Castle Dreams c-6

by John Dechancie

  “What the hell’s a chicken doing out here?”

  “Er … chicken of the sea?”

  He raised the rifle. “That’s two.”

  Telly ran from the bridge.

  The skipper noticed that the ship had grown a bit bigger; it was now, in fact, a three-masted schooner.

  “Or perhaps a salmon packet,” he mused.

  Anyway, the Perilous was now a full-fledged sailing vessel, and he speculated that this transformation was meant to appease him in some way. Perhaps his complaints had been heard.

  Didn’t make a damn bit of difference. He was fairly sure he didn’t want any part of this.

  The wind blew out of the clouds, and the clouds — noctilucent, almost ectoplasmic — raced by like spirits. Rain pelted the deck and beat against the sails while the wind whipped them about.

  “And I’m really getting tired of the footnotes, too!” he shouted.[26]

  The storm was putting on quite a show. Too good a show, in fact. The ship bobbed liked a cork.

  He lashed himself to the helm. Then he lashed himself to the mast. When none of that worked, he lashed Telly.

  “Hey, what the hell are you lashing me for, Cap’n?”

  “You’re handy.”

  “Put down that lash!”

  “Sorry I flared. Look, this has got to stop.”

  “What’s got to stop?”

  “This sham, this entire bamboozle.”

  “Are you insinuating that this is all some sort of put-on?”

  “That is exactly what I am insinuating. Look.”

  He raised his hands against the storm.

  In an instant, the sea calmed, the wind subsided, and part of the backdrop fell over to reveal a brick wall.

  “See?”

  “Aw, you’re no fun.”

  “Now, what kind of afterlife d’you call that?”

  Telly raised his hands apologetically. “It’s the best we can do.”

  “Well, it’s not good enough. I’m jumping ship.”

  “What? You can’t do that.”

  “Why not? I refuse to go through with this nonsense.”

  “But, you must. You’re dead, and you have to have an afterlife.”

  “I may be dead, but I’ll be damned if I’ll have an afterlife. I mean, what’s the point? Is there an afterlife after the afterlife?”

  “No.”

  “Why not? Seems to me you could just go on and on. Pointless. Why not let it end? Give it a rest. When it’s over it’s over.”

  “But you don’t understand.”

  “Oh, I think I do. By the way, I remember my name.”

  “Oh, that’s nice. What is it?”

  “I’m Ed McMahon. You may already be a winner.”[27]

  “Seriously …”

  “I’m serious! I’m checking out.”

  “You can’t.”

  “I’m cashing in my chips. I’m vacating the premises. I’m history. I am one with Nineveh and Tyre.”

  “I take it you mean this.”

  He went to the rail, climbed up on it and stood regarding the “deep.” It was more or less a swimming pool backed by a lighted cyclorama, as in a TV or film studio.

  “I don’t even believe this,” he said, scowling.

  The studio, too, faded away. All that was left was the ship, adrift in a gray void, an indeterminate nothingness.

  “Telemachus” was still there. He said, “You’ll drift alone, forever, through eternity.”

  “Better that than this charade.”

  “You might change your mind,” came the warning. “But then it will be too late, Ed.”

  “Let me worry about that. By the way, my name is Incarnadine.”

  He jumped from the rail.

  And fell … and fell … and fell …

  Twenty-six

  Malnovia

  The house stood at the end of a cul-de-sac off a side street in the middle-class section of the city. It wasn’t a bad house. Big oak beams alternated with off-white stucco, steep gables topping it all off. Otherwise undistinguished. It was a quiet little lane; a mews, really; an alley.

  But it was definitely the source of the spookiness.

  Trent stood at the corner and checked things out. This was a very tranquil location, tucked away from the bustle of the city yet right in the heart of things. Perfect neighborhood for a little pied-à-terre. For trysts. Afternoon assignations. A sordid affair or two.

  He walked down the lane, checking each house as he passed. Discreet neighbors; keep to themselves. Never gossip. Oh, no.

  Even a pleasant tree or two at the curb; beeches. Some shrubbery. Clean sidewalk. Very nice indeed.

  He stopped in front of the pseudo-Tudor affair and stood arms akimbo, casing the joint. Rather narrow. Nice windows. Oops, one cracked, there. The place could use a coat of whitewash. Or maybe a warm earth-tone — buff, beige, whatever. Be daring — puce.

  The door was one step up from the sidewalk. Again, coated with what looked like black lacquer. This one had a knob and a bronze knocker, though.

  He tried the knocker and waited.

  “Read your meter!” he called.

  He tried the knob. It turned. The door opened.

  “Well, now.”

  He went in and shut the door. Inside was a vestibule with a coat rack and a tall mirror. He passed through this and entered a hallway that continued past a stairway to a distant kitchen. The top of the stairs was dark. To the right lay the parlor, and this he decided to explore first.

  The room was dark and stuffy, chock full of curios and bric-a-brac: stuffed birds; statuary of low-brow taste favoring the theme of mythical animals; horological charts and other posters featuring things astrological; a chart on the science of metoposcopy, showing the salient features of the human visage, especially the lines of the forehead; many incense burners — in fact the place was redolent of sandalwood — hundreds of decorative candles, many of them black; a number of pieces of primitive art, medicine masks and such; an ancient mummy case, standing in a corner; innumerable pentacles and mystical signs; decorated cups and chalices and bowls having a ceremonial look about them; more candles; more pentacles; more paraphernalia associated with a wide variety of occult disciplines: phrenology, cheiromancy, cartomancy, alchemy, and on and on.

  The place reeked of magic. Cheap magic.

  He rolled back a wooden door and walked into a dining area usurped by more quaint clutter.

  The kitchen was a mess.

  He came down the hall to the foot of the stairs and listened. Faint music.

  As he mounted the staircase he recognized the piece: the “Moonlight” sonata, in C-sharp minor. Good spooky tune.

  Something was coalescing at the top of the stairs. At least, something was trying to come together. He stopped to let it.

  The thing finally materialized. Another demon, rather haphazardly formed. Botched around the legs. It was properly scaled and fanged, though, and looked fearsome enough.

  Demon and human locked eyes for a moment.

  The demon said, “You’re violating private property.”

  “The real estate agent said to go right in.”

  “Oh … huh?”

  “Actually, I’m selling Girl Scout cookies. You want S’mores?”

  “Don’t toy with me!”

  The demon made swiping motions with sharp claws and snapped its crooked yellow teeth.

  Trent observed, arms folded.

  The demon presently ceased these blandishments. It stared vacantly.

  Trent said loudly, “Well?”

  The thing raised its arms in a gesture of exasperated hopelessness. “Oh,shit! Forget it! Forget I said anything! Excuse me, I’ll just go back to my needlepoint.”

  It stalked off, grumbling its disgust. A door slammed.

  Trent chuckled as he went up the steps.

  There were three bedrooms. He didn’t bother with the one the demon had entered. The one at the top of the stairs was stuffed with crate
s and boxes. That left the front bedroom.

  This door was locked.

  He tried a spell and got the lock unlocked all right, but he sensed a redundancy of chains and latches and deadbolts and such on the other side. Deciding to drop subtlety, he blew the son-of-a-bitching thing in with a moderate blast.

  The door became a puff of sawdust mixed with plaster dust from sections of wall. When the dust settled, he walked in.

  And there, in a room full of books, sitting at a large circular table, was a man in black robes and conical hat, playing solitaire. He was middle-aged with mutton-chop sideburns and thick black-framed glasses. He looked up with a cheery, confident smile, showing small feral teeth.

  “Glad you could come. Prince Trent, I presume.”

  “The same,” Trent answered. “What goes on here?”

  The man chuckled. “You know, you did break into my house. I really should protest.”

  “Your front door was open. Now, this is an interesting device.”

  He referred to what lay in the middle of the table. It was an oblong block of some transparent substance — not glass; most likely Plexiglas. Embedded inside it was a miniature figure, a doll. The block had been positioned in the middle of a very primitive-looking pentacle carved into the wood of the circular table.

  Trent bent to peer at the figure. It was a good likeness.

  “What the heck is this?” Trent studied the patterns. “Don’t tell me it’s … voodoo?”

  The man chuckled again. “You got it.”

  Trent straightened, pushed back his plumed hat and laughed. “Well, I’ll be damned. You blind-sided Inky with a zombie spell?”

  “Sometimes the simplest approach works best. I like primitive magic. It works well against sophisticates. As you said, “blind-sided.””

  “You sucker-punched him.”

  The man laughed. “It worked.”

  “But —” Trent had to laugh, too. He began a tour of the room, reading book spines and examining curios. Mostly there were books; stuffed shelves reached to the ceiling and blanketed the walls. It wasn’t a bad collection, mostly on the occult.

  An old Victrola was scratchily playing the “Moonlight.”

  The man said, “By the way, the name is Ruthven.”

  “So, Ruthven,” Trent said. “Let me guess. You do most of your business running the little con. F’rinstance, you hex a field of barley and then hoodwink the poor farmer into hiring you to ward off the evil spirits causing the blight.”

  “That one’s older than dirt.”

  “Or put the kibosh on a tinker’s business and sell him liability insurance, so to speak.”

  “Always a good one. You’re right, the standard scams. I like to keep to basics. I make a fair living.”

  Trent gestured toward the table. “But this …this, for all its primitivism, is rather ambitious.”

  “Yeah.” Ruthven played another card. “I want to retire soon. I don’t have much money saved. I like the ladies, if you know what I mean. I like a good time. So I’ve been something less than prudent. Consequently, when someone at the castle came to me with a proposition, I jumped at the chance.”

  “Someone at the castle,” Trent mused, still strolling. As he passed by a closet he reached out and yanked the door open, and continued on.

  “These are modern times, Tragg. Come out of the closet.”

  A timorous, worried Lord Tragg came out of his hiding place.

  “It wasn’t my idea!”

  Ruthven chortled at that.

  “No?” Trent kept on peering at book titles. “Whose, then?”

  “This man!” Tragg pointed at his accomplice. “He came to me!”

  “Give it up, Tragg,” Ruthven said. “You’re no actor.” Tragg sniffed. “Oh, I admit I wanted Incarnadine out of the way. Our enmity goes back centuries. He’s done me no end of wrong. He cuckolded me, once, long ago. My first wife.”

  “Doesn’t sound like Inky,” Trent said. “But anyway, go on.”

  “Well, my wife and I weren’t married at the time, but —”

  “Then your terminology is a little skewed.”

  “But that was only one of the slights he paid me, a single instance of the wrongs that he has done me.”

  “I’m still listening.”

  “Why, he once sued my estate for back taxes that nearly ruined me!”

  “And he probably never collected. He’s too easy on tax dodgers and scofflaws. That’s one of my beefs about Inky. But, continue, please.”

  “I won’t recite the litany. Suffice it to say that I have ample and sufficient justification —”

  “You have bupkis.”

  “I beg your pardon, sir. This coarse phraseology you tend to use is most indecorous. Really, sir!”

  “Tragg, shut up.”

  Tragg did.

  Trent circled back to the table. “So, Inky’s not dead.”

  “He won’t last long in a sealed sarcophagus,” Ruthven told him. “Takes only half an hour or so. Even if he has air, he won’t last long.”

  “Very slick. A sleeping spell. One that induces a sleep deep enough to pass for death.”

  “It does pass easily enough,” Ruthven said. “There are signs to look for, tip-offs, but you have to know what they are. Most doctors would sign the death certificate without question.”

  “You fooled Mirabilis,” Trent said. “And he’s good.”

  “I knew it would work,” Ruthven said. “But I wasn’t sure how long it would last. With anyone else, I wouldn’t have worried. But when you deal with a magician as powerful as your brother, there’s every chance that he could break the spell and come out of the sleep. So I had the castle undertaker — one of Tragg’s buddies — pretend he couldn’t cast the preservation spell. Of course, this tipped you off —”

  “WHAT!” Tragg was astounded. “You had Miron spill the beans? Of all the harebrained …”

  “I told you,” Ruthven said irritably. “His lying in state for ten days was way too risky. He would have come to and then our gooses would have been done to a turn. I had to shorten the whole process and that was the only way to do it.”

  “But, letting him find out. That’s insane!”

  “Is it?” Ruthven looked at Trent. “You know, Trent, this is redounding to your benefit. You’re Regent because of me. I did for you what you once tried to do for yourself. And if you stick with me, I can make you King of Perilous. Permanent.”

  “Do away with Brandon.”

  “And nobody will know. Nobody. It’s a good scam, Your Excellency. I’m willing to cut you in for a piece of the action.”

  Trent smiled. “What about your buddy Tragg, here?”

  “Tragg’s about as much good to me as mammaries on a satyr.”

  Tragg began to turn a distinct shade of magenta.

  Ruthven went on, “I was going to approach you, but I didn’t know you. You’re royalty and you’d hardly have deigned to team up with the likes of me. So I used Tragg as a cat’s-paw.”

  “And you figured that when I copped to this setup I’d throw in with you.”

  “That’s the way I figured it. Did I figure right?”

  “What’s in it for you?”

  “Like I said, I want to retire. I want to live in Perilous. Not the castle itself, or course. Drafty old barn. I want to be set up in my own world. A nice situation. A little palace, mostly women servants, hand-picked. You get the picture. Some comfort in my old age. Everything I’ve ever wanted.”

  “I see.” Trent nodded slowly. “I see.” He took a deep breath. “Ruthven, I’m afraid I’m going to have to disappoint you. No deal.”

  Tragg seemed relieved.

  “Mind telling me why?” Ruthven asked as he went back to his game of solitaire.

  “No, not at all. If you had asked me fifty, a hundred years ago, I might have taken you up on it. But things change, people change. I no longer want the throne.”

  Tragg was surprised. “But in Privy Council chambe
rs you were adamant —”

  “I’ve been at the job two days and I’m sure I don’t want it. If I’d known long ago what the job entailed I would have given up all interest then. But I didn’t. I probably never really was interested. It’s probably some kind of psychological quirk and very likely has something to do with my relationship with my father. But all that is entirely beside the point. I’m not going to murder Inky.”

  “You really disappoint me, Trent,” Ruthven said.

  “You’ll address me as “Your Royal Highness.””

  “So, sorry. But you really do. Here I thought you were a smart guy.”

  “I am a smart guy. I’m also a lazy guy. I like boating, swimming, and making love on the beach at night. You can have castles and dungeons and the whole bit. Not my cup of tea.”

  “That’s too bad. We could have made a great team.”

  “I’m not a team player, Ruthven.”

  “Like I said, too bad.”

  “So, I’m afraid your little project is over,” Trent told him, reaching for the block of Plexiglas … or was it Lucite?

  “Not so fast,” Ruthven said. He had an enormous pistol in his hand. “I can’t let you do that.”

  “You must not break the spell!” Tragg shouted.

  “Why not?” Trent asked innocently, his hand poised above the curious artifact.

  “If the spell is abrogated prematurely, the spirits we’ve evoked and compacted with will have leave to tear us to bits!”

  “Sorry. That’s hardly my worry.”

  Ruthven cocked the pistol. “I’m warning you. Hands off.”

  “Ruthven, you’re not even a rat. You’re a mouse going to rat night-school.”

  “Okay, my friend. You asked for it.”

  From the pistol there came a popping sound. Ruthven’s eyes widened in utter astonishment as a rod extruded from the end of the barrel. From around it a square of cloth unfurled. On the cloth was lettering: BANG!!

  “What the blazes —?”

  Trent grabbed the transparent block. A loud snapping sound was heard.

  Tragg gasped, “The spell!”

  Trent examined the block. “It is Lucite, isn’t it? You know, I ought to give this to Inky as a present next Solstice. He’s a science-fiction writer. He ought to appreciate a totally worthless block of Lucite.”[28]