Castle Dreams

by John Dechancie

  “Gotcha. These could come in handy."

  “Right,” she said as she took out another weapon. “But this explains how we got in."

  “It does?"

  “Yes. No insult to your magical abilities, but we were obviously let in. A trap. That's why the outer door slammed shut."

  “I see. But not necessarily true. My magic works, believe me. And it was working. I can tell."

  “Let's hope you're right, my handsome wizard."

  She got up and bussed him on the cheek.

  “But let's look for ammunition, just in case."

  “Check, princess."

  RIVER

  “...and so the hooker said to the chicken, ‘Sure, honey. Throw in a jar of mayonnaise and you got yourself a deal.’”

  Full-throated laughter came from the stern of the ferryboat, faint echoes returning from far across the water.

  “That was amusing. Tell another."

  The shore took form out of the darkness ahead. Bare but for a few quaint buildings hugging the edge of the water. Taken as a whole, the assemblage looked not unlike a fishing village. This was impossible.

  “I have about exhausted my trove of conceits and epigrams,” he told the boatman.

  “Then spin me another tale of adventure."

  “The shore nears."

  The ferryman looked. “So it does. But you have given good measure. For the briefest moment I have been diverted from the tedium of my routine. And for that, mortal, I thank you."

  “You are quite welcome, boatman. What is this place?"

  “The Port of Dreams."

  “Why is it so called?"

  “I know not. Unlike the rest, you ask many questions. You will have your answer in due time."

  He regarded the approach of the village, peering past the houses.

  “This is an island?"

  The ferryman nodded. “Aye."

  “One more question, please. What is the name of this river?"

  “This is the River of Dreams."

  “Ah."

  “And just downstream, at its mouth, begins the Sea of Oblivion, into which the river empties."

  “I see. These names elicit in me a strange foreboding."

  “Such feelings are often justified."

  Ahead, a wooden dock. Along the shore the masts of many sailing ships reached up to the darkness overhead. He wondered how he could see anything in this gloom. But see he did.

  The village seemed quite the going concern. Workers plied the docks, toting bundles. People in robes gathered along the shore in little groups, talking. Doing business, perhaps.

  He again grew aware of his nakedness.

  “Have you anything I might wear?” he asked the ferryman.

  “Not I. But such may be purchased ashore."

  Again, this purchasing. With what?

  The ferryboat drew up to the dock and kissed its side. The boatman cast a mooring line. A barefooted dockhand caught it and tied it off.

  He stepped from the boat to the dock and turned.

  “My thanks."

  “It is nothing. You tell good stories, mortal. Before I go, one more? A witticism, anything."

  “A riddle?"

  “A riddle then."

  “Knock, knock."

  “Who is there?"

  “Not a soul."

  The boatman regarded his passenger.

  “You have given me something to think on, mortal. Fare thee well."

  “Catch you later."

  He watched the ferryboat pull away. Soon it vanished into the darkness whence it had come.

  Looking down at his nakedness, he pondered what to do. He looked up. No one paid him the slightest mind. He shrugged. He began walking toward shore over the rough planks of the dock.

  A man with a pushcart offered his wares.

  “Garments, sir?"

  He stopped. “Yes. But I cannot pay."

  “Pity.” The man pushed off.

  He reached shore and walked left along the wharf, past docks that led out to tall ships. There were many, their riggings varied and exotic. He stopped to examine a particularly striking vessel.1

  [1. As you can see, the Greek mythology theme has been dispensed with in favor of more cryptic allusions. What he's getting at here is anybody's guess.]

  He realized that he was hungry.

  How could this be?

  Well, why not?

  He looked around. There were shops, ship's chandlers for the most part. But he smelled food and followed the scent down a cobblestone street until he found himself in front of an inn. He entered.

  It was a small place, narrow and dark, with a sawdust floor. But the odors were good and the place had a pleasant atmosphere. A few tables were occupied; people sipping drinks and talking.

  He approached the bar, where a man in rumpled robes was wiping glasses with a greasy cloth.

  “I am in need of food and drink,” he said.

  The man looked up, the stub of a cigar clenched between his teeth.

  “So?"

  “I am willing to work for you. All I require in payment is some bread and a tumbler of water."

  “Oh, really?"

  “That is all."

  “You want a job, that it?"

  “Yes. I need a job. Temporarily."

  “Yeah, it's always temporary. Until you get yourself a ship."

  He realized it must be true. “Yes. That is correct."

  “Yeah. Look, pal..."

  The man plucked the fetid cigar stub from between his thin lips. “I got nothin’ for ya. Business been slow. I don't know what it is, but it's been like a morgue around here lately. I got no need for a waiter, busboy, whatever. Okay, pal? Try up the street."

  “I must get a ship."

  “Yeah, I heard it all before. Your family was hard up, couldn't give you a decent burial. So you get here, butt hanging out, y'aint got a nickel, can't get arrested. Hey, I really feel for ya, pal, but like I said, I got nothin'."

  “If you loan me some money, I will pay you back."

  “What do I look like, a banker? You see any moneychangers here? Hey, do yourself a favor. Go see Traveler's Aid. They'll help you out."

  “I can entertain your customers."

  “You go—Huh? What can you do?"

  “I..."

  “Yeah?"

  “I can play the piano and tell jokes."

  The man looked around. “Well, I'll just tune up the old Steinway.... Hey, you see a piano in here?"

  “Get one."

  The man guffawed. “You know what a—"

  “Rent one. Lease one."

  “You got all the answers."

  “You said business was bad. Perhaps you need a draw."

  The man was silent as he stuffed the cloth inside a beer mug and squeakingly wiped.

  “Maybe you got an idea, there. Something to attract the walk-in trade. You play pretty good?"

  “Fair. I tell good jokes. Patter. Satirical songs. One-liners."

  “You got experience?"

  “Plenty."

  “OK. Let me ask around, see what rate I can get on an upright—"

  “Baby grand would do better. You could position seats around it and I could take requests. You won't have to pay. I'll take the tips."

  “Yeah. Lots of tips. I get seventy-five percent."

  “I'll give you ten."

  The man laughed toothily. “You'll hand over fifty percent and like it. I'm paying for the piano."

  “We split sixty-forty, my favor."

  The owner thought it over. “Okay, sixty-forty."

  “And your cut gets cut to twenty-five after a month."

  “There's no time here."

  “Whenever."

  “Minimum thirty."

  “Done."

  “Okay, pal, you got yourself a job. Here."

  The man rolled a coin at him.

  “Go out and get yourself some decent clothes. Don't want my employees walkin’ around with their shor
tcomings exposed."

  He took the gold coin. “Are you human?"

  “Naw."

  “But—"

  “I like myself this way. Makes the mortals feel at home."

  “Very well, then. I will be back."

  “Wait.” The owner pushed a tankard of ale across the bar. “You look like you need this."

  He took the vessel and tilted it toward his mouth. He drank the whole thing down.

  He wiped his mouth and caught his breath.

  The owner grinned. “Yeah. Goes down good after a long ferry ride with that seven-foot-tall nightmare, huh?"

  “Death's a bitch."

  “And then you're reincarnated."

  OFFICE OF THE REGENCY (TEMPORARY QUARTERS)

  “Hello?"

  “Am I speaking to His Excellency, the Regent?"

  “You are."

  “This is Giles, in the Ministry of Supply and Materiel."

  “Yes, yes."

  “Excellency, if I might have a word with you?"

  “Yes! Go on."

  “Those requisition forms you filed. Excellency, they weren't in proper format. Not only that, it was entirely the wrong form for such a requisition."

  “So?"

  “All requisitions must conform to procedure or they won't go through."

  “So? Fix it so they do go through. I need that stuff."

  “Begging your pardon, Excellency, but I can't touch them. It's against regulations."

  “Hang regulations. Have one of your people do it."

  “No can do, Excellency. Interoffice procedural regulations are quite specific. They don't quite have the force of statute law, but—"

  “Oh, all right, send them back."

  “I already did. This is a courtesy call. Please use the right form next time. For the materiel you're asking for, it's Office Supplies Requisition Form 1867 dash 401—"

  “Wait! Damn it, this pen doesn't work."

  “Yes, Excellency."

  “Rupert! Gimme one of those ... Right. Okay, what was that form number again?"

  “Office Supplies Requisition Form 1867 dash 40178374..."

  “Right, right."

  “Dash 2673 slash J."

  “...2673 dash J."

  “No, slash J."

  “Slash J. Right, got it. Will do."

  “And they have to be signed by you personally."

  “I did sign them! ... Didn't I?"

  “No, Excellency, the forms were rubber-stamped, by your secretary, I presume."

  “Oh."

  “That's no good for 2673 slash J. For any slash J form—you better write this down for future reference—any slash J form must be signed personally, not stamped ... and—this is also very important—you must affix your seal of office."

  “My goddamned seal of office hasn't come from the castle smithy yet."

  “Well, that's a problem. In that case I'll have to have a sworn affidavit from you until you get the seal."

  “Gods! All this for a damned box of paper clips?"

  “Afraid so, Excellency."

  “Amazing. Very well. Is that all?"

  “Yes, Excellency. I'm truly sorry for any inconvenience."

  “Forget it."

  “But regulations ... well, you know."

  “I'm learning. Goodbye."

  “Have a nice day."

  Trent slammed the phone down.

  “Rupert!"

  The scribe came running back into the crypt, which had been hastily transformed into a working office.

  “Excellency?"

  “I need that damned seal. When?"

  “It's on rush order. They said Monday at the earliest."

  “Rats. Every damned form requires it. See if you can't rush them a little more."

  “Yes, Excellency.” Rupert wrote in a tiny notebook.

  “What's next?"

  “The Foreign Minister of Lytton is still waiting in the hall."

  “Oh. Send him in."

  “But the guild official has been waiting longer."

  “What guild official?"

  “The Castle Craftsmen's Guild, Excellency."

  “Oh. I forgot. Well, send him in first."

  “The Foreign Minister's the more important person. If you make him wait any longer it could be taken as a slight, and he might leave in a huff. Diplomatic incident. On the other hand—"

  “Spill it."

  “If the guild guy gets ticked off, he might just call a wildcat strike."

  “Jeez, can he do that?"

  “Well, sure."

  “Get him in here."

  The guild official was a burly fellow smoking a huge green cigar. He wore an expensive embroidered ministerial gown that did not quite hide his enormous gut. A red plume rose from his tricorn hat. He approached Trent's desk with a confident stride.

  “Yes, sir, what can I do for you?” Trent said.

  “You've had our grievance report for two weeks. We got nothing back from you."

  “I hope you realize that I've been in office only a matter of days."

  “I was speaking of the Administrative Offices. We want action on our grievance."

  Trent shuffled papers around his desk. “Right. I can't seem to—Rupert!"

  Rupert was brushing past the guild man with a file folder.

  “Excellency."

  Trent took the folder and opened it. He glanced at the papers within.

  “All right ... uh, why don't you précis for me what exactly this is all about?"

  “Hey, it's complicated. You shoulda read it."

  “Sorry. Condense it."

  “Actually, we're making some seniority adjustments. All we ask is that you go along with it and change your employee roster accordingly. Not much to ask ... Excellency."

  “So, what's the problem?"

  “The problem is that Administration turned us down. We filed a grievance. You got it in your hand."

  “Fine. Why are you making these adjustments—and when you say ‘adjustments,’ you mean what, exactly?"

  “Demoting some employees to a lower seniority, is all."

  “In favor of others, I assume?"

  “Yeah, kinda."

  “Why?"

  “It's an internal matter. Guild business."

  “So why come to us?"

  “You gotta alter wage scales, benefits, schedules—"

  “Who works and who doesn't, what they get paid."

  “Yeah, you got it ... Excellency."

  “My brother turned you down, didn't he?"

  “Yup."

  “And you expect me to go against his wishes."

  “You're in charge now, aren't you? The Council of Ministers—"

  “No deal. I think I can intuit what's going on, and I don't like it. I don't like fiddling with a servant's livelihood unless there's a very good reason, and you've given me none."

  “Like I said, it's internal. You can't interfere."

  “I can refuse to act favorably on this grievance."

  The guild man waved his cigar menacingly.

  “And I can close this castle down."

  “Get that weed out of my face, mister. I don't take kindly to threats."

  “I can order a walkout any time,” the guild official said casually, withdrawing the pungent cigar.

  “Let me ask you a question. Why does it take no less than five footmen to attend a coach?"

  “You got a problem with that?"

  “Yes, I happen to have a problem with that. From now on three is the maximum."

  “We got a contract!"

  “I'm renegotiating, unilaterally, as it were."

  “We'll walk!"

  “Then walk."

  “The funeral! You'll need—"

  “Get out."

  “But—"

  “Out! And take that burning bush with you. You don't have the proper beatific mien for it."

  Rupert shook his head as the guild official stalked out. When the door slammed he said, �
��You handled that very badly, Excellency. If I may make so bold as to say."

  “You just said it. Yeah, you're right. He really got my goat. I suppose I've bought myself a load of trouble."

  “He not only controls the craftsmen—seamstresses, wainwrights and such—but teamsters and draymen as well."

  “I know, I know. Okay, get the other guy in here. Ye flipping gods."

  “Excellency, there are more visitors in the hallway—we really should get a proper anteroom—"

  Trent groaned, wiping his forehead with a paisley handkerchief.

  “Excellency?"

  “Monster headache. I'll be all right. It's the goddamned banishment thing. I'll have to take a break at some point, get the hell out of the castle."

  “Your schedule for the next few days is crammed. In fact, it's crammed into next week."

  “To say nothing of the state funeral. That's got to last what, all day?"

  “Most of the day, Excellency."

  “Wonderful. With lugubrious music, too."

  “His Majesty's tastes in music were good. The Missa Solemnis is scheduled."

  “Oh. Well ... Gods. Rupert, do you smoke? I need a cigarette."

  “I wasn't aware that His Excellency—"

  “I quit long ago, but this curse thing is driving me crazy. I need something, and alcohol won't do. With booze I'd just teleport right to cloud cuckoo land, nothing would get done."

  “I can have someone run to the tobacconist."

  “Fine. Let's see ... oh, the guy from Lytton. By the way, where and what the hell is Lytton?"

  “A kingdom in the Albion aspect. Much like England of Earth in the Elizabethan period."

  “Okay, Rupert, show the fellow in. Oy."

  “Gevalt,” the secretary said, turning toward the door.

  * * * *

  One after the other, visitors trooped in and out of the office: envoys, ambassadors, ministers plenipotentiary—diplomats of every sort, along with a posse comitatus of castle functionaries, each with their problems, grievances, petty squabbles, and sundry preoccupations.

  The clock chimed nineteen times.

  Trent looked up. “Ye gods and little pink elephants, look at the time."

  Rupert closed the door on the clot of supplicants still in the hallway.

  “No more, Rupert, I'm fagged out."

  “The Regent's office is hereby closed for the day."

  “Thank the deities."

  Trent reached for the pack of cigarettes, found one crumpled, and lit it anyway. He took a long drag and sat back.

  “I'm done in. Did Inky do this every single day?"