Castle Perilous (4 page)

“Which I hope we will not do this moment . . .”

“No, sire.”

“The upshot, scribe. The upshot.”

“The upshot, sire, is that it may very well be that Castle Perilous is the only edifice ever to have existed on this site.”

“In which case, once the spell is broken, the place becomes a pile of rocks. Is that it?”

“Perhaps, sire. Perhaps not.”

Vorn scowled. “Is it possible to get an answer from you that does not twist three ways at once?”

“Of course, sire. However, when — ”

“Enough!” Vorn took a long drink from his gold chalice, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Why must there be a Spell Stone at all? Suppose the castle is real, in and of itself?”

“Impossible,” Dax said. “Its sheer bulk alone . . .”

Vorn looked at Osmirik. “You agree?”

“Yes, sire. It has long been taken for granted that Castle Perilous must be a magical construct. Human instrumentality alone could not account for its existence. The technique of construction by magic has long been known, but has been rarely practiced. Spells are tenuous things — most are, that is. People are loath to live in dwellings held up by a magician's skill alone. As a result, the art has been lost over the years. Castle Perilous is doubtless a product of the craft at its highest level of advancement.”

“I see.” Vorn turned his head to Lady Melydia. “My lady. Forgive me if I bring up an indelicate matter . . .”

Melydia smiled mirthlessly. “You are forgiven. Your Highness. Since I was once betrothed to Incarnadine, you wish to know if I can confirm the Spell Stone's existence. I cannot. Incarnadine never mentioned it. And though I stayed at Castle Perilous on many occasions as a Guest, I do not know where it is located.”

“I, too, have been a Guest,” Althair said. “I even asked him about it once. He took great pains to avoid answering.”

“It must be found,” Dax said.

“Now,” Vorn said, “let me ask this. Why can we not simply find Incarnadine and induce him to tell us where it is?”

“You could spend a lifetime trudging through that monstrosity,” Althair said dyspeptically.

“Sire, the castle is also known as the House of 144,000 Aspects. It contains gateways to other worlds, other planes of existence. Incarnadine could slip through any one of them to elude us.”

“May he not already have slipped away?” Vorn asked.

“Yes, sire, that is very possible. However, it was my impression that the object of this campaign was not Lord Incarnadine's capture — ”

“We are not interested in your impressions, scribe,” Melydia said.

“No, my lady.”

“Why not forget the Spell Stone,” Vorn went on, “and simply look for the treasure room?”

“That, too, would be difficult to locate,” Osmirik answered. “But if His Royal Highness would permit me an opinion, I would agree that this would be the best — ”

“That is enough,” Melydia said.

Vorn looked at Melydia, eyes a trifle suspicious. “Is there something . . .?”

“A scholar's daydreams, sire. He'll propose a dozen different theories, then take the negative and argue each one into absurdity. It is naught but casuistry.”

“I merely meant to add, my lady, that — ”

“You will be silent!”

Vorn, on unsure ground, stroked his beard thoughtfully.

“I would be interested, Lady Melydia, in what he has to say.”

Melydia sighed. She inserted an index finger between her cheek and the white cloth of her wimple, letting air in. “Forgive me,” she said, her hands going up to her pie-shaped orange hat to adjust it. “This man is a member of my household. I must put up with his convoluted gibberish and insubordination on a daily basis.” She fanned her face with her hand. “Yes, yes, by all means . . . go on.”

Osmirik stiffened. “Thank you, my lady. There are other legends concerning Castle Perilous. One of them has to do with the jewel known as the Brain of Ramthonodox.”

“Ah, yes, the jewel,” Vorn said, smiling. “It would likely be in the treasure room, would it not?”

“I do not know, sire. I do know that the name Ramthonodox appears in certain ancient writings — ”

“Musty books he has his nose stuck in all day,” Melydia said.

“Yes, my lady. In one particular volume, the Archegonion, or The Book of the Most Ancient of Days — a compendium of classical texts in fragmentary form — one reads of a day long past, when the earth and the men who dwelt in it were subject to the depredations of great demons. It was a time of fear and desolation, when men scratched out a miserable existence in a world of waste and ruin.”

“Yes, yes,” Vorn said impatiently. “We have similar legends in the East. Go on.”

“The name Ramthonodox appears at various points in the texts. Unfortunately, the references are not clear, due to difficulties in translation. The original Tryphosite codices have been lost. All we have is an early Zamathian translation. However, in marginalia added to copies of the Zamathian codex done about fifteen hundred years ago, we find — ”

Vorn struck the table with a mailed fist. “Get to the point!”

“Yes, sire. There are also references to — ”

From inside the barbican there came a terrific sound like a clap of thunder. There were shouts and general commotion. Then, men screaming in agony.

Silence at the table.

“They have found our mine,” Dax said.

Vorn nodded grimly. The three men rose and walked solemnly out of the tent.

Melydia stood up slowly, turned and faced Osmirik, drawing up to him until the tip of her nose fairly met his.

“You think the art of colossal transmogrification lost?”

Her breath was hot on his face. “Not quite, my lady.”

“True, it is not. I have it, and I will transmogrify you into a mountain of pig shit if you vomit forth any more of your bookish nonsense!”

“My — ”

“Silence!”

Osmirik's body went slack. He took a deep breath.

“I have warned you before, and I do so now again.” Melydia stepped back. “Take heed, scribe.”

She turned and left.

Osmirik's face grew pensive. He paced the length of the tent for a while, then halted.

“Library,” he said in a whisper. “The library . . .”

 

 

 

Keep — East Wing — Family Residence

 

The room was lovely in the daylight. The walls were paneled in dark wood, the furniture beautifully carved in a style she did not recognize. There were even curtains. She had had no trouble sleeping here. She had never slept in a canopied bed.

She threw off the covers, sat up and dangled her feet over the side of the bed, feeling for her wooden-soled sandals. She had slept in her clothes — faded jeans, and a T-shirt with faded iron-on lettering that read it's hard to fly like an eagle when you work with turkeys, accompanied by a cartoon rendering of the sentiment. She needed to use the bathroom, and she wanted a shower. If they had bathrooms in this place. She rather doubted it. She got up and stretched. It occurred to her to look under the bed. Yup, there it was: the chamber pot. Yuck. Well, she could put it off for a little while longer. Not like yesterday, when she had to . . . No use dwelling on that.

She went to the window. Here, unlike in other parts of the castle she had seen, the windows were glazed, lovely old leaded glass. Turning the wrought-iron handle, she swung one casement pane outward. She leaned out. She couldn't tell exactly how far up the room was, but it was high. Below and beyond the outer walls a carpet of dense green forest spread out and upward, mounting to the foothills of snow-tipped peaks far in the distance. Not a sound. The air was cool and sweet-smelling.

Someone opened the door to her room, and she jumped. Almost everything in this place made her jump. But this time it was only a middle-aged woman carrying bedding. She was dressed in a long gray undergown with sleeves full to the elbow. The sleeveless overgarment was white. She wore a white cloth cap tied around twists of gray hair to either side of the head. The woman's face was pleasant, if a bit plain. Her complexion was ruddy, and she had few teeth. She looked friendly.

“Good morning, mum,” the maid said, smiling.

“Good morning.”

“May I . . .?”

“Um . . . yes. Yes, of course.”

The woman came into the room and began stripping the bed.

She stood watching for a moment before she said, “Uhh . . . I'm Linda Barclay.”

The maid smiled again. “Pleased to meet you, mum. Rawenna's my name. Sleep well, I trust?”

“Yes. Yes! Marvelous. I — ”

The maid looked up from her work. “You were saying, mum?”

Linda shook her head. She crossed to the footboard of the bed and ran her hand over the carvings. “You know . . .”

“Yes, mum?”

“I found this room by accident. I really don't know . . . I mean, I hope I wasn't — ”

“Oh, don't trouble yourself, mum. Any room where you'll be comfortable.”

“But I'm not really sure I'm supposed to be here!”

“Oh?”

“I don't even know where I am. This place . . .”

“You're in the keep, mum. Forty-sixth floor, east wing.”

“Yes, but where? This is a castle, I know, but where is it?”

“Well, where are you from?”

“I live in Santa Monica, California.”

Rawenna stopped plumping the pillows long enough to think it over. She shook her head. “Sorry, mum, never heard of the place. I'm sure it's nice, though.”

Linda nodded, then sighed and took a seat on a low stool beside the armoire. She propped her head up on one hand, elbow on knee. “I'm probably going crazy.”

“Such talk, and from a pretty young girl like you.”

“This is probably a hospital, and you're probably a nurse, and I'm hallucinating the rest.”

“A nurse, mum? Me? Oh, I'm much too old.” She put a hand to her ample bosom. “Dried up long ago, I did. I've nursed a few whelp in my time, though. I certainly did.”

“That's not — ” Linda giggled. “God, this is so nutty.” She watched the maid fit the bed with fresh sheets.

When Rawenna was done, she tucked the sheets in, drew up the beautifully quilted bedspread and smoothed out the creases.

“I don't even know how I got here. Or why I'm here.”

Rawenna stooped and slid out the chamber pot.

“I didn't use that.”

She pushed it back under the bed.

“I don't know if I can. I guess I'll have to.”

“If you prefer to use the bath, mum, it's just down the corridor.”

Linda brightened. “You have a bathroom? With a toilet?”

“A water closet, you mean? Yes, we do. Some of the Guests prefer it. Others . . . well, like me, they're used to what they're used to.”

“Guests?”

“Why, yes. The other Guests.”

“But I'm not a guest. I can't be. No one invited me here.”

Rawenna looked at her. “How did you come to be here, mum? If you don't mind my asking.”

Linda rubbed her forehead with a palm. “You'll think I'm crazy.”

“Not at all.”

“I was in the closet, in my bedroom. At home, where I live . . .” She threw up her hands. “Oh, I can't even say it, it sounds so insane.”

Rawenna considered it. “Sounds to me as though you got yourself lost, and found yourself in the castle. Am I right?”

Linda spread her arms wide. “Sounds good to me.”

“Then you're a Guest, all right.” Rawenna finished with the bed and gathered up the sheets she had draped over the footboard.

“But who am I a guest of?”

“Why, of His Lordship.”

“His Lordship? Well, it fits.” Linda stood up. “Does he have a name?”

“Incarnadine is his name, mum.”

“Incarnadine. That's his full name?”

With both hands Rawenna whumped the sheets into a manageable pile. “No. He's called Incarnadine of the House of Haplodite, King of the Western Pale, Liege Lord, Protector of the — Oh, it goes on and on.”

“I see.” More to herself, she said, “A genuine castle, and a genuine feudal lord-type person.”

“Beg pardon, mum?”

“Oh, nothing.”

“Would you be wanting breakfast in your room, mum? Or would you care to join some of the other Guests?”

“I suppose I should meet them. Maybe they know something about all this.”

“Two floors down in the small dining hall, mum. I'll take you there if you wish.”

“Thank you — after I take a shower, or a bath? It's been two days. The other night I slept in a dusty old storage room full of crates.”

Rawenna shook her head and clucked. “Pity, a young lady of good breeding having to do that. We send out the men every night to gather up any new Guests, but . . . sometimes I think this drafty old place is just too big.”

Linda laughed. “That is an understatement.”

“I'll fetch some fresh towels for you.”

 

 

 

Keep — Somewhere Else

 

“Snowclaw.”

“What?”

“Is it my imagination, or is the ceiling lower than it was a minute ago?”

The great albino arctic beast came over to where Gene was standing. He looked up, then brought his gaze down to peer at the juncture of floor and wall. “It's your imagination,” he said. “What's really happening is that the floor is rising.” He absently scratched his furry stomach with one clawed finger. “Either way, let's get out of here.” He yawned, recovered with the snap of his toothy jaws slamming shut. “Great White Stuff! I'm tired. Hungry too.”

“Over here.”

“We just came through there.”

“Couldn't've. This doorway wasn't here a second ago. I watched it appear.”