Castle Spellbound

by John Dechancie

  Thaxton laughed. “By tidying up? The invaders are sticklers for cleanliness, are they?"

  “Stranger things have happened in this castle,” Dalton said.

  “Well, I'll admit anything's possible. But surely an invasion's out. I mean, I've heard of mopping up, but—"

  “We'd better get started,” Gene urged. “The wider the dispersion gets, the harder it'll be to pinpoint the center of it."

  “Gene's right,” Dalton said.

  “Thing is,” Linda put in, “everywhere I went in the keep, there they were."

  “How far did you get?” Gene asked.

  “Pretty far into the west wing. Down about ten floors. Gene, they're probably all over the keep."

  Gene shook his head glumly. “Then we'll never find the hole they're pouring through."

  Dalton said, “But we really should give it a try, shouldn't we?"

  “Better to have a go at finding Incarnadine, maybe?” Thaxton suggested.

  Deena agreed. “Now there's an idea. And Trent, too. We're gonna need all the help we can get."

  “And Sheila,” Linda said. “Speaking of super magicians. We might have to improvise until the king gets back, if he went anywhere."

  Dalton started to say, “Nevertheless, some of us—"

  Everybody cocked an ear.

  “What is it?” Deena asked.

  They all listened.

  Deena seemed annoyed. “Music?"

  The sound of a far-off drum grew closer. Accompanying it, a flute or pipe. The rhythm was exotic and infectious.

  “I hear music,” Dalton confirmed.

  “Now what the hell is goin’ on?” Deena despaired.

  “Whatever it is,” Gene said, “it's coming this way. Pass the sugar, will you, Lord Peter?"

  Thaxton handed him the pewter sugar bowl.

  “Thank you."

  In a few moments the source was revealed. A belly dancer—an extremely shapely one—came shivering and shaking into the dining hall. Accompanying her were two musicians, a drummer and a piper, in vaguely Arabic dress.

  They proceeded to put on a show. Everybody watched.

  The woman whirled and clanged her finger cymbals, slinking up to the men and undulating suggestively. She danced twice around the table and then began to writhe and twirl out of the room, followed by the musicians.

  Linda watched with interest. “She's really good,” was her comment to Gene.

  “Uh, yeah."

  “Beautiful woman!” Dalton enthused.

  “Uh, yeah,” Gene said.

  “Very charming,” Thaxton observed.

  “However do they do that—?” Dalton made motions in front of his stomach.

  “Diaphragm exercises,” Thaxton said.

  Before the first dancer-musician troupe got to the door, another entered and began to repeat the whole routine, threading their way through the ever-growing clot of broom-wielding homunculi. The group at the table sat and watched this performance as well, though a little less appreciatively.

  “Charming, absolutely charming,” Thaxton remarked. “But you know, I'm beginning to get worried."

  “Housecleaning homunculi,” Dalton pondered, drumming the table with his long fingers. “And belly dancers.” He thought about it a while.” Then he gave sigh. “Frankly, I don't see the connection.

  Gene said, “Well, it's all so obvious, isn't it?"

  Gene calmly drank his coffee as yet another distant drum drew nearer.

  Deena said, “Uh-oh."

  Gaming Hall

  Jeremy Hochsteader was dressed in a parti-colored cote-hardie (a longish tunic belted at the waist) in black and orange with matching tights: one leg per color. His orange Reebok cross-training shoes somehow looked appropriate.

  He was sitting at a table playing a home video game and enjoying it. He had been invited to the party at Club Sheila of course, but he didn't like parties, so he'd put off going until it was too late.

  No less than three homunculi had swept out the room already, but Jeremy hadn't paid them any mind, his attention fixed on wheels of fire and vicious turtles. But now he heard music; and though he didn't stop playing, he was beginning to grow aware that something might be going on. Maybe Sheila's party had spilled over into the castle.

  Maybe it had. So what.

  He kept playing, thumbing the buttons on the control device, jumping over pitfalls and leapfrogging monsters. The music grew louder but he still didn't care. He wished whoever was making it would go away.

  The commotion entered the gaming hall but he still didn't turn around. There came quite a racket and Jeremy was beginning to get annoyed.

  He stopped the game's action and looked toward the entrance.

  “What the heck is this?"

  Belly dancers? There were three of them, and with them a bunch of little guys playing weird instruments. The beauty of the women stunned him a bit before he began wondering if the castle was going nuts again. It did that periodically.

  They danced around the hall and then circled him, clanging things in his face. He kind of liked looking at the women, but he thought the music sucked.

  Presently the whole kit and caboodle bumped and ground their way out of the hall. The high-pitched flutes were the last to fade. But in their wake came the sounds of some other disturbance.

  “Screwy,” Jeremy said.

  But that was life in the castle. You never knew what was going to come jumping out of the woodwork ... or the masonry, or whatever.

  Melanie McDaniel came walking in carrying her lute. She was dressed in a troubadour's outfit: black velvet cap with a feather, black velvet doublet, silver-gray cloak, scarlet tights, and black shoes. It was her usual mode of dress for going about the castle; she had stopped into her room to change after the party.

  “Have you been seeing the weird stuff?” she asked.

  “Just saw it,” Jeremy said.

  “There's more, all over."

  “Yeah? What's going on?"

  “Nobody seems to know."

  “Any trouble?"

  “Well, no, not trouble, really. It's just very bizarre."

  “So what else is new?"

  Jeremy turned back to his video game.

  Melanie asked, “Have you seen the little guys sweeping up?"

  “Huh? What little guys?"

  “Little buggers this tall”—she held her hand two or three feet above the floor—“in blue bib overalls. With brooms. They sweep up all over the place."

  Jeremy's memory was jogged. “Oh. Yeah, I saw them. What are they all about?"

  “Nobody knows that either."

  “Weird."

  “Uh-oh."

  Jeremy turned his head. “What?"

  More belly dancers entered. This time there were a good half dozen or more.

  Disgusted, Jeremy threw down the control box and turned off the monitor. He swiveled around on the high stool, crossed his legs, and watched.

  Melanie sat on the edge of the table and watched with him.

  At length she commented, “These women really can dance."

  “Say what?"

  “I said ... Never mind."

  This troupe didn't want to leave—or did it only seem that way because more dancers were coming in to take the place of the ones who left? It was hard to tell.

  Finally Jeremy got up and said, “Let's get the heck out of here."

  Melanie picked up her lute. “I'm with you."

  They weaved their way to the archway and ducked out.

  The corridor was less crowded, but only by comparison. Gnomish sweepers swept by, and Jeremy wondered why he hadn't really noticed them before. They sure were weird-looking. Vaguely familiar, too. Porky Pig? No, maybe...

  “Oh, look."

  Jeremy looked left. A chorus line of colorfully costumed and gorgeous women was high-kicking its way down the corridor. All the dancers were long-legged and beautiful and all kicked head-high in precision lock step to the beat of the marching jazz
band that followed them. The band was tearing off a show-stopping arrangement of “I Got Rhythm."

  Jeremy was a tiny bit irked by all this. “Hey. This is gettin’ weird. I mean, really weird."

  “You mean weirder than usual."

  “Yeah."

  They stood well aside to let the chorus line pass, then began walking the other way as the band marched by in threes. Music echoed down the hallway.

  “Does all this have something to do with the party?” Jeremy asked.

  “Sheila's party is over, as far as I know."

  “Got any idea what's going on?"

  “Not a clue."

  “Well, I'm going up to the lab. Maybe the instruments show something."

  “I'll go with you."

  They turned left at the next intersecting corridor, but soon saw that the way ahead was blocked. Another chorus line and jazz band were kicking their way forward, but wriggling beside them was a file of belly dancers.

  “Oops,” Melanie said.

  “In here."

  They ducked into a formal sitting room, cut across it, and came out into another hallway.

  But here there was something different. Minstrels.

  “Oh, my,” Melanie said.

  “Can you play that thing, fair maid?"

  The man who spoke was tall and smiling and dark-haired, all decked out in green, a white feather sprouting from his cap. He was very handsome, and Melanie fell instantly in love.

  “Uh, yes,” she said. “Sure. A little, anyway."

  The man began to play, his three companions backing him up.

  He sang:

  "True Thomas lay on Huntly Bank

  A wonder he spied, spied he;

  For there he saw a lady bright

  Come riding down by the Eildon Tree..."

  Melanie tried to play along. The chord structure they followed was a little complex for her, but she began to enjoy the effort.

  “Hey, Melanie?” Jeremy called, trying to get her attention.

  Was that a minor chord there, or a diminished?

  “Melanie?"

  “Huh?"

  “Come on, let's go."

  “Oh. Can you wait just a sec?"

  The troubadours stopped and the lead singer said, “That was splendid, girl! How would you like to join us? We'll travel together, eat together, sing together. It will be marvelous!"

  Melanie was nonplused. “Oh, well, that's nice of you, but—"

  The singer strummed a chord on his lute.

  "Come live with me and be my

  love And we shall all the pleasures prove—"

  “Hey, Melanie, forget this goof. Come on."

  “Wait a minute, Jeremy. Look, it would be nice and all—I mean, you guys are really good..."

  "And we will sit upon the rocks,

  Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks,

  By shallow rivers to whose falls

  Melodious birds sing madrigals."

  “Melanie, they aren't real."

  Melanie turned her head to Jeremy.

  “What?"

  “They aren't real,” Jeremy told her. “Can't you see that?"

  The singer stopped. “Who's to say who's real, young man? You can join us, too. Some of us like boys now and then."

  The minstrels all laughed.

  “Come on, Melanie.” Jeremy tugged at her arm.

  “Hold on a second, Jeremy.” She turned back to the handsome singer. “Uh, what's your name?"

  The singer shrugged. “What's in a name? Call me what you like."

  “You don't have a name?"

  “I've never had the need—"

  Everyone's attention was diverted by the approach of another band of medieval musicians. Melanie turned to look, and her eyes bulged. She looked back at the first bunch, then swung to the new arrivals.

  They were identical.

  “Fair maid, can you play that thing?"

  Melanie slapped her forehead. “Jeremy, you're right. I should have known."

  “Then let's get out of here."

  Melanie and Jeremy circled past the originals and headed down the hall.

  “Fare thee well, beautiful maid!"

  “Uh ... ‘Bye!” Melanie called over her shoulder.

  Rats. If only he wasn't so damned good-looking!

  "And I will make thee beds of roses

  And a thousand fragrant posies..."

  Queen's Ladies’ Quilting Room

  Snowclaw.

  He of the ice-white claws and fierce yellow eyes—a mountain of a beast in arctic fur as white as the driven snow.

  “Snowy."

  “Big Guy."

  “The Snowster!"

  These were, among his human friends, but a few of his sobriquets. Nevertheless, many a human had run at the sight of him. And no wonder, for he was a fearsome beast.

  He stepped out of the magic doorway linking his home world to the castle and found himself confronted with quilts at every turn; quilts, garishly multicolored quilts, draping the walls and lending the room an air of comfortable coziness.

  He hated it.

  He was an intelligent beast; therefore he knew that his doorway had shifted position in the castle. But no matter. As long as he was in the castle. And he was. He sniffed. He could smell it.

  He strode out of the room and down the hall. At the corner he turned right, walked the length of the passageway, turned left, and hiked past several sitting rooms, a banquet hall, a meeting room, a parlor (in Victorian decor), and a ballet studio (mostly used for aerobics).

  Right. He knew where he was now.

  There seemed to be a lot going on. He heard noises. In passing, he glanced down a few crossing corridors and saw much activity.

  A few groups of humans in fancy dress passed going the other way. Humans were always dressing to kill.

  Clothes. Who needed them? Not when you had a thick silky pelt like Snowclaw's.

  More humans. Dancing! Females, mostly. He paid them no mind. He heard noise that he knew to be “music.” Awful stuff. He hated it. But he had heard worse.

  A few more turns brought him to a hallway lined with bedroom doors. He stopped at the third one on the right, turned the handle, and went in.

  There were creatures in his room. They were sweeping the floor.

  He looked them over. Little fellows. Vaguely human. Fine. It was all right. Someone came in to sweep up occasionally. Not often, but occasionally. (Only the bravest chambermaids went near the place, along with the odd pageboy who had no fear.)

  He had thrown out most of the furniture. For a bed he had substituted a pile of furs, comfortably strewn about with gnawed bones.

  He had eaten the nightstand one evening after waking up hungry.

  The wardrobe he had not consumed, for in it he kept his trusty weapon: a huge broadaxe, its wicked blade oiled and gleaming. He opened the door and took the deadly thing out. After swishing it about a few times, he slung it over his shoulder.

  Now he felt ready to face anything. In fact, he was itching to get into a fight or two. Hadn't been in a dust-up in ... oh, must be two lunations. No, three. More, possibly.

  He looked at the little fellows again. Still doing their job.

  “Hey!"

  They paid no attention to him.

  “Leave those bones in a pile there. Right there."

  They were pushing all the dirt and stuff into little piles. Well, they could keep the dirt. But those bones came in handy as snacks.

  “You're doing a good job, guys."

  He strode out of the room, leaving the door open.

  He encountered more humans, and these sang as well as danced. The males carried black canes and wore black suits and black cylindrical hats, and the females wore little. The males picked the females up and threw them around. More music played. Well, good.

  More dancers. More singers. There certainly was a great deal going on around here. But there usually was. Humans. You had to like ‘em, they were so interesting.


  Snowclaw was hungry. This also was nothing unusual; he was in a perpetual state of being ravenous, some stages more acute than others. He sniffed and snorted, smelling human food.

  He hated human food.

  Well, not really. He'd eat it in a pinch. And this was such a pinch.

  A male human, unknown to him, stepped up. Dressed in a loud sports coat, he was fat and bald and had a sad face. Snowclaw halted.

  “I'm telling you it's murder,” the man said. “I never get invited to parties. Last time I got invited to a party I bought a hundred bucks’ worth of Tupperware. I don't have any luck at all, none at all. I have to crash parties. Last one I crashed turned out to be an A.A. meeting. They threw me out. Said they couldn't stand drunks."

  Snowclaw said, “Right.” He strode on.

  “I never have any luck, no luck at all,” the man called after him.

  Snowclaw turned left and met up with a huge animal. It was four-legged and hairless, with baggy gray skin, wide round hooves, big floppy ears, a tiny tail, and a long prehensile proboscis. A pretty female human rode high on its back.

  “Right,” Snowclaw said.

  A procession of these creatures lumbered past, leaving in its wake a string of odoriferous punctuation, deposited along the flagstones.

  Farther on, he came across more dancers, these with little metal things on their shoes that made tapping sounds on the floor. Then another bunch of dancers in different outfits, wearing slippers. The females spun on their toes, and, again, the males threw the females around.

  The place was certainly busy today. Then again, that's the way things usually were in the castle.

  He entered the dining hall. No one was about except for a lone human, drinking coffee at the end of the long table. As was the custom, the table was set with all sorts of food.

  “Where is everybody?” Snowclaw asked the man, who wore a white turban.

  “They are all out trying to find the source of the disturbance."

  “Yeah? Okay. Thanks."

  Snowclaw searched the table, ignoring tureens of ox-tail soup and plates of truffles and chafing dishes of veal Prince Orloff, until he found what he wanted.