“It'll come. Part of the learning process."
“Boss, what is it I'm supposed to be learning?"
“You got me, Steve. Not my department."
“I still have the vague feeling that I don't belong here."
“Yeah, you've said that many times. You know, I'm inclined to agree with you. You don't seem like the rest."
“I don't feel dead."
“Well, there's always some residual disbelief."
“I feel it's a lot more than that. I really do not believe I'm supposed to be here."
Minos shrugged. “But you're here. Hey, what are you gonna do? Maybe you just haven't faced facts yet."
“Possibly. Possibly."
“Then again...” Minos heaved his shoulders again. “I dunno. Maybe you'll find your answer out to sea, like everybody else. Maybe your case is special, but your destiny is still the same. The only way to find out is to get on that boat and take the final journey."
“To where, boss? Where?"
“But ... Stevie boy, that's the whole point, isn't it?"
Steve nodded. “Yeah, I guess it is."
“Right. Well, I'll see you ... Uh, you are gonna work one more shift?"
“Sure. Tomorrow-which-is-meaningless-here."
“Okey-doke. See you around."
“Right."
Minos shut the door after him.
He poured himself two fingers of ambrosia from Minos’ hidden stash and sat, sipping thoughtfully.
SPOT QUIZ NO. 2
Multiple Choice. Circle the correct answer.
1. A spell that makes things happen is called a:
A. magic spell
B. make-it-happen spell
C. facilitation spell
D. bribe
2. A device for faster-than-light communication is a:
A. cellular phone
B. CB radio
C. multiphone
D. friend of your wife
3. What character in Greek mythology does the strange specter in the ferryboat evoke?
A. Charon
B. Theseus
C. Bellerophon
D. Biff the Wonder Clam of Phrygia
4. Departed relatives may be contacted in the afterworld through the services of a:
A. psychic medium
B. necromancer
C. good lawyer
D. yenta
5. There once was a man from Khartoum, who took a lesbian up to his:
A. room
B. pad
C. flat
D. roommate
6. Life's a bitch, and then you:
A. get transferred to New Jersey
B. get audited by the IRS
C. die and then get transferred to New Jersey
D. die and then get audited by the IRS
7. Posse comitatus is a Latin phrase meaning:
A. a band of unconscious deputies
B. an unconscious pussycat
C. a band of communist deputies
D. a band of communist pussycats
8. If a .01-kiloton warhead can kill 1000 people, how many times more powerful would a warhead have to be in order to kill all the lawyers in the world?
A. 100 times
B. 1000 times
C. 10,000 times
D. nuclear weapons aren't that powerful
9. Author is to publisher as helpless swimmer is to:
A. poisonous jellyfish
B. riptide
C. shark
D. tidal wave
10. Book reviewer is to snake as literary critic is to:
A. jerk
B. weasel
C. alcoholic failed writer with two divorces under his belt
D. shithead
Essay Questions. Again, your answer should be limited to 500 words.
1. Discuss the problems inherent in the task of adapting this novel as (1) a screenplay; (2) a radio drama; (3) a “graphic novel” (comic book); (4) a set of collector dinner plates.
2. Briefly outline the eschatologies of the world's major religions and compare and contrast them. Tell how you wouldn't be caught dead in any of them, and are they kidding or what?
3. Write an essay praising the author in the most enthusiastic terms and send it to the publisher, along with an order for 15 copies of each of his books.
Suggested Projects:
1. Organize a jousting tournament in your neighborhood. Seek federal funding. The departments of Housing, Education and Welfare would be good places to start.
2. Organize a toad-fling in your neighborhood. Call it “performance art” or “conceptual art.” Seek federal funding. The National Endowment for the Arts would be a good place to start.
MALNOVIA—ELECTOR'S PALACE
OFFICE OF THE CHAMBERLAIN
“So Kind of you to pay us this visit, my lord."
The Chamberlain was an elderly man with a shiny bald pate and skin like wrinkled parchment. His eyes were sharp, his fingers long and thin. The office in which he sat was a rococo wonder, glinting with gold leaf on fancy scrollwork.
The chamber's high, mullioned windows looked out on an expanse of formal garden. The weather was sunny and pleasant, matching the Chamberlain's official disposition.
Nevertheless, Trent caught the hint of a nervous chill underneath all the diplomacy.
“Something of urgency came up,” Trent said. “I came as soon as I could. You're very kind to receive me on such short notice. Chamberlain."
Trent's host raised both hands. “How could I refuse the brother of our late lamented Court Magician? What with the press of duties attending upon the funeral and other matters, I naturally assumed any request for a visit from a member of the family to be extremely urgent indeed."
“It is."
A servant came in, bearing a tray with a cut-glass decanter and long-stemmed glasses.
“Will you take some dry sack this afternoon, my lord?” the Chamberlain asked.
“Thank you."
Wine poured and served, the servant left, closing tall doors behind him. The sound echoed in the high chamber.
“And now, my good lord,” the Chamberlain said, “would you be so kind as to tell me what brings you to our fair principality?"
Trent set his glass down on a small table at this side.
“I have reason to believe that my brother was murdered."
After helping to sop up the wine that the Chamberlain had sprayed and spilled across the desk, Trent sat back down. He waited for the Chamberlain to stop choking.
At last, hoarse-voiced and weakly smiling, the Chamberlain said, “Went down the wrong pipe, that did."
“Very sorry to be so brusque."
“Think nothing of—” The Chamberlain coughed, took a gulp of sherry, coughed once again and cleared his throat. He then went on: “Whatever makes you think that your brother was—” He swallowed hard. “Murdered?"
“One thing only. There is some sort of spell on him. A very subtle and hard-to-detect spell. And in fact it was only detected when the undertaker tried to cast a preservation spell on the body. The spell was warded off by something."
The Chamberlain finished mopping the desk with is handkerchief and sat back. “This is very interesting. Uh ... but of course, your brother was a magician. Could this spell be of his doing?"
“No. It is not his style."
“I'm not sure I—"
“Each magician has his own, identifiable style, like an artist. It's as unmistakable as a signature. I know my brother's hand, and this spell is not his work."1
[1. Very clever notion. This novel is rife with clever notions. At times it borders on being too clever by half. But at least it is not a dull book. There is quite a good deal of dull stuff being published these days in the fantasy genre. Droves of dragons, Celtic swordswomen, elves, magic blades, and the rest, all with titles like Sword-wanker. Witchflinger, Dragonsdong. Dragonwhacker, Spellmacher, and worse. Honestly, it's enough to make you puke into your flagon of mead.]<
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“I see. Yes, I've heard that about magic and magicians."
“It takes some sensitivity to perceive these subtleties, naturally."
“Naturally. Doubtless you know whereof you speak."
The Chamberlain drained his glass and poured himself another from the decanter.
He sat back, glass in hand. “Now, exactly, what is it you want of me?"
“I want an investigation, naturally."
“An investigation? Ah, yes ... yes."
“I want the murderer brought to justice. To do that, you have to catch him—and to do that you must proceed with the usual police procedures. You—” Trent leaned forward. “Unless there's some problem with that?"
“Problem. Well, I actually can't say at the moment. I see no reason why there would be any difficulty, looking at it at first blush. Of course, if there's been a murder, why it follows as the night the day that ... uh, well—"
Trent slumped back. “I take it there is some problem."
The Chamberlain drank and set the glass on his sedulously polished desk. “I suppose it would be better to say that I see no barrier to our proceeding with a murder investigation, or any criminal investigation, provided I can present the Lord Prosecutor's office with clear prima facie evidence of criminal wrongdoing."
“In other words, you're saying my word isn't good enough."
The Chamberlain raised a hand in protest. “My lord, I say no such thing. I have no reason to doubt you. But I can't approach the Lord Prosecutor with anything but hard evidence. Not necessarily conclusive evidence, mind you, but evidence of some kind other than the conjecture, however well-founded, of an aggrieved relative, even one of so high a station as yourself."
“I see. What sort of evidence would you need?"
“The usual, my lord. First and foremost, clear forensic proof that death was caused by occult means."
“Very hard to get."
“Indeed, indeed."
“What else?"
“Well, again, the usual sorts of things. Depositions of eyewitnesses."
“Again, difficult in magical cases."
“Evidence of the means by which the murder was committed."
“Tough."
“A motive—"
“Means, motive, and opportunity, the whole bit."
“Precisely, my lord. Solid forensic proof would be enough to start things off."
“Well, I'll see if that can't be done, somehow,” Trent said. “Should be some way, though I don't know much about these things. I'll talk to Dr. Mirabilis. Our forensic pathologist."
“Would he be able to detect another hand in the spell and file a deposition to that effect?"
“Possibly.” Trent reached for his glass. “Damn it, I don't know. He's good at medical magic and not much else."
“Ah,” the Chamberlain said regretfully. “Then..."
“I'm up shit creek without a kayak."
“I beg your pardon?"
“Nothing. Is there any way ... What if I speak to the Lord Prosecutor himself? If I could convince him—"
“I am afraid that his lordship is away on state business. He won't be back for several weeks."
“Well, that's no good. My brother will be in his grave. It will be hell persuading my people to exhume the body."
The Chamberlain sighed. “Well, I suppose there's nothing to be done."
“Perhaps the Prosecutor can be reached by messenger?"
“Yes, but it would be several days getting word back, and I'm afraid it would be difficult for his lordship to initiate a major criminal investigation at such a great remove."
“Nevertheless, I must give it a try. Would you have your secretary draft a message for me? I'll dictate."
The Chamberlain seemed hesitant. “Why, of course."
“Where is the Prosecutor, by the way?"
“With the Emperor."
Trent's shoulders sagged. “No doubt he's preoccupied."
“Oh, very much so, my lord. He's assisting in an investigation of high crimes and misdemeanors among His Imperial Majesty's own ministers. His time will be at a premium. I said that it would take a few days for him to respond. I should have added that a few weeks might be the more likely interval."
“Great."
“Eh? Oh. Yes, unfortunate. And, of course..."
Trent's blue eyes narrowed. “Yes?"
“Well, you know, magicians."
“What about magicians?"
The Chamberlain shrugged. “No one likes to meddle in these things. This city is full of magicians. They practically have their own government. The Magicians’ Guild is powerful. Most of time they dispose of these matters among themselves, and no one gainsays them the right to do it."
“So,” Trent said. “I must deal with them."
“So it would seem. Have you any connections here?"
“None. I haven't been here in ... well, it's been quite a while."
“I would recommend visiting the local chapter of the Guild."
Trent was silent as he stared out the window. “I am very sorry, my lord, that I have nothing else to offer. Would you ... would you care for more sherry?"
Trent's answer was slow to come. “Hm? Oh. No, no thank you. I shall be leaving. Chamberlain."
Trent rose and gathered up his cape.
The Chamberlain rose with him. He was a small man, eager to please, fearful of giving offense, politic in the extreme, and totally bland.
“Thank you so much. Chamberlain."
“It is nothing, my lord. What will you do?"
“I will stay in Malnovia, for the moment, if the Elector will permit."
“I shall see that you are granted every amenity."
“My thanks."
“But what else will you do, my lord?"
“I shall try to find my brother's murderer."
The Chamberlain's expression was pained. “But are you quite sure he was murdered?"
“Very sure."
“But, my lord, isn't it sometimes better not to meddle where there is no hope of success? You are a stranger here. The chances you will uncover anything—please forgive—are quite remote. Why must you—?"
“I must,” Trent said. “I must find out who killed Incarnadine—or else..."
“Yes?"
“They'll blame it on me."
Trent walked out of the high, resplendent chamber, his footsteps echoing hollowly.
CASTLE—CHAPEL
The chapel's architecture was not truly Gothic, though it evoked the style. The castle's architecture was sui generis,1 unique; but it did have second cousins, and one of them was Earth medieval.
[1. A Latin phrase for a farmer who raises pigs and overfeeds them.]
Linda stared up at the ribbed vaulting of the roof, a roof that looked twenty stories high. “Chapel” was a misnomer. “Cathedral” was more like it, clerestory windows and all.
But this was not a Christian church. Linda had only a vague idea of the religion of the castle's world, knowing only that it was polytheistic and complex. But there weren't any statues here. No nine-armed gods, no scared bulls, none of the trappings of paganism, or what she thought of as paganism. Instead, the pillars, buttresses, and walls were covered with all manner of cryptic signs and symbols graven into stone.
Up front, there where the altar should have been but wasn't. Incarnadine lay in state, his body draped in robes, his face serene. The simple coffin was of dark wood, borne on a bier of polished gold. The cathedral was hung with black shrouds. No flowers.
He doesn't look dead, she had thought when first viewing the body. He can't be dead. He looks exactly as he did in life. Slyly handsome, prominent chin, thick dark hair, fair complexion, thin nose. Robust, full of life.
She realized that she was in love with him.
He can't be dead. He can't be.
She had cried a lot over the last two days. She had to face reality. He was gone, forever. He had lived 300 years and more, and now he lived no longer. As
strong as his magic was, it could not ward off the hex that afflicts all living things: the curse that says, You must die.
The scent of incense drifted to her. The place smelled like a church. Soft music was playing, emanating from an unseen speaker, she presumed. It sounded like strings, but she couldn't identify the kind of music it was, much less the selection.
She settled back in her seat and sighed. The place had no pews, just like the great medieval cathedrals. Chairs—quite comfortable ones—had been set up, and for them she was grateful.
No, actually the chapel didn't seem so much like a church after all. It was too much like the rest of the castle, and the castle was unlike anything on Earth. She wondered if Incarnadine had been a religious man. Did he believe in his family's traditional religion? Were there gods, real gods, in this universe? Everything else of a supernatural bent existed in this universe, and she decided that mere gods shouldn't be an exception.
She thought about her own views on religion. They didn't amount to much. She held very few firm convictions about anything important: religion, politics, philosophy. This lack had always bothered her.
She simply wasn't any kind of super-intellectual. Never had been. Gene—now there was a smart kid.
Too smart, sometimes. He was always thinking, furiously thinking, wheels turning, scheming.
Gene. Where the heck was he, anyway? A few servants had fanned out to look for him, but he was nowhere to be found. Off in some wild aspect, probably, having fun. Well, he was in for quite a shock when he came back. Incarnadine would be in his tomb by then.
The funeral was tomorrow. They'd moved it up. Incarnadine was supposed to have lain in state for a week or more, but somebody had second thoughts and rescheduled the service for tomorrow morning. Why, she didn't know.
She grew aware that other people had come into the chapel. She looked back to see Dalton, Thaxton, Deena Williams, and Melanie McDaniel heading her way, all wearing black armbands.
Linda was wearing a mourning outfit that she had whipped up. Black tights, a nice doublet with black sequins, black boots.
Dalton took the seat to her left, Melanie opposite.
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