A sudden cold blast of air hit her, and she began to shiver. Her heart thumped against her breastbone. Somebody had come in! Somebody had opened the bathroom door!
But the draft was coming from the wrong direction, from the wall. Suds-blind, she reached out.
And there was no wall. She felt the shower curtain to make sure that she hadn’t gotten turned around somehow. No! But … there was nothing but empty space to her right, where the side of the one-piece molded-fiberglass tub and the section of water-stained wall above it should have been. She stretched her arm and swung it in a wide arc. Nothing! She was freezing. She bent and reached out as far as she could.
She slipped, stumbled, and fell onto a hard cold floor.
There came a sudden quiet.
Soap burning her eyes, she struggled to her feet. She wiped and wiped at her face but stuff wouldn’t get out of her eyes and she yelled in pain.
After an agonizing few moments she could see a tiny bit.
What the hell — ?
She was standing in a room with walls of stone and a ceiling like a church or something. There was a table and two chairs, and cold fireplace, and a sort of couch. Nothing else. She was standing on a gray stone floor, naked, dripping wet, and covered with suds. And freezing to death.
She whirled. She stood about two feet from a blank stone wall. The shower, the water … her house, were gone. Gone.
Slowly she turned around, her soap-reddened eyes in a zombie stare.
Gone. One second she was … and then she …
She screamed. But it didn’t do any good. Nothing changed. She was still naked, cold, wet, scared, and in a situation she didn’t understand.
She screamed again, then decided not to do it a third time.
She searched the wall for any sign of an opening, a hole, a seam, a crack, something, anything — any trace of a connection or bridge or transition between her existence of not half a minute ago and her existence now. There was nothing. The wall was as solid and as unyielding as stone walls rightly should be. She searched again. No change; no bathtub, no bathroom, no house, no Wilmerding. This was someplace else. Someplace else entirely.
There was a doorway to her right and she approached it cautiously, her sudsy feet precarious on wet, slippery stone. She poked her head out into a hallway, looked one way, then the other. Nothing but a corridor lit only by a few windows up and down it.
Grimacing from the chill and hugging her rib cage, she went out into the hall and trotted to the nearest window.
She was in a church, a cathedral, or some huge Gothic stone edifice. She could see a forest outside, and mountains. It was a bright day. Last time she had looked outside, it was a dark winter Saturday night. Now it was broad daylight. Different place, different time.
A castle — yes, the building looked more like a castle. A huge one, from what she could see. The window must have been forty stories off the ground.
She was cold. She toddled off down the hallway, at length discovering a huge wooden door to the left. She tried the wrought-iron handle; the door wouldn’t budge. She passed another window and came to a dead halt, as if hitting an invisible barrier. No, she couldn’t have seen what she thought she’d seen. She backtracked and looked out.
Yes, she’d seen it. There was a desert out there, vast and dry and empty. A molten sun beat down on endless salt flats, scorched and featureless, upon which there grew not a weed, nor a blade of grass.
She went back to the first window. The forest — as lush and green as before — was still out there, as were the glorious snow-capped mountains that rose in the distance.
She returned to the second window and stared out, forgetting her nudity, forgetting herself.
Presently the drying soap began to itch, and she turned away and continued down the hall. She again grew aware that she was cold.
“Help,” she called, as calmly as possible. “Somebody help me, please.”
No one answered. She came to a casement window with panes of leaded glass, but declined to look out. She called out again, and again no answer came.
She tried another door, then another. The third was unlocked, and she peeked in.
It was a bedroom. The bed was huge and looked quite comfortable, covered with blankets and quilts and decorated pillows. There were night tables on either side which held lamps, and a big wooden chest lay at the foot of the bed. A tall pine wardrobe stood off to the right, and a dressing table lay near the huge open window. She went to the window and looked out.
The castle spread out endlessly beneath her, a tumult of walls and towers and courtyards and buildings. Beyond the farthest wall there was a sheer drop and then a wide plain. On the horizon, black mountains bulked against the sky like storm clouds.
The window had thick velvet curtains which she untied and let fall. The room darkened. She checked the door and found that it had an old-fashioned lock turned by a huge old-fashioned key. She twisted the key until she heard a click, then ran for the bed. She tore the covers down and slipped in. The sheets had been warmed by the sun, and she luxuriated in the comfort of it, sighing with relief.
She looked around the room. Ohmygawd, what a place to spend a Saturday night. Naked — and no goddamn date!
She pulled the covers over her head.
Castle Keep — West Wing
Gene, Linda, and Snowclaw approached the door to Gene’s room.
“I think we should make some systematic effort to search for their portal,” Gene was saying. “Find out where they’re coming from.”
“Track ’em,” Snowclaw said.
“Yeah, that’s it. We follow a couple of them. Eventually they’ll go back to their world and we’ll at least know — oh, damn it. The maid must have locked my door. I don’t have my key, either.”
Linda asked, “Want me to materialize it?”
“Yeah, sure.”
A key appeared in Linda’s hand. “Is this it?”
“We’ll find out.”
Gene fit the oversize key into the keyhole and turned it. The lock clicked open. “Anyway, we have to keep a close watch on them, that’s for sure,” he continued, shouldering the door open and going in. He stopped in his tracks when he saw the naked woman dash away from the door and dive into the bed.
Linda bumped into him, then saw the strange female in Gene’s bed.
“Oh, excuse me,” Linda said, then turned and left.
The woman was peeking over the covers, eyes as round as half-dollars. Gene stood there gawking for a moment. Then he called over his shoulder, “Linda? Hey, wait —”
Snowclaw came in, and the woman shrieked and disappeared under the sheets.
Gene said, “Uh, don’t be afraid. He won’t hurt you.”
“Who’s your new friend, Gene?” Snowclaw asked.
“Never saw her before. Uh, Miss — ?”
There came a frightened mewling from beneath the covers.
Gene laughed. “You know, that’s a line right out of an old Bela Lugosi movie. ‘Do not be afraid. He will not hurt you.’ Snowclaw, do you mind leaving the room? I think I can handle this.”
“I gotta find a room for myself, anyway. Darned if I know how I’ll ever get used to sleeping on those soft bouncy things you humans like. See you later.”
Snowclaw left.
“Uh, Miss? Or Ms., or whatever. You can come out now.”
“I don’t have any clothes!”
“Yeah. I’m aware of that. Uh, I mean, you can look out, if you want.”
“Oh my God. Oh my God.”
“Now, calm down. Take it easy.”
She was a redhead with green eyes. Pretty, too.
“He’s gone,” Gene said.
“What … was that?” Sheila asked in wide-eyed wonder.
“I don’t know the name Snowclaw’s species goes by, but obviously they’re humanoid, intelligent, and probably descended from ursine stock rather than anthropoids, like we are.”
“Huh?”
“Bea
rs. Polar bears.”
“Oh. He didn’t look much like a bear.”
“No, not much. Looks ten times more ferocious.”
“Oh my God.”
“I’m Gene Ferraro.”
“Huh? Oh. Sheila Jankowski.”
“Hi, Sheila. You want some clothes?”
“Yes. Yes, please! Thank you.”
Gene went to the wardrobe, opened it, and rooted. “Here’s a tunic that’s a little too small for me. It’s just a one-piece thing. Linda can whip up a nice outfit for you anytime. I’ll be in the john, there, so you can dress.” He threw the garment on the bed.
When he came out of the bathroom, she was dressed and standing by the window looking at him sheepishly, apprehensively.
“I’m sorry I messed your bed up,” she said. “Sorry I used your room. But, you see, I didn’t know —”
“I don’t mind in the slightest,” Gene said.
“I heard you at the door,” she said, “and I ran to see if I could bolt it. I … I didn’t know —”
“Forget it. You’re probably confused, right? You’re probably wondering what the hell this place is, and what you’re doing here, and why the hell I’m wearing something out of a bad old Tony Curtis movie — you know, the ones where he strikes a heroic pose and says, ‘Yonder is da castle of my fodder.’ Right?”
“Well, what you’re wearing looks … interesting.”
Gene rapped a knuckle against the leather cuirass that covered his chest. “Not much protection in a swordfight,” he said, “but chain mail’s too heavy and armor is ridiculous. I like to be able to move.”
“Do you get a lot of use out of that?” she asked, pointing at his broadsword.
“It’s saved my life any number of times.”
“I see.” She didn’t see at all. Not at all.
Gene grinned. “Welcome to Castle Perilous.”
164 East 64th Street
He had bought a color TV set to substitute as a computer CRT screen because of the sound capability. The set was nominally of American manufacture, though most of the parts bore oriental symbols. Lots of things had changed in this country.
He reattached the back of the set, tightening the screws a few turns. The adjustments he had made were minor, but necessary. He turned the set around on the table and sat back.
He began the incantation in a low monotone, then modulated to a wavering chant. As he did this he performed accompanying hand gestures. The screen began to form vague images. He continued the recitation until the screen went blank again.
“Damn.”
His fingers went to the keyboard of the computer terminal and punched a few keys. A table of numbers appeared on the screen and he consulted it.
“More nearer A-flat than A-natural,” he muttered.
He picked up a small plastic disk, about the circumference of which a number of small holes had been punched. He put the device to his lips and blew. A musical note sounded.
“That’s more like it.” He hummed a note in tune with the one that the pitch pipe had emitted. “Yes.”
He began the incantation again, this time in a slightly altered tonality. The CRT screen came to life with a flurry of random images, fleetingly visible, along with accompanying sounds. In time, the images congealed into a scene.
The angle of sight was high, looking down on a large bed. A man and a woman lay in it, the man half sitting, half reclining, bending over the woman, who lay with both legs dangling over the high edge of the bed. The man was dressed in kingly robes, she in a maidservant’s gown and cap. The man nuzzled her neck as he fumbled with the ties of her bodice.
“Deems? Sorry to bother you —”
“What!” The man sat up suddenly. The woman squealed, jumped up, and ran off-screen.
“Who calls?”
“Up here, Deems. To your left.”
The man looked first to the right, confusedly, then to the left. Then he tilted his head up and peered straight out from the screen.
“Incarnadine! What the devil — ?” He exhaled and rubbed his forehead, looking down. “Gods! You gave me a terrible start, Inky old boy.”
“Sorry, Deems. I realize it’s an awkward moment to reach you.”
“Devil of a time. A man’s hardly more vulnerable when he’s dallying with a chambermaid.” He chuckled. “I’m only relieved it was you instead of —” He looked about conspiratorially; then, in a whisper “ — instead of She-Who-Must-Be-Propitiated.” Winking slyly he added, “If you know who I mean.”
“How is … Flaminia?”
Deems looked pained. “Healthy as an ox, I’m sad to report. She scrutinizes my every move, hides the liquor, keeps a tight fist on my finances, and complains that I don’t pay enough attention to her.”
“I’m sorry for you, Deems.”
“Don’t be, old boy. Otherwise, things are fine.”
“How are things in fair Albion?”
“Middling indifferent. The northern barbarians threaten; the nobles carp about high taxes; the peasants squawk about ruinous quitrents; the royal treasury is just about depleted; trade imbalances are draining gold away from the country like shit through a sewer pipe —” He grinned broadly. “Same old story. How goes it with you? Where are you calling from, by the way?”
“New York.”
Deems was impressed. “How did you ever find the portal?”
“It took some doing. About six months of trying different things.”
“Well, congratulations. How is the place? Did they ever get that global war settled?”
“Which one? There have been two of them in this century.”
“Oh. Well, I forget just who the major combatants were. Actually I never cared much for that world.”
“It’s lost a lot of its charm in recent years,” Incarnadine said.
“A shame. You’re rather fond of the place, aren’t you?” Without waiting for an answer, he went on to ask, “I say, is Trent still living there?”
“Yes, I found him, at the same location, in fact.”
“Well, that’s … good, I suppose. Hm. All this time and not a word from him.”
“He seems totally uninterested in maintaining any family ties.”
“I thought as much,” Deems said, shaking his head disapprovingly. “A contrary bastard, that one. Always was.”
Deems’ image began to waver. Incarnadine made a few quick hand passes to correct the interference.
“What’s wrong? Are you breaking off?”
“No,” Incarnadine said. “If you remember, the Arts are somewhat of an iffy proposition in this world. I’m still working the bugs out of some new methods. Complicating things is the fact that the energy potential between the various universes has shifted over time. I’m still dealing with the implications of that.”
“Ah, yes, I do seem to remember there was a very good reason why I didn’t like New York and its provinces. No magic at all. Which made it an unacceptable alternative to Perilous, which fairly oozes with the damnable stuff.”
“You never took to the Arts in a big way. Did you, Deems?”
“Never cared for hocus-pocus,” Deems said with a shake of his head. “Never wanted any part of it. Makes me nervous.”
“Although you need it occasionally.”
“Occasionally,” Deems conceded. “As do we all.” He rubbed his belly and sighed.
“You’ve put on weight, elder brother.”
Deems laughed. “Tell me something I don’t know, little brother. I eat too much and drink even more. The Arts I’ll have none of; the Vices, every one.” He laughed heartily again, revealing large white teeth. When he was done he said, “What are you up to, Inky?”
“Something’s going on at Perilous, I don’t quite know what. I suspect meddling. If that’s the case, I haven’t a clue as to who’s the guilty party.”
“What sort of meddling?”
“A few of the spells sealing off some of the more troublesome aspects are completely gone. It coul
d be that they deteriorated and simply fizzled out. It could also be that someone canceled them.”
“And you suspected … whom?”
“Trent, first off. One of the reasons I came here. I’ve been trying to detect evidence of major magical activity in this universe. So far the data are inconclusive. If Trent is responsible, however, he may have taken great pains to cover his tracks.”
Deems nodded. “And you suspect me?”
“Brother, you’re at the bottom of the suspect list. Everyone knows you could have had the throne, but turned it down. Why then would you conspire now to take the throne from me?”
“I know of no reason,” Deems said flatly.
“Nor do I.”
There was a pause before Deems asked, “Then why this communication?”
“I wondered if you had any ideas. If you’d heard anything.”
“From who?”
“Ferne, for one. Have you seen her recently?”
“I haven’t seen Ferne in a god’s age.”
Incarnadine nodded. “And Trent has never communicated with you in all this time?”
“I would have told you, just out of courtesy,” Deems said.
“Just making sure, Deems. Trent says he wants to be left alone, and I have no reason yet not to take him at his word. But all the same, I have to be sure.”
“I can assure you that I am not in league with our little brother Trent.”
“I didn’t say you were, Deems. In fact, I said I wanted your help.”
“I’ll do anything I can.”
“Thank you. Ferne always liked Albion. Would you cast about and see if you can locate her there?”
“I’d be happy to, though I doubt she’s here.”
“Nevertheless, if you find her, please tell her I wish to see her.”
“I will,” Deems said. “Anything else?”
“Do you have enough Art to attempt calling Trent from your world?”
“No, I doubt it.”
“Then, are you up for a short trip home?”
“Not exactly, but I will come if you insist.”
Castle for Rent Page 5