County, sea gulls pinwheeling in the sky above it. The interior was tastefully and expensively appointed. An accelerated course in the history of modern painting covered the walls, and various avant-garde sculptures graced tabletops and display pedestals. The furnishings were mostly modern, with dashes of tradition for flavor.

  Trent’s study was book-lined and warm, a cheery fire going in the hearth.

  “So, you say you’ve had some trouble up at the old place recently?”

  Incarnadine took the glass of sherry from Trent and nodded. “It was a full-scale siege. Nearly successful, too.”

  “Really? Who was it?”

  “Vorn.”

  “Prince Vorn of the Hunran Empire?” Trent seated himself in the leather easy chair opposite Incarnadine’s. “I wouldn’t have thought Castle Perilous was worth the bother.”

  “He didn’t think so, either. Melydia worked her business on him, and he followed her like a lost, hungry puppy.”

  “Amazing. Melydia, huh? She still has it in for you. Hell’s fury has nothing on that woman.”

  “Had.”

  Trent’s eyebrow’s rose. “Dead?”

  “In a sense. She got to the Spell Stone, and —”

  “Gods!”

  Incarnadine smiled. “Yes, she finally figured it out. She got to it, somehow, and unraveled the transmogrification spell.”

  “But … ” Trent was appalled. “That could have meant the end of everything.”

  “Almost did.”

  Trent waited. “Well, for crying out loud, tell me what happened!”

  “It’s a long story. She messed up just enough to give me an edge. I did a little research, and found a good handle by which I could recast the spell almost immediately.”

  “That must have taken some doing. But then, you must have seen … it. However momentarily.”

  “Oh, yes. I saw it.”

  Trent sat back. “Ramthonodox,” he murmured.

  “The Ancient Beast, the Primal Demon. Ramthonodox, Hell-spawned enemy of man. Old Brimstone Breath himself.”

  “It must have been an awful sight, in the true sense. Inspiring awe.”

  “It was. It did.”

  “Yet,” Trent went on, “perhaps thrilling, in some strange, subliminal way?”

  Incarnadine considered it. “I wasn’t very thrilled at the time.”

  “Not the tiniest bit? The primal force, the unlimited power of it —”

  “Maybe a little. Evil has its attractions. But pure evil is a little heady even for the likes of us. Besides, evil really isn’t a force, is it? It’s more like entropy; the undoing of things.”

  “Depends on your philosophical point of view, I suppose. Still, it must have been … stimulating, in any event.” Trent took a sip of whiskey. “But you managed to fix up the spell and reconstitute the castle. So Castle Perilous is still a place to hang your hat in, not a demon running around loose.”

  “Right. I’m here, aren’t I?”

  “So you are. What about Vorn and his minions — I presume he brought his army with him, and not just an overnight bag?”

  “There was a slight but unavoidable delay in recasting the transmogrification spell.”

  “Oh, I’ll bet,” Trent said, grinning malevolently.

  “Ramthonodox had a good time out there on the plains. Nothing left of Vorn or … well, there wasn’t much left of anything after old Rammy was through.”

  Trent shook his head slowly. “And Melydia?”

  “Strangest thing. After it was all over, I heard her voice in the castle. Can’t exactly figure out what happened to her. Got caught up in the spell somehow.”

  “Justice. The poetic kind, too.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Well.” Trent smiled at his brother. “It’s nice to see you again, Inky.”

  “You haven’t called me that in … hell, I hate to think how long.”

  “About a century and a half? Longer.”

  “Not since you and I were at university,” Incarnadine said.

  “Which one? The one in Hunra, where we learned magic, or at Cambridge, where we read natural philosophy?”

  “I never liked Hunra much, I must say.”

  “Neither did I. It was a good thing Dad was so keen on us learning the ways of nonmagic universes.”

  “Of which this one is the most nonmagical,” Incarnadine said.

  “Well, Dad had a fondness for Earth generally, and for western European culture specifically.”

  “Not surprising, since this culture bears some resemblance to our own. He once told me he spent some time in England. That’s why he gave us all English names, he said.” Incarnadine sampled the sherry, then continued, “I’ve always thought he must have been Merlin.”

  “You think?” Trent thought it over. “Fantastic. I’d never considered i
t. But when you consider the time frame —” He shrugged it off. “Dad never did tell us how old he was, and I’m not particularly interested in researching his exploits.”

  There was a pause as Incarnadine stared into the fire. Then he asked, “Do you still hate me, Trent?”

  “Whatever led you to believe I hated you?”

  “Just a feeling.”

  Trent looked away. “I don’t hate you, Inky. You did come between me and my ambitions … once.” He sighed. “But that was centuries ago. I’m happy here. You can see that. The gateway disappeared, and I didn’t know it for five years. I never planned on going back, you see.”

  Incarnadine nodded. “But when I die?”

  “Do you plan on dying soon?”

  “No.”

  “Well? Yes, I suppose I’m next in line for the succession, but I’m not interested. If I were —” Trent grinned cordially. “ — I’d simply kill you now.”

  “You could, I suppose. Easily. No one knows I’m here. Officially I don’t exist in this world.”

  Trent got up and went to the bar. “Forget it. I’ve no interest in taking possession of a huge, drafty old castle that’s a cross between a carnival sideshow and a sci fi movie.” He made himself another whiskey and soda. “Besides, I own my share of useless real estate up in the Bronx. At least I can hire a guy to torch an abandoned apartment building.”

  Trent’s oriental servant opened the door and poked his head in. “Dinner, sir,” he said.

  “Thank you, Phan,” Trent answered as the door closed, then downed his drink in three swallows. “Well, shall we go in and eat?”

  Dinner was superb, and mostly silent. There did not seem to be much more to talk about until coffee was served.

  “Good food,” Incarnadine said.

  “Phan does a good job. He was raised in a French Catholic mission in Phnom Penh — learned to cook Parisian.”

  “Best coq au vin I’ve ever had.”

  “I’ll tell him.” Trent lit a cigar and puffed thoughtfully. “When was the last time you heard from anyone else in the family?”

  “Oh, not so long ago. Dorcas dropped in a while back.”

  “How is our dear elder sister? She still married to that fat potentate who copulates with animals?”

  “Nobody ever approves of in-laws. Besides, it’s a religious ritual, common in his land.”

  “Disgusting. How about Ferne?”

  “She hasn’t shown up in years. I fear for her. She was a wild one.”

  “Oh, I’ve a notion Ferne’s okay … somewhere. And Deems?”

  “Deems is still King of Albion, and loves it. He’ll never leave the place. I don’t blame him, it’s pretty nice.” Incarnadine drank the last of his coffee and sat back. “Then there’s Uncle Jarlath —”

  “To hell with Uncle Jarlath and the rest of the fossils. I couldn’t care less.”

  “In that case, that’s all the news from back home. What’s new with you? Is there a woman in your life? Or women?”

  “Forgive me, Inky, but I don’t feel like exchanging warm personal data with you just now. If you don’t mind.”

  “Of course.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t even ask about your current family. Uh, you do have one, don’t you?”

  “They’re fine.”

  “What’s the new one’s name? I mean the wife.”

  “Zafra.”

  “Hmm. Sounds very nice.”

  “She is.”

  Another lull occurred before Trent said, “Where are you staying, Inky?”

  “Hotel. I’m looking for an apartment in the city.”

  “In Manhattan? You’ll be lucky to get on a five-year waiting list for anything reasonable. Unless you’re talking about spending big money.”

  “I’m somewhat financially embarrassed at the moment.”

  Trent smirked. “Tricky getting used to a hard-physics world again, isn’t it?”

  “Very. The credit card I materialized to pay for the hotel disappeared a microsecond after I put it back in my wallet — which vanished not very much later.”

  Trent’s look was detached, analytical. “If you’re that far along already, maybe I would be taking a big risk trying to knock you off right here and now.” Then the smile resumed. “Just kidding, brother.”

  Incarnadine’s hand came up from beneath the table gripping a large revolver. “Just in case you’re not,” he said. “This won’t last a minute, but a second is all it would take.”

  Trent laughed. “One thing I would never, never want to do, Inky, is underestimate you.” Then he suddenly frowned in mock indignation. “Really, Inky, that was uncalled for.”

  “Sorry.” The gun disappeared. “You’ve been making what I took to be veiled threats all afternoon. Sorry if I’ve misinterpreted.”

  “You have. I should apologize, though. Inky, I don’t want to hurt you, or get in your way … or do anything, really, but continue leading my life. All I ask is that you leave me alone.”

  “That is not an unreasonable request,” Incarnadine said. “I might ask the same of you.”

  “Then let’s bury the hatchet. Let’s agree to disagree, live and let live, and all the rest of that stuff.”

  “Let’s.” Incarnadine rose from the table. Trent did not.

  “Inky, I’ve been meaning to comment — your disguise is pretty good. It’s not magic, but it’s a fair makeup job. How did you do it?”

  “I went into a costume shop, bought some stage makeup, this wig, and the moustache. A few age lines here and there, a touch of pancake … ” He shrugged. “Yours is magic, I suppose.”

  Trent snapped his fingers and the years melted away in an instant. Incarnadine beheld Trent as he had looked the last time they had seen each other, sometime in the late 1950s.

  “Pretty neat,” Incarnadine remarked. “You seem to have no trouble with the Arts here.”

  Trent shook his head. “Rudimentary stuff.”

  “Effective, though. I should ask you to give me lessons. But now, Trent, I have to go.”

  “Phan will drive you back to New York.”

  “I wouldn’t think of it. Can you call me a cab?”

  “We’re out pretty far. Inky. Phan can run you into Great Neck, though, and you can get a train for the city.”

  “That suits me.”

  “It’s been nice.”

  “Goodbye, Trent.”

  “And keep in touch,” Trent added, smiling pleasantly.

  Wilmerding, Pennsylvania

  Ohmygawd. Saturday night and no date. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Invoking all deities, great and small.

  Sheila turned the water in the tub on and yanked up the thingee on the spigot that made the water come out of the shower head.

  Oh Jesus H. Christ on the proverbial crutch. Sorry, sorry, don’t mean to offend any supernatural personages. Can’t afford that, not with the way things have been going. Oh hell.

  She looked in the mirror. Same face. It doesn’t go away, doesn’t change. Still Sheila. Who did you expect?

  Another Sa-tur-day night and I AIN’T got no-BOD-y … da da da da da dee dee dum dum DUM —

  She let the ratty old robe drop and looked at herself. Her breasts seemed to sag just a little lower than they did the last time she’d looked at them. Mygawd, could this process be taking place overnight? Did they go — plop — just like that? Or was it her imagination?

  She couldn’t quite see her butt, though she knew she was okay in that department, at least. Thank heaven for small favors. She wasn’t going completely to pot. Her weight was fine.

  Oh, for Christ’s sake, stop this damn fixation about the body, okay? So you’re getting older. It’s inevitable. Completely natural process. Everything’s fine. Just … fine. So you’ve had two horrible marriages. Great. So you hate your job. Okay, so you hate the goddamn world. So what? That’s life, kid.

  The bathroom filled with steam and her image grew misty and faded. Faded away.

  She wiped the
mirror with two fingers and saw one green eye peeking back at her. Still there, Sheila?

  Still there.

  She got in and the water was a little hot, so she adjusted it. She let the spray sting her until it cooled down, perversely enjoying the discomfort.

  No date. No men in her life. No men anywhere. No guys at work she wanted to work with, let alone go out with. The bar scene was deadly. 99.99999 percent of the men she did meet were: (1) pinheads; (2) multiple-attempt losers (like herself!); or (3) married. Most of them, it seemed, were (3). Why was she always meeting married men she liked? Some weird psychological thing, no doubt.

  She poured a cold gob of Herbal Essence into her hand, slapped the stuff on her head, and smooshed it around until it lathered.

  Two disastrous marriages. Actually the latest had been the worst. Frank was … still is, from all reports … nuts. He had problems; serious problems. Her lawyer files, he gets the papers at work, and what does he do? He leaves work, goes straight to the house, breaks in (the locks had all been changed), and proceeds to trash the place from top to bottom. All the furniture, slashed, ripped, broken apart. Carpeting slit down the middle with a linoleum cutter. Dishes smashed, the stereo stomped on and wrecked, the bed … the bed, for Christ’s sake, a complete shambles. The crazy bastard didn’t miss a piece of communal property. Property settlement! Hah! What property?

  What if she had been home at the time? Ohmygawd. He would have killed her.

  Sure, she got a judgment against him for the damages, but who knew when he’d pay up, if ever? The schmuck was broke. Meanwhile, she had a house full of broken junk, this monster mortgage, a shit job at Mellon Bank, and she was stuck in Wilmerding.

  Wilmerding.

  Wilmer … ding.

  She rinsed, then poured out another gob of goop and lathered again. Gonna wash that jerk right outta my … yeah, right.

  No date. So we bathe, madame, and we brush on a little Clinique, and spritz on a touch of … oh, what would be good for tonight? — some cheap smelly crap, real whory stuff, and then, mesdames et messieurs, we go down to Chauncey’s and watch the pretty lights and listen to the music and nurse a glass of Chablis until some insurance underwriter sidles up and asks us to dance to a disco (migraine-inducing rhythm track overlaid) redub of an old Beatles number.…