“Boy, that’s a first,” Linda said.
“Huh? What do you mean?”
“Electricity isn’t supposed to work in the castle.”
“Yeah? How come?”
“Only magic works here.”
Sheila said, “That may be his talent.”
“Everyone gets a magical talent in this place,” Linda told him. “Yours might be being able to work a computer without electricity.”
Jeremy chuckled. “C’mon, you gotta be kidding.”
Osmirik was watching numbers and symbols dance across the screen.
“Very interesting,” he said.
Eight
Cenotaphs
Violet sky, cloudless, a small blue sun low over a distant ridge, sand and fine gravel underfoot, a steady wind blowing across a plateau peopled with stone monuments of myriad shapes. Overhead, a triangle of bright stars. This world was always the same.
He walked among the monuments, gravel crunching under his boots, the only sound on these stark plains save for the faint murmur of the wind, melancholy and drear.
All was simplicity, clarity, peace.
The monuments were of various geometrical shapes, some towering into the bluish-purple sky. No one knew who had created them, or why, or what purpose they served. As objects which inspire contemplation, however, they served admirably. Perhaps that was their proper function, after all. He often walked this plain when he had some thinking to do, or when he needed to clear his mind.
He had just completed a hard year negotiating a settlement to a protracted war. The belligerents had been obstinate to the point of exasperation, but reason had won out in the end. The terms of treaty served the interests of the state which he had a hand in governing, and in which he himself had considerable personal interest, as his family resided there. The castle was no place for small children.
Monuments at either hand: on his left a truncated pyramid; to the right an inverted trapezoid juxtaposed with a sphere. He paused to study this latter arrangement. Presently he moved on.
He had come full circle, back to the two-dimensional oblong of the doorway between this world and the castle. After casting one last look over the silent plain, he passed through the portal and entered the fortress of his ancestors.
The cenotaph world was one of a number of interesting landscapes in the Hall of Contemplative Aspects. He wished for the time to visit them all today, but duty called. He had been away much too long. He left the Hall and began his descent of the spiral staircase that would take him to a tunnel, thence through to the castle keep.
Halfway down the first turn, he stopped suddenly.
There it was again, the same strange feeling he had experienced on arriving back in the castle. He could not put his finger on it, but something was awry. Something not right. He closed his eyes and attempted to pin it down.
Whatever it was, it resisted pinning.
“Most interesting,” he murmured.
He cocked an ear, as if listening. There was no sound to hear. Odd. Now everything seemed fine. Or had there been a subtle change?
“Curious. Very curious.”
He continued down the stairwell. He would have to look into this.
Perhaps he had simply been away too long.
The passageway leading into the basement of the keep was silent and dim, illuminated only by an occasional jewel-torch.
Incarnadine.
He stopped. What he had heard was not unusual. Castle Perilous contained many voices, many spirits. The bones of his ancestors lay in crypts all around, three thousand years’ worth of bones. Sometimes the voices called his name. Mostly they nattered unintelligibly. The castle itself had a voice, the voice of the demon out of which the castle had been magicked long ago, but that voice had been silent for the last few years. The only other spirit in the habit of babbling at him was the ghost of his first betrothed, the Lady Melydia, who had died an unnatural death a few years ago, victim of a consuming madness.
This new voice was different, however. He oriented himself this way and that, as though his body were an antenna.
Incarnadine, hear me.
There! It was coming from one of the family crypts; one of the oldest ones, in fact. He felt obliged to answer such a venerable source.
The tunnel branched off ahead, and he bore right, down a narrower and even dimmer passage, at the end of which stood a cast-iron door set about with various fanciful creatures in bas-relief.
He waved his hand, and the door emitted a sharp click; then, seemingly of its own volition, it swung open with much creaking and groaning.
A strange pale light emanated from the chamber within. He approached carefully, and looked into the crypt.
He beheld a strange sight: the vaporous image of a man standing beside an ancient sarcophagus. Tall, gaunt, bedecked in kingly robes, the specter regarded him enigmatically for a moment. Then it spoke.
“My hour is almost come,” it said, “when I to sulphurous and tormenting flames must render up myself.”
“Alas, poor ghost,” Incarnadine replied.
“Pity me not, but lend thy serious hearing to —”
“Begging your pardon, Ancestor,” Incarnadine broke in “but do we really need all the traditional ghostly rhetoric? It’s rather a bore, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
“Frightfully sorry,” the ghost said. “This is my first haunting, you know. Didn’t quite know what proper form was. Sorry, Sorry. Well, then —” The ghost seemed at a loss.
“Why don’t you just warn me against whatever it was that you were going to warn me against?” Incarnadine said. “That more or less was what you were about to do, wasn’t it?”
“As a matter of fact, yes. Well I seem to have gone and botched the whole thing, haven’t I?”
“Not at all.”
“You’re so very kind. See here; do you know who I am?”
Incarnadine looked off, mentally counting crypts. “Let’s see, you’d be … Ervoldt the Sixth?”
“Seventh. Quite all right, I was a nobody and damned well know it. Just happened to be handy when the job came up. Well, we might as well get on with it. You would do well to heed these words, Incarnadine. Someone has been tampering with the interdimensional forces which hold the worlds together.”
“I know.”
“You do?” The ghost of Ervoldt VII was crestfallen. “Well all this seems to have been of doubtful utility, I must say.”
“Not so. I had merely suspected. Now I know.”
“Eh? Oh, I see. Quite so, quite so.”
“You have my humble thanks, Ancestor.”
“It’s nothing, nothing at all. I’m told you’re a fine boy, a worthy continuation of the family line. Done rather well for yourself.”
“I do my best. Grandfather, do you have any idea of who might be responsible?”
The ghost chortled. “Not the bloody vaguest idea! You’d think so, wouldn’t you? Most people think the dead know everything. Truth is, you can’t see a blessed thing from the other side!”
“Then how are you so sure about the tampering?”
“Oh, no mistaking that. It makes my head hurt, actually. Celestial spheres ringing, bonging, all sorts of clanging about. Dreadful racket!”
“I see. Again, you have my thanks. One thing, though. You were fooling about the sulphurous and tormenting flames, were you not?”
“Of course. Don’t want to let on what it’s really like. People would be killing themselves to get here.”
“What’s it like?”
“Oh, splendid, splendid! I was just sitting down to a game of seven-cards-up when the call came. You should see —” The ghost gathered himself up. “Well, there I almost went and put my foot in it. The others might take a dim view of me tipping our hand. Eh?” He laughed good-naturedly.
“Your secret is safe with me.”
“Stout fellow.” Lacking anything more to say, Ervoldt shrugged. “Well, must dash off. May the gods watch over you. Be w
ell.”
“Farewell, Ancestor.”
The apparition turned abruptly, strode toward the wall, and passed through it in classic ghostly fashion, disappearing into the stone.
“Not a bad haunting, after all,” Incarnadine said. He closed the crypt and continued on his way. He had a great deal of work to do.
Nine
Wilderness
He had traveled about seven hundred miles in three days, not bad progress for an off-road vehicle over rugged terrain. But thousands of miles of sand and rock still lay between him and Annau. In the past, transportation on the planet had not always been so difficult, but the Umoi had eventually ripped up their vast highway system to allow the planet to revert to its natural state. An underground pneumatic tube network was still extant, but city had informed him that it was in bad repair.
He was still in communication with Zond, but Zond had no way to rescue him in the event of a breakdown. Fortunately, the teardrop-shaped Umoi land rover seemed in no danger of failure, its nuclear-fusion engines humming smoothly, its shape-changing “tires” flowing over rock and ridge like giant amoebae.
He was enjoying the scenery. It was a colorful world for all its desolation, ocher sky arching over the deeper yellows and browns of the desert, both relieved by pink strata thrusting up at sharp angles. Gene never tired of watching the terrain roll by, bleak as it was.
He did not have to drive, as the vehicle was quite capable of directing itself. It merely needed specific instructions now and then: stop in two hours for a maintenance check; continue on this course until told otherwise; take the safest route, not necessarily the fastest; etc. Nevertheless, he did like to take the controls at times, just for something to do.
He was at the helm now as the vehicle came out of rugged country, easing down a slope toward the edge of a wide, flat depression that stretched ahead for miles. He checked the controls, then switched the vehicle over to automatic. Intending to get some sleep, he climbed into the aft compartment.
He was optimistic about his chances of making it to Annau. What he would do when he got there was another matter. Annau was also a machine intelligence, but Zond had lost contact with it and the rest of the cities ages ago. If Annau was still operative, Gene intended to establish communication with it and beg its help in finding the interdimensional device. Then …
One step at a time, he thought. First get there. Let’s not think about the rest of it. The whole enterprise was the longest of long shots, anyway. Best not to dwell on the —
The vehicle shook under a strong impact that knocked him out of the hammock affair he used as a bed. He crawled into the forward compartment and looked out the right view bubble. Nothing. After another concussion hit, he stuck his head into the left bubble, looking toward the rear.
He was shocked by the sight of a huge, three-horned, six-footed beast ramming its massive head against the side of the vehicle. Looking like a cross between a rhinoceros and a giant armadillo, the creature had already done some damage, albeit superficial.
He upped the power control and looked back again. The animal matched speed easily. Obviously it could move fast. He had never pushed the vehicle over thirty miles an hour and was unsure of its top speed. There was no telling what the animal could do. For all its bulk, the thing looked capable of hitting fifty at a walk. The ground shook as it ran, its powerful legs, as thick as tree trunks, moving like pistons.
Cause for concern, perhaps, but not to worry. The vehicle could probably outrun the thing, and if not, surely could withstand a little battering. It was made of some miracle metal, he was certain.
But the beast had some miracles of its own. It would not be outrun, and kept smashing its gargantuan head against the starboard hull, which was beginning to look like a crushed eggshell. Gene began to wish mightily that the thing would go away. He threw the power rod to maximum. The extra speed helped, as did his quick maneuvering on the controls. But it was no go. Every time he began to pull ahead, the beast would kick in another carburetor and catch up.
Preoccupied with what was going on to the rear, he neglected to watch where he was going. When he did remember to glance forward, he yelped and panic-steered away from the edge of the arroyo that he had been about to send the rover crashing into. But in avoiding catastrophe, he turned into the beast’s next attack, catching its full force. The vehicle almost upended.
Now he was in a pickle, stuck on a perilous track between two certain disasters. The beast seemed to sense this and kept hemming him in, forcing him to hug the rim of the little canyon.
He briefly considered making a dash for broken terrain, but that was a bad risk. The beast was too fast. The only alternative was to go down into the canyon. The trick was finding a slope that the rover could handle, yet steep enough to discourage the beast from following. The possibility cheered him; he could not imagine the bulky animal rappeling down the canyon wall in pursuit.
It was an agonizing quarter mile or so until he found a suitable entry point. The sheer wall of the canyon suddenly flared out into a slope strewn with talus and a few huge boulders. He steered right and sent the vehicle over the edge and down the steep incline.
The rover began to slide, but the tires ballooned out and came alive, pseudopods grasping for purchase. A major landslide began in front of the vehicle, a minor one to the rear.
Things went well at first, but Gene gradually lost control. The vehicle turned sideways and began to slide uncontrollably, its semi-intelligent automatic systems fighting to maintain a grip on the impossible slope.
He had misjudged the grade; it was too steep. Worse, the rover was veering off the ramp of rubble, heading for a sharp drop.
The vehicle tipped, righted itself, then hit a boulder, stopping momentarily. The boulder had other ideas; dislodged from its precarious position on the slope, it began to roll. The rover followed suit, joining the general landslide.
The amoebalike tires completely lost their grip. The vehicle began to roll over on its side — and that was the last thing Gene knew.
Ten
Long Island
Sheila thought that Trent looked exactly what a prince should look like. For one thing, he was terribly handsome. His pale hair was the color of fresh butter, his eyes the hue of the sky on a bright afternoon. His features were strong, the cleft chin firm; classic princely features. But there was more to him, something in his bearing that bespoke a high-born status.
Just like a prince, she thought. She had been distantly in love with him since their first meeting.
She sat back and took a sip of wine. Sure, he was probably three hundred years old, but what’s age got to do with it? He sure as heck didn’t look three hundred years old. More likely thirty-five. Forty at the most. It was magic, of course.
“Like the wine?” Trent asked, settling into an armchair across from the sofa.
“It’s wonderful,” Sheila said. “What is it?”
“It’s a special California vintage cabernet, limited issue. I have some friends in the wine business out there.”
“It’s great.”
Trent pivoted in his chair. “Uh … Snowclaw? You sure you won’t have anything?”
“Thanks,” Snowclaw said, turning away from a view of the woods. “But I don’t go for that smelly flower water you human folks drink. No offense.”
Trent laughed. “None taken.”
Anyone who had seen Snowclaw in the castle would never have recognized him. Instead of being a huge quasi-ursine biped covered in fur, Snowclaw was now a rather large human male with snow-white hair and the musculature of a professional bodybuilder. He wore a white shirt, red tie, charcoal slacks, and navy-blue blazer. His size 15 black pumps shone with a gloss.
Sheila’s spell had done the trick. Snowclaw looked unusual — even for a weight lifter, he was enormous — but acceptable.
“To get back to business,” Trent said. “Granting that Gene is here on Earth, locating him might be a little problematical if someone with mag
ical abilities kidnapped him.”
“Well, that’s what I think happened,” Sheila said.
Trent nodded. “His disappearance does sound a little suspicious, judging from what you’ve said.”
“There’s not much to go on. Actually it’s all mostly based on this sneaking suspicion I’ve got that something’s up at the castle.”
“Something very well could be. But the question is who’s behind it all. Have any ideas?”
“Well, we were thinking …”
“My sister Ferne?”
Sheila nodded. “I’m sorry, but —”
“No need. She’s a bad one. But she can’t be the culprit, because as far as I know, Incarnadine did away with her. No one but my brother knows exactly what happened to her, but he did inform the family that Ferne’s case had been adjudicated ‘with coldest justice,’ I think his phrase was.”
“Does that mean he had her executed?”
“Well, everyone — my other sister, Dorcas, and I, along with the more distant relatives — we all took it to mean that Ferne had been dispatched to her heavenly reward, to phrase it kindly if not plausibly.”
Sheila sighed. “Well, that eliminates her as a suspect, I guess. And if it’s not her, then I haven’t the foggiest clue who it could be.”
“On the other hand, you do have a castle full of people” — Trent nodded toward Snowclaw, who had taken a seat on the sofa — “and other gentle beings. No end of suspects. As far as motives, well, there you have a problem.”
Trent suddenly rose and walked to the fireplace, behind the glass doors of which a cheery fire glowed and crackled.
“There is one other possibility,” Trent said, looking deep into the flames.
Sheila looked at Snowclaw. They waited.
“I know my brother,” Trent said finally. “He just might not have killed her.” He gave a rueful chuckle. “I have to confess that I would have, without hesitation or remorse. She nearly destroyed everything, including the castle.” He shook his head, still staring into the fire. “Reckless, reckless woman.”
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