Castle Spellbound c-7

by John Dechancie

  "No, it's not going to do any good. Just try to keep together."

  Nevertheless Snowclaw began to drift away from Gene and Linda, who held each other tight.

  Linda gave a painful grunt. "God, we might get crushed to death."

  "Well, that's how I always wanted to die."

  "How."

  "Get mashed to death while making love to a beautiful woman."

  "You might get your wish, aside from the beautiful part."

  "Nonsense, you're as pretty as they come."

  "You'll turn my head, sir, with that… uhhh! God damn it, somebody stepped on my toe."

  "Kiss me and I'll make it better."

  They kissed while the human riptide pulled them across the floor of a vast columned chamber. Linda's feet left the ground. She couldn't get them back down, so she wrapped her legs around Gene. And rather liked it.

  "Looks like we're not going to accomplish much down here," Gene said after their lips parted.

  "The spell's gone absolutely out of control," Linda said, not really caring all that much.

  "We might not make it out of here," Gene told her.

  "I know. I love you, Gene, darling."

  "I love you, Linda, my love. The only one I ever really loved. Let's have a kid or two."

  "Okay, let's."

  "Really? I mean, you really think you'd like that?"

  "Yup."

  "You sure?"

  "Actually, I won't know until it happens. They say it hurts like hell."

  "Yeah, but the castle midwife must have a spell for that."

  "But we might never get the chance to have kids."

  "Maybe not."

  "Unless I can get these shorts off."

  "In the middle of this crowd? Now, that's kinky."

  "They're not really people, are they?"

  "They're doing a good job faking. Hey, what's this?" It was a large carved wooden dining table, an island in the middle of a raging sea.

  "Push, Linda. Get to it."

  "I can't… quite get my legs down…"

  Gene strained heroically, couldn't make headway, then redoubled his effort. Carrying Linda, he broke through the edge of the crowd.

  They fell beneath the table. Feet shuffled around them, legs stamped and kicked. But they were safe for the moment. The table was of solid oak and quite massive.

  "I want to make an honest woman of you."

  "Meaning?"

  "A wedding."

  "Yes! I love weddings!"

  "But shall we, you know, before, do the thing, um…?"

  "You mean make love? Of course! I want it."

  "I want you, Linda."

  "I love you, Gene."

  And there, beneath Ervoldt the Third's ceremonial dining table (dating from the first millennium of the castle's history), on a remarkably warm stone floor, they consummated their love while the crowd surged around them, growing ever thicker, and pink giraffes cavorted with black butterflies and golden dragons up among the high, ribbed vaulting.

  BELSHAZZAR 'S PALACE

  Thorsby came to consciousness feeling nauseated, his stomach burning. He rolled off the divan into a pile of stale half-eaten food and fetid scraps. Holding his throbbing head, he rose shakily. He brushed bits of pate off his toga, then looked about the dais. It was a shambles, strewn with naked bodies, broken bottles, and general detritus.

  He looked out across the chamber. There was still a lot going on, but it was all quite strange. He couldn't quite decide what it was he was looking at. Bizarre animals, to be sure, of even stranger hues. Well, they weren't quite animals, were they? After all, animals don't wear seersucker suitslike that orange moose, there. Were those moose antlers? Elk. Well, whatever. And that mauve elephant certainly looked surreal in a kimono.

  And what were all these strange creatures doing out there? Some were just milling about. Others sat grouped around card tables. Poker, it looked like. A few bridge games. Yes. Some were just sitting idly by, drinking coffee. He watched a magenta rhinoceros pour from a silver pot, filling a mug held by a purple camel in a pink pinstriped suit.

  "Say when," the rhinoceros said.

  "Whoa, that's plenty," the camel replied.

  There was strangeness in the air as well. Hippos like great dirigibles floated above. Lavender, these were, escorted by squadrons of crimson bats. At slightly lower altitudes, vermilion birds soared on rising thermals.

  "What in the name of heaven…?" Suddenly ill, he bent to vomit.

  When it had all come up, he staggered back to the divan. On it lay sprawled a houri smoking a cigarette. Her hair was a horror, her makeup streaked.

  "What gives?" Thorsby asked.

  "What's it look like? I'm bushed."

  "I have to sit down," Thorsby said.

  "Pull up a wine bottle," the houri sneered. She took a long puff and blew smoke in his direction.

  "See here, you cheeky tart-"

  "Up yours, dickhead!"

  With sudden fury, Thorsby kicked the divan over, spilling the houri into the rubbish. Ignoring the burst of obscenity directed at him, he righted the divan and collapsed onto it.

  His tongue, seeming twice as thick as normal, was coated with a velvety, bitter-tasting film. He needed a drink. "Fetch me a… Oh, never mind."

  He struggled to his feet and wandered about the dais, rummaging through piles of refuse. He found a half-full bottle and put it to his lips. His eyes bulged. He sprayed the stuff out explosively and dropped the bottle.

  "Ye gods, I'm poisoned."

  He spat again and again, then wiped his mouth with his forearm. He searched further but came up empty.

  The hugely muscled man in baggy pants was sitting on a corner of the dais, fanning himself with his turban, his legs dangling over the edge. Sweat glistened on his bald pate. His scimitar lay on the platform a short distance away. "What's going on?" Thorsby wanted to know.

  "Not much, pal," the man said sourly as he brought a huge cocoa-colored cigar to his lips. He took a draw. "But what's all this nonsense?"

  The bald man blew smoke away. "Hey, I just work here," he said irritably. "Don't ask me."

  Thorsby again viewed the strangeness on the floor below and in the air above.

  "Spell exhaustion," he pronounced, nodding confidently.

  The bald man gave him a sardonic leer. "You win the door prize, pal."

  "About the worse case I've ever seen, too. Balmy, absolutely balmy."

  The bald man guffawed. "Look who's talking. The magician who cast the flipping spell in the first place."

  "Don't remind me. Gods, what have we done?"

  "Ah, forget it. It was fun while it lasted. But it always comes to this."

  "Oh, you're at this quite a lot, are you?"

  "What are you, a wise guy? We haven't worked in centuries. It just never plays out right, that's all. All we get are jokers like you."

  "Well, look," Thorsby said, "if you'd trot out that grimoire and let us have a look at it, perhaps we could fix some things."

  "Too late, pal. Can't you see the handwritin' on the wall?"

  "The what?"

  The bald man pointed toward the far wall of the vast once-sumptuous but now seedy chamber. "There." Thorsby focused his tired eyes. A disembodied hand was indeed engaged in an offbeat literary genre-writing, using its index finger as a stylus, on the marble of the pilastered wall. In fact, the hand had been at it for some time. The molding along the ceiling bore this inscription:

  MENE MENE TEKEL UPHARSIN

  Below it stretched a descending series of tersely wrought sentiments:

  MENE MENE MINEY MOE

  HEY JERK LOOK UP HERE

  THE PARTY'S OVER

  EVERYBODY OUT OF THE POOL

  YOUR ASS IS GRASS

  WARNING WILL ROBINSON

  HEY STUPID

  WHADDYA GOTTA DO TO GET THIS CLOWN'S ATTENTION?

  "Oh, dear," Thorsby said.

  "Yeah." The bald man took a long, thoughtful puff on his ciga
r. "I'd say you'd better vamoose, little buddy. 'Course-"

  "What?"

  Another long puff. "There's no way outta the joint until the spell completely fizzles."

  "What's going to happen to me?"

  "You don't wanna know, pal. My advice is, make yourself scarce. When the Grand Wazir makes his appearance, heads are gonna roll."

  "The Grand W-w…?" Thorsby swallowed bile. His stomach began its acid churning again.

  "Yeah." The bald man sighed. "He don't like bein' toyed with. Know what I mean?"

  "I didn't… we didn't-" Thorsby suddenly remembered. "Fetchen. Ye gods!"

  He began running frantically about the dais, kicking through garbage, overturning bodies, unpiling piles. "Fetchen! Fetchen, old darling!"

  He pawed his way through a mound of rotting beluga caviar.

  "Fetchen, speak up, old chap!"

  At long last, beneath six layers of unconscious houris, under a mound of rotten fruit and decomposing food mixed with broken bottles and shards of crockery, Fetchen turned up.

  Thorsby hauled him out, laid him down, and began slapping his cheeks.

  "Fetchen, old chap, come round. That's it, old bean, wake up! Wake up, there's a good fellow."

  Fetchen said, "Wuuuuhhhhhhhhhhh." His lips were purple.

  "There you go, good as new. Bit of a hangover, eh, old sport? Well, we've all had a bally good laugh, but now it's time to go back to work. Let's be up and doing, come on."

  "Uuuuuhhhhhhhhhh," Fetchen replied.

  "There we go, there we go,"

  "He's had it," came a voice behind Thorsby. It was the bald man, still smoking his noxious cigar.

  "No, he hasn't!" Thorsby snapped. "He'll be just as good as new after I get some coffee in him. You there! Fetch us a cup of coffee!"

  "Drop dead, jerkoff."

  "Horrid little strumpet. Smelling salts! Yes, that's what we need. Please, have a little pity."

  The houri chuckled her reply.

  "How cruel can you be? This man's dying!"

  "My heart's bleedin', honey."

  "You'd let him die?"

  "Betcha sweet ass."

  "Better it happens now," the bald man said, turning away.

  KEEP — HIGHER UP

  People everywhere!

  Throngs of them, droves of them. People of every description decked out in every sort of wild get-up. Kwip had never seen so many different varieties of human creature. And they were all after his loot!

  "That's mine!" Kwip screamed at the man with the odd pill-shaped cap.

  "How do you figure, mate?"

  Kwip grabbed at the sparkling sapphire ring. When the lanky sailor held it out of reach over his head, grinning, Kwip let him have a boot in the groin. The sailor went down and Kwip had his ring back. The encircling crowd voiced its disapproval, hissing and booing.

  "To the devil with all of you," Kwip snarled as he ran off, the bulky sack of recovered booty rattling against his back.

  First endless musicians, then big cats, then gladiators, and now this. He'd nearly lost his life to the cats-that last pair had chased him down six flights of stairs-but Kwip almost preferred them to this horde of sticky-fingered scavengers.

  Through a chink in the rush he spied a gold chalice lying on the stone floor of the corridor; but he wasn't quick enough. Before he could reach it, the thing got kicked. It skittered down the hall and ended up being punted into a side passage.

  Hefting the overstuffed sack, Kwip pushed and shoved his way after it, but the press got ever greater. Someone stepped on his toe and he yelped. Then someone trod on his heels; he let loose a punch to the kidney in answer. The man on the receiving end collapsed against his neighbor, who in turn tripped up two unfortunate passers-by, who… and so forth. This domino effect generated a minor tussle, which Kwip struggled to get away from.

  At a safe distance, he resumed the pursuit. Drat. Now he'd lost sight of the chalice. He stooped and peered among the hosts of stamping feet, and for his trouble got goosed up the backside. He clouted the nearest suspect, who was in fact completely innocent; but no matter. Kwip ducked the retaliatory blow, which landed on another bystander, who became justly aggrieved-and in no time a major brawl broke out between a construction gang and some gentlemen in leather vests and odd helmets.

  Kwip couldn't slip away from this quarrel. A giant of a man came at him and he had to resort to whacking the brute with the sack, which promptly split open.

  A cascade of baubles and bangles splashed to the floor: bracelets, anklets, earrings, and chains; pins, brooches, chatelaines, torques. Out gushed gems and precious stones of every sort and value: diamonds, emeralds, agate, and heliotrope, onyx and amethyst, all clattering and tinkling and skittering into every nook and corner.

  There ensued a mad scramble for the scattered treasure. Fist fights broke out all over. Shouts and curses. Fingers gouged at eyeballs, knees found their way to sensitive parts. Elbows jabbed into solar plexuses.

  At length Kwip crawled out of the swirling maelstrom. He got to his feet, saw a swinging door, and fled through it. He found himself on a wide landing between stairways with a high Palladian window, overlooking courtyards far below, set into the far wall. Amazing to behold, there was no traffic on the stairs. Kwip sat himself down on the stone window seat and burst into tears.

  All his swag, gone. How many years' work? Half a dozen, at least. Piles of pretty gewgaws, heaps of fancy trinkets, gold, silver, and platinum gimcracks. All lovely little bijous, and all irretrievably lost. Washed away like sand castles with the rising tide.

  Castles! He never wanted to see the inside of another castle as long as he lived. He would hie himself out of this insane place once and for all. He would choose a likely looking aspect, one of tidy villages peopled by sturdy upright middle-class stock, prosperous burghers, every man, woman, and child. And he'd steal them blind and live at his ease and be happy forevermore.

  He let loose a great despairing sigh. Gods. No, truth to tell, he'd probably stay here. Stealing was work, and Kwip had never cared much for work. Which was why he stole in the first place. In the past few years he'd slacked off something awful. He liked to steal, he loved his profession, but when there was no real need for it…

  Ah, well.

  The door on the landing burst open. Kwip looked up and was puzzled when no one came through. The door eased shut. He shrugged and went back to brooding.

  "Kwip."

  Kwip was startled to hear a disembodied voice at his side.

  He jumped to his feet and searched about, yet still saw no one.

  It is i, Osmirik.

  Kwip said warily, "Where are you?"

  In front of you. One moment.

  Kwip was astounded when Osmirik materialized before his eyes.

  "Sorcery, is it?" Kwip asked.

  "Of a low sort," Osmirik said. "With it I avoided the sword fights, but these teeming multitudes make passage through the castle impossible." He cast glances up and down the stairwell. "Seems to be thin in here."

  "Aye. But I hear rumblings below."

  Osmirik listened. Sounds of mounting feet drifted up from the depths of the stairwell. His shoulders fell.

  "The way is by no means clear." he said.

  "By no means," Kwip agreed. "But then, why descend to the lower floors? Thence come all our troubles, methinks."

  "True, but I must get to the source, which, I have surmised, may be a certain hidden storeroom in the crypt."

  "Think you?"

  "Indeed. i may be able to abrogate the spell, or at least inform the king so that he may do so."

  "Aye, good. But getting there's the rub."

  "True."

  Osmirik sat and thought.

  Lord Peter Thaxton came running down the stairs and skidded to a stop on sight of the two dispirited men. Thaxton was breathing hard. "What gives?"

  "Nary a thing," Kwip said. "I've just lost my life's fortune."

  "Just lost my best friend," Thaxton said. />
  Osmirik was about to ask who, but realized it could only be one man. "My condolences. How came it about?"

  "Details later, please," Thaxton said as he sat down heavily. "Must get my second wind."

  "We are essaying to find a way to the lower keep," Osmirik said.

  "Me, too," Thaxton said. "If there's a chance he may be alive, I've got to get to him."

  "I see."

  "Besides, I've got to alert the Guards, all that," Thaxton said, then bent over and put his head between his knees. "Sorry, bit dizzy."

  "Rest awhile, my friend," Osmirik bade him. "Meantime, I shall think."

  "Bloody hell," Thaxton said, for no particular reason.

  "Aye." Kwip concurred in this sentiment.

  "Bloody awful," Thaxton said. "Nasty business."

  Kwip nodded in baleful agreement. "Aye, it is."

  Thaxton lifted his head. "You saw it, then?"

  "I was there," Kwip said.

  "You were? I didn't see you."

  Kwip came out of his wistful reverie. "Pardon? What say you?"

  "I said, if you were there, I certainly didn't see you. Whereabouts-?"

  "I've got it!" Osmirik shouted, jumping to his feet.

  "What's that?" Thaxton said.

  "The way down. Help me open these casements."

  Thaxton and Kwip exchanged doubtful looks, but assisted Osmirik in unlatching the windows and swinging them open. Outside was a narrow ledge. Osmirik stepped up onto it.

  "Just what do you have in mind?" Thaxton wanted to know.

  "We shall jump."

  Thaxton looked at Kwip, then at Osmirik. He turned away, reaching back to massage the nape of his neck. "Everyone's gone balmy," he muttered.

  Kwip scowled at the Royal Librarian. "Ye gods, man, have you lost your senses? Or is this more sorcery?"

  "None of my doing. You do know that the castle is tricked out with many spells?"

  Kwip snorted. "Hardly a revelation."

  "But did you know that there is a spell, a series of them, which can catch a man if he fall from a great height?"

  "You're daft."

  "Hardly. No one can fall to his death from Perilous as long as these spells are efficaciously operative."

  Thaxton, at first dumbfounded, managed to say, "Good God, man. Are you quite serious?"